Chapter Text
For the first month of his captivity with Jacob Seed, Staci Pratt holds tight to the hope of rescue.
Even with the starvation and the beatings and living in filth. Watching the other prisoners around him succumb to their wounds, to hunger, to each other. To him. Vertigo from the empty stomach and low blood sugar, hands shaking around the grip of the knife thrust into his hands. His heart thundering as he's forced to fight for the right to survive, each day a new enemy, like he's on some fucked up game show. A gladiator in Jacob's fucked up coliseum.
Wolfing down canned dog food or old, mostly raw meat because it's all they'll give him and he has to eat something, his uniform pants so loose now he has to punch a new hole in his belt to keep them from dropping when he moves.
Sleeping on damp earth, waterlogged with piss and tears and blood, back against his prison bars so his cellmates can't get the jump on him.
Bound to one of Jacob's chairs, picture after picture of wolf and visceral and death as a cultist punches him in the stomach, in the face, over and over under Jacob's watchful, icy eyes.
Even with that God damn box, with its song and its training and its headaches and its nosebleeds and its please no I can't do this, tell my body to stop, I don't want to kill them please please please. Jacob's low, hypnotic voice whispering to him in his dreams, train kill sacrifice weak weak weak c'mon Peaches show me what you can do.
The sick, shameful warmth that courses through his veins with Jacob's rare praise, addictive like heroin, leaving him fiendish for more even though it horrifies him, stiffening his dick despite his desperate pleading with himself, fucking stop this is so fucked up I don't want this please God fucking make it stop.
Even then, Staci has hope.
He knows the rest of his team survived at least the crash, knows that the junior deputy is out there roaming through John's territory raising hell. Either someone will come for him, or an opportunity will present itself for him to break free. This can't be the end for him, he's too god damn young and the world doesn't work like this outside of shitty Hollywood action dramas.
So he stays vigilant. Does what he needs to survive, no matter the cost. When Jacob tells him to kill, he does it. When Jacob throws bowls of mystery slop at him, he devours it all. He watches the exits and the clocks, the sunrises and sunsets, the patterns in Jacob and Jacob's men, for weaknesses to exploit in their routines. No detail is too small, it'll all aid him in his escape, whether it's by himself or in tandem with the efforts of the junior deputy and their people. He's a cop for fuck's sake, and a god damn good one. He just has to pay attention and survive.
He clings to his hope, cups his hands around it to keep the flame safe of the shitstorm his life has suddenly become.
It's either that or lose his mind.
-
John's dead by the second month, and so is something in Staci.
The news of his brother's death and Deputy Hudson's rescue has Jacob keeping him squashed under his thumb. It's an entirely different species of oppression than the cages outside. He doesn't leave Jacob's side unless it's to train or to shit, which he is now allowed to blessedly do in a proper toilet, and even then Jacob's within earshot. Ready at a moment's notice to swoop in and put Staci back in whatever place he wants him in.
Otherwise, he's Jacob's shadow, trailing him around the compound like a lovesick puppy. Jacob gives him jobs, little errands, to keep him occupied when he's not being tormented by training. A clipboard in hand like he's a fucking PTA organizer, keeping notes of what the other prisoners are doing, the comings and goings of certain supply trucks, how many guns and cases of ammunition Jacob's men bring in and out. Little details that are useful to Jacob, but mean fuck all to Staci without more pieces of the puzzle to connect them with. He'd been hoping to track what Jacob and his men do and don't do, hoping to use that in his escape, but Jacob has them shake things up, never has them fall into a set schedule. Whether it's to keep Staci in freefall or because he's paranoid that the junior deputy might be watching, Staci doesn't know, but it has him scrabbling to connect the dots, any fucking dots, to no avail.
Sometimes he's got shaving cream and a razor, keeping Jacob's high and tight both high and tight, or doing edge work on Jacob's beard. A sharp blade at Jacob's throat, or on his scalp, and Staci wishes, wishes, he were strong enough to slit the bastard's throat, wants to bathe in arterial spray, rub it into his skin like it'd warn the rest of the universe to never fuck with him again. Stab it over and over into his eyes, the meat of his face, feels the urge of it beat inside of him alongside his heart, thud thud thud thud.
But he's not strong enough.
Staci is weak.
He's learned that lesson by now.
Weak weak weak
Jacob watches him lazily as he's groomed, makes him service him from the side instead of behind him so it's easier to keep tabs. His pulse never jumps, breath never catches, not even when Staci brings the straight razor up and over on accident, hands shaking from exhaustion, from ever present suffocating fear, from near starvation.
