sorry for my very long hiatus… i see all ur asks and i will be responding accordingly. and yes, i am planning to finish off my jackson fanfic 👍🏽 hopefully i will get around to the william one too.

Kiana Khansmith
Jules of Nature
will byers stan first human second
Claire Keane
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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wallacepolsom
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noise dept.

tannertan36
hello vonnie
Xuebing Du
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ojovivo
Stranger Things

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@vhatsus
sorry for my very long hiatus… i see all ur asks and i will be responding accordingly. and yes, i am planning to finish off my jackson fanfic 👍🏽 hopefully i will get around to the william one too.
Do you have any plan to continuing the jacksonxreader?? I'll wait no matter how long it takes🕊
yes actually! i plan to finish it soon, once im on my break. i’ve been on hiatus cause of college but i have intentions to finish it. 👍🏽
I heard from discord your a POC. Is it true?
do you genuinely think i’m larping as a POC or
Mayhaps more Butchery but with a male reader? 👀
i plan to make male reader content so very soon,,, 🗣️
Hello, I hope you are well. I just wanted to say that your fic "Everything you wanted" is phenomenal. You've got a real talent for writing. I truly hope you continue it, but of course that is up to you. Have a good day :3
this will be continued soon too. i have the second chapter near completed and hope to post it after the sixth chapter of the jackson fic.
thank you for reading my writing! ♡ it means a lot to me.
Please come home vhatsus the kids miss you. Bring back the Jackson fic please please
hi!! the sixth chapter is currently in the works. unfortunately, it’s taking me longer than usual cause of college but it will be posted soon! two more chapters left yall‼️😍 thank you guys for being so patient.
ATP your Jackson is a yandere lol. But for real, you have a lot of potential in writing yandere characters. aside from that I kinda wanna see you create an original character of your own.
he is most definitely a yandere in my fanfiction— that is how i interpret him. i also love writing lovesick characters, so it’s definitely a trope i lean towards.
and as for original characters, it depends on the context you’re referring to. i have a butchery oc (check her out on my tiktok page: @vhatsus!) and i do have several personal ocs im using for future projects. 😎
If you reach 1,000 followers on tiktok can you do a giveaway for a free fanfic? 🥹 Also you deserve more followers you’re underrated and give out so much content
i’m going to say yes because i doubt i’ll even reach 1k followers seeing i don’t post as much 😎 if i do manage to reach it, i don’t see why not.
also thank you‼️ i really try to provide content as best as i can, but lately ive been busy.
every time i see u made a new chapter i lick my lips n start physically tweaking. slash positive send ask
XARNBALL UR SO FUNNY ILY 😭 ur comments always make me laugh cs ur so real
perhaps you will be eager to learn the reader will (maybe) get a break the next two chapters. then again…. 😈
butchery fandom don’t give up on me i will finish the new chapter asap,,, schools got me on a chokehold
thank you for feeding us chapters even when youre going through the ao3 curse... 🥹
pls spare me ao3 gods i’ve done nothing wrong,, 😔 the question is will i be spared for the last two chapters??
❦ the red means i love you ❦
(chap. 5)
➪ chap. 1 • chap. 2 • chap. 3 • chap. 4 • chap. 5 • continuing
𓃟read it on ao3
❦ pairing: jackson hillwalker/cottonwood x fem!reader
❦ word count: 10.1k + words
❦ summary: Jackson still manages to surprise you in ways that don't involve the cost of your safety.
❦ authors note: things i've went through while writing this chapter: my first bad edible trip, a tsunami warning, had a seafood boil, registered for college again. very fun, very demure. anyways... this chapter took forever and it will be the longest chapter hopefully for the rest of the series. 🤠
❦ possible triggers: blood, religious psychosis, rituals, stalking, manipulation, use of weapons, obsessive behaviors, injuries
William feels sorry for you.
But not in the way you’d expect.
It’s not that he pities you---far from it, if he was realistically speaking. No, he isn’t that kind of man. He’s too practical, detached for something as weak as compassion, but he does understand, perhaps better than anyone else, the weight of your situation.
And William knows Jackson, in a way that nobody else could. He raised him through blood and sweat, living in the shadow of his brother's insanity long before you became the new thing that captured Jackson’s attention.
Neither of them were born into madness. It wasn’t always like this. There was a time--before their mothers untimely fate and their father’s unexpected disappearance--when they were just two boys, living in a loving home with moments of peace, but that didn’t last. Not for Jackson, anyway.
The difference between them was that William had a few more years of normalcy. He had a glimpse of what life could’ve been if things had gone differently, before all the chaos unfolded. He had time to become someone who could at least pretend to have his sanity intact and pass as human, despite everything.
Jackson on the other hand?
He’s never had that luxury.
Too young to even grasp the concept of normalcy, he was molded by the madness that bled into their lives. Before he had the chance to comprehend it all, his insanity had already taken root, so deep that it consumed him.
He didn’t fight it; his mind wasn’t developed enough to. Instead, he embraced it with open arms, let it twist around him and crawl under his skin until it became him. It controlled his thoughts, his actions, and every aspect of his life, until the chaos was reflected in every inch of his being.
Jackson never stood a chance against it. From the start, he wasn’t meant to be “normal”, not with the path they were going down. It was the only life he’s ever known, beside their parents and whatever memories dwelled in the back of his mind before their Lord came into the picture.
They adjusted to this life, learned to live in harmony with their madness, finally destined to do something with the gift they received.
But William felt a disturbance before he found out about your existence. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for Jackson to harbor obsessions, whether it was an idea, religion, or strange things that crossed his path. His mind has always been a labyrinth that William learned how to navigate, so it wasn’t long before he began picking up subtle changes in his brother's behavior.
At first, it started with his odd change of routine.
Jackson despised the village, even more so than William on most days. He refused to step foot in it unless absolutely necessary, and when he did, he didn’t take long to return, often with a handful of complaints and whatever he was tasked to grab. But over time, his trips became more frequent, voluntary, with no hesitation unlike before, and he was gone for lengthy periods. He’d come home in the evening, with a smile plastered on his face and in an unusually good mood, rather than being caught up in his typical mood swings. It sparked William’s attention, but not enough to press on it.
Then came the drawings.
He was always aware of his brother’s habit to create art. He’d grown so familiar with the sound of pen on paper and needle to flesh, that it had become white noise in his everyday life. It was such a casual part of Jackson’s world that fragments of it were scattered around the farm. He knew about his hobby, but he didn’t know about you.
Not until he opened a drawer with the intent of finding a lighter, and that's when he saw it--saw you--for the first time.
He studied the piece at the very top: a rough sketch of a girl, the lines hectic, but the picture still somewhat recognizable. Upon first glance, he assumed it was nothing more than one of his victims.
After all, it was common for Jackson to sketch them prior to finishing the job, but as he dug deeper, pushing aside several pieces of paper, he quickly realized that this wasn’t just art. Every piece bore the same face, drawn in different angles, each one capturing various expressions. Your features were so painfully detailed that William could see the progression of obsession with every piece he uncovered.
It became more apparent when he spotted the stains smudged across the paper, intentionally dragged over your eyes, throat, and even the curve of your lip. He was no stranger to the dark reddish brown hue, staring at it blankly before closing the drawer, his mind already catching up.
There were no words for it, the truth of it laid bare before him.
This was darker, something personal, that William had yet to find out.
And it didn’t end there. Jackson’s prayers-- one he’s practiced behind closed doors and odd places of the farm--began to change drastically.
Already suspecting more than he wanted to admit, William crept towards the door, careful not to let the floorboards creak beneath him. The room was cloaked in darkness, but he didn’t need the light to know what waited on the other side. He leaned in, just enough to hear clearly.
He wasn’t chanting. Not like before, not like the old prayers William had gotten used to, where Jackson’s voice would rise and fall with fervor, speaking in tongues. This was much quieter and intimate. The softest William had ever heard him speak.
Through the strained murmurs and praises, he hears your name for the very first time, spoken unsteadily, as if he was begging the darkness to answer him. The way he recites the prayer fluently tells William that this isn’t the first time he’s done this. An indication that his obsession runs deeper than his usual fixations.
Jackson only sets it in stone when he gradually introduces the idea of you over dinner. First, as a curiosity, then as a potential victim, and soon, something permanent. By the time William attempts to clear the fog in his brother's head with degradations and logic, it's too late.
You were already inside their world, long before William ever found out. No amount of words or reasonings could change Jackson’s mind because once his brother was set on something, he would stop at nothing to get it.
So, William doesn’t question it further.
Not the drawings, not his sudden change of routine, not his broken prayers.
And definitely not the rings Jackson stuffed in his pocket when he thought no one was looking.
꧂
William feels sorry. Not for you, but for what you will be in his brother's hands.
Now that he looks at you, he sees how unprepared you are to survive this mess and remembers why he tried to swing at you hard enough to kill you. It wasn’t cruelty, but an act of mercy with a quick, clean blow offering immediate relief. Something painless compared to the drawn out fate that awaited you the second Jackson set his sights on you. He knows what his brother is capable of. William is just as unstable as him, probably even more-so in more ways than one, but Jackson poses a bigger threat because he doesn’t hesitate.
You’re fragile and helpless, like a bunny caught in a bear trap. Even smaller when you look up at him from the couch Jackson placed you on, doe-eyed and teary, afraid of him, but you shouldn't be. You have more concerning issues, much more grueling than him and whatever they’ve got here.
But he doesn’t say anything as he crouches in front of you, his calloused hand reaching for your swollen ankle. You flinch hard, hissing through clenched teeth, trying to jerk back, but his grip doesn’t loosen.
“Looks like fuckin’ shit,” he mumbled, inspecting the injury. His thumb presses against the sensitive flesh and you let out a strangled whimper, the pain lancing through your leg. With his other hand, he pushes your skirt up just enough to gauge your injury better, noticing the bruising wrapping around your joint.
“You piss him off or something?” He asks dryly, unbothered and with odd casualty, as if talking about the weather.
You don’t respond and he lifts his head to meet your gaze. For once, he doesn’t force an answer out of you, already settled on one. With an injury like that, it’s clear you’ve done enough to get on Jackson’s nerves.
“You got lucky. My brother was forgiving today.” He says it more of a warning than a reassurance.
You don’t know what that means, but it does little to comfort you. Questions swirl in your mind, but you know better than to ask because if this is what forgiveness looks like, you can’t even begin to imagine what happens when he decides you’re not worth the trouble.
William pulls the coffee table closer with little effort, resting your ankle on it. It brings you some kind of relief now that the pressure is gone, but it doesn’t soothe the ache in your chest. He mutters some about keeping it leveled and not walking on it too much, but you barely listen. You don’t thank him, but you watch as he stands, rubbing the nape of his neck wearily.
“It’s a minor sprain. Give it a few weeks,” he gives you the diagnosis, his eyes on your ankle. “Won’t be an easy recovery, but at least it’s not broken.”
“Great,” you let out a hollow laugh at that, wiping your tears away as you exhale shakily. That catches his attention and he sees the toll it’s taking on you, so he offers some unsolicited advice, drawing on what he knows.
“I’m not gonna sugarcoat this,” he says firmly. “This doesn’t get better. Not with the way you’re handling things. If you’re expecting something easy, keep dreaming.”
His words are harsh and brutally honest. It’s devoid of comfort and you know better than to expect anything of the type, especially from him.
“I’m not saying you have to like it, I don’t expect you to. But if you play along and just learn how to fake it better, he might actually give you more leniency than you think. Might even treat you better.”
You visibly tense at the mention of Jackson and he notices, barely suppressing an eye roll. While he doesn’t agree with what his brother is doing, he knows better than to go against his own blood for some girl who proves no use to him.
But he’s not a man of words. Never has been and probably never will be. So he puts it in the only way he knows how, even if you don’t believe him. He sighs heavily, rubbing his palm down his face like he’s already regretting what he’s about to say, as if the words don’t fit right, but they’re far from a lie.
“He’s trying,” he grumbles, as if it’s a stretch. ”Might not look like it, but.. he’s trying to be normal. For you.”
You wear an expression of disbelief-- of course you do--because who in their right mind would fall for such nonsense? But then you look at William, probably the most rude and intimidating person in this place. The same man who’s handled you harshly and without care, but has never gone as far as endangering you on his own accord. You don’t trust him, not one bit, but you can’t shake the feeling that he wouldn’t be giving you advice if it didn’t mean something.
With that, he turns on his heel, heading towards the staircase, his hand resting on the railing. He feels your stare, and knows you’re processing his words, trying to figure out if there’s any ill motives behind them. He doesn’t have to turn around to know.
So he offers you his final piece. Whether you believe him or not is your choice. He has no time or energy to give you proof.
“Doesn’t mean he’s doing it right,” he adds, more certain this time. “But if he wanted to, you would’ve been buried six feet under by now. He kills people for less.”
There’s no warmth in his voice, but there's a realness behind it that was never there before. William doesn’t say anything more, simply making his way upstairs as he leaves you with the unbearable quiet. You stare at your ankle, weighing out your options.
꧂
It starts off small.
Jackson had put you on something called “recovery duty” for a few weeks. A silly term for keeping you in the same two places, either the couch or your bed, while you’re offered an easier set of tasks. Fold the laundry, polish their weapons, sew anything they tear, and prepare letters or lists they needed by the end of the day with whatever information they gave you. You grasp at whatever you can to keep yourself sane because there’s not much you can do with an injury like this.
In return, Jackson kept showing up, though you’re sure he would’ve done so anyway, for his own sake. Not in the same way he used to, but in quieter ways. Ones that didn’t announce itself.
Like buying you things without you asking. Little things you like---things he’s noted down while observing you. A shirt in your favorite color, that necklace he saw you eyeing one morning at the market, and your usual drink from the cafe, exact order memorized to a T. You don’t ask how he knows so much about you because you know it’ll lead you to another conversation you’re not ready to discuss.
He brings you food every morning with nothing but an unpretentious greeting. It’s nothing fancy or anything worth noting, but it’s warm and though it looked like he might’ve wrestled a bird to get it onto the plate, fighting tooth and nail, there’s some visible effort in it.
At first, you left it untouched for obvious reasons, letting it sit on the counter where it would grow cold for several hours. Whenever Jackson comes to collect, he simply glances at your untouched tray before moving ruffling your hair lightly, removing it from your space. He doesn’t push.
But after a week, he began trying to make the food look more appealing, like he wasn’t shoving everything onto one plate. His eggs are consistently overcooked, his toast was in between burnt and barely recognizable, and whatever fruit he bought from the market was always cut in uneven squares, but fresh nonetheless. At least the jam was always edible. You noticed this change and worse, you began to eat it.
Then came the more subtle things.
He began correcting your posture when you sat too long, wordlessly adjusting the pillow behind your back until it was to your liking. He brought you a warmer blanket, an extra cushion to keep your foot leveled, and whatever else you might’ve needed. When your ankle began to swell again, he crouched next to you without warning, hands surprisingly gentle as he wrapped it with a thick black bandage you recognized as a compression to ease the pressure.
“It’ll help with the pain,” he reassures you when you tense. He lets his thumb brush over your bruised ankle, eyes focused on it pensively, before pulling your skirt back down.
He didn’t make a show of any of this, never lingered around like he used to, and gave you the space you craved.
It turns out, he still has the ability to surprise you in ways that don't involve the cost of your safety.
You’re dozing off in your bed, propped up against the headboard in a half-hearted attempt to remain awake, when morning begins to roll around. Through the openings of the boarded window, the sun is barely peaking over the horizon and the sky has just begun to show its first streaks of color, casting a soft glow across the darkness of the woods that stretched endlessly.
You almost consider sleeping in, but a knock at your door jolts you awake. It opens before you can answer, creaking softly as Jackson steps in with a tray, much earlier than scheduled. The smoke from the dish coils around him before he moves closer, setting it on your lap. You don’t look at him and at this point, he doesn’t expect you to.
The tray of food stares back at you, more organized than last time.
Same routine you’ve adjusted to for the last few weeks, so consistent that you can easily predict what happens right after. Only this time, Jackson doesn’t leave the room to give you privacy.
Instead, he walks to the end of the bed where your foot rests on a pillow and takes a seat at the edge of the mattress. Only then do you look up, watching as he turns his body slightly, hands reaching to fix your compression bandage. He moves methodically, loosening the straps in a cautious yet efficient manner, careful not to brush against the bruising of your skin. You let out an inaudible sigh of relief when he gives your foot a second to breathe before applying a new, clean set.
“You ever been to the creek?” He asks.
You blink once, twice, still tangled in the ropes of your grogginess, as his strange question sinks in. Creek? You barely knew most of the house. The silence stretches and though there’s no pressure swirling around you, you know he’s waiting for some kind of response.
You continue to watch him as he tends to your injury. “...No,” you answer, “No I haven't."
“You want to?”
That grabs your attention. He’s not throwing you one of his usual smug and mocking grins, and the familiar threatening gleam in his eyes is gone. The question seems sincere and harmless, but you still hesitate. Rejecting him outright wouldn’t be the wisest approach, so you scramble for a reason to decline instead.
“Jackson, I can't," you sigh, rolling your ankle as much as you can without triggering it. “Not with this.”
He pauses for a moment before meeting your gaze, your breath hitching in your throat. He looks at you as if you’ve asked him something utterly absurd.
“Didn’t know you took me for a fool, sweetheart,” he chuckles, a playful glint dancing in his eyes. “Thought you were smarter than that.”
Your cheeks flush when a teasing smile forms on his face and you shoot him a glare. Annoyed, your mouth opens to retort, but he cuts you off before you’re given the opportunity.
“I’ll carry you,” he proposes, hand resting on your shin, thumb grazing the soft skin. “It’s ain’t too far from here. Think of it as a change of scenery.”
No.
Hell no.
The rational part of your brain screams to decline, knowing deep down this was a disaster in the making. He’s the one who’s kept you trapped here-- tormented you in ways that make you question everything-- and now, out of nowhere, he’s offering you a chance to leave the house? To bring you out of your confinement for a little stroll?
It sounds unrealistic, out of character for someone like him. You’d be an idiot for even considering it.
Yet, you find yourself doing exactly that, the words stuck in your throat. It should’ve been as easy as shaking your head, but something inside you starts comparing the discomfort of being cooped up in the house with the uncertainty of what the outside world might offer. The prospect of fresh air after being deprived for so long is tempting. Still, that doubt simmering in the back of your head calls out to you, reminding you of everything he’s done.
You should reject him-- that's the smartest decision you can make right now. He’s probably doing this with some ulterior motive, something he can use against you later. Jackson always has a purpose.
The uncertainty makes your chest tight. You haven’t even gotten the slightest idea of what he’s capable of, but still, your body betrays you. You want to go. Maybe that way, grieving your old life might be a little easier, even just for a second.
Jackson watches as you look back down at your untouched food that's growing cold, deep in thought. Indecision pulls at your features, but he knows exactly what you’re leaning towards.
He moves to tighten the laces on his boots.
꧂
“Used to come down here as a kid,” Jackson says, the movement of his steps almost lulling as his boots crunch against the grass below. “Mama used to send me to the creek to fetch water, always warnin’ me to not take too long. Guess she figured if I spent too much time down here, I’d forget what I was doin’ in the first place.”
