black horse

[bledsins]

i have many Thoughts about that Collapse dlc.

none of them are positive

[bledsins]

I have left tumblr

I’ve moved exclusively to discord. If we’ve interacted before you can ask for it. I’d say it’s been fun, but it hasn’t.

[trustymikh]

How to convert people 101

[hammerbuster]

[xbaebsae]

Don’t look at me, look at this glorious post by @johnathot-seed and blame her! Full Res Version here it’s probably worth it  ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) 

He’s supposed to be standing on sth with one leg but I cut it cause I didn’t vibe with the low res shoes

[hammerbuster]

[blissfulxpride]

Breaking

[bledsins]

blissfulxpride‌:

It’s the instant right after she answers him, says his most favored word, that time seems to slow to a crawl. Her senses are sharpened, and she takes in everything that she can; the way his eyes are hungry vortexes that are threatening to swallow her whole. The way his hands are strong and warm, the pads of his fingers slightly roughened against the skin of her throat. The sharp, crisp scent of his cologne as it swirls in her head and makes her weak for him… the way his knee nestles between her thighs, providing welcome friction that sets her body even more alight. Christ, by the time his lips fall onto hers, she’s surprised she isn’t charred to ash from the heat that’s only growing between them.

Something primal within her is stirred by the noise he makes, the almost feral declaration of triumph, and it has her own voice answering; a muffled cry of shock that’s swallowed almost completely by his lips, by his kiss, by his hunger. She’s still for just a moment, letting the taste of him hit her fully, before she’s arching into him even more, slanting her lips against his, panting in short breaths between molten contact. He’s savage and perfect. He’s like nothing she’s ever experienced before. He’s like wildfire sluicing through her veins, and she feels lightheaded, can hardly breathe as he stokes those fires hotter and brighter. She’d never thought burning alive would be so beautiful, and now she isn’t sure she ever wants to stop.

His grip on her wrist loosens, shifts, and she feels his long, strong fingers slide between hers and pin the back of her hand to the cool surface of the composite. Her own fingers curl against his and squeeze, anchoring him there, because if he moved from her now, there existed a very real possibility that she would simply cease to exist. The hand that holds his wrist slides down his bare forearm, fingertips dragging lightly against his skin until she reaches his elbow. Here, her trail halts, fingers tapping lightly against his inner elbow for just a moment, internally debating with herself, before they trail lower, brushing along the outer curve of his hip, desperately wishing to touch warm flesh instead. She wonders just briefly if she should tell him how long it’s actually been for her, but she can’t think of a way to say it without breaking the mood and possibly putting an abrupt and unfortunate end to things. So she keeps quiet, sure that it doesn’t matter in the long run anyway, and that any serious conversation could happen later, if need be.

It’s a thankful weight off her shoulders, and she boldly grabs his belt, reaches for the buckle while his lips leave scorch marks against her neck. She’s panting almost obscenely as he whispers in her ear. Briefly, she lets herself get drunk on the sound of her name from his lips, the way they feel as he says it against her skin. It’s something she will crave until the day she dies. He asks her what she wants, and she almost moans ‘everything’ before she gets her lustful mind under control. The way he whispers it, the way he bites at her skin sends shivers racing up and down her spine like little electric shocks. They short circuit her brain, leave her a trembling mess that is nearly incapable of speech. She can’t help how her skin prickles in response, how she cranes her neck just a little more to allow him better access. He asks her what she wants, and all she knows is that she’s his, forever and completely. Has been since the moment she looked into those blue, blue eyes in the church and felt her soul shift. Her voice sounds faint and needy, a plea for mercy as he plays her like a masterful musician. “You, always. Please, John…”

Oh, if the resistance could see their supposed savior now. Every reaction, every gasp and shudder that John can pull out of her with each lingering, burning kiss is a victory that he savours. And savour he does; the taste of her skin under his lips, the way she arches into him, the way she reacts to every lingering touch -- he’s spiralling into his own sin and he knows it but he can’t bring himself to care, he’s not felt this way in years. This isn’t some meaningless act to solidify the Deputy’s fall from grace, this isn’t him trying to ensure her loyalty to him by nefarious means; this is deeper than that, because everything that he sparks in her, he finds himself reflecting back at her. The feeling of her skin prickling at the brush of his lips across her pulsepoint has his own responding in kind, the soft gasps and pants that escape those flushed lips provokes a visceral reaction and when she tugs at his belt he lets himself be pulled forward. 