The blood rushes from Staci's face so quickly he feels faint with it. Oh god, oh god. There's a mark on Jacob's neck, to the left of his Adam's apple, a swathe of his beard lobbed away. With horrified, bugged out eyes Staci watches as blood wells to the surface in slow motion and then beads down his neck. Seeps into the collar of his dirty gray t-shirt, already stained with some other poor bastard's blood.
What's another bloodstain to add to Jacob's collection?
Staci might piss himself.
Jacob just continues to watch him, blinks at him like a cat in the sunshine. He's sprawled out in his chair, legs as far apart as they'll go, one arm lazing behind him, the other resting draped over his crotch, head still partially tipped back. The wind coming in from the open window before them rustles his hair, and when a cloud breaks a beam of sunlight bathes him in its rays, shines off his wet, pink lips and his foamy, bloody throat.
With one of his massive, calloused hands, he presses two fingers to the wound and brings them back tacky and red red red. Scrutinizes them like a child would a bug, then returns his gaze to Staci, and without breaking eye contact licks them slowly, slowly from root to tip. His stare drills holes into Staci, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, a wolf with its meal in sight.
Pink lips, pink tongue stained red. When he exhales, Staci inhales the smell of the iron in his blood.
Staci's stomach is in knots, but he can't afford to puke up what little he's been given in the last day so he convulsively swallows, over and over and over. Throat clicking with the excess saliva pooling in his mouth. The straight razor drops from his grip but he doesn't feel it bounce off his boot, hear it clatter to the ground. The edges of his vision are black and wobbly and he wonders, hysterically, if Jacob would punish him more or less if he were to piss himself and pass out. Bastard would probably be flattered and smash him into the ground anyway, break some more of his ribs, maybe his nose, his traitorous hand.
“S-S-S-Sir, I...I didn't—I'm s-so-sorry, God, pl—” Staci's hands are up, shaking furiously in front of his face. Palms on display in a deescalation tactic the Force taught him, as if there's any way to deescalate this fucking trainwreck. He takes a step back, desperate to put space between them, but immediately hits the radiator attached to the wall behind him, falls back onto it a little. Ringing in his ears and ice in his veins as his head clips the wall. He doesn't feel it, can't over the pounding of the blood in his terrified rabbit heart.
Trapped trapped trapped oh god oh GOD
“Get back over here and finish the God damn job.” His voice low, dead even; he does not yell, and somehow that's worse. Yelling Staci could deal with, but Jacob's cool detachment is the harbinger of very bad shit for Staci.
Staci knows enough not to beg, though.
Tears well in Staci's eyes and he gingerly clamors off the radiator, legs wobbling and knees clicking together like a newborn colt. When he bends over to retrieve his tool, his fingers shake so badly he drops it again and again. Doesn't notice when the blade catches on his fingers, the webbing between his index finger and thumb.
There's a scoff from above him, and before Staci can even register the noise over the buzzing in his ears, Jacob's boot is squashing his fingers into the concrete floor. A yelp rips its way from Staci's lips, but Staci knows not to try and free his hand.
He's learned this lesson before, too.
Lessons, lessons, lessons.
“Pick up,” a pause, “the God damn,” another, “razor.” He meticulously exerts more and more pressure on Staci's fingers until Staci fears they might shatter, pain radiating up his digits where the bulk of Jacob's weight resides, through his palm, to the center of his wrist where the toe of Jacob's tactical boot sits. If Jacob breaks his fingers, he can't finish the task—that'll mean training for days, losing himself in the Song, coming to in a room with dead Resistance fighters, blood tacky and drying on his hands, his gun. His face. “Have I made myself clear?”
Furiously Staci nods his head, almost smacks his nose onto the concrete below in his fervor. Wills all of the resistance out of his body until he's practically laying on the floor, pliant and spineless. If he could manage to turn over and show Jacob his belly, his throat, he would, and the thought burns through Staci like acid. Tears cloud his vision but he does not cry, and he swallows bile down repeatedly.
Weak weak weak
“Y-Yes, sir, s-sorry, sir—”
“Be quiet now,” Jacob hisses, and bit by bit he removes his foot from Staci's hand.
Staci stays like that, body low, until Jacob is seated once more. A servant bowing until their master returns to their throne.
He wills his hands still and somewhere within himself finds enough of his wits to get them to comply. The sharp edge of the razor is still wet with cream and Jacob's blood, the foam red-pink. For a beat Staci stares at it in his hands, his betrayer, his possible ally. Turns it over in the sunlight and watches it glint.
But he's weak.
