#like riding a decaying bike | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gvfgal · 1 year

Text

1. Homeward Bound

Barbarian. Biker!Jake

18+ minors evaporate!!!

A/n: As promised, here’s chapter one! I’m doing things a little different this time, telling the story more from Jake’s point of view than the readers. It works well for this story, and I think you guys will enjoy the way it plays out. Also, no disrespect to Genoa, NV! Never been, I’m sure it’s a lovely place, but for the sake of my story, it’s a shithole.

Content Warnings: Drinking & Smoking (constant theme throughout), language, mentions of death, Jake and reader are a couple of sluts but we love them for it, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex (please don’t be like them), fingering (f rec.), dirty talk, Not really a warning, but I use the words tavern/ bar/ and or “Riley’s” interchangeably, they’re all the same place.

Word Count: 6.2k

Jake always loved the open road. It was the only time he truly felt like himself, the only time he felt truly invincible. The last time he traveled down Route 95, however, he was headed in the opposite direction, escaping the very life he was about to throw himself back into.

After Ace’s visit and a night of drinking, Jake finally settled on the decision to return home. He put most of his belonging into storage, only packing what would fit on the back of his bike. As far as his job, he wasn’t too worried. He had a sit down with Hank a couple days before he left and explained the situation. “You know you always have a job should you decide to come back,” Hank told him. Jake turned in his shop keys, and that was the end of that.

On the night before his departure, he tracked Kira down at some seedy motel and told her he’d be leaving town, to which she began to cry, begging him not to leave. In all honestly, it made him want to vacate even more.

The next morning, before the sun even had a chance to rise, Jake was on the road, homeward bound.

The desert stretched out before him, a vast expansion of rugged beauty underneath the unforgiving sun. The roar of his motorcycle engine echoed through the emptiness, punctuating the silence that came with the open road. As he ventured deeper into the heart of Nevada, the land seemed to hold it’s breath, anticipation simmering in the air. Dust clouds billowed in his wake as he leaned into the twists and turns, feeling as if he were becoming one with the machine.

Finally, after a couple more hours of riding, the small wooden sign came into view, signaling his arrival.

‘Welcome to Genoa. Nevada’s oldest town.’

The outskirts of the tiny dot on the map loomed into view, it’s familiar silhouette etched against the sky. He slowed his pace as he entered, taking in the scenery that was almost identical to the way it was when he left. His town, a decaying relic in the desert, clung stubbornly to it’s dilapidated existence. The streets stretched out before him like veins choked with neglect, lined with crumbling facades and and fading signs that once promised prosperity. Shuttered business stood as silent sentinels, bearing witness to the ebb and flow that was Genoa.

Nature, too, had woven it’s touch, with wildflowers defiantly blooming in forgotten corners. A gentle reminder to Jake that even in death, life finds a way. The sight filled him with a mixture of disgust and an odd kind of loyalty. Despite it’s decay it held the indelible marks of his roots, memories were etched deep within it’s neglected corners. No matter how much he tried to ignore it, Genoa was still home, a bitter reminder of the life he’d never be able to escape.

Using only his memory, Jake continued through town in search of Ace’s house. Just when he thought he was lost, the row of bikes lined up outside of an old rundown manufactured home proved his memory wasn’t so rusty after all. He parked near the end of the line before making his way up to the front door. He could already hear the rambunctious group of men far before he was on the porch, and he figured knocking would be no use. Besides, it was only Ace’s house, and Jake knew he was welcomed in as if he lived there himself, which he did, at one point.

When he swung the door open, the buzz of conversation came to an abrupt halt, and every head in the room turned to look at him, staring as if they’d seen a ghost.

Ace was the last to look at him, and when he did, a large grin spread across his face.

“Jake! You made it!”

The rest of the men erupted into cheers, glad to see their beloved Barbarian prince return.

“Jake, you remember Steeljaw right?” Ace bellowed as he gave him a shove forward into the crowd.

Jake smiled, “how could I forget? It’s good to see you man.”

Steeljaw was never very affectionate, and the life altering incident he encountered did little to change that, if anything, it had an opposite effect. But when it came to Jake, there was always a soft spot. He tolerated most people, but Jake, he actually liked. He could never figure out why, and in the end, he never tried to.

Jake expected a rough handshake or a punch in the shoulder, but was pleasantly caught off guard when Steeljaw scooped him up into a hug.

“It’s good to have you back.”

Ace went around reintroducing Jake to the guys, each of them in turn giving Jake hugs and handshakes and ‘welcome backs’. Hellhound. Snakebite. Madcap. Django. Renegade. And so many more. With each of these men, Jake carried a special memory. He loved each and every one of them, that was something he couldn’t deny. There were his family, other than his mom (another interesting story for another day), the Barbarians were all that Jake had. They all seemed to really miss him, and he missed all of them too.

Well, almost all of them.

“And of course, Nicky No Name.”

Ace pushed the tall slender guy forward, mouthing a ‘play nice’ to Jake behind his back. Jake’s disdain for Nicky went far beyond the fact that he was an overall awful person. For him, Nicky’s face was a reminder of the loss of the one person who’s presence he missed the most in that room, and it wasn’t Rex.

Jake gave Nicky a tight lipped smile, “Triple N, we meet again.” He knew how much he hated that nickname, which is why it felt that much better to say it.

Nicky narrowed his eyes at Jake with a scowl, before correcting it almost immediately. “Jake Kiszka. Prince of the Barbarians.”

Nicky also knew how much Jake hated that nickname.

Ace knew that was just about as polite as the two could get, so he quickly dismissed Nicky and returned his attention to Jake.

“I’m surprised you actually came.”

“You and me both.”

“How was the ride?”

Jake shrugged, “long.”

Ace chuckled, knowing good and well that anytime Jake was on the road, he had a blast. But he was never one to admit those kinds of things out loud, so he left it be.

“What do ya say we head over to your old man’s house? Get that out the way now?”

Dread crept into Jake’s veins, entwining with grief, as he realized that returning to his childhood home stirred a peculiar turmoil within him. Overshadowing even the weight of the impending funeral. He swallowed it down though, if only momentarily, to respond to Ace.

“Yeah, let’s do it.”

The men hopped on their bikes and began making the short ride down to the old trailer park that was once Jake’s kingdom. Cactus Creek Village, quite the kingdom to be sure. The chipped paint on the entry sign proof of just how much the place had to offer.

Images of the past flicked through his minds eye as he inched his way through. The laughter that once echoed through the trees, riding his bike with his friends, pretending they were motorcycles until the street lights came on. All the joys of his youthful innocence. But beneath the surface of those fond recollections lay layers of pain, unsealed wounds, and fractured connections. Those feeling were all the more solidified as the house came into view.

A house whose walls were etched with both solace and strife. As he put his bike in park out front, it felt like a collision of two worlds, grief and nostalgia intertwining in an intricate dance.

“Look the same?” Ace asked as he got off his bike and came to stand with Jake.

He squinted his eyes at the structure, noticing that most of the damage that he left behind was still there. “Too much.”

His eyes grazed the lackluster trailer park with a neutral expression. Scenes of his complicated childhood played like mirages on front of him, sublime memories that still haunted his dreams. He wondered for a moment if coming back there was a bad idea.

Several feet away, the door of a trailer swung open, hitting the wall so hard that the sound sent a stray cat scampering from underneath the disheveled porch. You stepped outside, an already burning cigarette hanging between your plump lips with disinterest. Those lips, so perfectly pink and inviting, stole the air from Jake’s lungs. His mind flashed briefly to the things that mouth could possibly do behind closed doors.

But he wasn’t able to focus on that for long before his eyes began to take in your attire (or the lack there of). A wife beater, clearly with no bra underneath. Your nipples stood erect against the thin fabric. Your breasts were in no way large, but just big enough for a handful, and that was good enough for him. Your bottom half was no more modest, a pair of gray cotton bikini underwear, nothing more. The curve of your hips was only slight, so slight, some may not have even counted it as a curve at all. But whatever the hell it was, Jake liked it, really liked it.

A pair of brown cowboy boots covered you from the mid calf, down. The scuffed leather on the toes led him to believe that you wore them often.

You were unaware of their presence at first, making your way down the stairs mindlessly before your eyes finally locked with Jake’s.

Yours were red and glossy, not from tears, that much was certain. Jake was sure that you’d realize your exposure and rush back inside to hide yourself like any normal girl would do. But he was quick to find out you were anything but normal.

You blinked once at him, expressionless in your affliction, and raised you fingers to your lips to remove the cigarette. Your nails were chipped midnight blue, hands appearing like fragile petals of a flower. You ashed the cigarette onto the ground, eyed never straying from his.

Admittedly, your stare was a bit intimidating, heavy and laden with something so intriguing it was as if you were hypnotizing him where he stood. You wedged the cigarette back into your mouth before tearing your eyes from him, returning to the task you set out to accomplish.

“Who’s that?” Jake asked, never removing his stare from where you were. He watched as you bent over to pick up a sun bleached watering can, surprised at the size of your ass. He hadn’t expected you to be carrying something like that behind you.

Ace shuffled up beside him and gave you a good once over, “that’s Riley’s girl. When he got sick, she came down here, kinda popped up out of nowhere, to take care of him till he passed. Never left after that.”

Jake turned and looked at him with a furrowed brow, “Riley’s dead?”

Ace laughed, “you really have been gone a long time, haven’t you? He’s been gone about two years now. Pancreatic cancer. He fought long and hard,” he nodded his head in your direction, “she took over the tavern too.”

Jake’s eyes found you again as you lazily poured water onto the foliage outside of the trailer. For it to be Nevada, you did a great job of keeping up your garden.

“She’s a bit quiet, doesn’t really talk to us much, but she’s a sweet girl.” He retrieved a key from his pocket and placed it in Jake’s hand, “I gotta get back to the guys before they burn my damn house down. Take all the time you need.” He hopped back on his bike and his engine roared to life, “we’re all hanging at the tavern later, if you wanna stop by.”

Jake nodded and watched as he backed out of the driveway and started down the road. Once he was out of sight, he turned back to watch you water your plants, his eyes tracking every dip and curve of your body.

When you noticed him staring again, you stood straight and faced him, raising your middle finger.

He smirked. Spitfire. Giving his dad’s house one more look, he decided that wasn’t a hill he was ready to conquer, not yet anyway. Instead, there was a wide open Nevada desert calling his name, and that was a call Jake could never stray away from. Tucking the key away in his jeans, Jake mounted his bike and cranked it to life. He pulled into the street until he was parallel with your trailer. You watched as a mischievous grin appeared on his face, his gloved hand raising to shoot you the finger right back. His bike screeched as he pulled off at a ridiculous speed, kicking up dirt behind him.

You couldn’t help but smile as you watched him drive away. Using context clues, you figured he was your neighbor Rex’s son. You’d heard stories about him from the gang hanging around the bar. The Barbarian Prince, they’d joke. You’d spent plenty of time with Rex, and although he was always pleasant with you, you knew any son of his had to be trouble.

But you were a magnet for trouble. It’s allure and consequences were woven into the very fabric of your existence. Trouble had been your steadfast companion, the architect of your tumultuous journey.

Trouble, is what landed you in Genoa in the first place.

But when it came to the mysterious beloved Barbarian, trouble never looked so good.

Most of the gang was already at Riley’s by the time Jake arrived. He’d spent his afternoon riding through the winding outskirts of Genoa, allowing himself some much needed alone time before the next few days ahead. Pulling his tasseled hair into a messy low bun, Jake nudged the door open with his boot and stood at the threshold to scan the bar.

He quickly spotted Ace’s large frame seated at one of the barstools, but just as quickly, he noticed you. Your hair tied in a messy bun on the top of your head as you hustled behind the bar, mixing up drinks for the waiting Barbarians scattered about the space. A group of them huddled around the pool table drank and talked loudly, demanding their voices to be heard over the loud rock music playing from the old fashioned jukebox positioned in the corner. Jake gave them a quick assessment before returning his attention back to you.

You were wearing a muscle tank, if he had to guess, the same one from earlier, only this time you decided to put a bra on. Good Girl. The hot pink straps peaked from underneath the tank ever so slightly, he liked that even more. With a smirk plastered on his face, Jake made his way through the dimly lit bar, perching himself on the stool beside Ace and patting him on the shoulder, his eyes staying trained on you. You hadn’t noticed him yet, too busy fulfilling another drink order for a waiting couple. There was a thin sheen of sweat covering your body that, mixed with the contrastingly bright lights of the neon signs behind the bar, made you appear like an angel on earth. Glowing like a beacon, a beacon calling directly to Jake.

Before even glancing at him, you were talking. “What can I get for you?”

Jake chuckled at your obliviousness as he leaned forward onto the bar.

“Whiskey. Neat, please.”

When you finally turned to look at him, realization setting in, your face dropped, but Jake’s never faltered. He was a lot more handsome up close, something you hadn’t expected, but still relished in.

“Well, if it isn’t my Peeping Tom neighbor,” you smirked, wiping your hands on the towel that hung at your hip.

Your voice was like like honey. Smooth, rich, and pleasing to Jake’s ears. The very sound of it melded with the music filling the room made the hairs on his arms stand upright. It was as if every word you spoke was uttered with the intention of seduction, and it was working.

Your right eyebrow peaked on your face as you waited for his reply, arms crossing over your chest.

“If I remember correctly, you’re the one that came out of the house half naked,” he teased, his eyes boring directly into yours.

“You didn’t have to stare,” you quipped right back.

Jake shrugged, “how could I not?”

His response stunned you into silence, but not in a negative way. Being the object of his gaze, as good looking as he was, was enticing.

You’d never let him know that, though. So instead, you rolled your eyes and turned to pluck at the screen behind you.

“You want your tab opened, or closed?”

Jake was staring daggers into your back, still wearing that sly grin. His eyes traveled down to your ass, being hugged tightly by the black denim shorts you wore. They traveled further, all the way down your exposed legs and back up.

“Open…”

Ace turned his attention to the two of you, patting Jake on the shoulder, “no need, first rounds on me, sunshine.”

You smiled sweetly at Ace before pulling a glass down to prepare Jake’s drink.

“So, you’re Rex’s kid?” you asked.

Jake nodded, “the one and only. I think.”

You chuckled at his statement, knowing that when it came to Barbarians, that was probably a real concern. “Sorry to hear about his passing.”

He gave off another shrug as he retrieved his usual duo, a cigarette and his lighter, “wish I could say the same.”

This comment may have been off putting to others, but to you it was more than relatable.

You finished pouring his drink and slid it across the counter on a thin coaster.

“Well, he’ll be missed around here, anyway,” you glanced around the bar before focusing on Jake’s face, “but it seems like everyone’s glad to have you back.”

Jake’s attention was focused on getting his cigarette lit, and once it was, he looked back at you, noticing the way you were drinking in his features,his lips curled up around it.

“Glad to be back.”

He took his glass and raised it towards you, a silent confirmation that you were the reason for his satisfaction. You held each other’s gaze for what felt like forever, both grinning, yet silently assessing the other.

“Why do I feel like you’re nothing but trouble?” you questioned Jake, a hint of teasing in your voice.

Jake freed his mouth and leaned into you, and you instinctively did the same, your faces now hovering inches away from each other. The smell of tobacco on his breath was so intoxicating you could’ve kissed him in that very moment.

“Why do I feel the same about you?”

For a brief moment, you though he actually was about to kiss you, your mouths so close, all it took was one small movement to initiate. But just before it got to that point, Jake pulled away, standing from his seat and crossing over the the jukebox.

You watched as he flipped through the catalog, taking a sip of his drink in the process. Finally, Lick it Up by Kiss began playing loudly as Jake increased the volume. Turning back to you with that same smirk from before. He began nodding his head in an animated fashion, causing a real laugh to bubble up from inside of you. Something that didn’t happen often.

“He really is Rex’s boy!” Ace shouted over the music, calling out to everyone in the bar.

He raised his glass as everyone cheered, following suit. And once again, Jake looked to you, raising both his eyebrows and his glass.

You shook your head with a smile, “trouble.”

It was well after two am by the time you got off. Most of the gang had stayed right until close, and with only you and your coworker Angela left by the end of the night, closing took a lot longer than usual. And to make matters worse, you were now stranded at the gas station. Your old clunker had only managed to make it two miles up the road before it sputtered out, and now, it refused to start.

The cold desert air chilled your bones as you did your best to inspect under the hood, but with little to no knowledge about cars, you weren’t hopeful.

“Raggedy piece of shit,” you cursed as you kicked at one of the tires. You pulled your windbreaker tighter around your body and leaned back against the car, debating on whether or not you could conquer the mile and a half walk back home.

But just as the idea started becoming the best option, the sound of a motorcycle could be heard coming up the road. You watched as the driver pulled into the gas station, knowing well that it had to be a Barbarian, they were the only gang in the area. But what you didn’t expect was for that Barbarian to be Jake, still smiling as he pulled up beside you.

