#but i'm not the kind to sit on things. i crave that instant gratification of posting my work the second it's finished

[direwombat]

run, rabbit, run | kit cross x sybille la roux x jacob seed | ~2k | M

much love to @socially-awkward-skeleton​, for letting me borrow kit and play dolls with her, i hope I did her justice <3

All Sybille wants is one good day. 

Strike that.

All Sybille wants is a day that isn’t bad. Perhaps a middling, uneventful one, if God could spare the generosity. One that she can look back on and say, “Yup, nothing exciting happened, and it was great.” She’d give just about anything for a fucking break. A single day to catch her breath from the ragged pace she’s been pushed into.

But apparently that’s too much for her to ask, because everything is going downhill with the speed and force of a goddamn avalanche. The Valley is free, but John fled to Joseph’s island before she could take him into custody. Rachel is safe and the smothering clouds of Bliss are slowly blowing East, out of the Henbane, but she lost Cross to whatever the fuck is going on in the mountains.

One second the two had been drawing up battle plans to take Joseph down.

The next, her former coworker (and friend if she’s feeling generous) was sliding a bowl of what Sybille chooses to believe was raw ground beef through the bars of the cage holding her hostage.

She did her trials, and this time someone was kind enough to leave her next to the bloody pile of those who died by her hands, rather than on top of it. 

But the amount of time given to lick her wounds has been getting noticeably shorter. 

She runs, pumping her arms and legs until her breath goes ragged and the taste of copper tickles the back of her throat. The frigid pre-dawn air pierces her lungs like ice with every inhale while her muscles burn with exertion. 

The worst part is that she has no idea how long they’ve been tracking her. It’s only within the past hour they’ve decided to close in. The Chosen hunting parties were annoying, but she knew how to avoid them. But of course, that meant Jacob started hunting her down himself. That was bad enough. At least when it was just him, her odds of escaping were a coin toss — it could go either way. But having both Jacob and Kit pursuing her? 

She’s fucked. 

All she can do is be smart about where she runs and pray she’s faster than they are. 

Clawing branches rake over her skin and clothes, slicing shallow cuts and ripping strips of fabric from her body. At this point, she barely feels it over her thudding pulse and her feet pounding against the forest floor. The blood beading on her face and the ache in her bones are nothing compared to the beautiful and excruciating agony that will likely come when they catch her. 

When, she realizes dreadfully. Not if.

She sees the trap coming long before she stumbles into it, but the momentum she’s built isn’t stopped so easily. It’s little more than a flash of red hair darting through the densely grown trees, but it’s enough to tip her off. She’s heading straight for one of them — Kit, she thinks. Not tall enough to be Jacob — but she’s locked in her current trajectory. Any kind of pivot now would just break her ankle. 

It all happens so fast. 

A whistle rings out.

She dares to look behind her. Jacob is there, his rifle in his hands, but he isn’t aiming it. 

Pain explodes in her shoulder and the force of the arrow’s impact is enough to knock her down. She falls, ass-over-teakettle, down a sloping hill. 

She’s lucky she didn’t break her goddamn neck. 

A creaking moan is pushed from her lungs as she lay stunned in the dirt and pine needles. Slowly, she pushes herself to her hands and knees, feebly attempting to catch her breath. The world bends and swims as she moves her head, and she’s not sure whether it’s because she hit her head or if it’s from the Bliss so crudely injected into her bloodstream. With a grunt, she breaks the fletching from the shaft, but makes no move to push the arrowhead through. If history serves, someone will take care of that for her once she’s unconscious. 

For now, she moves with trembling limbs, crawling to the closest tree and seating herself against its trunk. Pressing her hand to the wound and applying pressure, she watches as Kit and Jacob stalk down the hill towards her. 

“This is gonna get old, eventually,” she says as they close the distance. Fuck her lungs ache. She spits out a thick wad of foamy phlegm into the dirt beside her. “This can’t go on forever.”

“Maybe for you,” Jacob says. He swings his rifle by its strap as he shoulders it, coming to crouch in front of her.

Kit circles around the tree, leisurely twirling her hunting knife in her hand before stopping and squatting beside her as well. “Getting tired, Bunny?” she asks, and were it not for the hungry gleam in those icy eyes, Sybille might have thought she was bored. 

“You know how these things work,” Jacob says condescendingly. “You run, we hunt. Predators need prey, Deputy, and that’s what you are to us.”

Sybille rolls her eyes and scoffs, but it isn’t enough to hide her body’s betrayal. For some sick fucking reason, hearing him put it so bluntly causes her pulse to flutter and heat pool low in her gut. She squirms just enough where she sits to get Jacob’s teeth to flash dangerously. “I think our little Jackrabbit likes that idea,” he says to Kit. Then he turns his attention back to her, his voice dropping lecherously. “That what you want, pet? You want us to keep hunting you down? Do whatever we want when we catch you?”  

He makes no attempt to hide the way his eyes rove over her body, pausing only to admire the low dip of her tanktop’s collar and the way blood smears tantalizingly over her skin. 

