⌠the red means i love you âŚ
⪠chap. 1 ⢠chap. 2 ⢠chap. 3 ⢠chap. 4 ⢠chap. 5 ⢠continuing
⌠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. đ¤
⌠possible triggers: blood, religious psychosis, rituals, stalking, manipulation, use of weapons, obsessive behaviors, injuries
William feels sorry for you.
But not in the way youâd expect.
Itâs not that he pities you---far from it, if he was realistically speaking. No, he isnât that kind of man. Heâs 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 Jacksonâs attention.
Neither of them were born into madness. It wasnât always like this. There was a time--before their mothers untimely fate and their fatherâs unexpected disappearance--when they were just two boys, living in a loving home with moments of peace, but that didnât 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 couldâve 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?
Heâs 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 didnât fight it; his mind wasnât 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 wasnât meant to be ânormalâ, not with the path they were going down. It was the only life heâs 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 wasnât 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 wasnât 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 didnât 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. Heâd 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 Williamâs attention, but not enough to press on it.
He was always aware of his brotherâs habit to create art. Heâd 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 Jacksonâs world that fragments of it were scattered around the farm. He knew about his hobby, but he didnât 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 wasnât 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 didnât end there. Jacksonâs prayers-- one heâs 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 didnât need the light to know what waited on the other side. He leaned in, just enough to hear clearly.
He wasnât chanting. Not like before, not like the old prayers William had gotten used to, where Jacksonâs 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 isnât the first time heâs 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 Jacksonâs mind because once his brother was set on something, he would stop at nothing to get it.
So, William doesnât 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 wasnât 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 doesnât hesitate.
Youâre 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 theyâve got here.
But he doesnât 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 doesnât loosen.
âLooks like fuckinâ shit,â 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.
âYou piss him off or something?â He asks dryly, unbothered and with odd casualty, as if talking about the weather.
You donât respond and he lifts his head to meet your gaze. For once, he doesnât force an answer out of you, already settled on one. With an injury like that, itâs clear youâve done enough to get on Jacksonâs nerves.
âYou got lucky. My brother was forgiving today.â He says it more of a warning than a reassurance.
You donât 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 canât even begin to imagine what happens when he decides youâre 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 doesnât 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 donât thank him, but you watch as he stands, rubbing the nape of his neck wearily.
âItâs a minor sprain. Give it a few weeks,â he gives you the diagnosis, his eyes on your ankle. âWonât be an easy recovery, but at least itâs not broken.â
âGreat,â 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 itâs taking on you, so he offers some unsolicited advice, drawing on what he knows.
âIâm not gonna sugarcoat this,â he says firmly. âThis doesnât get better. Not with the way youâre handling things. If youâre expecting something easy, keep dreaming.â
His words are harsh and brutally honest. Itâs devoid of comfort and you know better than to expect anything of the type, especially from him.
âIâm not saying you have to like it, I donât 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.â
You visibly tense at the mention of Jackson and he notices, barely suppressing an eye roll. While he doesnât 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 heâs 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 donât believe him. He sighs heavily, rubbing his palm down his face like heâs already regretting what heâs about to say, as if the words donât fit right, but theyâre far from a lie.
âHeâs trying,â he grumbles, as if itâs a stretch. âMight not look like it, but.. heâs trying to be normal. For you.â
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 whoâs handled you harshly and without care, but has never gone as far as endangering you on his own accord. You donât trust him, not one bit, but you canât shake the feeling that he wouldnât be giving you advice if it didnât 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 youâre processing his words, trying to figure out if thereâs any ill motives behind them. He doesnât 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.
âDoesnât mean heâs doing it right,â he adds, more certain this time. âBut if he wanted to, you wouldâve been buried six feet under by now. He kills people for less.â
Thereâs no warmth in his voice, but there's a realness behind it that was never there before. William doesnât 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.
Jackson had put you on something called ârecovery dutyâ for a few weeks. A silly term for keeping you in the same two places, either the couch or your bed, while youâre 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 thereâs not much you can do with an injury like this.