“You don’t look too happy.”

You wanted to roll your eyes at him, but his smile was beginning to grow on you. So much so, that you could ignore his smart ass comment.

“My car won’t start.”

Jake turned off his bike and climbed off, not saying a word as he leaned down to look into the engine compartment.

You took in the way the muscles of his arms flexed as he gripped tightly on the sides of the car. The thought of him holding you that way sending a separate chill down your spine

After a few moments of inspection, he faced you again, just as you diverted your eyes to something else.

“Where do you want me to start?”

Your dropped your head into the palm of your hand, “fuck.”

Jake chuckled, “it’s alright. I might be able to fix it,” he sounded hopeful, though by just looking at it, he' knew it might be beyond saving, “have to get it towed first, though.”

You cursed again, you didn’t have the money for that.

“But for the time being, I can give you a ride. After all, we are neighbors.”

You glanced backup at his smirking face, wondering if he ever wore any other expression, “on your bike?”

He nodded, “what, you scared or something?”

Quite frankly, you couldn’t have been further from. Excited? A little turned on? Yes. Scared? Never.

“What’s your name?” you asked, deciding to ignore his statement. He took a step towards you and extended his hand, “I’m Jake. And you are?” You shook his hand softly and grinned mischievously, “wouldn’t you like to know?”

You removed your hand and climbed onto his bike, making sure to arch your back more than necessary.

That image of you on his bike that way was the first time Jake actually believed here might be a god. You were all too regal, even in your most natural state, he’d even dare to say perfect. And something so perfect had to be meticulously constructed by an all knowing power. He didn’t even care if he knew your name.

“I gotta run inside. Stay pretty.”

He left without another word, dissapearing into the store and leaving you out in the cold air. You waited patiently for him to return, and when he did, he climbed on in front of you. His already familiar scent filled your nostrils, and without though, you moved your body closer to his. Once he brought the bike to life you hesitantly wrapped your arms around his torso, bringing you a comfort that you hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Will you be alright without a helmet?” he asked, shouting over the roaring engine.

“It’s only a mile and a half. I’ll be fine.”

He put the bike in drive, patting your thigh twice, “well then, hang on.”

He pulled out into the street slowly and began making his way down the long stretch of road. Releasing your hair from its bun, you leaned into Jake’s ear, “you can’t make this thing go any faster?” You were aware that he was doing the gentlemanly thing and taking it easy, but feeling the rush of the wind and the vibration of the road traveling through your body had you craving more. The freeing feeling that speeding down the road on the back of a bike was enticing, but so was the danger of it. That feeling of gambling life itself for a few seconds of exhilaration, it turned you on, the tense energy radiating off of you and onto Jake.

You couldn’t see it, but he smirked, reving up the engine as he began picking up speed, causing your adrenaline to spike. Once the deteriorating buildings that lined the street started becoming a blur, you released you hold on Jake’s waist and spread you arms out wide, tilting your head back to greet the night sky. The wind whipped your hair across your face, blinding you every few seconds, but that didnt deter you one bit.

A genuine laugh escaped Jake’s lips, “you’re a wild one,” he exclaimed, his voice barely audible against the roaring wind.

Cactus Creek was still when you and Jake returned, the loud hum of his engine feeling out of place in the quiet night. Jake could’ve easily parked in his own driveway and let you make the 50 feet walk back to your place, but instead, he parked right outside your front door, a little too close to your flowers for your liking. After helping you off, the two of you stood face to face. The thrill of the ride had yet to wear off, and all those feelings you felt while in the back of his bike were still very much alive inside of you.

“You seemed to have enjoyed yourself,” Jake chuckled as he removed his own hair from its bun. Never in your life had you seen such tangled locks look so good, you wanted nothing more than to run your fingers through it, preferably with his head between your legs.

A small grin appeared on your face as you took a step closer to him, “what can I say? I love a good ride.” He pulled you close as soon as you were in arms reach, letting one of his hands snake around your hip, just shy of your ass. His opposite hand found your hair, pulling back on it gently until you were looking him in the eyes.

“Is that right?”

Your lips ghosted against his as you spoke, “who doesn’t?”

Jake liked that answer. If the twitching of his cock that was pressed against your leg didn’t give it away, the look on his face sure did. His mouth dropped to press firm kisses along your collarbone. Your eyes fell closed when his tongue appeared to lick a long strip up your neck. He continued until his mouth was hovering by your ear.

“Something’s telling me you’re no good for me,” he whispered, nipping at your earlobe to punctuate, “should probably stay away. But somehow that only makes me want you more.”

You pulled away to look him in the eye, shaking your head solemnly, “you don’t want me, Jake. I’m not the kind worth loving.”

He took a mental note of that statement, replaying it over and over in his head fo months to come. But for the time being, it remained tucked away. He smirked at you, “who said anything about falling in love?”

The look of lust in his eyes and the grip he still had on your waist was the nail in the coffin. With both hands, you took ahold of his fac and crashed your lips into his, nothing but primal desire behind it. He kissed you back immediately, his tongue delving into your mouth like it were seeking out shelter in the rain. You all but climbed him, tangling you legs around him as he made his way up the steps. You never locked your door, there was nothing in that place worth stealing, and your hand searched blindly behind you to open the door.

Once inside, Jake quickly cleared your entryway table— its contents clambering to the ground as you pushed the door shut. He sat you down roughly as his mouth returned to your neck, much less graceful than the first time. You pulled and tugged at his jacket until it slid off his body, leaving him in a plain black t shirt. Your finger clawed at it, pulling it up so that you could feel more of his skin against yours.

“Still not gonna tell me your name?” he huffed as his hands began groping your chest.

You sighed heavily, “nope.”

Jake chuckled, “that’s fine,” he squeezed your chest a little tighter, causing you to hiss, “I’ll jut have to come up with my own name for you then.

He licked into your open mouth slowly, making sure to really taste you as he did so. “Hmmm. How about Cherry?”

“Cherry?” you gulped, “why?”

Jake smiled at your moment of innocence, the way your eyes pleaded for an answer made both his cock and his heart ache.

“Cause you taste just as sweet as one.”

Before his compliment had a chance to make it’s way to your heart, you yanked him closer by the collar of his shirt, “are you gonna stand here and talk all night, or are you gonna fuck me?”

Jake’s smile fell, a carnal look taking over his face. His rough fingers began undoing the button on your shorts, not even taking a moment to pull them down before they were sliding into your wetness. An almost silent gasp left your mouth as your head fell back against the mirror, threatening to send it crashing down.

“Yeah, Cherry? Is that pretty little pussy ready to fuck?”

You nodded, once again clawing at his back as his fingers continued to skate about.

He removed his hand from your shorts and brought the digits up to his lips, slipping them into his mouth. Yeah, Cherry would do just fine.

“Let’s not keep her waiting then. I’m dying to meet her.” He hoisted you off the table and began walking towards the only door that could’ve lead to a bedroom. As soon as your feet hit the ground, you began making quick work of your clothes. Jake doing the same. He was undressed before you were, and your eyes immediately zeroed in on the myriad of scars that adorned his body.

Each of those scars held a story, some twisted, god awful story that probably came with a mental scar to match. You couldn’t help but wonder what kinds of things he had seen, lived. You had a moment of clarity then, of how similar the two of you were. Both marred by scars of the past, yet still somehow standing.

Something you’d noticed from the very beginning was how tired Jake’s eyes were. Though he smiled often, you could tell there was a heavy weight on his shoulders. And seeing him there, in all his raw naked glory, you wanted nothing more than to take some of that weight off, if only momentarily.

With enough time to recover from the putty like state he had you in earlier, you finished undressing yourself and pushed Jake down onto the bed with only a finger.

He grinned up at you, enjoying where this was headed. You slowly made your way up the bed, eyes locked on his as your fingers began grazing along his skin. You were so occupied with taking in the rest of him, you hadn’t even taken a moment to look at his cock. But just as you suspected, it was as perfect as the rest of him. Radiating a cherry shade of red from the tip, like it was made just for you.

Straddling his waist, you raked your fingers through your untamed hair, Jake’s hands came up to massage your ass, “you did say you loved a good ride, huh?”

One of your hands began stroking along him gently, collecting the pre cum from his tip to ease your movements. The goofy grin he was wearing faltered as he let out a shaky breath.

Raising your hips, you peered down your nose at him, “don't worry. I’ll hang on.”

You sank down on him in one fluid motion, both of you moaning loudly at the way you fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. Jake’s fingers dug into your skin, and you welcomed the pain, throwing your head back in ecstasy as he stirred inside of you. When he loosened his grip, you took that as an invitation to begin moving, and using his chest for leverage, you began grinding your hips against him. He allowed you to do so for awhile, laying his bed back out the pillow as he watched you move against him eagerly. His hands felt their way up your body, one of them snaking up into your hair while the other came up to your mouth. You welcomed his fingers, sucking them past your lips as you clawed at his exposed chest. When Jake noticed you tracing on of the scars on his abdomen he looked up at you, searching for disappointment in your eyes. But there was none, not even an inch.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered to him as you raised you hips to slide off of him, just to the tip, before sinking back down with a gasp.

Jake was never one to take compliments well, but he could tell you meant it. He grabbed ahold of your hips again and began thrusting upwards into you, speeding up the tempo at which you were moving. It was obvious that this wasn’t something that was meant to go on all night long. Both of you were clearly in need of blowing off steam, and by the way both of your bodies were reacting, you knew the end was coming soon.

He sent a harsh slap to the side of your thigh, his teeth bared as he tried to maintain his composure. “You take dick so fucking good,” he complimented as he watched the way your tits bounced from the force of the movement.

Your head lulled forward to smile at him, “I know.”

Jake returned the gesture, a soft groan escaping his mouth, “I’m gonna cum, Cherry.”

“Me too, Jake,” you wined, “don’t stop.”

He sought out your clit, rubbing slow circles against it as he continued to pound up into you. “Yeah. I bet you make the prettiest faces when you cum. I can’t wait to see.”

Your hips began faltering, and Jake could feel you clenching around him, causing a deep growl to grumble up from inside of him.

“There it is. I feel it, Cherry.”

“Cumming,” you sighed, “I’m cumming.” With one final bounce on his cock, you were cumming hard and loud. You were never one to be ashamed of being loud during sex, it made it feel that much better. And Jake enjoyed it thurrougly. The way your brows were knitted together, head thrown back, nails carving angry marks into his chest beside his scars. And your moans, to Jake, they were the sweetest sounds to ever come out of Genoa.

He fucked you through to your end before wrenching you off of him and pumping along his shaft. You were laid out beneath him, both of you watching each other as he continued jerking himself.

Jake’s eyes grew dark, “you want it, don’t you? In that sweet little mouth?”

Your jaw fell open, inviting him to do exactly what it was you were both think. The sight of it sent Jake’s release crashing into him.

“Such a nasty thing, aren’t you Cherry? Oh fuck… fuckkkk.”

Hot spurts of his release began dripping down into your mouth, some of it landing on your breasts and cheeks, but you caught as much of it as you could.

His legs were shaking by the time he was empty, and he collapsed back down onto the bed beside you, fighting to catch his breath. His hand searched for his discarded t-shirt, bringing it to wipe away the remains of the mess he left on your skin. You smiled up at him as he did so, “thank you.”

He took a moment to look at you, really look at you. Your eyes held a certain softness that captured his attention, yet, there was something lurking behind that gentle facade, something that hinted at a hidden depth. It was as if there were an entire secret world behind your eyes, one that Jake coould’t decipher.

There was no denying the allure you possessed, your beauty and your aura were nothing short of captivating. But he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that behind that beauty lay a trail of buried skeletons.

Getting reacquainted with the Barbarians was trouble enough, a path filled with danger and uncertainty. And intertwining himself with you seemed to add another layer of complexity. Despite all of that, though, he couldn’t help but be drawn to you like a moth to a flame. There was a magnetic pull, a force that defied reason and lured him further into your orbit.

But he’d leave that alone for now. He had to burry his father tomorrow, and that was a burden of its own.

He lowered himself back onto the bed, pulling the sheet up over you body as you slowly began drifting off to sleep, hoping that he could do the same.

2. Our Old Friend, Death

Taglist: @myownparadise96 @writingcold @jordie-gvf

120 notes · View notes

bungouchronicles · 6 months

Text

I wonder if Sigma can ride a bike. I feel like he never really needed to learn. Or maybe the decay just tought him a bunch of random stuff just in case, idk

#Lile swimming as I've said before #though that one is more necessary #bsd #bungou stray dogs #sigma bsd #bsd sigma #the decay of angels #aria indulges the voices

33 notes · View notes

littledreamling · 1 year

Note

Something that's been rotating in my mind like pastas in a microwave lately is : how does Hob's brain, and particularly his memory, works with his elongated life ?

this is prompted by one of your latest reblogs regarding Hob's memory, the fact that's you're actually a student of science, and because I'm pretty sure you wrote or reblogged material for an AU in which Hob became a neurosurgeon instead of a History professor in modern days, which leads him to study people suffering of the sleepy sickness, which in turns leads him to Dream's identity, or something, but I cannot find it again on your blog and maybe I'm mistaken and this sounds completely out of the blue, apologies

Because, correct me if I'm mistaken but our brains aren't fully developed until ~30 years old, which is why it's easier to learn during this period of our lives. But then it retains a considerable plasticity and we may reprogram entire neural pathways for purpose they weren't initially generated to fulfill still (like when someone goes blind and they develop extremely acute hearing or sense of touch because the part of their brain previously alloted to vision has been reprogrammed for hearing/touch instead). Right ?

Which means Hob's brain and memory is functioning just as fine as any 33 years-old's, since he is sparred the decay of his grey cells. But also ... Hob's brain, and memory is, ultimately, finite. There's only so much grey matter his skull can hold !!

He has probably started establishing sorts of "well-memorising" rituals at one point in his life, to make sure not to forget certain precious memories ... and it's probably a non-negligible reason why he got into History too !! He gets to make a living out of churning and reflecting on the past and keeping it vivid.

But there are also parts of his brain, memories and skills that necessarily get overwritten by new memories and skills ? And of course, our brains aren't like hard drives, entire sections of his memory wouldn't suddenly be wiped out. Some memories and skills would simply wither away at the outskirt of his brain, rustying until they get vacuumed into oblivion ... but what do I know about how amnesia work ?? I'm just a Japanese undergraduate and a librarian who writes !!

But combining that with a warped sense of time passing ... Hob used to be excellent on horseback. Of course, he's ridden more horses than any rider throughout his life as a soldat and a bandit, and later as a knight. Sure his title was honorary, and he was no longer a warrior then, but one didn't carve out a niche in England's nobility for themselves, let alone hosted the Queen, without virtosity in horseback fox-hunting.

Then time passes, centuries come and go, and it's been a small eternity since Hob last rode a horse. And he misses it, but he's a busy man, and one does business much more easily inside of a coach than on a horse's back. Plus it's fine, riding a horse is like riding a bike, one simply doesn't forget how to once they've learnt it. Speaking of which, bikes are fantastic !! Such elaborate mechanic would have looked like witchcraft to actually-33-years-old-Hob and yet, it's one about anyone can afford in these days and age ...

Before he realises, centuries have passed without riding a horse. And then Hob finds himself invited to monitor a Renaissance Fair as an historian, and there is jousting on the program, and he somehow finds himself arguing with the knight-wanabees over the inaccuracy of their horses' harnessing, and all they can respond is that historically-accurate harnessing wouldn't be safe for them to ride with, and Hob finds himself oddly riled up by this, and he might not say it, but he thinks loud that "Ah ! Back in my days, people didn't need all of that frill, because we knew how to ride horses," as he climbs on one, intending on demonstrating the ease of today's riders ... and almost breaks his arm in his fall upon a few steps from his mount.

Hob Gadling might know how to ride a bike nowadays, but no longer a horse ...

Uh I might have wandered off a bit here, but my point is, for all the enthusiasm Hob carry with him throughout his immortality, an abundance of oblivion for an abundance of novelty and experiences is a price of which payment he cannot escape.

And that is quite dampening ... but I had to inflict this upon you because I want to hear your thoughts on it Ꮚ•ꈊ•Ꮚ

I’m actually screaming and crying about this, you have no idea. I’m going to try to keep this short because I have about four projects due tomorrow so I can’t devote an hour to pouring my heart and soul into this ask like I want to but this is actually making me go feral!!

