#motorcycleboyreigns

[toppohaus-blog]

Beach break. #manhattanbeach #beach #losangeles #beachgoth #motorcycleboyreigns (at Manhattan Beach Pier)

[sarcastictonystark]

It's what I love about me too, good to see we have that in common.

[i-run-things]

motorcycleboyreignsreplied to yourpost:Drunken Mistakes, Shoot Me, Graveyard [well there you go]

[ GEtS REALLY EMOTIONAL ]

//mwuahahaha!

[i-run-things]

Drunken Mistakes, Shoot Me, Graveyard [well there you go]

Drunken Mistakes: Did they get married? What’s going on? Our characters can’t remember and have to piece together the night before. 

A drunken haze of bodies, limbs, paraded and pirouetted through Tim’s mind foggy and dream-like as if he had taken a bite from a spoiled peach and was sent into a world of bubbles and masquerade.  The masque thinly veiling a world of cheap alcohol and easy women who through themselves at any man with a tuff enough reputation, and people were surely kidding themselves if they thought Tim and the Motorcycle Boy were not at all tuff.  

Reggie wore a halo as he rode down the streets on stolen bikes with revved engines and harmful exhaust that flickered behind him as he made way to the river where he thought.  People swooned - they wanted be just like him - to actually be him - or they wanted him.  Tim was less romanticized.  A greaser with a track record so high that prison was his second home.  Where he knew guards by first name and joked about their wives who he could vividly describe in perfect detail, which earned him beatings with nightsticks that he took with stride.  

They were a pair not exactly mix-matched, but not exactly perfect puzzle pieces when you heard them speak; a boy of seventeen who could pass for thirty, and a boy in his mid-twenties that forever lived the life-style of a fifteen year old boy.  Both immortalized, but destined to die, perhaps, within the year.

Both were very much alive, although without understanding how, the afternoon after a Saturday, with arms tangled within legs and cheeks pressed to chests under blankets on sofas, with slobber of a cute puppy lapping at their faces.  Tim was the first to wake, face crinkled at the fact that he was being licked.

"I swear t’God, Reg—"

But he realized it was his baby and pushed himself up instead.  His head pounded like swift heartbeats of a man who was nervous to be dealt with by Tim and in a moment he understood what it felt like to be on the receiving end of his blows.  His eyes adjusted to the sunlight that drenched the living room as he looked to his companion who began to stir.  It was Sunday.  Sundays were days of confusion and contemplation and forget.

"Get out." Tim slurred as he rubbed his hands over his eyes and pushed himself away from the motorcyclist, who lazily pressed against the futon before he pushed himself up.

He said something that Tim dubbed as Shakespeare, something about “well, that’s Saturdays for you," in a tone of resignation that they both, although desperate to forget it, had succumbed to over the past few weeks.  

"What do you think happened?" He asked, his tone inquisitive as he made way to the door.

"Don’t care," Tim grumbled as he tried washed away his hangover with stale beer that sat on the coffee table.  He avoided Reggie’s gaze and kept his eyes down on the green beer bottle that he could see the shadows of his calloused fingers through.  "I’ll see ya."

Shoot Me: I’ll write a drabble about my character shooting yours or vise versa.

Fate had spun a cruel fairytale that disregarded the myth of happy endings.  There was no prince to find his princess, no evildoer put to shame, rather a battle that lacked heroic proportions and instead consisted of two men considered to be nothing less than friends.  And Fate wrote with her golden pen that spouted permanent ink something horrid.

Tim wouldn’t care for the weight of the gun pressed cold against the palm of his warm, clamy hand if it wasn’t directed at a forehead belonging to a man he grew to care for.  He was a man that didn’t care for much or many, but somehow this little punk snuck under the barbed wire border and decided to make an impression that was everlasting, despite the fact that he was not.  Memories were immortalized through minds and word of mouth, that of which came with a price of being misheard and mistold and forever would be.  The true heroics of the colorblind boy who could hardly hear, but loved to ride motorcycles would be told and retold over and over, but never really known.  And his demise, by the hand of a man they thought to be his friend, would be told of in the worst way.