You hum at that, caught between sleep and reality. He sounds like he’s reminiscing, lost in the memory of nostalgia. He lets out a breath that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sigh as he recalls his childhood.
“The Lord knows she was always right.”
He drones on, even when you don’t respond much, filling the silence of the early hours. He doesn’t seem to mind the one-sided conversation and you’re grateful for that. He’s a lot more tolerable this way and for a moment, you can almost convince yourself that everything is normal.
His arms are looped under your knees, wrapped securely as he shifts you on his back. Your legs are draped loosely around his waist, and your arms are wrapped tightly around his shoulders, mostly out of the fear of him dropping you. You’re pressed against his back, the heat of his body overwhelming compared to the cold morning air. The sensation pulls you closer to sleep, your eyes fluttering closed.
You’re close-- too close where your cheek is almost pressed against his hair, the faint smell of pinewood, sweat, and something metallic hitting you. It’s a scent you’ve grown accustomed to over time.
He doesn’t move too fast, keeping at a steady pace to ensure he doesn’t aggravate your injury any further. He carries you almost effortlessly, continuously talking without missing a beat, as if your weight doesn’t faze him at all. And truth be told, it probably doesn’t. He just adjusts you once or twice, warning you before giving you a little bounce to get a better grip.
However, the sound of his voice is slowly drowned out by the growing rush of the creek, the soft flow of water filling your ears. You open your eyes to look straight ahead, noticing the trees thin out as the creek becomes clearer in view through the foliage. The water isn’t as violent as it could be; it glides over smooth stones, the surface glistening in the weak light of the morning. The air smells fresher here, less tainted by the musty walls of the house or the smell of rot.
He slows to a stop and you come to the realization that he isn’t just here to showcase the creek.
Tucked between the thick trunks is a hammock not too far from the ground, its fabric stretched between two sturdy branches, swinging gently in the breeze as if waiting for you. At one end, a wool blanket is messily folded, its colors faded over the years of presumed wear. He lets you take it in, gives you time to understand what you’re seeing before moving towards it. He makes a stop in front of the hammock, fixing his stance as he shifts your weight again.
“Alright,” he mutters, adjusting his grip beneath your thighs, “we’ll take it easy, yeah?”
You stiffen slightly, bracing instinctively for the awkward and probably painful dismount, but he doesn’t move the way you expect. Instead, he pivots, his back now facing the hammock. He steps backwards carefully, positioning himself so you’re hovering just above the center.
Then, steadily, he begins to squat with ease, your weight proving nothing to him. He doesn’t lower fully-- just enough to angle you towards the cradle of it, glancing over his shoulder to ensure you’re in the right spot. The edge of the fabric brushes against his back as the hammock dips under your weight.
His movements are precise and gentle as he lets you settle in, mindful not to jostle you too much. You slowly loosen your arms around his neck, your back easing into the curve of the fabric while Jackson realigns himself, pressing his body against the hammock to steady it, ensuring you can get comfortable without it swaying too much.
Once he sees that you’re mostly centered, he steps aside just enough to free his arms for just a second. With a smooth twist of his torso, he reaches for your legs dangling off the edge. He starts with the uninjured one, lifting it by the knee and guiding it into the hammock’s dip with care. Your body follows it, readjusting your position so you’re following the direction of the stretch.
Then his hands move to your injured ankle, his touch softening, one hand cradling your heel while the other supports beneath your calf. This time, he lowers it more cautiously until it rests on the fabric, only releasing it when he’s sure it’s in a comfortable position, occasionally glancing at you for any pained reactions.
You don’t look away, watching as he grabs the wool blanket at your feet, unfolding it and draping it across you. The hammock sways once and your heart skips but Jackson quickly grabs the edge, keeping it in place, as the fabric holds.
His hand lingers for a second longer than necessary before he steps back, his finger slowly unwinding from the edge. A few paces of space open up between you both.
When you realize he’s not here to hurt you, you finally let your guard down a little, scanning the quiet and peaceful space.
He crosses his arms over his chest, his head tilting slightly as he studies your face. You’re docile now, your eyes half-lidded with sleep and a trace of curiosity. He looks out towards the water, a distant look in his eyes.
“Used to come down here whenever things got rocky,” he sounds unusually calm. There’s no trace of mockery in his words or the usual playful bite that comes with it. “Mama always said I needed somewhere to cool my head. Most days, I just sat here, watchin’ the creek like it could give me answers.”
There’s a pause. The creek flows delicately, the sounds of birds chirping and trees rustling fills your ears, offering you solace.
He finally turns his head to look at you. For a brief second, your eyes meet, and you catch the softness in his expression. It looks foreign on him, different from the wild, possessive ones that you’ve grown used to.
“Figured you needed a place like that too. A place that doesn’t ask much from you.”
The breeze picks up, brushing cool air across your skin as the hammock sways in a soothing manner. Truthfully, you’re not sure what to say. You don’t express gratitude or acknowledge his actions, but you also don’t minimize his efforts either.
That alone says enough to Jackson.
He sees how your body starts to relax beneath the blanket and how your breathing evens out. There's still that hint of tension in your jaw, but it's dulled now, replaced by something that suggests you don’t see him as a threat right now.
He finds himself moving closer to you again, one hand braced on the edge of the hammock to steady you both. He leans down a bit, just enough to brush his lips against your hair in a kiss that's barely there. It’s unclaiming and almost real as he murmurs a soft, “love you.”.
For the first time, you don’t resist, and that surprises him more than anything, but he doesn’t let it show. His free hand smooths your hair before he straightens up, careful not to swing the hammock. In that moment, it’s a small sign that you’re not at war with him and that, for once, he’s managed to maintain peace between you both.
“Get some rest,” he mutters. “I’ll keep watch. Holler my name if you need anythin’.”
Then he turns away again, walking towards the creek, far enough to give you privacy but also close enough that you can feel his presence. He sits on a rock near the water, elbows resting on his knees as he stares into the distance with a longing expression on his face, like he’s not quite sure what to do with himself.
You’re not sure what to do with him either.
You lay there, staring at him for a second too long, wondering about him and what he used to be before all this. If things would’ve worked out differently if he wasn't so deranged. But you don’t dwell on the “what ifs” or alternate, unreachable timelines, because you refuse to think of your captor that way.
The pain in your ankle finally dulls and the ache of your chest still throbs like a wound festering, but it feels bearable. It’s muted enough for you to convince yourself that it’s been treated.
You don’t think about Jackson. You don’t think about William, the animals on the farm, or how fucked up this place is.
And for the first time in a long time, you don’t think about survival.
This isn’t what you want, not even in the slightest, but in that rare, unpressured silence, you find the closest thing to peace captivity has ever given you.
꧂
Your ankle heals after a few grueling weeks. Not entirely, but enough for you to handle even the smallest bit of chores around the house. There’s still that persisting ache and the occasional sting, but it’s nothing you can’t manage.
The routine work feels refreshing in a way it never did before. It’s something you’ve learned how to appreciate since getting back on your feet. You’re not pinned down anymore, no longer confined in the two same spaces that once threatened to drive you to insanity.
You don’t forget why you’re here and what it means. You know better than to mistake movement for freedom, but being able to wander freely around the house grants you the illusion of control, even if that’s not exactly the case. Time moves a lot faster when you’re not being constricted to mundane tasks and given space to let your thoughts accumulate.
Never in a million years would you have thought standing in a kitchen could be so liberating, but after weeks of sitting still and being hovered over by both brothers, mostly especially Jackson, this feels bearable. It raises your spirits by a margin and you learn how to be thankful for every moment of reprieve.
You listen to a news broadcast playing on the radio as you chop carrots with the new knife Jackson had brought home. You recall him briefly muttering something about “a dull knife being more dangerous than a sharp one,” and how “mama never trusted a rusted knife with her cookin’,” but you don’t really care. You’re just relieved he’s made your job a lot easier than it could’ve been.
If there was at least one redeeming thing about Jackson, it was that he helped lighten the struggles of everyday chores, never leaving you to handle more than you already were. He pays enough attention to you to catch these small details and you’re thankful for it, even if you don’t say it out loud. If you squinted enough, you’d see the potential domesticity in him, but it's always overshadowed by the ways he chooses to show you.
But lately, he hasn’t been so bad. He’s been a lot more tolerable, if you were to give a generous opinion. Surprisingly, he hasn’t threatened your safety since whatever it is he’s trapped you with down there, and you’re not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. You dread that there might be a reason behind it, that he wants something more, but you try to give him the benefit of the doubt, especially after William’s advice.
As for his affection.. you’re not sure if you’ve grown used to it or just numb. They both don’t seem like appealing options, but they help you mask your reactions better.
You’d like to think you’re giving him a chance. Not for his benefit, but for your own safety. Perhaps if you managed to keep this facade for a little longer, he just might---
“Sweetheart!”
You stop chopping, hearing that familiar, boisterous voice reverberate against the walls of the house, followed by the loud slam of the front door. The noise startles you and you feel yourself stiffening a bit, setting the knife down on the counter before taking wary steps out of the kitchen and into the dining room.
He rounds the corner within the next two minutes and in that short amount of time, you attempt to prepare yourself for whatever he has up his sleeve. As much as he’s trying to mend things, there’s always that (very) high possibility he could revert to his old habits. After all, change doesn’t happen overnight.
You expect the usual-- that same big, infuriating grin on his face, that overbearing laugh that often irked you, and maybe his occasional forehead kisses with a lingering touch, but nothing truly readies you for the sight of him stumbling in.
He looks disheveled, a vast difference from his usually put together appearance. There’s blood splattered all over his clothes with some smeared on his jaw and cheek, his flannel is half buttoned with one side untucked, and his jeans are scuffed with dirt. His hair is an absolute disaster, some strands sticking on sweat-slick skin, and parts of it fanning out in odd directions. If he took another step, he would probably trip over one of his untied shoelaces.
More importantly, he looks exhausted, holding onto the doorframe, watching you with a wan grin that seemed to falter the longer you stare, wide-eyed. A small detail that pushes him further into the dirt, even when he’s already down.
You feel yourself shrink more when his smile drops entirely, his expression twisting with it, but Jackson recovers quickly when he picks up the changes in your body language. He doesn’t like it when you’re scared of him, so he forces a smile again, though it's strained.
His balance wavers as he draws closer to you, the toll of whatever he’s done finally catching up to him. He grips the doorframe harder, fighting off exhaustion as it becomes a challenge to remain upright. He reaches out, searching for his footing, but his legs give out, his knees buckling beneath him.
Your body reacts before you can think, arms instinctively reaching out to catch him as he stumbles forward, colliding into you with a heavy thud. The impact sends a wave of shock through your system, winding you for a good few seconds just from his weight alone. For a second, you stagger back, trying to regain your balance, but once you do, you look down at him, barely processing the situation. Your healing ankle begins to ache in protest, but the sudden closeness of your bodies distracts you from the pain. Somehow, you manage to support him.
He stays there, his chest rising and falling with every ragged breath. His head lolls against your shoulder as he leans into you, breath warm against your skin. The feeling sends a chill up your spine, your fingers digging into his back in an attempt to cope with the close proximity.
His usual rumbustious energy is gone, replaced by vulnerability that looks strange on him.
“Missed you,” he murmurs, words muffled against your shoulder. His cheek brushes against the crook of your neck as he lets out a relieved sigh, relaxing into your embrace. “You know how to keep a man on his toes, don’t ya? Always on my mind, pullin’ me away from what I’m supposed to be doin’.”
He lets out a dry chuckle, but there’s no real bitterness behind it.
“Hell, I thought about you so damn much today, it started messin’ with my head. That poor fool almost slipped right through my fingers.”
He says it like it’s your fault, like you’re the reason the quality of his work declined, but you know he doesn’t mean anything by it. His fingers trail along the curve of your back absentmindedly, as if he’s trying to memorize the way you feel against him. “But I wouldn’t change a thing.”
You both share the deafening silence, an unspoken understanding hanging between you. You don’t know what to say, so you spare a nod, just enough to let him know you’re not ignoring him. He’s come to accept your quiet responses and you’ve learned to at least acknowledge his presence, even if you don’t want to. That eases the rift between you both, probably more than you care to admit.
“I love you, you know,” he says with familiarity, the words tumbling out with confidence. He’s said it so much now that it almost feels like a routine, something he says out of habit, like a reflex. You’d like to believe you’re used to it by now; you don’t flinch whenever the endearment leaves his lips and it doesn’t startle you as much.
You don’t say anything at first. He doesn’t rush you because in his mind, he’s trying to be better. Maybe not by erasing the person he is, but working on the parts he can control. His psychotic tendencies will always be there, that's a guarantee, but he’s working on treating you less like a captive and more like someone he actually cares about, even if the reality of it is still complicated.
Still, you don’t ignore the warnings. It’s always there, simmering in the back of your mind, whispering that this is just another phase and an attempt of manipulation. It tells you Jackson doesn’t do things out of kindness and that despite any changes you think you see, he’ll always be the same twisted man. The moment you let your guard down, he’ll remind you of exactly why you shouldn’t trust someone like him.
You want to hold onto that truth, to maintain the distance you know is necessary, but there’s a suffocating sense of doubt, seeping into the cracks you thought you sealed off. Maybe it’s the empathy integrated in you or it's you finally losing your mind, but you can’t deny what you do see. You think back to your conversation with William, realizing he wasn’t as wrong as you initially thought.
Jackson is trying.
That's what makes you hesitate.
Jackson Cottonwood, the most egotistical and unstable man, is trying to change himself for you. That alone speaks louder than any words will. Somewhere in between the stillness of it all, you muster up the strength to give a response. Something simple, yet sufficient enough to fill his unanswered words.
“I don't hate you.”
The words slip out softer than you mean. You offer them as a truce, something you’re willing to give without fully surrendering to his delusionals. It’s a compromise, a safe middle ground that allows your relationship to remain on good terms and mostly neutral.
You see it as tolerance.
Jackson sees it as acceptance.
You don’t see how his eyes widen or the surprise that flickers across his face at your confession. He hadn’t expected you to respond, let alone say something that isn’t a hum or a dismissal. Worst of all, it doesn’t sound forced like it usually does. It sounds natural and honest.
It’s nothing to you. It’s everything to him.
He doesn’t reply and a part of you is relieved that he doesn’t make anything out of it. Maybe he’s satisfied with your answer, or he’s learned to work with what you’re willing to give. You expect the moment to pass soon, but then, without warning, he moves quickly.
He straightens up, his hands settling on your shoulders as he leans in. In that instant, you realize this is different. This isn’t the playful pecks and light teasing you’ve become familiar with. This time, his face hovers near yours, the warmth of his breath brushing your cheeks before his lips barely skim the corner over your mouth.
Your breathing hitches at that and once it registers, panic rushes in at his sudden closeness. You squeeze your eyes shut, hands finding his chest as you weakly push him back, trying to signal that you’re not ready for this or anything more than what you already share.You shift your head, trying to create some distance, but the feeling of him is still overwhelming.
“J-Jackson,” you stammer desperately, not knowing how to pull away but still needing the space. “W-What are you..?” The words die in your throat before you can even finish your sentence,
Jackson notices the tremor in your voice and separates himself from you after a few seconds, his hands still gently resting on your shoulders. He gives you the space you need, providing you time to regain your composure and recover from the shock.
Your eyes flutter open, still struggling to catch your breath, and your hand shakily moves to touch the spot near your mouth. He almost kissed you. If he had angled himself a little better, he would’ve--
“You expect a man to do nothin’ when his girl says somethin’ like that?”
There’s a dangerous edge to his voice, elated and overjoyed. Your eyes meet his and you see that familiar glint, his energy returning tenfold as if you've just told him the most life-altering news. The grin on his face is impossibly wide and boyish, and the excitement radiating from him is unmistakable. The exhaustion that racked his body moments ago is long gone, as if it were never there in the first place.
A flush creeps up your cheeks. “I didn’t.. I didn’t mean it like--”
“I know what I heard, sweetheart.”
He makes it sound like it’s a victory, like you’ve stepped into territory you never meant to. The way he looks at you, so genuinely happy, shows you that for him, it’s a confession. In his eyes, it’s a step forward, a mark of progress, something he can cling onto to believe this relationship isn’t beyond saving.
You’ve learned not to argue, not with Jackson. So you let him close the distance, his arms wrapping around you as he holds you close, whispering something inaudible into your hair. A prayer, you assume, but you don’t ask. Apprehension crawls up your chest, clawing its way through as if trying to tear your already bleeding heart. It’s too late for an explanation now. No matter what you say, a gut feeling tells you he won’t let you forget your words so easily.
꧂
You’re starting to wonder if you’re softening towards him or if it’s that lingering fear that follows his orders as you let Jackson tug you along, weaving through several trees. You can barely keep up with the skip in his step, a bliss in his movements that doesn’t quite match the unease crawling up your spine.
Today, he woke up in a better mood, even more so than usual. You had only eaten half your breakfast when he came waltzing into the dining room, already invading your personal space. He stood behind your chair, his hand on your shoulders, lightly massaging your muscles as he talked your ear off. He mentioned something about “a morning prayer,” and how much it would mean to him if you shared his tradition.
“It’ll be short and sweet,” he promised, sounding more sure of himself than he ever has. “Won’t take more than thirty minutes, sweetheart.”
Your heart sinks at his offer, knowing well that you both don’t praise the same Lord, let alone share similar values or beliefs. Whatever he worships behind closed doors is something you refuse to understand and the thought of even involving yourself in his mess, more than you already have, makes you lightheaded.
You don’t know his Lord, and you’re not even sure if you know Jackson.
You stab the same egg three times, stacking excuses in your mind, hoping to find a way out. You want to tell him you’re tired, that William left you a list of chores (which, of course, is true), that your ankle still hurts, and hint that you’re not religious, but nothing lands right. You can practically feel him vibrating with anticipation for your answer. That alone tells you rejection isn’t an option-- not a safe one, at least.
So you let him guide you through the woods, his hand intertwined with yours, speaking more to the trees than to you. Your skirt brushes against the overgrown grass, nearly stumbling on every root while he practically dances through the foliage as if he knows the area like the back of his hand.
“You’re gonna love it,” he glances over his shoulder to flash you a toothy grin. “Ain’t nowhere more peaceful when the Lord’s just around the corner.”
Except you don’t love it.
You feel its presence before it even comes to view. Something resembling a church lurks between the trees, its structure partially hidden by a twisting abundance of vines, overgrown flora, and moss. The paint is chipped and faded, the exposed concrete weathered by time, and the door hangs slightly ajar, one of its hinges probably broken. Despite the age and neglect clear in its appearance, it hasn’t completely succumbed to nature’s grasp just yet.
It’s seen better days, but at least a roof still covers its head.
“Sight for sore eyes, ain’t it?” He says proudly. You’re not entirely sure you’re both seeing the same thing, but you nod anyway. “It ain’t perfect, but the Lord don’t care for perfection. He wants devotion.”
