#anyway jacob seed is sexist 2023

[direwombat]

Havent seen any wips today so im just gonna go ahead and post what i slammed out last night

Tagged last week by @kittiofdoom

Tagging @socially-awkward-skeleton, @adelaidedrubman, @detectivelokis, @baldurrs, @strangefable, @fourlittleseedlings, @confidentandgood, @sstewyhosseini, @purplehairsecretlair , @roofgeese, @funkypoacher, @poetikat, @aceghosts and anyone else with something to share (but also no pressure!)

Here's a fully self indulgent scene from MUCH later on in kneeling at the crossroads where jacob officially falls in love with syb. Brief context is that he found her in a near hypothermic state in the woods and took her back to the closest cabin. this takes place after her body temperature is back up to (mostly) normal

In the few minutes it takes for Jacob to go out to the shed to retrieve more firewood, Sybille has pulled on a set of the cabin’s previous inhabitants clothes and has gone to work raiding their pantry. Between the rabbits Jacob had caught the previous night before he found her shivering on the ground and the mason jars of vegetables she finds in the cupboards, she has enough to make a halfway decent rabbit stew. Throwing on an apron, she clears the counter and begins skinning and gutting the rabbits.

She doesn’t look up from her butchering when Jacob walks back through the door, a stack of chopped and dried wood tucked under his arm. The heavy thuds of his bootsteps stop abruptly and the door clatters shut behind him. “You should be in bed,” is all he says.

She looks up, glaring at him as she rips the fur from a rabbit's body, perhaps a bit more violently than she intends. The tremor in her bones has yet to subside, but she’ll be damned if she sits aside like a helpless waif while Jacob does all the work.

“You ain’t a nurse and I ain’t a child to be taken care of,” she says. Her attention focuses back to the dead animal as she slides a short-bladed poultry knife across its belly, mindful not to pierce the intestines. “B’sides,” she continues, pulling the guts from its abdomen, “if I have to eat another thing straight from a goddamn tin can, I swear to God, Jacob, I will riot.”

For a long moment, the only sound filling the cabin is the squelching as she thoroughly disembowels the animal. Blood and viscera cover her hands, and when she realizes Jacob hasn’t moved from where he stands, rooted by the front door, she clenches her jaw and glares at him once more.

And just for a moment, the sharpness to her gaze falters. The way he’s looking at her isn’t one she’s seen before. Hunger, lust, anger -- she’s seen all sorts of dark and sordid things burning in his eyes during her many, but brief, encounters with him. But what swims behind that unwavering glacial stare is beyond her comprehension. Were it worn by anyone else, she might have called it gentle or soft.

But Jacob Seed is not a soft or gentle man. She’s fucked him and walked away with bruises and an ache in her hips often enough to know.

Her canines flash dangerously. “You got somethin’ to say?” she snaps.

“No,” he says shortly, and he turns away, moving towards the fireplace with stilted steps. She scoffs and rolls her eyes, but she can’t help but notice the way the tips of his ears glow a bright pink.

It must still be cold outside.

He restokes the fire, and she’s grateful for the heat that quickly blossoms through the living space and kitchen. The chill had returned to her fingers, but as the fire warms and as she kicks on the gas stove to begin cooking, the trembling subsides. She throws butter into a cast iron skillet to brown the meat while sautee-ing a medley of vegetables in even more butter in an old and well loved Dutch Oven. The wafting aroma of garlic, onions, and cooking meat swirls around the cabin, and while her stomach growls loudly, for the first time in weeks, she’s actually excited for her next meal.

Even more so when she finds fresh thyme growing in the window box above the sink.

She busies herself, cleaning as she goes to keep the mess to a minimum and giving the pot the occasional stir after she’s dumped all the ingredients into the stock. All the while, she hums old French songs from the records her maman used to play.

Things feel…normal. Like if she closes her eyes, she can pretend she’s back in that little house in Falls End and it’s her brother sitting on the couch. He would come up behind her and sneak a bite. She’d whack him on the hand with the wooden spoon, but then they’d both laugh -- Dear God, when was the last time she laughed?

But that little nagging voice -- the one that won’t let her have nice things; the one that keeps her alive -- reminds her that things aren’t normal. The man sitting on the couch isn’t her brother. The man sitting on the couch has repeatedly hurt her and the ones she’s sworn to protect. She wipes her hands on her apron and looks at him, just barely making eye contact before he swiftly averts his gaze to stare at fire dancing on the logs.

Things aren’t normal. Things aren’t ever going to be normal again.

But maybe…maybe here in a cabin tucked away from the rest of the world, she can pretend for just a while longer.

She gives the pot another stir, testing its thickness. It’s a little on the watery side, but well within an acceptable range for something nice and hearty. Bringing the spoon to her lips, she gives it a taste as well. Her eyes roll back into her skull and the moan she lets out is embarrassingly orgasmic. Jesus Christ, it’s been so long since she’s had a hot meal.

And then, without thinking, she calls Jacob over. “Hey,” she yells over her shoulder. “Get your ass over here.”

There’s a beat of hesitation before there’s the sound of a body lifting off a leather couch. Jacob awkwardly ambles into the kitchen, coming to stand on the other side of the island counter.

Choosing to ignore the strange distance he left between them, she dips the spoon into the pot, scooping up some stew before holding it out to him. A ritual leftover from her life before the Reaping. One inherited from her maman. “Here,” she says. “Tell me what you think.”

He stares at it, steam rising up from the chunks of meat and carrot. Then, his eyes flick to hers, meeting them with an equal intensity.

She scoffs. “I ain’t poisonin’ you, if that’s what you’re worryin’ about. You know I’d stab you in your front.” She pushes the spoon closer towards him. “C’mon.”

Slowly, he circles around the counter and stands in front of her. His eyes dart between the spoon and her face just for a moment before he’s tentatively brushing his fingers over her hand where it grips the handle. Rough calluses drag against the comparatively softer skin of the back of her hand leaving sparks in its wake. Her breathing hitches and heart flutters peculiarly -- fear instinct, she tells herself; he could so easily break her wrist if he wanted.

But he doesn’t.

His hand settles over hers, dwarfing it completely. Nice and warm, like it belongs there. He leans down, eyes falling shut as he brings his mouth to the spoon’s bowl. She never noticed how long his eyelashes were. His lips smack wetly against the wood and she holds her breath as he draws back. His eyes remain closed as he chews, thoughtfully savoring every single flavor he possibly can.

Her heart thuds in her chest and she’s sure he can feel it where he holds her hand. She looks at him expectantly and when he finally swallows and opens his eyes, that strange look he had given her before is back.

“Well?” she asks, swallowing thickly.

“It’s, uh…” he coughs awkwardly and snatches his hand away. “It’s good.”

Sybille lifts her brows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he grunts.

That breath she’d been holding releases, but her heartbeat has yet to slow. “Good,” she says, turning away, submerging the spoon back into the stew and hiding the flush crawling up her neck. “Because you’re helping me eat it. And if you add salt or pepper, I will be offended.” She gives him a quick glance from the corner of her eye, finding him looking adorably uncomfortable. “I’m kidding.”

Her lips quirk up. “Mostly.”