#I certainly have the fuckin patience though lord help me HOW are there possibly this many things to tweak and fix

[camellcat]

I love captioning, you guys! what do you mean you don't? (oh god I'm dying guh my BACK my eyes I can't feel my legsss my fingers are so stiff ohhh I'm going to faint I need to eat WHY is my water all the way on the other side of my room where did the sun go oughhh my back)

[miss-kittys-magical-library]

Dress You Up In My Love (Darren Treacy x Jeanie Turner)

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: angst, smut, language, cross dressing kink

A/N: Darren needs just one night to hide after pulling a hit on Dublin's biggest drug lord. He turns to secondary family where he finds out something surprising about himself and unfinished business from his cousin's wedding. (Takes place in series two between episodes 5 and 6. There ARE spoilers for series two of Love/Hate.)

A frantic knocking sprung Jeanie out of sleep that she didn't remember falling into. She hurriedly pulled on the hotel bathrobe and shouted at the door she was coming. A glance at the clock told her it was 8pm. Still plenty of time for him to come by.

Jeanie opened the door and gasped. “Dazz?! What's going on?”

“Is Gordo here?” The man shifted from foot to foot outside the doorway. He had a motorcycle helmet in his hands and a wild look behind bright green eyes.

“No. He's been up at Trinity in that fucking lab all day. I've not seen him.”

“I need a place t’crash for a few days,” he half-begged, half informed Jeanie as he pushed past into the suite. “Crikey this is posh. If I knew Gordo was gonna grow up t’have this kinda cash, I wouldn't have poked fun at the specs n shite.”

“Darren is there something I can help you with? As we've not seen you in four years?” Jeanie crossed her arms over her chest.

“I.. Did something. Just need a place t’lay low. Figured my cousin was th’last place anyone would look.” There was a shrug in his voice.

“Why not Rosie?”

Darren started to shed his jacket then ran a hand through his shaggy hair, “Best not involve her either. Not exactly talking these days.” He held his jacket out to Jeanie.

“Fuck off with that!” she swatted the jacket away.

“Oi! Just hold it while I take off the rest.”

“Rest of what? Your clothes? Hi Darren. Haven't seen you since the wedding. You've grown up. Sorry about Robbie and your mum. Thank you, Jeanie. How have you been? How's Scotland? Just lovely. Don't see Gordon for days and he's had TWO affairs.”

“Fair point, darlin,” Darren stepped out of his boots and unzipped his sweatshirt. “The Treacy side ain't exactly one t’write home about. Are we, yeah? ‘Cept Mary.”

Jeanie took the leather jacket and pinched her nose. Eyes closed. Something sticky about it made her recoil. Eyes popped open. She held her hand up; it was speckled brownish red.

“Dazz is this blood?!”

“Best you don't know. Can I shower?”

“I don't know, can- JESUS DARREN PUT SOME FUCKING CLOTHES ON” Jeanie covered her eyes.

“I'M IN UNDERWEAR!” he shouted back, laughter in his voice. “Alright, Ginge. Haven't ye ever seen a grown man in his underwear? You just need to get rid of those anyway ye can. Please?”

“Well you certainly aren't 16 anymore.”

“I was 18 when ye’s got married. Don’t ye remember?” his eyebrow arched suggestively.

“I would say I tried to forget, but when I'm stuck alone at night, or in a hotel for days at a time, I don't feel bad. It really was foreshadowing for the rest of our marriage.”

“Gordo’s cousin trying t’shag his new wife th’night he got married? Almost got that tossover. Pride myself on that.”

“I was hammered and you have very hypnotic eyes. Like Kaa in the Jungle Book”

Darren frowned, his brows knit together in confusion. His lower lip turned out as he struggled to comprehend that as compliment or insult.

Jeanie couldn't help but stare now. A proper look. Darren's body hadn’t changed much since she last saw him. Still thin, muscles a bit more defined. Scars littered his chest and stomach as he exhaled deeply. It was labored.

“Are those from a gunshot?” Jeanie looked minorly distressed.

Darren absently ran his fingers over the old wounds. “Aye. Working on one lung and I'm a bit barmy now.” Like it was no big deal.

Jeanie sighed heavily, but stopped to gather up his clothes. “I'll take a walk, and ditch these. Against my better judgment. Clean clothes are in our bags. You're about his size I suppose.” She rummaged around in the closet by the front door for a garment bag.

“You're a fucking beauty!” Darren snatched his cousin’s wife up in his arms. He pecked her cheek awkwardly.

“Towels are in the bathroom,” Jeanie grappled with what just happened. “I'll be back in half an hour. I hope whatever you did is fucking worth it. Dazz.”