He returns to his spot beside Jacob with slow, measured steps, approaches him like one would a spooked animal, never showing him his back. But Jacob is never spooked, never fazed. He watches Staci until he's pressed beside him and then gazes out the window, critical eyes surveying the mountains outside his compound.
Staci rinses the foam and blood off the razor in the small metal basin stationed on the table next to them. Clean once more, like the last minute or so never happened. He returns the blade to Jacob's throat, and scratches upward carefully, making his mark time and time again.
After several minutes in a tense silence, Staci sometimes holding his breath until his head is dizzy with it, he is one pass away from finished when Jacob speaks up.
“Do that again and I'll fucking kill you,” he says simply, still watching the wind dance through the tall grasses outside. Tone once again even, like they're having a simple pleasant conversation, he the patron at Staci's barbershop. “Am I making myself clear?”
-
Staci sleeps on a cot barely an inch off the ground in Jacob's war room. There's a spot on the ground where Jacob's blood from the Shaving Incident (capital fucking letters, Pratt) seeped into the unsealed cement floor. When Staci's laying down, it's practically at eye level.
Jacob keeps him tethered to the radiator, handcuffed to it. Like a dog on a lead in the yard. The spots he rubbed raw the first couple of times with his new nighttime bracelet have long since healed, scarred over pink-silver. The easiest way to sleep with it is on his back, arm draped over his head, and though he never used to sleep that way—preferred on his stomach, arms crossed beneath his head, ideally naked—Staci never used to do a lot of things before the Whitetail Mountains.
The bed itself is not much. He's got a scratchy off-white blanket and a single, squashed pillow, yellowed by age and use. The thick olive industrial cloth of the cot squeaks, though less and less every passing day under Staci's diminishing weight.
It's practically palatial when compared to the muddy, disgusting ground outside.
Technically it's Jacob's quarters slash war room, but Jacob would actually have to sleep for it to be his quarters. He uses the bed to lay things on, his jacket or his boots or his rifle, but seldom spends any time in it trying to sleep.
Emphasis on trying.
Jacob wears military fatigues with J. Seed embossed on the chest, so it doesn't take a genius to guess where the root of his problems lie.
He has nightmares when he does manage to crash, tosses and turns and talks in his sleep. Calls out orders, gives affirmative answers to unseen superiors. Fights with memories in his head, lashing out at the air around him, sometimes punching the wall his bed is pressed up against until his knuckles are bloody with it. He's only asleep, if you can call it that, for a maximum of three hours before he's up again. With weary bones he'll sit up, stocking feet flat on the ground, bare, scarred chest heaving up and down, jostling his dog tags.
In the moonlight pouring into the room Staci can just make out how haggard he is. The bags under his eyes and the delicate graying of hair around his temples. Scars all over his chest with ages that vary, some so old they're only seen silvery in just the right light. Others, like WRATH etched above his right collarbone, and PRIDE along his rib, are much more recent. LUST, on his right lower hip just above the waistband of his pants, similar to Joseph's.
His nightmares broadcast his age, but the only viewer around is Staci.
By the time the sun rises, Jacob will imbibe enough caffeine to give a racehorse a heart attack, and he'll look good as new.
Staci watches him those nights that he tries to sleep, that his body gives in to one of its basest needs only to be rejected by the demons in his head. Hyper-vigilance robs him of the ability to sleep soundly anymore, and he wakes as soon as Jacob starts thrashing, which is usually shortly after auburn hair hits its pillow. Afterward he can't sleep, keenly aware of Jacob prowling around the room.
He's always on, has to be ready at the drop of a hat, but it's exhausting to be going at all hours. He doesn't know how Jacob does it, and something like pity swims in his gut for the other man. It disgusts him just like the shameful rush he gets when Jacob praises him, and he futilely wishes he could purge himself of all emotion until he either gets rescued or dies.
Jacob is thrown off kilter after his nightmares, and it's the only time Staci gets to see his very own God of the Underworld knocked down a peg. A sliver of humanity exposed in Jacob's reptilian exterior. He gets up on legs just the slightest bit unsteady, and moves to stand before the window, rough hands braced on the windowsill, head bowed. Staci watches the light catch on the dog tags around his neck.
SEED
JACOB
672-07-6438
O-
CHRISTIAN
They don't speak, and while Staci watches him, Jacob never looks down at Staci, even with him lying so close. Staci knows that Jacob is aware of being watched, though. Knows it in the way his throat clenches and his fists form beneath his blankets, above his head; some intuition warning prey that a predator is near and alerted to their presence.
He's glad Jacob never addresses him on those nights. Staci doesn't know what he'd do if Jacob noticed any other emotion than fear in his eyes.
