#bledsins

[ziinaak]

Rules

Not gonna rp with anyone under 21

Only gonna ship with [insert url here]

Private blog. 90% chance I’m not going to follow anyone beyond my ship partner.

Sideblog, follows back from @bledsins​

No politics unless we’re talking Skyrim politics

No, I don’t take criticism

There may be nsfw

No icons, little formatting, nothing fancy. Just trimmed posts to keep things neat.

Yes, I have a human!Alduin verse; no, I don’t care your opinion on it

I play fast and loose with the lore. I am under no compulsion to stick to anything canon.

I generally don’t care for your opinion on a lot of things, I’ve been rping for 25 years and have been on tumblr for 12 of those, I do things my way. You can’t ‘cancel’ me. Fuck off.

Alduin hates you, unless you’re a dragon. Remember that. 

The mun may hate you too, depends on you really.

[packhuntcr]

Symptoms of Withdrawal

Four houses from that dirty street in Rome could fit in this floor alone. Four. He wonders distantly how may were torn down to make room for it. Space enough for a cul-de-sac of impoverished misery and it was just John in this lonely high rise. At least, Joseph said that hard eyed man was John.

Joseph... Joseph he’d recognized immediately. Some breadth to his bony shoulders, power in that once bird-like chest. His hair is longer than their father would ever have allowed, but undeniably Joseph. That same strange, intense child he’d been since age eight now a strange, intense man. But Joseph. His Joseph. The man with him was unrecognizable. The shape was right, features distorted by years, but predictable. The same nose though it looks to have met a fist or three. The same Seed blue eyes. But there’s such hatred in them now. That handsome face is more inclined to sneer than smile. When he can find it in himself to want for anything, Jacob doesn’t want him to be John.

36 hours since Joseph last laid his hands on the marks of war one can see as if that alone could heal them; could heal the ones gone unseen. It’s the longest reprieve Jacob has had from his brother’s insistence that their suffering had purpose; that the three would never be separated again. It’s hard to believe such words when you’d screamed them yourself dragged away between the arms of two officers. He knew how quickly such promises fell to rot. Soles worn thin and tract-less are silent on the untainted white marble tiles. Soundlessly the soldier-- is he still?-- drifts through the halls laden with excess. A triangle of light falls from a door at the far end. Even from here rich, thick scents assault his sensitive nose: cologne, product, body-wash. Not a poor infantryman’s last can of body-spray, but every bit as stomach-roiling. His fingertips trail along the wall, a soft shushing sound easily covered by the shufflings of the man in the bath ahead.

John supposedly. Without care, a jacket-- the price of which could buy their childhood home twice over-- is tossed over the rim of the tub. Given that the Benjamin rolled and held in elegant fingers is treated with marginally more respect than toilet paper, it doesn’t surprise Jacob. It’s been a long, long time since John relied on Jacob to hoard, steal, borrow, or beg to keep his belly quiet. Why would he respect money as anything more than the paper that made it? Jacob leans a withered shoulder into the door frame, resting the worn toe of his boot against the tile as he watches. So John’s become an addict as well as an over-educated little shit clambering up society’s ladder. Jacob’s no stranger to vacant gazes, to ruined veins and bad teeth and a dusting of powder beneath a nose inclined to bleed. He’s seen it in the pitiless streets of Rome, the barracks and opium dens of desert lands. Even in the institutions that echoed with desperation like his brothers had plucked him from, where the desperate would spend whatever they could scrounge to forget just for a little while. This version is, prettier, more palatable. But no less weak. John was never meant to end up among them.

Something long disused curls in Jacob’s chest, makes his teeth grit. His voice, always rough and graveled, comes out barely louder than a whisper for its lack of use. A question he’d asked a thousand times as the gleeful face toddled to him, arms outstretched: “Whatcha doin’, little brother?”