“Trust me, love. No ones gonna miss him.”

------

Jeanie sloshed out of the canal bed glad she packed her Wellingtons for the unpredictable Irish weather. Grateful too for the stones she found along the water side. She had put the hotel pub news bulletin out of her mind warning of a gangland hit on a local known drug lord. One that showed up to her wedding on the arm of Darren and Gordon’s aunt.

“I hope Darren shot you right in the fucking face, and you knew it was him.” Jeanie muttered as she watched the clothes sink after she pushed the bag under the surface.

Maybe it was hypocritical she was relieved JohnBoy was dead. Dazz wasn't the only one who tried to fuck her that night, but he was the only one she welcomed. Maybe, Jeanie owed Darren a bit of physical gratitude.

-----

Jeanie shut the door behind herself and popped her boots off in the closet. She changed quickly in the bathroom.

“You hungry or anything? I hope you found clothes that-”

Jeanie stopped in her tracks when she came around the wall that divided the suite foyer from the bedroom. Darren with his back to the full length mirror, was twisted so that he could look at himself. He seemed to be staring at his own ass.

“What are you doing?!” Jeanie was surprised, but amused more than anything.

“Oh! What kinda fookin underwear does Gordo have?” Darren's cheeks were just a hint of pink as he caught Jeanie’s eye. “T’ere’s no place for my cock when I piss, but they feel nice? Like t’ere comfortably snug?” He caressed his ass for emphasis.

“Well, those are mine. Not Gordon’s boxer briefs. So that answers the cock question. And they look snug because you have.” Jeanie's eyes strayed down over the bulge that had grown inside the boy shorts. “Well you must REALLY like them.”

Darren's eyes were wide, but he didn't seem embarrassed. Not really. His gaze followed Jeanie's downwards to his erection. “Yeah looks t’at way, doesn't it. I promise ye, I've never done t’is before.”

“Who cares if you have. Women wear boxers all the time. Back home, when I was in uh, what's it here? 1st through 4th year, all we wore was boxers as regular shorts. If you like them, Dazz, you could try some more?”

Jeanie had sat down on the bed. One knee crossed over the other with her hands clasped together. She bit her lip while her heart drummed loud in her ears. A pleasurable discomfort as she began to throb at the sight of Darren in her panties. The anticipation of him getting into a sexier pair. Letting her feel them. It had been so long.

“I mean, I'm not going anywhere t’ night. I’m not dressing in full drag though,” he insisted.

Jeanie stood and rifled through the suitcase. “I didn't think you wanted to. My regular clothes wouldn't fit you anyways.” She bit her fingernail and debated between a deep purple and cobalt blue. “I'm built like an hourglass and you,” she laid her choices on the white duvet, “are built like a baby giraffe.”

Darren rolled his eyes but joined Jeanie at the bedside. He gravitated towards the purple ones. Mostly lace with a bit of satin, they would look absolutely obscene on him. In the best possible way.

“Ye were wearing these t’at night,” Darren was full of nostalgia.

“I didn't know your side of the family could be sentimental besides Mare,” Jeanie giggled. She couldn't help it. “I definitely married the wrong cousin. Sometimes, I wish I could legally kill him,” there was an uneasy humor in her voice.

“I mean, I would do it for ye.” Darren didn't even hesitate.

“Um..” Jeanie's face matched her hair.

Darren burst into laughter, “Ease up, darlin’. I'm fuckin with ye.”

Jeanie wasn't certain about that but she played along. His smile both unnerved her and turned her on. The way he studied her and then the panties with a curiosity and delight.

“Why don't you put those on, and I put on the bra. Then.. we can make a full set.” There was innuendo in Jeanie's suggestion.

“We can't.”

“We CAN. The right sentiment is whether or not we SHOULD.”

“Should I really put these on?”

“Would you really kill someone you care about?” It was a strange reciprocation.

“If I cared about Gordo, I would not have tried t’fuck his wife the night he got married.”

Jeanie licked her lips, flames curled around her ears and cheeks. “Put them on. Anything I can do to make you more comfortable? Liquor?” She reached inside her shirt and produced a small bag that she swung back and forth, “Cocaine from your jeans?”

Darren reached for it but she was quicker. Stuffing it back in her bra, she swatted his hand away. “How about you.. don't do stimulating narcotics with a PTSD chaser?”

“It keeps me awake so I don't have nightmares. Just go so I can put t’ese on!”

Jeanie planted herself on the bed after taking her shirt off. She leaned back on her elbows, legs crossed. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“Fine! But close your eyes, so we can both be surprised. Wait, why’d ye take your shirt off?”

