Javier

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Letters To John To Joseph To Jacob Use me, abuse me, break me And then came a sound... Between poetic and unhinged

Fanfiction John worshipping Joseph John suffering (sketch) One of his greatest regrets When we go down... Confess The branding (sketch) His promise Cull the herd I don't care if it hurts...

NSFW My opinion on selfpleasuring Seeds John×OC (sketch) Selfpleasuring Seeds (sketch) A better Faith (sketch) That restless night (Jacob×OC) Jacob taking a shower

Requests, gifts, etc Random smut pieces Your face is up against mine...

Random things JanitorAI Seeds Analyzing John Seed family poetry Seeds as parents, pt.1 Seeds as parents, pt.2 Seeds as parents, pt.3 Jacob and John Headcanons Seeds and their beards

About (free) texts that I can write to you:

I usually only write smut or violence, any level of details

My primary language is Russian, therefore I can make some mistakes, sorry for that

I can write both on English and Russian, tho!

I can also write poetry if you need it for some reason

I only do small texts (up to 1000 words)

No promises! I will only write your idea if I find it interesting for me to write (since it's free)

You can gift me something in exchange, I don't mind :)

You can ask for any kind of smut (homo, hetero, most of the kinks are fine) or violence (most of the kinks are fine x2)

No deadlines and no promises!!!

You can ask everywhere: in comments, in DM, in ask box, I don't mind, I'll find it

Jacob's bunker

Jacob did the best job to represent Joseph's presence and authority. His shrine is quite direct and accurately done: we have a heightened platform, we have a directive (Worship), we have Joseph's portrait. Lighting in this area is warm and bright, there are flowers that are taken care of. The pulpit is the same level with the pews (which are outside the screenshot), making the speaker (presumably Jacob) look equally below Joseph. It is a great way of saying: while I am your shepherd, I am not your main leader. And our leader is greater than us, and he brings light, warmth, and life to our existence.

He brutally opposes it with another section just next to the shrine: the Penance area. It is only decorated with two skulls and has little to no lighting. The machine gun can be aimed at the front, at the highest step of the platform. Here, Jacob says: if you deem yourself higher than us and our leader, you are to be executed on the spot you think you have any right to claim.

Thus, Jacob builds a perfectly structured way to control Joseph's narrative. You either worship Joseph and remember him even as he's away from you, or you are to be repentant. And well, you won't like the way it goes.

John's bunker

John's bunker has two small shrines: one in the common area, and one in his working/study area. Both settings are heavily intimate. There are no heightened areas. They look warm, welcoming.

In the common area, Joseph's portrait stands on the table. There is a carpet and even rather opulent pillows. As far as I can see, this setting indicates that you should pray on your knees, while looking at Joseph's portrait. Therefore, the carpet and pillows are to provide comfort. This is John's way of saying: I took care of you. While you pray, you are loved and comforted. His presence is near you, and if you be good enough, you could almost reach Him.

Simultaneously, there is his personal shrine. Maybe others are using it, too, considering the amount of candles. There are flowers, the Book, shackles, and some decals. No Joseph's portrait. No comfort offered, too. Just a few feet deeper into this room, and you will see John's working station where he tortures people for their sins. It is almost as if, while doing his job, he keeps returning to this private shrine just to remind himself that he doesn't do anything too bad. The end justifies the means.

But, truly… this scheme will not work. It will collapse sooner than later. As soon as they are isolated with John as their sole leader, he will take more control. It won't be about Joseph. Joseph will stop being the real leader and will turn into the instrument. Like in any major religion nowadays, their "God" becomes a tool: Joseph is here, he loves you, he cares for you as long as you pray and obey. Yet, John is the one to provide comfort and punishment. John is the one to control the exposure. Who says you deserve worshipping today? Who says that I can't take His portrait, His holy presence away from you for your sins and misbehavior? You must repent, you must atone, you must obey. And I am the one and only source of true leadership here, and I will decide if you've atoned enough to be allowed to see Him again.

Faith's bunker

Faith's shrine is beautiful. The archways made of wood, the grass, a pulpit in the middle, and copies of the Book for everyone who'll take a pew to join.

But it's not Joseph's shrine. It's hers. It's not to worship Joseph. It's to worship the Project. While many players still see Faith as solely a victim, it is highly important to understand:

In an abuse cycle, a victim sooner or later transforms and takes on other roles if they are exposed to power.

It means that everyone who whispered about Faith being somehow worse or scarier than Joseph in her ethereality and holiness is basically correct. Once a victim, she received enough power to transform into someone who can easily outpower Joseph. In her region, while Joseph's presence can still be found (his statue), most cultists pray to Faith, not to the Father. Exposed to the Bliss, they are controlled by her. Whatever seed she plants in their minds will eventually bloom in isolation of her bunker. She doesn't try to use Joseph as a tool for obedience like John; she knows she has just enough power to be the sole leader figure. While afraid of Joseph, she seems to try, deliberately or not, to defy his status.