In return, Jackson kept showing up, though youâre sure he wouldâve done so anyway, for his own sake. Not in the same way he used to, but in quieter ways. Ones that didnât announce itself.
Like buying you things without you asking. Little things you like---things heâs 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 donât ask how he knows so much about you because you know itâll lead you to another conversation youâre not ready to discuss.
He brings you food every morning with nothing but an unpretentious greeting. Itâs nothing fancy or anything worth noting, but itâs warm and though it looked like he mightâve wrestled a bird to get it onto the plate, fighting tooth and nail, thereâs 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 doesnât push.
But after a week, he began trying to make the food look more appealing, like he wasnât 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 mightâve 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.
âItâll help with the pain,â 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 didnât 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.
Youâre 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 donât look at him and at this point, he doesnât expect you to.
The tray of food stares back at you, more organized than last time.
Same routine youâve adjusted to for the last few weeks, so consistent that you can easily predict what happens right after. Only this time, Jackson doesnât 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.
âYou ever been to the creek?â 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 thereâs no pressure swirling around you, you know heâs waiting for some kind of response.
You continue to watch him as he tends to your injury. â...No,â you answer, âNo I haven't."
That grabs your attention. Heâs 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 wouldnât be the wisest approach, so you scramble for a reason to decline instead.
âJackson, I can't," you sigh, rolling your ankle as much as you can without triggering it. âNot with this.â
He pauses for a moment before meeting your gaze, your breath hitching in your throat. He looks at you as if youâve asked him something utterly absurd.
âDidnât know you took me for a fool, sweetheart,â he chuckles, a playful glint dancing in his eyes. âThought you were smarter than that.â
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 youâre given the opportunity.
âIâll carry you,â he proposes, hand resting on your shin, thumb grazing the soft skin. âItâs ainât too far from here. Think of it as a change of scenery.â
The rational part of your brain screams to decline, knowing deep down this was a disaster in the making. Heâs the one whoâs kept you trapped here-- tormented you in ways that make you question everything-- and now, out of nowhere, heâs 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. Youâd be an idiot for even considering it.
Yet, you find yourself doing exactly that, the words stuck in your throat. It shouldâve 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 heâs done.
You should reject him-- that's the smartest decision you can make right now. Heâs 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 havenât even gotten the slightest idea of what heâs 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 youâre leaning towards.
He moves to tighten the laces on his boots.
âUsed to come down here as a kid,â Jackson says, the movement of his steps almost lulling as his boots crunch against the grass below. âMama used to send me to the creek to fetch water, always warninâ me to not take too long. Guess she figured if I spent too much time down here, Iâd forget what I was doinâ in the first place.â
You hum at that, caught between sleep and reality. He sounds like heâs reminiscing, lost in the memory of nostalgia. He lets out a breath thatâs somewhere between a laugh and a sigh as he recalls his childhood.
âThe Lord knows she was always right.â
He drones on, even when you donât respond much, filling the silence of the early hours. He doesnât seem to mind the one-sided conversation and youâre grateful for that. Heâs 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. Youâre 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.
Youâre close-- too close where your cheek is almost pressed against his hair, the faint smell of pinewood, sweat, and something metallic hitting you. Itâs a scent youâve grown accustomed to over time.
He doesnât move too fast, keeping at a steady pace to ensure he doesnât aggravate your injury any further. He carries you almost effortlessly, continuously talking without missing a beat, as if your weight doesnât faze him at all. And truth be told, it probably doesnât. 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 isnât 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 isnât 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 youâre seeing before moving towards it. He makes a stop in front of the hammock, fixing his stance as he shifts your weight again.
âAlright,â he mutters, adjusting his grip beneath your thighs, âweâll take it easy, yeah?â
You stiffen slightly, bracing instinctively for the awkward and probably painful dismount, but he doesnât move the way you expect. Instead, he pivots, his back now facing the hammock. He steps backwards carefully, positioning himself so youâre hovering just above the center.
