tenshx

[tenshx]

i have very big plans to write a 2 part william fic but idk if it’s the right time..

[tenshx]

❦ the red means i love you ❦

(chap. 2)

➪ chap. 1 • chap. 2 • chap. 3 • chap 4 • chap 5

𓃟 read it on ao3

❦ pairing: jackson hillwalker/cottonwood x fem!reader

❦ word count: 3.2k+ words

❦ summary: jackson loved art. from a young age, he believed he was destined to create life with his own hands. he stayed true to that belief, his path resolute, until everything shifted the moment you caught his eye. suddenly, he found himself redirecting his plans, but he figured he could work around that.

❦ authors note: sorry this took forever gng. 🥀 i’m currently studying for an exam but i promise im working on it chapter by chapter. jackson’s just batshit crazy tbh,, i’ll revise more later

❦ possible triggers: A JOB!! blood, heavy stalking, mentions of mutilation, religious psychosis, obsessive behaviors, injuries

Jackson loved art for as long as he could remember.

He’d dreamt on numerous occasions of becoming an artist, wanting nothing more than to bring things to life with the work of his own hands. He would often recall those same memories— how he would run up to his mother, a broken crayon in one hand and a crumpled piece of paper in the other, a prideful grin on his face. There was an excitement in his chest— overwhelming, far too much for one child to handle.

Everytime, his mother would place a kiss on the crown of his head, her fingers ruffling through his hair as a greeting. She‘d take the paper from his hands, studying it for a moment, before flashing a grin towards her son. Her eyes, full of life, shone with admiration as she stared at the scribbled piece and back at Jackson. With open arms and a plethora of love radiating from her, she praised him just like any good mother would.

“My boy is destined for great things!”

“A natural prodigy! With a talent like this, you’ll become an artist in no time.”

“God blessed you with these hands and such a blessing you have given us in return.”

It was no wonder why he had such a passion for his work, why he took so much pride in it. All it took was a supportive mother, a pack of overused crayons, and torn pages from his brother's notebook to kickstart his journey to success.

He found multiple ways to express his creativity: useless drawings stashed away somewhere in his mothers closet, absurd clay sculptures probably half broken in a random, forgotten hallway, and that stupid popsicle stick tower his brother had ruined when he tripped over it, resulting in a heated argument that their father had to step into.

It was a never ending cycle— the need to create stronger than before, the yearning to be in control. He could never fathom the thought of abandoning his talent no matter how much time had passed, refusing to stuff it in the back of the attic just like William had with his hobby he shared with their father.

It was saddening to see the remnants of what his brother used to be; a fishing pole abandoned, rusted and decayed in the far corner. Next to it, a box of equipment collected dust, its contents long forgotten.

He remembered his brother's gleeful smile, a fish thrashing at the end of his line— one of the rare moments he had seen such unguarded, pure joy in him.

Maybe if William hadn’t deserted the only memory he had of at least one of his parents, he wouldn’t have turned out the way he did— resentful, cranky, and rather snappish.

As those thoughts drifted through his mind, Jackson couldn’t help but wonder. Maybe art was the only connection he had left of his mother before everything went to shit, leaving them both to suffer and salvage what was left of their family.

Then the impossible happened, something he would’ve never expected. William had stumbled upon a plant in the shape of a heart dangling off of a vine not too far from their manor, preserved and in pristine condition despite the storm that had shadowed them for hours. Hesitantly, William took it in his grasp, a sickening sensation spreading through his hand as it throbbed and pulsed with a rhythm that felt disturbingly alive

William saw it as a curse, a nuisance to be discarded, but Jackson saw something more. To him, it was an offering— a final act of devotion to their mother, wanting to honor her spirit and unwavering love she had given them both. Without hesitation, he snatched it from his brother's grasp and sprinted towards their mothers bedroom, as fast as his legs would carry him.

For once, Jackson thought he had done something right, a good deed that only God could reward, after witnessing their mother revive temporarily. Their happiness was unforgettable, seeing her warm smile and open arms once more, but it was incredibly short lived. She had weakened, her condition worsening with each passing day and for the second time around, she was slipping through their fingers once more.

Sometimes, he wished he had left her for dead and even more so when things had turned for the worst.

The animals began growing etiolated, their farm gradually crumbling as he and Will attempted to keep their family’s legacy alive. Crops began wilting and the house became unrecognizable as the vines from the plant painted the walls, permeating uncontrollably. In a blink of an eye, they both slowly began to fall victim to the dreadful path Jackson had unknowingly led them to, William falling ill on a rainy night and him not long after.

It was excruciating, an experience he would never forget. He remembered the relentless mental torment, the voices in his head driving him to insanity, spiraling him to what he thought was his impending doom. His body became a prison, constantly haunted by his own thoughts while his brothers suppressed screams played like a broken record in the back of his mind.

It was a nightmare they couldn’t wake up from—agonizing and seemingly endless— until one evening, it all came to a sudden halt. The room was finally silent, broken by the sounds of crickets chirping and wind slipping through the cracks of the windows.

He found himself on the floor as he roused from sleep, his mind alight with an intense, unexplainable energy that felt foreign. Suddenly, everything seemed to make sense. The plant had brought them a gift— a new purpose— after the absence of their parents. Whatever they had welcomed home had given them refuge, a sense of clarity they had been searching for.

Along with that gift, it had rekindled Jackson’s passion with art. It allowed him to see the beauty in both life and death, and to embrace the idea of reincarnation in a way he would’ve never understood years ago. It was the closest he had ever come to playing God. The most alive he had felt since his mother had passed. He was utterly grateful, thanking his newfound Lord endlessly for providing both of them a second chance.

It was a selfless act their Lord had offered and in return, they both had made a sole promise to serve until their last breath, finding that they could never repay the opportunity bestowed upon them.

Jackson finally had a fresh start, everything looking up for both him and William. He had an end goal, his life fueled by a rush of exhilaration that surged through him like adrenaline. This was his drug, his addiction, one he could never find elsewhere—

—until you came into the picture.

He had heard several rumors about a new face around the village, his curiosity heightened as he eavesdropped while browsing around the market. Change was rare nowadays, a luxury rather than a common occurrence in a small and underground place like this. Newness didn’t come often and when it did, it was never left unnoticed.

Jackson loved change. Anything that could break up the monotony of his slow, everyday life was always welcomed, especially when he wasn’t busy mimicking God in his own home.

It wasn’t long before he encountered you. You had moved into a shabby apartment in a shady part of town with only a few boxes and a bag slung over your shoulder. The neighbors greeted you with unexpected hospitality, embracing you warmly before volunteering to assist you with your items. He watched as you nodded your head shyly, a sheepish grin spreading across your face as you accepted their offer.

Jackson nearly drops the reusable bag he's holding, groceries threatening to spill, upon seeing your face for the first time. His interest sparked instantly, a raw and indescribable feeling blossoming as he stole another glance. With a smile like that, how could he ignore someone like you?

It wasn’t direct, face-to-face contact for a few months, him simply watching from afar, unsure of why your presence fascinated him so deeply. There was something about you that held his attention, his eyes tracking your every move with stern focus. He assumed that you’d be his next catch, wanting to make use of that pretty face of yours. Your blood would look breathtaking splattered on his walls, your limbs a good fit for whatever animal he deemed perfect. Maybe he’d be generous enough to let you choose.

It started with the usual, casual snooping, soon learning your name, your story, and every detail that you openly shared with others once you began involving yourself more. With the way you were running your damn mouth, the position you set yourself in was inevitable. In a small community like this, everyone's business was public and you should’ve known that from the start.

You were an easy target, incredibly naive and painfully unaware of how others could use that information against you. (Not him, of course. He would never be so disrespectful.)

A name should’ve been enough. A story was overdoing it, and yet, even with this knowledge, he still hasn’t made the effort to abduct you just like every other victim he’s pursued. He should’ve stopped there and discarded you like the rest or perhaps committed the rare, merciful act of leaving you alone so he could continue his peaceful slaughter without the extra trouble.

But he hasn’t.

Instead, he’s developed an obsession with understanding his own intentions. Yet, the more he attempts to do so, he fails to realize that he's only digging the hole deeper.