First and foremost, I should say that… we don’t really know how memory works in the first place, even in regular humans. I mean yeah, we understand that memories go to short term and then get transported to long term, and there’s a whole lot that goes into that, but it’s kind of a squiggly, imprecise method (and I’m sure there are others who could offer far more insight than me, and I’d love to hear it!) so comparing Hob’s memory to ours is a little difficult, to say the least. But let’s for the moment, assume that his memory works the same way: he can only hold so much information in his brain. You’re absolutely correct about the brain’s plasticity and the fact that Hob would’ve been given his immortality pretty much at the height of his brain’s functioning power (as long as you subscribe to the headcanon that he was ~30-35 at the time of his and Dream’s first meeting) so yeah, he’d have a pretty good memory! But like you said, not infinite. He’s only human, after all, and this is where I blacked out and my angst brain took off in leaps and bounds (sorry @levi1088 for spamming you out of the blue and also making you sad, I’m about to do it again) because thinking about Hob’s memory, about what he’s lived through and lost and forgotten will always make me feel like my ribs are being ripped from my chest, so I’m going to endeavor to make you feel the same way because I’m evil like that

I can’t even begin to fathom all of the things Hob has forgotten over the centuries. Names, places, skills, scents. He always told himself that he’d never forget the sound of a blade being unsheathed or the gasp of air that a man makes when his lungs have been punctured, but he eventually does. When he watches period war movies, he criticizes the sound effects, claiming inaccuracy, but he also can’t remember what it really sounded like, only that it didn’t sound like that. He told himself he’d never forget his sisters’ names, but he forgot them long before he learned his letters (working at a printing press doesn’t necessarily mean he knew the words he was printing, especially because the majority of what he would’ve printed would’ve been in Latin, not English) and with no records, their very existence has disappeared into smoke and grave dirt. Can you imagine the moment when he realized he couldn’t remember his mother’s face? Or Eleanor’s? Or Robyn’s? When he realized he could no longer remember the scent of his childhood home or the sound of his father’s laugh?

His memory isn’t any better than ours! And I’d like to comfort you (and myself) by saying that Dream could conjure up those things in the Dreaming, but he can only draw from memory; once Hob no longer remembers it, it’s gone forever. AND THEN!! The warping of memories!! Every time you remember something, it gets rewritten in your mind, so even if Hob remembered every detail about his life (which we’ve already established that he doesn’t), he probably only thinks he does, because those early memories have been warped beyond belief. And he can’t go back and check because his parents were nobodies, his siblings all died in the plague, his friends died in war. None of them got portraits painted of them, none of them could afford the paper to keep diaries or sketchbooks. There’s absolutely no record of his childhood or home town or family or friends; he’s well and truly the only one left and god, doesn’t that just kill you?

But then (because I’m an incurable optimist and as much as I love angst, I love happy endings too) there’s always a silver lining. Hob is immortal. He’s lost everything. Every single item, every possession, every name, every single person except for one has been lost. He’s had six hundred years to come to terms with the fact that he will inevitably lose everything he currently has and that has to be okay. It has to be, because what other option does he have? He can’t be sentimental with objects because the constant sense of temporariness of every aspect of his life would drive him insane. Delirium would probably take up permanent residence at his flat if he constantly worried about everything he had lost over the course of his long life.

And I have to believe that this applies for memories, too. Hob strikes me as the type to let those kind of things roll off his shoulders like water. There’s nothing he can do about it, so why bother worrying about it? He lives his entire life in a completely transitory state; his memories are the least of his concern (as someone with pretty severe memory problems, this is a mindset that I have been forced to adopt because I, too, would drive myself absolutely insane trying to remember everything I had forgotten. If it’s important, it’ll come back to me, and if it doesn’t, someone will remind me. If neither of those happen, it’s usually none of my concern and 99% of the time, it never comes up again). And like, yeah, it sucks that he can’t remember his mother or his friends or his house, and he mourned those losses when they happened, but he’s constantly replacing those memories with new ones. He’s so invested and intrigued with the world around him and he’s always gaining new experiences; his memories come and go like the tides and he no longer gets upset at the loss of them, or at least, he no longer holds onto that mourning for longer than the emotion warrants; he grieves their absence and then he moves on.

Additionally, his memory might be finite, but the life lessons he’s learned and carried from one lifetime to the next are not. He doesn’t have to remember where he learned how to pick pockets to remember that he knows how to do it, if that makes sense. Some things transcend memory.

This might be a convoluted analogy, but I like to think of memory as a window looking into anroom with a timeline on the opposite wall. Wach person has a window to look through and they can only see the section of the timeline that corresponds to their life. The window can never get bigger, not for anyone. You can only hold a lifetime’s worth of memories. And the same goes for Hob; his window doesn’t stretch or expand any larger than anyone else’s, but it moves when no one else’s does. His window has the ability to slide along the wall, constantly replacing the memories that disappear from view with new ones. We’re all stuck with the lifetime we have, with the memories that we can create in the 70-90 years that we have (if we’re lucky). We all have our window, it’s just that Hob has the ability to shift his window to a new perspective, a new era of time, a new life. And I think he would think that was pretty cool

#this gripped my heart with a death grip and I’ve been thinking about it nonstop for hours now #I wish I was more well-versed in psychology so I could do this ask justice with over-education like I can with historical accuracy #sadly you all get just a normal amount of knowledge and lots of angsty thoughts about Hob #thanks for the ask!#this was a great thought exercise and I’d love to see anyone expand on it!#oops I spent an hour on this anyway #the sandman #sandman netflix #hob gadling #dream of the endless #morpheus #dreamling #neil gaiman

181 notes · View notes

derpdino34 · 3 months

Text

Secret legacy Pt:1

Chapter 1

Moving was hard for Robby. They were fine in Philly. Why did they have to move to Witwicky out of all places? Robby was pulled out of his thoughts when Mo started talking.

“Aren’t you excited Robby?!” Mo jumped.

“… yep” Robby didn’t even look at his younger sister.

When they got to their new house, it wasn’t bad just plain. It was a simple 2 story yellow house with a barn right next to it.

“Like the new the house, kids?” Their dad was excited.

Robby thought the house was okay, but wouldn’t say it out loud. It has gotten late so Mo and him were going to bed. Well, Mo was, Robby was busy trying to get back to his home. His real home, Philly.

Mo woke up when she heard noises from outside. She peered out of the window to see her older brother get on his bike and ride into the night.

Robby was deep into thought. Should he be doing this? Should’ve he brought his sister along? “No she wouldn’t understand” he told himself “she would be better off in Witwicky.” He snapped out of his train of thought as he heard someone behind him. It was Mo on her bike , trying her hardest to keep up with her brother.

“We’re not supposed to be riding after dark” she shouted “Where are you going?!”

Robby was peddling faster “to my real home, Philly!”

Though he was trying to stay on the road, he was compelled to go into the woods. He stopped hearing his sister’s voice he felt slow sluggish even. Then he heard it.

“Robby~”

A voice, a dark smoothing voice called out to him.

“Follow my light to fulfill your purpose, MY purpose. Follow my light.”

Robby wasn’t noticing what he was doing, he was riding into the woods. Closer to whatever it was. Mo didn’t know what her brother was doing. He was saying he’s going to Philly but they’re riding in the woods at night. She shouted his name so many times but he still kept peddling.

Until he stopped right in front of a cave.

The cave mouth was hidden well with overgrown foliage with a sickly red decay. It looked like the cave was sucking everything around it and it wasn’t helping that there was red glow coming out of the cave.

“Robby?” Mo quivered “ We should go home, it’s getting really late.”

Robby didn’t even respond. It was like he was in a trance. Slowly he started to walk into the cave. This is not the brother Mo knew. Her brother wouldn’t ignore her let alone walk into a creepy cave. Mo grabbed a big rock and chased after her brother.

“Yes~” the voice called

Robby slid down into the cave mouth and landed into the cave. It was big and spacious with a red pool in the center. There was a path on the water that lead to a podium with a red crystal on it . It was calling his name.

“ Robby Malto, I have chosen you to make my legacy of hope.” The voice commanded.

Robby couldn’t even breathe when he started walking to the podium.

“You are a perfect vessel to me~” Robby was right in front of the rock. "You can control gods~”

Robby was about to touch it until-

SLOOPSH!

Robby was snapped out of his trance. He was confused why he was in a cave. Wasn’t he riding his bike to Philly? How did he end up here? He was snapped out of train of thought with his younger sister yelling at him.

“Robby what were you thinking?!” Mo screamed“ You were going to touch a creepy rock in a creepy cave which was probably going to possess you o-or turn you into some kind of creepy monster!”

Though he was annoyed that she followed him, he was thankful that his sister broke the trance he was in. He started to walk away, when a voice roared through the cave.

“NOOOO! My vessel, my chosen one!

The cave shook causing several stalagmites to fall and almost hit the children.

“There is another one . . .you two will suffice~”

The creepy rock started to glow.

“Come, you two will be my legacy of hope

Then two glowing tendrils shot out of the rock and grabbed Robby and Mo’s arm.

“Robby!”

#art #earthspark #transformers #tf earthspark #shattered glass #oh boy here we go

17 notes · View notes

burgundybmw · 2 years

Text

Munson's Mixtape

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Cunningham!Reader

Word Count: 5,455

Warnings: References to sex (What are those stains Eddie?? Explain yourself!!), Mentions of Death, Angst, Mrs. Cunningham being the Momster she is, Trauma, Vecna being Vecna.

Summary: Chrissy has been acting weird, and like a good big sister Y/N drives to Hawkins from Notre Dame to check in on her. Only to find out she has plans to meet up with Eddie Munson. Things take a turn for the worse and now Y/N gets wrapped in to the horrors of Hawkins. Hey, at least she has the company of the guitarist she was sweet on back in high school for comfort.

Author’s Note: I'm apologizing ahead of time for a number of things. Don't worry, it'll happen soon.

Track Sixteen

Y/N can't remember the last time she rode on the back of someone's bicycle, if she ever did at all. When she was a kid, Chrissy was usually the one to tag along on her bike rides. She would stand behind her as Y/N peddled, small hands gripping her shoulders for balance. She used to yell at her to go faster, and Y/N would pump her legs as fast as she could and speed by the streets of Hawkins. Now Y/N was the one holding on to Lucas' shoulders, the group of kids peddling with everything they had to get to Forrest Hills. There was a gate in Eddie's trailer, and it was their only shot at getting the rest of the party back home. Y/N wasn't ready to see the trailer again, wasn't ready to stand in the same spot her sister died nearly a week ago, but it had to be done.

The gang was closing in on the trailer park, the driveway entrance just up ahead. Y/N's grip on Lucas' shoulders tightened as they got closer to Eddie's place. She feared that once they opened the gate, something else would come out it. As much as she wanted Eddie, Nancy, Robin and Steve home safe and sound, the thought that other monsters following through with them scared her half to death. Y/N held on to the idea of seeing Eddie again, it helped quench the unruly terror inside of her.

Lucas was beginning to slow down, and she knew it was time to face whatever was in that trailer. Once he finally came to a stop, she hopped off the back and ran over to the front door, Dustin and the rest of the kids followed right behind her. As Y/N swung open the door the first thing she saw was a massive red gaping hole in the ceiling.

"Holy shit." Dustin gasped. All of the kids surrounded her as they looked at the ceiling above.

"How are we gonna get them out? There's like, some sort of membrane blocking it." Lucas asked. In the corner of Y/N's eye, she saw the chair she used to try and get Chrissy down from the ceiling. She grabbed the chair and put it directly underneath the gate to the Upside Down.

"Can one of you hand me that broom over there?" Y/N asked as she stood up towards the gate. Max walked over to the kitchen and handed it to her, the old wood smooth and worn beneath her palms. Y/N took a deep breath, and shoved the broom into the membrane as hard as she could. She struggled against it for a moment, the gate stretching against the top of the broom, until it finally burst through.

Y/N could hear a scream from the other side, she couldn't see who it was but it sounded human. She pushed the broom stick further into the membrane, waving it around until the hole became wide enough for someone to get through. The gate to the Upside Down was dark, she could barely see who, or what, was there.

"Hello?" Y/N asked into the darkness.

"Y/N!" Eddie shouted as ran to stand underneath the gate. Instant relief rushed through her like a tidal wave. Steve, Robin and Nancy all huddled around Eddie to see Y/N standing above them.

"Holy shit, this is trippy." Robin whispered. Eddie couldn't think about how bizarre everything looked, all he could focus on was Y/N above him. She looked like an angel, surrounded by light, a dazzling smile on her face. Everything had been so dark, nothing but rotten decay and monstrous creatures around him for hours. She was a beacon for him, the lighthouse signal across a never ending sea, the shining north star in a bitch black sky, a candle in the window on a cold dark winter's night.

"You guys need some help?" Dustin asked with a chuckle.

"Yea Henderson, some help about now would be nice." Steve complained.

"You guys hang tight!" Y/N shouted as she got off the chair. Dustin, Lucas, and Max were already walking towards Eddie's bedroom, and Y/N quickly followed.

"Okay, Y/N and Max you guys take the blanket, pillow cases, and top sheet, off the bed. I'll tie them together to make a rope. Lucas, when they're done, grab the mattress and put it under the gate. They're gonna need something soft to land on." Dustin ordered. All three of them nodded and got to work.

As Y/N was working on deconstructing Eddie's bed, she couldn't help but remember the last time she was here. It hurt to think about, how oblivious she was to the horrors just outside the door. How Chrissy was fine one moment, and gone the next. The guilt was eating her alive. If only she didn't waste time talking to Eddie, if only she walked into that room just a second sooner, she could have sang Somewhere Over The Rainbow to Chrissy, saved her l sister's life. If only she knew then what she knew now. But it wasn't time to dwell on such things, she had a job to do.

Once Max and Y/N were finished, both girls walked back to the ceiling gate to wait for the boys to complete their tasks. Dustin was working with lightening speed on the rope, and Lucas attempted to move the mattress without wrecking Eddie's bedroom. When Lucas finally managed to drag the mattress into the living room, they all looked at the state of Eddie's bed. There were dark stains at the head of the bed, with two dark stains on either side of the foot of it. Y/N tried to figure out what those stains could be. She didn't notice them when she first came over, the top sheet was covering it. They could be sweat stains, but those usually follow the shape of someone body. They couldn't be piss stains, as disgusting as the thought was, there would be one massive stain at the center. She couldn't wrap her head around it.

"Those stains are, uh... I dunno what those stains are." Eddie stammered. He sounded embarrassed, and Y/N began putting the pieces together. The placement, how dark they were... those stains were sex stains. She felt the heat rush to her face, and her mind gravitated to the other items in she found in Eddie's bedroom while she waited for Max to finish with the pillow cases. Handcuffs, condoms, lotion, a Heavy Metal magazine with very explicit imagery on the cover. What else was he into? What other hidden treasures could she find in there?

"First thing I'm doing after this is all over is buying you a new mattress and linens Eddie." Y/N said in a peeved tone. She could hear Eddie chuckling through the gate as she said it.

"Gonna be my sugar mama now Y/N?" Eddie smirked. Y/N rolled her eyes as Dustin walked over with the rope.

"A sugar mama requires sugar Munson. I'm not gonna get that now, aren't I?" Y/N replied. She sounded bratty, testy, her feathers clearly ruffled by Eddie's comment.

"Well Princess, I could-" Eddie started before Dustin interrupted him.

"Ugh, enough already!" He complained. "Do you guys want out of there or no?" They all nodded, Eddie with a sheepish grin on his lips.

"Alright then, welp. I'm not quite sure how these physics are gonna work. But, uh... here goes nothing." Dustin said as he tossed the sheet rope into the ceiling. They all looked as the rope landed on the floor of the Upside Down trailer, the other end dangling mid air on their side in Dustin's hands.

"There we go. And if my theory is correct..." Dustin let go of the rope, and it remained steady.

"Huh, Abracadabra." Dustin joked.

"Holy shit." Max gasped. Holy shit was right. Y/N had taken physics, both in high school and in college, and she was flabbergasted that the kid's plan actually worked. Her professors at Notre Dame would have a field day if they could witness what was before her eyes.

"All right, pull on it! See if it holds!" Dustin shouted at the ceiling. Y/N watched as Robin looked over to Steve, who nodded at her silent request. She pulled on the rope as hard as she could, and it didn't budge. They all couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.

"This is the craziest shit I've ever seen in my life. And I've seen some crazy shit." Erica said in disbelief. It might not have been the craziest Y/N's ever seen, but it sure as hell was close. Dustin held up a high five, and Erica slapped it in return, clearly proud of himself.

"Guess I'm the guinea pig." Robin whispered loudly. She grunted as she pulled herself up on the rope, slowly making her way towards the opening.

"Let's clear the landing pad." Dustin said as he slowly backed off the mattress. Y/N and the rest of the kids followed suit. Robin slowly climbed closer to the gate's entrance, struggling a bit as she went. Once her head peaked through the opening gravity finally decided to kick in, and they all watched as she fell onto the mattress.

