―𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐏𝐀𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍
Summary: L’appel du vide. “The call of the void”. A phrase your grandmother would tell you about over and over whenever you saw her at the care home she was staying within. “It’s an itch”, she would whisper, “and ungodly urge for self-destruction. It’s an ever present being, my little one. And you will know it well one day.” You wouldn’t believe her until she passed ― when her sickly sweet prose became nothing but your constant reality.
or; the four times you set yourself on fire and the one time he joined you.
Prompts: "You think this will make me stay?" + "I don't owe you an explanation."
Pairing: Jacob Seed/dep!reader (Rook)
Word Count: 6037
Warnings/Tags: Reference and mention of depression, anxiety, self harm, intrusive thoughts, medication for depression, suicide attempt and suicidal ideation. Smut, mild torture, canon typical violence, mental health issues and unhealthy coping mechanics. A Sylvia Plath poem is used right at the end, because it felt right.
A/N: I’ve been dealing with some really bad seasonal depression so I thought I’d put all of my shit out into the open and within what I think I do well ― writing. Please heed the tags, only because I wish for people to be safe. I tried to keep this as gender neutral as possible, let me know if I did okay with that!
You were stripped down to nothing; sprayed with chilling water from a power washer, next to the other prisoners that were cuffed to tall bars against the wall of the building. They wailed; yanked and pulled on their binding in hopes to get away from the biting pain but you stayed and you endured, biting into your cheek until the taste of iron coats your tongue. They spray off the blood and grime left over from the trials, but the memories of the red hued halls and the sickly sweet bliss still cling to your bones ― nothing can wash that away.
Their harsh shower seems to be all for naught when they throw each and every one of them back into their designated cages, dirt clinging to wet skin.
They’re given the day to rest, but come nightfall it's a rinse and repeat cycle. You’re given a measly bowl of raw meat that’s always getting swarmed by large flies and a plastic cup that's only half way filled with murky water, but you can’t bring yourself to take any of the rations they’re giving you through the bars of your cage.
You give Jacob’s Chosen a look; an expressionless onceover that the man barely registers as you go back to watching the birds fly overhead from your corner of the cage. You hear the Judges howl and whine as they’re fed whatever is thrown their way, the heavy scent of gunpowder lingering in the air as soldiers train and prepare for whatever orders are next for them.
Prisoners are given the same amount of rations as you are, but they’re more prone to begging and pleading; grabbing at the Chosen as they whimper out in humiliation and pain. Some of them are beaten ― their cages are ripped open with such force that it rattles the adjacent cages ― while others are pulled out from their cages and thrown into a cage with a Judge that’s been starved for days.
And you? You sit; you listen; you wait; you wallow.
Come nightfall, no one’s come to collect you for your trials. In reality, that should be okay; good, really. You are being spared in some fucked up sense of the word; given more than a few hours rest under the hot Montana sun.
Only, it's never that simple for you.
Six days without your proper medication, and you’ve begun to spiral out. Any semblance of control you felt you had over your mind was now melted away, only to be replaced with the haunting melody that Jacob plays when he wants to see what you have to offer.
You feel numb; a god awful feeling that doesn’t allow your skin to soak the sun, doesn’t allow you to feel hunger even if you know you’re merely starving yourself. You don’t seem to understand the concept of time, though you watch the sun rise and fall with the moon following close behind ― lost lovers bound to chase and chase until one gives out from the howling grief.
Goosebumps travel up your arms, down your thighs, over your navel. The crackle of fire coming from metal drums near the cages is the only sound you can easily focus on, even as the cage is pushed open and made way for the Herald of war.
Jacob stands over you; a looming threat that you feel nothing towards. You feel an itch ― that stupid fucking itch ― at the back of your throat, telling you to lunge, take him to the ground and allow him to kill you; to take you from your misery.