Somehow in between the lines of his latest routine, he learns more about you— both against his will and within his own doings.

He memorizes your routine to a T: an early trip to the farmers market (he notes every item you purchase), a quick stop at your favorite cafe (your order tasting better than anything he's ever tried), and sometimes you’d linger long enough to read a book or type something in that little, silly laptop of yours before heading back home if you had nothing else planned.

Your schedule remained consistent and whenever it did shift, even in the slightest? He adapted quickly, moving like a man starved.

So when the news broke out that you had begun working in a diner down the street, he saw it as a chance to grow closer to you. He paid no mind to that neglected, rundown part of the village, disgusted by the sight of it, but now, it was the most appealing piece of shit he’s ever laid his eyes on. In a burst of overzealous optimism, he made the monumentally idiotic decision to dine in whenever he could, keeping tabs on your work schedule instantly and with unsettling ease.

He couldn’t have thanked the lord more the second he saw your face enter the dining room, his gaze fixated on that cute outfit that adorned your body as your coworker chatted with you behind the counter. You wore that same smile that drew him in the first time around, a smirk of his own stretching across his cheeks.

You were far more than what he could’ve ever conjured up in that mind of his. When your voice greets him— shaky and clearly nervous from your new job— he feels a jolt of electricity shoot through him.

His grin widens at the sight of you, incredibly anxious and antsy in his company. A sense of control and power floods his head as you shyly scribble his order onto a notepad, fidgeting in place before thanking him with a hushed voice, quickly excusing yourself. His eyes trail after you, realizing that his little game of stalking wasn’t going to cut it moving forward.

His first real conversation with you was quiet and minimal, Jackson attempting to break the ice with small talk he wasn’t normally fond of.

“How’s the village treating you, sweetheart?”

“The weather's nice this evening, hm?”

“I like how you did your hair today.”

You don’t respond much, often sparing him an awkward smile or nod and your occasional one worded answers but you were interacting with him and that was all that mattered! He was ecstatic with the progress.

He expected it. After all, you were still navigating the ropes around the village, caught up in the lengthy process of getting to know everyone, much less some random local who (respectfully) had started showing up a little too often out of the blue.

It took him a few rounds, but he eventually managed to butter you up enough to grow comfortable around him after a couple of visits.

Now that you were within his reach and falling victim to his facade, the possibilities felt endless. With the access he had, he could’ve done anything to you but found himself rerouting his plan. Instead, he decided to keep you around, growing unexpectedly fond of the genuine relationship he’s built with you.

You were the only sense of normalcy in his life, the only connection he had with this pathetic village he despised, and before he knew it, everything was about you—you, you, and only you.

It’s far too late when he does figure that he’s trapped himself in this void, his heart raw and laid out on a platter for you to take.

Jackson had drawn you into every corner of his sketchbooks, your face engraved into his memory, your initials carved into any wooden platform that caught his eye. He swore he used his own blood to mark one or more of his artworks of you, a crimson seal binding you to him.

You were in his prayers, rosary clenched in his hands as he kneeled in front of his Lord. His voice was desperate as he spoke in whispers, your name like a worship on his lips—as if it was the only word he knew.

Jackson promised he had honest intentions. He’d crafted intricate plans to slowly wedge himself into your life in the most humane and subtle way he could. He had worked meticulously to build a convincing front for you, tweaking his personality just enough to give you the false sense that he was even a tad bit sane (and deep down, he heavily believed that nothing was wrong with him).

He had plans to court you, to prove to you that he was a good man and eventually, you would realize how much he admired you, more than life itself, enough for you to overlook all his flaws.

Everything was in his favor and he was certain he had you in the palm of his hand, but he never would’ve guessed that the Lord would reward him with such an accessible shortcut. With all the sacrifices he had brought home as of recent, it was no wonder why he was granted such a blessing.

He wanted to establish things properly and take things step by step just as he planned, but he supposed he could work around this change. Jackson was nothing if not adaptable.

After all, he was a very forgiving man.

And for you, he’d do unspeakable things.

❦

You wanted this to be a bad dream.

Maybe if you woke up, you’d be in your bed back at home, your coworker calling to chide you for being late for your hangout. You’d ready yourself for the day, grab your usual from the cafe, and start your shift in the diner from two in the afternoon till eleven at night.

You’d see Jackson, his smile as bright as ever with his comforting and sweet words, the image of last night's events reminding you that what you saw was simply just a hallucination, a nightmare your mind managed to conjure.

You wanted this experience to be another story to tell your family and friends, jokingly bringing it up during a get-together in some poor excuse of a bar not too far from work or shared through a choppy call from your outdated cell-phone.

Unfortunately, the universe had other plans for you, sending a harsh reminder that your situation was inescapable. A violent throb pulses through your head as you slowly regain consciousness for a moment. Your ears ring for a couple seconds before you hear the soft sound of humming, the voice muffled and distant.

Your eyes flutter open—half-lidded, your vision terribly blurred. You don’t want them to, unwilling to face the reality of your fate, but you somehow gather the strength to look around.

As you blink, trying to clear your sights, you realize your head is laying on something soft and firm. You struggle to make out the silhouette above you, your world spinning as you do so.

You don’t make sense of anything— your surroundings are a blur, your mind dazed— until his familiar voice travels around you, haunting in a way that makes you feel nauseous.

Then it all crashes down on you all at once. The puzzle fits itself together, suffocating and unbearable, as the revelation weighs on your chest.

“Finally awake,” he coos, voice consoling as he runs his fingers through your hair in soothing patterns, avoiding the sensitive spot in the back of your head. His touch burns through your scalp and you want to pull away, fight against his hold, but everything hurts far too much, your body frail and enervated from the blow.

You catch a glimpse of him leaning in, the tips of his bangs brushing over the softness of your cheeks, too close for comfort.

His words sound distant despite his closeness, breath warm against your skin as you hold yours.

“Gave me quite the scare,” he mutters sweetly, “ I was worried I lost ya.”

You want to scream at him—run away from this damn village until your lungs give out and never return— but all that leaves your mouth is a slurred, pathetic whimper of his name. Your head lolls weakly to the side to create any kind of distance between you both. It’s all you can do.

He finally straightens up, tossing his head back slightly as he lets out a laugh— unsettling and terrifying, twisting your stomach with discomfort.

Panic begins to flood your system, your breathing becoming shallow and suddenly, you’re pulled in and out of consciousness as you try to ground yourself.

Nothing ever goes unnoticed by Jackson. He never misses the way your lips twitch upwards as you hold in a laugh from a joke he slips out mid conversation or the way you tap your pen thoughtfully against his table in the same rhythmic pattern whenever you articulate a response for him.

It’s only natural for him to notice your state— how your body falters, how your breathing patterns change the more you realize your predicament.

Gently, one of his hands moves to shield your eyes from the blinding light illuminating his form from behind. Your breathing begins to settle as you succumb to unconsciousness, your body betraying you as the world begins to fade.

Just before the silence takes you, his voice cuts through the darkness, hushed and tender.

“Sweet dreams.”

You dream of freedom.

Jackson dreams of you.

tags: @mr-trick @wisepainterprince @ryuoo @ang3lin3r33 @novalovelily @prettygirlslovegirls

[tenshx]

MORE THE BUTCHERY FICS PLEASE IM SO DESPERATE ✌️✌️

i am working on chap 2 as we speak and it will be posted soon

and i am also opening up one shots for the butchery to pass the time 😈 i want to write william so bad

[tenshx]

❦ the red means i love you ❦

(chap. 1)

➪ chap. 2 • chap 3 • chap 4 • chap 5

𓃟 read it on ao3

❦ pairing: jackson hillwalker/cottonwood x fem!reader

❦ word count: 4.5k+ words

❦ summary: moving into a small village near cottonwood mountains was the best decision you’ve made for your peace. everything fell into place just as you expected. all except for the fact that you had caught someone’s attention since you began working at the local diner. meeting jackson cottonwood was definitely something you weren’t expecting, but you soon find out that he’s more than what meets the eye. somehow, you wish you never left home.