“Won't this make you more comfortable?” She pushed her chest forward a bit.

Darren’s eyes darted down to Jeanie's tits where they lingered longer than she expected. “Alright, sweetheart.”

Jeanie could listen to him talk for hours. Still she squeezed her eyes shut with a dramatic flare. “Go on then. I can't bloody wait.”

There was some shuffling around as Jeanie sat without peeking. Her heart raced in anticipation as she realized Darren had tossed what he was wearing at her feet.

A few minutes went by, and she lost patience, “Can I look? You've gotta have them on by now.”

“Fine, but don't laugh! I can't seem to get my junk in these.”

Jeanie opened her eyes and her mouth, “Fuck me, Dazz. Those are..” She stood up and made her way over to him from behind as he faced the mirror. Completely unable to stop herself. “You look delicious.” A word no one has ever used to describe either of them.

Jeanie’s hands on Darren's thin hips. They ran back and down over the sheer and lace over his ass. There was a playful squeeze before changing direction and flattening her hands on his. Downwards and into the indentation of his abs. Then she stopped to trace her fingertips over the angry red scars. Jeanie ran her fingers over them as if she wanted to memorize them.

Darren’s stomach convulsed a bit under her touch. “Jaysus,” he muttered under his breath. Eyes shut as Jeanie watched him in the mirror.

“Let me take care of you. Just one night,” she kissed between his shoulder blades. “You certainly deserve it after what you did today.”

“What did I do t’day?” Darren challenged Jeanie with his question. His hands covered hers, but not to push her away. To guide them down further over his erection.

Jeanie playfully squeezed again. The man in front of her let out a sound between a gasp and a moan when she began to rub the satin barely containing his cock. Her open palm gained friction as she worked faster. Where a man might find a woman's clit between her legs under the fabric, Jeanie moved her palm over Darren's balls.

“Eradicated part of Dublin’s largest pest population,” each word punctuated by her hand moving faster. Jerking him off without ever touching more than the underwear.

“I hope..” Darren's breath hitched and grew heavy. “Someone else..” his hips started to twist. “Ro-”

“I don't think we should talk about her right now, do you?” Jeanie cut him off. She finally let herself reach inside of the panties to properly take his cock in her grip.

Her thumb played with the head, slick with precum. Fingers wrapped around the shaft and stroked the length down and back up. She wasn't used to doing it from this angle but found it even sexier. The power she felt surge being the one in control. How wet she was inside her OWN panties.

Darren's head hung back as he lost himself in the ecstasy of what his cousin’s wife was doing. He didn't care that she was married. To a man who neglected her, ignored her.

Nidge. Tommy. His own sister. His cousin. They fucked around all the time. He and Rosie, that almost got her killed and they weren't even shagging. He knew he'd be livid if he caught her cheating. not violent mind you, but pissed. Just like if Siobhan or Trish did it. Or even Gordon. Everyone was a hypocrite.

Yet here was Darren. His cousin’s wife wanking him off while he wore her knickers. And he didn't give a fuck for once. His dick hadn’t been this hard in ages. That day he and Rosie had sex felt so long ago. They didn't do it much if at all since then.

Maybe this wasn't right, but Darren couldn't care anymore. He stood three feet above a malicious drug lord reduced to a cowering pussy and killed him. It was the same feeling as Jeanie's fingers as they twisted and kneaded his cock. Euphoric.

“If we don't take this to the bed. only one of us is gonna get a happy ending.”

Darren turned quickly. Faster than Jeanie could focus on. Their mouths finally crashed together as he gripped a handful of her. He shoved his tongue in her mouth and hands in her the pockets of the jeans she still wore. He dug his fingers into the thick of her ass as they stumbled back towards the bed.

Jeanie's hands labored in an effort to unbutton and unzip her pants around Darren's body as it thrust into her. She didn't want to stop the war their tongues waged as she struggled to tug the denim over her hips, but there was air as her husband’s cousin intervened. They laughed as he yanked them down to the floor and he went with them.

Darren looked up at Jeanie, who now sat on the edge of the bed, as he knelt on the floor by her feet. He helped each ankle as she lifted them out and literally kissed the tops of her feet as she drew them up on the comforter.

“That was romantic,” her voice thick and barely above a whisper. No hint of her usual sarcasm or humor, only some embarrassment. Her cheeks were pink.

“I've wanted t’fuck ye since we met. And I want ye to remember this for a long time.”

Darren stood up and hooked his fingers in the elastic of the underwear of hers that he was wearing. Jeanie covered his hands and leaned forward to kiss his stomach and his scars. Using her tongue this time to trace over them like she had her fingers.