@bledsins

[farcry5positivity]

“I need to confess my adoration for Banni [ @hollandvalleythotpatrol, @bledsins, @truckfix]. No matter the blog or format, Banni’s content is top notch and always pushes me to be better.

Not to mention her incredible patience and generosity as I figure out everything from this fandom to painfully inept attempts at photo manipulation. Friends for six years and I’m still not sick of her.

Here’s lookin’ at you, kid!”

[strongnotweak]

@bledsins (sc)

It seemed like more and more they were getting these sorts of calls. Calls about gatherings that were making some people nervous. Now, Pratt was the first one to think people were just being sensitive and that people were allowed to worship as they wished. Right? They didn’t have that much information yet on this new movement but they had to go check in and make sure everyone was A-Okay. Green uniform screamed what he was, hands on hips and thumbs curled into his sturdy belt. He looked like he thought he was some hot shit as he walked up onto the scene. The sermon must have finished up because people were talking amongst themselves. The podium was empty and Pratt took a sly look around for one of the Seeds without trying to look too much like he had that goal. 

A clearing of a throat behind him had Pratt nearly jumping out of his skin. He didn’t recognize the man who’d made the sound but he did know the other man.  John Seed. He’d seen him before when he and Hudson stopped by one of these shindigs but they usually spoke to Joseph. “Mr. Seed,” he greeted politely with a small nod, the badge on his chest glinting in the sun. “Old Tony gave us a call, your little meetin’ is making his customers nervous,” he started with a gesture over his shoulder at the diner across the street. “As I understand it, you’ve been buying up land -- surely you and your brother can move things to your own property?”

[thefcther-blog1]

It’s not the first time that Joseph believed they likely should have waited a few more months before making their great migration from the warm state of Georgia to the chilly climate of Montana. This state is more Canadian than American. Though the locals would never admit to that. All of their construction has been halted due to the snow. Everyone stagnates beneath the frigid temperatures and blankets of snow.

Small bunkhouses have been built to house them temporarily. They’re cramped but they keep the snow out. Most importantly, they keep his children warm. When they arrived at Hope County, winter was still grasping the land. Despite the fact that many other states were welcoming Spring, Montana seemed determined to hold onto the cold and snow just a bit longer.

Joseph, who has felt winter in his very bones during his period of homelessness, isn’t particularly fond of the lingering season. It draws too near memories of helplessness and hopelessness. To stave off those memories, he grounds himself in the present. In the work. For while they may not be able to build their bunkers, there is still work that can be done renovating the old and forgotten church. 

Only a spare few houses reside on this small island in the center of Hope County. Most have either gathered closer to the main town of the area, Fall’s End, or are dotted throughout the countryside where they can own large pieces of farm land. Because of this migration of work, the church was abandoned. Another was built in Fall’s End. Though they have only been here for a few weeks, Joseph knows that the man who calls himself a pastor of that church is named Jerome. 

He doesn’t know yet the state of Jerome’s soul. Though as a fellow man of faith, he hopes the pastor will see and understand his word. 

Joseph is writing in his book, reciting another sermon, when he notices a familiar truck. His brother is within. He immediately stops writing and tucks his book away to greet his brother. The time spent separated is too large of a gap for him to ever not miss his brother’s face now. 

“John,” he smiles once his brother gets out of the truck. Arms encircle him, hugging him tightly. A kiss is pressed to his forehead, and he pulls back but takes his baby brother’s face between his palms. “You’re here to share dinner, I hope?” he asked, gaze falling to a letter within his hand. “Is that what I think it is?”

@bledsins

[opheleian]

———  BASICS! ♡

NAME! ♡     sarah. PRONOUNS! ♡     she/her. ZODIAC SIGN! ♡     cancer. TAKEN OR SINGLE! ♡     single lmao.

———  THREE  FACTS! ♡

1! ♡     i did taekwon-do for two years and have a green belt with blue stripe.

