━━━━ ˗`ˏ Run Rabbit, Run Rabbit ❥ ˎˊ˗
In which ━━ your ex!Shane Maguire doesn’t like it when you try to run away from him
#WARNING(S). Stalking, implied kidnapping(?), blood injuries, primal play(?)
"Stupid rabbit," Shane muttered, spitting a glob of blood onto the damp leaves. It landed with a quiet plop, dark against the moss. His tongue probed the split in his lip—coppery. You'd clocked him good with that rock. Not enough to hurt him, though.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing red across his greying stubble. His breath came ragged, not from exhaustion but from the fury simmering beneath his skin.
The blood welled up again, thick and warm, seeping between his teeth like old rust. Shane chuckled, low and rasping, as it dripped down his chin in lazy streaks. He didn’t bother wiping it this time—let it pool in the hollow of his throat, sticky under the collar of his threadbare shirt.
His tongue flicked out, catching a drop at the corner of his mouth, and the taste of iron made his pulse jump.
"Stupid fucking bunny," he breathed, the words garbled by the blood and spit clotting his tongue, “Think you can just... hop away?"
He exhaled slow, letting the rifle settle against his shoulder, the cold metal kissing his cheekbone. Through the lens, the forest stretched in shades of green and shadow, branches weaving a latticework of escape routes.
His teeth clicked against the scope's edge. "C'mon, bunny," he murmured, breath fogging the glass, "Show me those pretty little paws”
A flicker of movement—there. Behind the rotting oak, where the ferns grew thick enough to hide a trembling body. Shane's grin split his lip wider, fresh blood beading along the seam. The taste was better than whiskey. He adjusted the focus, dialing in until he could see the rapid rise and fall of your chest beneath that stupid flimsy dress he bought you on a whim, “ There you are” he crooned, voice honey-thick with false gentleness. The kind of tone you'd use to coax a spooked animal from under a porch.
The scope traced the line of your bare calf where you'd torn your stockings scrambling through brambles. His tongue clicked, “Shoulda’ dressed for the weather, bunny” Not that he minded the view—the way the damp fabric clung to your thighs, the shudder that went through you when a branch snapped somewhere to your left. You flinched so prettily. Shane's finger hovered over the trigger guard, tapping once, twice. He could take the shot now. Pop you right through that delicate collarbone, watch you fold like paper. But where was the fun in that?
Shane pursed his lips and let out a sharp, lilting whistle—the kind that could cut through wind and leaves, the kind you’d hear even with your pulse hammering in your ears. He knew you’d catch it. Knew you’d freeze mid-step, breath hitching, because the sound was too deliberate, too close.
He let the note linger, then dropped it low, muttering underneath his breath, “ Run rabbit, run rabbit—“ The words slithered out between his teeth, singsong and taunting.
He couldn’t help the grin that split his face wider, fresh blood welling at the corner of his mouth. The sting was delicious. You bolted—a frantic scramble through the underbrush, dress snagging on thorns, feet slipping in the damp earth. Shane exhaled through his nose, tracking your clumsy movements through the scope. The crosshairs danced over your back, your legs, the nape of your neck where sweat-slick hair clung to your skin. He could almost taste the panic rolling off you, thick as the copper on his tongue.