───big wolf, my savior;
pairing: jacob seed x reader
prompt: “that’s a lot of blood” + “to be honest, i’m suprised i’m not dead” from @prompts77 ‘s dialogue prompts
word count: 2.5k+
warnings: reader is injured; medically inaccurate depictions of blood, headaches, and a gunshot wound, mentions of death and torture of other characters, soft!jacob
notes: ── check out my other works; far cry 5 masterlist & other masterlists
“Went down quicker than usual,” twigs snap under heavy footsteps, stopping near you. “You’re better than this, Rook.”
Blinking several times, attempting to refocus your glazed vision enough to concentrate with each blink bringing the familiar throbbing on the side of your head back to life. Blood drips steadily down your ears and shoulders, and you lazily lift your arm to wipe some away, eliciting a snicker from the other person.
Before crawling to the tree you currently lean against, you remembered engaging in an unwarranted high-speed car chase with Peggies from John’s region. The Valley is relatively easy to maneuver in, those living there are not trained for any types of battle; they’re uncoordinated, unskilled, and bovine. Nowhere as crazy as Faith’s drugged up zombies or efficient as Jacob’s conditioned hunters. This time, though, they upgraded their arsenal and approach to make up for their amateurish experience; emptying mag after mag, throwing any sharp object, and ramming your car hard enough to send your forehead forward, cracking it against the steering wheel.
They let up after that, and for some strange reason, you believed you won.
Then your car exploded and everything went black.
Sharp and heavy drumming brings you out of your thoughts. The forehead thumps and ear-splitting ringing join to play a crude, hellish symphony. You inhale deeply while clenching your teeth and sluggishly lift your head to find Jacob looming over you, light amusement dancing in his eyes—a typical reaction he’s given you the last few times you’ve crossed paths.
You do your best to avoid Jacob or his Chosen, keeping interactions to late night chats through public radio channels. Although it’s mainly taunting—detailing his desires to mold you into the perfect Chosen—there are thinly veiled praises.
‘All this destruction for me? For my attention? You’ve done so well, pup.’
Not a day goes by where Addie doesn’t remind you of that moment.
Jacob crouches down, swipes his finger at the blood covering your matted hair, and coats the blood over his thumb, index, and middle finger. “That’s a lot of blood.”
Lungs burn with disagreement as you choke out a laugh.
He stands, backs away, and gazes over your entire body, eyes starting from your feet, immediately lingering on your mangled leg. After a moment of assessment, his eyes trail upward, noting other relatively minor injuries, until he reaches your face. Besides the mega-concussion, bleeding head, and thousands of needles stabbing your eyes, you feel fine. Your leg doesn’t even hurt.
You gulp, attempting to lubricate your desert-dry throat. “Please tell me this was you and not John.”
He cocks an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why?”
“John gloats,” you wave at your fucked up body, "and would videotape this and broadcast this all throughout Hope’s County.” A rush of blood gushes out of your right shoulder as you shift your position, sitting further up against the tree and you vaguely remember being shot at. Seems like you got hit. “He’s annoying and whiny and that is not sexy. Talks too much too.”
As you speak, Jacob reaches into a military backpack beside him, and pulls out an object.
It’s a fucking camera.
“John asked for a video, gave me some tips on angles,” he raises his other hand to make quotation marks, “for artistic effect.” His finger rests on the power button, looks at you, and then turns it on.
You blanch, muscles seizing up. John would foam at the mouth from this video, might even have to pump one out at the sight—even if it meant recarving ‘lust’ into his skin. You feel desperate enough to beg, the word ‘please’ sits on your lips, threatening to spill over as he trains the camera onto you, humming an unknown tune as he fiddles with camera positions.
Despite your aversion to public humiliation, you swallow your pride enough to not beg, opting to close your eyes to fight off the bubbling anxiety in your stomach.
“Open your eyes, Rook. You’re better than this.”
The way his voice drops, disappointment clear as day, makes you gnaw your lip, teeth grazing over bits of broken glass stuck on your bottom lip. Something inside of you shifts, the same way it does whenever he’s dissatisfied with your displays of defiance—the ones that fail to capture his attention; the ones that fail to show your true worth.
“You’ve got it bad for him, honey.” Addie’s voice echoes to the beat of the ringing. Maybe you do because when he says your name, impatient and annoyed, you open your eyes.