You don't have the energy to watch him as he slowly crouches down, unyielding eyes watching for every twitch and taut pull of your muscles but you make no motion to move. You’re still bare, thighs pressed tight into your chest with heels digging heavily into gravel and dirt you sat upon. There’s not much cover and at this point, what else is there to hide from this family.
You’re certain that even under the pale light of the moon and the dim fire from the barrels, he can see the pale intricate scars along the tops of your thighs and over the meat of your shoulders ― the raised and depressed lines of pink and pale white that shine under the right light.
“My Chosen has told me you’ve refused to eat for the last four days.” His words are rough, almost hoarse from the way he keeps his voice between the two of them. He says nothing more than that; but his expectant glare shows that he wants you to say something; anything.
But you don’t. You look up with dull, bloodshot eyes, bags have formed under them but you can tell that he’s only more annoyed now that you’ve started to look away from him and lean your temple against the cool bar of your cage.
“You plan on starving yourself, and for what? My attention? To get out of the trials? Just out of pure spite?” The bite in his words barely leaves teeth marks along your skin because you’ve heard it all before. The growing annoyance from your parents because you can barely get out of bed in the mornings, the disappointment from friends when you cancel plans last minute from the nausea and marked up skin, the scoff of disgust because that one time you asked for help it was met with a deadly force of gaslighting and mockery.
You huff and scowl and turn your full body away from him until your back is shown and not your side, and that’s all Jacob is getting from you.
An indignant growl is left in his place, the rattle of the slammed cage door shakes through your skull and to your teeth. You can hear a chair being thrown open, the rickety metal legs scuffing along dirt, dust and gravel before it creaks under the weight of whoever’s taken place within that seat.
When you finally have the urge to see who was now watching over you, you find yourself awfully disappointed that it was merely the same Chosen with a Judge at his feet and not Jacob Seed who showed the slightest bit of concern ― which was more than anyone has ever given you.
Two hours before the sun rises, the haunting melody is played and your vision swims. Red coats your skin, a man’s entrails are wrapped around your hands like rope and the taste of iron is thick on your tongue, your cheeks, your lips as you spit out the flesh and torn muscle of a woman. She holds her throat, blood pours like a waterfall over her front and partial over yours before she falls and writhes.
She chokes on her own blood, spit and tears and where you would normally find an inkling of remorse, and guilt and sympathy, you find nothing more than an empty void that craves for more and more and more. It craves for more destruction, but it yearns and howls out for your own. A form of destruction that was wrought on by only you for yourself alone.
You felt nothing, even under the praise, even soaked in blood, even when you are presented with more opportunities to fill your void.
When you reach the clinic in Holland Valley, and hear the doctor tell you that she has nothing to supplement the anti depressants that were taken from you in the Whitetails, you lose everything within yourself. The doctor claimed that ever since the tunnels were closed off by the Peggies, she wasn’t able to get her shipment in all those weeks ago. Her clinic was running off fumes in terms of medicine and supplies, and since the Peggies have interfered with her every effort in trying to fix that, finding the medication you desperately requested would be slim to none.
A one man mutiny against John’s region and a nauseatingly heavy dose of self-destruction that would put Bliss to shame was already in order by the time you took the first few steps from the creaky screen door of the clinic. The summer sun shone high, but you felt no warmth, only a chill from a shiver brought on from your anxious trembling.
You had no time to cope with things in the way you needed to, time away from a war wasn’t something that was often given out willingly. Only the dead saw the rest they deserved.
The time that could have been placed in taking care of your needs, was placed within bloodshed and howling taunts towards the youngest Seed brother. He calls with taunts of his own, but you hang his man from his Yes sign and staple black birds to the sides of Project Eden cars that still hold the bodies of his dead soldiers.
His words are met with your actions. Your actions are met with his words.
You set fire to his valley, watch the way the fire licks and consumes, and you crave nothing more than for that to be you within the flames and not him.
He sends his Chosen after you with intent on making you atone for your wrath; to show you what it means to be set free from sin and to finally be shown the light. You don’t let him; you never can, even as you speed away from John’s men and into Jacob’s mountains.