2! ♡     i know this is common knowledge if you talk to me for 0.2 seconds bc i am unapologetically open about it and since it’s still pride month but i am bisexual!

3! ♡    i was diagnosed with epilepsy as a kid but i haven’t had to take meds for it for more than half my life now. apparently that’s a thing that you can “grow out of”, as my mum likes to put it lmao.

———  EXPERIENCE! ♡

PLATFORMS USED! ♡     tumblr, discord, various forum sites, facebook.

———  MUSE  PREFERENCE! ♡

GENDER! ♡     female and non-binary.

LEAST FAVOURITE FACE(S)! ♡    any of the extremely problematic ones, fam. dan stevens (besides one exception) because i have bad memories with a mun who used that fc.

MULTI OR SINGLE! ♡     either one, depends on what i’m feeling at the time. currently i only have two blogs, both of which are multimuses.

FLUFF / ANGST / SMUT! ♡    

FLUFF :   down for it! just not my go-to.

ANGST :   lmao for fucking sure.

SMUT :   i’m open to it but i have to be comfortable with the people i’m doing it with and i’m on-and-off with writing it in general.

PLOT / MEMES! ♡     i don’t mind either but i definitely do lean towards memes because they are easy ways to start interactions! but seriously, if you want to plot, hmu for some plotting even if i don’t post a plotting call or whatever. i’m more than likely going to be open and down for whatever you propose. also my inbox is definitely always open for memes, i’m just fucking lazy.

tagged  by :   stolen from @sanctemony and @prophesyr tagging :  @ofgehenna, @stagnantsaints, @cultfought, @openxstrings, @flashserpent, @mrazfell, @azirfell, @murios, @bledsins, @mlotov, @peacefulapostle, @ezerkenegdc, @devotioninked, @sagunita, and anyone else who wants to do this  ! 

[packhuntcr]

There's very soft classical music emanating from the record player in the corner, masking the gentle background hum of the electrics and overlayed by the constant tapping of keys on a keyboard. John doesn't look away from the screen except to occasionally glance at the print outs scattered across the elegant wooden desk as he types. That doesn't mean he's not aware of what his brother's doing in his peripheral vision. "Do I really have to tell you not to pick your nose, Jacob?"

The sun’s warm on his skin, streaming through the floor to ceiling glass as if solely to bathe him, to coax some of that decades old tension from his shoulders. Over the rhythmic clatter of the keys and Brahms, those long legs stretch out before him. The old soldier can almost forget the itch of new growth, the ragged beard and hair trimmed or sheared away completely mere days before. So too can he put aside the discomfort of clothes bought soft rather than worn that way. It’s harder to ignore the weight of the PA’s glower, not visible from this corner of John’s lush office. Felt though. Oh the pretty little blonde thing had not been happy to see him. From elation on greeting his suave baby brother to a look of near horror on seeing John’s scarred and silent shadow.  An eye cracks, returning the scowl though the sight-line is far from ideal. So far from ideal that the pale orb gets shaded again, leather creaking as he settles deeper into the chair’s embrace. Not worth it. She can scowl herself into early botox all she likes, it’ll have to be John who orders him away, not a secretary who’s credentials were revealed by a neckline rather than a CV. The thought makes Jacob smirk. He could almost fall asleep, can feel that welcoming blackness prowling just out of reach. Just out of reach. But so much closer than it’s been in a long while without the wolves nipping at its heels. 

Blunt nails, scrape against a cheek like a topographical map of Utah, shift to alleviate another itch... when his brother’s world-weary voice calls his attention. Again, Jacob distantly thinks he should feel something about such a call out. Likely embarrassed. Besides, this is just one more way in which their roles have reversed. John is the reason Jacob is fed, clothed, properly and entirely clean for the first time since 2003. John sent and paid for the doctor that ignored Jacob’s every snarl... though it took John and Joseph both to keep Jacob to merely snarling. But what’s to be done about it? What possible skill or means or paying his brother back does he possess? It’s that thought which provokes the shame, a tinge of color flaring in Jacob’s cheeks.  With a sigh, the offending digit ceases its ministrations, brushing against his jeans as if that made it cleaner. “Habit,” the soldier declares softly. “Maybe feral. Take your pick.” Wholly unapologetic though. He winces slightly, bringing back the slight bend in his knee where over-straightening made the joint protest. “She called the cops yet,” queried with a jerk of his chin toward the desk outside John’s closed office door. Can’t see her, but can still feel her scowl right through the wood. Determined little thing. He could almost admire it.