Then, steadily, he begins to squat with ease, your weight proving nothing to him. He doesnât lower fully-- just enough to angle you towards the cradle of it, glancing over his shoulder to ensure youâre 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 youâre 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 hammockâs dip with care. Your body follows it, readjusting your position so youâre 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 heâs sure itâs in a comfortable position, occasionally glancing at you for any pained reactions.
You donât 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 heâs 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. Youâre 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.
âUsed to come down here whenever things got rocky,â he sounds unusually calm. Thereâs no trace of mockery in his words or the usual playful bite that comes with it. âMama always said I needed somewhere to cool my head. Most days, I just sat here, watchinâ the creek like it could give me answers.â
Thereâs 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 youâve grown used to.
âFigured you needed a place like that too. A place that doesnât ask much from you.â
The breeze picks up, brushing cool air across your skin as the hammock sways in a soothing manner. Truthfully, youâre not sure what to say. You donât express gratitude or acknowledge his actions, but you also donât 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 donât 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. Itâs unclaiming and almost real as he murmurs a soft, âlove you.â.
For the first time, you donât resist, and that surprises him more than anything, but he doesnât let it show. His free hand smooths your hair before he straightens up, careful not to swing the hammock. In that moment, itâs a small sign that youâre not at war with him and that, for once, heâs managed to maintain peace between you both.
âGet some rest,â he mutters. âIâll keep watch. Holler my name if you need anythinâ.â
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 heâs not quite sure what to do with himself.
Youâre 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 wouldâve worked out differently if he wasn't so deranged. But you donât dwell on the âwhat ifsâ 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. Itâs muted enough for you to convince yourself that itâs been treated.
You donât think about Jackson. You donât 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 donât think about survival.
This isnât 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. Thereâs still that persisting ache and the occasional sting, but itâs nothing you canât manage.
The routine work feels refreshing in a way it never did before. Itâs something youâve learned how to appreciate since getting back on your feet. Youâre not pinned down anymore, no longer confined in the two same spaces that once threatened to drive you to insanity.
You donât forget why youâre 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 thatâs not exactly the case. Time moves a lot faster when youâre 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 âa dull knife being more dangerous than a sharp one,â and how âmama never trusted a rusted knife with her cookinâ,â but you donât really care. Youâre just relieved heâs made your job a lot easier than it couldâve 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 youâre thankful for it, even if you donât say it out loud. If you squinted enough, youâd see the potential domesticity in him, but it's always overshadowed by the ways he chooses to show you.
But lately, he hasnât been so bad. Heâs been a lot more tolerable, if you were to give a generous opinion. Surprisingly, he hasnât threatened your safety since whatever it is heâs trapped you with down there, and youâre not sure if thatâs 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 Williamâs advice.
As for his affection.. youâre not sure if youâve grown used to it or just numb. They both donât seem like appealing options, but they help you mask your reactions better.
Youâd like to think youâre 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---
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 heâs trying to mend things, thereâs always that (very) high possibility he could revert to his old habits. After all, change doesnât 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. Thereâs 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 heâs 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 doesnât like it when youâre 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 heâs 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.
âMissed you,â 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. âYou know how to keep a man on his toes, donât ya? Always on my mind, pullinâ me away from what Iâm supposed to be doinâ.â
He lets out a dry chuckle, but thereâs no real bitterness behind it.
âHell, I thought about you so damn much today, it started messinâ with my head. That poor fool almost slipped right through my fingers.â
He says it like itâs your fault, like youâre the reason the quality of his work declined, but you know he doesnât mean anything by it. His fingers trail along the curve of your back absentmindedly, as if heâs trying to memorize the way you feel against him. âBut I wouldnât change a thing.â
You both share the deafening silence, an unspoken understanding hanging between you. You donât know what to say, so you spare a nod, just enough to let him know youâre not ignoring him. Heâs come to accept your quiet responses and youâve learned to at least acknowledge his presence, even if you donât want to. That eases the rift between you both, probably more than you care to admit.