"Oh my god!" Robin shouted as she landed. "Oh, thank God. That was fun." Dustin reached his hand out to help lift her up, something she quickly grabbed onto. Eddie, Nancy, and Steve all looked at each other to see who would go next.

"Lady's first." Eddie said as he gestured towards the rope. Nancy nodded, and made her climb up. Y/N watched as she made her way through, a bit more graceful than Robin did before her. Steve followed closely behind, leaving Eddie last in the Upside Down.

"Come on Eds, you're next!" Y/N shouted. She saw him slowly climb the rope, and every second made her nervous. What if the gate suddenly closed, leaving him behind? What if the sheets ripped? She couldn't stop the anxiety filled thoughts rushing through her brain, she wouldn't feel better till he was safe inside the trailer.

Soon enough, Eddie landed on the mattress below her feet. Y/N reached her hand out to help him up, but what she felt wasn't the smooth touch of metal against her fingers.

It happened in a second, a blink and you miss it moment. One second she was reaching out for Eddie, and the next she dangling from the ceiling, holding on to Chrissy's slowly rotting shoulders.

"Y/N... Why didn't you save me Y/N... You're my big sister... You're supposed to protect me..." Chrissy's voice was garbled, barely understandable, her dislocated jaw swinging aimlessly in the air. Blood slowly trickled down Chrissy's eyes, red tears that felt like little rain drops on Y/N's face. She screamed, and immediately let go of her sister, falling onto the hard ground of the trailer. Just like she did the night Chrissy died, but Chrissy didn't fall with her. She was still up there, pinned to the ceiling, gray skin gradually decaying before Y/N's eyes.

"No... No, no, no, this can't be happening." Y/N could feel that all too familiar feeling of panic settle in her bones. She needed to run, she couldn't go through this again, not alone.

Y/N gathered her wits and raced to the trailer door, but when she slammed it open she found herself back home. She tried to turn around and run back to the trailer, but all she saw was the entryway to the dining room. That's when she realized, this must be what Chrissy saw before she died, this was Vecna's curse.

"Y/N?! Y/N Wake up!!! Y/N!!!" Eddie was screaming at her, but she was completely unresponsive. Just like he had feared every second since Chrissy died, Y/N's eyes were milky white, nearly rolled to the back of her skull. Eddie's hands were cupping her face, so hard he was afraid he was going to hurt her.

"Where's that mixtape she asked us for?!" Steve yelled, he was rummaging through Eddie's bedroom looking for his old walkman.

"I didn't see it on her!! She must have left it somewhere!!" Max screamed as she helped Steve search.

"What's on the tape?" Nancy asked, she was trying to stay calm but she could feel her hands shaking as she moved about the trailer.

"How should we know?!" Robin yelled in a panic. That's when Eddie snapped out of it, he knew what was on the tape, he had all the songs in his bedroom. It pained him to let go of Y/N, but her life was on the line, he needed to save her, she couldn't end up like Chrissy, she couldn't.

"Her favorite song is For Whom The Bell Tolls by Metallica. It-It's the Ride The Lightning album, the cover is blue. That's what's on the mixtape. I, shit, I have no clue where it is but it's here somewhere." Eddie stumbled over his words as he ransacked his cassette collection, Iron Maiden and Black Sabbath tapes flying out of his hands as he searched.

"How do you know for sure?" Robin asked as she caught all of the tapes Eddie threw at her.

"Because I made the damn thing 2 years ago! I know what's on it! Shit, where the hell is it!" Eddie was shouting, cold unforgiving panic nearly swallowing him whole. His eyes were growing hot, fat tears clouding his vision. He was running out of time. Every second that passed was a second closer to Y/N's demise. Any moment now Y/N's body would start levitating, just like Chrissy's was, and it would be her broken and bloody on the ceiling. He needed to find that damn tape.

"Got it! I got it!" Eddie whipped his head around to find Dustin scrambling to put the cassette in his old walkman Steve found moments earlier. He raced over to grab it out of his hands, finagling with the old hinges before it finally snapped into place. Eddie raced back into the living room to find Y/N standing as motionless as he left her. He put the headphones on her head, turned on the player, and skipped to track three. The faint sounds of bells bled through as the song began to play.

Y/N slowly walked into the dining room, her mother's long mahogany table coming into view. It was just like Chrissy's dreams, the table was filled with food, all in different stages of rot. Spiders were slowly crawling over a Thanksgiving turkey, thick black mold decorated the icing of a birthday cake, and each plate was filled with dust and ash. She looked at the decomposed bounty with disgust, until she realized she wasn't alone.

Her mother was sitting at the head of the table, her normally perfect porcelain face was warped. Her skin was deteriorated and dry, and her bright blonde hair was dull and lifeless. On her right was her father, head hanging low and defeated. And finally, on her left, was Chrissy. Just as broken and dead as she remembered.

"It should have been you Y/N." Her mother's shrill voice broke the eerie silence of the room. "Chrissy was our darling girl, our 1 in 100 shot of a real baby, one that truly belonged to us. Not some charity case we picked up at an orphanage."

This wasn't real. None of this was real. Vecna was in her head. She had to get out. She had to get out now.

"There's no escape Y/N... Not for you. Not yet." Her mother continued, slowly standing from her chair. "You always made me out to be the bad guy, oh poor little Y/N, her mama doesn't love her. Have you ever considered for once, in your selfish repugnant life, that you didn't earn it? That you didn't deserve my love?" She slowly walked over to Y/N, face twisted in a gnarled grin.

"You... You don't earn love. I-It's freely given..." Y/N mumbled, paralyzed to the spot. Her mother started laughing at her, a mocking hateful laugh that shook the walls around her. It was loud, everything was so loud.

"Oh! That's priceless! Now, who told you that nonsense, hmm? That washed up low life you're so fond of? Eddie Munson, was it?" Mrs. Cunningham mocked.

"Don't talk about him!" Y/N screamed, she closed her eyes, begging, praying, for everything to stop.

"Oh Y/N..." Her heart stopped. That was Eddie's voice. She opened her eyes to find herself inside Rick's boathouse. Eddie was standing directly in front of her, his big gorgeous brown eyes a murky gray as he looked down on her.

"No one's going to believe your sob story, sweetheart. I'm going to be punished for something I didn't do, all because of you." Eddie said as he softly gripped the side of her face. "You say love is freely given, but you're wrong. Your love gives nothing, it takes. It takes and destroys, and ruins everything you touch."

Y/N was violently shaking, tremors wrecked her body as she choked down tears. Eddie slowly walked behind her, his hand never leaving her head. He wrapped an arm tightly around her waist, the hand that was once gentle on her face wrapped tightly around her throat, the cold touch of metal stinging her skin.

"I'm going to die Y/N. I'm going to die in here, fighting a battle I should have never been a part of. My corpse will rot in the Upside Down, and it will be all. your. fault." Y/N felt blood trickle down her neck. She forced herself out of his grip and turned to face him, the sight made her wish she never did.

Eddie had a gash on the side his neck, as if the flesh had been ripped right out. Thick pools of blood gushed down his collarbone, staining the white Hellfire Club shirt red. Y/N looked on in horror as she watched the man she loved slowly get torn apart. An invisible force lacerated the skin on his stomach, flaps of skin clinging to the edge of the wound. His knees were scraped and bloody, purple and green bruises colored the exposed skin. He was dying. Eddie was dying.

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" Y/N screamed.

"You asked for this Y/N..." A deep, gravelly voice rang out. "My, what a bigger fish you are indeed." It sounded like it was all around her, inside of her, a part of her. It was Vecna, he was here, coming to collect on Y/N's threats.

"It's not working, why isn't it working?!" Eddie couldn't understand it. Y/N should be out of it by now. Max said it took less than a minute for her to escape once the music started playing. The song was nearly finished and she was still under.

"I don't know... She shouldn't still be under... It doesn't make sense." Dustin mumbled.

"It's not an exact science Eddie, give her time. She'll get out of it, I'm sure she will." Nancy tried to reassure him, but it didn't work. Eddie was fed up, sick of waiting, sick of wasting time. If Metallica didn't save her, he'd have to do it himself.

"Fuck this." Eddie grumbled as he made his way back to the rope, he started to make the climb before someone pulled him back down.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Steve shouted as he yanked on the back of his leather jacket.

"I'm going back, man. This isn't working and Y/N is losing time. I'm gonna kill that piece of shit Vecna myself." Eddie tried to climb back on the rope, but Steve's grip didn't budge.

"What's your plan huh? Waltz into Vecna's lair with nothing but your fists and a pipe dream?! You're gonna get yourself killed!" Steve shouted, as Eddie let go of the rope and broke free of his grip.

"I don't care! I don't care if I get myself killed! Better me than her!" Eddie screamed. Couldn't they see that their plan wasn't working? Couldn't they see that Y/N could die in any moment? Why were they stopping him!

"How are you supposed to help Y/N if you're dead?! Why would you even think about doing something so stupid!" Dustin yelled as he reached for Eddie's hand, but Eddie swiped it off. It was brewing inside of him, the fear, anger, frustration, pain, all of it. It was growing, and growing, and growing until finally, he exploded.

"Because I love her!" Eddie shouted, and the room went deathly quiet.

"I've been in love with Y/N Cunningham for half of my goddamn life! Shit, I've loved her for as long as I've known what love is!" It was pouring out of him now, and Eddie couldn't stop it if he tried.

"I love her so fucking much, full knowing she'll never love me back, and I don't even care, man. I made that stupid, goddamn, mixtape to show her how much I love her, and right now when she needs it most, it's nowhere to be found! I don't care if it's stupid, I don't care if it kills me, I'm not running away from shit anymore. I'll do whatever it takes to make sure Y/N makes it out in the end. She has to make it out... She has to..." Eddie could feel his heart pounding as he ripped it from his sleeve. It was all out in the open now. Everyone in his shitty trailer knew how he felt about Y/N. He couldn't look at them, couldn't stand the pitied looks he knew they were giving him. He held his head down in defeat, shoulders shaking with hidden sobs, then he felt someone grab his arm.

"Dustin, I don't wanna hear it. Just let me go, let me do this, let me save her." Eddie pleaded. Nobody said a word, the only sound he could hear was the voice of James Hetfield bleeding through the headphones. The hand that touched his arm slowly traveled upward, up his arm to the side of his neck. It slowly brushed away some of the hair that fell in front of his face, delicately tracing the the edge of Eddie's ear. It was soft, gentle, loving, the same touch he saw Y/N gave Chrissy when she held her in her arms.

"Eddie?"

Y/N was running. Running as fast as her feet could carry her. Everything was red, the sky, the lightening, the air, red. All red. There were pieces of what looked like a house floating around her as she ran towards the dilapidated staircase. She needed to get out of here, she could hear the melody of For Whom The Bell Tolls wafting through the air. She would make it back, she just had to find the exit.

Suddenly, the music cut out. The sounds of an old grandfather clock chimed loudly all around her. Y/N didn't see the missing step on the staircase, she barely had enough time to protect her face as she fell down the steps. Pain shot through her like the red lightening that surrounded Vecna's psychic prison. All of the air in her lungs rushed out of her, choked gasps escaped her lips as she tried to catch her breath.

"You taunted me Y/N... You shouted into the heavens practically begging for me to take you. Now here we are, I've granted you your wish." Vecna's voice rang out. With all of her strength she got back up, and stumbled into the clearing. There were these tall tree-like structures covered in vines, as Y/N got a closer look she saw the body of a young boy tangled within the vines, it was Fred Benson. His face warped and broken like her sister. From the corner of her eye she could see three more bodies inside of the rotten trees. She closed her eyes, afraid if she opened them Chrissy's body would show up again.

"Please... Stop... What do you want from me..." Y/N cried. She wanted to go home. She wanted to sit in the shitty boat house with Eddie. She wanted this nightmare to finally end.

"I need you to deliver a message for me. Your friends got so close, so close to the truth. But now it is my turn, to tell you everything I have done."

Y/N opened her eyes to find herself in a house, a family a four dressed from a different time walking through the front door. Vecna was showing her his past, how he was once human like she was. The boy looked so young, too young to have eyes as lifeless as his. That was Vecna, his name used to be Henry Creel. He had powers, abilities no normal human had. Just like the girl Dustin was friends with, but Henry didn't use his powers to help people. No, he used his powers to hurt.

He showed her how he tested his skill on animals at first, before slowly concocting his plan to kill his family. Y/N understood what it was like, to hate your parents, but she'd never do anything like this. She would never hurt them, torture them with their worst moments. As much as her mother tortured her, she would never stoop to her level, Vecna's level. And she would never hurt her sister.

He showed her his time inside Hawkins Lab, how he was tattooed like a farm animal to be experimented on. He told her this is what they did there, experiment on innocent kids. Vecna wasn't innocent, not by any means, but Y/N's heart ached knowing others were put through the same treatment. That Eleven went through it.

Y/N didn't want to see anymore, she couldn't take it. She started running out into the hallway of Hawkins Lab. As she ran, she saw blood smeared on the walls, dead bodies of kids and adults alike littering the floor, each of them one of Vecna's victims. It was ghastly, horrifying, she had to get out.

She found a boarded up door at the end of the hallway, she ran to it with everything she had in her. Y/N pulled on each of the planks, and slowly, one by one, they were coming loose.

"Y/N."

She knew she shouldn't, she should keep working on the boards, but something in her told her to turn around. Y/N slowly turned her head, and on the other side of the long dark hallway, was Vecna himself.

"What are you doing." Vecna growled, his burnt veiny body taking a step closer to her. Max was right, he did look a bit like Freddie Krueger. "It's not time for you to leave." He was getting closer now, she was running out of time.

Y/N struggle against the planks, she just had a few more left before she could push through. She could hear each of Vecna's wet, squelching steps as he stalked towards her.

"Now that you've seen where I've been..." She was almost free, the last plank barely hanging on by the nails. "I would very much like to show you where I am going."

Y/N finally broke the last plank, and rushed through the door.

Only to find herself back in the room she was previously in. One of Vecna's vines grabbed her, and pulled her into the chair the young Creel boy previously sat. She could feel their strong slimy grip wrap around her arms, legs, and neck. She was stuck, tied down to this chair, with that monster standing before her. His gritty breath bounced around the small tile room, with each step he took closer to her it got louder, and louder, and louder, till he was bending down in front of her.

Y/N looked into his cold blue eyes. Eyes that were undeniably human, underneath all of that ruined skin. A human did this. A human killed Chrissy, killed Fred, Patrick, all of those kids in the lab. A human being. It was easier to believe a monster did it, something from an another dimension hell bent on causing pain and misery for humanity. That was an easier pill to swallow than the truth. That a man committed those atrocities. A man who was once a boy, conceived, born, and raised by his mother and father. A boy who grew up and became this.

She couldn't understand why. Why Little Henry Creel had so much hate in his heart that it turned him into this monster. Was he born that way? Are all of the men who become monsters born bad, born wrong? He was just a child when he first took a life. A child who should have played baseball, or piano, or field games with his little sister, not planning a slaughter in a cold dark attic amongst spiderwebs.

He was getting closer to her now. She tried to back away from him, put some space in between her and those cold dead eyes, but the chair wouldn't let her.

"I... want you to tell Eleven. I want you to tell her everything you see." His long clawed hand was inches from her face, before it suddenly flicked up, and she saw something much, much, worse.

Y/N opened her eyes with a gasp, the sounds of heavy guitar blasting through her ears. She was back in Eddie's trailer, she was safe, everybody was safe. They were all gathered around Eddie, his back facing her. His arms were waving around, he was shouting something, but she couldn't hear it over the music. Y/N slowly lowered the headphones, the voice of James Hetfield replaced with Eddie.

"I don't care if it's stupid, I don't care if it kills me, I'm not running away from shit anymore. I'll do whatever it takes to make sure Y/N makes it out in the end. She has to make it out... She has to..." She saw him lower his head, his whole body shaking with fear. Y/N slowly walked over to him and placed her hand on his arm.

"Dustin, I don't wanna hear it. Just let me go, let me do this, let me save her." Eddie pleaded. He sounded so lost, so defeated, Y/N's heart nearly broke in half. Eddie didn't need to save her, he just needed to be there.

Y/N slowly rubbed her hand up Eddie's arm, gently tucking some loose hair behind his neck. Chrissy liked it when she did it, she's sure he would too.

"Eddie?" Y/N whispered gently. He slowly turned his head to face her, and the look on his face nearly took Y/N's breath away. He looked at her like she was an oasis in the desert, a present you've been begging for opening up in front of you on Christmas day. Eddie looked at her like she was the last thing he wanted to see before he died.

"Y/N..." Eddie gasped, before he launched himself at her. He wrapped his arms so tightly around her it nearly knocked the wind out of her. This wasn't the unescaping treacherous grip the vines had on her earlier, this was relief, this was care, this felt like it was love.