You bite your lip nervously, a feeling of trepidation creeping in at the word ‘devotion’. With Jackson, that could mean anything. He notices the uncertainty on your face and steps closer, releasing your hand to squeeze your arm.“We’ll be in and out, alright?”
You force a smile, nodding awkwardly.
He looks visibly satisfied at your obedience, moving to cup your cheek, thumb brushing against your skin. “Good girl.”
You feel your breath hitch at that. He looks at you with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat, his eyes flickering between your lips and your eyes, as if caught in a silent struggle. The tension in the air grows and for a second, you share the same breath. The heat crawls up your neck at his touch, at the weight of his praise, and oddly enough, you feel something stir inside you, but it disappears quickly before you can let your thoughts wander too far.
His hand retreats, shattering the moment, and only then do you realize you’ve been holding your breath, overwhelmed by the emotions swirling in your chest. A playful smirk tugs at his lips and he winks at you before turning towards the church. Your eyes follow him, still shaken up by the unexpected effect his touch had on you and the sting of humiliation from his teasing behavior. It's disorienting, terrifying, and something you don’t want to confront.
He pushes the door open and looks over his shoulder, catching you still frozen in place, your fingers anxiously twisting the fabric of your skirt. You lock eyes and he tilts his head, gesturing with his hand for you to come over, holding the door open like he hadn’t just turned your world upside down. “Come on, sweetheart.”
“S-Sorry,” you blurt out, quicker than intended, his voice cutting through your indecision as you frantically make your way to the entrance. Jackson steps aside, widening the door to let you pass, revealing the space inside.
Your arms wrap around yourself as you enter, a cold gust brushing past you the moment you pass the threshold. He gives you time to take in all your surroundings, watching as you take careful steps forward before coming to a stop. It feels hauntingly still, like time itself has stalled, leaving only the remnants of its past behind. The building is mostly intact, but the signs of abandonment are impossible to ignore.
The walls are faded with odd patches and clear signs of water damage. The pews remain mostly untouched, aside from their jagged edges and the thick layer of dust collecting on the surface of each one. Just ahead, the altar stands decayed, worn down from years of abandonment.
Debris is scattered haphazardly throughout the church, left behind by both nature and man (though you’re not sure who’d wander this far into the mountains). Dust particles dance lazily in the filtered lights streaming through the faded stain-glassed windows, some cracked and some ruined by time. The overgrowth in here isn’t as terrible as it is outside, but it still snakes along the walls where it can reach, and more visibly around the tilted cross that hangs above the altar.
Your trance is interrupted by the door shutting behind you and Jackson’s hand finding home in yours once more.
“As much as I can appreciate beauty admirin' beauty, the Lord’s waiting on us,” he teases with a smirk. “Best not to disappoint them.”
With that, he tugs you eagerly down the aisle and straight to the altar.
He leads you up a few steps, his fingers slipping from yours as he diverts his attention from you to the cross hanging above. There’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite decipher, something you haven’t seen before. Yet, he looks almost thoughtful and at peace, as if this church is his second home, a place deeply sentimental to him. Jackson steps closer to the altar, the vine-covered cross looming overhead as it casts long shadows over the floor. He stands there, eyes fixed on cross, as if hypnotized by its presence.
You don’t follow him but stay close behind, noticing how his fingers twitch at his side, as if he’s restraining some impulse. A tight knot forms in your throat, but you try to swallow it down, not wanting to assume the worst just yet.
You watch as he lowers his head in reverence, his hands clasping together as he lets out a deep breath. You mirror his actions, though reluctantly, unsure of the proper way to go about it. Your gaze drops to the floor beneath you, hands folded together loosely, resting against your waist. You hold your position, waiting for him to lead the sermons.
He starts the prayer shortly after.
At first, his words sound familiar, falling into a rhythm that’s paced. You’ve heard similar phrases spoken back in the village every Sunday, when families and villagers gathered around the church, listening to the priest recite holy scriptures. Somehow, it brings you comfort, taking you back to a time when you thought you made the right decision to leave. When you thought your new home would offer you more safety and a nice change than the city ever could.
The wound in your heart throbs again at the thought of your old life, stitches threatening to unwind, but you breathe to keep them intact.
You don’t really listen, mostly zoning out and recollecting, until his prayers begin to shift. He continues, repeating phrases about guidance, fate, and the beauty of death and resurrection. Gradually, the topics darken, growing heavier until it finally captures your full attention. Soon, he begins speaking of cleansing, deliverance, and devotion that sounds cryptic and unreal. That's when you realize that his words don’t belong to any religion you’re aware of. They carry a weight that feels disturbing and borrowed, stitched together into something that no longer sounds sane.
You find yourself growing incredibly uncomfortable the longer the prayer stretches. Your fingers, no longer entwined for a prayer, now clutch together as a coping mechanism to still your heart that's beginning to race, attempting to block out his words. You silently apologize to your own God for partaking in something so sinister, hoping he’ll understand the position you’re in.
Then, for a fraction of a heartbeat, Jackson stops. You swear your God hears your quiet pleas, granting you a moment of mercy as Jackson's words dissolve into the air. The weight on your shoulders lifts and you’re able to breathe again, relieved that it’s over.
But when you lift your head up, you notice he’s eerily still, his back still turned to you. Something about the sight feels wrong as he remains silent and unmoving, staring blankly ahead at nothing. Your blood runs cold, hands clenching together as your nails bite into your knuckles. You're not sure why, but your gut twists with certainty that this is only the beginning.
“Tell me, sweetheart..” he begins, tone deathly neutral. “You believe in fate?”
It’s a simple question but you can’t seem to find an answer. Fate could mean anything.
He doesn’t let the question linger. He turns to face you, hands unclasping before one slips into his pocket. His face is empty, eyes locked on you with unblinking intensity. You glance down, spotting a small scalpel in his grip, the blade catching a dull glint of light as it comes into full view. Your eyes widen at that, mouth parting to say something, but the words fail to escape. Without hesitation, he presses it against his left palm and drags it against his skin, blood welling up instantly. The dark, viscous liquid travels down his wrist and drips onto the floor. He looks unfazed by it, but you’re not terrified by that.
You’re terrified of what he has planned. It’s clear now that he didn’t invite you for just a simple morning prayer. He wants something more. He always does.
Your mind screams at you to run, beg, do anything to keep him away, but he’s already moving with intent. In a few strides, his bloodied hand grabs your left wrist, his eyes wide with that trace of insanity you’ve tried to avoid for so long. Your breathing quickens painfully when you realize you’ve walked into one of his traps. A whimper escapes as you fight against his grip, but as always, you’re no match for him.
“Jackson, p-please--”
“Don’t tell me you don’t think fate is real,” he leans in closer, the cold metal of the blade kissing the palm of your hand. “That destiny’s just a hoax. You think you moved here by coincidence? By your own doin’?”
He presses the scalpel harder into your skin and in one quick movement, the pain is immediate, a hiss slipping through as you recoil. The scalpel slips from his fingers, hitting the floor shortly after as he moves closer to you. His blood-slick palm clamps over yours tightly, wounds aligning as the blood mingles. The warmth of it is sickening, but the panic pounding in your chest drowns everything else.
His uninjured hand cups your cheek, grin twisting into something sinister as he studies the mortified expression etched into your features. “No. This isn't coincidence, sweetheart. It’s fate. The Lord brought you to me, brought you to this village as a reward for all my hard work.”
You feel lightheaded, mouth agape as you try to catch your breath, but no air fills your lungs. Your mouth feels like cotton, as if he’s sliced off your tongue in one clean cut with that same scalpel he held moments ago. This time, you can’t gather the strength to speak. Your vision blurs; you swear you’re about to pass out, but you know it won’t happen so generously.
His voice begins to tremble, desperate to sell you his beliefs, especially when you don’t give him the reaction he’s expecting. “Don’t ya see? I knew you were mine the minute I laid my eyes on you. Ain’t no prayer answered louder than that. The Lord’s watchin’ over us, giving us his blessin’ to spend eternity together. We were never meant to be separated for so long.”
His eyes search, expecting agreement, but you can barely stand straight. It feels like you’re choking on something that isn’t there. When you don’t respond, a flash of devastation and anger crosses his face. His bloodied hand tightens painfully against yours, as if it’ll seal your bond faster.
“You said it yourself,” he spits, his voice shaking but dripping with venom. It sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than you. “You don’t hate me. That has to mean somethin’, right? A sign from the Lord himself that it’s time for us to seal things.”
Like always, he twists your words-- takes what he can and runs with it. You should’ve known better, known he wouldn't take your words with a grain of salt. You didn’t mean anything by it, but Jackson finds every single possible opening and finds a way to use it against you.
With all the willpower you have left, you shake your head weakly, looking at the tilted cross above as if it could give you clarity in this nightmare, but it only mocks you as your vision begins to darken. Suddenly, both his hands are on either side of your face, smearing blood across your cheeks as he forces you to look at him again, this time with more urgency, as if wounded by your refusal.
“Don’t look at that,” he pleads, dejected, his voice rising as your eyes lock once more. “Look at me! This was never about a prayer. This is about us! I’m your answer now!”
You manage a choked sound between shaky breaths, taking a few steps back as your flight-or-fight begins to kick in. His hands drop to his side, panting, as he trails after you like a man starved.
Before you can put more distance between you, he collapses to his knees with a loud thud. He looks up at you like worship--like you’re greater than God--pushing his hair back with his bloodied hand, smudging red across his face before moving to clutch at your skirt. Stained fingers paint the fabric of it, bleeding through the thick material, the cloth crumpling beneath the weight of his hold.
He’s breathing hard, pupils dilated and brows furrowed. His lips quiver for a second before it stretches into a shaky, yet manic and needy grin. “Look at me. Look what you’ve done. On my knees like a sinner, bleedin’ my soul out, and you still don’t see it? You really think you can go against what the Lord has planned for us? We’re bound now by blood. By soul. No matter what path you took, it would’ve led you right back to me.”
He’s trembling now, his entire body vibrating with intensity, but it’s not out of distress or terror. Not for the reasons you are. His is fueled by raw adrenaline coursing through his veins. The blood on his face glistens against his skin like an offering, a dark reminder to the devotion he feels for you as his smile warps beyond his insanity.
“I love you. I fuckin’ love you,” he says feverishly, words spilling out with uncontrollable need. “I’ll love you forever, even when death tears us apart.”
Everything blurs around you. You’re physically present in the moment, but your mind is miles away. Your body is paralyzed, unresponsive, trapped in a shell that’s beyond your control. Your chest tightens with every ragged breath and your lungs scream for air that it can’t seem to get.
His deranged and deafening laughter echoes throughout the church, but it’s swallowed whole by the panic circulating inside you. You can’t hear it, not with everything happening. All you feel is the walls closing in from every direction, suffocating you as the helplessness of it all crashes down.
Without realizing, your eyes are locked on the cross once more, torn between begging for death, any form of it, and yearning for freedom. Two desires now woven into one indistinguishable thread.
This time, he doesn’t force you to look at him. In the midst of your panic, you don’t perceive the vows spilling from his lips, the way his sticky, now clammy hands find yours, or the cold metal slipping onto your finger.
Your word spins, black swirling at the edges of your vision.
You don’t try to focus, breathe, or understand.
Instead, you let it consume you until it all turns into static.
tags: @mr-trick @wisepainterprince @ryuoo @tagmepls @novalovelily @prettygirlslovegirls
its been a year hatsu... i really really miss you... come back to the butchery discord..
me outside the server cs discord decided to shadowban me.. let me out of my cell… i’m too funny for this
its been a year daddy i really really miss you mommy says you went to the store to get milk
if i told you i was posting the next chapter tomorrow or tonight, what would you do?
on a more serious note, i’m genuinely dying over this. 💀 sorry the grocery trip was longer than i thought.
❦ the red means i love you ❦
(chap 4)
➪ chap. 1 • chap. 2 • chap. 3 • chap. 4 • continuing
𓃟read it on ao3
❦ pairing: jackson hillwalker/cottonwood x fem! reader
❦ word count: 7.5k+ words
❦ summary: You and Jackson have a heart-to-heart.
❦ authors note: yeah chat, i might be cooked.. writing this made me realize i suck at writing environments. i also had to study the gameplay intensively to get the layout of the house correct, except for the basement door LMAO. i wanted to keep that for plot purposes. anyways pls ignore any mistakes i am tired.
❦ possible triggers: blood, corpses, injuries, dead animals, use of weapons, religious psychosis, obsessive behaviors, heavy manipulation
It takes Jackson thirty minutes to properly drag a body across the farm to the basement. With William’s help, the time cuts significantly; his brother takes over and finishes the task in no more than eight minutes.
With you around, everything changes. It’s not like you’re doing anything to physically slow him down. You don’t make the effort to waste his time away, like he wishes you would, nor do you spare him so much a glance. Yet somehow, you still capture his attention without even trying.
Every few steps, his eyes flicker toward you, searching for any chance to catch a glimpse. Usually, it’s quick glances through the window, hoping for even the faintest sight of you. Most of the time, he doesn’t get it, but when he does, it stops him in his tracks. He stares, silently admiring what's his--or what will be, soon enough. You haven’t quite come around, but he’s certain you will.
The only thing that snaps him out of his daze is the dead body at his feet, warm blood seeping through the earth below and staining his hands as he holds them by the ankles. He doesn’t mind it too much as he readjusts his grip. With a grunt and a curse under his breath, he drags it toward the house.
What he does mind, however, is the lack of attention you give him whenever he’s near. It’s bad enough that his original plan went sideways, but your distance makes it sting even more. It’s a constant reminder of what could’ve been if you hadn’t walked into the forest that night, like the stupid girl you were.
But like his mama always said, patience is key. So he does just that-- waiting for you like a dog, knowing that one of these days, you’d see him the same way he sees you.
When he sees you again, you’re washing the dishes left behind the night prior, trying to clear up the mess before moving on to other chores. He stands by the doorway, the corpse long forgotten, as he makes his way to you, his eyes lighting up when you peer over your shoulder, sensing his presence long before he reaches you.
Two weeks was all it took for you to build your perception.
“You’re fittin’ right in, sweetheart,” his drawls sweetly, leaning against the pillar. You glance at him, eyes flicking briefly over the blood splattered across his clothes before drifting towards the feet barely visible from the entrance of the dining room. A cold wave of unease washes over you, tightening your chest.
“It looks real good on you,” he adds, almost affectionately.
Without a word, you turn back to the dishes, scrubbing the same plate over and over, as if the repetitive motion could somehow distract you. The air feels suffocating with him around and you catch yourself silently praying to some God to return the silence to you. The day is easier to bear when neither of the brothers are hovering-- especially Jackson.
He hates when you don’t respond, when you avoid his gaze like he isn’t the one saving you from that shithole of a village. But he does like it when you play hard to get. To him, it only makes the chase more interesting and the endgame more rewarding. So he’ll let you cry, let you lash out, because in the end, he always gets what he wants.
Much to your dismay, your prayers go unanswered. Your God isn’t here and he never will be. Jackson is still here, eyes still trained on you with that growing intensity that sickens you. You try to focus on anything that isn’t him-- the trees rustling outside, the water running, and that damn radio playing faintly in the dining room--but nothing seems to pull your attention away from the heavy drag of his boots across the floor, each movement heightening your anxiety.
You don’t realize how close he is, refusing to look back, until his calloused hands find your shoulders. Paralyzed, you stare at the water running, feeling your breathing hitch at the sudden contact. You don’t flinch, don’t give him the reaction he’s craving, knowing he’ll feed off of it. Every response is just another sign that he’s one step closer to breaking you.
Yet, Jackson is always ahead, adjusting to your every move with unsettling ease. He notices the tension in your shoulders and the way your hands tremble at his touch. So, he brushes his thumbs over your clothed skin, hoping to give you some kind of relief-- a silent reassurance that he’s not here to hurt you
“You belong out here,” he mutters, looking down at you with a smile that you can’t see. “A girl like you shouldn’t be rottin’ in that rundown piece of shit you call home.”
He’s not exactly wrong. Your apartment was definitely questionable, but it was the best you could afford when you first moved. At the cheap price of $450 a month (utilities included), you found ways to ignore the bugs that crept through the drains, the suspicious neighbors who were loud at all hours, and the cramped space of your studio.
But all of that was far better than whatever mess he dragged you into. It doesn’t take a blind person to see that the farm is in much worse shape. This place is visibly decaying, with telltale signs everywhere: the rotting scent that clung to the air, items scattered haphazardly, stains of blood following you like a trail, and overgrown vines climbing the walls, entwining themselves around the floorboards of the house. Even with Jackson and William pitching in to clean, as you’d reluctantly ask, it’s still undeniably filthy.
You’d rather live in your “rundown piece of shit” than with this man and even less so with his brother and whatever experiments they’ve got roaming the halls. You haven’t encountered one yet, and you’re somewhat grateful Jackson keeps them hidden from you.
You finally summon the strength to continue cleaning the dishes in the sink, gripping the plate so tightly your knuckles go white. You scrub relentlessly until the porcelain feels like it might crack beneath your fingers, desperate to feel something besides the burn of Jackson’s stare, but the movements feel mechanical. It doesn’t distract you enough.
“I see you don’t agree with me just yet.”
He doesn’t sound angry or dejected, but there's a thread of patience in his voice that unsettles you. It’s a quiet reminder that he’s in this for the long run. He won’t give you the easy escape of death, nor will he bend to your pleas for release.
“That’s okay,” he says, stepping closer, his hands sliding down to gently grasp your upper arm. “I’ve waited this long, worked so hard for you. A little more patience won’t hurt.”
The feeling of his hands wrapped on your bare skin steals your breath, your pulse racing with a sickening mix of terror and disgust. It's as if he’s marking you, his touch searing like a brand. You fight to remain composed, refusing to acknowledge how deeply his actions affect you, but when he tightens his grip around your arm, you can’t help but flinch and gasp.
The warmth of blood from the previous victim drags across your skin, unleashing a wave of terror that crashes over you. You have to get away from him. Now.
“The meat,” you squeak, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush.
Jackson tilts his head, a hum of confusion escaping his lips. His hands loosen, but they don’t quite release you, as he waits for you to elaborate, a curious expression plastered on his face.
You struggle to catch your breath, focusing on the water trickling down your skin, trying to ground yourself in its coldness. When you finally manage to think clearly for a split second, you stutter through the panic, “I.. I need the meat for dinner. It’s almost six.”
While it was a way to get him off of your back, you also genuinely needed whatever protein they usually provided for meals. Killing two birds with one stone, in a sense. He pauses, processing your request, caught off guard by the abrupt shift in topic, but doesn’t press it. He turns his head slightly, checking the clock in the dining room.
4:10 PM
His eyes shift to the body on the floor and, for a moment, he almost hears William’s voice in his head, scolding him. The thought already irritates him, but he doesn’t let it show, not wanting to ruin his mood.
Instead, his gaze returns to you, softening with a quiet admiration in his eyes. He watches you with something like tenderness, before one of his hands reaches for your head, fingers tangling gently in your hair. He leans in and presses a soft kiss on the spot where your healing wound is, as if rewarding you for your hard work.