Near your legs, he’s crouched again. The camera’s gone, replaced by a haphazard medical kit with barely enough tools to stitch a wound, let alone remove a bullet. You quirked an eyebrow for a second before dropping it due to it triggering a sharp throb in your forehead. Instead of answering, he rips open the material off your bleeding leg.
You cleared your throat. “To be honest, I’m surprised I’m not dead.”
“Others would have bled to death. Die for a lot less.” He wets a white hand towel, wiping away the dirt, blood, and debris from the large gash. His movements slow when you grunt in pain. “But not you, pup. No, you’re stronger than that.”
Heart swelling, you duck your gaze from him even though he’s attention is on your leg; eyes focused on his ministrations. Addie’s voice echoes again. You don’t disagree with her this time.
“My head…” you trail off, picking up your hand again to touch the blood. It’s dry.
“Concussed based on your forehead. All that blood is caused by shrapnel or your bleeding shoulder.”
It makes sense. After all, you laid in a puddle of your own blood for god knows how long. But your head hurts like hell and you want him to focus on that.
“So why are you focused on my leg?”
As an answer, he pours green liquid onto your wound and you hiss out in pain, slowly leaning forward to swipe at him. It does nothing to keep him from softly humming; almost happily; definitely mocking you.
“Jacob,” you bite out, forehead feeling like it’s growing bigger by the second while he wraps a roll of white medical bandages around your leg, “my head. Fix my fucking head.”
Tightening the bandage at the top of your leg, you hiss out again, snarling at him like an angered Judge. “You are not in the position to be demanding anything, sweetheart.”
He rips the bandages with his teeth, tying it, before moving away. He drenches the dirty towel, rings out excess water and blood, and repeats the cycle two more times. By the time he finishes, your eyes unfocus again, blurring the image of the angry, vicious, burly mountain man tending to your wounds in an almost gentle fashion.
Jacob nudges your shoulder and you jump. “When did you get there?” Sighing, as if dealing with a child, he continues his work by ripping your sleeve. “Woah, buy a girl dinner first,”forgetting that he ripped your pants earlier.
Sucking his teeth, purposefully ignoring that comment, he says,“I don’t have the supplies to fix this.”
You lazily wave him off. “Give me your radio. I’ll call Eli to pick me up.” Jacob’s jaw clenches, eyes training on you with a hardened glare. “Oops. Tender subject, my bad.” He bunches the towel around your bullet wound before roughly wrapping the rest of the bandage around it. The searing heat from his roughness has you calling out. “Okay! Okay! I’m sorry!”
“Never thought I’d hear those words from you again.”
You scoff, “well, I’m delicate when injured. Don’t tell anyone.” He lifts three fingers up, a teasing smirk on his lips. Scoffing again, “like you were a boy’s scout.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
Your eyes widen and you lean forward. “Wait, seriously? You were a boy’s scout?”
“No.”
“Ugh...to think we were bonding.” You return to your position.
He leans forward, tilting your head towards him, and places his thumb on your bottom lip, finger grazing over the shards of glass. He murmurs something about you being stupid and pulls out a piece of glass. Peering up at him from your lashes, you note the burns and scars that marr his skin—pinks, purples, and browns decorating his barely tanned face and neck. It’s charming in its own way or even poetic, like a warm summer sunset getting ready for the moon to take center stage.
That would be nice. Instead of trying to kill each other, he could take you to a peak and watch the sunset with you. Much better than bleeding out or running from his brothers.
Neck stiff, you let out a soft groan. “Behave,” Jacob says, fingers tight around your jaw as he tilts your head further back.
“I always behaved for you,” trailing your own fingers up his jacket, tracing the zipper. “A word of advice? Try not to kill me next time, okay? If you want my attention,” you tug on his zipper, “get me flowers or something. I could do without the body mutilation.”
A beat of silence, short enough to keep your mind from wandering, but long enough to make you feel antsy, and you tug on his zipper again. Jacob brings a bottle of water to your lips, pouring the cold liquid down your throat, watching with rapt attention as you greedily gulp down the water.
“John asked for a rocket launcher last week. Thought he needed it for Rye's airplane.” He removes the glass from your lips, making you whine, practically begging for more—he pauses, a different emotion swimming in his eyes before sliding his hand down your chin to your neck, cradling it as you suck on your glass-free lip. “Guess not.”