[packhuntcr]

‘ tourists give me heartburn. ’

He’s got a hip cocked against the dam’s railing, face turned into the warmth of the sun. It’ll be too soon before seven years of naught but the damp chill of concrete halls and buzzing LEDs are all they have. Much too soon for a man who can only just tolerate the relative liberty of walls above the Earth. Jacob indulges a long exhale, shifting so his back presses against the sun-baked metal. Arms fold across his midriff, the shifting of muscle causing half-closed sores to crack and weep. He doesn’t even notice. One of the few things he doesn’t. Instead he’s occupied watching the man he can only just recognize as his baby brother stomp up the steps as if each committed some personal offense. It’s a far, far cry from the bright-eyed child whose weeping Jacob had never been able to bear. 

The indignant tread is only half so amusing as when the youngest brother catches sight of a gaggle of tourists below. Over-packed, under-prepared and phones extended overhead in direct contradiction to the majesty of nature unfolded behind them. Jacob himself had frowned on noticing them. Soft. Weak. Everything wrong with humanity in this age of looming crisis. But John shares an expression with a man who’s just trod in a pile of dogshit. Tourists give me heartburn, indeed. One broad palm covers the curl to Jacob’s mouth, blunt-tipped fingers rasping against that red beard. It does nothing to conceal the amusement in eyes so much lighter than his brother’s. 

“Easy fix,” Jacob drawls, gesturing to the sheep in human form. And oh, he hasn’t even said it yet and his mouth is twisting into a smirk. “Stop eating them.”

[packhuntcr]

♥,♦

I wrote the fucking Old Testament of Seed family lore for this. Like pages on pages going all the way back to Old Mad Seed coming back from Vietnam. Mrs Seed being significantly younger than the Old Man, a member of the congregation, shotgun wedding and one hell of a scandal topped by a Baby Jacob that isn’t immediately recognizable as his father’s child. There was Joseph being haled as the actual ‘first born’ by the Old Man, fostering a touch of resentment between the elder boys. Resentment is a strong word, more so that between that and the fact that they’re so much closer in age, Jacob isn’t as bonded to Joseph as he is to John. Yaddah yaddah yaddah, other Baby Seeds between Joseph and John, babies that miscarried or were too weak and the family too poor to pull through due to Mrs. Seed’s failing mental/physical health and the effects of the Old Man’s drinking and age producing less virile, less healthy genetic material. John being the first baby to make it through the first few nights, to cry so determinedly that Jacob had to pick him up that the baby wouldn’t wake their father and rain hell down upon the lot of him. blah blah blah Jacob all but worshiping John because John gives him purpose, smiles at him, gives that angry, awkward, ginger teenager the love he so desperately needs. 

And, somewhere along the line,I both started to fucking hate it…and the bastard clammed up on me. So, the point of that ramble was to say: I tried. Maybe one day I’ll post it. But I’ve waited long enough.

So have this instead:

Jacob is dyslexic. Pretty damn severely too. Perhaps, had it been diagnosed earlier on and measures taken to help him work around it. There wasn’t much working in his favor though. Consider the deeply religious, impoverished environment in which Jacob was raised. Very likely, the only reading material available to him was a tattered King James Bible, the font in which was an absolute bitch for a dyslexic person to pin down, much less a farsighted kid just starting out. And it wasn’t read to him consistently. There was no time or particular inclination to read to the baby, no gentle Sesame Street ABC’s to guide him along. First day of kindergarten and Jacob was already behind. It wouldn’t get better.