“Leave them on? I'll never forget it if you let me fuck you wearing those.” Her fingers tangled up in the lace. Tips of her nails just brushed his cock through it.

Darren smiled in a way Jeanie wasn't sure he was capable of doing anymore. Right now, in this moment as his eyes changed from darkness to almost emerald, she knew he let himself forget. That's all she wanted. One night for both of them to forget.

“Can't say I've ever had sex like t’is,” excitement in his voice. “I'm right curious t’see how ye manage.”

“You lay down, and I'll play it by ear. This is definitely a new one for me too.”

They switched places. Darren laid down on the bed, head on the pillows. Jeanie unhooked her bra and slipped out of her own panties. She stood naked and exposed in the lamplight. Her heart raced when she realized he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. They traveled over her breasts and stomach and further still as she crawled on the bed beside Darren and straddled him.

“Fuck me,” it was a response. And a suggestion he made simultaneously. His hands spread out over her back and caught up in her long red hair.

Jeanie raised a bit up on her knees to situate herself. She lowered her body so that the outline of Darren's cock beneath the satin and lace was between the folds of her naked sex. Her hands anchored on his chest as she started to ride him.

“Jaysus your so fucking wet already,” Darren breathed and ran his hands up and down Jeanie's body. Over her shoulders and to her ass where they settled on her hips.

“It's you in my bloody knickers,” her voice wavered as she started to rock harder back and forth.

It was like a pleasurable rug burn on her cunt, as Jeanie closed her eyes and twisted her hips just a bit. She rode the length of Darren’s hardened cock completely from bottom to top and kept gaining speed each time. His strong hands buried in her waist helped her pump over and over. Then he angled himself underneath her so that the tip could hit her clit just right as she moved down.

Jeanie rode harder and faster. The satin and her cunt on fire as Darren's cock started its familiar twitch. She clawed at him without caring if someone else saw the marks on his chest. That explosion was building deep in her walls as they throbbed and ached for him to be entirely inside of her.

Instead Darren slid a thumb into her cunt. It replaced his cock as Jeanie started to lose control. Circled and fucked as she fucking him.

She clutched his wrist, “Harder. Rub my clit harder. Like that.”

He obliged all too eagerly. Especially when moments later she cried out unexpectedly. Her body rolled into an orgasm. He never let up with his thumb or his own hips as they bucked up into Jeanie as she came.

“Let me fuck you properly,” Darren begged as her cunt constricted around his hand. His thumb, the knickers and Jeanie's body slicker than before they started.

Then Darren's mobile rang. Darren's mobile was always ringing.

Tag list: @joz-stankovich @robertsheehanownsmyass @badsext @slutforrobbiebro @badsext @sean-falco

[unboundbnha]

hoooo my god. this is for ME

for me. for godzilla. :’) 

➤ rules; make headcanons of you and a character of your choice, be it sfw or nsfw.

Thank you so much for tagging me @spicyness​! I’m gonna SKAJHDSKJ. HHHHH. This is everything? Fuck I just want a purple boyfriend 😫 this will be about Shinsou because I like him a normal amount :-)

First off, I’m a pain in the ass. My sense of humor is wack (it’s basically just ‘annoy my friends and loved ones’), I’m always fricken TANKING The Mood (because it’s funny and I physically cannot resist making a Funny if the opportunity’s there), everything turns into a game unless you make me stop wink wonk. Shinsou seems like the type to snort in amusement and roll his eyes at my dumb antics, and I appreciate that! If I could make him legit laugh I’d die happy. (I am also emotionally savvy enough to know when to draw the line though, don’t worry. It’s just, man, my idea of fun is ‘LET’S ROAST ‘EM’)

I love cats. I’ll lose my whole mind over them. They NEED head kisses. Shinsou also likes cats. He also needs head kisses. That’s it, that’s the bullet point

Being open and honest and genuine is important to me. I believe most any relationship (friendship or otherwise) can work if you’re willing to communicate and empathize with the other person: I would 100% be willing to hear Shinsou’s shit, and he seems like he’d be a good listener too. I’m also good at logicking things through and he seems like he’d appreciate that. Likewise, he seems like he’d do the same for me, and as long as we stayed humble and weren’t looking to be offended (I don’t Do That -- he’s a Cancer -- love you, Cancers -- so it might take him a minute to get on the same page, but he’s emotionally smort and cares about me so I think he’d be willing to work at it) then we could help each other through emotionally hard stuff with hard truths. Plus, I’m a super honest person: if he was in a relationship with me he’d probably be pretty secure in knowing I wouldn’t hurt him on purpose. If past shit comes up with him, I’ll talk to him. Talking’s the good shit, y’all: utilize patience and empathy and you’ll be so well off!