❦ authors note: haha,, guess what guys. i’ve fallen down the butchery rabbit hole & now i am plagued by thoughts of this game. can’t wait to see more of my boys on june 8. reader doesn’t play as the character in the game & is a completely different individual btw!! i’ll revise my summary later 🤠 im just rlly tired and wanted to post this before i exploded.

❦ possible triggers: A JOB!!, blood, mentions of weapons, injuries, kidnapping and implied stalking,

Living in a small village was your dream. It always has been, especially after being influenced at a terribly young age to chase a peaceful life.

The place you moved into was definitely what you had expected— tranquil, slow-paced with a family-driven community, and full of greenery and beautiful scenery you would’ve never imagined seeing a year ago in person.

It was everything you had seen in movies, an exact replication of the several years of research you put into move, but there was only one problem— boredom.

It was something that often caught up with you on the slower days once you began to settle down, the air still and time passing and dragging all at once. Ironic enough, you felt a bit homesick, missing the hustle and bustle of your previous living situation, the silence of the village far more deafening than the noises that bombarded the busy streets.

But you figured it was the process of settling. After all, a slow life is a peaceful one and you couldn’t deny that you were rarely stressed these days.

Today was mostly quiet in the diner you worked at. Old, dingy with a bit of wear and tear, but a classic nonetheless. Despite its age coming around, locals returned often and newcomers loved the restaurant, always posting a good review somewhere in the deep corners of social media.

At this rate, you could’ve clocked out early with how dead the place was and even at that, it wasn’t enough to describe the emptiness of your shift. Maybe you could convince your boss or ask your coworker to cover you for the time being. After all, she did owe you a solid for saving her ass last week, nearly begging on her knees to cover her shift because “her boyfriend had made plans and she was sure it was a proposal this time.” (It wasn’t.)

It was convincing and you almost warmed up to the idea until a sharp gasp from your coworker ripped your attention away from your cell phone. She clutched the newspaper with one hand, her other one covering her mouth dramatically.

“Another person missing?” Her voice was hushed and devastated as her and your boss huddled around the folded piece of paper. “Isn’t this the nineteenth person this year?”

Your boss scoffs, shaking her head in disapproval, “The village is becomin’ dangerous, I tell ya. These damn cops ain’t doing shit to keep us safe. Back then, I could walk another village down and still come back in one piece—“

Her words seemed to meld as you stepped closer to them, slowly drawn into their conversation, eyes falling on the bold letters.

“MALE, 27 YEARS, REPORTED MISSING.”

The rest was a bit more difficult to read, but the portrait of the individual sent a shiver down your spine as you observed his features. He looked relatively young; a bright smile, youthful features, and a kind look on his face.

Your coworker noticed your wandering eyes, moving closer as she shared the newspaper with you, hands crumpling the edges of it. “Nineteen and none of them were found! How is that possible?”

The missing persons cases have been the talk of the village recently, someone always related to each person that disappeared. At first, everyone assumed it was their loved ones having a change of heart and leaving the village to start a new life, but as more cases began to pile, the panic began to unfold.

Maybe that’s why the diner was so empty.

You’re not sure how to respond and your boss obviously felt the same way as the three of you read the paper, eyes glued to it. Only the sound of the music playing in the background filled the silence.

꧁

Somehow on the second to the last hour of your shift, you managed to build up the courage to ask your coworker to cover you. Luckily, despite the creepy ambience the place held an hour ago, she gladly agreed, more than willing to return the favor.

So with a smile and gracious thanks, you began to pack up your belongings, ensuring everything was in place before leaving the back room towards the front door of the diner, checking your phone.

However, you heard the sound of the bell chiming before you could reach the door, head rising as your gaze met with one of your usuals— the infamous Jackson Cottonwood. He was the town's heartthrob, all the girls fawning over him and everyone’s mother trying to set their daughter with him.

“Hey sweetheart, leavin’ so soon?” His voice sweet as honey and with that familiar joyful kick, called out to you. He was dressed in his usual plaid, suspended flannel along with dark jeans and his dirtied boots. His hair was parted, kissed by the wind as strands fell over his eyes in a crooked manner.

You offered him a smile, a bit awkward and shy as you nodded, “Yeah, decided to hit the hay early tonight. Slow shift.”

He hummed disapprovingly as this, hands on his hips and you let out a low snicker.

“What a shame. Thought I’d catch up with my favorite girl, but it seems like I missed the window,” He said in a sulky manner, a defeated look on his face. “Suppose the lord isn’t on my side today.”

He was always such a sweetheart, one of the customers you found yourself naturally attracted to. With a mouth like that, it was no wonder why he had so many girls wrapped around his finger. You’d be lying if you had told yourself you weren’t falling victim to the same syndrome.

“It is such a shame. Had you been here an hour earlier, maybe we would’ve had time,” you teased a bit.

“We got all the time in the world as long as you keep workin’ in this diner.”

You laugh at his words and he lets out a prideful and satisfied grin, brightening up his features. Before you could say anything more, you noticed Jackson's eyes travel towards the bar, your gaze following his and soon noticing both your boss and coworker whispering to each other. They both immediately separated from each other, realizing they had been caught red handed.

Jackson leaned down, whispering something under his breath but loud enough for you to hear, “Seems like we got an audience. Let me let ya go for the night, yeah? Shouldn’t keep you back more than I need to.”

You lock eyes with him as he straightens himself out and he spares you a warm smile, sending you off with a squeeze of your shoulder as he breezes past you to sit in one of the booths nearby. You stare at the back of his head for a moment before you shrug it off, deciding to go home. You were bound to encounter him eventually.

꧁

“So what’s the deal with you and Cottonwood?”

You look up from your receipts, your coworker folding her arms as she leaned against the bar. There was a shiteating grin on her face along with a devious twinkle in her eye that made you a bit anxious.

You shrug nonchalantly at her instigating question, continuing to sort receipts, “Not sure what you’re talking about.”

She rolled her eyes at your words, grabbing it from your hands. You shoot her a glare, reaching for the pieces of papers as she held it out of reach.

“Hey—!”

“C’mon. He’s not sweet-talking you for no reason. You’re the only server he butters up, maybe the only girl—“

“He does that for everyone! Please, just give me back—“

With a groan, she gently shoved the receipts back to you, unconvinced by your reasoning, “Uh-huh. That’s why you’re his “favorite girl”.”

There’s a teasing tone in her voice and you can’t help but feel embarrassed. She noticed the slight flush on your cheeks at her evidence, letting out an amused laugh.

“It’s really not like that,” you say, trying to organize the little pieces of paper on the table. “I barely know anything about him.”

It was the truth. Jackson Cottonwood was the biggest mystery of the town despite his popularity. No one knew anything of him besides his name and his mother who once sold meat in the market.

There were several rumors about his status that circulated around town: a farm boy who lived off of the grid, a mafia boss working undercover, an undercover FBI agent collecting data on the village or residing here to keep his name low and much more you couldn’t care to remember. Despite his years of living here (assumingly), nothing was ever truly confirmed. Everything that everyone thought they knew was merely speculation.

He was simply known as the handsome man who often dropped by in town three times a week. Nothing more and nothing less.

She was skeptical, but had no denial to it, “I guess, but still, he's all over you. As a taken women, I know when a man—“

Suddenly, your conversation was cut short by the familiar sound of the bells chiming, both your gazes falling on Jackson, who looked around for a moment before locking eyes with you, nodding towards your direction and heading towards the same booth he always sat at.

Your coworker let out a giggle, nudging your side almost playfully. In response, you shot her a look, eyes pleading for her to behave before she leaned towards you, murmuring something in your ear secretly.

“Speak of the devil. I would continue this conversation but loverboy is waving you down. Get to him before he forgets your tip, yeah?”

At this, you turn your head, finally noticing the smile on his face, his cheek resting on his hand as he looked straight at you. Before you could ask your coworker to take over, feeling suddenly shy and nervous at her accusations, she was already past the doors of the kitchen, leaving you alone to stand dumbly behind the counter.

With nowhere to run, you begrudgingly made your way to Jackson, trying to shake off the nerves.