-
The other men often wolf whistle at him, aw there's Jacob's little bitch wonder if he holds his dick for him too probably all he'd be good for miserable little faggot look at those dick sucking lips give us a taste precious we're all family here. Grab their crotches at him when Jacob's face is turned, grab for his when Jacob's back is to them. They watch him with hunger and malice in their eyes, and though everyone in Eden's Gate has taken vows of celibacy, most of them were done with fingers crossed behind their backs.
Those times, Staci is relieved that Jacob never lets him stray far. Nonetheless Staci keeps even closer to Jacob on those days, all but knocks shoulders with him, and that little fact doesn't escape Jacob's notice.
Nothing escapes Jacob Seed.
Certainly not Staci.
-
Three months and some change, and Staci is scrapping the bottom of the barrel on hope.
He snorts at the thought, of hope. Of anything other than a silver nighttime bracelet and constant fear, disgust with himself weak weak weak. Hides his face behind his clipboard when Jacob looks up from his desk and cocks a brow at him.
“Something funny, Peaches? Share with the class,” Jacob says. He steeples long, thick fingers before him and leans in, like they're about to share a secret.
I'm never getting out of here, he wants to say, delirious in his misery.
“Nothing, sir. It was nothing,” Staci quietly says. Shakes his head a little so black hair, so much longer than it used to be, so much time three months three months, can hide his eyes, the only shielding he can manage.
Jacob leans back, arms crossing on his chest, legs spreading beneath his desk. “We keepin' secrets now, Peaches? Gonna hurt my feelings leaving me out in the cold.” He pouts at Staci, plush pink lips pushed forward, eyebrows turned down, cold blue eyes shimmering with false hurt, for a moment before a sound booms from his chest.
It takes a second for Staci to realize it's laughter.
He's heard Jacob sneer before, watched his lips twist into a cruel smirk as he wound up the music box, only you only you only you. But genuine laughter? Staci wasn't even sure he was capable of it.
“Ah, Peaches, lighten the fuck up. It's a beautiful day out, I just got word that your precious Deputy is taking a stroll down The Path. Birds are singing and shit. When's the last time you had a little fun?” Arms uncrossed, he shakes his left one so his sleeve slips up a little, revealing his watch. “I'd say like...three months ago? Or is it almost four now? Been a long fucking stay at casa de Jacob, huh.”
Three and some change, three and some change.
“I asked you a question,” Jacob says, just as quietly as Staci had.
Mouth dry like the desert, Staci fruitlessly licks his lips. Opens his mouth, clicks it closed. Like a ventriloquist dummy, and it's Jacob's hand up his back, in his chest cavity.
“Which question would you like me to answer? Sir.”
Dumb, so fucking stupid.
Jacob's lips quirk upward. He studies him a little, flicks blue eyes up and down Staci's body. He's lost so much weight that his uniform no longer fits, so he wears a pair of jeans much smaller than his previous size. He thinks they belonged to a Resistance fighter he killed, so he doesn't think about it. On his chest is one of the off white sweaters the Eden's Gate group are famous for, emblazoned with their starburst cross.
All of a sudden he's up, and it takes everything in Staci not to scramble backwards. In a flash of green fatigue and crimson hair Jacob is nearly flush against Staci's body, so close Staci can smell his sweat, the coffee he had been drinking, the deodorant soap he favors. Their toes touch, Jacob's desert fatigue tactical boots pressed to Staci's black, standard issue Department boots, the only piece of his old life that still fits anymore.
“Any of them,” Jacob breathes, practically against Staci's lips. Warm and moist against his face. “Be a good boy and enlighten me.”
He stands before Jacob, rooted to the spot yet quivering. Tremors wrack his body, and there's no way for Jacob to not notice that, his weakness. He desperately searches Jacob's face for any hint as to what the fuck this is.
good boy good boy Be a good boy
His entire body sings with it.
Good Boy Good Boy Be a Good Boy
Staci's disgusted with himself, but his brain no longer opts for his input. He shivers particularly hard and sways a little, grips Jacob's wrist for stability because his body is on fucking autopilot. Opens his mouth to say God knows what when the door to Jacob's quarters is rapped on. Flies away from him to the windowsill, that God damn windowsill, braces his hands on it like Jacob does at night. Chest heaving, sucking in lungfuls of air and looking everywhere but Jacob.
Jacob snorts and calls for the person to enter.
There's a whitetail in the tall grasses outside the window a ways up the mountain. It munches happily on the vegetation around it. Its ears twitch once, twice, and then it raises its head. Seems to lock eyes with Staci, stare in the knowing way only animals can. It blinks, ears twitch again, and then lowers its head again.