But where John’s Chosen ends, Jacob’s Chosen begins.
Your car was hit from the passenger side ― a straight fucking T-bone crash that causes you to lurch and twist awkwardly ― and they keep pushing, pushing, pushing until you’re met with a cliff and the deafening rip of metal on jagged rock and the shatter of glass and the rushing of water and―
You’re not feeling that awful void in the pit of your belly. You feel weightless, groggy, nothing but fucking pain, but its not empty and you relish in that.
It’s better than nothing.
Adrenaline rushes your system faster than you can really explain to your mind that you want to stay. Panic can’t be subdued as you hear the chatter and excitement of peggies circling your damaged car. You can’t pull at your door or your seatbelt fast enough to find a way to avoid the push and pull of hands grabbing at your limbs through the gap where the windshield once was.
You scream, you kick, you fight but you still find yourself relishing in the glorious feeling that isn’t utter emptiness. The fear, the pain, the panic ― you adore every last drop that’s oozing from your skull, into your veins, soaking your organs until it’s a flooding sense that you can now identify as.
A barrel of a rifle is pressed against your skull and you press your forehead into the hot metal with a seethe and bared teeth until it burns a hole into your mind.
“Do it.” Your plea sounds out in nothing but anger. The men that hold you down, the man that has a gun pointed to your skull ― they aren’t Jacob’s Chosen, they’re simple soldiers made to run simple tasks and point a gun at anyone that threatens what they build or destroy. Their discipline is less structured compared to the Chosen that are often sent out to gather you for your endless hallway of delusions and bloodshed, and they’re much less organized than those who are blessed with the title of being Jacob’s Chosen.
But a bullet is a bullet and you’ve begged for much worse from far less evil.
The rifle is pulled away from your head, and all you can do is rage against the arms that hold you down. Your foot makes contact with someone’s stomach, an elbow is thrown into someone's inner thigh, the sound of gravel under heavy footsteps echoes behind the blood that pumps through your veins. You can’t keep up with the rage and panic in your body, but it still reacts under the scrutiny and the judgement and the heavy words of the man who calls himself a wolf.
He stands before you, that stupid red rifle over his shoulder and his pistol in his right hand. His Chosen surround the area, you can see it in a blur in the way they move like predators surrounding their prey.
You were prey, you should have realized that.
You don’t fight the way the needle stings at the meaty part of your shoulder, but your muscles tense when the Bliss hits like a wave during a tsunami. It crashes, takes you with it, and it leaves nothing but euphoria and a wash of cold.
Your vision tunnels, and it turns hazy but Jacob leans down next to you as the measly soldiers that gripped your arms too hard scurry away from the wolf before them. His eyes reveal nothing in terms of emotion, but his lips move softly as if to tell you something you’ve longed to hear.
You don’t hear a damn thing.
You wake up in bed. Soft sheets, thick wool blankets, a firm pillow under your cheek.
There’s a chill that leaves goosebumps along your bare skin, dried blood, bruises and scabs littered your skin, your muscles are sore from the overexertion of all work and no play.
As you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet along worn wood, you notice the lack of clothes along your body. Scars; of new and old, on full display but there's nothing within you that drags out an inkling of care, not when you wobble out of bed and make your way towards the room you thought held a shower.
At least you were right about the shower.
The cold tile contradicts the heat of the spray over your chest, steam rising in a dance of plumes as it clears out your nostrils of blood and dirt and snot. The drain holds no clear water as it swirls down the drain. Murky browns and red show the wear of your life; nothing but bloodshed and a mess you can’t clean up anymore.
You stand under that spray for who knows how long, allowing your skin to soak and burn under the heat ― a different feeling compared to that of when you were in those cages. But you prefer the certainty of those cages then the unknown of this room with the warm water over sore muscles.