Tim felt the bars beneath his fingertips, cold and encasing like the jesters smile of prison guards who claimed that he would be the building’s bitch for life with a sentence like his.  Intentional manslaughter.  No self-defense, no chance of bail, at least not for a very long time.  That of which Tim probably would have killed himself in, with a rope he made of bedsheets ripped together as the guilt ate away at him, which was funny - not in a ha-ha way, but rather twisted - because Tim never felt guilty for anything that he did because why should he with the hand that he was dealt.

He would plea insanity, but if anyone was insane, it was Reggie.  He who forced Tim’s hand with the heater against his skin, with eyes closed against the colorless world until a blackout.  Gun drop.  Body crumples.  Knees buckle.

"I… I’m sorry, man…"

Graveyard: My character will visit your characters grave

(I was going to continue this, like a little story, but I think I’ll go with his canon death rather than Tim killing him; hope that’s okay c:)

Angels that plucked golden harps plucked at his heart with less grace and less concern for the pangs he felt when he finally brought himself to come here. Months had passed since the legend of the Motorcycle Boy rode circles around the city on motorcycles constructed of words and misused facts, because people liked to talk - it was all people on the rough side of town had: gossip about people who did virtually nothing, yet still became legends because that’s what they did.

He had rode off to California for a whole week on a stolen motorcycle in Reggie’s - Frederick’s - name.  He took off without a word, but left cash for his siblings, that of which there was no change to, and he didn’t give a damn about it.  He disappeared and was beach-bound - let the waves baptize him to a lifestyle of beach bums and scantily clad surfers who pissed him off more than the socs ever had, but the bronze babes were magic and worked magic like witches from old fairy-tales Tim’s mother might have told him once upon a time.  Maybe, if his mother was sober enough to do something like that.

And hypocrite was what Tim was as he unloaded himself from the stolen bike, beer bottle in hand as he walked down rows of cemetery where the poor couldn’t afford decent headstones, but there had been something sure enough.  A plaque, with his name, with his birth and death and accomplishments - none of which said much about his ingenious nature, his godliness, just that he had lived, he had died, and - in a way - he had conquered.

"If you weren’t such a fucking nutcase, y’d still be alive, y’know?" He slurred and took a seat next to the headstone, over the grave on the grassy dirt.  He plucked at a piece of green and flicked it.  The headstone was now his arm rest, the graveyard was probably a decent enough place to sleep.  "What the fuck was so special ‘bout them fishes anyways?  So what they were fluttery - guy at the pet shop said only the guys were the fancy lookin’ ones, so you got all up and nutty over faggot fishes, y’goddamn idiot."

Tim huffed and took another swig from the bottle.  He hated him most of all because he was sure as hell that he was going to be the one to die first.  He was older.  He deserved it.  The more he thought about it, the more it really dawned on him that Reg was just a kid  A stupid kid who did stupid shit just like every other loser kid in this town, except he was better than the rest of ‘em and he knew it.

"Fuck you, Reg." He mumbled and looked off at the dark cemetery surrounding him.  He rose some graves with his reckless driving; he couldn’t be paid to give a fuck about it.  "Stupid people let themselves get killed - stupid people try to free fucking fishes.  You’re a stupid fuckin’ moron and-"

He couldn’t say much else.  His shoulders slumped and he took another, long gulp so to satisfy his lack of words. 

"California really ain’t half bad.."