He presses her back against the wall, hips rolling against hers as he enjoys the friction it brings against the noticeable tightness in his jeans that borders on uncomfortable. Her words pull a huffed laugh from his lips before they return to hers, wanting and demanding, breaths stolen in gasps between the near desperate hunger. She’s a new drug, one that’s completely legal but just as dangerous as any that he may have dabbled with back in Atlanta and while his life may not be in danger from the overdose, the threat is just as real. There will be repercussions to this. John can’t bring himself to care. Again his lips stray, running a scalding line along her sharp jawline back towards that delicate spot on her neck where he can feel her blood hammering through her veins. The tip of his tongue rests on that thrumming spot for a second before his lips seal around it and he sucks, hard enough to pull the blood to the surface in a brilliant mark that would colour and tell the world exactly who she belonged to. It would not be the last he’d leave on her.

That free hand of his is wandering, running down the gentle curve of her breast and along the sweep of her thigh, deft fingers sweeping along the hem of her shirt before burrowing underneath. Slightly rough pads run along the smooth skin of her abdomen, brushing up the soft flesh of her stomach to the gentle flare of her ribcage, enjoying the lift and fall with every panted breath she takes under his ministrations. His fingers stop at the line of her bra, blunt fingernails gently scoring the underside, teasing and full of intent. The fingers intertwined with her own, lifted high above their heads, flex in her grip as his lips follow the line of her jugular down towards her collarbone, leaving a trail of bright red marks in his wake. 

Hips roll again, the pressure in his jeans almost unbearable and desperate for some kind of friction -- but his self control is strong enough to stop him from doing more than he is even though he desperately wants to. His lips are back on hers in a heartbeat as soon as he reaches her shirt collar, sucking on her bottom lip in a slow tease as that free hand extracts itself from where inked fingers were kneading the soft flesh of her ribcage. They now grab the bottom hem of her shirt, tugging it up in a not-so subtle demand for her to remove it to give him better access, but she’d have to let go of his hand for them to get any further. 

@blissfulxpride​

[spicevalleys-deactivated2025012]

“cause this ship is sinking past the whiskey give me my last cigarette tell my father it was worth it oh my friends, this is the end, this is the end”

AU where John survives the boss fight and takes some time to relax afterwards 🤔🤔

[adreamyassortment]

“Are they following me because they’re interested in rping or do they just need the follow-back follower count?”

I’ve been seeing this a lot lately and I understand if people get miffed about it. I would be too. And I think it’s a good call to try and interact with folks by calling attention to it.

let it be known though

if I follow you but we never rp, it’s not that i’m using you to get my follower count up.

I’m just rlly bad at making the first move.

Follower count doesn’t mean squat to me since I know that it usually ends up being like, dead blogs I’ll never see again. So yeah. 

This is a post where I’m encouraging you, the reader, to make the first move. Just try and talk to the people you follow, even if you don’t think they’d be interested in rping ( provided you follow their rules on contact, mutuals, ect ). Maybe they wanna rp? Maybe they don’t. Your chances can only increase if you come with an idea to bring to the table, so just try it!

Maybe a friendship will happen, maybe it won’t. But at the VERY LEAST you can say you tried.

[armoredmoon-deactivated20190704]

new wave indie rping: having a blog for the aesthetic of it. occasionally rp-ing unless you actually have the time/have super powers. tagging shit for ships that are further into the future than the actual ship. headcanoning becoming the norm. ditching the platform and passionately living in IMs/discord. feeling relaxed and less pressured. various timelines/aus for your ships bc all you do is headcanon with your partner(s)

[bledsins]

There’s a thin plume of white smoke curling upwards from the tip of the cigarette that dangles from inked fingers, it twitches and the ash falls onto the fire-blackened earth under it’s owner’s feet as he idly surveys the husk of what was Pastor Jerome’s Oldsmobile. Sharp blue eyes run the length of the burned out vehicle and follow the charred ground towards the treeline where it drifts upwards to the black skeletons of the trees that burned along with the car that night. Hand lifts, lips wrapping around the filter to take a long, slow draw and let the nicotine fill his lungs, the smoke held there before it’s let out in a pale cloud through pursed lips that’s followed with a sneer. It’s been a couple of days and the Oldsmobile still smoulders, deep in the heart of the wreck, and the acrid stench of the torched interior seems worse now with the heat of the fire gone. Fingers twitch again, knocking the ash into the shell as he made to move away from the husk and back towards the Cabin his men were ransacking, systematically pulling out all of the Boyd family belongings and piling them high onto the dirt driveway.