The door creaks open, and you don’t have to look over your shoulder to know who stands behind you watching the way dried blood and hot water burns along your blemished skin, but when you do look over at the man, you can see the way his eyes follow the cascade of water over scars and scabs and bruises.
“It’s rude to stare.” You find your voice, but you sound so weak and tired that you inwardly cringe at the hoarse sounds.
“There's clothes for you on the bed. Find me when you're done.”
He leaves without a second glance, but you can hear the way the door hesitates before it's clicked shut.
You agreed as Joseph played into your weaknesses, tore you down until you were nothing but raw flesh and bone marrow for him to pick at like a hungry vulture sent by the devil, and then you agreed through tears and pleas towards God.
You agreed, and now you stay within Jacob’s home.
He no longer stalks you like the wolf is, instead he watches you like a hawk. His eyes piercing and unreadable as he watches you train with his Chosen. Watches you hone skills you never knew you could achieve, perfecting skills you knew you already had, and learning new things about yourself as you fall and get back up until your limbs shake and tremble under the weight of your exhaustion.
And at the end of the night, you are escorted back to his office that shares that soft bed with the thick wool blankets and the firm pillow that smells of the redwoods and citrus and sandalwood.
This rinse repeat cycle allows you to grow comfortable, almost content. For months, you allow this comfort. This silence between you is no longer tense and grueling. It never got easier to be around, but you can sense the way Jacob slouches softly under your presence.
But the months grow short and the seasons grow long where summer turns to fall later than predicted but no one seems to complain. The river starts to slow and freeze from the cold, and the flowers start to wilt around the time trees start to lose their leaves and all of summer's hard work starts to dull in color, you find yourself growing cold once more.
There’s a call; a need to fill your belly with fire but you can’t seem to get out of bed to strike flint against steel. You can only seem to bring a drenched cold from your tears that stain the pillow, from your numb finger tips that shake when you see the knife at Jacob’s thigh, from your hallowed, silent weeps when your back is turned but you still know Jacob can sense the emotions flooding the sheets of his bed.
He’s grown soft, that or he doesn’t give one fucking shit about if you kill yourself or not.
You’re not ready to play with that fire, not yet.
You take it slow; under a steady pace as you take time to plan. You listen, you watch, you learn. Jacob is a strict man with a strict schedule; one that you’ve noticed is easy to learn. It’s day in and day out, he never seems to slow down but he doesn’t ever rush. His path is meticulously placed; none of that wild pacing John takes part of, no… Jacob’s grounded; his roots are placed so deep within the dry dirt that you can trace each and every curve and bump of his crooked, earthy genesis.
So, when he messes his schedule up, and he finds you with his pistol pressed under your chin and your thumb pulling back the hammer of the gun, you act like a dumb deer in headlights.
He’s frozen, and he’s angry and you’re foolish, stupid, awful. Fuck, fuck, fuck―
“What do you think you’re doing?”
He demands an answer, your finger hovers over the trigger guard. You could just do it ― pull the trigger, pull the damn trigger, PULL THE FUCKING TRIGGER―
Jacob crosses the room in five heavy steps; his heels landing on old flooring as he pushes the gun off to the side of your head, your finger pulling the trigger milliseconds after his hands landed on the muted gunmetal. Your ears ring, your vision blooms in stars but you’re not sure why. So much happens at once; the gun is ripped from your palms, your body trembles, a scream tears at your vocal chords.
Warmth takes over, something protective, something wild covers you from your despair as you come back to yourself bit by broken bit.
It takes you a solid twenty minutes to realize that the Herald of war is holding you; arms tight around your shoulders, your waist. By that time, you’ve started to gather your hearing once more, and he’s humming to you though you can’t place what it is he hums so close to your ears. His chest rumbles with each exhale, a pause is present when he inhales deep and it makes his belly push out and into your side.
He is comfort, he is warmth, he is home ― he is war, he is destruction, he is carnivorous.
That doesn’t stop the way your body shudders or the way your tongue laps at sweat and dirt that sticks to his neck.