You jerk back sharply from the foreign, unwanted affection, eyes snapping shut as you struggle to steady yourself, loathing how bold he’s become since your arrival. He stays there, unmoving, for a beat longer.
“Right,” his voice drops to a low murmur against your scalp. “I’ll get you your meat, sweetheart. But first, I’ve gotta take out the trash. Don’t wanna leave a poor boy lyin’ around where folks eat, now do we?”
He finally pulls away and you feel your body relax slightly, the breath escaping your lungs in a shaky exhale. The world feels like it's moving again and you cling onto that fragile sense of motion, relying on it to keep you sane. You’ve bought yourself a few minutes of silence, but you know it’ll be gone before you know it. You’ve learned not to waste the precious seconds you’re given.
“Be good while I’m gone. I’ll be back before ya know it.”
You’re still turned away from him, your hands trembling as they search for purchase on the counter. There are days where he’s bearable, where he almost speaks like the Jackson you knew back at the diner. He still spoils you with compliments, still gives you his attention (even more so now, given the situation), but it’s different now. Everything’s different.
And then there are days like today, where his true nature slips through, reminding you silently that he’s no longer the man you used to know.
Right now, you want him gone more than anything.
You listen intently as his boots retreat back to the hallway, each heavy step echoing in the stillness of the room. Then you hear the scrape of dead weight being pulled across the boards, sending a harsh chill down your spine.
In an act of desperation, you grab a used mug from the sink and scrub at it with frantic urgency. You focus on the feel of the grainy ceramic in your hand, the cold water slipping down your fingers, and the distant, static-laced hum of the old radio, but none of it is enough to drown the sound out.
Before you realize it, your eyes drift towards the entrance of the dining room, your body moving before your mind can catch up. The corpse is almost out of the hallway, limp, with cracks of dried blood painting his neck and his head tilted back unnaturally. His face stares blankly in your direction, mouth slightly open, and for a second too long, you lock eyes with the dead.
Bile rises in your throat, your hand shooting to your mouth as you gag, struggling to keep it down. You want to look away, convince yourself that none of this is real, but your body betrays you as you react to the gruesome sight.
Eventually, they vanish from view, leaving you staring at the smeared blood staining the decayed woods. At that moment, your knees finally buckle, your hand gripping the counter for support. You may have bought yourself a few minutes, but there’s no rest in them. Just enough time to catch your breath before he returns.
꧂
“Where are you taking me?” you whimper, stumbling to keep up as William drags you down through a tangled maze of twisting hallways. His hand tightens around your bicep, fingers digging into your skin almost painfully. He had pulled you away from your chores, snatching you from the porch effortlessly, without saying a word.
He doesn’t answer and it only fuels your fear more. You want to call Jackson for help, terrified of what his brother might do, but the thought quickly fades when you remember that he has the power to kill you with his bare hands in less than a minute. Reluctantly, you decide against it, clinging to the fragile thread of hope that still lingers.
“William--”
“Shut your damn mouth,” he grumbles, finally breaking the silence. “You’re giving me more of a headache.”
You swallow, obeying his command, the weight of dread settling in your chest.
He’s probably spoken less than a thousand words to you in the past weeks you’ve been holed in this place. You learn that he’s the complete opposite of Jackson: reserved, painfully blunt, foul-mouthed, and always brooding.
You also learn not to test his patience after seeing him carry the bloodied carcasses through the door, his hands soaked with blood while the wrench in his pocket stays clean. He doesn’t rely on weapons-- he doesn’t have to. That alone tells you everything you need to know.
He leads you through a few more strange turns, then down a narrow flight of stairs, and finally to a corner of the living room you haven’t really paid attention to. The door at the end of the short hallway stands out amongst everything else in the room. It’s decorated, almost with care. Lights are strung around the frame, a spider sculpture clings to the center, and above it, a deer skull hangs, its antlers still intact. The way it stares at you is unnerving, forcing you to avert your eyes elsewhere.
You were never allowed in that part of the house. Locked doors usually meant danger and maybe it was better that way.
You watch as he digs into his pocket and pulls out a key, moving to unlock the door. It opens with a slow, groaning creak, but you don’t see much besides the dim, yellowish-green light casting William’s broad silhouette. His large frame nearly fills the doorway, making you feel impossibly small in comparison.
This time, he doesn’t guide you harshly like he did moments ago. Instead, he steps aside to leave an opening for you to enter. Your eyes flicker between him and the door and then---
“Are you fucking braindead? Get inside,” he snarled, eyes narrowing with impatience.
You flinch, startled by the cold, sharp edge to his voice. Without another word, you slip past him and into the hallway, your steps hesitant. The moment you cross the threshold, the air shifts, thick with the oppressive scent of mold and damp earth.
It claws at your throat, forcing a cough from you, your hand instinctively flying up to cover the bottom half of your face in a futile attempt to block out the smell. Something about it makes your skin crawl.
William follows closely behind, muttering something under his breath as he shuts the door, the sound echoing through the narrow space. You barely register it, your attention swallowed whole by the eerie corridor itself. Vines wind across the walls in thick, tangled webs, coating the space from the floor to the ceiling, covering almost the entirety of the area.
The longer you stare, the more wrong it feels.
Then out of the corner of your vision, you see something shift subtly. You turn your head toward the wall, squinting as your eyes adjust to the dim light. It doesn’t take long before you see the vines pulsate in a slow, steady manner, as if they have a heartbeat of their own, your eyes widening at the sight.
A part of you wants to convince yourself that you’re losing your grip on reality, that what you’re seeing is just a figment of your imagination or a trick of light. So you squeeze your eyes shut, counting to five, hoping that when you open them, the movement is gone.
When you do, they’re still.
You don’t realize how weak you feel from such a simple hallucination or how your steps falter, until your back bumps against his chest. He doesn’t move. He just stands there, towering behind you, unnervingly still. You tense immediately, expecting him to snap. You twist slightly to glance up at him, an apology ready on your tongue, but he doesn’t give you the chance.
Before you can say a word, he brushes past you, forcing you to stumble aside. His boots crunch against the vines on the floor, snapping you back to reality as you watch him walk ahead. It's only when he turns the corner is when you follow after, though hesitantly, because staying behind feels worse.
Then you see him standing near another closed door at the end of the hallway, barely illuminated by the faint lights spilling from the walls. Williams' back is turned to you, broad shoulders rising and falling with each slow, measured breath. For a brief second, you think he’s about to open it and lead you through another maze, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he glances over his shoulder, his eyes locking with yours through the dim light. The usual scowl on his face is gone, replaced by an unreadable expression, as if he’s studying you, trying to decipher something. Then, he steps aside wordlessly, just enough to leave space for you in front of the door.
The subtle action makes your stomach sink.
He doesn't speak because he knows he doesn’t have to. The message is clear in the way his gaze lingers on the door and then back at you. It’s an easy request, but it holds a terrifying amount of weight.
Your feet are glued to the floor, heart painfully pounding against your ribs. Every instinct in you screams to turn around and run, but William is waiting. You’ve seen the way he’s handled situations like this-- you know what happens if you don’t listen.
Truthfully, you’re not sure what scares you more.
With no other choice, you force yourself forward, each step dragging as you try to delay the inevitable. Once you reach the door, you swallow thickly, your fingers trembling as they hover over the handle. They finally close around the cold metal, but your hand stays frozen, as you try to muster up the strength to turn it, even if just an inch.
You feel William behind you, watching your every move. You don’t need to look at him to sense his growing impatience. With that in mind, you turn the knob slowly, the latch clicking loudly in the silence of the hall. The door creaks open as you push it, its hinges groaning, the sound amplifying your anxiety.
A wave of unnaturally cold air spills out and before you can even take in the room, the smell hits you like a physical blow. It’s a scent you know all too well, one you’ve tried to deny, but can’t escape. Your body reacts instantly, turning your head sharply as a gag rises in your throat. The stench of rot overwhelms your senses, burning its way to your nostrils, and you almost miss the faint, but unmistakable undertones of mold.
It takes you a moment to catch your breath and push past the suffocating barrier, but once you do, your eyes fall back into the room, struggling to remain upright as your hands clutch the doorframe for support. Tears blur your vision as you try to blink them away, the sheer terror rooted deep inside you anchoring you in place.
You can’t bring yourself to continue on, dreading what lies beyond. William notices and acts accordingly, his hand pressing firmly against the center of your back as a warning. You take the hint, legs wobbly as you finally step through.
Despite the dim light, you’re still able to make out the details of the room. In the corner, nestled within a small alcove, sits a crib and a rocking horse, their wooden frames warped with age. Scattered across cramped space are several dusty baby toys, their bright colors faded and exterior marred with scratches and cracks. The innocence they represent feels grotesquely out of place, especially in a home weighed down with buried crimes. A cruel contradiction.
But what you miss is the pair of legs barely visible behind a stack of oversized wooden blocks at the far end of the room.
You step further inside, still unnerved by the thick vines crawling up the walls and ceiling in an unnatural manner. Your gaze lingers on them too long, and you don’t notice your boot sinking into something soft until a sharp, high-pitched squeak shatters the tense, prolonged silence.
You barely have time to look down before you hear the sound of rustling coming from the darkest corner.
Your heart skips a beat, freezing mid-breath as your head slowly turns towards the source. A low growl vibrates through the still air, reverberating across the room, sending a chill through your blood.
When your gaze finally rises, you see a figure lurch from the shadows, towering over you as it stands. You barely catch a glimpse of it before it charges, letting out a deafening roar that rattles the walls, its arms outstretched towards your direction.
Terror overtakes instinct in that very moment. In a blind panic, a scream rips from your throat as you stumble backwards, slamming into the wall with bone-jarring force that sends you crashing to your knees. The air is knocked from your lungs as you hunch over, eyes clamped shut as you brace for impact. You try to give yourself even a sliver of comfort in what you thought would be your end.
But the attack never comes as you remain paralyzed, now feeling the heat of tears rolling down your cheeks.
Instead, you hear a sharp, commanding whistle that rings in your ears for a second too long. Though, every part of you screams to stay still, your eyes slowly open, breaths coming in short, panicked gasps as you lift your gaze to look at whatever loomed over you.
You’re met with the horrifying sight of a humanoid cow, its clouded, hungry eyes locked on yours. Saliva drips from its gaping mouth, slipping between the rows of its terrifyingly sharp teeth stained with blood and something yellowish. Its body is vaguely human, save for the grotesque udder hanging from its stomach, and it’s dressed in a torn, sleeveless red flannel shirt--similar to William’s--and heavily stained jean shorts.
Whatever you had imagined pales in comparison to the nightmare standing before you. The revelation is far more terrifying than anything your mind could’ve conjured.
You try to meld into the wall behind you, desperate to create space between you and the monster standing a few feet away, but to no avail. Despite the distance, you still feel the warm gust of its breath on your face, reeking of bile, and it only makes you more nauseous than you already are. However, it's broken when William puts himself between you and the cow, unbothered by its horrifying presence. It doesn’t make you feel safer, but at least there's a barrier now.
“Enough,” William snaps at it, as if talking to a disobedient dog.
It lets out a sound, something between a choked moo and a frustrated whimper, its body twitching with violent restraint before it remains eerily still and docile, following his orders with unusual obedience. You stare, wide-eyed, barely comprehending how something so monstrous just stopped with a simple word. Once the room goes quiet again, William speaks, this time to you.
“Jackson told me to get the animals used to you,” he says almost resentfully. “Didn’t tell me how.”
He turns to look at you, seeing your shrunken form pressed against the wall, still breathless. There’s no pity in his expression, just the same irritated scowl he always wears whenever he’s near you.
“So, we’re doing this the fast way. You’re already wasting enough of my time.”
He doesn’t give you the chance to question his intentions, grabbing you by the arm and yanking you to your feet, pulling you out of your only semblance of safety with ease. A gasp barely escapes your lips before he drags you in front of the creature, hands pressing firmly on your shoulders to keep you in place. The cow is staring at you now, like a man starved, as its rancid breath fans over your face. A terrified whimper slips from your mouth as you turn your head away, trying to fight against his hold.
William doesn't allow any resistance, his grip tightening. “Unless you want your fucking head ripped off, I suggest you stay put. It has to remember your scent so it won’t try to maul you whenever we’re not around.”
With that, he restrains you and you have no choice but to comply. The creature responds to Williams' signal as he jerks his chin towards you. It hunches over, leaning in, its body hovering dangerously close. It nears your shoulder, sniffing loudly and wheezing in a deafening manner. Warm, sticky drool splashes on your shirt and you hold your breath, knowing that one wrong move could be your last.
You almost consider it--- dying might be the only escape from this nightmare.
But William interrupts your spiraling thoughts, his fingers loosening on your shoulders after giving the creature enough time to familiarize itself with you. It steps back, and you hesitate before opening your eyes, watching as it returns to its spot, its claws dragging harshly against the wooden floor.
“We’ll do this everyday until the animals stop reacting violently towards you.”
There’s no hint of negotiation in his voice, making it clear the decision has already been made. You’re too stunned to answer, your body frozen in the aftermath of the event. When William grabs your arm again and pulls you out of the room, you don’t resist or talk back, barely registering the pressure of his grip. Right now, you feel like one of their experiments, pulled along like lifeless weight.
By the time he drops you back to the porch to finish your chores, the world outside feels distant, the air thin and empty. You stare at the broom on the floor, still in shock as you let the time pass by.
You don’t get much done that night.
꧂
The following morning isn’t any better as you try to tidy up the dining room.
Your body still buzzes from the encounter, your mind heavier than it was yesterday. Sleep never came, leaving you restless and drained, as you tossed and turned in bed in an attempt to escape reality, even just for a second. But the silence of the house only presses harder, reminding you that you’re trapped here, regardless of what you do.
Jackson is already pestering you at the early hours of 8 AM, as if he didn’t instruct William to throw you into a room with something that had no business existing. He’s lounging comfortably on one side of the table across from you, drinking something in that mug of his. Since he arrived here ten minutes ago, he’s done nothing but stare at you, offering only a casual morning greeting.
You don’t give him the satisfaction of even a glance, deliberately ignoring his presence as you stack the dirty dishes from the night before into a neat pile. You try to focus on the scrape of ceramic and the occasional clink of silverware rather than the weight of his stare. He doesn’t seem to mind it too much.
Leaning back in his chair, he takes another sip from his mug, smiling as if this were domestic bliss. Like you’re a real, healthy couple enjoying a peaceful morning together.
“Look at you, darlin’,” he says, and you nearly wince at the new pet name. “Workin’ so hard, keepin’ the farm just how I like it.”
You don’t respond, scraping some crumbs into a chipped plate before adding it to the stack, unwilling to participate in his trivial attempt of small talk.
He chuckles softly, tapping his fingers against the table, each one calculated, as if trying to get under your skin. “You’re awfully quiet today. That because of yesterday?”
Jackson doesn’t get the hint as you remain silent, raising his voice just enough, as if hoping it’ll provoke a reaction from you.
“I heard it went well,” he adds, grinning around the rim of his cup. “William said you and Daisy got real close.”
Your jaw tightens, shoulders stiffening at his words as the memory of yesterday floods back. You slam the last plate down harder than you intend, the piercing sound cutting through the music playing in the background.
Jackson is smart. He knows what he’s doing, but presses on anyway.
“I know she can be a little frightenin’ at first. Took forever to tame the poor girl, but once she gets to know ya, she can get real protective--”
Something in you snaps as he rambles, as if any of this is remotely sane. You finally glance up at him, your eyes meeting his in a look of disbelief. His sentence hangs unfinished as you cut in, fed up with his delusions, “You think that went well?”
He tilts his head, feigning innocence, not paying mind to the acrimony in your voice. “You’re still breathing, ain’t you? That’s better than most first meetings.”
“You’re fucking disgusting.”
He laughs at that, like you’re nothing more but a running joke-- his personal source of entertainment in this hellhole. He thinks you’re cute like this, all riled up, and you think he’s the most unbearable person on this planet. If getting on your nerves was his job, he was certainly excelling at it.
“It’s not fucking funny,” you snap at him, your voice rising with tension. “Whatever the hell you’re doing-- it's not normal. None of this is.”
Jackson feels your frustration building and slowly rises to his feet. His expression shifts into something resembling sympathy, but it's hollow and practiced. You know better than to believe it.
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it as many times as you need, sweetheart,” he says in a low and calm manner.. “I know it’s a lot to take in. You’re scared, I get it. That’s natural for someone who wasn’t raised this way.”
He moves around the table to get closer to you, his arms already reaching out to comfort you, but you just step back, glaring at him angrily as he continues.
“But you’re a part of this now. Whether you like it or not, this is your life--”
You cut him off, the words too familiar, the reassurances too empty. You’re done hearing it.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
It’s his turn to look at you as if you’ve lost your mind, taken aback by your question. He scans your face, searching for some sign, some hint that you’re joking, but finds nothing. His composure slips for a second, but he quickly regains it, though only for a fleeting moment.
“Are you really askin’ why?” he cuts in, stepping closer with a desperation that bleeds. His hands move to his chest, clutching the fabric over his heart as if he’s trying to tear it open--- like if you could see it, bleeding and honest in his palms, you might finally understand everything he’s done for you. “I’m doin’ this because I want to spend the rest of my life with you. From the moment I saw you, when my Lord answered my prayers about you-- about us --I knew you were the one. I knew I had to make you mine.”
Dread begins to settle in as you attempt to keep your distance, recognizing the manic intensity in his eyes. His voice rises, as if he’s pleading to some higher power, but it's just you, him, and whatever fragile thread of sanity he’s holding onto.
“Everythin’ I’ve done.. everythin’ I’ve let you see, it’s all because I want you to feel comfortable. To feel safe. I want you to call this place home. Don’t you understand that?”
His voice cuts abruptly and the tension in the room thickens as he presses his lips together, taking a slow breath like he’s trying to reel himself back in. Your back is pressed against the wall, nowhere to run as he closes in. You look at him like he’s a monster that’s crawled out of hell and the sight seems to aggravate him more than it should.
But he doesn’t back down. He simply accepts it, already convinced that none of this changes your fate with him.
“I ain’t doing any of this to hurt you,” he whispers, his gaze never wavering. “I’m doing it because I love you.”
He says it so quietly, so tenderly, that it freezes you in place. His eyes are full of hope, as if he’s expecting a positive reaction from you. If this was the Jackson you once knew, maybe you would’ve reacted differently. Maybe things could have turned out for the better. But right now, the confession feels like a curse-- something that binds him to you forever.
“You love me?” you say with a mixture of disbelief and panic rising in your voice. “Jackson, you’re out of your damn mind if you think this is love. Keeping me captive-- risking my fucking safety -- this isn’t love.”
“Risking your safety? You don’t understand what I’ve protected you from---”
“No!” you lash out on him, finally finding the strength to stand up for yourself. “You’re what I need protection from! You act like this is some fairy tale, like I’m supposed to thank you for not letting me die yet!”
Jackson’s jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing at you, “Don’t twist my intentions.”
“Do you really think I’ll fall in love with my captor? The man who's ruining my life? That if you say the words ‘I love you’, it’ll magically undo all the damage you’ve done?”