It’s the dried bloodstain that John stops at, just beside the passenger door of the white truck he’s commandeered for this little excursion. The spot where Drew had fallen after Mary May had pulled the trigger was now nearly black from where the blood’s soaked into the dusty soil and to the uninformed it could easily be mistaken for a leak from a vehicle. He stands in exactly the same spot he did that night, eyes running in a sweep around the treeline much like he had that night. How different things seem in the daylight, how obvious things could be missed in the dark. Cigarette back to his lips, John’s head cants slightly as the hill behind the house, at the covered spot just before the peak where it would be easy to hide in the long shadows the moon had cast that night. He’d known Will Boyd had been watching them from somewhere, he just wasn’t sure where. Had the conversation with Mary May been ten minutes longer, the group of three he’d sent to flank the property would have found the now wayward Boyd and -- given the owner of the car -- Jerome as well. 

Cigarette clamped between his lips, John turns his attention to the pile of personal belongings that Will had left behind when he’d joined Eden’s Gate nearly a decade ago. It was a sorry picture. Alongside the standard items like a mattress stained with mold and clothes that John could smell the stale on from where he stood there was things of greater poignancy -- children’s toys, photographs in frames with shattered glass, a woman’s makeup kit. The remnants of the family that Will had blamed himself for the death of. John remembers that Confession. He drops what’s left of the cigarette onto the dirt beside a small, brightly painted horse made of cheap, brittle plastic, eyes left to wander impassively towards the swing that swayed slightly in the light breeze. They had given Will a new start, a purpose, a good life -- and he’d thrown it all away for what was left of the Fairgraves. John wished he could say the man’s foolishness was unexpected, but Lonny had already given him enough evidence to shine a light on Will’s waning faith. 

“That’s everything, boss.” A voice snaps John out of his thoughts and his attention is pulled to the man stacking a pair of wooden chairs onto the pile. The smile that comes is easy, a hand gesturing towards the red container sat beside the steps up to the house in a wordless command which is acknowledged by a nod. The heady smell of gasoline fills the air as it’s poured over the pile and John heads back towards the dropped tail of the church truck and hauling himself up so he can sit on the edge. There’s a whoosh behind him as a match is tossed into the now highly flammable stack, fire catching instantly and going up as fast as the Oldsmobile did. John doesn’t bother looking back, instead he merely shakes another cigarette out from the packet he’d produced from the inside pocket of his coat and lights it with a match from the box sat in the truck bed next to the hunting rifle and ammo. All he has to do now, after all, is wait. 

@packhuntcr

[veinereastath]

I have sinned but do not forgive me lord because it’s too late for me anyway

[bledsins]

blissfulxpride‌:

Several more gunshots echo in the open air around them; these ones louder, weightier. Tali experiences a moment of terror as she meets the barrel of his gun, but it seems that whatever is causing her to miss has also affected him. His magnum may have wanted her blood, but either they were both suddenly the worst shots in the entire state, or something was going on here. She wants to scoff at his explanation of simply calling it divine intervention. Were there truly a divine anything, she wouldn’t have ended up face to face with this lunatic now. Just hearing the word divine come out of his lips was sacrilege. But something he says teases some distant part of her mind, and she falls silent in thought, ignoring for the moment as he rants and curses to himself.

Adam and Eve, he’d said. Everyone knows the tale, even those not raised in the faith. But there was another piece of the story far less spoken about. Movies had been made over and over about it, and would likely continue to be made. Men and women would use it in their wedding vows to show their absolute dedication, whether what they claimed was truth or not. It was the stuff of middle school teases and speculation, so rare that no one ever truly gave it any thought beyond the symbolic, because for it to be true on a physical level was about as likely as being mauled to death by a saber tooth tiger. He’d said it so flippantly, so off-handed, that she knows he’d been joking, but truly, what else would make sense?

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she whispers, eyes wide and flickering back and forth as if she’s reading invisible words in front of her. When she gazes up into his eyes, meets the blue that she finds has always rendered her somewhat mute and immovable, the sudden, sickening dawn of realization slides over her face and lights up her features in a brilliant display of horror. How could she have missed it before? Had she really been so willfully blind?