“There she is,” his voice filled the silence of the diner, muffling out the music playing. “Prayed to the lord I’d catch you today and it seems like they were generous. Lucky me.”

He was always so flirtatious, knowing the right words to get into someone’s heart, and it usually didn’t affect you. Up until this point, at least. You suppose you could blame your coworker for planting nonsense into your head, now hyper aware of his words.

“It isn’t hard to miss me,” you attempt to reply casually, hoping your voice didn't sound as shaky as it felt. “I work here almost everyday.”

“Yeah, but after what happened last time, I assumed praying for our next encounter wouldn’t hurt. It’s always a blessing to be graced with your presence.”

Such a strange compliment. You didn’t think anyone liked you enough to pray for your company. Maybe you’d expect it from the local gas station crackhead, but here you were, receiving it from the village’s heartthrob.

“Maybe you would see me more if you came into town more often,” you fought back the redness creeping up your skin, feeling hot under your collar as you attempted to keep up.

A little smirk replaced the usual smile adorning his cheeks, “Oh? Since you’re askin’ so nicely, sweetheart, I might make an exception.”

With no one else in the diner but you and him, his words felt a little more intimate, voice low and inviting. You could be reading the room wrong, but it definitely felt tense in a way that left you choked up.

You wanted to run away, battling the urge to clock out and hopefully wash the nerves out of your system after taking a hot shower. Somehow, some higher entity out there seemed to grant your wishes. You almost think about kissing your boss’ feet as she walked from the back into the diner, speaking loudly on the phone as she processed a take-out order.

With the conversation now interrupted, you found a way to redirect it, fumbling for the notepad in your pocket as you spoke,”S-Sorry, let me take your order.”

Jackson didn’t seem to mind it much, humming under his breath before answering.

“Sure.”

꧁

The diner had gotten busy within the next thirty minutes, a group of loud college students walking into the establishment for a quick bite. Their boisterous laughs and voices reverberated against the walls of the diner and while it was rather deafening, you were somewhat thankful for the distraction. With the emotions storming in your mind, you figured you needed away time from Jackson.

Unfortunately, he didn’t share the same idea. He seemed to take his time with his meal, taking small bites and reading whatever worn out book he’s pulled out of his pocket as you tended to other customers. You assumed that it might’ve been a slow day for him.

“How was your meal?” You ask as you rack up his bill, eyes glancing at him before back at the paper.

“Good,” he simply replied, hand, leaning forward against the bar. “But the service was better.”

You let out a nervous laugh under your breath, unsure of how to respond. You were hoping that he wouldn’t talk to you for the rest of the night, wanting to rid of the tense feeling in your body, so you settle for that simple act of acknowledgment.

Then you tell him his total, always the same, his order never changing since he’s dined here half a year ago. At this point, you’d expect him to pay without asking. Your boss had even offered him the convenient option of leaving his payment by the table to save him from the trouble of walking over to the register, claiming he was a “loyal” and “truthful” customer.

But he doesn’t do that. Even with the offer, he never does.

He slides the bills over and you reach to grab them, looking up from the receipt. Finally, you seem to freeze, hand stopping midway as you notice his hands, a bit irritated looking as if it had been scratched or scrubbed relentlessly.

Then you notice the dirt trapped under his fingernails along with faint reddening hue along the edges. You can hear him talking, saying something about the boys who had come in earlier, but you can’t seem to tear your eyes away.

It isn’t until he moves to brush his hand against yours on the counter, you’re grounded back to reality, a sharp gasp leaving your mouth as you quickly pull your hand away.

His eyes seemed to widen at this, both of you staring at each other in awkward silence. You attempt to muster up an excuse, mouth opening and closing, but he beat you to it, clearing his throat.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes, breaking the silence. “Didn’t mean to startle you. You just seemed out of it, so I was just checking on ya.”

It takes you a moment to process his words before you shake your head, grabbing the bills from the counter.

“No, it’s fine. I’m…”

There’s an odd feeling in your chest, unsettling in a way that heightened your anxiety. Something didn’t sit right and you’re not sure what, feeling almost silly at your emotions. Then you realize that maybe you should lay off the horror documentaries, the paranoia finally catching up to you. So you decide to shake it off, letting out a breath that was trapped in your throat.

“..I’m fine. I think I’m just really tired,” you finish your sentence, offering him a tense smile.

He doesn’t seem convinced for a moment but lets it go (much to your relief).

“Well sweetheart, grab a coffee before you go home, yeah? Dangerous for you to walk alone in that state. Nights are always unpredictable.”

There’s a hint of concern in his voice and you try to wave it off, not wanting to pester him with such trivial scenarios. With your pepper spray and taser you bought half-off from the store four blocks down, you were sure you’d make it home mostly safe.

“I should be fine.”

“Just wanna make sure my girl is safe is all. I’d offer to walk you home but I haven’t finished running my errands,” he says casually, the nickname constant in his mouth. “Maybe next time I’ll pray hard enough to have the opportunity.”

You let out an airy giggle at his words, forgetting about the uneasy feeling almost immediately. You’re not even sure why you assumed the worst in him, chiding yourself a bit for believing he’d commit any heinous acts. He’s been nothing but kind to you from the start and truth be told, if he wanted to do something to you by now, he would’ve.

“Fat chance, but you can keep praying,” you tease and he lets out an amused laugh.

“Best believe I will. My lord hasn’t failed me yet.”

With that, you both catch up for a bit before another set of customers come in, cutting your session short. He nods at you, moving to push himself off of the counter.

“Well, that’s my cue,” he straightens out his shirt, shoving the receipt in his pocket before looking back at you. “I’ll see you soon, sweetheart. Remember what I told you.”

You roll your eyes, shooing him away, “Yes, I know. You’ll see me in one piece next time.”

He reacts to your answer, a prideful smirk forming on his face as he hums in approval, “Good girl.”

Your cheeks redden at his praise and thankfully, he's already turned away, heading out the front door when it happens. As much as you hated to admit it, you figured that maybe you did like Jackson more than you let on.

But only time could tell.

꧁

Time was definitely not on your side.

You hadn’t talked to Jackson since your last encounter with him a week and a half ago. It was out of the ordinary and sudden, his absence obvious as you found yourself waiting for his arrival. The more you waited, the more you wondered.

You did miss him in a sense. Whether it was because he established a routine for you, provided excitement in your life, or welcomed you with blossoming feelings for your relationship with him, you’d never know.

It didn’t make it easier that you hardly knew anything about him. Creating scenarios for his absence felt almost impossible, forcing yourself to dumb it down to simple reasonings. Maybe he was busy with whatever job he had or he got caught up in family business. After all, he was an adult man with adult responsibilities. Visiting his “favorite” girl in a diner shouldn’t be one of them.

In a blink of an eye, two weeks passed without his usual visits and the villagers began speculating. Considering the low population of the village, it wasn’t a surprise that people had caught on quickly, rumors spreading like uncontrollable wildfire.

“Maybe he found a purpose somewhere else. This place can only provide so much,” one woman gosipped, buying fresh eggs from a farmer in the market.

“Told you he was working for the government! Was always suspicious of that one,” Another man had claimed on a different day, hitting his rolled up newspaper against the arm of his friend. “Cottonwood is shady! It’s weird how we don't know anything about this fool when everyone knows everyone here!”

“Do you think he was the twentieth victim?” Your coworker theorizes one day, the diner slowing down after the dinner rush. You shudder at that, not wanting to think about that possibility.

The air is suddenly eerie, a sense of unease surrounding the area.

You just hope he hadn’t gotten hurt or abruptly moved away without saying goodbye.

꧁

You finally finish closing up, finalizing and straightening everything out before parting ways with your coworker who blew you a kiss, reminding you to call her before your shift tomorrow so you both could hit up the farmers market.

You spare her a tired smile, nodding at her words before walking towards the opposite direction and into the quiet streets of the village. With the recent news lately, the nights have been emptier, markets shutting down early in fear of the loose kidnapper. You did miss the liveliness of the night life here, but who could blame them? Nineteen people missing and not one body had been recovered.