-
Four months nearly on the nose, and the news breaks.
The junior deputy is a fucking Angel.
The compound around them is in chaos. Contraband alcohol is passed around. Men laugh and sing hymns and sway together. It's a joyous affair.
Staci's world is Ending.
From the balcony of the war room, Jacob gives the news through the speaker system. Staci sways beside him, tears in his eyes.
“I would like to be the first to inform you that Rook, as the Resistance calls her, is now part of the Family. Faith and her Bliss have secured her support, and we welcome her to our Cause. I know the Father has particular rules about indulging in alcohol, and some other, heh, choice activities, but it's a God damn Holiday. Enjoy yourselves, but do not get sloppy. There's still work to be done.”
Staci's vision fades in and out. He's conscious of his body moving, but he's not aware of where or why. The sun is no longer on his face, and he can distantly make out a door being closed. Two locks being turned, a few seconds time between them.
Ears ringing like Jacob had cranked the Box, but there's no Song.
There's Nothing.
“Sh, sh,” Jacob whispers, breath on him again. Warm, dry hands cup his face. His thumbs swipe at Staci's cheek, then drift down to rub wetness onto his lips.
Tears. Staci is crying. He's managed to hold them at bay every time before but now...but Now....
This is the End, isn't it?
“Sh, Staci. Sh. She's at her Home now, where she belongs. Like you've been along, isn't that right?”
And it's the first time he's heard his first name in four months. Sometimes Deputy, sometimes Pratt, sometimes Peaches; never Staci.
The levee breaks.
Staci's chest heaves with the sobs leaving his body, mourning his friend, his sanity, his Hope. Knees weak, he collapses to the ground, not even registering the impact, the burn and sting that should be there.
Jacob goes to the ground, too, albeit with much more composure. Gracefully folds long legs beneath himself, sits on his feet. Keeps Staci upright on his knees. He crowds in close to Staci, touches his face, his neck. Brings damp fingers to his own lips, reveals in the taste of his own little victory.
“She'll stay with Faith, and you—you'll stay with me. You're mine, aren't you, Staci?” Jacob whispers, peppering Staci's damp face with kisses. Voice as soft and reverential as Staci's ever heard it. “C'mon, Staci. Say it. This is Home, you're Mine. Say it.”
What choice does he have? He's all out of chances and his last Hope is somewhere in the fucking Henbane, Blissed out of their mind. He's Weak, too Weak to free himself from this, too intrinsically bound, too warped, to determine up from down.
He's Lost, in so many ways.
“Th-this is Home,” he croaks, eyes squeezed shut. Tears force their way out with the rest of his resistance and he shudders when he feels Jacob's lips, his tongue, collect them. “I'm Yours.”
A growl sounds before him, and he has just enough time to open his eyes before Jacob is maneuvering him onto his back on the floor.
He doesn't fight it. Instinctively spreads his legs to make room for Jacob on top of him.
Jacob had always been bigger than him, taller and with more weight, more muscle, but it has never been as apparent to Staci as it is right now. His size dwarfed Staci, his body weight pressing him into the floor. Blocking out all of the Light. Warm, so warm, burning Staci up.
“You're part of the Family, now. Won't let you go,” Jacob says. Their foreheads are pressed together, their noses, and with a little nudge of his nose to Staci's, he urges Staci's eyes to meet his own. The sound that leaves him when their gazes lock is primal, guttural, like it was somehow wrenched from Jacob against his will, and Jacob surges forward with his mouth to devour Staci, crushes their lips, their teeth.
There's blood in his mouth, and it belongs to both of them. Their essences on the most basic level blended together, inextricable. Staci rolls the taste on his tongue then swallows hard, swallows Them.
Jacob kisses like he means to swallow him whole, the big bad fucking wolf. His tongue is in Staci's mouth, one hand in his hair, the other fluttering at Staci's throat, squeeze release squeeze release. He shimmies his hips forward, encourages Staci's hips up, up, his legs 'round Jacob's waist, crossed behind his back.
A rioting part inside of Staci is screaming at him to fight back, to protest, to do literally any fucking thing but this. Jacob's dick is hard against him, rocking him into the floor, and it should make him want to peel his skin off, combust, grab the machete Jacob carries on his belt and end them both.
It does, but it also Doesn't.
Staci rips their mouths apart, turns his face away. He breathes raggedly, tears still cascading down his face. Jacob's mouth is on his throat, warm and wet, kitten licks of his tongue against his skin.
“You've been so Good, Staci,” Jacob whispers, petting his scalp, the side of his face. “So strong.”
