Summary: AU where soulmates share the same marking and Jacob doesn't have to brand you any further.
Word count: 2900+
Notes: soulmates, yandere!Jacob Seed, Reader is not the Deputy, captivity, violence, emotional manipulation, dub-con kissing, scars and injuries description: Reader has a mutilated ear and facial scars from a wolf attack and is not happy about it, a mild form of Stockholm Syndrome.
His fingers are surprisingly gentle. You don't expect it from him, the gentleness, Jacob is not kind or caring. Jacob is not warm, not nurturing, not indulgent. Yet his thumb skims across your jaw with quiet focus. Down the side of your neck, up your chin to follow the slanted line there, then it repeats the whole procedure on a different scar. They had long healed by now and turned into uneven ridges of mismatched tissue.
It hurt when the damned wolf bit you, the next day, and for many following days; the effective and precise killing machine aimed for the throat, and if you didn't twist the last moment, would have succeeded.
Jacob never punished the wolf, it was serving its purpose, while you, you were supposed to think before acting and understand the possible consequences.
The pain could be endured and later forgotten, what could not was the humiliation of lying on the dirty ground and the shiny view of Jacob's boots growing larger until they stopped in the line of your vision. A moment of painful awareness: the escape attempt which failed so abruptly and so brutally had become laughable. Jacob grabbed your hair and shook you like a disobedient puppy. "That's on you, sweetheart. Be wary of the quiet ones, they say."
Those last words sounded as if he were talking to himself, rather than anyone else.
"I warned you."
He did.
Jacob is right, not in everything, but in many things. One can try and deny it, another can scoff, but the bottom line is the same: Jacob is right in many things, and at times it's better to listen. Even despite an involuntary gagging reaction.
Your heart hammered and every single beat of it brought to the surface what you already knew — there would be no other attempts. The paleness from fear or perhaps blood loss must've shown on your face, because he let go of you and crouched down. "Pathetic."
It lacked genuine heat, disappointment, or any emotion. Being disappointed would mean that Jacob expected something in the first place. He pulled off his jacket and pressed it to your face, stemming the bleeding. The ground seemed more interesting than ever, dry soil dotted with rocks and grass blades scattered everywhere, trampled by people's feet.
You don't want to look at him or acknowledge the touch to a small sword on your wrist, identical to the one above his left elbow. The mark is a clean reminder and a binding claim for life. You don't want to see it or remember how Jacob's face twisted when he realized just who you were.
Like someone had slapped him.
A lot has happened; Montana turned different from what you saw on TV and the world suddenly shifted under your feet, rearranged from a little road trip across the states into his territory, his commands, his people. A part of you — a foolish, soft part — wished you could've met under different circumstances, in a different place and you told him once about it in a moment of weakness. Jacob stilled at first, but then kept cleaning his gun. "We're here, sweetheart. Nothing we can do 'bout it."
Could've beens and never happeneds weren't worth wasting thoughts on.
Now Jacob is tracing your scars. He's not handsome, not really, there's too much roughness to the lines of his face, dark circles and untrimmed beard, but... you frown. You don't know how to describe Jacob Seed or why you even bother trying. It's odd to think about him this way. Weird.
Jacob catches your eyes. "What?"
You close them. "Nothing."
He makes a noncommittal sound, then leans in. The kiss to your forehead is unexpected and brief. A lot of them are — quick kisses on your temple when Jacob thinks you're asleep, on your nape when he leaves the bed before dawn. They make you wonder just what he wants from you.
He never expects affection back.
Doesn't try anything further, and you both are suspended in this limbo, neither being the first to break it, nor acknowledge its growing significance with every passing day. One part of you craves it, to yield in a different way, not because it is required, but because you want, yet Jacob doesn't ask, so perhaps it's for the better.
Another gets nauseous. He breaks people. Like dry twigs, discarding the pieces when they have no more use. You've seen his Chosen training until they begged, cried and crawled, their pride crushed along with the body.
There are days you can't bear looking at him.
***
Sometimes, sometimes, you wish him dead and gone from the world, then the mark on your wrist aches like a fresh wound.
"When will you take off the chain?" You ask and wiggle your foot a bit. It's long enough to reach the bathroom, to wander around the quarters, but not to walk outside. Jacob doesn't look up from his book. The cover is worn out and you suspect he read it many times already, military stuff. Strategy. Survival tactics, you have no idea.
"When I know you've learned your lesson."
So, not today.
You sigh and roll onto your stomach. "It's stupid."
He doesn't respond.
It's annoying more than anything. Reason — you're his soulmate, not some runaway cow ready to get lost in Montana wilderness — didn't help and only gained you a blank stare followed by a lock click. The chain rattles with each movement, loud and distracting; Jacob just keeps reading as if nothing happens.
Sometimes, sometimes, you catch yourself thinking that this isn't so bad after all. He treats you well for a cult leader: fed, clothed, clean, sheltered. Compared to the cages his future Chosen sleep in, you don't get to complain. You have a comfortable bed instead of cold dirty floor, normal meals rather than a chunk of raw meat, privacy and silence without old school music 24/7.