“I said it cause I meant it, “ his voice lowers, as if sending you a warning, but you don’t care. You’ve had enough of him toying with you.
“Well, I don’t,” you spit back, your words dripping with spite. “I don’t love you, and I never fucking will. Not in this life, not in any.”
A thick silence hangs between you. His eyes bore into yours, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you think you’ve finally broken through, that maybe he’ll walk away and leave you be. You’re breathing hard, trying to come down from your anger, but he doesn’t let it happen.
Without warning, he lunges forward, grabbing your wrist roughly. You yelp, startled by the sudden pain, but he doesn’t ease his grip. His gentle touch you once knew is gone, replaced with someone cold and unforgiving. Panic rises within you as you attempt to break free from his unrelenting hold.
“L-Let go of me--”
“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” he glowered, the usual mirth absent from his features. “After everythin’ I’ve sacrificed to keep you by my side--all the sleepless nights, every drop of blood I’ve shed for you, and all the feelings I poured out-- you still look me in the face and say that shit?”
“J-Jackson--”
“You don’t get it, do ya? And you never will,” his grip tightens, nails digging into your skin. Not enough to hurt you, but enough to remind you that with him, you’ll never be in control. That opening your mouth with the intention of defying him will always be a fatal mistake. His next words come out empty, yet full of promise. “Guess it’s time you learned how things really work around here.”
With that, he tugs you harshly, dragging you through the familiar path that William trapped you in not too long ago. When you recognize the decorated door ahead, you attempt to break free from his hold, but his grip is like iron.
The bravery you held just moments ago fades as he pulls you through the corridor, past the room where Daisy once hibernated, and into new, unfamiliar territory. Terror floods your mind, leaving no space to take in your surroundings. You plead, calling his name and spewing out apologies, hoping to shatter his resolve, but it all falls on deaf ears.
He only talks once you both pass a book shelf leading to a narrowed hall with a door at the end. A decayed hand, in its final stages of decomposition, is nailed firmly to the door, blood and the remnants of the rot sliding down its surface. You let out a choked gasp, digging your heels into the ground, frantically trying to slow him down and fight back, but it's no match for the rage burning inside him.
“You wanna paint me as the bad guy?” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “Then maybe it’s time you get a real good look at the things I’ve kept hidden for your sake.”
He nearly rips the basement door open from the force of his tug. It slams against the wall, the violent bang echoing through the hallway like a gunshot.
“You say you need protection from me. That I’m the real danger. Let's see if that means anything down here.”
Your heart drops at his words, but before you can react, he’s already dragging you through the doorway and down the staircase, the cold air stabbing you as you descend deeper. Your knees slam against the ground when he throws you aside, your hands breaking your fall as it meets the damp, sticky floor. It’s coated with some unknown substance, but the unsettling texture barely registers against the severity of the situation.
By the time you catch your breath, Jackson is already standing on top of the steps, the light behind him casting his silhouette.
You can’t see his face, but you hear the detachment in his tone. His hand moves to the doorknob, resting there as he remains still.
“If you want to come out alive..” he begins, voice eerily calm. “All you have to do is tell me that you love me.”
Your eyes widen at his ultimatum. To him, it’s a way to force the truth out of you when you play hard to get, when you choose to disobey and be ungrateful.
“I haven’t fed the big guy recently, so it’s best if you make your decision quick.”
Your face pales, vision spinning as his words sink in. It’s like your brain can’t quite grasp what he’s saying, but deep down, you know you’re just in denial. Your voice cracks, strained, as if it’s someone else speaking for you.
“What..?”
Jackson brings his hand to his mouth, whistling loudly into the basement he’s trapped you in. The piercing sound rings in your ears, but then something stirs to your right. The sound of glass shattering follows shortly after, and a high-pitched whinny echoes through the room.
Your eyes stay locked on Jackson, stubbornly denying the creeping sensation that something is lurking in the shadows with you. But as you turn your head slowly, you spot it emerging from an adjacent room down the hall, its arrival clear under the red-filtered light.
Another humanoid creature--this time, something resembling a horse-- looks straight at you. Its body is abnormally disproportionate, with its arms nearly scraping the floor despite its alarming height, its head brushing the ceiling above. It stands there, frozen and unnervingly motionless, its breath ragged and wet, filling the air with a nauseating rhythm.
Your head whips back towards him, now begging. “Jackson, please--”
He doesn’t offer you mercy, no opportunity to plead. His words are decisive, as though he’s already sealed your fate in his mind.
“You know what to do.”
And just like that, the door slams shut with a deafening crash, snuffing out your only source of reliable light, the darkness engulfing you whole. The room falls deathly silent for a heartbeat before a harsh, shrill neigh ruptures the stillness. Your heart leaps into your throat as you scramble onto your feet, catching sight of the creature limping toward you out of the corner of your eye. You gasp and bolt for the top, adrenaline surging through every frantic movement.
The horse moves slowly, but it offers no comfort, knowing that it’ll reach you if you don’t act fast. It doesn’t take long to get to the top, but just before you can grab the doorknob, you miss a step. Your foot twists, your ankle rolling in a sickening snap, and a sharp, blinding pain shoots through your leg.
A cry tears through your throat, knees buckling as you crumple forward, hands scraping against the roughness of the stairs to catch yourself. The pain is unbearable as you heave uncontrollably, tears welling up in your eyes. The world spins around you, but you push forward, forcing your feet to move as the sound of footsteps grows louder.
This time, you hold onto the railing, whimpering under your breath as you limp the rest of the way through, dragging your injured foot behind you like dead weight. Every movement feels like fire ripping through your tendon, the ankle already bruising and swelling, but you don’t stop. You can’t-- not with your life on the line.
Once you reach the door, your fist slams against it, sobs wracking your chest, “Jackson-- please! Let me out! I-I’m sorry.. I’m really sorry--!”
Silence greets you on the other side, and you know that isn’t what he wants to hear. Your heart thunders against your ribs, each breath ragged and shallow. Behind you, the creature lets out a low, gurgling snort that shakes the walls. As a last resort, you throw your weight against the door, ignoring the pain that flares in your ankle and jolts through your body, but it doesn’t budge. Jackson locked it the moment it shut.
You glance over your shoulder, now seeing the horse halfway up the staircase. Its massive form fills the narrow space, black, shiny eyes fixed on you as it grows closer. A cold stiffness creeps through your body, and then--
“I love you, okay?!” You cry, finally surrendering to his twisted desires as you pound the door with the heel of your hand. “I fucking love you!”
The words are like acid on your tongue, leaving a trail of betrayal as they scrape out of your throat. You swore you’d rather die than give him control, but some primal part of your brain reminds you that survival is louder than pride.
“Please, Jackson!”
The pause on the other side is excruciating, your body trembling as you strike the door again and again, hoping that someone--anyone at this point-- would spare you. Then, you hear the soft clink of the lock, and before you can even register it, Jackson’s arms are around you, pulling you in close. With one swift motion, he slams the door shut with his foot, the lock snapping into place as the creature screams in rage from the other side.
You collapse into him, your knees giving way as you fold against his body, Jackson sinking down with you. He holds you tightly, one arm wrapped around your waist while the other presses the back of your head to his chest in a protective manner.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your hair. “You’re safe now, I promise.”
But the words ring hollow. You’ll never be safe-- not in this place and certainly not with him.
The warmth of his chest and the steady beat of his heart only makes you sob harder, your body shaking uncontrollably as you press into his shirt. Your arms cling to him desperately, as if he’s the only lifeline keeping you from slipping away into nothingness.
His lips press gently to your temple, lingering for a moment as if hoping to soothe you. The touch burns through your skin, the warmth of it only adding ache to the wound he’s left untreated. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn't want it to be like this. I just needed to know that you loved me too.”
You’re too overwhelmed to fight back, hiccuping through your tears as you try to catch your breath. You don’t pick up on the sincerity of his voice or the way he looks at you like you’re the most fragile, precious thing in this world. Despite your haze, his voice still cuts through the numbness.
“I meant it,” he says again, “When I said I love you and that I’d do anythin’ for you.”
When he says ‘anything’ , it's not just a promise--it’s a declaration of what he’s willing to do.
And that’s what terrifies you the most, because it leaves you wondering just how far he’ll go to prove it.
tags: @mr-trick @wisepainterprince @ryuoo @tagmepls @novalovelily @prettygirlslovegirls
❦ the red means i love you ❦
(chap. 3)
➪ chap 1. • chap. 2 • chap. 3 • chap. 4 • chap. 5 •
𓃟read it on ao3
❦ pairing: jackson hillwalker/cottonwood x fem! reader
❦ word count: 6.8k+ words
❦ summary: as you navigate the endless maze of this strange place, you come to the dreadful realization that the threat goes beyond jackson himself.
❦ authors note: i'm not so proud of this chapter, but its an introductory to whatever crazy shit comes next. 🥸 so, uh, get ready for that, ig. sorry for taking a bit on this chapter, but ill start working on the next one‼️‼️
❦ possible triggers: blood, amputation, religious psychosis, use of weapons, obsessive behaviors, injuries
The wind sings through the cracks of the walls, rousing you from what would’ve been a full night's rest if you hadn’t taken a detour.
The first sensation that hits you is the violent throb of your head. A low groan escapes your lips as you try to shift, hoping that it’ll help ease the pain but it doesn’t. Your hand instinctively presses against your temple, weakly massaging the unbearable throb, but the ache spreads relentlessly.
The next thing you notice is the smell-- sickly sweet, metallic, and rancid. The scent lingers in the air, overcoming your senses. It’s the unmistakable stench of death, a foretell of what was yet to come. A reminder that you weren’t safe here.
So with all the strength you could muster in the span of the three minutes you’ve been awake, you attempt to sit up from whatever rundown couch you were left to rot in. What should've been an easy task quickly proves to be far more difficult as a sharp pain lances through your head. A gasp rips from your throat, the force of it enough to send you tumbling off the couch and to your knees. You lose your balance, breath catching in your chest as you struggle to remain conscious.
Your hand shoots to the back of your head, where you're met with the sticky sensation staining your fingers and the matted texture of your hair. Your fingertips skim through the strands before it touches the tender spot, flinching harshly as you bite back a cry.
You heave for a moment, your vision blurring and swimming as the world spins around you. But amid the disorientation, a surge of determination cuts through the pain. You force yourself to push past the weight of your concussion, willing yourself to move.
For a second, your eyes scan the room, desperately piercing through the haze that's beginning to lift. From what you can see, the room is a mess, almost as if a tornado had passed through it. Items are scattered all over the counters and floors, chipped paint clings to the walls, and a pool of water collects in the corner beneath a cracked roof.
But then, you spot a door not too far from you. The sight alone provides you a glimmer of hope as you suck in a breath, gathering all your strength to push yourself upright. When you do manage to get on your feet, your legs wobble beneath you, and you stumble to the nearest wall for support. Your fingers lightly graze the cold surface of the walls, tethering you back to reality, while your other arm wrapped around your middle, forcing back the rising nausea.
With cautious movements, you shakily navigate the clutter, stepping over it as best as you can before reaching your destination. Your fingers tremble as they close around the cold metal of the doorknob. You push, expecting some kind of resistance but to your surprise, the door opens with uncomfortable ease. It creaks loudly, its age evident, as if it had been waiting for your first move.
Swallowing thickly, your eyes settled at the sight of a barely lit corridor, illuminated by dim lights attached to the walls. The only other source of light is from the thin beams of daylight filtering through the boarded-up windows, casting a warm glow across the decayed wooden floorboards. A heavy contrast to the dread that filled the building.
As mortifying as it was, you knew staying still would only leave you more vulnerable. The choice wasn’t yours, so you ventured deeper into the unfamiliar house, your breathing coming in shallow gasps as you fought the dizziness to keep your balance.
Each step felt heavy against the floorboards, echoing throughout the eerily quiet halls. It quickly dawns on you on how massive this house is, almost resembling a maze that seemed to stretch endlessly. There's a pang of claustrophobia that hits you as you turn several narrow halls that look similar to each other. You stumble from one room to the next, each one more jumbled than the last.
You know you’re running on borrowed time. Searching every room would only speed up your demise, so you spare each one a cursory glance before moving on if nothing catches your eye.
With the pain circulating throughout your body and the panic filling your veins, you barely register the details at first. Small glimpses of it pass your vision as you delve deeper: shattered picture frames, faded paintings, and stains that smeared across the walls and floors. It’s only then that you realize something is horribly wrong in his house.
It feels as if you’re being watched, each movement tracked by an unseen entity. You glance behind you to reassure yourself, but it doesn’t help. If anything, the feeling only intensifies, gnawing at you even more.
After what felt like hours of disoriented wandering, you finally round a corner and spot an arched doorway in the middle of the hallway. Despite your hesitation, you push yourself off the wall supporting you before heading towards it. Your hand wraps around the doorframe and you peer inside, letting out a shaky sigh of relief at the sight of an empty dining room with an adjacent kitchen. Well, barely empty.
The stench hits you first-- the rot is evident, your eyes growing teary at the pungent scent. Your body moves on its own, turning away instinctively, hand covering your mouth and nose. You let out a string of dry heaves as the air seems to steal your breath. There's a part of you that wants you to leave this place and continue on, but the feeling in your gut tells you otherwise as it forces you forward. Reluctantly, you step inside, hand still clamped over the bottom half of your face.
You grip whatever you can for support as you observe the strange room, finding a turned over chair, a shattered clock, and a handful of pizza boxes littering the table, surrounded by used plates and dirty utensils. It’s an unpleasant sight but you know it isn’t the source. You know how rotten food smells. This is something far worse.
Despite the sinking feeling in your stomach, you push through, moving past the dining area and into the cluttered kitchen. The low static hum of a worn down radio sits on the island that separates the dining and cooking space.
There’s an unintelligible news report playing as you frantically try to inspect the contents on the counter. You try to focus on the task, but the overpowering scent that’s been haunting you pulls you in, its stench growing unbearable by the second. A gag forces its way up your throat as you struggle to keep it down.
You hunch over, holding onto the pillar of the island as you desperately try to overcome the smell. There's something rising in your throat but you fight against it, trying to find the strength to continue on. Then you hear it-- a steady drip, falling in rhythmic pattern. The static of the radio clears and you tune in unknowingly, catching a few words as you peer over the pillar, your breathing shaky.
“... The twentieth victim has not been located. Investigators are urging anyone with information to step forward. From what was reported, the newest victim is a female,--”
Your blood runs cold. The description is too close, too familiar in a way that tightens your chest, and then it clicks.
It's you.
You’ve been here long enough to be reported as an addition to their collection.
You don’t want to look, but your body moves faster than you can process. Your eyes fall on the fridge at the end of the kitchen, a chill crawling down your spine at the sight. A red viscous liquid streams over the edge, dripping slowly onto the floor, pooling in the crevices of the old wood. The door is slightly ajar, the dim light flickering inside, just enough to keep the contents hidden, but not enough to block the truth.
You know what's waiting inside, and it only serves as a countdown to your inevitable fate.
Your knees buckle beneath you, the mortification choking you, wrapping around your throat as if you owed it something. Something in you finally snaps you back into reality, a sudden flash of adrenaline jolting throughout your body.
You have to get out and fast.
Quickly, you rush over to the drawers, whimpering under your breath as you frantically yank them open, hands shakily fumbling through the contents. The tears in your eyes are blurring your vision and it becomes increasingly difficult to make out each item.
You force yourself to blink them back, trying to ground yourself, as you toss aside rusted silverware, shards of glass, and dulled out knives. A curse escapes your lips as you move onto the next, tugging it open forcefully when it resists.
And there it was.
A cleaver staring back at you, its blade darkened with age but the edge sharp, faintly gleaming in the dim light.
A wave of relief crashes over you, the air leaving your lungs as you wipe your eyes. It wasn’t much but it was better than navigating this horrid place empty-handed.
Unfortunately, the moment of solace is short-lived. The sound of movement by the doorway pulls you out of your trance, a familiar voice slicing through the air. You gasp, terror shooting through you as you whip around, crashing harshly into the counter behind you. Your wide eyes lock with Jackson’s, his expression laced with amusement. Your hands grip on the counter for support, but it does little to steady you.
He raises his hands in mock surrender, “Hey now. Relax.”
You watch, heart pounding, as he offers you a calm smile, taking a step forward before clearing his throat.
“It’s just me. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.”
He says it as if it provides you comfort, but it doesn’t. Something inside you shifts the moment he starts moving towards you deliberately, as if he doesn’t want to trigger a bomb waiting to explode. The weight of everything you’ve been through--every ounce of fear, confusion, and denial-- collides into a singular, burning knot of rage.
He was someone you thought you could trust. You were a fool for ever believing he was a good person, degrading yourself for finding comfort in his presence and words. You should've known better, picked up the signs that were now so painfully obvious-- the stains on his fingernails, the air of mystery surrounding him, the way he skirted questions. But now you’re not sure if you’re more angry at him or yourself.
Your mind is a storm of unanswered questions, each one colliding, but one thought rises to the surface: you can’t let him take another step towards you. Not after everything.
Your hand searches for anything within reach, fingers closing around a ceramic plate before you hurl it towards his direction. It misses him by a margin, shattering against the wall behind him in a deafening crack.
“Stay the fuck away from me!” you scream, voice cracking in a mixture of pain and rage, as another object-- this time, a mug--goes flying towards him. You don’t even care if it lands anymore. You’re furious. Furious that you walked right into his trap, that he led you on and played with your life like it was some sick, twisted joke.
Jackson doesn’t flinch, not in the slightest bit. The items sail past him, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he closes the distance between you, a faint smirk on his lips that sets you off even more, clearly entertained by your outburst.
In another attempt to calm you down, he coaxes you softly, drawing painfully close as he steps into the kitchen, “Sweetheart, calm down. Just hear me out, okay? I know everythin’ ain’t lookin’ so peachy, but I promise you--”
You don’t let him finish, your hand moving to grab the cleaver concealed inside the drawer, fingers wrapping tightly around the worn handle. When he reaches out to soothe you, your body screams at you to fight and somehow through panic-struck fear, you swing at him. The shock of it doesn’t register at first, but once the blade makes contact with his fingers, you let out a gasp of disbelief, dropping the weapon.
When the sound of flesh tearing wraps around you, your eyes drift to the floor, following one of his fingers as it hits the ground. The breath leaves your body as you gape at it in horror before you look up at Jackson, expecting a flinch, an expression of shock or pain, or a staggered retreat, but none of it happens.
Instead, you’re pulled out of your shock with the sound of his gleeful laughter, a sickening smile plastered on his blood-splattered face. The blood drains from your face at his disturbing reaction, watching him bend to pick up his finger off of the floor, stuffing it into his pocket like it meant nothing to him.
It was as though this was exactly what he’d been waiting for.
“That’s it,” he says, a look of pride crossing his features as he uses his uninjured hand to wipe the blood from his face. “That’s my girl. You’re learning.”
He’s savoring every second of the terror that crosses your features, admiring the way your body trembles as your knees threaten to buckle beneath you. Your pulse races, each beat hammering in your ears like a warning bell. Your hands find purchase on the counter once more as your eyes frantically scan for any possible way out.