Doesn’t stop the heady pleasure through carnal desire as you ride him through tears and whines in search of serotonin and dopamine to lift your soul.
It doesn’t stop the way you give yourself to him ― wholly and completely ― and it doesn’t stop the way he takes it with an open mouth, sharp teeth, and a wet tongue along your jugular.
Jacob knows heavily what relapse looks like. The self-destructive behavior, the anger that bubbles far too quickly, the desire to feel something ― no matter how painful and raw it leaves you in the end.
So, when he sees you being dragged back to the Veteran’s Center, a pool of blood that collects under the rusted metal of the cargo bed until it drips past the bumper and over the license plate, he knows what you were seeking within that firefight against the Resistance.
Ever since you defected, it’s not a shock that the Resistance wants your blood just as much as they desire his and his families ― but for them to leave you with three bullets lodged deep into your flesh has him baffled.
He shouldn’t be, but he is, even as you gasp like a fish out of water only to carefully smile up at him moments before they drag you off to pull those pieces of lead from your belly.
You were strong, he knows that, but he also knows that you desire death stronger than he desires you.
His Chosen explains what happened; how you saved several of his men’s lives by running to take over the mortar that a Whitetail had taken. The shots were from a distance, and they knocked you over but you didn’t stop until you were sure you could make a Martyr of yourself in the name of the Project.
Part of him knows that you didn’t do it for the Project ― you did it to feel something. To fill that void that still consumes you day in and day out. It’s a never ending process, and he knows that.
Doesn’t make it any easier seeing you laid out on a stretcher, being rushed into the infirmary as blood drips, drips, drips, into the dirt below.
Jacob doesn’t remember much of what happened after that.
He knows he made it back to his office, the slow and steady click of the lock on his door echoes till it deafens his senses. He knows he found himself standing by the table covered with maps, important papers, documents that needs to be once overed, twice overed, thrice overed―
It turned to shambles under the weight of his anger. A howling rage that leaves him breaking everything he touches. The table flips without much resistance, papers scatter over the floor and end with boot prints over pristine cardstock, maps end up ripped and torn this way and that until he can’t figure out how to piece that self made puzzle back in place.
The lamp is thrown, and it shatters until he won’t be able to pick up the pieces. Everything breaks, or bends, or snaps to his undiluted wrath and if he were in his right mind ― he’d beat the shit out of every last Whitetail; tear them to shred, use their entrails for morbid ornate decorum.
Jacob sees red; he’s not sure if it’s in his vision or on his hands, but he sees it, he sees it, he fucking sees it, and he doesn’t stop his ministrations of war arrangements with his best. Wolves howl, engines groan, red still glows but now it’s not on his hands, and it's not in his eyes. No, it’s in the lick of flames that eats anything it touches; a fire that boils and burns until it no longer finds a voice to scream for the destruction it craves.
Some call it scorched earth, he calls it fucking revenge.
When all is said and done; the voice of his brothers sounds through the radio in worry. They’re distraught, and rightfully so ― but he explains through grinding teeth, uneven gravel and ash. John lets out his unruly laughs, Joseph soothes with admonishments; each and every word spilled from their throats simply left buried and burned just like the rest of his region.
He still smells like wood smoke and he’s covered in ash and his skin is warm, so fucking warm but he still seeks you out even though you barely had a reason to move from the infirmary; hell, you barely had a reason to live.
But he sits there, on the edge of your thin mattress with a tremble in his palms.
He can hear the way your hand shifts over sterile white sheets, and he can feel the way your pinky finger wraps gently around his thumb. The pads of your fingers are so cold against the heat of his skin, but he welcomes the way your hand moves to caress his bloodied knuckles, tracing each and every scar and callous and blemish. It stings, but he makes no motion to pull away or show his discomfort.
Ice blue eyes catch yours in the dimly lit room; a cough permeates through a bunk, a groan from another, but neither of you can seem to notice the pain and suffering within the room ― not when the both of yours can satisfy the Devil himself.