âI love you, you know,â he says with familiarity, the words tumbling out with confidence. Heâs said it so much now that it almost feels like a routine, something he says out of habit, like a reflex. Youâd like to believe youâre used to it by now; you donât flinch whenever the endearment leaves his lips and it doesnât startle you as much.
You donât say anything at first. He doesnât rush you because in his mind, heâs 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 heâs 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 donât ignore the warnings. Itâs 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 doesnât do things out of kindness and that despite any changes you think you see, heâll always be the same twisted man. The moment you let your guard down, heâll remind you of exactly why you shouldnât trust someone like him.
You want to hold onto that truth, to maintain the distance you know is necessary, but thereâs a suffocating sense of doubt, seeping into the cracks you thought you sealed off. Maybe itâs the empathy integrated in you or it's you finally losing your mind, but you canât deny what you do see. You think back to your conversation with William, realizing he wasnât as wrong as you initially thought.
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.
The words slip out softer than you mean. You offer them as a truce, something youâre willing to give without fully surrendering to his delusionals. Itâs a compromise, a safe middle ground that allows your relationship to remain on good terms and mostly neutral.
Jackson sees it as acceptance.
You donât see how his eyes widen or the surprise that flickers across his face at your confession. He hadnât expected you to respond, let alone say something that isnât a hum or a dismissal. Worst of all, it doesnât sound forced like it usually does. It sounds natural and honest.
Itâs nothing to you. Itâs everything to him.
He doesnât reply and a part of you is relieved that he doesnât make anything out of it. Maybe heâs satisfied with your answer, or heâs learned to work with what youâre 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 isnât the playful pecks and light teasing youâve 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 youâre 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.
âJ-Jackson,â you stammer desperately, not knowing how to pull away but still needing the space. âW-What are you..?â 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 wouldâve--
âYou expect a man to do nothinâ when his girl says somethinâ like that?â
Thereâs 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. âI didnât.. I didnât mean it like--â
âI know what I heard, sweetheart.â
He makes it sound like itâs a victory, like youâve stepped into territory you never meant to. The way he looks at you, so genuinely happy, shows you that for him, itâs a confession. In his eyes, itâs a step forward, a mark of progress, something he can cling onto to believe this relationship isnât beyond saving.
Youâve 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 donât ask. Apprehension crawls up your chest, clawing its way through as if trying to tear your already bleeding heart. Itâs too late for an explanation now. No matter what you say, a gut feeling tells you he wonât let you forget your words so easily.
Youâre starting to wonder if youâre softening towards him or if itâs 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 doesnât 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 âa morning prayer,â and how much it would mean to him if you shared his tradition.
âItâll be short and sweet,â he promised, sounding more sure of himself than he ever has. âWonât take more than thirty minutes, sweetheart.â
Your heart sinks at his offer, knowing well that you both donât 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 donât know his Lord, and youâre 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 youâre tired, that William left you a list of chores (which, of course, is true), that your ankle still hurts, and hint that youâre not religious, but nothing lands right. You can practically feel him vibrating with anticipation for your answer. That alone tells you rejection isnât 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.
âYouâre gonna love it,â he glances over his shoulder to flash you a toothy grin. âAinât nowhere more peaceful when the Lordâs just around the corner.â
Except you donât 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 hasnât completely succumbed to natureâs grasp just yet.
Itâs seen better days, but at least a roof still covers its head.
âSight for sore eyes, ainât it?â He says proudly. Youâre not entirely sure youâre both seeing the same thing, but you nod anyway. âIt ainât perfect, but the Lord donât care for perfection. He wants devotion.â
You bite your lip nervously, a feeling of trepidation creeping in at the word âdevotionâ. With Jackson, that could mean anything. He notices the uncertainty on your face and steps closer, releasing your hand to squeeze your arm.âWeâll be in and out, alright?â
You force a smile, nodding awkwardly.
He looks visibly satisfied at your obedience, moving to cup your cheek, thumb brushing against your skin. âGood girl.â
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 youâve 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 donât 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 hadnât just turned your world upside down. âCome on, sweetheart.â
âS-Sorry,â 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 youâre not sure whoâd 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 isnât 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 Jacksonâs hand finding home in yours once more.