You frown. No, it's not nice. It's Stockholm Syndrome, plain and simple. You should be free, away from this place.
"Are you angry?"
Jacob turns another page. "No."
His room smells of pine wood and gun oil, with an undertone of metal. The furniture is scarce and practical. A wardrobe, a desk with a radio placed on top, one bookshelf. Bare walls except for a giant map pinned opposite the bed; you've memorized all the markings on it during your stay. The areas which got liberated by Deputy are red, his outposts are circled in blue. Jacob doesn't talk about Deputy much, but the way he clenches his jaw over the radio frequency makes you think they must be a real pain in the ass.
Secretly you hope they blow Eden's Gate HQ to pieces soon.
What would it mean for you?
These are questions, vague and inappropriately timed, coming to mind. What if Deputy happens to eventually tear the Project apart? They escaped John, escaped Jacob and you were to personally witness his foul mood for two days straight. You overhear bits and pieces of conversations, the Chosen talk if they think no one listens — Deputy is strong and clever. Persistent and cunning. Maybe that's the reason Jacob's so obsessed with them.
What if...
You glance at him from under your eyelashes and rub the mark. They say there's a connection between soulmates. If one dies, another experiences it on a physical level. Jacob said that was bullshit. His brother didn't confirm or deny when you asked him after a sermon.
Joseph Seed unnerves you. Not just because he believes himself to be God's vessel. There is something in his voice, quiet and soothing like the distant rolls of thunder, it raises goosebumps when he starts preaching and you're forced to sit through it. Something in his eyes behind yellow-tinted glasses sends shivers down your spine, very little to do with his religious fanaticism.
What would you feel if Jacob died?
The thought creates an unpleasant twist in your stomach, unwanted bond or not, it leaves you queasy. You curl on the bed. Jacob has reading glasses, you barely held back a snort the first time you saw them propped up his nose. He shoots a flat look from above the pages but doesn't comment on your inquisitive stare.
By now you know when to speak and to remain silent (mostly). He dislikes unruly ones and finds satisfaction showing them just how insignificant they are, how mistaken in every single sense. Weak. That's why you annoy him mildly when feeling particularly brave or in need of interaction, but never play soldier or power. It triggers something which is best avoided, gets people punished, then shot in front of others. Or sent for trials, you're not sure which is worse.
Jacob marks a page and sets the book aside. "What?"
"What 'what'?" You ask back, fiddling with the hem of a grey camouflage shirt. It's way too big on your frame, Jacob likes the look of it, judging by how much of your wardrobe consists of his stuff now that you don't leave the room.
"I can hear the wheels in your head turning, spit it out."
"What would happen to me if something... happened to you?"
You're afraid of saying 'if you die' because it's final, even though Jacob seems invincible most of the times. A mountain against hurricanes. Yet everyone dies eventually and the Deputy keeps winning against all odds set before them.
"Nothing. Joseph takes care of you."
This is news, and frankly not the answer you hoped for.
('You'd go free' was. He didn't say 'I won't die' either.)
Tension seeps into your shoulders without a conscious thought. "Why? I am nobody to him."
"You are my soulmate," Jacob replies, simple as that, like it explains everything. Perhaps in their cult world it does, but not yours.
"So?"
He pats his thigh.
It's a gesture without much interpretation required, but you stay rooted on the bed. Cautious. You've grown familiar with each other after living together for months — sharing a space tends to do this to people — still tonight is different, full with awkwardness you haven't felt since that time he walked in on you changing.
Jacob's stare is intense. Heavy, cold blue eyes linger on your wrist where the sword surrounded by flames peeks from under the long sleeve. You swallow a lump in your throat and get up on unsteady legs.
"So he will do it out of memory. You're family, pup, whether you wish it or not."
With the same caution you sit on his lap, war memories written in pink-red skin decorate his face. Just like yours, you think, the only difference is the place and origin. There's something intimate about being like this. Jacob holds you in place once you settle down, not comfortable, but not exactly uncomfortable either.
"Never took you for a cuddly type," you say to shield yourself from growing unease. "Why the change?"
Jacob's thumb presses to the corner of your lips. "Got tired of those puppy eyes staring at me the whole evening, sweetheart. You can have a closer look."
"I don't have puppy eyes. And maybe I like looking from afar."
"Yeah?"
His beard has a prickly feeling to it.
You know your face will never be the same after what happened. From his point of view, Jacob can probably see where the scars begin in the hairline, then continue downwards only an inch away from your eye; small miracles and such. Half of your ear is missing, a good solid chunk. It's not a nice look.
"Don't touch them," you mutter.
You don't mean to share your thoughts in such an abrupt manner, but these intimate moments become a source of discomfort, like a sharp, twisting knife. Jacob doesn't flinch at the sight, he probably saw worse things, still it feels humiliating being reminded of your shortcomings and the fact that this is your face — permanently marked.
Jacob doesn't stop.
"Beauty dies fast, darlin'," he says slowly. "This here... this'll stay."