And as fucked up as it is, the notion makes Sybille’s cunt clench, and her underwear, already damp with sweat, grows even wetter. The idea of being pinned beneath the two of them, their teeth at her throat — helpless, caught, consumed; Jacob fucking into her while Kit sits on her face, the two taking their pleasure from her with only the barest regard for her own — is one that excites her more than she cares to admit. She swallows thickly, her chin tilting up in what she tells herself is defiance, but is actually little more than a means to bear her throat. 

When she doesn’t answer immediately, Kit’s fingers thread through her hair, almost tenderly, before gripping her roughly by the roots and yanking her head back. “You’ve been asked a question, Bunny. You should probably answer,” Kit coos, all false kindness and venomously saccharine. Then, she leans in close, nipping at Sybille’s earlobe, and trailing the edge of her blade across the exposed skin of her sternum. “But between you and me, it’s more fun if you don’t.”

Everything about this is utterly humiliating, and the mercy of a Bliss induced sleep evades her. She supposes her God isn’t a merciful one, after all. Her eyes flutter shut and she lets out a shuddering breath. “Yes, sir,” she says. A flush blooms far too hot across her face. 

Kit pulls on her hair again, nails digging into her scalp, causing her eyes to fly open as she cries out in surprise. “At attention, soldier,” Kit sneers. “Eyes on your superior.”

The growl in response that Sybille lets out is low, but ultimately toothless. Nothing more than the sounds of a cornered animal long since beaten into submission. She refrains from hissing an incredibly petty, I outranked you at the woman tugging at her hair. As if the ranks they held in their former lives meant anything anymore. As if she spent more than just a few weeks as a Staff Sergeant before getting herself blown up and sent home.

She may gnash her teeth, but she knows better than to bite. The muzzle trained her well. 

Jacob takes her jaw in one of his massive hands, further pinning her in place and forcing eye contact. “Yes, sir, what?” he asks. The smile tugging at his lips is infuriatingly smug. Victorious. At this point, they’re just playing with their food. 

She has half a mind to spit in his face. Probably would have if Kit weren’t there to swiftly put her in her place — although, her stomach flips in a way that makes her think she may not mind that. Instead, she flares her nostrils and swallows what little pride she has left like a bitter pill. “Yes, sir. I want that.”

He clicks his tongue, moving his hand just enough to press his thumb to her chapped and bleeding lower lip. It takes every ounce of restraint she has not to swipe her tongue out and draw the finger into her mouth. “Use your words,” he tuts. 

Maybe it’s the blood loss or maybe it’s the Bliss, but her mind is so foggy that the words slip out far easier than she thought they would. “I want you both to keep hunting me,” she says, her eyes hazily drifting between the two of them. Her voice sounds so distant in her own ears and she barely recognizes the sound of it, thick and rasping with desire. “Want you to claim me when you catch me.” 

Kit makes a low, pleased sound. Her grip in Sybille’s hair loosens, but she doesn’t let go entirely. Not yet. Just how she’s still managing to cling to consciousness despite the weight of her eyelids, so too does Kit keep her locked in place. Neither of them have been dismissed yet. 

He swipes his thumb across Sybille’s cheek, smearing the blood from one of the many scratches. “Good girl,” he says, before moving in for a bruising kiss. He crashes his mouth  against hers, his demanding tongue pushing past the seam of her lips and prying them open. She moans, her free hand darting out to claw her fingers into his field jacket, unsure of whether she’s trying to push him away or draw him closer. 

The heat of Kit’s body closes in and the cold kiss of her blade is instead replaced by her hand at the base of Sybille's throat. Another tongue licks inside her mouth, causing her to shudder and for her eyes to roll back in her head. The feeling is so foreign, so overwhelming. She’s kissed both of them — Kit only once in a moment of mutual weakness, and Jacob many times against her better judgment — and her experiences have left her dizzy and breathless. 

This time is no different. 

The intensity of both of them combine and multiply exponentially. Biting teeth, probing tongues, Jacob gripping her jaw like a vice so she can’t move — only take what they’re giving her — and Kit’s hand squeezes just enough to restrict airflow without outright strangling her. Her back arches against the trunk of the tree holding her upright as they both steal the breath from her lungs, hungry and consuming. Claiming. 

Just as she asked.

By the time they part, Sybille is about ready to pass out. Without Kit or Jacob supporting her head, it rolls like it’s too heavy for her neck to support. The fingers gripping Jacob’s jacket loosen and her arms drop like lead. She sighs, looking pathetically at both of them as her vision begins to blur. “I don’t…I don’t think I can move,” she breathes.

“I know, sweetheart,” Jacob says, and he ruffles her hair like she’s a fucking dog. Even more embarrassingly, she leans into it like she’s one, too. Then he’s lifting her from where she sits on the forest floor. He’s careful enough to avoid jostling the arrow in her shoulder, although at this point, she’s numb enough that he could probably push it through without her feeling a damn thing. He heaves her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and he says, “Let’s get you home.”

“M’re trials?” she slurs sleepily. 

“Not the kind you’re used to,” he answers, rising to his feet. Kit does the same and  gives her a knowing smirk. Something playfully malicious glitters in blue eyes. 

But before Sybille can ask what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, the Bliss finally pulls her under.