Take a boy who’s unwanted at home, send him to school dirty in tattered clothes. Father’s a drunk, a disgraced preacher turned Rome’s Village Mad Man. The boy’s distracted, embarrassed, expects a blow from every raised hand. Being ginger is just insult to an already limping ego. He’s not the sort of kid to which already tight-strung teachers are inclined to take a liking. Other kids certainly won’t. Especially given Jacob’s inability to take a joke. A playground jibe gets answered with fists, especially after his brothers come along. Teachers are gonna be happy if Jacob doesn’t get in a fight that day. They won’t expect permission slips to be signed or homework completed. It’s easier just to let the boy coast along, push him on to the next grade so he can be someone else’s problem. It’s actually a relief to them when Old Mad Seed pulls the boys out of school when Jacob’s 12. They should have played that film way earlier.

It’s not until juvie that Jacob actually gets a handle on literacy. Up until that point, reading was passed off to Joseph. Baby John’s just learning to read or further along and gets stuck? Jacob looks to Joseph. Separate him from his brothers, from the world at large. Isolated, with the only bit of ‘freedom’ available being GED classes and all the study time in the world, Jacob figures out how to pin down letters that swim on the page. What else was there to do? But it’s never a strength and always a vulnerable point to his ego. For most of his life, he compensated with an incredible memory, charisma, and natural intelligence. Jacob’s dyslexia held him back from further promotion within the ranks because it does nothing but get more and more administrative. Exceptional soldier, exceptional leader, but not strong enough academically to promote past E-6.

Jacob’s un-diagnosed dyslexia continues to be a sore point in the events of Far Cry 5. It’s canon that the brothers communicate via letters in the game: letters from John to Joseph, John to a faithful, Joseph to a faithful, etc. Makes sense. There’s no cell service, phone lines are cut, and radios aren’t secure. But, I’ve yet to find any letters to or from Jacob. Handwriting around different facilities in the Whitetail Mountains doesn’t match the only example of Jacob’s hand we see:

Look at that. All caps. A hand that’s far from confident and well-practiced-- the way that man grips a pencil is abysmal and painful to look at. The ‘N’ is all but backwards. ‘WOLF DEN’ instead of ‘WOLF’S DEN’. I’ma amazed nothing is misspelled. @bledsins​ and I headcanon that John’s noticed Jacob’s preference for other forms of communication and indulges by sending recorded messages when possible or uses sans-serif fonts which are easier for dyslexic people to read. With the Chosen, Jacob delegates widespread communication to lieutenants or ‘addresses the troops’. Steps are taken to keep this weakness disguised, even from his brothers. He’s mildly envious of how well-read Joseph is and even more-so of John’s formal and extensive education. In a different life, Jacob had hoped to utilize the G.I. Bill to put himself through college. It would never come to fruition. 

None of this is to say Jacob’s-- or any individual with dyslexia-- unintelligent. Very far from it, in fact. He’s pretty handy, mathematically and scientifically inclined. In fact, it’s this that heavily contributes to his prowess as a sniper: Jacob  inherently gets the parabolic arc of a a bullet’s travel, he understands drop, the impact of weather and temperature. More importantly he can make the appropriate adjustments to counter it. His memory is goddamn impressive, able to retain and interpret mass amounts of information. It’s not at all uncommon to see him leaning against a wall, eyes closed, just processing everything he hears. He’s very hands-on and adept at muddling through things. He’s just not set up to easily reap information from the written word. He can grit his teeth and stubborn through it, but will always prefer a different method of delivery or steps taken to lessen the strain. 

[packhuntcr]

“That isn’t your blood. What did you do?”

The huff wheezes, pained, but still amused. Oh John’s faith in his big brother. Still so strong. 