He never sugarcoats anything. Never lies to spare feelings, ruthless and pragmatic with a clear understanding of what matters and what doesn't. Only the weak need empty reassurances; his words. You hate this side of Jacob just as much as admire it on occasion, right now you wish he said something else. Beauty dies fast.
"Thank you Jacob, very comforting. Top ten phrases you should tell someone who got mauled by a Judge." You cross your arms, wondering why the hell are you talking about this. With Jacob. The worst choice possible to bring up sensitive topics, or maybe the only one, since there's not a lot of people around anyway.
"I ain't here to stroke your ego, sweetheart. This," he traces a scar, "is a lesson to remember. Next time when thinking 'bout running — think again and think good."
There will be no next time regardless of how he phrases it. The chain rattles every night when you shift under the blankets and falls down with an annoying bang as soon as you get up. There's nowhere to run too, the Whitetail Mountains belong to Jacob, he rules them like a king would rule his kingdom, with iron fist and strict order, and who knows what the local Resistance will do to you if they catch you first.
If they figure out whose soulmate you are.
You're trapped between the Deputy destroying outposts and Jacob hunting them across the region, like a mouse stuck in a corner while cats keep prowling around.
The sky outside has an orange-pink hue, casting Jacob's face into soft light and deep shadows. He takes off his glasses, setting them on the book's cover, then wipes a stray tear from the corner of your eye. "You gonna cry over looks?"
You sniffle. "Yes. I wish I never met you."
He stiffens. For a second you worry it might have pushed a wrong button. Jacob never hurt you physically, still there's a healthy dose of fear, not necessarily born out of past experiences. At times his presence just radiates off in silent waves so thick you can feel them crashing into yourself before he walks away and doesn't return for days, leaving you alone with the Chosen stationed behind the doors to watch over and report back to their Herald.
Jacob leans closer until your foreheads almost press into each other.
He doesn't initiate touch often. Once in a while he lets you sleep on his arm instead of a pillow or allows you to sit closer than usual during meals, but that's it. There are boundaries set, most of them are unspoken rules which you picked up along the way: you can ask questions and be generally yourself within reason — as long as it doesn't border on disrespect, Jacob will tolerate occasional attitude in very small doses; you can request certain items provided he approves; he prefers silence during breakfast.
Never challenge him publicly and don't talk bad about his siblings.
This confession can't be taken back, nor do you wish to, because it's true. You regret meeting him, and it was much better to wonder and guess, create images of a faceless man somewhere in the depths of your mind and fantasize about possibilities. How does one even go back to normal life after this?
(Not that any chance of doing so exists in the foreseeable future.)
"I figured, darlin'," Jacob says finally. His voice lacks anger, as if he expected those words one day or another, Jacob isn't naive or stupid and is surprisingly aware of himself in a lot of matters, of the fact that very little would want to end up where he dragged you and being imprisoned under the heavy metal chain doesn't add to fond memories either. "Fair enough."
In all months you two lived together, sharing food and space, in all months, he never kissed you.
Now he does.
His lips are chapped, dry and slightly rough.
You find yourself going rigid at first, unsure what to make out of it. It's different from what you imagined, the fantasy version seemed more... violent and harsh, less intimate and private. He breaks the kiss briefly and then resumes it again.
Slow-slow-quick, Jacob steals your breath away bit by bit until your head spins, until your hands feel clammy and then, when you think you can't take it any longer, he pulls back.
"Won't apologize 'bout the scars, pup. You deserved a lesson."
Your throat feels parched.
"But not of this kind. Never wanted it for you."
It doesn't sound apologetic, neither regretful, but it is what it is, probably the closest to it Jacob will ever be capable of. His hand strokes the back of your neck in slow and repetitive circles, and in an odd way, it does seem soothing.
He takes you to bed minutes later, maneuvers you closer under the sheets and turns off the light. The window is open letting in the sounds of evening wildlife: crickets chirp loudly nearby, some owl hoots in the distance; Montana smells different than other states. Sharper, wilder. You lie like this for a bit, curled against his side and he's always so fucking warm, a human furnace incarnate.
"The moment I saw the marking — I wished you never met me too."
R/N: we're dating, of course I'll ask to wear your clothes
Ghost: we're dating, of course I installed tracking apps in your phone so I can see where you are at all times because I'm afraid my enemies are going to kidnap you
R/N: are you being serious?
Ghost:....no it's for the video *camera cuts*
R/N: we're dating, of course I love when you get sick so I can baby you
Ghost: we're dating, of course I gave you that necklace that has a tracker in case you realise you have tracker on your phone and the necklace also has a camera and its not because I don't trust you but because my family was killed and now I fear you're next
SHOUTING ABOUT THIS FOREVER! Many, many thanks to @redreart for this lovely Jacob Seed tarot card!!! The details are insane! Cannot even begin to describe how beautiful this is, and how incredible it is to see ideas in my head come to life. Forever thankful we're friends 💖 IF YOU ARE CONSIDERING ART FROM @redreart, DO IT! You won't regret it, I promise!
Joseph and John are getting their own cards as well. 😊🥰
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