I also battle, with a big fucking sword, a lot with mental health stuff (LMAOOOO WHO DON’T!!! YEET). I used to struggle with agoraphobia and still deal with anxiety and depression. On top of that, I have something like chronic fatigue -- I’ve been calling it chronic fatigue because I’m fucking tired, all the time. My top energy levels are like a 35% on a fantastic day. I really like the idea of this boye seeing me melting into a puddle, face down on the carpet, and bein like “how’s it going down there? you okay?” and the answer being obviously no, but him just like. Man I dunno. He seems like the kind of person who’s tired, but who can live with it. I can’t! When I’m tired, that’s it babes! I hit a 0% on my battery and I’ll collapse! So I just, hhhh. Don’t laugh, but I like to fantasize about him bundling me up and into bed. Thinkin’ about Birthday Snoot by my good friend @lord-explosion-baku​ and melting, okay?? OKAY???? I’m soft, the truth’s OUT, FUCK! I want to be taken care of like a sad but pampered cat.

(Please read Birthday Snoot I still cry over it)

Also I’m gross and struggle to shower often enough because it’s exhausting so bein given a gentle bath? oh MAN. Hands softly running through my stupid, terrible hair...asking me about my day and if anything happened that triggered me feeling this bad...just....the tenderness....the gentle affection.....being loved even when I’m at my lowest. Being cared for when I can’t do it myself. That’s a legit fantasy y’all. We out here!

I love to SNOOZE. I love being COZY. You bet your sweet bippy I’m gonna sprawl over a couch and take up the whole thing. Shinsou’d better be willing to snuggle the fuck up. I’ve got great squish which I personally feel like’s great for cuddling: I’m like warm taffy. How better to gently seep into every crevasse of your Favorite Person while enjoying a cozy cuddle?

Listen, everyone fucks hard with Shinsou calling his S/O ‘kitten’, and I agree (def have written leetle -- HOO -- leetle scenarios with that nickname because wow) but I get all wibbly with the idea of He calling me ‘Angel’. A joke at first because, like, guys, I’m really nice. (I know it sounds bad when people say they’re nice and LSDFLKJDF I AM, OKAY. I’ve worked on it. Cultivated the skill of kindness! Being kind isn’t easy, and sometimes you just wanna go apeshit, but I’ve worked hard to improve upon myself! Yeet!) But I also just really fucking love being annoying. I simply cannot resist the urge to sneak up behind someone and poke them in the ribs. I rib-poke while in the deep depths of making out too, I’ve tanked the mood a lot so picture my dumb ass Pink Panther’ing behind Shinsou, prepared to be Evil while he’s, idk, making breakfast or something, and before I can commit a Rib Crime he uses his hero training and fast reflexes and honed senses and all that good stuff to snatch my wrist and ask “what’re you up to, angel?” the answer is nothing, because he’s killed me by being sexy and fast and hero-y, and he’s probably actually killed me by startling me into collapsing like a fainting goat

He gets the deep stuff. Unfortunately for everyone and especially myself, I’m a Thinker with a capital T: it never fucking stops. I had an existential crisis for like three years in a row because of course, but I feel like he knows what it’s like to get lost in your head. Working each other out of panic attacks because holy jesus the universe sure is fucking huge huh? We’re not even a blip on the radar in the history of existence and we’re gonna be dead basically tomorrow aaaand that’s why we’d be good for each other, because I feel like we both have coping mechanisms that keep us from spiraling too bad, and we could share them with each other.

I also so fucking admire his drive, but it makes me angry that stupid fucking hero society would discriminate in the first place. 

Oh, yeah, that’s another good point: I’m hella mad about 98% of the time and I work hard to hide it! Because innocent people don’t deserve to get yelled at! I feel like Shinsou’s smart enough to sense when I’m about to pop and he can be like “heyyyyy...you wanna talk this out constructively instead of getting into a public brawl?” and I’ll be like “NO but I’ll do it for you because I love you” and then we get pizza.

Because I’m fine and balanced and stuff, I made a quirk for myself if I was in the BNHA-verse, and basically I can get stronger at the expense of higher thinking skills and will turn into a weapon of mass destruction against whatever I’m pointing at (ugh, that’s so sexy. Fuck I wanna be a big spooky buff as shit monster thing), friend or foe, so Shinsou and I would work well in tandem because if I got too rowdy he could use his quirk and get me to calm down! Keep me from accidentally doing a murder! Nice!

Okay this is nsfw so if you’re under 18 DON’T READ IT. I’LL CALL YOUR PARENTS. GET OFF MY BLOG. 