This man could easily snap your neck without a second thought, ending the Resistance once and for all. Deep down, you’d be alright with that—pure exhaustion clouding your judgment enough to want it; want the end to come soon, and if it’s in Jacob’s hands, it wouldn’t be the worst way to go. He’d end it quickly, sparing you a visit to the Veterans Center. At least you hope he will.
“Thank you,” you smile, fingers inching upward towards his exposed neck.
Catching your hand midway, Jacob gives you a hard look. He slowly shakes his head. “Don’t do it, Rook.”
“Do what?”
“Get close.”
Smile remaining, “I think—we both know that it’s too late.” You shrug as best as you can, slow and stiff, “could have been worse, like the time my ex-boyfriend cheated on me and then threw up on my birthday cake.”
Jacob’s thumb rubs your exposed wrist, circling gently, coaxing shivers out of you, and a throaty rumble of satisfaction from him. “A lamb doesn’t deserve a wolf.” He releases your hand, allowing you to finally touch him.
His neck is rough, dry, and patchy—illustrating decades of untold stories, shocking secrets, and buried insecurities. There are some scars you’re responsible for, small ones due to shrapnel hitting him after shooting down one of Joseph’s churches. You remember his anger—his utter disappointment in you—that day.
The church was rarely used and was in a remote part of Holland Valley, nowhere near Joseph’s compound. Nick just wanted to fuck around and you indulged in it, joining him in his plane to shoot the church, wanting a small victory without repercussions. How were you supposed to know there was a service taking place?
It was the closest you got to ever physically harming Joseph. As a result, you definitely celebrated with the rest of the Resistance and gloated over the radio to all of Hope’s County. However, that quickly came back to bite you in the ass.
Filled with biting silence, Jacob cut off all communication with you to spend his days brainwashing far more people than normal. His hunters were on you within a week, never allowing a brief moment to catch a break. After a while, the exhaustion and silent treatment wore you down to the point where you called him on the radio and apologized for the first time.
The silence on the radio after your words was deafening. But the next day was calm, at least on his part. That same night, Jacob spoke to you as if nothing was wrong.
Your thumb mimics his previous actions, caressing the tender flesh with the buried adoration you used to feel ashamed about—but life’s short. You’re either going to die by a member of Eden’s Gate or by Joseph’s doomsday prophecies, so you’re going to indulge in the small moment of serenity instead of concentrating on guilt or pain. Jacob seems to enjoy it as well; breath slowing, eyes shutting, and head tilting into the warmth of your hand. And you stay like this for a while, long enough for the bleeding to stop, enough for the lines to blur between the two of you. Enough to make this fight a lot harder to deal with.
“This won’t end well.” It’s a whisper, more definite than scared, knowing of what's to come. Unlike you, he’s always been sure.
“It won’t if you let it.” You pull his face down to look at you, palms engulfing his cheeks.
His eyes slowly opened. “What do you say, Jacob? Be the wolf I deserve.”
Jacob’s always been good to you. Despite the carnage he’s responsible for—Pratt, Chosen, Judges, and everyone else under his rule being perfect examples—Jacob’s involvement is a selfish breath of fresh air. He understands that you aren’t a soul to be saved or a natural-born hero.
It’s why he’s constantly pushing you, praising or criticizing you based on your performance of the night. His words push you to do better, liberate faster, save more people, and refine your methods to be quick and efficient.
“Fuck,” Jacob strenuously breathes out and leans down to take a deep inhale of the blood, sweat, and grime. Eyes closed, he shudders against you, sinking into the possibility of just being yours. Jacob has always been shared in some way—as a child, in the military, and even now—but you’re selfish and you want him to be solely yours. “Little Wolf, you’re too good for this.”
“My Jacob,” you whisper, eyes shutting slightly as you shiver in his arm, hand dropping from his face and onto his jacket. “good for you, though. Always good for you.” A yawn breaks through your concentration before you loosely grab onto him. “It’s cold and I’m sleepy. Can we get food?”
“In the Veterans Center.”
You nod, arms wrapping around his neck as he slowly picks you up while he gets into a standing position. Wrapping your legs around his midsection, you mumble something about him being warm when he starts moving.
“Jacob?” He hums and you continue, sleepiness making your voice small. “No cage.”
One of his hands starts rubbing your back and he answers reassuringly, repeating your words back to you, his breath hot against your frozen skin. His words feel a lot heavier, implying everything he can’t express and your content with that; content with him in general. You feel safe with the implications and tuck your head into his neck, the smell of pine and smoke wrapping you in a comfort blanket, pulling you into a deep sleep.
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