âAs much as I can appreciate beauty admirin' beauty, the Lordâs waiting on us,â he teases with a smirk. âBest not to disappoint them.â
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. Thereâs something in his eyes that you canât quite decipher, something you havenât 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 donât follow him but stay close behind, noticing how his fingers twitch at his side, as if heâs 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 thatâs paced. Youâve 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 donât 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 donât belong to any religion youâre 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 heâll understand the position youâre 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 youâre able to breathe again, relieved that itâs over.
But when you lift your head up, you notice heâs 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.
âTell me, sweetheart..â he begins, tone deathly neutral. âYou believe in fate?â
Itâs a simple question but you canât seem to find an answer. Fate could mean anything.
He doesnât 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 youâre not terrified by that.
Youâre terrified of what he has planned. Itâs clear now that he didnât 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 heâs already moving with intent. In a few strides, his bloodied hand grabs your left wrist, his eyes wide with that trace of insanity youâve tried to avoid for so long. Your breathing quickens painfully when you realize youâve walked into one of his traps. A whimper escapes as you fight against his grip, but as always, youâre no match for him.
âJackson, p-please--â
âDonât tell me you donât think fate is real,â he leans in closer, the cold metal of the blade kissing the palm of your hand. âThat destinyâs just a hoax. You think you moved here by coincidence? By your own doinâ?â
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. âNo. This isn't coincidence, sweetheart. Itâs fate. The Lord brought you to me, brought you to this village as a reward for all my hard work.â
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 heâs sliced off your tongue in one clean cut with that same scalpel he held moments ago. This time, you canât gather the strength to speak. Your vision blurs; you swear youâre about to pass out, but you know it wonât happen so generously.
His voice begins to tremble, desperate to sell you his beliefs, especially when you donât give him the reaction heâs expecting. âDonât ya see? I knew you were mine the minute I laid my eyes on you. Ainât no prayer answered louder than that. The Lordâs watchinâ over us, giving us his blessinâ to spend eternity together. We were never meant to be separated for so long.â
His eyes search, expecting agreement, but you can barely stand straight. It feels like youâre choking on something that isnât there. When you donât respond, a flash of devastation and anger crosses his face. His bloodied hand tightens painfully against yours, as if itâll seal your bond faster.
âYou said it yourself,â he spits, his voice shaking but dripping with venom. It sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than you. âYou donât hate me. That has to mean somethinâ, right? A sign from the Lord himself that itâs time for us to seal things.â
Like always, he twists your words-- takes what he can and runs with it. You shouldâve known better, known he wouldn't take your words with a grain of salt. You didnât 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.
âDonât look at that,â he pleads, dejected, his voice rising as your eyes lock once more. âLook at me! This was never about a prayer. This is about us! Iâm your answer now!â
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 youâre 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.
Heâs breathing hard, pupils dilated and brows furrowed. His lips quiver for a second before it stretches into a shaky, yet manic and needy grin. âLook at me. Look what youâve done. On my knees like a sinner, bleedinâ my soul out, and you still donât see it? You really think you can go against what the Lord has planned for us? Weâre bound now by blood. By soul. No matter what path you took, it wouldâve led you right back to me.â
Heâs trembling now, his entire body vibrating with intensity, but itâs 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.
âI love you. I fuckinâ love you,â he says feverishly, words spilling out with uncontrollable need. âIâll love you forever, even when death tears us apart.â
Everything blurs around you. Youâre physically present in the moment, but your mind is miles away. Your body is paralyzed, unresponsive, trapped in a shell thatâs beyond your control. Your chest tightens with every ragged breath and your lungs scream for air that it canât seem to get.
His deranged and deafening laughter echoes throughout the church, but itâs swallowed whole by the panic circulating inside you. You canât 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 doesnât force you to look at him. In the midst of your panic, you donât 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 donât 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
tangentwithtanner
kaledo-art
vaporwave
areudirty
discoholicmusic
ellievsbear
turnnoffyourmind
dailybridgerton
blakekathryn