She takes a step back, suddenly aware of the truths she’s held back, and they all come rushing to meet her with full force. She’s drowning in the icy flow of this new revelation, and is so disoriented that she’s forced to lean against the trunk of a tree for support. It’s all there, she thinks to herself. All right there. That strange tightening in her chest whenever she sees him. The way his touch on her tingles ever-so-slightly, even when he was trying to torture her.

The way they cannot seem to kill one another, despite their best, most determined efforts.

Tali feels suddenly very, very small. She takes an extra second to come to terms, before she looks up at him again… and nearly chokes at the amount of blood that seems to be gushing from his side.

Fifteen minutes ago, she’d been shooting at his plane, hoping beyond hope that she would see him blown to kingdom come. Now? Now… the thought of his death, or even just his injury, brings along an almost overwhelming feeling of nausea. How quickly fate had wrangled her into submission.

Sighing, Tali reaches for the pack strapped against her back, and pulls out several bits of gauze and some bandages. The blood soaking through his clothing is dark, and there’s more there than she’s comfortable with. Wrapping it might help, but it was a temporary fix at best, and an ineffective one at worst. He needed a doctor.

Her expression is guarded, and yet it’s there in her eyes for anyone who knows what to look for- worry, actual concern for him, freshly cultivated in her wide gaze. She doesn’t want to be concerned, goddamnit, and yet, fate has decided she doesn’t get to be relieved of this. Her dark eyes gleam with wariness as she approaches, her hands held up and showing the items she’s holding, as if to show him she doesn’t intend harm. If only she was capable of that, she thinks to herself. It would solve her problems.

“You need help,” she urges, coming to a halt next to him. It’s the closest she’s been to him without being restrained or drugged, and now, he’s mortally wounded. It should make her feel powerful. Instead, she feels nothing but helpless dread manifest. If he dies, her own death will likely follow, and if nothing else, she holds enough self-preservation to try to avoid that. God, this whole situation chafes something fierce. Tali doesn’t want to want to be nice to him.  Not after everything… not after the monster he’s been, and the monster he’s forced her to become. But as she reaches for his vest, looks up at him again, then quickly flits her gaze back down to the task at hand, it’s like she knows no other way. He has to live, simply because something within her demands it. He might fight. He might threaten. But if he doesn’t let her do this, there’s no question that he will die, and that’s something that she cannot abide.

Despite the burn in his shoulder when he lifts his right arm, his hand lifts to his side to brace at the dull ache radiating from the soft, fleshy area just above his hip. The cloth there, he soon discovers, is soaking wet and a shaking hand comes away bright red. Breathing hitches and jaw clenches, he may be dying but he’ll be damned if he’s going to show weakness in front of the woman who’s wished him dead from the start. He’s not going to give her the satisfaction of seeing him suffer. If he were to look up, he’d surely see the cogs turning in her head, the screech of gears grinding to a halt as realisation hits her, but John’s too focused on keeping himself standing to pay any notice to the Deputy’s existential crisis just feet away. Instead, despite the foul-mouthed rant, his attention has drifted; eyes have rolled in his head as adrenaline starts to drain from him faster than his own blood is, leaving him leaden limbed and beyond tired.

Glassy gaze has lost focus somewhere on the blood splattered leaf litter between them, too busy fighting the urge to pitch backwards onto the hard ground to bother with the nonsensical fantasy bullshit that might be going on between them. Still gripping the gun, his hand comes up to brace against a nearby tree, a stifled whimper pressing forward from his lips despite his attempts to smother it, and it’s really only when the tip of her boot enters his peripheral does he snap back to reality. All fog that might have settled in those moments when she was busy figuring things out clears from his eyes in a moment and, for the first time in his life, he actively recoils from the threat. It’s fight or flight instinct, and right now he can’t do either. 

Teeth bare in a feral snarl as she approaches but the gun never moves from where it’s sandwiched between his palm and the rough bark of the tree. “You are a bigger fool than I initially thought if you believe that nonsense.” Soulmates don’t exist, after all. Maybe once upon a time they did, back when humanity was a small thing and people were more inclined to actively hurt each other; now there was billions of people on the planet and in first world countries they didn’t exactly go around actively trying to kill each other -- and even if they did, the odds were stacked against them. No, soulmates were a fairytale, a story told to children, touted by Hollywood and deluded idiots that were trying to convince themselves they were marrying the right person. Besides, if such a fairy tale existed, they didn’t happen to people like him -- or people like her. 