With his face still twisted in that unholy grin, he takes a step towards you. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head, see the mirth dancing in his eyes as he watches your every move, as if trying to predict your next reaction. He knows you’re terrified and he likes it.
You push yourself harder against the counter, as if it’ll create more distance, but you know it's futile. The walls are closing in on you, panic building with your growing sense of entrapment.
“Jackson, please, don’t--” all you can do is beg because there’s no way out. The tears fall from your eyes, burning your skin as it streaks down your face. “Don’t come any closer. Don’t hurt me.”
He shakes his head, a sympathetic look on his face. Though he closes the distance, he doesn’t put his hands on you, leaving just enough space to make you believe that he respects your boundaries, even just for a second.
“I will never hurt you, sweetheart,” he coos sweetly in a way that once made you feel special. “This is just all a misunderstandin’. I promise this wasn’t supposed to happen. Let's just sit and talk about it, alright? It’ll make ya feel a bit better.”
His words do nothing but weigh on your already strained heart. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand that talking isn’t what you need right now. Survival is your only focus-- you need to get away from him before it’s too late.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” you snap at him through your sobs, voice quivering as you struggle to maintain the distance. “There’s nothing you can say to me right now.”
You finally spare him a glance, seeing the softened expression on his face, like he's hurt by your rejection. Yet, there's no genuine remorse in his eyes, only satisfaction swimming in them as if he's playing a game he’s already won. You want to look past it, believe there’s some kind of care for you buried inside him, enough for him to rethink his decision.
“Please.. just let me go.”
Before he can answer, his mouth already opening, a low, ominous groan echoes through the hallway, silencing you both. It reverberates off of the walls, as if it's in pain and awakening from a deep sleep. You freeze up, scanning the room in a cold sweat as you try to find the source of the sound. It’s not like any noise you’ve heard before; it's primal and guttural as if it doesn’t belong. The hair on the back of your neck stands, your instincts telling you to run.
You see a shadow flicker in the corner of your vision for a split second, eyes darting towards the door. You suck in a breath, holding it long enough for you to pray that if you stay silent, it won’t notice you. You don’t find anything and you’re not sure if that eases your mind or makes it worse.
Part of you wants this to be just a concussed delusion, but another growl, louder this time, shakes the room, reminding you that this is no dream. Your breath catches in your throat as you glance at Jackson for an explanation, even though you don’t expect one.
An unreadable expression settles on his face, completely unfazed by the noise, like he’s aware of whatever monstrosity is wandering around. And in that moment, the truth creeps up on you: Jackson isn’t your only concern anymore.
“I could let you go,” he says, welcoming the idea warmly, “but what good would that do you? You could only run for so long before..”
He falls silent, allowing you to pick up on the sound of heavy footsteps, outweighing every other noise playing in the kitchen. His words hang in the air, unfinished, and you know that he’s purposely letting the silence stretch, forcing you to imagine the worst. As predicted, your mind obliges, falling into the trap he’s set.
He uses this advantage to take another step closer, offering a hand to you as you tremble. His voice is soft, but there’s something sinister woven into each word.
“You may not trust me right now, but believe me when I say I’m the least of your problems. Whatever’s out there..” he murmurs, eyes flickering towards the door, the threat evident in his voice. “..won’t be as kind as I am.”
You don’t want to take up his offer, deny him the satisfaction of gaining the upper hand in the situation, but the growls become more distinct and the footsteps shift, turning into a scraping, clawing noise, like something is dragging its weight across the floors.
The malevolent presence is growing closer, even if you can’t see it just yet. No matter how much you try to ignore his words, you’re forced to confront the truth in them. The decision presses down on you, leaving you torn.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he cuts through your dilemma, as if trying to drill his way through. “I’m offering you safety and protection. You don’t have to do anything. You just have to stay by my side.”
But it’s not as simple as sticking around, is it? It’s clear he has something planned for you. Staying with him is like accepting some sick fate you can’t undo. The thought makes your stomach twist, but it’s a less horrifying prospect than whatever is lurking throughout the house.
And as psychotic Jackson is, he might be your only hope of survival right now. A cleaver won’t do anything and your drive could only go on for so long. You’re weak and helpless, but still, you manage to whimper through your tears, trying to convince yourself that you don’t need him.
“You can’t keep me safe. Y-You’re part of this, all of it. You can’t--” the words die in your throat. A last ditch effort to convince yourself, but he knows. He always does.
“You’re right, I am part of this, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m the only one who can help you now.”
He doesn't bother denying the accusation, but he looks at you like your words confirmed something he already knew. The pit in your stomach deepens, the horror of your situation sinking even more.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe he really is your only chance.
You want to keep denying, hoping somehow you could make yourself believe otherwise. But no matter how hard you try, the truth hits you like a punch to the gut-- you don’t have much of a choice. Without him, you’re as good as dead. Before you know it, the words spill from your lips, laced with hesitation and regret.
“I don’t want to,” you whisper through your tears, unable to meet his gaze. Your hand shakes as it moves to grip his, sealing the offer, signing away whatever freedom you have left. Your voice grows quieter, barely audible, but Jackson hears it. “But I don’t want to die.”
Jackson’s expression doesn’t change, but a hint of triumph flashes through his eyes. His hand wraps around yours gently, like you might break if he isn’t careful.
“I know,” he says, his voice low, “and I won’t let it happen. Not while I’m still breathing.”
You’re not sure if he’d ever come close to death. After his little demonstration with the loss of his fingers, his calm reaction almost convinces you that he’s immortal in some kind of ungodly way. No normal person behaves like this.
He leads you out before you can think about it any longer, positioning himself between you and whatever is following. A part of you wants to believe you made the right decision, but was there really a choice in the first place?
❦
It doesn’t take long until he leaves you alone in a room, with only a promise that he’d return. You don’t want him to but you know better than to hope at this point. You’ll take whatever you can get right now, even if it's a few minutes of silence. A part of you is oddly thankful he locked the door, even though it diminishes any chance of escape. You sit on the edge of the bed, dissociating as everything crashes down on you.
You should’ve stayed in the city. Stuck with your dead-end job that paid less than the cost of living, deal with your parents bickering at you, and make amends that you’d stick with the same two friends for the rest of your life. If you knew things would turn out this way, you would’ve made peace with your life a long time ago.
Your mom was right. You never thought you’d see the day you’d admit it, but there’s no point in denying it now. Moving to a place for a fresh start, with no one to save you, was a mistake. And now, here you are, tangled in this mess, paying the price for every decision that led you to this point.
You start to spiral, beginning to degrade yourself for your nativity. But it doesn’t last long as the door opens, the creak of it startling you.
Your hand is already reaching for something on the nightstand, fingers closing around the picture frame as your gaze shoots at the door, heart racing. You’re already on your feet in record time. You expect it to be Jackson or one of his fucked up experiements, but the idea of another human being entering doesn’t cross your mind. Not a normal looking one, at least.
He’s inside before you can process him fully, eyes scanning him as you tuck yourself into the narrow space between the bed and nightstand, as if it’ll provide you with any protection. You don’t let go of the object, gripping it like a lifeline, but you remain still.
He finally looks up, eyes narrowed, cold and assessing.
He’s looking at you like you’re some stray animal rooting through his trash, and you stare back, frozen like a deer caught in the headlights. The first noticeable thing is his height-- he’s alarmingly tall. His head nearly brushes the top of the door frame as he steps inside, easily towering almost anything in the room, making you feel like a mouse in the gaze of a predator. You try to take in more but his sheer size dominates your attention.
He’s dressed similarly to Jackson, but his clothes are much more fitted to his broad frame, his body much more defined. His hair, a dark brown, is a bit disheveled, parted to the side and voluminous compared to Jacksons. There’s a scowl on his face that makes him seem perpetually angry, but you don’t have a chance to study him more when his voice cuts through the silence.
“Come here.”
He says it bluntly, as if he doesn’t expect you to question it. His voice is low and commanding, noticeably deeper than Jackson’s syrupy drawl. There’s no warmth in his words, no trace of hospitality. It’s almost as if he's inconvenienced by your presence, even though you’ve only shared the same space for about two minutes.
When you don’t move or respond to his command, his glare hardens, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that deepens the unease crawling up your spine. You try to meld with the wall behind you, hoping that it would somehow create distance between you and the stranger invading your space (but is that really the case when you’re in their home?).
“I said come here,” he repeats harshly, this time with an edge that tells you that he won’t accept “no” as an answer. “Now.”
You refuse to move, even as the fear pulses through you. Despite your nerves, you push out the words, your voice shaky, but defiant, “What do you want from me?”
With the way he’s looking down at you, you’re convinced he’s one second away from wrapping his hands around your throat. When he doesn’t respond, you gather whatever courage you have left, speaking again, your voice louder, a bit more firm this time around.
“I don't know who you are. Jackson didn’t tell me--”
“I don’t give a fuck about what Jackson did or didn’t tell you,” he interrupts, his voice thick with frustration, like you’re just another problem he doesn’t have the patience for. “Now, come here or I’ll handle things my own way.”
There’s certainty in his words, and you know it's not a threat, but a promise. One that cuts through your hesitation, pulling you out of the corner you’ve hidden yourself in. Your feet feel sluggish as you draw closer to him, each step heavier than the last. The picture frame slips from your grasp, clattering to the floor with an unsettling sound. Up close, he’s even more imposing, much bigger than you anticipated. You can’t shake the feeling that even the lightest touch from him could shatter you, the thought sending another shiver racing up your spine.
He notices, but he doesn’t care.
“Turn around.”
You want to, but you’re afraid of what he’ll do. Turning your back on him only leaves you more exposed, and that's a risk you’re not willing to take. So you remain frozen, unwilling to comply. He notices it almost immediately, his hand rising to pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut like he’s fighting the urge to strangle you.
“Look,” he starts, the thread of exhaustion finally slipping into his voice, “Jackson told me to check your injury, alright? Now, stop wasting my fuckin’ time and turn around. I’ve got work to get back to.”
A strange reassurance sparks in you, even if it's not the kind you’re searching for. You swallow thickly before turning your back on him, hoping that you were making the right choice. You hear his boots scrape across the old wooden floorboards, each step dragging uncomfortably close.
Without warning, his rough fingers push into your scalp, tugging your hair aside with a sharp yank. You hiss involuntarily, biting down the sound that threatens to leave your throat. Your face burns with heat, the sting of his grip searing into your skin. The heavy scent of sweat and old wood fills your nostrils, making the air feel thick and claustrophobic. You try to hold it together, but when his thumb brushes over the exposed area, your hands shoot up to grab his wrists, fingers digging into his skin as if it’ll alleviate the pain.
The act is instinctual, your body moving without thought--a reflex fueled by panic, burning inside you.
You only realize what you’ve done when he goes still under your touch, the tension in his arms palpable. The silence hangs heavy for a moment, until it’s broken by his voice, sharp and venomous. That's when you come to the realization that you’ve crossed a line. His hand lingers on the sore spot, but the pressure in his hold eases.
“Let go, or I’ll tie your damn hands behind your back.”
The firmness in his tone leaves no room for doubt. Without a second thought, you loosen your grip, arms dropping to your sides as your fingers nervously tug at the fabric of your pants, unsure of what to do. A strained apology leaves your lips, but he doesn’t entertain it. Instead, he mutters something under his breath through gritted teeth.
“Can’t believe you’re the idiot Jackson’s been losing sleep over,” he says, the words dripping with disdain and bitterness. “He thinks you’re worth the mess, but I don’t see it.”
His degradations leave you confused, but the unmistakable flush on your cheeks only deepens your humiliation. He inspects the wound once more, but this time, there’s a subtle difference. His touch, though still rough, is a bit more controlled, as if he’s exercising restraint. You know better than to provoke him right now, so you attempt to keep still, fighting through the pain.
You don’t respond to his words, knowing that hearing the answer would intensify your discomfort. You’re already drained by this sudden change in your life. The last thing you need is to learn more about the man who’s controlling it.
After what seems like a lifetime, his touch recedes, leaving you with an ache that settles into something more bearable.
It takes a moment to catch your breath, but when you finally look over your shoulder, you see him wiping his hands on his worn out jeans, scanning the room with a scowl.
For a second, you catch the thoughtful look in his eyes, and it’s almost like you’re staring at Jackson. They have similar features-- the same tired eyes and sharp nose. A part of you wonders if they’re related but the thought is fleeting. Jackson hasn’t mentioned anything about his family except his mother, who was notorious around town. The possibility lingers, but you don’t dwell on it too long.
“You’ll live,” he lets out a low grumble, as if it's an unfortunate outcome. “Was hoping I hit you hard enough to kill you, but I guess I’ll try harder next time.”
You try to make sense of his confession, your thoughts tangled for a moment. But then, the realization crashes over you. He’s the one Jackson brought along that fateful night, when everything began spiraling out of control. It hits hard, leaving your mouth slightly agape as the shock sets in. He looks at you like you’re brain dead and it only proves his point more when you speak again.
“That was.. you? You’re the one who..” You trail off, unable to find the words.
He scoffs, rolling his eyes like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “No shit.”
You turn to face him completely now, watching as he strides towards the door. He doesn’t entertain your dumb question any further, simply turning the knob and making his way out without another word. The sound of the lock clicking fills the silence and you’re left there, struggling to piece together a reality where this man is somehow part of the nightmare you’ve been trapped in.
❦
Jackson eventually returns, flexing his reattached fingers towards you. He’s practically glowing as you look at it with a mixture of disgust and horror, grimacing at the reddening surrounding his stitches. It’s a bit swollen and bruised, but functioning perfectly nonetheless. You want to ask how, but you’re not sure if you’re ready for the answer. There’s an undeniable, eerie supernatural presence surrounding him and this place, but you’re too terrified to dig any deeper.
He moves around the room, barely paying you attention as he recalls the whole ordeal. His voice fills the silence and you can hear the smirk in his tone as he drones on, too far gone to actually care about the situation.
“You did a real number on ‘em,” he chuckles in amusement, unfazed by an injury that should’ve left him in shock. “Took longer than usual to reattach the poor things, but you did a hell of a good job. I don’t expect anythin’ less from ya.”
When you don’t respond, that's when he finally notices. His gaze flickers towards you, brows furrowing as he spots the detachment in your gaze, the way you avoid looking at him. His smile falters at your state, concern replacing it as he walks over to you, his movements calculated.
You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped nervously together in a fragile attempt to keep yourself steady. The full extent of your predicament hits you, tears welling in your eyes as you drown in your despair.
As soon as he registers it, he breaks into your personal space, crouching in front of you, his hand gently resting on your knee. You flinch at his touch but before you can pull away, he stops you with a small, reassuring squeeze, his gaze locking onto yours.
“I know it’s a lot,” he murmurs sweetly, hoping to calm you. “You’re overwhelmed, I get it, but that’s why I’m here to help ya settle in. Everything’s confusing right now, but once you freshen up and take a look around, you’ll see it ain’t so bad here!”
His voice only aggravates you more, his soothing words doing nothing to ease the ache building in your chest. He’s consoling you for the wrong reasons and it only pushes you over the edge.
“I didn’t ask to be here. I didn’t--” you grit your teeth, trying to fight the sting in your eyes as you finally meet his curious gaze. “I didn’t ask for your help, okay?”
“I know you didn’t,” he replies, his smile unbothered, “but I’m still here, aren't I?”
His grin is infuriating. You want to wipe that smile off his face, shake him until he understands none of this is normal. There’s nothing he can say to you to make the situation feel remotely sane, but he tries anyway.
His words slip with a smoothness that’s almost too convincing, but you know better than to believe him at this point. “And as for you bein’ here,” he continues, a flicker of regret creeping into his voice, “it wasn’t supposed to be this way. I wanted to get to know you properly, take my time, and show you a different kind of life. I really do like you, you know that?”
You glare at him, but he ignores your skepticism. He then leans in just a little, voice dropping into something softer, “You were the only good thing in that hellhole. I wanted to get you out of there and give you the life you deserve. Even if it doesn’t look like it right now, my intentions are genuine. You have to believe me.”
He gently uncurls your fingers, his hand finding yours and wrapping around it with unexpected tenderness. For once, you don’t resist. You’re exhausted and defeated, refusing to throw more energy into Jackson. He’s already done too much damage, even if you know this is only the beginning.
“Do you trust me?”
You don’t--not anymore--but telling him that won’t do you any good. It won’t change anything and it won’t make him let you go. So in response, you just look at him, the indecision clear in your eyes. He sees it, but instead of waiting for an answer, he gives you one.
“You will.” He says firmly, filled with a quiet confidence that makes your skin crawl. Despite the certainty in his words, you’re guaranteed that things will never go back to the way it used to be.
Everything settles into a quiet stillness, him offering you that moment of peace as his thumbs gently trace over your knuckles, an odd contrast to the chaos around you. He keeps his hands on yours, occasionally glancing at you, his expression unreadable once more. Then finally, he breaks the silence.
“I was worried you wouldn’t wake up, you know. Will can get a bit rough sometimes, but I didn’t expect him to hit you that hard,” he admits, a quick shadow of concern crossing his features as his gaze shifts upwards to your hair, seemingly trying to gauge the injury from that angle. He doesn’t need to look at it to know it’s there-- your matted hair and the metallic scent is a telltale sign. “Had a talk with him earlier, gave him a piece of mind.”
The name lingers in your thoughts and you think back to an hour ago, the pieces of the puzzle starting to fall in place. The strange man did briefly indicate that he was involved with the kidnapping, so maybe--
“Will?” Your voice cracks a bit, hoarse from the dryness, and your eyes narrow slightly, trying to make sense of what he just said.
Jackson blinks. Once, twice before he nods, humming in acknowledgement, “Yeah, William. My brother. Did he not introduce himself when he went to check up on ya?”
So he does have a sibling. It’s the least surprising thing you’ve learned, but it reminds you that you know absolutely nothing about this man.
You shake your head and something in Jackson’s expression changes, a flash of irritation and anger shadowing over his face as he lets out a groan. “Shithead. Told him to be polite and make a good impression. Of course that jackass blows it.” He looks at you apologetically, squeezing your hands in an affectionate manner. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’ll be sure to have a chat with him, yeah? Can’t have you feelin’ unwelcomed here.”
You nearly scoff at the hollow reassurance, “Taking me against my will isn’t exactly the warmest welcome either.”
He feels the resentment radiating off of you, but his expression eases into a patronizing smile. “You may not understand right now, but you’ll come around. The Lord brought you into my life for a reason, answered all my prayers about you. Nothin’ happens by coincidence, especially not with them.”
Your stomach twists at that. You used to think his prayers were so sweet, loving, and even hopeful but now that you know his true intentions, it’s anything but.
To many villagers, Jackson was the embodiment of a perfect man-- calm, collected, and deeply devout. A role model, admired and respected despite the mystery that clung onto him. You believed in that image, falling for his facade like everyone else.
For as long as you’ve known him, you put him on a pedestal. He looked after you often, entertained you when life got a little dull, and you’d find solace in his company. You never questioned it, never looked too closely, until now.
Now, you don’t miss the way his voice drops when he talks about his Lord. That odd, unshakeable devotion, answering all his delusional prayers you weren’t aware of.