"Christ Y/N, I... I thought I lost you." He sounded gutted, tormented, as if he was tortured for hours. Y/N slowly ran her fingers through his hair, soothing the man in her arms.

"I'm okay Eddie, it's alright. I'm safe now." Y/N whispered. Eddie didn't loosen his grip, if it was possible he would have held her tighter.

"You don't understand. Shit, nothing was working, you weren't waking up. I didn't think you were gonna wake up. I was going to go back, I was so close to climbing through that gate and charging into battle alone. I-" Eddie stammered, breaths slowly returning to normal from their panicked state.

"I know Eddie, I heard you." Y/N whispered. He froze, right there in her hold.

"How, uh, much did you hear?" Eddie asked into her shoulder, too scared to look at her face.

"You said you weren't running away anymore, that you didn't care if it killed you, that you were going to save me. That's all I heard, and quite honestly, if all you were talking about before was this half baked suicide mission I'm glad I didn't hear it." Y/N chuckled, trying to lighten the dampen mood in the room.

Eddie didn't know if he should have been more relieved or disappointed that she didn't hear the rest of his confession. In the end, he decided he was thankful she didn't know. He had a plan, how he was going to tell her that he loved her, and it didn't involve her catatonic in his destroyed trailer. No, Eddie was going to do it right. He was going to pull out all of the stops for her, like she deserves. He knew he had to tell her soon, tonight was a close call. Eddie would do it. He was going to tell Y/N Cunningham, the woman he'd walk the ends of the Earth and beyond for, that he loved her.

Soon.

Taglist:

@imchangkyunned , @creativedogs , @nightless , @kik51199 , @thecraziestcrayon , @dabzzallday420 , @science--hoes , @efvyqrs , @justanotherkpopstanlol , @kikis-writing-world , @secretsicanthideanymore , @heartandhead2018 , @piperd06 , @kellysimagines , @writing-fanics , @munchabunch , @ultradangerouspie , @mrs-billyrussooo , @mselianora ,

262 notes · View notes

kaysters247 · 5 months

Text

Deadly Inferno {A Patrick Hockstetter Fic}

Part 7 - The Thing

Word Count: 1386

Warning: Mature

"I'm going after tits whether you like it or not Les. And I'm bringing you along to watch his flesh burn." Patrick's laughter filled the air around us once we started walking, his hand roughly gripping my arm. I held out hope that Ben had gotten further down the stream by now, afraid of what would happen to him if any of them found him. Especially Patrick.

"What is your problem with him? Is it just because Henry tells you to have a problem?" He stopped dead in his tracks near a entrance to the sewer, his eyes landing on my nervous ones. I was being too bold. But I didn't care at this point.

"Henry doesn't tell me anything. I do what I want. I don't need daddy's permission like you two do." I jerked away from him, only igniting a smirk on his demented lips.

"Now come on Les. I don't have all day. And I hear him in the damn sewer. He wants to play games? So can I." Patrick quickly entered with me closely behind, my annoyance in full view. But the voices kept me distracted. Voices from within the sewer. Not just one. But..... several.

"You know, this shit is turning me on. A cat and mouse game. I might just have you blow me right here." Before he could do anything, he ignited his lighter into the darkness of the sewer with hairspray he always kept handy to use as a damn blowtorch of sorts, the light from the flame revealing several decaying kids with wicked smiles, taunting us to follow them. With wide eyes and terrified faces, blood was sprayed at us from the sudden attacks on us, before we finally escaped, my hand tightly gripping Patrick as we made it to a dead end. In a panic, I searched for a way to get out of here, just as a red balloon, just like the one from my bathroom appeared. We looked at one another, and for the first time, I saw true fear in his eyes.

"The bars! We can manage to slip through. I know we can." The balloon suddenly popped and appeared a orange haired clown with razor sharp teeth and glowing yellow eyes. But my mind kicked into overdrive before he could attack Patrick, him seemingly being his main target. I dragged him through the bars, the blood soaking our clothes enough to slip us through and running through the dirty water out of this damn sewer. I practically fell to my knees the minute we got out of there.

"I figured you'd let me die if given the chance Bowers. Guess I was wrong...." His words trailed off as if in deep thought, slowly regaining his composure. He didn't want to show the fear I saw in there.

"What would be the fun in that? I wouldn't have you around to torture me, stalk me, fuck me." We both laughed a little in humor, before he helped me to my feet. Thankfully, Ben was long gone.

"Guess you're right. That is my job." We simply stared at one another for a brief moment, before shaking off whatever was happening. We can't let it get any further than we agreed. It was becoming seemingly hard to mask my feelings. But I couldn't show them. I just can't. Not if he plans on sleeping with someone else while we have our thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

{One Hour Later}

Riding on my bike within the summer heat of Derry, the subtle breeze ruffling my hair and a feeling of freedom in my heart was one of the most amazing feelings in the entire world. What once was my mothers bike, quickly became mine after a little paint job, a new seat and wheels curtesy of my dad when he was actually in a better mood, the mood to be an actual dad for once. Those days were long gone. And I knew they'd never be back.

"Leslie!" Bill yelled out to me with a smile once I came to a halt in the alley next to the drug store I always go to when I need my girly things , usually sneaking them out because it was too damn easy. Bev and I were a match made in heaven when it came to that.

"Hey guys! Ben? Are you okay? I'm so sorry about my fucking asshole of a brother." I kicked the kickstand down and immediately hopped off my bike to see the blood just oozing through his shirt, but saw they had patched him up to the best of their ability. I was used to cuts and stuff from watching Georgie. He always did love playing outside and well, kids love getting scratched up doing it. I miss that kid.

"You helped me. Don't be sorry." I smiled a little at Ben in appreciation of understanding that I'm not like my family.

"You know for being a Bowers, you're pretty hot." Richie's words as usual, left his mouth without a second thought, earning a subtle slap across the arm from Eddie.

"You do realize by just saying that it could get you killed?! I mean, Patrick Hockstetter is pretty psycho when it comes to her." My eyes widened a little once Eddie's words dawned on me. Fuck. Patrick! He'll be at my house any time now and here I am taking a stroll down get yourself killed lane.

"Leslie is smart guys. Sure, I know she is with Patrick. But she did save Ben. And she helped us all at some point against her brother. Shes a friend." Stan said this all with such passion, a smile on his face the entire time directed right at me. And it made my heart absolutely sing. I knew they would be here once I finally talked to Beverly after all the chaos in the sewer. I didn't mention the clown. I was afraid I'd sound like a lunatic.

"She's my best friend guys. She's awesome." I hugged Bev with a smile, seeing they were all basically okay with me being around for the most part.

"I'm not the bad guy. I know I'm in deep with Patrick. And my brother is such a shithead. But hey, I'm here for you guys. Always." We talked some more and just joked around for the longest time and somehow, I felt like I belonged. Bev was getting along with them so amazingly before she had to head home, getting an invite to meet them all at the quarry tomorrow. I on the other hand, would be dead if I was caught swimming with several other guys. And Patrick would definitely follow. I finally said my goodbyes as they all parted ways for the day, strolling out of the alley on my bike when I was suddenly halted by two hands on my handlebars. Not just any hands. But Patrick's.

"There you are Les. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me." My eyes widened in such a panic at his little smile of humor, dark humor at that. But with a hint of lust. He was thinking of all the things he could do to me for what he knew I was doing.

"No Pat. I had to check on Ben, okay? I was worried Henry hurt him real bad. Besides, I was heading home to wait for you flamer." My exaggeration of the word flamer he once used on Stan didn't go unnoticed by Patrick, seeing how mad I was truly driving him. I loved playing games with him. I knew it could result in nothing but pain. But fuck, I loved it.

"I swear you and that mouth of yours..... guess I'll just have to stuff it later so you'll stop." I leaned forward on the handle bars, our faces mere inches apart. I didn't care if anyone in town saw and told my dad at this moment. I was lusting so hard over him. And I wasn't about to stop.

"Is that a promise big boy?" He seemed so surprised, yet excited all at the same time, his usual demented smirk on full view. He wanted nothing more than to take me right then and there. I knew this. Everything else was forgotten. Even if only for that moment.

#owen teague #patrick hockstetter #it #horror #henry bowers #bowers gang #victor criss #belch huggins #beverly marsh #it 2017 #stanley uris #bill denbrough #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #ben hanscom

12 notes · View notes

two-red-lungs · 1 year

Note

Oh...

OHHHH I HAVE AN IDEA

L-lost boy Eddie Munson? Has that been done before?

LostBoys!Eddie First Ask

LostBoys!Eddie Backstory

(And here's a super short blurb/drabble about LostBoys!Eddie and the boys below the cut)

"Shit, man, stay still." Eddie spoke with a tight jaw, trapping his tongue between his lips in focus and slapping Paul's back with a free hand. In his other he held a fountain pen, scratched and engraved with a name that was decidedly not his. Stolen. From who he couldn't remember. He drew sketchily on a piece of paper pressed flat to Paul's lean, mesh-shirt-covered shoulder.

"I'm excited, man, I'm excited!" The wild-haired blond swung his boot-clad legs back and forth on the narrow metal railing as the boardwalk crowd roiled and moved below. Up there, on the ledge perch that overlooked the rides and the distant night-black ocean, he felt like a king. A king getting a brand new custom tattoo drawn up.

Eddie looked real different than he did in the spring, just a few months ago. Gone was the unease, the stress that creased his brow under his fringe. The nearby boardwalk speaker played jaunty carousel music and he tapped his foot along to it, shaking his curls. The bullet casings that decorated his hair chimed against one another, and the rows and rows of screw spikes on his leather jacket shoulders shimmered like metal teeth.

Shit, looking in a mirror nowadays, he wouldn't recognize himself. Nobody in Hawkins would either. Not that he could look in a mirror, per say.

Vampires didn't have reflections.

Eddie smiled, a slow creeping thing that put crows feet in the corners of his sparkling chocolate button eyes. He lifted the pen and capped it with his teeth. "Damn. You know, I've probably outdone myself this time."

"Lemme see!" Paul tried to crane around, knocking his boots together in excitement, but Eddie leaned hard over his back and grabbed the back of his head to keep him from spoiling the surprise. The Indiana native whistled. Across the way, on the other side of the railing-lined ledge, Marko looked up from his cross-armed perch on the bike. He moseyed over, jingling with each footfall.

"So." Eddie said, pleased as all hells, smoothing out the paper with one hand and pressing it flatter to Paul's shoulder blade, where it would eventually be permanent.

Marko put a fingernail between his teeth, biting down. A rat-like smile skittered across his face and his bright eyes glittered. "Wow, man. Didn't expect that."

"What, you don't like it?"

"Did I fuckin' say that? Course I like it, look at it! I just thought you were gonna make something more... Eddie-style. Like a dragon."

Eddie sniffed dismissively and tossed his head. The single earring in his left ear— a cast metal D&D mini he'd wrapped tight with wire— danced in the soft coast wind. "I have range."

"Okay, hand it over." Paul reached behind his own back and snatched the paper, standing up on the railing and balancing precariously on the heels of his boots while he looked. He fell silent for a second. When he lowered the paper he was grinning from ear to ear. "No way man. This is totally the guy right? The one you told me about!"

Eddie took a mock-bow and Marko clapped sarcastically. "Yes, indeed. Old Dionysus himself. Thank you, public school mythology unit. I thought you'd see a little of yourself in him, Paul."

The god of drink, dance, and debauchery had gotten a makeover. Eddie had depicted (in hasty, unfinished, jagged lines) a zombified Dionysus head with sunken cheeks and decaying, mouth hanging open and roiling smoke emerging from it. The crown of grapes sat heavy on his head. Some of the grapes were eyeballs.

Paul flashed the sign of the horns at his two blood-brothers, paper still in hand and grin still on his face. "Metal."

Eddie returned the gesture. "Totally."

"Where's David. David!" Paul hooted into the night air, frightening a few nearby tourists. Uncaring, he leaned on the railing, looking to show the bottle-blonde his new design. "David, you're totally not gonna believe what my main man just freestyled! It'll wild you!"

The other two vamps watched him saunter away into the neon-soaked night. Marko crossed his arms, cleared his throat, and side-eyed their newest member. "So. When are you gonna draw me up a new patch?"

"When are you gonna finish paintin' that dragon on my boots?"

"Hah. Fair."

#the lost boys #eddie munson #the lost boys 1987 #stranger things s4 #my writing

31 notes · View notes

00towns · 1 month

Text

the practico-inert and you: an experiment in attention

I’ve been thinking a lot about place recently. It’s the beginning of the rainy spring in Mie; I fumble with my mask and glasses as I shake off the drizzle I underestimated on my bike ride to school. When it’s not too wet on my way home, I ride past my apartment to the small cherry blossom orchard next door to check on the blooms. They’re in varying stages of pink and white flowers, and they’re all wet. Mesh baggies of oyster shells hang around the lowest branch of each tree. I have yet to figure out why, but a friend floats the idea that the minerals from the shells might serve as fertilizer that runs down the trunk of the tree at exactly this time of year, when the rain is constant and the peak bloom is any day now. On days like recent ones, I watch the rain flow for a little bit, and think about the craggy surface of the shells, miles and miles from the ocean, feeling the water in their crevices. I think of how they might feed the tree, helping it push out every last flower, stretch open every pink bud. This, too, is place.

This porous, soft body has me somewhere in it, but I am just its occupant. I am made from place in every breath, every step, every night when I lay my head down. Henrik Karlsson described this in the broader sense as milieu¹, or the culture contained in your unique set of connections. It is an individual configuration of connections to flows of information, emotion, art. In this way, it is beyond the blanket term of ‘culture’, and hones in on individual relationships with all nodes of information. He names a few examples: your Twitter feed, your friend group. To me, milieu as a framework for understanding input attempts to put name to the Sankey diagram of an individual’s relationship to information: what comes in from where? How much of the whole does it make up? Where does this input go? Karlsson takes this term and uses it to the curation of taste, but I was compelled by the milieu as an environment, a physically and digitally mediated place where words become the substance of skin, music leaves behind spotted freckles on it, someone’s unkindness makes bones ache like incoming rain. Undoubtedly, place is just one element of a milieu, but recently, it seems to have been making itself the most clear to me. I live in a place, as do you, and that place lives in us, too.

A few years ago, I read Marxist Andy Merrifield’s formulations on the bounds, both physical and metaphorical, of urban space. Merrifield argues that the city is a practico-inert, a Sartrean concept described as a set of material conditions created by intentional human action towards a set of goals, ‘praxis’, with which new, continuing praxis must contend. This idea argues that the outcomes of action are not built on neutral foundations of naturally arising systems; rather, they are often in tension with the results of past action, even that of supposed social progression or development. In the contemporary era, an obvious example is climate change, the conditions under which processes of capital, industry, and production towards an ostensibly ‘better’ life have exponentially sped up the decline of the environment, turning its decay into the new arising social condition that the most urgent innovation and intervention must address. Whether intentionally created or not, these conditions frequently become the site that new, immediate intervention must attend to, usually working in contradiction both morally and practically to the initial set of goals or ideas. The site that most urgently demands action is the result of past action for change.

Like this, Merrifield says, the city no longer serves the needs of the people it was created for. Namely, the labor of the dead is dominant over living labor as manifested in the physical structures that govern urban spaces, like bricks and mortar, systems of transit, and what he describes as a ‘million-fold mass’ of people “such as never existed before, a flow of dynamic people who soon become passive vagrants, unemployed, sub-employed, and multi-employed attendants, trapped in shantytowns, cut off from the past yet somehow excluded from the future too, from the trappings of ‘modern’ urban life; instead, they’re deaded by the daily grind of hustling a living”.²

When I read this, I was finally able to understand what Sartre meant when he said that the practico-inert is necessarily physical. To people like my parents, the city and the practico-inert are fundamentally inseparable ideas of outdated labor, alienation, and dispossession, to which they responded with finding another built prison of potential action – moving to the suburbs. To young, socdem art-type people graduating debt-free from elite universities, the city is a place of infinite potential, a place to simultaneously revel in and revolt in the fact that thousands of others are attempting to experience the same jungle gym of guerilla living promised of early-twenties urbanism. This difference, which had previously always been a funny musing, transformed into a slightly unsettling realization that the way that the built structures of the city impose themselves on people are always totalizing and neutralizing, and the difference lies instead in the individual’s attempt to contend with some sort of urban future. In both cases, the city’s characteristic inaccessibility is so fundamental to its continued operation that they become the terms that most urgently need attending to: the housing crisis, landlordism, displacement, wealth disparity. In short, the city is practico-inert: a structure arising from human action towards a goal that is no longer attentive to the needs it was originally created to serve.