The incident was easily labeled as the Cottonwood Mountain’s biggest case and probably its only one of its kind.

It had made big news on social media, several of your friends and family members calling you with warnings and concerns for your well-being. Despite the crimes occurring, you were much happier here than you were back home. So with a flash of your pepper spray and taser, you left them with the comfort that you were protected.

While scrolling through your phone, catching up on several messages, you were unexpectedly stopped by the blinding lights of police sirens, noticing the street you usually took blocked off by yellow caution tape and several police cars. There are a handful of officers around along with a few villagers scattered throughout the small, finite area.

You don’t have time to process what was happening before an officer approaches you, his voice hushed but authoritative.

“Sorry ma’am, the area is blocked off right now due to a distressed call. I know its an inconvenience but it’s currently prohibited to pass through the area at the moment.”

Truth be told, you were a bit annoyed at the inconvenience, wanting nothing but to be home after a long day at work, but you bite your tongue in hopes of ending your day on a good note.

“Do you know when everything will clear up?”

You were hoping he’d say soon or within the next thirty minutes, but the look on his face told you everything you needed to know. Defeated, you began to map out other routes you’ve taken once or twice whenever you wanted to take the scenic way home before he could give you a response.

“I don't have an ETA on it yet, ma’am. Is there any detour you could take?”

“Yeah,” is all you say and thank the officer, moving to reroute your path, already dreaming of the hot bath you’d take once you get home.

The alternative path was usually beautiful during the afternoon or the peak of sunrise and sunset, but right now, it felt dreadful as you navigated through the dark of the woods with nothing but your flashlight and the map in the back of your mind. It was an arguably faster way to get home, but also the more sketchy route which was why you avoided it at night.

You’re hyper aware and paranoid now, pepper spray in one hand and phone in the other as you treaded carefully along the dirt road. Every noise and odd gust of wind forced you to hold your breath, body trembling a bit at the silence of the area.

Regret began to weigh on your mind.

Maybe you should’ve waited for them to clear things out or call your coworker to crash at her place until everything settled, but you were already near your apartment, already too far into it to turn back. It would only be more trouble to track back. Only a few more turns and—

Speaking of turns, you rounded the corner of a tree, soon stopping in your tracks as your body paralyzed at the sight of red on the ground. The thick, viscous liquid stood out against the dark of the ground, splattered and smeared, taunting you as your heart dropped.

Your body seemed to move on its own as you redirected your flashlight along the dirt, the light providing you a better picture of streaks of a deep red stretching across the path, almost as if someone had been dragged.

Slowly, you look up, light flashing towards the direction and before you know it, you feel dizzy and nauseous at the sight of a body on the ground, lifeless and obviously, still very fresh, There’s a cleaver sliced through his neck, lodged deep into it, and then you see a pair of feet right next to the corpse, your breathing picking up as you come to the dreading realization that you had been caught red-handed.

Out of instinct, you shine your light on the perpetrator, wanting to at least get a good look of him before you booked it, but found your feet glued to the ground once you met with the familiar face of the villages heartthrob, staring back at you with a smile on his face. It doesn’t feel real and you’re almost convinced you're dreaming until he speaks, his voice unsettling, his usual jovial tone absent.

“I know I prayed to my lord I’d see you again soon, but I didn’t expect it in such an exciting way,” he let out an empty chuckle that sent shivers down your spine. He bent down to rip the cleaver out of the man's throat, the blood gushing out of his wound, pooling on the ground beneath him. Jackson stepped over his body carelessly before making his way to you. “I was hoping under some better circumstances, but who am I to complain? Seeing your pretty face is always such a privilege.”

Horrified, you slowly step back, trying to create distance between you both, knees weak as you try to gather the strength to run. It was a miracle you could even stand after such a gruesome sight.

“J-Jackson—“ your voice whimpers, shaky and mortified, but he immediately cuts you off, a wicked grin plastered over his usual handsome features.

“I like it when you say my name like that,” he comments gleefully, clearly enjoying the state you were in. “If I knew you’d sound as sweet as you do right now, I would’ve hoped you caught me sooner.”

You don’t hear the rest, your heart beating through your ears and your breathing speeding up as you continue to step backwards. Eventually, your hearing picks up, him closing the empty space despite you not being able to make out anything but his silhouette in the darkness.

“.. I told you nights were unpredictable, sweetheart. You should’ve listened.”

You feel your back hit something firm and for a moment, you believe it’s a tree, but once you register its body heat, you slowly come to the realization that Jackson didn’t come alone. Suddenly, you feel a blunt object strike the back of your head. 

For a few moments, you’re barely conscious, feeling an arm wrap around your middle as your body gives out, limp and out of your control. There’s an echo of laughter, menacing and mocking, before you slip out of reality, your life in the hands of the infamous serial killers of Cottonwood Mountains

tags: @delfinadolphin

[tenshx]

no art today i am lazy

[tenshx]

☼ boundaries ☼

➪ read it on ao3

✰ pairing: captain grant curly x reader

✰ word count: 5.4k words

✰ summary: curly finds that distance and time has done nothing to rid of the fact that he’s hopelessly in love with you.

✰ authors note: guess what gang,, i finally found the strength to finish writing this. 😎 I LOVE CURLY SM!! this whole story was him just basically being in love with the reader,, it’s almost 11 pm at night so there are probably errors, pls just ignore it till i revise.

Strange.

You haven’t gotten an emergency phone call for as long as you could recall. The past few months have been rather mundane, having the same clients here and there enter your office with the occasional new face that would eventually become a passing memory.

But you suppose it comes with the job of being a therapist in this rather small town.

You stare at the caller ID with blurred vision, mind fogged and voice scratchy from being abruptly woken up by your rather harsh ringtone blaring in your ear. You cringe at the sound— all too jovial and bright in contrast to such a gloomy and rainy evening. There’s a silent reminder in the back of your mind to set it to something more neutral, less frightening to the ears to ease your heart as you rouse.

With another glance at your bedside digital clock, you sigh— there was no excuse for you not to answer, agreeing to be on-call for most days at certain times. If they had only reached out thirty minutes later, you wouldn’t have to force yourself out of your nap.

Reluctantly, you answer, running a frustrated hand through your hair in hopes to release some stress. You quietly clear your throat, attempting to sound as if you hadn’t just woken up, trying to mimic a responsible human being working diligently instead of wasting their day away rotting.

Yet nothing could truly prepare you for the panic in your coworker's voice, her tone startling you a bit as you begin to sit up straight against the headboard of your bed. You don't even get a chance to speak, let alone say a greeting, before she’s bombarding you with a plethora of information that your mind could barely process in the span of a minute.

You try to slow her down; once, twice, before you give up entirely and allow her to speak freely, doing your best to listen and soak in as much as you could in your exhausted state. She’s blabbering about some urgent request they received for a patient that needed to be seen immediately, how this particular man was rescued from a stranded Pony Express ship that had been crashed years ago.

You’re intrigued now.

It had been years since you’ve heard that name, way back when the company had gone bankrupt and ultimately shut down with time.

It had been years since you’ve heard anything regarding that company. Last time being..

Then suddenly, she says a name, one all too familiar with you and you suddenly feel cold, mouth feeling like cotton as shock and disbelief set in. Your surroundings seemingly freeze, the air feeling incredibly dense as you try to ground yourself.

This had to be some kind of joke— they said he had been presumed deceased, his file eventually collecting dust in your cabinet as they ended their search for the Tulpar ship a long while back.

Somehow through the paralyzation, you manage to speak, but it comes out as a whisper in a voice you don’t recognize.

“.. What did you just say?”

She stops for a moment, hearing your almost skeptical tone, but eventually answers with a deep breath.

“Your former patient, Grant Curly. He was rescued about a while back and had been undergoing medical procedures and physical therapy. They gave him the green light to begin therapy for his mental state and..”

You don’t hear the rest as reality attempts to pull you back down, hand gripping your phone a bit tightly, trying to make sense of the situation. While he was your patient, you both considered each other friends rather than a professional relationship.

He came in quite often to confide in you about his passing issues; his family, relationships with friends, his job and education and the pressure that came with it.