It all comes down to the sickening realization that he hasn't been worshipping the same God as everyone else. He’s been devoted to something far more sinister.
But you don’t say anything, the feeling of fear lodged in the back of your throat, knowing it’ll spill if you tried to speak. Your feet are cold and a wave of lightheadedness washes over you struggle to think, trying to form a plan. There is no way out, not with whatever sinister energy clings to this place. The danger runs far deeper than Jackson.
“Come on,” he says, rising from his crouch. He stretches lightly, but his hand stays wrapped around yours. “Let’s get you freshened up, then I’ll show you around the farm. The sooner you settle in, the easier things will be.”
You hesitate. His hand steadies you as you rise, and for a moment, your eyes lock. There’s no mistaking the admiration and excitement glimmering in his gaze. It leaves you unsettled at first, but then it hits you.
You’re trapped. Not just in this place, but with him and everything else you haven’t encountered yet. As much you hate the idea and as much as you want to make a trivial attempt to escape on your own, you can’t deny it.
Jackson is your only way out. Alive.
If playing along with his twisted game meant earning a scrap of freedom or even a sliver of information you could put to use, you’ll do it. For now, at least. It's only a matter of time before it pays off.
Without another word, you let him guide you out of the room.
tags: tags: @mr-trick @wisepainterprince @ryuoo @tagmepls @novalovelily @prettygirlslovegirls
❥ Everything You Wanted ❥
(chap 1)
ꨄread it on ao3
❥ pairing: william hillwalker x fem!reader
❥ word count: 8.1k+ words
❥ summary: Fifteen years ago, William made the agonizing choice to leave everything behind as his world unraveled, including his former best friend he abandoned without a word. He's convinced he made peace with that decision. Turns out, one phone call is all it takes to break open what he's spent years trying to bury.
❥ an: yo girl is back at it again with a william fic this time‼️ im still updating the jackson one dw. i know it seems out of place to make a plot like this but i promise ill throw in the lore later. also i almost got sent to the ER writing this gang. i might revise the summary later but uhhhh i kinda went overboard with this one. 🤠
❥ possible triggers: abandonment, mentions of weapons, mentions of violence
“.. So yeah, if you ever find the time, just call me back.”
William passes by the house phone, fingers pressing against the worn out keypad, inputting a four digit pin with unconscious familiarity. The machine sputters to life once more. Static cracks through the speakers followed by distant and muffled rustling.
Jackson’s presence is absent from the farm, finally quiet for once. He had left about an hour ago to grab something from the market, giving William time to complete the mundane tasks around the house.
William liked quiet— not the deafening silence that made him overthink but ones that were just enough to distract him from his own thoughts. The kind that pulled him from reality. The background noise of the TV, the subtle hum of the radio, and sometimes, that familiar voice coming from a voicemail.
He wraps his fingers around the handles of the hammer, its weight dragging lazily across the table. It feels heavy in his grip, the wood worn out from years of use. The plank hung crooked, nailed firmly on one end while the other side swung loosely in the air. He fished for the nail lodged deep into his pocket, his fingers getting pricked a few times before he finally had a firm hold on it.
There’s still shuffling coming from the black box on the counter nearby. Maybe if he swung hard enough, it would distract him, even just for a moment. So he slams his hammer against the nail, a sharp and metallic thunk echoing across the room, but it isn't enough. Your voice still manages to cut through the noise.
“Hey, it’s me. Again.”
Of course it was you. For fifteen years, it’s always been you. No matter how many years have passed and how much your voice has changed, it always feels like the first time he’s hearing it again.
“I.. I don't even know why I’m still sending you these. Fourteen years since you’ve left and..”
You sound defeated, but the empty acceptance in your tone doesn’t go unnoticed by him. There’s a resignation in your voice that wasn’t present before. He gives the nail another blow, the sound rattling his skull, but not enough to block you out.
“.. I guess I was just hoping you’d answer. That maybe one of my calls would change your mind. I don't even know if this is your number anymore, but it's the only piece I have left of you. It was my way of pretending that you still existed somewhere in my life.”
He keeps telling himself he remembers why he left.
It wasn't supposed to be forever. Just until the worst had passed, when he began figuring things out. After the death of his mother, the disappearance of his father, and the sudden responsibility of stepping up as a parental figure for Jackson, everything began caving inward.
He wasn’t planning on leaving you behind until his brother welcomed an entity into their home. When his sanity began to crumble and he began picking up psychotic tendencies, he let you slip through his fingers too.
He told himself it was an act of mercy. He didn’t want you to be involved in his mess and he made sure you wouldn’t be.
But on days like today, you found your way back into his life.
“I hate that I’m still waiting for you. I mean it’s pathetic, isn’t it? Sending voicemails to a ghost, not knowing if it'll reach you. I wish I could hate you, leave you like you left me--”
He can hear you breathe in sharply, as if trying to calm yourself. Then a laugh escapes your lips, sour and raw. He falters for a moment, the hammer in his hand hovering mid-air, as if he's unsure of what to do next. The nail is half-buried into the plank, his eyes glued to it but his attention on your words haunting him.
He’s memorized every single one of your messages like a lullaby, but hearing it never gets easier.
“--but I can’t.”
Your voice falters and he finds himself lowering the hammer, walking towards the machine that spewed out your message. Despite the distance, you're closer this way-- almost as if you’re right next to him, saying the words out loud. Deep down, he wants you to despise him. Wants you to scream and tell him that he’s a piece of shit. Something definitive.
That way, you could finally give him closure-- the final push-- to bury you for good.
Unfortunately, you don’t. Even after fifteen years of silence, you’re still tethered around him just like old times. The message is almost over and his finger hovers over the button, ready to end it before you can finish. For a moment, the static fades, silence taking its place.
He doesn’t follow through, finding himself waiting for you to speak. He knows what you'll say next, but he listens because this is the only apology he can give you. It’s the least he can do.
“I’ve tried to forget you. I’ve done everything. Deleted your number. Got rid of memories of you. Fuck, I even drank myself stupid. So why..” You sigh, the house breathing with you as if reacting to your words. The wind slips through the cracks of the window, humming softly. He feels your presence-- the way it constricts around his throat, the weight it brings on his chest. It lingers like a scent that won’t fade. “Why do I always come back?”
There's a faint click on the other end. He hasn’t heard your voice since then, a year passing since your last attempted call.
He doesn’t move or breathe, but the draft wrapping around him reminds him to. When he does, he realizes his finger is still where he left it, like a ghost of indecision mocking him. The unbearable quiet returns, only broken by the hiss of the wind and his slow, measured breathing.
William was convinced that what he did was necessary. You should've just been a dust of memory in his mind, a small part of his life. Leaving you behind shouldn’t have been a compromising situation.
He says he’s over it, but people who move on don’t save voicemails. Moving on doesn't long for a return and it doesn’t feel guilt at the end of its string. The thought of you shouldn’t flood his mind, drowning him in your words that he left unanswered.
Moving on doesn’t look like this.
Moving on doesn’t sound like you.
He finally shifts, fingers travelling to punch in the same four digit pin, only to replay another voicemail.
꧂
“Stupid fuckin’ rabbit,” William hisses as the white blob stares back at him. Its large eyes gleam with curiosity and its nose twitches slightly. Despite his sharp glare and his venomous tone, the rabbit stays perfectly still, unbothered.
There's a cigarette trapped between his lips, the end of it illuminating the dark of the night. He lets out a slow, angry puff, the smoke coiling around his face before he speaks uselessly to it again. “Beat it or I’ll skin you with my own damn hands.”
He doesn’t realize how ridiculous he must look-- a towering 6’3 man arguing with a rabbit barely the size of his hand. A murderer, a psychopath, bothered by the presence of something so harmless and innocent. His eye twitched at the sight, rage flickering behind his exhaustion.
This was supposed to be a moment of silence, a trace of peace for the storm building. He only intended to clear his mind for a few minutes, wanting to take a short walk before dealing with Jackson’s antics at home, but now here he was, having a staring contest with a wide-eyed woodland creature.
He should’ve brought his knife like he usually did. He had rushed out, not wanting to prolong his trip, and had forgotten his knife in the process. Now his words felt hollow, nothing more than an empty threat.
The rough bark of the tree pressed into his back as he leaned against it, his free hand stuffed into the pocket of his jacket. The cold is evident, the trees rustling as the wind begins to pick up. The road is close, just enough within reach, but far enough to keep him concealed in the shadows of the woods. The occasional sound of a car passing, the distant thrum of music from a speeding vehicle, was enough to distract him from the uncomfortable silence that hangs in the air. It would only drive him more mad than he already was.
William wasn't a smoker, only ever picking it up when he needed to shut everything out. Tonight was one of those nights, the burn in his lungs and the taste stuck on his tongue serving as a lifeline. He takes another pull, a harsh cough leaving his mouth, and when the haze disappears, the stupid fucking rabbit is still there looking at him. .
He sneers, irritation boiling over as he realizes that he’s more frustrated now than when he left the farm. This piece of shit was ruining his whole purpose of his departure and to make matters worse, it wasn’t exactly doing anything to provoke a reaction from him.
“You little shit--” He reaches down in an attempt to take the animal in his hold, half-blinded by rage, wanting to wring its neck with his hand, but the sound of rustling nearby startles it. In an instant, the rabbit scurries into the nearest bush, and William is left frozen in place with his hand outstretched towards nothing.
Before he could process the situation fully, a sudden light to his right blinds him, catching him by surprise.
It burns through his vision for a moment, his arm instinctively moving to shield his eyes away. He squints from the harsh glare, attempting to recover from the assault. It takes a moment to piece out the situation, but eventually, he sees two figures in the distance making their way towards him, the faint echo of voices rising in the air.
Once his vision adjusts, he notices the glint of their badges reflecting in the dim light, the unmistakable tan of their uniform, and those absurd hats they always wore. The realization slowly creeps up on him and soon, their words register, his arm lowering.
A part of him freezes-- not out of shock, but from the growing tension in the air. The cigarette still dangles in his lips as he observes the two, straightening himself out a bit.
The older officer steps forward, face weathered by time and experience. There’s a subtle confidence to him, his movements measured, only adding to the air of authority that was obvious. His gaze is sharp, focused on William as he eyes him in a suspicious manner. Behind him, a more youthful man trembles slightly, jittery as he flashes the light around him as a reassurance. His face is pale, clearly shaken up by the eeriness of his surroundings.
“Evening, sir,” the older man is the first to speak, nodding towards William as a poor attempt at a neutral greeting.
William sighs, his fingers capturing the bud between his lips, turning his head away to exhale a final huff of smoke into the night air. The younger officer scrunches his nose at this, the scent clinging to the air around them. In one swift movement, he flicks the bud on the ground, crushing it under the weight of his boot before sparing them his attention.
“Yeah, evening,” he replies simply, his voice flat. There’s a disinterested look on William's face, but the hint of annoyance slips out.
“Is there a reason why you’re out here so late, son?” The older man's voice is not hostile, but it isn't exactly welcoming. He crosses his arms, waiting patiently for his response.
“Taking a walk.”
“Little late for a walk, isn’t it?” The officer is unconvinced, eyes scanning him carefully and with clear intent, looking for any tell.”Seems like an odd place to take a light night stroll, especially with the way things have been lately around town.”
William doesn’t shift his weight, showing no concern or panic at his accusatory words. He has no reason to feel antsy about the whole situation-- all he had to do was play it smart, enough to make them believe, and then he’d be let go. Refusing would only give them more of a reason.
“Didn’t know it was a crime.”
The officer doesn’t flinch or show any kind of negative reaction, instead nodding at his words as if agreeing, “I know it isn’t, but you aren’t on any trails and there’s been a string of disappearances linked to an area a few miles away from here. It doesn’t exactly sound promising.”
William thinks it over for a moment. The officer does have a point--a man of his size, suspiciously brooding in the forest at this time of night, under those circumstances, was bound to raise red flags. He knew he should’ve been more cautious, especially with the cases getting more attention in the media. There wasn’t a day that passed where it wasn’t mentioned at least once.
A novice mistake, he thinks, but it's nothing he can’t adjust to.
Before he could muster up a response, the officer cuts him off shortly, his voice now firm, no longer buying his act. “You got an ID, son?”
William doesn’t move for a second but decides to at least pretend, patting several pockets of his jeans and jacket. His hand digs through the opening of his jacket where his knife usually rested, silently degrading himself for leaving it behind. This interaction would’ve been long over before it started if he had brought it along.
“Must’ve forgot it.”
The reply is casual. Too casual where the officer's demeanor changes. It's subtle, but William notices. The man’s stare hardens, his shoulders tightening at his response and he comes to the realization that this isn’t a casual check anymore. He’s officially under the radar. Despite this, he’s still far more irritated than worried about the situation.
The rookie behind him looks up at the officer, his voice a bit shaky and tight, “That doesn’t sound right.”
However, he immediately shuts his mouth upon receiving a glare from his superior, his gaze averting to his feet in embarrassment.
“So let me get this straight. You’re taking a stroll, after dark, in the middle of the woods near a restricted area, and you don’t have an ID?” He says in disbelief, a little more hostile. “That doesn’t sit right with me.”
The hole is deepening, his position not looking too good, but William stands there, clearly peeved regardless of his attempts of remaining calm, “Do I need an ID to walk around now?”
The heaviness in the air is prominent. The young man looks uncomfortable at the tension, but the older man seems to pay no mind to William’s comment, his voice cool and deliberate.
“Alright, here’s what's gonna happen. We’re not looking for trouble, but with everything happening, we’re not just going to ignore this. You’re not under arrest, but until we know who you are and your business for loitering out here at such an odd hour, you’re coming with us.”
William feels himself grow taut for a second, but he shakes it off before they could notice, his glare is unintentionally fixed on them as the anger simmers beneath the surface. All of this trouble over a stupid fucking walk. He sets a very strict reminder to never stray away from his routine again. Stick to the farm work and use that as an outlet for his emotions.
He doesn’t respond but remains rooted to his spot. The man takes that as a silent approval (not that he had a choice) and moves to pull out his radio, walking a good distance away from them before speaking into the device. The younger officer pulls out a pair of cuffs, just for safe measure, but shrinks at the sight of William’s expression darkening at him, a promise of violence hidden beneath it. The cuffs are gone faster than they appeared.
Williams' sights linger on the poor boy-- lanky, fearful, and not suited for his job. He was an easy target, one blow to the neck and he’d be a goner. It was an easy escape, a fast solution, but with authorities on his ass, it might have not been the best option. Especially not with the farm on the line.
The officer soon returns, cutting off whatever sinister thoughts brewed up in William’s mind.
“We’ll take you to the precinct, have someone verify your story, and we’ll let you go. If there’s nothing to hide, there shouldn’t be anything to worry about.”
A curse threatens to spill from his mouth, but he swallows it down. He should’ve killed that damn rabbit with his bare hands or ventured to a deeper part of the forest. Maybe that way, he could’ve been home finishing up some chores or taking a well deserved nap.
Maybe then, he could’ve lost himself in the comfort of your voice before resigning for the day.
But it doesn’t matter now. None of it does as both of them wait for his reply, staring at him in a way that makes him feel like an animal in an exhibit. If they wanted to play this game, he’d gladly play along to get them out of his hair. With a deep breath, he manages to get the words out through gritted teeth.
“Sure.”
꧂
The room smells sickly. The walls are sterile, the scent of bleach and watered down coffee wafting the space, and the overhead light above keeps flickering in a way that makes his head pulsate. He pulls his jacket closer to him, the cold of the room and the unease of people watching him behind the glass pane making him only more antsy and irate.
William slumps against the chair, arms crossed over his chest as his eyes follow the assigned officer. That deafening silence is back again and it's only making him more aggravated than he needs to be. The only thing that’s keeping him grounded is the soft hum of the fluorescent light above and the sound of papers flipping from the officers clipboard.
They’ve asked him the same eight questions, the pressure palpable, but William doesn’t feed into it. They ask him a plethora of questions and he complies, giving just enough to seem cooperative but not enough for their liking.
His eyes glance to the clock hanging nearby, following the hand tick every second they waste of his time. He keeps count, his patience thinning.
The questions stopped for a good five minutes, the officer quiet as he flips through papers for the fourth time around as if trying to decipher something deeper in his words. It’s clear that he’s trying to find a reason to keep him in longer, but he’s confident they can’t. William’s almost convinced he’s in the clear, giving them everything they needed to prove his innocence.
Everything was going smoothly, just as anticipated, until--
“Where do you stay, Mr. Hillwalker?”
The question catches him off guard and leaves him exposed. William pauses, his shoulders tightening. He feels the dread flicker in his chest for a moment, his mind stuttering when he fully processes the question.
He doesn’t reply and it only makes him appear more suspicious. The only answer he can think of is the farm, but it’s not an option. Not when everything was on the line. Not when his home was practically a graveyard, a burial of secrets and all the hard work they’ve built up over the years.
He can’t give away something that he’s sacrificed everything for.
So he says nothing and the officer just stares, waiting. Not pressing him to answer, but not moving on either.
He can hear the hand of the clock ticking right next to him, suddenly sensitive to every noise playing in the small, finite room and he feels himself slipping for a bit, the pressure finally getting to him.
A minute longer would only give them another reason to detain him for an extended period of time, to suspect him of crimes he did commit, the blood on his hands only getting more conspicuous every second. Every lie in his head is jumbled up into one thought and he tries to sort through them, desperate to conjure up some fake but plausible story.
And then his mind drifts to you. The only thing that he’s able to pick out in the fog and before he knows it, his mind grabs onto the thought with nowhere left to turn.
The words leave his mouth faster than he can stop it.
“I’m staying with a friend.”
It knocks the breath out of him, his heart beating out of his ears at the escaped lie. It’s the next worst thing he can say, feeling the after effects and the dread that follows. The officer writes something down on his clipboard and William tries to prepare himself to be pushed further.
“A friend,” the officer repeats, raising a brow. “Name?”
He considers changing up his story because at this point, anything is better than talking about you. Saying your name felt like bringing the dead back to life and he doesn’t want that.
He has no choice, now that he’s dug his own grave. His tongue feels like lead and his mouth is full of cotton, but he manages to push through, the words too familiar. A name that held too many memories.
He jots it down, not giving William time to recover before the next question slips out.
“Does your friend have a number?”
Of course you do. After hearing it repeat for the past fifteen years, it was practically etched into every crevice of his being. He holds back because giving the officer an answer is like pulling a trigger.
If he blurts it out now, he’ll only open an entryway he’s been attempting to block out his whole life.
“Mr. Hillwalker?”
His mouth feels dry. You could’ve changed your number, right? You haven’t called him in a year. A sliver of hope flickers inside him, grasping onto the possibility that you might not pick up, but deep down, he knows it's wishful thinking. He knows if they call right now, you’d answer and that thought alone terrifies him.
He doesn’t want to involve you. He doesn’t want to see you.
Yet, the number escapes his mouth, emotionless as if spitting it out that way could make it matter less, but he doesn’t miss the way each digit burns his throat or how his hands clench and unclench in the pockets of his jackets.