The city would then come to be a place I found myself thinking about a lot. After reading a little more about the practico-inert, I had originally set out to use it as a personal analytic with a focus on attentivity, the core of what makes the praxis active or inert. I began this exercise attempting to make a list of metaphorical structures that I’ve identified in my life that no longer serve me but I remain tied to, essentially aiming to strip the practico-inert of its economic foundations and just use it as a tool for a thought experiment. What are some values that I’ve worked to embody that no longer serve my needs? How do these values capture my attention in a way that is not useful?

The metric of ‘values’ worked easily on the personal level – I could already imagine discussing my former extroversion, my once-diehard belief in the project of diversity, my relationship to the Internet. But these felt flimsy, and easily dismissed as a thing of the past based on my own whim to decide whether or not I still ‘felt’ that way, a sentiment that could be assessed in a single moment and change from one to the next. Their effectual presence in my life was a yes or no. Any true structural prison – to Sartre, only then truly revealing the conditions in need of urgent praxis; to Karlsson, only then acknowledging the new relationship to place beyond merely people or things – would take more effort to reveal and would be much more threatening because they are not easily demolished, just as bricks and mortar, steel and I-beams, manhole covers and sewers.

I don’t currently live in a city, if taking the conventional definition, but I certainly used to. Merrifield’s analysis of the city as a prison of past action resonated more than I had anticipated. Power, capital, and governance in the city are already overwhelmingly powerful to the average person, but what about miles and miles of metal, stone, and steel? What about eons of highways, cables, and displaced space? Are these not equally as immovable and totalizing? From here, I turned towards the material analytic. The material condition demanded consideration just as much as the patterns, behaviors, and practices that came from it. Essentially, doing this project had to suck, otherwise it wouldn’t have really been done. I had to be mean.

Like any good researcher, I began at the archive. I started by flipping through old journals, scrolling through old Tweets, finding fragments of thoughts in my Notes app, even combing my Google search history. I meditated. I read Trick Mirror. I went to White Stone. What I found by actually gathering some thoughts is that any pattern that I could identify was eerily iterative of the city’s role in my life, sub- and sub-sub-categories of my experiences in the city stemming from both time spent living in one and time spent in a stratified relationship to one in time and space. I ended up with a handful of spare-change reflections, none really satisfying without the context of the built environment(s) that raised them. It wasn’t possible to take on the analytic of the practico-inert as a metaphorical, abstract reflective project because I kept returning to the same handful of undeniably physical structures, all grounded in my relationship to urbanity: motions, places, things, a cruel version of all roads lead to Rome. The items on the list that I will attempt to articulate occupy both the purely economic, physical, built environment prison of past action, and the self-helpy, ‘bad habits’, abstracted trap of habit where all afflictions are deeply individual – a flagellating look both inward and outward. What places live under my skin? What do they do there? Are they welcome?

Ad Reinhardt, from 'How to Look at Art, Arts & Architecture', 1946

I identified these based on the criterion of physicality and attentivity, both important to the analytic of the practico-inert with the former being material conditions and the latter being the ability of those conditions to change and respond. In other terms, I forced myself to choose objects or practices that are a) strictly material, b) I spend a lot of time thinking about, either willingly or unwillingly, and in order to keep this grounded in some sort of personal reflection, c) I rely on for a non-essential project of identity, self, or general indulgence. This exercise in itself – listing, writing, reflecting – is an attempt to reorient the attentivity of these structures.

Karlsson, 2022 – First we shape our social graph, then it shapes us https://www.henrikkarlsson.xyz/p/first-we-shape-our-social-graph-then (thank you, P)

Merrifield 2011 – The right to the city and beyond: a Lefebvrian re-conceptualization

The city

I’ve already gone on about the city, but I make the most sense to myself when speaking in specific terms. My dad is a born and raised New Yorker. My mom was born in Singapore to immigrants from Southern China, who then immigrated again when she was sixteen to settle in the Bronx. I was born in Hong Kong. My family moved a lot as I grew up, and I spent a handful of years each in Guangzhou, northern Virginia, Bangkok, Beijing, and Seoul. I went to college in a medium-small city in central Virginia, and visited my parents in Tokyo once a year.

These are all facts, but like many truths, they contain sub-truths and technicalities in droves. In Bangkok, and Beijing, my family didn’t live in the city-city. My brother and I were still in school, and most of the large, expensive international schools were located in the outskirts of the urban core, where they could comfortably house sports fields, swimming pools, and big homes for rich expatriates. In Beijing, the school even housed a huge structure known aptly as ‘the Dome’, an enclosed, airtight mega-facility where students could play tennis or soccer, run laps, and use the gym without worrying about the cardiovascular threat of heightened air pollution levels thanks to a state-of-the-art mass air filtration system not yet even seen in hospitals. My parents elected to live out there so that we could be close to our school and participate in the expatriate community that came with it. They instead would make the commute into the city every morning and evening. Going ‘downtown’, as it was usually referred to, was a rare breach of the expatriate bubble that surrounded my international school and happened so infrequently it was in itself a vacation. There, the ‘evidence’ that we were not the West wasn’t limited to the selection at the local convenience store or the language spoken by the service economy attending to expat whims. It was everywhere – public transit, visual culture, attitudes towards each other, urban organization, fashion, etiquette, pop culture. Notably, it was not in us. A family of Chinese Americans in Asia took on an odd quality, one that was hazy at best in our expatriate bubble but sharp and unforgiving in the city. At this age, in these places, the city was supremely unfamiliar – we literally did not even breathe the same air.

The most recognizably urban experience I had in any city I grew up in was Seoul. In Seoul, we lived on the army base¹ in the middle of the city located right next to a bustling city center of shopping, restaurants, and cafes. My commute was almost an hour by private bus provided by the school to an equally bustling part of Seoul closer to its northern boundary. As I came into my independence as a late teenager, I came to know the city in two distinct pockets, categorized into ‘places near home’ and ‘places near school’. It was between these two frames that I started to negotiate the extent to which I was recognizable to myself – at home, I was among my family, my parent’s coworkers, and other expats, exchanging Americanisms, but at school, I was with friends and classmates, made up of mostly Korean Americans that tended much more to Korean than American. There was an invariably small overlap between these two groups, the residents of which I avoided desperately. I wore these two hats with a sense of urgency.

Everywhere else in Seoul, I was free to be no one, helped along by a growing allowance of independence and a determination to shoulder my way into becoming a real person. In the winters, I rode my longboard along the Han River to catch the early sunset over Dongjak Bridge, dodging old men on in-line skates and expensive bicycles, and be back home in time for dinner. In the warm spring, my friends and I would cut school early, make a Ghibli-esque trek across a wooded back-area of the school grounds, beg the guards who video-monitored the back gate to open it for us, and emerge onto the campus of Yonsei University to eat cold noodles, button-mash at arcade Tekken machines, and play pool. Unlike previous experiences of living in cities abroad, I felt like I could say that I really lived in Seoul, despite barely understanding any Korean, never working, and attending an English-speaking school. To this day, I remember Seoul so fondly it stings; in college, I called it my hometown for an embarrassing amount of time before realizing that most people took this to mean I was an international student, and dropped it.

My first time moving to a place that was both a non-city and a non-suburb-of-a-city was when I moved to the US to go to college. In my first year, I was less than 100 miles away from the place I had just finished spending eighteen years of my life telling people I was from, and had never been so homesick (and insecure about being homesick) in my life. That first fall, despite my desperation to enjoy college, I put a countdown timer on my phone that ticked away the days until my flight to Incheon and laid in my dorm room until it got to zero. At home, it was like nothing had changed. The unpleasant growing pains of first year were literally an ocean away; I drank, ate, and played pool with my friends like the last four months had been a glimmery hallucination. Despite seriously considering otherwise, I returned to college for the spring semester, and things shifted slightly into a more tolerable peace. In the summer before my second year, my parents moved to Tokyo, but the feeling remained that I was returning to something that was home, or a gossamer, refracted version of it. When I started to look forward to winter break, it was a desperation to get back to the city and reconnect to myself in a way that I was starting to rely on having regular access to – home was meditation. This, combined with the rare experience of being so near my parents again after a while, shaped these weeks and months into a time outside of time. When it was time to leave, the semesters that stretched in front of me felt measured in gaps between ‘now’, and ‘the last time it was now’. A few weeks of acclimation back in Charlottesville later, I wouldn’t have even known what you were talking about.

Now, when my friends talk about the city, they do so with a hint of reverence. Seattle is like this, the Upper East Side has that character, LA is so that, the Bay Area is this way. I’m guilty of this too². When a certain urban quality comes to precede a city, and the urban quality precedes the self, staring yourself in the face seems a lot less necessary³. Even a certain outfit set in different backdrops can say wildly different things about a person’s personal wealth, sense of self, educational background (think Dickies overalls, an hour south in Orange or in a boba shop in Annandale). The things that set cities apart from one another innately present some information about the gaze that is taken upon it, which in turn shines out of its residents in equal abundance. To know these differences and be able to talk about them in the weird sort of lingua franca of the well-traveled coastal elite is to learn an entirely different lexicon, and it’s one of money. These qualities have been intentionally scrubbed from the suburbs to create a uniform experience where everyone can be white, everyone can be American, and everyone can forget where they might have lived before. In contrast to urban character, suburban character seems more insidious. I don’t know anything about the history of the house, neighborhood, or county where my family lives. There’s no character to take on, no place to project identity, and no reason to. I cannot help but feel that this is intentional. Do the senators and politicians who live in my neighborhood and surrounding areas know the history of this place, as they govern districts and states miles and miles away?

Here is the point I am leading up to: in the aftermath of this pattern of visiting home, where I was neither really just ‘visiting’ nor ‘going home’, the city – any city – feels like pilgrimage. It is a grand return both to the place itself and the person that I am while there. In my winters in Tokyo, surrounded by the concrete jungle gym of a city that positioned itself supremely important, I felt, at times, like a torso. If I kept moving, didn’t become a regular anywhere, and didn’t make any huge social faux paus, being in the city let me feel like I could have no identity at all – if I kept my mouth shut, I wasn’t even a woman or an American. I revel in the feeling that I, too, could be absorbed into the fabric of an ever-changing urban entropy that had always been intimidating, and through this even become unfamiliar, new, enticing to myself. I was entranced by the idea of feeling or acting like I blended in, as if a certain urban character was as much a resident of me as I was of it, and it would shine out of me even when I left just as long as I absorbed enough of it, learned to take it on. At the same time, any wrong move would expose the ugly tourist living beneath my skin, the embarrassment of non-belonging, the disjointed transplant. Being from nowhere in particular is a familiarity with many places, but it’s also a deep disfamiliarity with every place, home or not. This is what I will call practico-inert: I crave the city for its anonymity, centrality, encounter; I am impassively estranged from the relationship that people have to place despite being desperate for it.

It’s wishful thinking to imagine that this is a unique feeling. And just as everything is embarrassing, I am embarrassed by how much I feel like myself in the city, and yet how self-absorbed my obsession with the ability to not be self-absorbed is! I’m more than aware how much I sound like the joke about the ‘returned from study abroad, or the ‘just moved to Manhattan undergrad’. But the truth remains that I like who I am more in the city, and the unrecognizable me(s) that still live there even after I have left. I can be an orbital cloud under balmy blue skies in Apgujeong or a vampire flitting around bookstores in Meguro, all in the same pair of sneakers. These people feel like reflections of my inner life, like I can start to match up the person that I’d like to feel like I am with the character that precedes a place. However, it’s also not lost on me that Korea and Japan are some of the most homogenous countries on Earth, and I happen to match the dominant look in either place, affording me a certain privilege and baseline ease that I don’t experience in America. In a roundabout way, the anonymity of the city is an escape from the exact type of narcissistic self-hate that I suffer from: I don’t have to stare down the barrel of everything I have decided that I am and am not if I can put on a hat and go for a walk and not be that person in public for an hour. It’s a respite from the project of identity.

That summer was the last time I will live in Tokyo for a while. I spent some of the hottest days of the year on park benches devouring words, steam-pressing images into the back of my eyelids, and downing conbini ice cream and canned beer. That month, I made three friends. I didn’t learn much Japanese. It felt like worship.

“Instead, centrality is always movable, always relative, never fixed, always in a state of constant mobilization and negotiation, within and without any movement. It’s a kind of centrality that is the nemesis of centralization with its totalizing mission of domination and control; it’s not so much about occupying a center as creating a node, a node that represents a fusion of people, and overlapping of encounters, a critical force inside that diffuses and radiates outwards; rain that creates its own tidal wave.” (Merrifield, 2012, p. 276)

This is an entirely distinct experience of neo-imperialist American shame that requires its own piece, and probably another few years of percolation.

I’ve always been amused by the difference in thought in regards to the city as exemplified by young people, for which the city can be a sandbox of art, food, fashion, and drinks after dinner, and my parents, one a born and raised Chinatown Manhattanite and the other a product of the Bronx, for which the ‘city’ represents the impoverished foundations upon which bootstraps-were-pulled-up-on to the suburbs of Northern Virginia. I reveled in this disparity in some part as self-soothing mental stimulation to erode the reality that I could not independently afford to live in New York City, even if I wanted to, for years, and that if I ever do move there I will be just another young privileged face in the wave of gentrification and displacement, another inconsequential neuron firing in the empty head.

I called C the other day, from the break room next to the teacher’s office at my school. I jotted grammar points in Japanese as we talked about our lives. When I tell her that the honeymoon period of Japan is starting to wane and I need to look for a new hobby, she laughs. She says that living somewhere new is just being annoying about that place for six months and then moving on. I feel seen.

In the car

Thanks to the great endeavor of my parents, I was never truly in charge of my own life or death in a meaningful way until I got my first car at 20 (not coincidentally, also thanks to my parents). My mom recalls that time as the most nervous she had ever been in the four years we lived across the world from each other. She told me she was often unable to sleep if she knew I was driving a long distance until I sent a text that I had arrived safely. My burgundy red Honda Civic and I would drive almost thirty thousand miles together in three years in a variety of settings, ranging from rush hour Manhattan to the one-light towns of central Virginia.

In that car, I experienced three traffic incidents (two at-fault and one not, only one requiring any repairs) and three tickets (two speeding, one parking). The traffic incident I remember the most took place in the early spring of third year, while I was making the long Sunday evening drive back to school from Fairfax. I had spent two hours either white knuckled behind the wheel in NoVA traffic or bored to tears on the long straightaways of 29. As I pulled onto JPA, a police car turned on its lights and started following closely behind me. Without a street space to pull into, I drove until I could pull off onto a side road and turned on my hazards with my hands on the wheel. The middle-aged white officer berated me for taking so long to pull over until I was crying silently (‘Do they teach you that in driving school? To keep going like nothing’s happening when you see police lights behind you?’), and then wrote me a ticket for $50 which I was too scared to go to court for. Over the next two years, JPA would prove itself to be a site serving many strange purposes (the resting place of a decaying skunk, the setting of a poorly executed hate crime, the open-air hallway of a never-ending house party), but it would always make me prickle with nerves when driving.

The car is a practico-inert in many senses. It’s an urgent site of intervention in climate justice, urban planning, civil engineering, the average American household. But I’ll add a personal analytic to this as well, and argue that the tyrannical rhythms of the car – both concept and object, on both the micro and macro – are engraved into wide highways and country roads in my skin, and I’m only just now polishing them out months after leaving my car behind in America.

The role of policing almost feels too obvious to include here, but it’s the most logical place to start. The car, and the American place sitting in its driver’s seat, is the constant, slight yet looming, threat of police confrontation that is designed for the average driver to forget about. The traffic stop is the biggest initiator of all American contact with police¹, and is the start of one in three police shootings. In the car, I find myself uncharacteristically anxious over potentially interacting with police to the extent that it impacts my ability to drive safely, always keeping an eye out for speed traps on Google Maps or a squad car tucked into some trees on the highway. Outside of driving, I can’t even think of a close call to police interaction I’ve had in the last three years². Speeding on American roads is almost a granted, especially at just five to ten miles per hour over the limit, but it’s not lost that this makes it so that a police officer is constantly justified in pulling over any vehicle on basis of their own judgment, and any other risk beyond that an automatic double jeopardy.

Double jeopardy almost feels like the goal of highway policing. A litany of bad decisions make themselves available to me when I have access to a vehicle, including driving tired, driving while others are drinking in the car, driving through inclement weather, speeding if I’m late. A larger slice of the pie chart of possible decisions also become ‘bad ones’ when I am driving: using my phone, having a snack, getting distracted. It is so much easier to be irresponsible when operating a car than at any other time; it takes an even smaller slip of concentration, a much briefer lapse of judgment for things to go south. In shorter terms, I am never leaving more up to trust in my soft, weak body and squishy force of will than I am when I am operating a car. It’s terrifying. When I was driving regularly to commute or see friends, I started noticing how miserable it was making me because of how it primed my mood to be oriented towards complaining: there was never enough parking, I always missed a green light, traffic was always crazy. I was trying to shift from being acutely aware of every ounce of my mortality to being a relaxed, cool, fun person. This was becoming the entry point to my interactions with the world and started to take an actual toll on my attitude and footing in many socially demanding situations of both work and leisure. My car slowly filled up with junk from work, junk from eating shitty food, junk from overthinking.