“While I appreciate the vote of confidence…”  Warmth oozes through his fingers, proof that pressure on his hip is growing weaker.  “You’re only part right.”

@bledsins

[packhuntcr]

20 Followers Tag

Tagged by @thirstyforjohnseed  Thanks! You’re great! Things should be done

Tagging: Lord, I dunno. I need to reach out to more of you. Y’all do you, boo.

Rules: Tag 20 followers who you want to know better, AND FORCE THEM TO ANSWER THE QUESTIONS OR BE SENTENCED TO DEATH.

Nicknames: Mikki, Mik, Doodle, FuckFace McGee

Gender: She/Her

Astrology Sign: Sagittarius

Sexuality: Bisexual

Hogwarts House: Slytherin thoughts, Hufflepuff mouth

Favorite Animal: Donkeys. Like horses, but smarter and less breakable.

Dream Trip: horseback tour of Ireland

Number of Blankets: Ideally like 4. I love the weight. But I live in Texas where I melt for more than half the year so there’s like .5 blankets. 

Where are you from: Born in Pennsylvania, grew up in the Midwest, living in East Texas. 

When you started this account: Has it been a week yet? Bless him...

Why you started this account: @bledsins  This beautiful bitch right here reverse psychologied me into loving one ginger Sasquatch bastard

[packhuntcr]

John doesn’t protest when returning the cigarette, merely takes one last pull and lifts his hands towards Jacob as much as his hobble will allow. He lets the last remainder of smoke out of his lungs in a slow exhale and watches the white curls gather around the brilliant white spotlights high above like a thin fog. The pounding in his head has dulled to a constant background rumble, no doubt eased slightly by both his more acceptable position and the hit of nicotine taking the edge off the desire to shake a couple of pills out of a bottle that was now, knowing Jacob, empty and in the bin. Lamentable, given that it was almost full. His own fault for getting caught, but was he really wrong in thinking that a man who had remained shut in his room for practically the entire time since he arrived would remain there until John knocked on his door? He’s sure there’s an old saying about complacency breeding…something or other, but his brain’s too foggy to really think about idioms while he also has to listen to Jacob.

And listen he does. His brother speaks as if he’s reading it off a script he’s gone over time and time again and John merely rolls his head sideways slightly to glance at the way the soldier’s sitting – almost a mirror image of his own defeated posture. They were a pathetic sight. God only knows what Joseph would make of the scene if he were to walk in right now. Part of John loathes the thought, he doesn’t want the middle brother to interrupt whatever was happening here, especially as it’s the most he’s spoken to Jacob since…

Well, since the fire.

That doesn’t mean he likes what he’s hearing. His head lolls forward, eyes finding the hands sat limp in his lap but not really seeing. No, he’s focused solely on a few key words and phrases that his brother had uttered, picking them out and running them over and over and over in his head. He’s not sure if it’s the withdrawal or the contempt that causes the taste of bile in the back of his throat but it’s soon overwritten by the distinctive tang of his own blood from where he’d unconsciously chewed on his own tongue a little too hard. Closed adoption. Oh, that had the Duncan’s filthy fingerprints all over it. A long buried hatred stirs in his breast, roiling like a serpent preparing to strike and sink it’s venom straight into his heart. Baby blues have grown dark under the heavy brow that’s drawn down, rage bubbling just under the surface and threatening to boil over at the slightest word. His teeth grind in his head, jaw working as he chews those two words over until they’re nothing but toxic mush that he wants to spit out but instead he forces himself to swallow past the knot in his throat.

There’s a spike, a flicker of rage that burns like a solar flare and causes him to jerk, to tug violently at his restraints in a sudden shift that, for a brief second, threatens the very toilet he’s tied to. If anything, his apartment is lucky he’s hobbled right now, as it’s suffered at his temper before, and somewhere in the back of his head he’s grateful that he won’t have to replace his coffee table and mirrors again. His chest heaves as he slumps back, folding in on himself slightly in defeat having only managed to pull the rope around his wrists that little big tighter. “Fucking closed adoption.” It comes out with a bitter, bitter laugh, full of spite and devoid of any humour. “I wish, I really wish I could be fucking surprised by that.” But he’s not. Not in the slightest. The laugh turns into a dry sob but he’ll be fucked if he’s going to cry in front of his brother.