With a final scribble of his pen, the officer nods towards him with a tight smile before rising from his chair. The legs scrape across the tiles and William flinches at it.
“Thank you,” the man says, already collecting the items on the table. “We’ll make the call and get back to you.”
The officer doesn’t wait for a response and the room is silent again. Only this time around, the background noise doesn’t pull him from reality.
꧂
The room feels suffocating, as if the air itself is being drained, sparing just enough for him to barely breathe.
He’s lost track of time since the officer left the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts. It could’ve been ten minutes, maybe even an hour for all he fucking knows, but time doesn’t feel like its moving in here. Everything feels like a fever dream, one that he wants to wake from.
There’s a twisted part of his mind that hopes you don’t answer, that they’ll see through his world of make-believe and they’ll just continue on with the interrogation. He convinces himself that no sane person would pick up a call from an unknown number at four in the morning. That once it reaches you, you'll let it run to voicemail like he always has with your calls.
He hopes that when you don’t answer, this would be his sign to let go of the past.
When the door opens and the officer walks in, William moves quicker than he’d like to admit. His head snaps up, looking over towards the doorway to see him standing with nothing in his hands this time around.
“She answered.”
It’s straightforward and simple, but the words feel like a huge blow on him. He doesn’t visibly react, but internally, his world stops at the confirmation. It shouldn't have surprised him, but it does and it shakes him to his core. It isn’t until the man speaks that he’s able to breathe again.
“She’s on her way to sign papers and after that, you should be good to go.”
The officer's mouth is still moving and he can hear the words, but it all feels muddled up. He says something about waiting elsewhere, some kind of procedure, and William catches enough to follow the man’s directions, but his mind still hasn’t exactly caught up.
The door soon shuts again and he’s left there once more with the weight of something far more unbearable.
For the first time in forever, he doesn’t know what the hell to do.
꧂
They transfer him to a more public waiting area. There’s more noise than before-- the idle chat of two police officers behind the counter, the news report that places from the TV hanging on the far right corner of the room, and the occasional sound of the door opening.
Each time it opens, he holds his breath, eyes shooting up to it. His hands are sweating in his pockets, his leg bouncing relentlessly since he first sat on one of the stiff benches. The room is cold and hot at the same time despite the occasional breeze coming in whenever someone steps inside the establishment. He considers taking off his jacket for a moment but he stops himself, knowing that it’ll only make him feel more vulnerable than he already was.
There’s not a lot going through his head except for the fact that you’re coming and whenever the hand of the clock ticked, it served as a countdown, heightening his anxiety.
Somewhere around the thirty minute mark, he stops looking up, his heart jerking upwards to his throat one too many times for his liking. It’s only making everything a lot worse for him.
But eventually, the door opens again.
He doesn’t register it at first, the familiar jingle of the bell ringing, but the stillness of the air is distinct and he just knows. Then his body moves on its own, head lifting and eyes searching for you. Once he finally makes the effort to do so..
You’re already looking back at him, both of your gazes meeting for the first time in fifteen long years. Suddenly, the years waiting collapsed into the space between you both and for one full second, everything-- the voicemails, the station, the dread, the time, the guilt--
-- disappears .
For the first time, it’s just the two of you.
You’re the first to break contact, a sigh leaving your mouth before you walk over to the front.
꧂
William watches as you sign something with an officer, his gaze trapped as he takes you in with the desperation of someone who's been deprived of something that he was sure he could live without. He sinks in his chair, uncertain of the feeling rising in his chest as everything begins to crash over him.
He knew you’d look different-- after all, fifteen years will do that to someone. You’re older, that's a given, but you’re not unfamiliar. You’re just more solid somehow, the once innocent features now grown into. It only reminds him that he allowed time to pass and despite his actions, you’re still real and here with him.
You wear the years, but it's still undeniably you and it only solidifies reality for him.
His observations are soon interrupted by the small of your voice quietly thanking the officer, one that he’s heard countlessly through voicemails that helped him cope. You send them a final, awkward smile before turning to face him, his body immediately reacting to your eyes. He sits up straight, his hands clench in his pockets, and he feels himself choke on air.
It doesn’t take long before you make your way towards him and for some inexplicable reason, he can’t sit still. He stands as if pulled by an invisible thread but his knees feel unsteady and his body rigid as he towers over your form. You stop short of him, showing no signs of recognition. You don’t spare him a greeting, a smile, a curse-- just silence that digs under his skin, frustrating him more than he’d like to admit.
He’s not sure if that was the reaction he wanted, but he didn’t really know what he was expecting.
William finds that he can’t say anything either despite listening to your voice on repeat for fifteen years.
Luckily, you save him the trouble of doing so, speaking in a muted tone that he was no stranger to.
“Need a ride?”
Your question is left unanswered as he gapes at you, a look of reminisce in his eyes as if he’s trying to find pieces of what you used to be. You let it happen for a moment but when he doesn’t give you proper response, you finally look down, a defeated sigh leaving your mouth before you turn your heel.
He thinks you’re about to leave and he tries to prepare himself to let it happen, but then your voice cuts through before he can make the decision.
“I’ll be outside. You have three minutes.”
With that, you push past the doors of the precinct, stepping outside shortly, the bell ringing as the door swings shut behind you. He has three minutes to decide if he wants you to disappear again or if he’ll let you back into his life, even if it's only for a fleeting moment. It doesn’t take long before he makes up his mind, a minute barely passing before he trails after you, his footsteps loud against the quiet of the precinct.
He soon meets with you, sitting on the hood of your car, hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket. The air is cold and the sun is steadily rising. The world feels still, as if waiting on one of you to make a move. Your head turns from the rising sun to face him, expression still unreadable.
You both stay like that for a while, neither of you speaking, until he finally does for the first time since.
“Why did you come?” His voice sounds cold, but he knows it's anything but.
It’s a stupid question, you both know it. He willingly gave your number and here he was, playing dumb, as if he didn’t cause his own demise. But he knows why he's asking. He wants to hear what you have to say even if he's uncertain of what answer he wants.
You shoot him a glare, rolling your eyes, and he bites back whatever he has to say. You tell him words you know he’s not brave enough to.
“Oh, and hey. Thanks for saving my ass, by the way,” you spit out, the words laced with mockery. The comment cuts through the tension in the air, aimed straight at him.
He hears the jingle of keys, watching as you dig into your pocket. With a click of a button, your car comes to life, the lights illuminating the dark parking lot. The light bounces off of the wall and gives him a better look of you.
You push yourself up, straightening your clothes out before stopping right in front of him. Your eyes are still narrowed, but he can’t help but stare as you finally answer his question. There’s something in your expression that he tries to understand. “You used my name and gave my number willingly. I only came here to sign papers and that’s all that this is.”
There’s no room for argument, no space for whatever conversation he’s trying to conjure. You don’t wait for a response, breezing right past him before you slip into the driver's side, the engine sputtering to life.
He watches, frozen in place, caught between staying or leaving. He stands there stupidly for a few moments before he makes his way to the passenger side, his hand grazing the cold metal of the handle, finalizing his decision.
꧂
The car ride is mostly quiet except for the song playing through the radio. Your attention is focused on the road ahead while he stares outside the passenger window, both of you pretending the last fifteen years never happened. The sun is slowly rising over the horizon, the sunbeams bathing the clouds in an orange glow. They pass by several different buildings and rolling hills, the scenery blurring as it slips by.
He’s not sure what to do. His hands are on his lap, splayed out, and his body stiff as he tries to ignore your presence next to him. Finally, you speak, cutting through the stillness of the air.
“Where am I taking you?” You ask, your voice flat as if it was a transaction.
“Downtown,” he replies. It’s vague, but he can't risk you anywhere near the farm. “Anywhere is fine.”
His gaze shifts from the window to your face, just for a second. You nod, still not sparing him a glance as you continue to focus on the road ahead.
The silence stretches again, longer this time. Every breath feels too loud, the humming on the radio grating on his nerves, and the passing scenery doesn’t provide enough distraction. He can hear your fingers drum against the steering wheel and somehow, it brings him comfort that he’s probably not the only one feeling this way.
“So you never left town,” you speak again, this time with a hint of bitterness masked by casual indifference. It's not a question or an accusation, but a tired observation.
He fiddles with the hem of his jacket, “No.”
A humorless laugh escapes your lips, almost as if you’re in disbelief but you don't press on.
“Figures.”
The place begins to feel a little familiar as you take a turn. He recognizes several buildings and though he knows the ride is nearing its end, he finds himself struggling to speak. An apology rises in his throat for a second, but it doesn’t sound right. He tries to remind himself that he left you as an act of mercy, not as a choice.
Somewhere through his self reassurance, he speaks.
“I wasn’t expecting you to come.”
You don’t respond right away, letting the words linger in the air as you drive a couple blocks down. When you do decide to spare him an answer, you sound defeated.
“I didn’t come for you,” you murmur, as if speaking to yourself more than him. “I just came to see if you were real. Wanted the reassurance that I wasn’t crazy.”
You exhale slowly, as if trying to compose yourself before continuing on, “I sent you years of voicemails and when I didn’t receive anything back, I thought I made it all up. That whatever we had wasn’t real. Then all of a sudden, you call me out of the blue--”
He sees your grip tighten on the wheel, your knuckles turning white.
“--and I needed to see you to prove to myself that it wasn’t all in my head and that I wasn’t dreaming. Just this once.”
You finally glance at him for the first time during the whole car ride, a flicker of something he recognizes flashes through your expression-- the younger version of you, staring back at him as if you both were children again.
“And now I know. You’re real and you always have been. You just chose not to contact me.”
He wants to argue back, to defend himself and explain his reasons, but there’s nothing he can really say to alleviate the situation. At the end of the day, he’s responsible for the rift between you two. Even if he did have good intentions, none of it outweighed the damage he’s caused.
Besides, it’s not like he could tell you the truth even if he wanted to. You’d only avoid him more after you learned about the blood on his hands. So he just stays quiet and you refuse to wait for him to find the words.
Soon, you pull into a parking lot of a plaza, the closest to downtown you can get. It’s barren, save for a few cars probably dining in early in the morning after their graveyard shifts or after a night out in town. The sunrise is more visible now, casting soft, filtered light through the window, illuminating your face in a way that makes you appear fragile.
“I just needed the reassurance that I wasn’t the only one who remembered,” you say, you voice final and he watches, knowing that this’ll be the last time he’ll see you. “Just consider this repayment for how things used to be between us. For you taking care of me.”
He’s dreamt countless times for this exact moment where his chase would end, the closure he needed in the palm of his hand. He’s imagined hearing you say it, the final word that closes the door for good, but now that it’s actually happening, it’s not what he expects.
He doesn’t feel the relief, doesn’t anticipate his chest to tighten, and how his body numbs at the words that leave your mouth.
But he has nothing left to say because he knows it's better this way. There's no excuse, reason, and comfort he can bring you that’ll land right. You’re waiting for something from him but all he can do is spare you a nod, an unspoken agreement between you two.
The background noise fills the space where a goodbye is supposed to be. His hand reaches for the door, feet meeting with the pavement below before he takes a full exit. You’re turned away, refusing to spare him a final look and he does the same, closing the door completely before walking away from your car, creating distance.
William only stops when he hears you pull out, but doesn’t turn to look back when he hears you drive away. When he’s sure you're gone, he stays where he is, swallowing thickly.
꧂
Time moves slowly when he isn’t preoccupied with the sound of your voice. William tries to pretend the world keeps spinning, but it becomes an increasingly difficult task as each day passes.
The machine that held your voicemails collected dust as the weeks dragged on. He refuses to touch it, not wanting to give into the temptation of hearing you again. He’s aware of the agreement you both settled on and promises himself to not backtrack but it feels impossible, like holding onto something that keeps slipping out of his grasp. Only this time it's different.
It was supposed to give him peace of mind, release the guilt trapped in his chest but in truth, it only makes things worse. One encounter with you and the walls he’s been building for years finally crumbles beyond his control. All the effort he put into burying his past comes rushing back in and he tries his best to push it back down, unable to confront his emotions.
At first, he tries to drown himself in farm work. He throws himself into chores, physically straining ones, and even takes over Jackson's portions in an attempt to lose himself in the motions. His brother notices, but he knows better than to say anything.
When that fails, he takes up the more mundane tasks in the house, hoping the simple routine would help, but it only gnaws on him more. His thoughts catch up with him faster this way, a constant ache that’s unbearable.
Soon enough, he turns to hunting, hoping that pursuit of something can relieve the pressure building in his chest, suffocating him to no end. Unfortunately, it doesn’t do much. Even with the gun in his hand and his knife tucked securely in his pocket, the release he craves is absent.
Eventually, the dreams kick in, ripping off the band-aid that he desperately tried to keep intact. At first, they’re infrequent, flashes of memories-- childhood moments spent with you, when times were simpler and his sole responsibility in the world was you and Jackson.
Then it escalates to something more vivid and beyond insufferable. The rejection you left weighs on him like a vice, and what he thought was supposed to be an easy separation only haunts him further.
He’d wake up during odd hours, a cold sweat clinging onto his skin, his heart racing uncontrollably, as if he’s still trapped in the chaos of the dream, chasing ghosts he’s not supposed to. When he does manage to find to indulge in a full night's rest, the weight of his unresolved feelings pulls him deeper to exhaustion.
Three weeks pass before the final dream drives him over the edge. He’s sprawled out on the couch in the dark, disorientated, eyes wide in a fit of panic. As soon as he grounds himself, the heels of his palms dig into his eyes, your name slipping from his lips in a restless, desperate groan. That’s when he realizes he’s no longer able to endure it.
He’s had enough.
꧂
William leaves the woods before dawn, when he knows Jackson is fast asleep and won’t catch him in the act. He finally makes use of his shit truck rotting in the back, driving into the dirt road and straight into town, not too far from where the farm was. His truck moves without direction, searching for the nearest payphone and when he does find it, he pulls in slowly against the curb.
His hands grip the steering wheel harshly, trembling and undecided. He realizes he doesn’t have a plan--just your name, number, a pocket full of quarters he stole from Jackson’s piggy bank, and the pressure of fifteen years he’s fucked up pressing against his chest like a vice. He leans his head on the cold leather of the steering wheel, letting out an audible groan before he musters up the courage to step out, shutting the door quietly.
The cold morning wind hits him and he instinctively buries his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. He scans the streets, ensuring that he’s alone, unwilling to risk any wandering eyes. Once he verifies that there's no one else, he drags himself to the rundown booth, shoving open the glass door before stepping inside. It’s poorly lit by the streetlight above, but he could fucking care less at this point.
Then he digs into the front pocket of his jeans, pulling out a handful of quarters and feeds them into the machine slowly, as if each coin will delay the inevitable.
He still doesn’t know what to say when he dials your number-- the digits repeating in his head effortlessly, his finger hesitantly pressing each button. It’s like muscle memory, even though it’s the first time he’s putting in the effort to initiate a call.
He presses the receiver against his ear, the line ringing and he knows it's too late to back out now. Turning back now would do nothing but prolong his torment, knowing that this call has to go through one way or the other.
It rings once, then twice, and by the fifth ring, he feels humiliated, close to slamming the phone down, but a click on the other end stops him.
Then he hears your voice, groggy and confused, through the static.
“.. Hello?”
He feels his jaw clench and his hold tightens against the receiver. Any harder and it might’ve shattered in his hands. He doesn’t say anything at first, his voice caught in his throat but when you call out to nothingness again, he forces himself through the invisible wall that's preventing him from moving forward.
“.. It’s me,” he says, his voice low and almost embarrassed.
He wondered what you looked like right now, trying to picture your reaction. Maybe you were confused, possibly furious, but deep down, he hoped you felt the same kind of relief he felt upon hearing your voice.
“Will?” You say and he swears he hears the hint of surprise in your voice, laced with something hopeful, as if you were waiting for him to call.
“Don’t hang up,” he says quickly before you can fully process the situation.
He hears shuffling on the other end, hyper aware of your presence, and soon you let out a soft, resigned sigh.
“I thought we agreed to cut ties for good.”
He feels himself shrink at your words. He closes his eyes, trying to ground himself, searching for the strength to continue the conversation. He wasn’t good with words-- never has been his whole twenty-eight years of living.
“I know,” he mutters reluctantly, “I know what we fucking talked about, alright?”
He doesn’t mean to sound so harsh, but he can’t help but put it in a way where he's able to deliver the message without hanging up the phone on himself. The silence stretches for a moment before he speaks again.
“I just..” his mouth opens then closes, struggling to find the right words. Somehow, he forces them out. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it. About you showing up again and just ruining my fucking life.”
He didn’t want the sentimentality that it came with, the rawness hidden deep inside. So he says it like it pisses him off, like you’re an inconvenience, when it's anything but that.
“I thought it would help if you were the one closing things off for good, but it only made everything worse.”
Nothing comes from your end and he shifts uncomfortably in the booth, his stature too large for such a cramped space. He runs hand through his hair, gripping it in exasperation before exhaling sharply.
“I know we made an agreement. I’m not gonna beg, I don’t do that shit, but I need to talk to you. Properly.”
When the silence remains, he almost takes it as a rejection, the humiliation creeping up, the booth suddenly feeling suffocating. A part of him that wishes you were here so he could shake an answer out of you.
The thought is broken when you speak, your voice hesitant and uncertain.
“William--”
“Don’t say my name like that,” he snapped, unable to bite his tongue this time around. You sound like you’re about to reject him, comfort him into sticking with the decision, and it doesn’t sit right . He catches the sharpness in his voice, the tone he always used whenever things got on his nerves and forces himself to soften it. “Just.. don’t.”
“You’re confusing me,” you murmur, a hint of vulnerability peeking through. “You left me hanging for so long without a word and now that I’ve decided to walk away, you suddenly want to come back. I don’t understand what you want.”
“I don't know,” it's his turn to sound unsure, the words low but loud enough for you to hear. “Five minutes. Somewhere that’s not this. Not through this shitty call.”
He doesn’t have a plan but he knows he needs to talk this out with you. He doesn’t like how long you take to respond, but when you do, he feels himself relax a little knowing that you haven’t hung up on him yet.
“Where then?”
“That diner,” he says without a second thought. “You know which one I’m talking about. The one your mom always brought us to.”
There’s a long pause before you answer, your voice hushed when you do, “Yeah, I remember.”
He swallows hard, the heaviness of it settling on his shoulders.
“Meet me there at eight in the morning. Whether you come or not, I’ll be there.”
He hangs up the phone just as fast the words leave his mouth. He knows that if he hears a “no”, he wouldn’t be able to handle it. Not with the way things were going.
He takes a second to recollect himself, leaning his forehead against the glass pane of the booth, his breath fogging up the window. The dial tone buzzes in his ear and when it gets too loud and he begins to process the predicament he's put himself in, he places the receiver back into place.
When will you start part 3 of “the red means ily” I think it’s claled that idk it’s Jackson x reader I don’t have the best memory but I’ve been lurking for three days 😛
thank u for reading my stuff first of all 😭😭
but i should be posting part 3 by the end of this week or before wednesday next week. we’ll see how the timing goes. im finishing my william fic tomorrow and hopefully posting it 🤞🏽