I continue to be blown away at how casually friends, family, and often strangers drop their lives in my hands at the door when entering my vehicle. It’s a heavy feeling that I found hard to shake at first, and would last even after arriving at a destination safely. Part of my mind would stay outside, parked on the street, occupied with the trip home, or stuck on the things my car demanded to consume – time, attention, gasoline. Any trip on which I took my car was a trip on which I took with me the most expensive thing that I own and every subsequent liability from that. I’m a good car owner in that I’m very up to date on the maintenance and safety of my car, but I’m also aware how much of a task that is even as someone who considers themselves relatively organized. Often, it’s one that I simply can’t believe that the average person is up to all the time, making other people’s cars and driving sometimes more stressful than my own. It’s made me unnecessarily paranoid, strict, and anxious, not in a way that I think is unjustified given the reality of traffic mortality in the United States, but in a way that makes me hate myself.

In Japan, like a huge portion of the population here, I don’t own a car. There are clear outcomes to this: I’m in better shape without doing much at all, I chew through books and podcasts easily while commuting, I have not once thought for even a second about parking³. My average daily step count has more than doubled. I own a cute bicycle. It’s all very characteristic of any high-functioning train-based society, and I’ll sorely miss the clockwork of the transit systems here when I leave⁴. It’s the strongest system of public infrastructure that I have ever had the privilege of experiencing. On the other hand, I live in the prefecture of Japan that is home to the Suzuka circuit, Japan’s premiere F1 destination and a well-known attraction for car enthusiasts. The city I live in is known for its petrochemical industry and its subsequent pollution; the sidewalks are narrow and the streetlights are sparse. The auto industry in this area impacts life here down to our classrooms. Migrant workers are a strong community even in smaller towns, and many English teachers, especially in middle schools, have a handful of students who they are teaching English to at the same time as they learn Japanese by brute force immersion. Honda’s manufacturing presence in Mie and Toyota’s just a prefecture north in Aichi has made all of the Chubu region surprisingly mixed-race and multiethnic. While I may not drive one anymore, the presence and impact of cars is something that I feel every single day at work, while walking or cycling, when sleeping.

I’m not entirely sure what to do about the car. I’m certain I’ll never truly escape it. Rather than just complaining, however, there is a reason that I consider my car practico-inert, in the sense of a physical prison of past action. The material necessity of my car isn’t even something I would put up to question. Despite my overwhelming hatred for it, ten times out of ten, I would choose having a car over not having one.

In Virginia, I live in a typical American suburb where leaving my neighborhood is nearly impossible without a car. I was able to access pretty much everything that kept me sane through college and the year after through my car – my friends, work outside the home, food. I made a little money on the side during the quietest weeks of winter on Uber. I traveled up and down the East Coast with friends, alone, with family. A huge part of my job in public programming required having access to a vehicle that could haul huge pull-ups, posters, and tech equipment. My car probably saved my life ten times over when COVID shutdowns first began in Charlottesville and I was suddenly, curiously, without a place to sleep. Learning to drive the summer before and getting my car literally weeks before March 2020 saved me probably a lifetime’s worth of stress. My car made itself indispensable. It’s arguable that there’s always another direction to point fingers in – the built environment of the suburb and the lack of public infrastructure to respond to a health crisis come to mind – but I’d sooner find myself grateful for having had a car in a difficult situation than I would stick to my anti-car principles and have been totally fucked. In times where a car makes itself absolutely necessary, do you know what a little relief feels like? It feels like a lot⁵.

Yet, I still can’t quite characterize my relationship to my car as practico-inert for the reason that ‘I don’t really like it, but it’s handy!’. The truth remains that a lot of the time, I really enjoy driving. I have an emotional attachment to my car in the same way that children love stuffed toys for keeping them safe. I take pride in taking good care of my car and being a good driver. What is it exactly about the car that appeals to me so much? Why do I feel empowered by driving at speed, at operating a car smoothly, by the alone time spent driving? Why do the cultural imaginations of the great American road trip stir something in me, anxieties and dangers and headaches of the highway and all? This is what feels the most endemic about my infatuation with the car, the road, the act of driving. It’s the constant return to it and its needs, the inevitability of the car. I could accumulate hundreds of hours on foot and on bike, feel the effects on my health, environment, and attitude, and still find myself instinctually tending towards the car if the option was given to me.

At the same time, I have to ask what the next point of practice on this site might be. Does having moved somewhere with fantastic infrastructural support for non-drivers count as taking actionable steps towards escaping the totalitarian car? I would argue no, but I will add that escaping the car has not subtracted cars from my life, but instead opened up new ways of locomotion. I don’t blink at a thirty minute walk any more, know my neighborhood’s bus schedule like the back of my hand, developed an eerily familiar pseudo-social relationship with my bike (albeit a bit more wary of each other).

Not driving has brought a sense of attunement to the world that I hadn’t even been conscious of until I visited home for Christmas. Japanese people are known for their timeliness, reflected in both individual approaches to life and public transportation systems. but there’s also a more constant awareness of time that comes with living here. When the difference between getting home at 5 and at 8 is catching a bus that leaves once an hour, which is likely the first leg of several extremely on-time transports, time doesn’t slip away as easily as it would if deciding to leave was just that. There’s also always the faint threat of straying too far from home with no public transit to get home, like missing a bus that’ll get you a train that’ll get you the last train to the only station walkable to your house. While at times stressful, getting home is often as much as working backwards from a desired destination and a given time, and I’ve found myself surprisingly attuned to the spatial relationship between places, the time demanded of such movement, and the suddenly much larger consequences of losing track of time.

Attunement, in another sense, has also been to the world on the exterior of a car. Urban studies essayist Garnette Cadogan noted in an interview on the podcast The War on Cars that “[walking] was a place in which I continually meet people. I’m invited into worlds in which there is one pleasure or delight or discovery, or an encounter with another that just kept enlarging my sense of myself and the possibilities in the world. And I began thinking of walking as possibility. Because that’s what walking was—it was social possibility, it was emotional possibility, even spiritual possibility.⁶" I’ve found this, too, to be characteristic of my life on foot. Some of the things I’ve seen while walking in my neighborhood include a family of tanuki living in some bushes near an empty lot, a beautiful cherry blossom orchard with oyster shells scattered over the soil, and an outdoor tomatillo plant that I can get a decent harvest from if I can get to the fallen ones before the birds do. It’s gotten to the extent that I occasionally balk at even riding my bike, which can be too fast to catch onto the finer details of possibility⁷.

This sense of joy, encounter, surprise is irreplicable by the logic of the car. It’s a mechanically necessary slow-down, a forced thoughtfulness, a proximity to mindfulness through an organic rhythm, the ultimate relationship to the earth. I grow gratitude for each step my body allows me, stem curling up from the ground into the sole of my shoe, through my spine, and blooming out of the top of my head to shelter me from the sun.

Henry Grabar in Slate, The American Addiction to Speeding https://slate.com/business/2021/12/speed-limit-americas-most-broken-law-history.html

In November, someone stole my bike from the train station in my neighborhood (punks!!! hooligans!!!). A nice detective drove me to the police station, put my groceries in the refrigerator while they took my statement, and then took me home. He asked if I liked Shohei Ohtani. The bike was back by the next week.

I went to Costco in Gifu with my coworker and her friends a few weeks ago. We forgot where we parked and wandered the lot eating hazelnut chocolate soft serve. The familiar will make itself clear, I guess.

In the heat of August last year, there was a typhoon in my prefecture. The principal instructed us all to stay home, so I sweated it out in the disgusting apartment I had been assigned to as the storm rattled my windows. I was surprised to find out upon coming back to work that I had been charged a day of PTO. When the Ishikawa earthquake caused a runway fire at Haneda Airport and I missed my flight from Tokyo to Nagoya, I spent an extra 24 hours playing tourist, shopping, and eating in my favorite city. I got the day off for free and received plenty of old-lady cooing over my misfortune for the transportation incident.

https://www.tumblr.com/jb-blunk/677813547138498560/in-this-terrifying-world-you-continuously-have-the

The War on Cars, Episode 83: The Pedestrian. https://thewaroncars.org/episode-83-the-pedestrian-final-web-transcript-2/

Like staring at the mountains and wishing I was hiking, or seeing a cute dog and wishing we were hiking together, or feeling a nice breeze and wishing I was feeling it on top of a mountain while on a hike

My relationship to East Asia

I’ve already talked about my not-like-other-girls tendencies, but perhaps this is where that strange feeling of extremely internal, quiet insanity of girlhood comes to light: I genuinely believe that I have one of the worst cases of carefully managed, suppressed NLOG-ism possible. I will push myself to be specific.

I sometimes relish the fact that other Asians are surprised to find out certain things about me. One such thing is that I am a fan of K-pop, another is that I was in an Asian sorority in college, one more is that I’m queer. It makes me feel like I’ve done something right, like I’ve successfully dodged tropes and have emerged as uncategorizable and unrecognizable, the Best Asian, made up of vagueness and blurry cultural lines that I can keep in my pocket until it’s the right type to deploy them. I enjoy this feeling. It makes me feel important. In much ruder terms, I think I have a tendency to like to be right by means of other people being wrong, to derive some of my sense of self-worth from not being the person that people perceive me as. I joke with my friends that the worst part of being a K-pop fan is other fans, and there’s more than a grain of truth here: some of the most fun to be had in K-pop fandom is pointing and laughing at people who are crazier than you, including, sometimes, past versions of yourself. There is something so evilly satisfying about not being other people. These people, more often than not and including myself, are Asian Americans who for some reason I cannot help but judge for being Asian Americans in ways that are exactly predictable: in fandom, in social organizations, in friend groups, online. Terms like boba liberalism, all-Asian friend group, soft cultural power whiz through the ticker tape in my brain like the endless, hungry feed that it is, algorithm-ed and gameified to either like or hate, be or not be, participate in or reject.

If this entire tirade screams of internalized racism to you, fret not; the thought has occurred to me, too. I understand that tropes about types of Asians are meant to take them down and make them understandable, even ones that circulate internally to those groups. My distaste for parts of Asian America is a hatred of something that I see reflected at least partially in myself. However, instead of internalized racism, I’ll offer this indictment of myself that I believe is much more accurate, and to me, much more cruel: I have clung onto my relationship to East Asia for years past its expiration date.

Again, I will push myself to be specific. There is something shiny, brief, and shameful buried in the heart of the way that I think and talk about my experiences in East Asia. I am deeply, fondly attached to the years that I spent there as a teenager. Perhaps it is the red-cheeked shame of still feeling like I struggle to talk about privilege despite a plethora of examples and opportunities that would lend themselves to my case; perhaps it’s also the neocolonial conditions under which I’ve been able to gain intimate access to so much of East Asia. The fact remains that I can attribute so much of who I feel I am to the way that I was raised by these places, and I don’t know if I like that about myself. This sense of self feels very extractable; like it’s something that can be taken away if I were to settle down, or pursue something I find uninteresting, or let those times fall away in importance. I feel deeply, weirdly protective of the years and months that I spent in Korea and Japan. I don’t know if it’s the typical yearning for places that I once loved, or a specifically pathologizable dependency on that time as defining characteristics of my personality¹. Something about the times that I spent as a high schooler feels like the last time that I participated in something wholeheartedly, fully believed in something (the future, perhaps, or maybe myself), and wasn’t nonconsensually critical about my relationship to the world. I don’t know if this is more defined in contrast to a subconscious, post-COVID mourning, being a femme, or another casualty of being an NLOG, but I cannot tear my eyes away from these memories, experiences, and places as something that is possible; I find myself thinking of them in the same way that I used to let influencers, friends, and celebrities worm their way into my head on the pipeline to obsession. Sitting around and idealizing about that time is it’s own activity at this point². The thought makes me feel like my teeth are rotting. I think that this nostalgia is what feeds the flames of discomfort I feel about my place in Asian America.

My interests in pop culture coming out of East Asia are a big part of what I feel like my time growing up in Asia left me, along with a sloppy fistful of a few different languages. But, I’ll also acknowledge that these interests are entirely aligned with current Western media consumption fetishes focused on Korea and Japan. I’m a die-hard K-pop boy group stan who has been in it for so long that I’m stronger in Korean than I am Japanese several times over (and I only live in one of those places!). The time I spent living in Korea was on the occupied land of the American military, both representative of a history of imperialism and actively participating in it. I went to an expensive private school on the government’s dime where the vast majority of students were the anchor babies of eye-wateringly rich Korean American families who wanted their kids to have a better shot at entrance to American colleges. I’m currently a first year participant on the JET program, sending thousands of Westerners and English-speakers to different cities and towns across Japan to work in public and private schools in the name of soft power cultural exchange. It’s not an exaggeration to say that a vast majority of people on this program are people whose interest in and understanding of Japan began (and frequently, ended) with anime, video games, and other post-war mass cultural exports. I, myself, won’t try to pretend that having spent time here before makes me any better. For me, to have lived in Korea and Japan was to consume them, and the taste is unpleasantly reminiscent of the metallic, violent things that America and Japan have consumed too. In this way, too, my relationship with East Asia feels unsatisfying, but perhaps to wish otherwise is to wish for ignorance.

If I attempt to cut to the heart of what I feel, I think it is this: I have hung my laurels for so long on a specific, personally-and-politically fraught experience of living in Asia and the experiences that it has provided me that I’m not sure how to be a version of myself that I like without setting that person against others. I understand what a terrible thing this is to say, and at the same time, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to meaningfully articulate how much I mean it.

It feels silly to say, but my parents leaving Asia to move back to Virginia last year left me with a pang of uneasiness. My own position as a diasporic subject has always been defined by space; when I was younger it was by living in Asia in places I both did and did not have a diasporic connection to, in college it was by visiting my parents frequently and the small but strong Asian American network I was building. I would always have my ties to the physical land of Asia as my leg-up experience, somehow always orienting me differently to the core of Asian American discussions and topics. It was a huge part of who I was. Since my parents moved back to Virginia, I find myself wrestling with the thinner, ground-floor terms of diaspora that I haven’t had to before. What once felt just like discourse is now the reality that my family is learning how to deal with – microaggressions, regular aggressions, language loss, access to traditions, aging relatives, changing family structures. It was easy to think of smelly Asian food in the cafeteria tropes as just that when they were only ever happening miles and miles away, in a culture that I knew was supposed to be very much like my own but was not. Now, I worry about my parents when they FaceTime me from their drives up to New York City Chinatown, I don’t laugh when my dad tries to tell me a funny story about a racist guy in Wawa. I feel like I’m experiencing a delayed puberty of the very basic ‘growing up Asian in America’ – my NLOG factor has evaporated, if you will, and I’m left to define what it means to be like exactly other Asian Americans when I so often (problematically) set my stance against them. I’m occupying the position that I so often intentionally misunderstood.

It feels cruel that my mind is so occupied with a place that I no longer have a neat, agreeable relationship to. My family belongs to the early end of Chinese immigration to the United States, pre-1965 and working class. We have no family or holdings left in China – the farthest extent of my family network now lives in Long Island. Since my parents moved back to the US in the summer of 2022, I’m struggling to renegotiate the new geographic, spatial, and familial terms on which my personal experience of diaspora rests. I find myself craving words from others who have tried to make sense of their relationship to homeland, which read differently than they used to as I flounder to find something that feels satisfactory. This is what I would come to identify as practico-inert: I developed so much of who I thought I would grow up to be off a relationship to East Asia and my experiences in those places that I’m no longer sure how to not fall back on the ideas of ‘space’ and ‘time’ to think about who I am, and by extension, how I relate to other people, especially now that that relationship is changing.

I wrote much of the above before I moved to a small industrial city in central Japan on the JET Program this past summer, which slowly helped hammer back many of my NLOG tendencies back into their comfortable, sun bleached spots, hiding that there was ever anything wrong to begin with³. I’ve enjoyed myself immensely during my time so far, but I still find myself drawn to the same questions of place. I don’t see myself living in my area long term, but also can’t fathom going back to the US anytime soon – there is still so much to do here. Japan is safe, convenient, and easy to live in. I enjoy the pop culture and have been given opportunities I couldn’t even imagine back in the US. In the same breath, I miss English speaking friends who I feel like I can match in every sense instead of just a few and a language, I miss my family. I want to make more money, I want to be in community with more queer people. I want to live five thousand different lives. In short, I have no idea how I’d like to sort my relationship between home and home, a refrain repeated over and over in the body of Asian American literature and media. I have a hard time treating my time in Japan as real, and the life that I am building here as an actual reflection of the way I will shape my twenties and beyond. This, too, is part of the escape of my relationship with living in EA that I have to contend with now that it is of my own choice and volition to do so, and now with the experience of the US under my belt.