Your words hang heavy over him, and you can see it in the way his shoulders tense and shudder under your snarling whisper. You bare your teeth, more out of fear than a threat, but Jacob isn’t one to take chances, not with someone like you.
“I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“You owe me something.”
He doesn’t answer you, and you let out an indignant groan. You grow frustrated with the man before you, pushing yourself from the worn in chair that sat across from him. He barely makes much of a huff as you start to pace, he simply keeps his eyes over the marked up maps of Hope County.
You want to piss him off, throw something at him and wish he would wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze until your eyes pop out of their sockets. Only, you are met with something softer than what you think he is capable of. He says he understands, he says that he gets the feeling of that all consuming void that sits heavier than a ball of molten lead in your gut. He gets it; he fucking gets it. He knows what it's like to live the way you do.
Doesn’t make any of this shit any easier.
"You think this will make me stay?"
He stills, his fingers twitch under the laminated maps at your words, and you watch as his head lifts to look at you. He scowls, a look that's meant to corner you simply from the anger and annoyance he exudes, but you challenge like you always have, and you don’t stop until you get what you desire.
A god damn answer.
“It’s torture. This fucking game of control you have over me.” You try not to slump as you slide back down in your chair, but you can’t help the mental exhaustion that leaks and oozes from your body. “These curfews, the stupid bodyguards, the constant watching ― you don’t fucking let up. Why? Just tell me why?”
Jacob goes back to what he was looking over before you threw your mini temper tantrum and you watch. You watch as he cleans a red line only to replace it with a new one that covers a different direction before circling an area you know he has checked many times before.
He does it to ignore you, and you can’t stand that shit. Not anymore.
“Jacob.” Your voice is stern, laced with a smoking anger where the embers burn your throat. You rarely call him by his name; most of the time it’s sir, or Seed, or some other term meant to get his attention or piss him off.
But this? This was just a stupid, sick joke.
He’s grown stiff; a tree unrooted and unmoved within your hellish storm. You’re asking for it; you are so asking for it, you can see it when his scowl grows dark and his brows furrow deeper at the sound of his name along your tongue.
“Just tell me why, then I’ll drop it.”
They say that the eye of the storm is the calmest ― where tepid temperatures and softness mingle at the center of a hell scape that ravages everything around it ― but as Jacob takes his predatory steps; one right after the other towards you, you realized that you weren’t the storm.
You were the tree, and he was the storm and he’s moving, moving, moving.
Until you were within his torrential hell; heat and teeth and nails and rust and ash and him, him, him―
He smells good, you think, he tastes good too, you whine.
Jacob’s over you; not even bothering with the threats of ripping your flesh ― he just goes for it. A lone wolf lapping at his midnight lamb. The wall finds you back ― or does your back find the wall? You can’t tell anymore because you’re overwhelmed; over stimulated with just him, only him.
He growls something so feral and his hips roll against yours. It’s all lust; all rough; all heady need and little substance. You can’t keep up, you don’t want to keep up ― not in this flurry of motions that leaves you bare to the winds of his bloody hurricane. He soaks you red, teeth mark his territory, and you fucking let him.
You fight him, but it's nothing compared to the actual fight you have in you. If you wanted him to stop, you could put him down with a hole in his lungs, in his heart, in his head before he can even ask if you’re okay with this ― okay with him.
It’s not like he needs to ask ― he leaves you filled; sated, more so than any bloodshed and firefight ever could.
“Tear me up. Eat me whole. Make me feel―,” he cuts you off with his fingers in your mouth, and it's filthy the way you drool over scars. He’s ripping more of your clothes, and you can’t bring yourself to care. You want to bleed, you want to seep deep into his pores, into his hardwood floors, you want to stain his bed in white and red until you can’t recognize yourself against the linens and the wool and the furs.