His very last appointment, one that you remembered clearly— your last memory of him — he spoke about that very same ship he was stranded in, how he had a sinking feeling he couldn’t describe, how he was trying something new by dragging one of his closest friends into the delivery as his co-pilot.

You forget his name — Joe? Jerald? Jimothy? You shake your head. That doesn’t sound right. You do, however, remember how he mentioned that his friend was trouble, a convicted felon at his young age, and that maybe this would help him get a fresh start. A reset at life.

He was always so kind at heart, wanting the best for everyone around him. It was always a trait you admired deeply about him, a simplistic thing that picked him out of the crowds of patients admitted into your office.

You want to think more, remember Curly from the deepest part of your memories, but your coworker cuts your mind short of it.

“.. He’s different now,” she says and you hold your breath, not sure how to respond at this point. “At least thats’ what I’ve heard. I.. I’m not sure how to describe his injuries, but he’s not the same.”

Of course he wouldn’t be. What good could come out of being stranded in a dark abyss, especially with any kind of injury? His emotional and mental state had to be fucked up in some way.

But you don’t want to think further than that. You don’t want to vision your friend’s suffering.

“Okay,” is all you manage to croak out, not wanting to continue this conversation at the moment. You’re not sure how to cope with the news, how to deal with the resurfacing emotions that you thought you’ve overcome the past few years. Your stomach feels queasy and you feel your throat closing in.

You find that sleep doesn’t come easy that night.

⁂

You don’t know what to expect when you enter the office. The usual calm music doesn’t sound as soothing, the aromatic oils you usually set up first thing in the morning smells a bit more churning than relaxing.

They tell you he’s ready, a few rooms over as he waits for his scheduled appointment time. Twenty minutes isn’t enough time to prepare yourself, hands frantically grabbing your clipboard along with his updated file. Fourth degree burns, amputated limbs, damaged vocal chords, and several other injuries you couldn’t stomach yourself to read. They said it was speculated he crashed the ship, but his refusal to talk left the rumor unconfirmed.

Somehow, you don't believe it. He was in a slightly jumbled mental state before his departure, but it wasn’t enough for him to commit something so devastating and cruel.

You convince yourself twenty minutes isn’t time but fail ultimately. The past week since the news dropped should’ve been more than enough for you to process.

But it isn’t. No amount of time will ever be.

So with another shaky sip of your coffee and a final look of your reflection through your computer screen, you let out a deep breath before pushing yourself out of your chair.

⁂

You’re not sure who you’re staring at.

Maybe you’re dreaming, you had to be.

He was different, both physically and mentally — you knew that his burns and amputations were an incredibly clear sign he’d be basically unidentifiable, but you weren’t sure what you were expecting.

His one eye, the same vibrant blue you’d remember from anywhere, staring at you with a mixture of unfamiliarity and familiarity all at once as he looks up from where he sits. There’s a surgical mask covering the bottom of his face, a beanie covering his head, and a patch covering his right eye in an attempt to cover the damage done, but it honestly doesn’t do much. His leathery and irritated skin gives it away along with his amputated limbs, now adorned with prosthetics he doesn’t seem to be used to.

Then you realize you’re gawking at him almost, jaw open a bit and eyes wide in a way that could come off as rude. But you don’t mean to be, you’d never be — not with him. You’re horrified, a bit sickened by his appearance, not because he looks appalling and unpleasant to the eye, but because it suddenly strikes you that he isn’t the same man you’ve known for years.

You clear your throat and he tenses a bit, sitting up straight with his gaze still fixed on you. He’s almost like a puppy yearning to be beckoned, as if waiting for you to recognize him.

“I..” Your throat feels dry but you try to push past, not wanting him to feel uncomfortable. “It’s nice to see you again, Grant.”

You haven’t said his name since he was pronounced dead, knowing that you encouraged him to depart, unaware that you were sending him off into his impending doom. An unfathomable guilt blooms in your chest, realizing that you were involved in the consequence of his current state.

He doesn’t stop staring, as if trying to observe you properly, his eye scanning you from head to toe before you offer him a strained smile, making your way to your chair. There’s a part of you that wonders if he recognizes you despite age finally catching up a bit to mature your features more than before, if he remembers the sound of your voice that danced with his during his sessions.

But regardless of your attempts to keep things professional, the words escape the proximity of your lips before you could push it down.

“Do you remember me?”

You can’t help but ask, voice quiet and hesitant, wanting to break the silence but unsure of how to.

He doesn’t respond at first and you believe you’re passing memory for him for a mere second, a drop forming in your stomach, but he spares you a nod and your eyes light up a bit. Your shoulders visibly relax and his does too at the soft smile forming on your face, his hands slowly loosening around the fabric of his pants. His eye then falls on the notepad provided for him as if he wants to tell you something, vocal chords still damaged and voice box still under maintenance.

So in response, you gently move the table closer to him, lightweight and cheap, providing him with one of your pens shortly after. You’re not sure if this is what he wants, but as he moves his prosthetic arm shakily to grab and scribble something nearly incomprehensible on the paper, an obvious sign that he was still working his way through his new limbs, you realize you’re still able to read him the same way you have before.

It takes him a bit to write but eventually, his hand retreats back to his side, him rolling his shoulder a bit in an attempt to stretch it. You pull the notepad closer to you, deciphering his writing to the best of your abilities.

‘You look the same. How could I forget?’

You blink a few times, rereading the same scribbled line before a small laugh leaves your mouth at the lightheartedness of his comment. Deep in your heart, you assumed he’d write something dreadful or heart wrenching, perhaps even something that you wouldn’t understand, but it’s something so simple and strange that it forces a smile out of you. It reminds you that there’s still a part of him buried deep despite everything.

“I’m not sure if that's an insult,” you banter a bit and he shakes his head as vehemently as he can, not wanting to give you the wrong idea.

With Curly— the most honest and selfless man you’ve met— you dont think he’d ever let you think otherwise.

He doesn’t say much after that, but he continues to stare, his bright blue eye almost piercing through you. You want to say more, you want to tell him how you’ve missed him terribly and the conversations you’ve both shared. How he’s made such a big impact in your life in such a short amount of time and that when he disappeared, leaving you behind, everything just—

Thirty minutes was all he had left of this session, all that his insurance was willing to cover. So with a deep breath and another smile, you sit straight and organize your papers.

You nudge the notepad towards him, “Whenever you’re ready, I’m all ears.”

⁂

Curly’s not sure how to feel about all this.

One minute, his life is turned upside down, him being the ultimate cause of his crews doom and the next, he’s being rescued from that same ship, a silent offering of a second chance at life.

One he doesn’t deserve, but was selflessly given anyway.

Recovery is difficult, having to navigate through the basics again, having all this unwanted attention at him. People wanting to interview him left and right, others looking at him with disgust while others look with sympathy and pity.

Curly’s not sure how to feel about anything, really. He’s not even sure if he’s even feeling or if he’s simply forcing himself to act human again despite being trapped in an endless void of despair — in a body he can barely recognize.

He’s lost most of his friends. Many of them refused to involve themselves with him for a few reasons; his sudden changed appearance being the first and him being the sole blame of the intentionally crashed freight ship being the next. As much as he wanted to keep them in his life, he knew he was far too exhausted to explain everything.

His family situation is a bit better, but with all their constant pushes to talk about what happened, to communicate with them, he feels a bit pressured. It doesn’t help that his mother cries in devastation almost every time she sees her once successful and perfect son in absolute shambles. He’s never made his mother cry in such a way, only with tears of pride and joy.

He’s not sure if he can take much more, every blow heavier than the last.

Then somewhere between the lines of recovery, his doctor brings up therapy, suggesting the same clinic you worked in, and he feels nauseous at the idea of seeing you. You’ve been on his mind since the moment he’s gained consciousness once everything truly settled, him valuing the connection you both shared more than most of his other relationships.

Curly instantly denies with a desperate shake of his head, realizing how afraid he truly was. He’s unable to handle another rejection, especially not from you, one of the people he’s held the utmost respect for.

His doctor tells him to sit on it, think it through, claiming how this would be a healthy outlet for him to ventilate his emotions to help him recover steadily.