“After the fire, we got sent back to the group home but uh…they split us up. Something about us being trouble when we’re together.” And oh how he’d screamed because he’d just watched one brother get taken away and now he was losing the other too. It was futile, of course. “The Duncans wouldn’t have taken Joseph anyway, he was too old and too weird. And they would’ve taken one look at my record, saw that you were in juvie and…that would’ve been that. They certainly wouldn’t want that blemish anywhere near their pristine reputation.” There’s almost a cold monotony in his voice; he hates trying to think like his parents, hates trying to reason away what they did. It makes him feel ill. “They would tell me to forget you. That John Duncan was an only child. Eventually I just…believed them.” He had no choice.

There’s always a moment after anything terrible has happened. This moment of disbelief as the conscious refuses to accept the information with which the senses flood it. No. Not here. Surely not here, not now? It’s why they trained, pushed you through drill after drill so that moment of disbelief wouldn’t get you killed. Wouldn’t cause you to get killed those around you. Train over and over and over so that you don’t need to think, don’t need to push past, you can just do. All the bombs, the dirt and shrapnel that have pierced his flesh, the flashes of muzzles: it doesn’t take Jacob long to push past even in as morose as state as he’d occupied. John explodes, contained only by the length of his hobble and Jacob’s skittered to his feet. Too long out of practice though as John’s all but quieted by the time the soldier kneels in front of his brother. With an excess of caution, as if his muscles no longer remember gentleness, a single finger hooks into the navy silk bindings.

As John colors in the gaps, Jacob works the rope, coaxing a touch of slack here to ease the bite there. The delicate flesh beneath has gone red, threatening a rawness and bruising to come. A tsk bites between them, his jaw setting. He may well have been the one to anchor John like this, but the idiot wasn’t supposed to use it to hurt himself. “D’you feel better now? Your little tantrum fix a whole lot for you?” His battered knees grind, no longer up holding the crouch so the soldier straightens with a groan. That rough hand brusquely brushes back John’s mussed hair, the older brother in him refusing to be contained now that it’s seeped through. Laying on a sponge-thin mattress with the buzz of LEDs singing him through the night, he'd always hoped they'd keep John and Joseph together. Precisely for the reasons John detailed: Joseph was strange. A sweet kid, wickedly intelligent, but he had an intensity that unsettled, left people whispering. Maybe John's brightness could have balanced things, left the pair to comfort one another. Unfortunately, it seems people had stronger feelings about separating puppies than brothers. It makes Jacob's lip twitch in a mockery of a smile.“Have a feeling we wouldn’t have gotten on,” he rumbles, stepping into the bath. It doesn’t feel right, lording above his brother. Not that he’s ever minded the literal difference in standing any other time he's done this before. But, before, it wasn't John. Draped across the porcelain, he finally hands back the cigarette, oblivious that he hasn’t even taken a hit from it. The reach confirms it.

Marks criss-cross the back of John’s left hand, lines where force has split tender skin, the pinky sitting not-quite-right. That pale gaze lingers, too easily imagining what had left scars long since gone pale with age. So it's more than just mental marks. Jacob's gruff voice rumbles from his chest, reverberating off the rooms hard surfaces like an echo chamber, "they tried."

A red brow arches, the elder intently holding his brother's gaze."but they didn't manage to beat us out of you, did they, John? Woulda just told Joseph to go fuck himself if they had."

His head shakes, too long hair flopping into his eyes. God he'll have to get that fixed. I'll drive him mad. "never should have set that fire"

Symptoms of Withdrawal