Jacob’s fingers are pulled from your mouth as they trail saliva down your throat, over your esophagus before he pushes. He’s playing it safe ― he’s testing the waters ― but you push, and you push and you fucking push until you can’t breath and his heat is the only thing that keeps you afloat.
He finds a way to use his large knife to take away your sweats, the rip of fabric leaving you bare to him. The buttons of your flannel pop until they fly and sound softly against hardwood, his thigh finds a home snug between your own and he growls at you; something low, something guttural.
“Is this what you wanted? Is this a good enough answer?”
His hand leaves your throat for a moment ― a split second that allows you to inhale deep and inflate your lungs. He watches your chest rise and rise and rise before he leans to take the hard peak of your nipple between his lips. His palm pushes once more, and you can’t find your voice with the pressure.
You nod ― you hope he can feel it ― you nod.
“Show me―,” you sound so small; overtaken and weak, but he loves it, he’s lapping it up. “Show me more―.”
And he does. Oh, how he does.
He’s guiding you to the mattress placed in the corner of his room ― pushing you with a roughness only he can give you. You take what he gives you; you can’t refuse what he gives you ― not without punishment.
The tip of his blade is pressed along the scars of those three bullets that have taken a permanent home along your navel. Sinew and scar tissue grow taut under thick muscle, and you tense because he presses and he knicks before he runs his tongue over the inflictions he’s brought upon you.
Your thighs drape over the tops of his, and he works you the best way he knows. With aggression, with ferocity, with a primal need to take and never give. You grind your hips in such a rolling motion, that it helps with the awful burn of his rushed movements.
He presses and pulls, he tries to give you something, but you don’t want it. You don’t want to have anything, you only want to give. You want this man to be selfish ― to be what he always is.
The wolf that rips your jugular and devours you.
You hiss, you push him, you signal your wants to him with bared teeth and that stupid glare he barely finds intimidating ― especially now when he tries to open you up with nothing but spit and fury ― but he takes it all in, soaks up the way your roots pull at the dirt and you allow him to sweep you up within his storm.
He takes you the only way he knows how ― with heat, with rage, with a carnal desire to mark what’s his.
You’re no one else’s. You can’t be ― not with the way he nips and tears at your chest, not with the way his hands burn marks of his prints at your hips, not with the way he just takes and takes and takes and you just give and give and give.
You don’t ask for much; just the destruction of your whole mortal self by someone else’s hands.
He’s fully seated, but he doesn’t give you any time to understand your situation. It’s no longer a game, it’s just a show. A show of power, a show authority, a show of feral teeth and dirty claws.
His words are filled with a raunchy, filthy disregard for your whole self. He calls you names, he pushes your head into the mattress, he squeezes the breath from your lungs. His nails dig in; they draw blood, so do his teeth. He suffocates you, tries to drown you in white and red ― tries to stain you in white and red.
Your orgasm ripples, then tears and you cry out with this awful, guttural sob that’s so muffled by pillows and sheets and Jacob that you’re not sure if you’re hearing yourself correctly. You beg him, you’re not sure what for, but your mantra and prayers of his name on your lips is heavy; so fucking heavy.
He calls you sweetheart; his pup; his only and then he shudders; something full bodied while he presses so deep that you wince and whine and strain your hips to stay up.
Stillness takes over, and you can feel that void grow full ― even if it’s temporary, even if it lasts for only mere seconds.
He pulls out and away from you, but you don’t give him much time to try anything that could resemble any thought of aftercare. You stumble like a newborn fawn as his seed oozes down your inner thighs, and his eyes bore holes into your back. A deafening numbness takes over, your fingers pull at the drawer of his desk before you yank out a cigarette and a small matchbox he keeps hidden from his brothers.
He continues to watch, and study the way the small flickering flame illuminates your nose, your cheeks, the dullness of blown pupils.
You think of a poem you read back in high school; of prose that calls out whenever you look at that man laying on white linen sheets with the ice blue eyes and the scarred up skin.
“A vulturous boredom pinned me to this tree. If he were I, he would do what I did.”
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