Relating to the point above, QUIRKPLAY. Mind control me into stuff I want to do but am too awkward to ask for, please and THANK you. Also, Shinsou’s a top. Gotta be, and thank god for it because I’m certainly not. I’m not happy about being a fucking bottom, because my first and most powerful personalty trait is ‘be as annoying as possible to the people you like; don’t let them tell you what to do.’ Can’t make it easy on myself, nope. Anyway, I want the appearance of being a top without the responsibility because damn, gotta be like, suave and shit. Gotta plan stuff. I don’t like that! I do that enough in real life and I don’t like it there, either! But whatever. I’m a brat and I feel betrayed by my coochie for it. But Shinsou’s a top and he’d tease me for being Fucking Terrible, and suddenly I wouldn’t be so mad at my coochie. She has her reasons.

I...like Shinsou for a lot of reasons, but a really big one, for sure, is that I feel like he can communicate about the important stuff. He likes to tease, but he knows when to be serious too. I’m really wack about being close and intimate with people and I have, hhh, special requirements to be able to sleep with them, and I feel like he’d both be able to respect AND honor that. Like, run through the rest of the BNHA boys with me here: would Bakugou be able to be completely cool, calm, and collected while still teasing, but knowing where to draw the line? Todoroki’s closer maybe, but he’s not as people-smart (which is also a big thing for me). Confidence (or at least the appearance of it when it’s important), respect, communication, listening and respecting what I ask for even if it seems wack -- Shinsou has that, and god is it attractive. 

Also, mind control. 

Also, his capture weapon. 

Also you know this motherfucker is kinky as shit. Thank the good lord.

Also, sexy-slow makeouts with his long, nimble hands running up my outer thighs to squeeze my waist -- teeth on neck, stolen gasps of breath -- 

\\\\\\

I feel bad because all of this, fuckin, WALL of text is pretty much ‘this is what purble boy can do for me’ and I don’t say a lot I’d do for him, but if I got someone like him I’d go to the end of the earth for them. I may be a perpetually-sleepy bitch, but one of my best -- and worst -- character traits is my unwavering loyalty. I’ll be 110% down to kick anyone’s ass who insults him: he can fight his own battles, but he shouldn’t have to over some dumbass with a big mouth and a little brain. Making him smile and laugh, oof, be still my beating heart. Words of encouragement when life gets too much. Genuine thanks for his help, whatever it may be. Hugs, because we’re both touch-starved as fuck and he deserves gentleness, dammit. He doesn’t seem like his love language is receiving gifts -- more like quality time and words of affirmation? Maybe physical touch? -- but I’d still get him little things that made me think of him, that could help him in his day to day life or maybe just bring a smile to his face. We could rescue each other at social conventions, have dates to the humane society and play with cats. Support each other through our depression days, prove that even having a brain that’s mean to you sometimes doesn’t make you unlovable. Man, idk. The whole thing’s soft and makes my heart go doki-doki. Hitoshi Shinsou is an extremely good person and god damn I’d want to show him I appreciated him and existing at the same time as him. He deserves love and kindness. He deserves someone to kiss every knuckle of his hand. He deserves hugs in the kitchen and blankets being pulled over his shoulders when he falls asleep at the desk. He deserves only good things, and I’d be honored to give them to him. 

HHHHH.

Okay! If you made it to the end of this, congratulations! You don’t actually get anything, but boy oh boy you have a lot of information about ME now! Aren’t you delighted? Heh. So! You tag people for this stuff, and I’m gonna tag @lord-explosion-baku​, @bnhascribbles​, @perpetual-bed-head​, @russianonion​, @weebsinstash​, and last but certainly not least, @usernamekate94​. Tell me about Monoma, Kate. Tell me.

[singingrass-archive]

Remember that time I had to put to writing some of Job’s memorable life events in the second-person for a thread? Well, after having initially posted those, I ended up scrapping one of the memories and posting another and I figured that was worthwhile enough to make a new post for. So. Below the cut are four memorable events of Job’s life as he experienced them. Enjoy --- and when I say enjoy, what I really mean is, good luck with the heartbreak.