Damn him, damn him, damn him. Staci's body sings with it even as another sob leaves his body. The force of it makes his chest ache, fingers curled rigid against the floor.
Over the sound of his own despair, Staci can make out hymns and cheers.
“Don't fight me,” he urges. Frantic kisses pressed into his jaw. “You can't afford to be my enemy any longer. I'm all you have now.” His teeth, snapping at Staci's throat. Sucking marks into his flesh, brands for the world to see.
As if the ownership of Staci's miserable life was ever up for debate.
Jacob's little bitch
He should've known he was never going to escape the Whitetails alive.
Jacob bumps their noses together, scratches their beards, and it's so weirdly, startlingly intimate that Staci keens with it. Reminds him of former lovers, and while some of them might have tied him up, held him down, men and women alike, none of them kept him captive and tortured him for four months.
“Let me in,” Jacob urges frantically, breath ragged against Staci's skin, hips still steadily churning against Staci's own hardness. “Let me in, let me in, let me in.”
He does.
God help him, he does.
He's never going to get him out again, is he?
Staci turns his face back in towards Jacob, and Jacob's back on him before his head's stilled. Their kiss is urgent and forceful, like Jacob is trying to climb inside of him, more clicking teeth than meeting tongues. He's making so many sounds above Staci, appreciative and hungry, demanding more and willing to take it by any means possible. Staci's delirious with this new aspect of their relationship—fuck, a relationship—this new power.
Look how desperate big, strong Jacob Seed is for little old Staci Pratt.
Everyone always said that John was the talker, John was the dramatic one. But Jacob Seed is equally, if not more so dramatic. Using his words as weapons just as his fists, his knives, his rifle. And no one loves the sound of their own God damn voice more than Jacob Seed, always going on and on, giving intricate speeches like a peacock showcasing its feathers. For fuck's sake, part of his torture routine is a song from the fucking 50's.
Staci might have lost his last hand, but this new one is proving to be as interesting as it is fucked up. There's no way out of this. Survival, pure and simple, is in his sights, and he now knows how to secure it.
He pulls them apart once again, and Jacob protests against his cheek. His hand shakes when he lifts it to Jacob's hair, surprisingly soft and light between his fingers. Jacob pushes into his hand and stares into his face, blue eyes feverishly bright.
Forgive me, Staci thinks to no one in particular—to Rook, to Hope County, to himself.
One last tear escapes, and Staci's vision finally clears. “Fuck me, Jacob,” he whispers.
The world seems to narrow down to just the two of them. No hymns, no cheers. No God here. Just their animalistic rutting on the floor, just Jacob's lips and teeth and tongue and his desperate, needy groans.
Like so many times before, there's a tongue in his mouth and a hand ripping open his jeans. And this, this Staci knows. This Staci excels at.
Jacob is Staci's just as much as Staci is Jacob's.
Staci will make sure of it.
Eye for an eye.
Staci throws everything he has at Jacob, dragging his nails down his clothed back as he humps upward, rubs their dicks together. Another wounded sound from Jacob, and Staci is ripping Jacob's shirt up and out of his pants, desperate to drag his nails down skin, feel it tear and bleed under his fingertips. The first rake of them downward has Jacob near howling into his throat, his hips pumping into Staci's, scooting him up the floor with each thrust.
He does it again and again and eventually his fingertips are damp with blood.
In a flash, Jacob hauls them both upward, carrying Staci like he's a ragdoll, a caveman with his prize. He bounces on Jacob's hard mattress once, elbow cracking against the wall. Jacob's rifle, previously laying across the foot of the bed, clatters to the floor.
Jacob leaves it where it lay and instead starts pawing at his clothes, frustrated noises clawing out of his throat when his belt buckle refuses to cooperate. Then there's a hand on his, warm and still, and Jacob watches, enraptured, as Staci quickly and efficiently unlatches his belt, pops his button fly, and unziiiiiiips his zipper. He's not wearing any underwear beneath, and auburn hair blossoms from the v of his opened jeans, runs a trail up his flat, chiseled stomach, scarred and marked just like his face, his arms.
“Take off your fucking clothes,” Jacob hisses, removing his top layers and then his bottoms, bouncing from one foot to the next as he removes his boots. He throws them behind him, and Staci watches as they bounce and come to a halt on his cot.
The effect he's having on Jacob makes him giddy, like Bliss roaring through his veins, all of Jacob's sparsely metered out praise given on loop for his ears and his alone. His body burns with it, skin ruddy and sweaty, and for a man who's supposed to be a Prophet's Herald, his touch scorches like the sweetest damnation.