He does for a few weeks, especially with the pressure from his parents, considering several options. He can either find a new therapist, resort to online therapy, maybe even confide in a support group, but he finds that he can’t stray away from the idea of seeing you again after all these years. The thought of him never knowing if you’d accept him or not lingers far more than the fear of rejection sitting in his heart.

For him, that alone was enough motivation for him to set an appointment, both relieved and terrified to see your name pop up in the system just like old times, his throat feeling tight at the thought of seeing you again.

Before he knows it, his appointment chases him faster than he could process the whole situation. He feels queasy as he sits idly in his assigned room, his hands shakily doing its best to pull on the fabric of his sweatpants.

He’s nervous, absolutely mortified, wondering if he’s made a mistake setting this appointment. A handful of unbearable scenarios begin to form in his already anxious mind; you staring at him in disgust, you leaving the room in horror, or him being completely wiped from your memory.

He flinches at that thought; he’s not sure if he finds comfort in knowing that he's basically nonexistent to you, realizing that he could walk away without any repercussions and allow you to live your life freely without having to explain his disappearance or if he’d be heartbroken, having to come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t as valuable in your life like you were to him.

But as you walk through the door with a faint knock, your eyes wide and mouth agape, he feels himself shrink, yet there’s a blossom of yearning in his chest as he gazes at you with absolute desperation and awe.

In a flash of a second, every poor attempt of him convincing himself that things would be better otherwise suddenly diminishes into thin air.

He wants you to remember him, yearning for that once close connection you both shared before everything happened. A deep part of his soul hoped you were reminiscing the same way he was, recalling all the memories you’ve both built together as friends, despite Curly feeling something more.

Like a melody, his name escapes your lips, the soft, comforting sound of your voice almost intimate to him. He’d love it whenever you’d grace him with the sound of his name, feeling almost special coming from you.

When you take a seat close to him, the nostalgic scent of your perfume brushing against him, he almost forgets to answer your question.

“Do you remember me?”

Of course he does. He always has, even on the brink of death. Forgetting you would be a crime in his eyes— you were everything to him before he left and just maybe, his feelings aren’t as different as he sought it out to be.

The only thing that breaks him out of his trance is the defeated expression on your face and he realizes you might’ve hoped as much as he has. So with a quick and simple shake of his head, he sees your eyes light up and a smile form on your face and he realizes his feelings would never change for you, even if it was one-sided.

He also registers in a small span of ten minutes that he still needs a lot of practice with the new attachments to his body, his fingers awkwardly holding the pen, using all the strength he could to write something comprehensible at the very least.

Curly learns he’s a man of words, wanting to tell you everything but not being able to. He has this itch to express how much he’s missed you, how he's never stopped thinking about returning home and telling you everything like he always has, how you still hold your beauty despite the years coming, and how he'd finally confess and tell you he’s loved you for as long as he could remember.

But he settles—frustrated—with a simple message, telling you that yes, he remembers you and no, he would never forget.

He feels himself grow a bit breathless at your familiar laugh as you reread the paper several times, growing nervous at the sudden tension between you two leaving— as if he's never left in the first place. As if he was the same man you remember him as before all this.

The perfect Captain Grant Curly.

⁂

It’s almost as if a part of you is back home.

He sets an appointment almost twice every week whenever he isn’t bombarded with his physical therapy and checkups, just like he always has. Sessions are just as you recalled, the spark between you two still as bright as ever, but with his added trauma, bad days were definitely inevitable.

There were times he’d invest himself into the conversation, sharing jokes or simply just listening and replying in any way he can, and there were those moments where he wouldn’t spare you a word or glance, just wanting to bask in your company in his dampened state.

Even on his worst days, you don’t question him. Pressure was the last thing he needed and with time, you were sure he’d slowly open up.

He does, but scarcely, throwing fragments of his memories that you try to piece together whenever you could, wanting nothing more but to understand and help him. There’s an ocean of emotions in his gaze as he attempts to share his experience on the freight ship; fear, devastation, and panic filling his expression faster than he can pull it from the air.

So you tell him to take his time, that you’ll always be there, and that alone builds the comfort in him to return to your office without hesitation.

Recovery is easier with you.

It’s never been easier. For once, someone is on his side and he knew it’d be you at the end of the road waiting for him.

You always have, even before Pony Express, before anyone else.

So when he finally receives his voice box, finalized and complete to his liking, he finds himself rushing to your apartment, taking the next uber to your door. He’s aware it's late— you’re probably getting ready for bed, relaxing on your day off like you deserve to, but he can’t wait.

He wants you to be the first to hear his voice after so long into his recovery after offering yours for so long, his name so delicate in your mouth.

It’s nearly seven at night when he's at your doorstep, faint knocks echoing through the empty halls of the buildings as he anxiously waits outside, hoping that his appearance wouldn’t attract attention from any passers or your neighbors.

Yet none of that matters as he hears muffled footsteps coming from the other side, the silence allowing his anxiety to grow for a mere second before he hears you.

“Grant—?“ He hears you fumble with the door lock before the knob turns and you come into view, wide eyed and confused.

He doesn’t have the patience to properly observe you or spare you an explanation on why he's at your flat at such an odd time of the day. He knows he should’ve texted you like he usually does before ever meeting up, but it’s different.

This is different.

Your name leaves his lips in a whisper, riddled with emotion and a bit of static, cutting you off immediately. Advanced technology is fascinating, able to match his voice as much as he could allow it to be, the familiarity of it knocking the breath out of your lungs. You feel weak in the knees, paralyzed and overwhelmed at the sudden surprise on a random Saturday.

When you don’t reply, lips trembling a bit and expression full of emotion, he takes a step forward, wanting to reach out but also resists to respect your boundaries.

“I—,” he tries to break the silence, wanting nothing more but your approval. “I wanted you to be the first.”

You’re choked up, wanting to say something to him, but the sound of his voice that you haven’t heard in years drowns you in a sea of tears that begin to spill out. You try to wipe them away before they could leave wet trails down your cheek, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. It never does with Curly.

He decides that he’s already broken your boundaries by showing up unannounced, so he takes another chance, moving to envelope you in a gentle embrace, murmuring apologies, muffled through his surgical mask. You don’t shy away from his affection, leaning your head against his chest for a moment to collect yourself before inviting him inside.

⁂

Your apartment remains his safe space, unchanged and truly home from what he last remembered.

He slowly stops setting appointments and instead, shows up at your doorstep, a silent agreement between you both. It feels more private, more intimate, and he feels more welcomed here than the clinic you worked for.

He remembered the night before he left, flowers in hand and him laying next to you on your carpeted floor as you both stared at the ceiling, talking about the future and what he’d do after his final trip. He had mentioned resigning, wanting to do more with his life other than being a captain and you had listened in, wanting to ease his worries before he left.

If only you had known, you would’ve never let him step foot off of the ground. Maybe if you had, things would’ve been different.

But for him, you were always his safe space and continued to be. Despite his world crumbling, that would never change.

“It wasn’t me,” he says unexpectedly as he looks at the ceiling, both of you laying on the floor of the dimmed living room. You turn your head to face him, seeing his defeated expression as he sunk his head into the pillow. “I didn’t…”

He pauses for a moment and you remained unmoved, eyes piercing through him, “.. I wasn’t the one who crashed the ship.”

When you don’t say anything and instead scoot closer to him, he realizes you’re listening and before he knows it, everything spills out, the gate finally breaking open. Only then, you learn how distraught and regretful he is as he explains everything, knowing that you’re only able to hear him— not as a therapist, but as his friend.

You’re mortified hearing the story— of course Jimmy had been the cause of all this. You’ve met him once or twice whenever Curly swung by to drop you something in your office or apartment and he was definitely unfriendly, often glancing at you with judgement and annoyance. You’re not even sure if he properly introduced himself.

Everything his crew had been through because of his selfishness, along with Curly’s blindness to see through his friend’s mistakes. You knew him being a good-hearted person would cost him one day, but you didn’t think in the worst way possible. It was a mistake and while you can’t excuse some of his actions, the last thing he needed was unsolicited advice and chiding from your end.