And if, on the slim chance that the impossible has happened, why would she waste time in trying to save him -- she’s lived her life as everyone else has, surely it wouldn’t be so hard to return to that? Especially given how she would have gleefully watched him and Affirmation go down in a fireball not ten minutes earlier. It just didn’t make sense.

The laugh that barks from him ends in a painful hiss, amusement turning into a grimace as pain radiates up from his side, across his shoulders, and down his arm. “And what help do you think you’re going to be with that little pad of gauze, huh?” Yet he doesn’t fight her when she comes close, mostly because he doesn’t have the energy, but because there’s something deep within him that wants her close, that refuses to let the darkness creep any further towards him. Something fearful, something he doesn’t want to acknowledge, because there’s the slim chance that the whole concept of soulmates might not be pure fantasy. “You really want to help? Radio my bunker. Get my men down here, and I promise I won’t let them shoot you on sight.”

[bledsins]

gremlin brain: but what if i brought back my john marston logic brain: bitch you can barely say active on one john, let alone two

[bledsins]

          Blood will stain the soil as the cries of the judged erupt in a chorus of anguish.                   The blade of righteousness shall cull the herd and smite the skeptic. 

[packhuntcr]

Symptoms of Withdrawal

[bledsins]

packhuntcr‌:

Human misery knew no bounds. 

No. It was a shape-shifter. One family struggled to keep food in their crying children’s bellies and a leaking roof over their heads, but on the other side of town–the wealthy side of town– their children cried just as much, simply for different reasons. With base needs fulfilled, anguish would simply move on to a new form; agony in another shape. Just look at the brothers eyeing one another, the disparity in which they had both grown to become men. Polar opposites and yet each as jaded by the world as the other. Jacob knew Joseph’s life was no kinder. There’d been glimpses of the scars–physical and otherwise– life had dealt the middle brother. 

There was one difference though. One thing that separated that in-between sibling from the bookends that regarded one another now. Joseph yet knew the taste of hope. Be it faith, or God, or simply some twist to his younger brother’s mind, Joseph believed there would come a reckoning for this sinful world. A death by fire and blood and sacrifice… but in the end, it would come clean. New growth, new life. A clean start. A chance to face a world with it’s base problems rather than the ones humanity created once it had been fed and housed. Sometimes the only way forward, was to go back.

Jacob watches the rings of sweat spread, poison dripping from his brother’s skin as those years of bitterness and misanthropy and his attempts to medicate them vacate his body. Never again would John smile at a stranger or truly believe in the kindness of his fellow man. That had been ripped from him with every blow, every abuse of power and body and soul. And yet… his little brother was starting to hope. Frail. Tenuous. But there was hope in the way John shrugged his ‘has to be better than this’. The hope of a man who has finally found bottom and knows that at least he can sink no lower so the only option left… was up. 

And maybe, just maybe… Jacob’s right there beside him.

Air rushes back into the cushions of the chair as Jacob stands, snagging the cool glass from John’s hand to refill it. The tap runs, crystal clear and mountain cool water at the touch of a lever and the older man lets it wash over his hands for a moment, pondering his position. He knows what Joseph wants of him. If John is to be the inquisitor, to use that chameleon’s mask and empty charm for Joseph’s vision then Jacob is to be Joseph’s protector. It’s what he was before… it’s what he continued to be, transferring that role and need to a new means, a new shape. “Our brother wants a protector… a soldier.” The glass fills, that clear cool stream cut off with a bump of an elbow before Jacob meanders back to the man consumed by plush cushions. Steady hands transfer the burden to shaky ones; wanting to help, but possessed with the wisdom of years to know better than to try. A man could only stand to have so much power stripped of him, could only be buffeted by the wills of others for so long… Jacob swallows, rubs a skeletal thumb over the old wound in his palm. “I don’t know if I can reckon who you and Joseph remember with… who I became. Or what I am now.” Whatever that is. That was the trouble when you stopped being. There’s a furrow between his brows, pale eyes fixed on the lush carpet into which John digs his toes. His exhale is a huff, too-thin shoulders rolling to ease a discomfort that isn’t just physical. “I don’t know if I can even be that anymore.” Become again that which broke him? Barrel down that same track twice? Because there was little difference in the two. Jacob would still answer to a higher power than himself, bleed for– maybe die for– another man’s mission. The only difference was to whom he would answer. And knew as little about the man his brother became as his brothers knew of him. Maybe less. 