While he undresses, Jacob roots around in the nightstand beside his bed for something. His intended goal Staci can guess, but it must not be within the nightstand because Jacob curses beneath his breath, spares a look at Staci, and moves to his feet.
Jacob is all hard muscle and breathtaking scars, pale spiderwebs of them from grenade blasts and burns, so many burns. Chemical burns and regular burns mar practically every available inch of Jacob's upper body, sometimes in big clusters, other time small swathes of angry red and white wrinkled skin. He's got knife wounds and bullet wounds, on his shoulders and his waist, his back. A tapestry to his wrath.
The most surprising thing, more than Jacob's scars, the tone to his body, how his fat cock bounces and the firm muscles in his ass move as he heads to his desk to root in its drawers for his prize, is the freckles.
God help him, the freckles. Staci wants to know what they taste like.
Staci had once idly suspected that he had them—red heads usually do, right?—but they're everywhere, some visibly warped beneath his scars, others untouched, pure, red like his hair. On his chest, beneath wiry red fur, down down down the plains of his flat, muscular stomach. Along the tops of his thighs, washing down his legs, climbing up his back. His shoulders, God his shoulders, the muscles shifting as he makes a pleased sound and pulls a bottle from his desk. They're absolutely covered. Dark freckles and light freckles clustered together on the very top and tapering as they trail down his arms.
Fuck, they're even on his feet.
Jacob holds the bottle up for Staci's inspection, waves it slowly back and forth, taunting. He stalks back to the bed, hips swinging obscenely, dick bobbing with every step, like an alpha wolf about to mate its choice bitch.
Warmth pools in Staci's lower stomach, cock twitching against his stomach, leaking. He maintains eye contact while he simultaneously tugs at his dick and wantonly spreads his legs.
Done with his peacocking, Jacob is on him in a flash, a flurry of motion. The lubricant is carelessly opened and dribbles down Staci's flat chest, and just as he's registering how cold it is, there are fingers wriggling inside of him, damp and cold and insistent.
“Let me in,” Jacob urges again, panting against Staci's shin, face angled down so he can watch as his fingers, one then two then three, breach Staci's body.
It's too much too fast, it's been so long since Staci's been touched like this, but he can deal with the burn as long as there's lubricant. Had Jacob's sadistic streak carried over to even this, if he had tried dry or with just spit, he would've ripped Staci in two.
The burn is his penance, he supposes.
He screws his eyes shut and moans like the whore he is for Jacob, spreads his legs wider, hooking his left over Jacob's hip, pushing his fingers deeper inside. Drawing him into his own little spider's web.
He's going to make this the best sex Jacob's ever had, have him coming back for more and more. Wedge himself inside Jacob's existence and build his fort there. Make Jacob cum harder than he ever had, better than any wet cunt or any other tight asshole.
He's going to be so good, nothing will ever touch him again.
“Fuck me, Jacob, fuck me fuck me fuck me. Show me I'm yours.”
Jacob's fingers pop lewdly free of Staci's body, and for a second Jacob just fucking smirks at him from above.
So Staci rolls his eyes and grabs him by the dick, stroking lubricant up and down its shaft, rubbing the flat of his palm over the sensitive head.
Never before has Staci been so bold in Jacob's presence, and it startles Jacob for just a moment before the thrill catches up. Having your prey cry and submit all the time can get a little boring, but as Jacob swiftly hikes Staci up by the ass, bending him near in half, he has the split second revelation that this is feeling less and less like predator versus prey.
He presses his cockhead against Staci's hole, rubs it along the rim, and gauges the reaction on Staci's face. The flush is high in his cheekbones and his forehead is sweaty, black hair curling damp against his skin. Big brown doe eyes egg him on, glassy and feverish as Jacob's own.
Blissful.
The push in burns, unrelenting and giving him no time to stop and catch his breath, punches it out of him until all that's left is Jacob Jacob Jacob and the bursting white in his eyes. With fingertips stained red, Staci grabs handfuls of Jacob's ass and eggs him deeper, harder.
Jacob is even more vocal Inside.
“Gonna fuck you so full of me, everyone'll know you're mine. My little bitch, fuck, fuck.” Jacob braces his weight with his left arm to the side of Staci's face, secures his right behind Staci's back, and fucks him with all he's got. The bed smacks into the wall in time with his thrusts, his dog tags jingling as they dangle between their sweaty bodies. Staci tugs him down by them, fists them around his hands until they're almost choking Jacob, and bites his way into Jacob's mouth.