In the end, we still don't know how it would be if it weren't for the Deputy. But it is quite clear that at least two out of three Heralds are too broken to follow Joseph's doctrine. And if not controlled, they would turn the cultists isolated with them into their followers, not Joseph's. And once being exposed to the open world again, they would likely end up fighting to assert their rightfulness.

Sitting on his metal cot topped with a thin-ass mattress and no cover 'cept for this scratchy blanket, Jacob picked at his own skin with his hunting knife. He was naked from the waist up, his army shirt hanging on the cot's board along with this sweaty grey t-shirt. His dog tags rattled with every slightest move he made.

He was breathing deeply, his focus on the surroundings. The white noise of his radio set was a familiar background to the world beyond the window. He felt his ear muscles twitching slightly at the sound of tires screeching afar. A passerby. Prob'ly one of his. Or not. He didn't care. He collected and put every registered sound away, always aware. Always vigilant.

Jacob's knife picked at a scab on his forearm, right above a big, dark patch of an old burn. He didn't feel anything: his skin had gone numb where his burns covered it. Using the very edge of the knife, he got it just under the dark crust of the wound and started peeling it off, revealing a brighter, unprotected layer of skin. Accidentally, he pressed too deep, and a tiny streak of blood immediately swelled from under the crust. He merely grunted, acknowledging it the same way he acknowledged the white noise of his radio.

He shifted the knife from under the scab, bringing his forearm to his mouth. His teeth picked at the crust and tugged it away with a small, single jerk of his head. A small patch of irritated, reopened scratch wound was blood-wet from where Jacob cut it moments ago.

He lowered his forearm, his arm resting on his thigh now. After staring at it for a long time, he shifted his gaze to his bare torso. Sweat-scented and covered with the slight, somehow protective layer of dust and dirt, it didn't even look like it belonged to him. The slight swell of his abdomen hid muscles beneath it that revealed themselves, beginning above the navel. Coarse hair, darker than on his head, marked a thin road to his waistband, looking more like a series of scratches. A few burn patches, circles of cigarette burns, ugly scars from knives and bullets, mapped his whole torso like it was a damn art gallery.

Jacob remembered it as vividly as it was just yesterday: himself, significantly paler and smaller, with his belly devoid of any real muscles and fat, holding his patched t-shirt while sitting at the edge of a different yet much the same cot in a juvi. There was no dirt, not really. Just teenager's sweat, a few cig butt marks, a single cut from where he fell on a broken glass from a bottle, and a blooming bruise just beneath his chest.

Did he really change so drastically from this malnourished, angry boy?

With a sigh that seemed to seep out of his bones, he grasped at his knife a little tighter and found another scab to peck at. A single howl from a patrol Judge barely registered in his mind.

With his forehead pressed against the wet bathroom tiles, Jacob could feel each drop of scorching hot water falling onto his skin. Just like shrapnel flying everywhere, under the 94°F sun, with the sand so thick with blood it could stick to your teeth. He closed his eyes, tensed so hard he could pass for a statue. Muscles whined with effort, old and ugly scars and burns pulsed even now, after all these years.

Sometimes, it just… hit him. After the long day, when no duties remained. A weapon settled away until the next battle. With thoughts and visions so vivid that even now his ears rang from a two-decade-old explosion, and the water felt like his own sweat from running miles in a desert.

He opened his mouth to gulp some air and choked from the steam filling his lungs instead. Seeking some release, his body responded in the ugliest way possible. Under his eyelids, he saw troopers in US uniforms, falling to machine gun fire. But lower, just beneath his belly…

Erection. Hard and painful. Guilt was so familiar, he didn't even register it. He barely registered anything at all. His hand wrapped around the shaft, squeezing it. His movements were quick, born from years of relieving himself. Up and down. Holding harder, with blunt nails pressing into its skin.

Lust? No. There was nothing lustful about it. It was a mindless attempt to get rid of the ghosts before his eyes. He saw the blood smearing, the skin scorching and bubbling from the heat of explosion, the wet, pulpy mush mixing with sand and bullets. His throat was dry.

His free hand flew up, pressing against his scalp, burying into his hair tightly. Here it is… just… don't think about blood. Not now. Not…

But the more his fist moved around his cock, the uglier the visions became. His belly churned with a mix of nausea and upcoming release. At last, he could feel the sweet taste of raw meat stale from lying under the sun.

He stilled himself, tensing with his whole body even more, with shots of seed coming out of his pulsing cock. He dragged his hand away almost immediately, pressing it palm-up against the tiles.

Just… another day in a hellhole he called his life.