You’re crying as your mother drags you out of the room. Behind you, your father is holding a pillow over your brother’s face. Well, he’s holding a pillow over what used to be your brother. He died the other day. After what you’ve done to him, no one is really sure what he is anymore. He scared you, that empty stare in his eyes, drool collecting at the bottom of his mouth and dripping over his lip and onto his chest — but Pa’s taking care of it. It gone be alright, he whispers to the thing lying on the bed repeatedly in a fractured voice. You don’t hear it struggle.       Your mother doesn’t say anything. Her grip on your arm is crushing your bones and you’re begging her to stop, or you try, though you can barely speak through the tears. “Ma, pl-plea— please — I’m sorry, I didn-n’t m-mean to — I thought — I th-thought I could-d fix it — I’m sorry, Ma! I’m s-so sor-ry! Please!”       She pays you no mind. Your sisters and brother (the living one — the one you didn’t turn into a monster) watch you from the common room, but say nothing. They are too small to find the words. They are as clueless as you are.       Ma drags you out the front door. It’s January and snowing so heavily you can’t even see the Rockies; the warmest items of clothing on your skinny little body are your sweater and house shoes. You stumble through the snow, begging your mother to let you go. You don’t tell her she’s hurting you, though. You deserve it after what you’ve done to Gene.       She drags you out the front gate and onto the side of the road — then, finally, she lets go of your arm. Apologizing still, you step closer, reach out to her — but she slaps you so hard it knocks the tears out of your eyes.       “You…” her voice is shaking too, just like Pa’s — but not with grief but, rather, with rage. “You’re evil. You’re an evil child.” You stand there, mute and dumbstruck, your face burning and that slap still ringing in your ears. “Go away. You ruined him. Wh— whatever you are, you ain’t my son! You don’t belong here! Get the fuck away from here and don’t ever come back!”

---------------------

He’s sitting beside you in that same diner you always meet in. Well, ‘meet’ might not quite be the right word — it isn’t exactly up to you, it isn’t like you want to meet him — but you’re always sitting in that same diner when he finds you in your dreams. Outside, it’s pitch black — you can’t even see the sidewalk. Maybe there isn’t a sidewalk. Maybe the diner exists in a void. It doesn’t have to make sense, it’s a dream — but that doesn’t make you any less terrified.       He’s in his early thirties. Blond hair, blue eyes; white collar and black cloth. His smile is so incredibly disarming. You thought he were your friend at first — but boy, do you know better now. You’re sixteen; it’s been three years since you moved in with your Great Aunt Patience. Somehow, he knows this. Perhaps he’s been watching your dreams. You dream about Gene and your parents quite often.       You are sitting beside one another at the counter. He’s smiling at you. You’re petrified, and you are too young and thick not to let it show. “No,” you tell him, barely knowing your own voice, it is so tinged in fear.       “Oh, you dumb boy,” he tells you, his smile growing ever-wider, “yes.”       The large window behind your backs crashes in a shock of shattered glass. On instinct, you hunch forward, your arms wrapping over your head.       Then, you wake up in bed. Your heart beats wildly, your breath labored, your frame (even scrawnier with the added, impossible height) covered in goosebumps and cold sweat. Thank the Lord, you’re safe.       You hear something go bump in the night       “… Patty?” You call out to your aunt. There comes no answer, just the barely-there sound of rustling cloth. You swallow, push your hair, damp with sweat, out of your face, and slip your feet out from under the covers and off the mattress. The old floorboards creak and cry under your weight. Then, they cry some more just beside your bedroom door. You can feel yourself shrink, shoulders hunched forward and arms around your middle, as you carefully step towards the door. You call out, louder this time, “aunt Patience?”      Oh, you dumb boy. Yes.      The voice seems to come from nowhere at all and everywhere at once — there is enough moonlight filtering through the open window for you to know there is absolutely no one in the room other than yourself. You don’t even have the time to turn around before you feel something hot and sharp cut into your back, right between your shoulder-blades. The pain is blinding. You fall to the floor in a miserable thud. You think you can hear someone screaming. Maybe it’s you.       Patty is a thick-set woman and you can hear her clumsy, heavy steps as they near your room. “Job?”       A new jolt of pain shoots through your body when he cuts you again with his claws. Your screams sound like those of a dying animal. It occurs to you that you should run — crawl if you have to — but you’re too paralyzed with pain and fear to move. You hear the door open with urgency. You know Patty turned the lights on because they shine red through your squeezed-shut eyelids.       … and just like that, it’s over. Boucher is no longer in the room — somehow, you know this. You do not need to make sure, just like he always knows to find you in your dreams.