[comeoneileenskinner-blog]

~ feels like i'm fixin' to die

    It’s been four years to the date since doctors had given Eileen hours to live. Now she lays in a cemetery on the poorer side of town, dewy grass dampening the skin on her arms and the backs of her legs, the rough stone of the grave marker leaving an imprint on her cheek. As evidenced by the rise and fall of her chest, Eileen Skinner certainly isn’t dead. As evidenced by the nineteen letters on the gravestone beside her, her brother certainly is.  Robbie had died in a gang fight. Most of Tulsa brushed it off, assuming he was just another hood who died before his time. People who’d actually known the twenty-two year old knew he was the most anti-violent bastard on the East Side. Or he had been. Eileen didn’t even remember him joining a gang, and the two were pretty close. It would’ve come up, wouldn’t it? All that’s for sure is that a week after he died, the doctors found no traces of cancer left in a body that’d been all but consumed by it. You better believe that made headlines.

    As the sun begins to rise above the overcrowded burial site, the skinny woman sits up slowly, steadying herself with a hand on the gravestone until her morning dizziness fades away. Brown eyes blink open, a hand lazily removing the crust that’s settled around them. Her body aches from sleeping on the hard ground all night. She hadn’t intended to. But after a joint and a couple beers, what had started as a little visit to her best friend ended up lasting the night. Eileen hauls her ass up off the ground and does her best to brush off as much of the dirt stuck to the back of her as she can.  The walk to the familiar place is somehow refreshing. Tulsa’s pretty at sunrise; the only people she passes are workers with unfortunate hours and the quietness of it all relaxes her. She reaches into her pocket when she’s got a quarter mile left until what she’s begun to call her home and the hand emerges with a set of jingling keys. Eileen plays with the cool metal absentmindedly, twirling the key ring around her fingers and catching it when it spins off of her fingertips.  She’s less than five minutes away from her apartment block when she sees a familiar face. The two haven’t ever talked, but he has a reputation around town. Eileen can’t decide if she should say hello or not. Her mind is groggy. She can’t remember his name. The memory of the young-looking twenty-three year old hasn’t been the same since she recovered. 

[i-run-things]

He gave him a funny look before sitting down and relaxing. "That would be a strange name to have." The Motorcycle Boy sighed, before smiling a little. "You know what you're good at? Sucking." He began, taking a drink. "Sucking the boredom out of everything."

"Ain’t that a good talent?" He asked and lay his arm around the back of his sofa.  He watched him sit, before he gazed back to the puppy who peeked up her head to look over at Reg and sit up.  She bounced off the sofa and over to him to rest her head on his lap.  "Which makes me think, wanna make out-" he grinned slightly at the pup as she pawed at his knee. "-o’ here or somethin’.  I been sittin’ here all day doin’ shit."

[i-run-things]

And that's just what he did. He had made his way to Tim's fridge and grabbed himself a beer. Honestly, he had been drinking a lot more after befriending Tim, but he didn't mind. "Really, I'm honestly getting tired of riding-" He popped the cap off of the bottle. "-through town without any point or purpose. You're the epitome of 'fun on a Saturday night.'"

He reached over to take a sip from the bottle he had on the table already and watched as the Motorcycle Boy basically made himself at home.  L.A. was too comfortable on his lap to really bother with moving, and he didn’t care much. “Well, maybe y’gotta try somethin’ knew.  How ‘bout y’get on your knees for a change-" He pointed out.  "-crawl ‘round the city rather’n ridin’." He thought he was funny, but then again his speech was already just a bit slurred - bottles littered the table.  "They’ll call ya the Crawl-Baby ‘stead."

[i-run-things]

"I should, that would be a logical thing to do. You know. Something to do. Tim, I'm extremely bored. And of course, it is that fateful weekend date. Any ideas?" And he didn't find it rude at all that he had burst into his friend's home. But friends were supposed to do stuff together on the weekends.

Tim nodded rolled back his shoulders.  He didn’t care that Reg moved his way in the house without knocking or anything.  He couldn’t care less really.  "Why don’t y’grab yourself a beer and then we can fuck-" He rubbed the dog’s head as she made a little sneezing noise.  "-‘round with ideas."