So you move closer to him, shoulders nearly touching before you slide your hand between his prosthetic one, slowly interlocking your fingers between his. He feels you lean your head against his shoulder, him tiredly sighing before resting his head on yours.

“It should’ve been me,” he says in a moment of defeat, shoulders slumped. “Shouldn’t have given Jimmy a chance. Maybe my crew would’ve been alive.”

You’re not sure what to say to him right now, but you spare him your company to remind him that you’re here with open arms.

To remind him that you’re his safe space.

⁂

“You know,” Curly starts, eyes set on the television as he speaks. “I just wanted to thank you.”

You look up from your book, your sight falling on Curly who was cozied up on the couch with a throw blanket you bought him a few nights ago. The cup of herbal tea you made him about half an hour back had gone cold or room temperature at best, the steam wafting from it moments ago now vanished into thin air.

He seems to pause before speaking again, “For everything.”

With a tilt of your head, you hum in confusion, watching him fiddle with the fabric laid gently over his shoulders. He notices your curious gaze, coughing awkwardly to clear his throat.

“You’re the only person that’s made everything bearable,” he explains simply, his eyes still trained on the screen in front of him. “Even before the whole.. incident, I haven’t really depended on anyone more than I have with you. I’ve told you everything about me and even at my worst, you haven’t left.”

He knows it’s supposed to be a professional relationship; a therapist to their client, that’s all it was supposed to be. Curly was always so adamant about keeping his work and relationships separate out of the sake of professionalism, but this is different.

You’re different.

This isn’t casual— it hasn’t been since the moment he’s pushed his boundaries, developing a strange relationship with you outside of your office. It’s been anything but that since the day he’s asked for your personal number outside of work, shyly asked to meet up outside of his scheduled appointments, and even going as far as stepping inside of your personal home, the safest place he’s ever found himself in.

He finally looks up at you, wanting to know what you think of this. Wanting to know what you think of him outside of a client.

You offer him a lazy, but comforting smile, shrugging nonchalantly, “No need to thank me. Besides, isn’t that what friends are for?”

He seems to almost deflate at your response, but tries to reassure himself that this is what he wanted to hear. That, at the very least, you considered him something beyond another one of your clients. He should be happy, grateful that you’ve wanted anything to do with him.

Yet—

“Friends?” He lets out a quiet snicker under his breath, feeling his nerves get the best of him. His eyes start to travel, down to his hands clenching the delicate fabric of his pants, to the abandoned coffee mug, and anywhere but at you in fear of your reaction.

He’s decided he’d push his limits one last time, crossing a line that he knows he shouldn’t. You’re silent and he’s more so, swallowing nervously as the quietness begins to crawl up his spine in a manner that terrifies him. The words are itching, scratching its way out his throat as if bile threatened to make its exit.

“Is that all I am to you?” Curly laughs— not in a way that would ease the tension nor lighten the mood, but in a sense of coping, his mind jumbled and in an attempt to soothe the thundering of his heartbeat traveling to his ears. Realizing that it was far too late to go back now, his voice grows a bit quieter as he continues to speak. “By now, I thought that maybe—“

He refuses to glance, but despite his attempts to avoid your eyes, he still somehow feels the sharpness of your gaze piercing through him. You were always an open book to him— easy to read and almost predictable, but right now, he can’t make out the expression you might have on.

He tries to convince himself that maybe it’s shock or a sense of flattery and joy, but the thought of your features twisted in a disgusted manner, revolted that someone of his nature— a freak— would confess to someone as flawless as you washes away any ounce of hope rising in his chest.

It feels like forever and he’s about ready to take your silence as a rejection, already mustering up a reassuring answer to save you from the guilt and awkwardness as his mouth begins to open. He finds that he’s unable to finish his sentence, almost berating himself for taking such a risk.

Then you speak, his mind suddenly blanking, the sound of his pulse racing through his ears.

“You’d thought by now, that maybe what?” your voice is meek, yet gentle, encouraging him to continue.

He doesn’t respond, unsure of how to, suddenly losing the bravery he wore proudly moments ago. Yet, the sound of his name leaving your mouth cuts him out of his trance, resurfacing that little bit of hope drowning in his embarrassment and shame.

“Grant Curly.”

It takes all his courage, but he manages to build the strength to look up at you, eyes meeting yours. There’s an almost serious expression on your face, but the slight flush of your cheeks almost tears your stoic facade down immediately. There’s a glimmer in your eye, as if waiting for a confirmation, and he’s sworn you’ve never looked more beautiful.

The words leave his mouth faster than he can rip it from the air.

“That we’d be something more,” it's almost a whisper, almost breathless, but loud enough for you to hear. “After all we’ve been through, I was hoping you’d see me more than just a friend.”

A wave of emotions cross your features; shock, disbelief, and then joy as a grin forms on your face, cheeks painted a vibrant hue. He’s never seen such a lively glow on you, his chest burning terribly as if all the air was pushed out of his lungs, mesmerized.

He doesn’t get a response instantly, but you quickly close the distance between you both as you nearly leap off the couch, your answer clear as day.

Good thing Curly was never great at keeping boundaries whenever it came to you.

[tenshx]

◦˚~ MAROON DIVIDERS ~˚◦

Requested by: anonymous Info: these were all made by me. please reblog/like if use!

[tenshx]

sooo… does the butchery have no fanfiction at all??? like do u not see how fine jackson and william are or am i just tweaking out over a roblox game?? do i need to write fanfic for it

[tenshx]

posting in the next day or two

I PROMISE IM WRITING IT GUYS IM JUST BEING DOUBTFUL WITH MY WRITING 😭😭 CURLYYY

[tenshx]

I PROMISE IM WRITING IT GUYS IM JUST BEING DOUBTFUL WITH MY WRITING 😭😭 CURLYYY

[tenshx]

curly fans you’ll never guess what x reader fanfic i’m cooking up rn,,

[tenshx]

captain curly fanfiction.. will i ever get to writing u

[tenshx]

wingman

synopsis: asking the cod guys for their friend’s number and they’re definitely not jealous (pre-relationship)

ੈ✩‧₊˚ price, gaz, ghost, soap, alejandro, rudy, graves, makarov

cw: none

an: i think that price genuinely finds those shitty minion memes from like 2010 hilarious

dividers from @/saradika-graphics :)

[tenshx]

“i want to break up”

synopsis: pranking the cod guys by telling them you want to break up

ੈ✩‧₊˚ price, gaz, ghost, soap, alejandro, rudy, graves, makarov

cw: suicide joke (gaz), threats of violence maybe?

an: ty guys for 100 followers!! i am kissing each of you gently on the forehead

dividers from @/saradika-graphics :)

[tenshx]

me for the past week and i'm so fucking maddd

STOP👏TAGGING👏XREADER👏IF👏YOU👏USE👏AN👏OC👏NOBODY👏 FUCKING👏ASKED👏FOR👏THAT👏OKAY???

The wrong thing is not the fact that you write a story with an oc, no, that's not the real problem, really.

IT'S JUST THE FACT THAT YOU USE THE WRONG TAG SO YOU HOPE MORE PEOPLE READ YOUR STORY. BUT BELIEVE ME IT'S JUST FUCKING ANNOYING 'CAUSE WE AREN'T ABLE TO FIND THE RIGHT FICS IF YOU KEEP DOING THIS!!!

There are people who like to read more stories with ocs than reader inserts, so use the fucking right tag go reach that community and stop spamming your stories among ours.

I don't think you get it but, you know, the purpose of fanfics with reader insert is to make the reader imagine her/himself as the mc of the story. The best part of these fics is the fact that EVERYONE can be included in them.

SO WHY THE FUCK DO YOU HAVE TO RUIN THEM BY MAKING THE MC A PERSON THAT LOOKS COMPLETELY DIFFERENT FROM THE READER AND EVEN HAS A NAME THAT IS NOT THEIRS?

Not to be dramatic but i hate y'all.

And the fact that it's always the same fandoms and we all know who we're talking about...

[tenshx]

yee

[tenshx]

könig fanfiction in the works,,,,,, perhaps i will post for the first time in forever