When they break free for air, Jacob pants wetly against Staci's temple. Absently presses his lips against the skin over and over, rubs his face into Staci's damp hair like a god damn animal. “Paint your insides with so much of me you can taste me for days. Fuck you so good you can't sit, can't walk, without gagging on the taste of my dick in you.”
Jacob lowers Staci's hips just a touch. “Fuck your fist for me. I want you to come with my dick in you.”
Staci obliges, because he's desperate to cum, because Jacob keeps ramming his cockhead up and down his prostate, because if he doesn't soon he's going to fucking die. His palms are wet with sweat when he wraps his hand around his dick, and it's been so long since he's even touched himself like this, since before Hope County and Eden's Gate and all this bullshit. He's not going to last very long, but if he's played his hand correctly there'll be time for longevity later.
Punched out, wounded cries carve their way out of Staci's throat. He's going to be so fucking sore later, Jacob like a machine, never breaking stride, like he's trying to drill all the way inside of Staci. Like he doesn't already fucking live there, like he didn't take up residence in his skull four months ago.
“Gonna bring Rook here, would you like that, huh? Get her to watch as I rail you. Show her how much of a little whore—fuck—you are for me.”
“Oh God, oh God.”
“Wanna invite Joseph to watch? Not really—ugh fuck—into that, but bring along the whole flock, who fucking cares? Everyone's going to be able to smell my come leaking out of you, might as well—shit—let them watch.”
“F-fuck I'm gonna cum,” Staci whines, and as soon as the words are out of his mouth Jacob's is on his, mapping his teeth with his tongue.
Then, suddenly, the world is white white white. He rips his mouth from Jacob's and shudders brokenly, mouth opened in a silent cry as he paints their stomachs, his fist, in rope after rope of his release. He's spent in more ways than one, and he's drowsily glad that Jacob is supporting them both because fuck he can't feel his legs.
Staci's orgasm and the fluttering of his walls has Jacob's eyes rolling back. He fucks into him over and over again, shoving Staci up the bed and the bed into the wall. Dimly he hears plaster tinkling to the floor over the sound of his own panting breaths, of Staci's cries at the abuse his prostate is continuing to endure.
“Say it again,” Jacob hisses.
Staci doesn't even have to think about it. “I'm yours,” he breathes, and clenches hard on Jacob's cock.
Teeth sink into Staci's neck, right above the meat of his shoulder, and he whines in pain as the skin is broken. Blood floods Jacob's mouth as he fucks his release, his seed, deeper and deeper into Staci's body. Copper and salt on his tastebuds, the scent of their combined musk heavy in the air. Jacob pumps his hips once, twice, thrice more and then comes to a shuddering halt above Staci. Sweat beads down his forehead, drips down his nose and onto Staci's heaving chest.
With herculean effort, Jacob slides his softening cock free and flops down onto the bed beside Staci, weary to his marrow. He keeps his eyes closed as he catches his breath.
Their power dynamic has shifted, and Jacob can feel it charging between them. He's opened an entire different kind of box with this, Pandora, and fuck if that thought doesn't get him revving again. He rolls the taste of Staci's blood and sweat around in his mouth, intoxicating and salty-sweet.
“Fuck,” he huffs.
“Fuck,” Staci agrees.
-
Staci jolts awake some time later. He's naked and so, so sore, but his muscles still sing with latent pleasure. He's on his stomach, and he blearily realizes three things:
One, he's not handcuffed, not in his cot.
Two, he's in Jacob's bed still.
Three, Jacob's also still in his bed, and while he's not yet thrashing, he's got the stirrings of a nightmare brewing.
The sky outside the window is pitch black, and as Staci's eyes adjust to the dark, he can see the full moon high in the sky, bathing the mountains in a celestial white. White like bliss.
Staci realizes a fourth thing:
When they passed out after whatever the fuck animalitic fucking that was, the day had still been pretty young, not even five o'clock in the evening yet. Even fucked out, Staci is still a pretty light sleeper, but he only stirred just now, well after midnight, which means Jacob, too, slept that entire time.
“Huh,” Staci breathes. He scoots in as close to Jacob as he dares, takes in the scarring and freckling on his back. The red, angry claw marks crisscrossing up and down his shoulderblades. With his hand flat, he presses feather light between them and rubs soothing circles into Jacob's skin.
He expects Jacob to elbow him in the face while still in the thrall of his nightmare. Maybe wake up and order Staci back to his cot, handcuff him to the radiator once more with his cock and balls still dangling free.
What he doesn't expect is a great, heaving shudder. For Jacob to scoot back into Staci and continue on sleeping, still dreaming but slightly less fitfully.
“Huh,” Staci breathes again. He settles in to watch Jacob sleep.
Checkmate.