Nails scrape against his scalp, a frown twisting his mouth at the tangled lengths. But Jacob finally looks up into the judgement of his baby brother’s dark eyes. Two men, so different yet in the same position. Nowhere else when the status quo was no longer enough. “But what else is there?” Because he can’t abandon them twice. And maybe that– that instinct, the traces of the boy with ideals and pride and brothers for which he would die– was enough. 

There’s a childish need to cling on to the nearly empty glass when Jacob goes to remove it from shaking hands, an urge to snatch it back and refuse to give it over even when he knows there’s no logic to it. Too many years having things removed forcefully from his grasp growing up in a pious household that believed that children should be seen and not heard, completely beholden to the whims of their parents. We provide for you so we say what you can and can’t have. It’s not that John sees Jacob as anything like the Duncans, but right now he’s an authority figure that’s forcing his little brother to endure the immediate symptoms of the removal of addiction from his system and John has a petty streak. But despite the desire to defend what he’s claimed as his, he surrenders the glass with only the lightest resistance that could easily be chalked up to unsteady hands over-compensating for their unnatural weakness by holding on that little bit too tightly.

Moments later, the sound of the rushing water and John flinches slightly, the sound too loud in over sensitive ears; it drowns out the droning of the air conditioning and low level hum of electronics that had been growing in volume the longer he’s without that artificial energy fizzing through his veins. Much like the way the somewhat dim lights of the living area are slowly being drowned out by the harsher, brighter lights of the kitchen area behind him. The world swims, senses assaulted by every stimulation at once to the point where his empty stomach churns and rolls like the sea in a storm. A now empty hand lifts so fingers, now cool from the missing glass, can press into his eyelids as he squeezes his eyes shut in an effort to hold back the tide. 

He hates this. Hates being so vulnerable in front of a brother he’s only just got back - because of the brother he’s just got back. He should be grateful because he’s not sure Joseph has the same conviction to force his baby brother to endure what needs to be done, but at the same time he can’t help but feel a spike of resentment. It’s not allowed to surface, John’s not so deep in the grip of withdrawal to let that base level viciousness attempt to sour a still (re)forming relationship, but his teeth grind in his skull anyway. 

It’s only Jacob’s voice that causes him to focus, even tho he can barely hear the hoarse tones over the roar of the water as it cascades into the sink and then the distinct ring of water flooding into the formerly empty glass before it’s cut off completely. In it’s place, the sudden emptiness rings in his ears and he can’t help the cringe that accompanies it. By now his body is just reacting to stimuli on it’s own accord regardless of it’s owners wishes and John hates that too. He hates not being in control even when he knows that the process with give him back more control in the end. Addiction wasn’t logical. He’s sure he’s used that case in defense of a client once before; the irony isn’t lost on him. 

“You speak as if we’re just going to send you back to where we pulled you from if you fail to live up to expectations.” It’s unfairly grumbled, his headache from being choked out earlier starting to return with a vengeance. The shake in his hands seems worse now from the moments before Jacob removed the glass, the ripples in the refreshed water noticeable before John rests the bottom on his formerly pressed and now crumpled suit pants, a ring of darkness bleeding out from the water droplets clustered on the base. Baby blues, pupils tight points in the center in reaction to the way every light is suddenly too bright, watch the way his left hand trembles as he turns it over to inspect the still weeping stitched line in the palm and scabbed over matching marks on the fingers. 

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” He echoes Jacob’s earlier statement back at him as he finally meets his eldest brother’s eyes and lets a lopsided smile slip onto his face. “Hell, I’d understand if you’d rather tell Joseph to go fuck himself. I think you’ve seen more than both of us combined, no one’s going to ask you to be something you don’t want to be.” At least John wasn’t, he’s still not got a fully fleshed out picture of Joseph yet even though it’s been a month. The middle brother is still a little too airy for John to get a solid grasp on yet. 

“When we -- when I -- went looking for you, there was no knowing who or what we’d find at the end of the search.” Because Joseph had tried to find Jacob first and came up empty and so it was left to John and his spider web of connections to follow the paper trail. In hindsight, Joseph’s reaction to Jacob being military should have raised questions but John was too wrapped up in the search. Now, with the man right in front of him, laying out the plan that Joseph had for him...it was hard to know what side to come down on. “Jacob, we just want you with us. Doesn’t matter what capacity.” He might be using ‘we’, but he’s speaking solely for himself. “But what you want is more important than any grand plan.”

[thatantisocialbitch]

Do not begin a fight with me because I play to win a war.

Current Threats (via thatantisocialbitch)