---------------------

“— you did what?”       “Yit’s for your own good. You haff to trust me —”       You can’t help but make a dismissive little huff at that. It really isn’t like you to be so bitter and petty - but in this very moment, you feel so utterly betrayed that you can’t help yourself. You’re quite sure you’ve never felt this way before. “For my own good? You calling fuckin’ funny farm on me is for my own good?”       “Job. You were sitting here telling me how you talk to god. How there is some man you haven’t ever met chasing you. How you can take life from things —”       “— and give them to others.”       Nadja pauses and looks at you with those big honey eyes of hers with a look that tells you, ex-fucking-actly, you maniac. You knew just how fucking loony you sounded when you told her — but you figured she loves you enough to believe you or, if not that, then to accept it’s what you think to be real, in the least. You didn’t expect her to call the white fucking coats on you. What the fuck. You’ve been living together for six months — fuck, you told this girl you were going to marry her — and the two of you are just eighteen. Your heart is in your pants. You feel sick. You’re not sure whether you’ve ever felt anger in your life before this. Is this what anger feels like?       “You haff to understand this from my eyes.” She tells you with her thick Ukrainian accent that always makes you laugh because it makes you think of Eugene Hutz in Everything Is Illuminated with his hilarious broken English. She knew this would be a mistake — you can tell by that look in her eyes, a mixture of regret and pity and, possibly, fear. She’s afraid of you. Of course she is, you’re fucking mad as far as she’s concerned. “You know yit’s not normal, right? Job, you know that. You haff to.“       “Yeah — I fuckin’ know, alright?” You snap at her. She takes half a step away from you. You’re hardly a threat, you reckon — but this is the first time she’s ever heard the soft-spoken, kindhearted boy she fell in love with raise his voice. “I know it sounds crazy, alright? So what? Crazy things ain’t never happened to anyone before? Jesus fuckin’ Christ on his fuckin’ throne.”       “Compose yourself.” She means calm down, but you don’t correct her. You know her well enough by now to know she gets her words mixed up sometimes. “What you tink is happening — the voices you’re hearing —”       You feel like you’ve been punched in the throat. “I ain’t hearin’ voices, Nadja.”       “— they will help you. You are not well, Job. This yisn’t normal. Greystone Park — they will know what to do.”       “Oh my Lord.” You stand there, holding your face in your hand for a long moment and try to find your calm. It’s not her fault. Of course she thinks you’re mad, none of this has ever made any sense, not even to you. She really believes she’s helping you. It’s only out of love.       But you can’t stay here — you can’t let them take you to the loony bin. You will be unable to move there, unable to run whenever you need to, and he will find you, and he will kill you. You know that for a fact.       So you turn your back to her and walk away, into the bedroom. You find you old knapsack at the bottom of the closet and begin stuffing it with your clothes.       “Job? Job, what are you doing?” She calls out to you, but hesitates a moment before following. “You can’t just leaf like this!”

---------------------

It’s July. You’re in upstate New York. Wine Country. It’s gorgeous up here; so nice that on occasions like this, when the weather certainly allows for it, you’d rather sleep outside even when you can afford a motel room. You’re somewhere near the Finger Lakes and everything is green; this local park in some tiny little town in the middle of fucking nowhere is one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen. This is where you find God. Not specifically, not now, He doesn’t talk to you when you’re awake — but this is where you find His glory. In a windblown wheat field or on the ridge of a mountain — or here, in this park, in all of His creation.       There’s a little pond in the middle of the park; you go there in search of a bench to sleep on. It’s dusk; the skies are painted brilliant oranges and pinks. It’s your favorite time of day. Well, sunrise is, but this is close enough. It’s so beautiful out here you think you might cry, but you don’t. Pa used to say you were too soft. Ma used to say you were a sensitive boy. You haven’t changed; not in the softness department and not in the boyhood one, even if you are twenty four years old.       You step towards the little pond. Daffodils line its bank, their yellow mouths turned to the east, where the sun will rise tomorrow. You fold your knees before you and duck down to pick one when you notice something lying on the gravel. It’s a little bird, a Great Tit with its soft yellow belly, lying face-down in the shallows, wings spread unevenly, unmoving. It’s dead.       Poor, delicate little thing. You sink both palms of your hands into the water, even though the bird is so small you just need the one, and pick it up. It lies lifeless in your hands.       You think on it. What harm can it do — to help? It’s just this tiny little creature. Surely, it cannot cause too great a ripple. But the park is so beautiful, you do not want to ruin it, you do not want to suck the life out of God’s glory.       … what harm can it do to you? After all, it’s only little.       You take your one palm and place it over the bird, still cradling it in the other. You push it out of you — just a little surge of life. You can feel it now, pulling its wings close to its body and rolling around in the palm of your hand so that it’s standing. It’s near weightless. Its feet tickle your calloused skin.       Slowly, you stand up. You do not notice you’re feeling slightly off-balance. Your eyes gape in wonder and awe when you slowly peel your top palm off the little creature in your hand. It shakes water off of its feathers and you smile. It doesn’t look at you as it springs off your palm and flies away, towards the trees on the other side of the bank. You turn your head up to look at it, mouth hanging slightly agape.       You realize, then, you feel awfully sick. You turn around, bend down, and throw up.