As I transitioned out of working in Asian America in the referential sense and into what feels like working in Asian America in a literal sense, I’ve come to realize that to me, Asian America is much more interesting as a stance than as a subject matter. I’ve gone on a strange personal journey from finding Asian Americans cringe when first encountering them en masse at UVA to really staunchly standing by standing by them (to the extent of taking not one, not two, but four jobs in AAPI), to finally settling on a begrudging acceptance that the sometimes interesting, sometimes embarrassing fabric of being Asian American in public is just the way that things are. I’ve felt more moved by the kinship that being Asian American has allowed me, both here in Japan and in college, than I did in my year actually working in the field. Asian America can feel flimsy at times; my friends and family are perfect, robust, eternal. This, too, may be borne out of some unsettled place: I’m afraid that the subject matter approach will spend too much time trying to sift through the clumpy litter box of identity and come up with the slightly scary notion that the material of Asian America is, in truth, not much substance at all, a mosaic of borrowed difference that doesn’t reveal itself as nothing until the dust is blown off, and the tradition itself floats away with it.

The idea that I might have dedicated my life’s work to something that I’m not really sure if I really care for is both a reassuring and frightening thought. After having moved, I keep looking over my shoulder at Asian America, as if playing red light, green light. If I don’t look, will it change? Will I turn around one day and find myself staring back? Will Asian America catch up to us? On the other hand, my job now feels like the most derealized I have ever been from any concept of complex public identity: I am an American talkbox who has a mastery of the English language, and for that, this box must talk⁴.

“Remember: home is

not simply a house, village, or island; home is an archipelago of belonging.”

From Off-Island Chamorros, Craig Santos Perez

I’ll also recognize that I haven’t had quite the amount of years beyond them that I will have after I return from Japan for a second time, so it’s a bit hard to tell if I will romanticize these years specifically or just constantly yearn after my late teens and early twenties until I mold over.

See Liz, on yearning.

The NLOG factor, here, is one that I was raised in: it is being a foreigner who doesn’t look it in Asia, what I once saw termed as a ‘hidden immigrant’ (ew) in a book about third culture kids that seemingly was trying to give people a term to rally around.

I was asked to put together a presentation on fall activities in America, and found myself haphazardly Googling Virginia tourism websites. I ended up showing a historical reenactment video of a bunch of kids fake-dying from plastic rifle wounds in Jamestown, just because I thought it would make the kids laugh. It feels weird.

I am determined to deserve something

Recently, I was at an event that I considered myself exceedingly fortunate to be at – perhaps one of the only things I’ve ever participated in that I could truly consider a once-in-a-lifetime experience. The entire time, the two things that I felt were close to tears and why me? What could I possibly have done to bring me to this point? How did the spaghetti of life choices and decision trees have led me to this point? I’ve never thought of living this way.

I don’t not believe in cause-and-effect relationships, but there have been more than a few moments in the past year that have left me questioning if there is really such a relationship that can define two abstract items in time and space as a ‘cause’ and as an ‘effect’, in matrimony of opposition to each other. It feels vain to imagine that a mental connection that I might draw between two things could be anywhere near a reflection of a reality that often feels too complex to even participate in, let alone draw conclusions about. Attempting even more than two things feels like a farce. Infinitely many things are true at the same time, and these things are often in contradiction, in moral opposition, producing outcomes where it seems like none should occur and withholding them when they should be obvious. To leave the job of attaching red yarn between events to humans is a Sisyphean cosmic prank, frankly, and I’m sometimes left gawking at my own daring to even try.

I’m not sure where this instinct to believe in a logical world comes from, where karma functions like a machine, actions have direct consequences, and the idea of justice can be followed to a T. This has never really been true on the personal nor public scale. This ambiguity can be beautiful, and the gaps between truths are the spaces where poetry grows. Here, too, is where I’ve found meaning out of injustice, celebrated undefinability. But I can also identify that I am a type of person for which this ambiguity – where fault is shared, where forgiveness is granted with two hands – has made a faint sense of cloying guilt that I’ve received much more than I deserve, have been forgiven many more times that I should have, and have escaped the consequences of my failures in a way that has made me fat and happy, complicit in my own excuses as to why I live the way that I do.

This, of course, isn’t to say that I don’t want an environment where I feel as if I will be supported if I fail or allowed to make mistakes. It is, however, an inquiry into the perhaps more damning notion that I haven’t really ever truly deserved anything, whether ecstasy of the everyday, the opportunities I’ve had, the people that I can call my friends and family, the way I’ve been able to move through the world. Why do I have these things? Is it even possible to imagine a ‘cause’ large enough, pious enough, unquestionably virtuous enough that could result in this elation of my delight for my everyday life? I have received so, so much. My gratitude overwhelms me constantly, I feel like I am always failing to say thank you.

In this logical version of the world, my sense of thankfulness is nourished by work in all senses. My attunement to the karmic flow of the world manifests in my personal life, and I am able to reciprocate my joy by an inner sense of extended satisfaction and openness to work, effort, commitment. Work comes easily and naturally, and feels like an equivalent reciprocation to the universe for its gifts. Instead, I don’t feel satisfied by work at all. I think that fulfillment in life isn’t constructed off of work is true for most people. But again, perhaps more insidiously, I don’t find myself satisfied by hardly any work at all – in the capitalist definition, but also in the personal and descriptive. Even the things that are supposed to feel the most actionable, personal, self-serving – working out, taking care of my home, reading, writing – feel like work. How can I even begin to think about a real, genuine gratitude for the life I’ve been allowed to live when living well, even for just my own sake, feels like work? Is it possible to feel satisfied with anything I accomplish when that accomplishment feels unnatural and uncharacteristic? Is there such a thing as the feeling that I believe that I deserve a result that I actually get? Is it vanity to think that my joy is something I could have possibly endeavored to deserve?

As I, like many young adults, slowly realize that my work will never be a true reflection of what I am passionate about or interested in, I’ve struggled to look towards new hobbies to fill up my time. It’s not often that I understand the satisfaction of something well done, but when I do, it’s like the machinations of a world that I’ve felt like I was wired wrong for are suddenly, overwhelmingly obvious. The times I catch glimpses of that satisfaction are magical, like taking the first bite of a really good meal that I perfected, the view from the top of a difficult hike. I learned that the term for this is called complex leisure, and it’s defined by its scalable nature. Complex leisure differs from passive leisure by way of being something that one can improve at, participate in in different measures, and invest variable amounts of money in. Most adult hobbies are complex leisure, like climbing, recreational sports, cooking. The idea that sustains this type of leisure is that continual and self-implemented challenges lead to the same type of effort-result gratification relationship that is usually structured by school, traditional jobs, and capitalist institutions. This type of satisfaction is deeper, more meaningful, and leads to tangible outcomes for the practitioner.

I’ve always considered myself someone with a rich inner life. I’m grateful for it – I can spend time by myself well, entertain myself, make myself laugh. And yet, I don’t know why complex leisure evades me. I can’t quite bring myself to understand the type of sustained pleasure that complex leisure over a long period is supposed to bring. I’m afraid that deep down, I’ve never really worked towards anything in my life, and the ends of my pleasure receptors have been fried off permanently, not even from short-form content or the Internet which both definitely play a part, but from years of instant gratification, overlove, and community. I have been given so much and have done shockingly little to deserve it. I take, and take.

I think my indulgence in quick-fix dopamine – friends, the Internet, music – is actively preventing me from the revelation of gratitude, actual embodied gratitude that shines out from my chest without trying. Is it really possible to develop a dopamine response to real life, complex leisure, and work that can match the ecstasies of sugar, the Internet, sex? Even beyond that, what about my friends, nature, or music, my appreciation for which I have done absolutely nothing to cultivate? These things may not be given, per say, but my enjoyment derived from them is something I again have done nothing to deserve. I think there do exist people who have gotten close to perfect on their regulation of joy milieu, but I also think there are people who cosplay complex leisure in order to mine satisfaction from the Internet and sex, which brings me to my next thought, which is just how superficial attempting to understand all of this is. Trying to draw circles around things like satisfaction, joy, rhythms, feels like implementing a slow feeding schedule for an overenthusiastic dog, who will eat and eat until they throw up. I am both owner and dog, and when the hand and the mouth belong to the same beast it is quite, quite easy to fall into patterns of excessive stimulation. Perhaps the answer, just as it is to the dog, is a Kong filled with peanut butter¹, a slow drip of emotion controlled just enough to tame envy and ugly, jealous thoughts.

Some on the Internet call one such response to an overloaded brain a dopamine fast, where a break from social media and interactive technology is taken to reset the receptors of dopamine from instant gratification and addictive behaviors. This approach imagines the experience of instant feedback dopamine addiction to stem from the cyclical algorithms of the internet as much as the content itself. However, I was surprised to learn that the original concept of a ‘dopamine fast’ included fasting from things beyond the digital age: social interaction was one of them, another was eating for purposes other than basic sustenance². The aim of this practice was to abstain from not just quick dopamine fixes, but any at all. After a period of dormancy, brain receptors are supposed to recalibrate to the joys of daily life. Beyond dopamine, I think the necessary fast extends to other people. The cause and effect logic that I want to attempt should belong to my own body, start and end with me, remain something close. Maybe quick-release dopamine is avoidable, as are imaginary audiences with enough time and distance. But is it possible to abstain from place, even just for a little while? Can I extract these things – the city, the car, East Asia, beyond – from under my skin? I’m not sure it’s possible.

In a way, I’d like to do a system reset of sorts, one that brings the solution to this ennui down to eye level, like inputting ‘hello, world’ into a supercomputer. I’m trying to rediscover the clean boundaries of an effort and an outcome, like maybe the sharp edges will shoulder some logic back into me. In the face of absurdities in droves and joy so easily reveled in, there’s something sacred about an action and a consequence, praxis and its outcomes, a push and a fall. In short, I am determined to deserve something, to create the perfectly weighted outcome from the ultimate infallible action. Perhaps this an effort to assuage the guilt of my joy, as if by demonstrating that I am capable of working without immediate gratification, or that if I am able to say with my whole chest that I deserve an outcome, just one, that all the other ecstasies of my life are things that I can have also deserved, even if by less direct measures. I’m looking for proof of concept.

As I reflect on place, the practico-inert, and what no longer serves me, I think this guilt of incessant ungratefulness may one day take its place in these ranks. Guilt, too, is a node on my milieu, and I fear it will spread to eat at more of my being. I’m infinitely thankful for what the places I’ve explored in this project have given me, and it has taken a great deal of guilt to say that they no longer provide the joy, solace, and comfort they once did. As much as I would like to be the sole progenitor of my logical reset, these places will push their way into my blindspots, both material and emotional. They are a part of me.

As I challenge my place(s) to be more attentive to my needs, I, too, must think about how I curate it. I soak up the rays of my desk neighbor, my brother on Facetime, the blue of my water bottle. I am relentlessly tiraded upon by the fat clouds that hang over the parking lot of my school, the yellow flowers that bloom in the sidewalk cracks. They take their places in my soft body, and I carry the tastiest ones like a secret stash of snacks. I’ll break one in half. Perhaps this, too, can be gratitude. I hope you’d like to share.

See also: frozen grapes, the last few pearls at the bottom of a cup of boba, anything describable as a ‘team-building exercise’, trying to book-club something with friends online

Lol this is just called going to work

3 notes · View notes

thekillingmoonmoon · 2 years

Text

three | woman

It all tastes the same And boy there's something different about your mouth And you try chasing dreams, man it's harder than it seems And oh, I've got a woman now

Pairing: Toman Timeskip! Hanma Shuji x Fem! Reader / minor Kisaki x Reader Warnings: NSFW, smut, drugs, blood, violence, death, guns, sex work, “infidelity”, Reader is as off the rails as Hanma Chapter specific warnings: GUN, violence, the reader being a silly goofy woman Length: 2,8 Masterlist #TheCityAU Finally, with your arms around his waist, and his bike flying through the wind, Hanma can finally figure out what it is about you that drives him so insane

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Of course, you had been on a bike before. You were a Yakuza legend’s darling daughter. You had been strapped to the back of a bike before you could even walk, going for slow joyrides around your family’s property. A property they still kept, thanks to your sacrifice.

But riding with Hanma felt different, felt more dangerous, more alive. That might have to do with the speed at which he drove, his bike ricocheting around corners at full speed whilst you hung on for dear life. He had grinned wildly when you’d agreed, happily paying for your groceries and handing them to a nearby goon to return to your rooms at the brothel. And then you were off, racing against the wind, his eyes wild behind the visor. You clung to him, your helmeted cheek leaning against his back as he sped out of the city. Your arms were slung around his waist, and Hanma worried why he had never felt happier than when you held onto him. He raced past the traffic, travelling far out of the city to where the suburbs dissolved into farmland and abandoned barns whistled in loneliness along to the wind.

He soon found his favourite track, bumping and jostling you down a dirt road until you came to what looked like a ghost town. Empty buildings watched eyelessly as he helped you off his bike, steadying you when your knees gave in beneath you. He caught you, his arms looping around your waist to hold you to his chest. “Where are we?” you looked around, peering at the silent storefronts and dusty roads. “My old town,” he grinned, lifting you and spinning you to see all around you. You looked around, taking in the air of decay and decadent rot, the hopes and dreams that swirled in the dirt at your feet. “Your old town?” you asked for clarification, standing firm as Hanma slung his elbow around your waist. He slumped into you, leaning on your shoulder and spreading his hands to take in the view. “Welcome to my humble hometown, doll, population zero,” he tucked his glasses inside his jacket pocket and stepped away from you. He bowed, holding out his hand in invitation to you. You took it, your hand small and slight in comparison to the Sin that surrounded it “Why, did you scare everyone away?” you asked, smiling at the faux shock on his face. “Me? Never? The town loved me,” he winked, leading you down the main street. “And I’m sure they loved you even more when you left,” you commented, earning yourself a soft pinch by Punishment to your cheek. “Watch your mouth, sweetheart. Else someone might shut it for you,” he warned, tugging you along and grinning when you stumbled. Suddenly you were glad for the heavy boots and breezy shirt you wore, leaving you air to breath as you trotted behind Hanma’s long sweeping strides. He led you down the main road, to an old factory warehouse on the edge of town.

“This is where we used to hang out,” he kicked open the door with his now-dusty shoe, and the door creaked on its rusty hinges. “Who’s we?” you asked, trailing behind as he lead the way inside. Sunlight filtered in through a hole in the ceiling, made when part of the roof had collapsed inward. Broken windows warped the summer glow, casting strange shadows on the bare concrete walls as you walked past. “Most of the kids my age,” he cast a glance back at you, at where your hand rested in his. You had not resisted, even when he’d wound your arms around him when you’d first sat on his bike. Instead you’d laughed at his piss-poor excuse to have you hold him, settling your hands at his jutting hipbones and squeezing him. He’d fought the urge to kiss you since then, your parted mouth an open invitation for his needy lips, needing to taste you on his tongue. But he needed to steal you away, away from the wandering eyes of his goons, away from the guard he’d noticed just outside the grocery store where he’d found you. Despite his lack of interest, Kisaki was still watching. And you knew. You had waved cheekily at your bodyguard before you’d climbed behind Hanma, your back shuffled snug against the seat and his narrow waist between your hands.

“Lemme guess, you were their leader?” you turned in his hold, spinning under his arm to get a good look at the place. Hanma gave you a Cheshire grin. “Of course, doll. What kinda guy do you take me for?” “The kind of guy who gets beaten by ten dudes and then gets blood all over my couch,” you deadpanned, and he grinned, wondering if he could wipe the pout from your lips with a kiss. You smiled though, the corners of your mouth twitching upward at the faux offense Hanma took at your suggestion. He tugged you back to him, swinging his arm over your shoulder and bringing you into his chest. You let yourself get led, leaning your head on his bicep as he kicked a couple of loose stones along the cement floors. Eventually he had you sit on an empty windowsill. He pulled off his jacket and laid it down over the cold concrete and with a little hop, he helped you up, coming to stand between your legs and lean over you with a golden grin.

“And this was my throne,” he displayed, showing you where his dogged disciples would sit below him, his canines shimmering and shining as he smiled. He pulled a flask from inside his jacket and unscrewed the lid, throwing back the golden liquid in a glance, his eyes never leaving your as he offered you the drink. You tentatively sipped at the flask, maintaining eye contact until the fire in your throat burned too bright for your eyes to stay open. You coughed and Hanma giggled, taking the flask from your lips and wiping away the stray droplet that remained with his thumb. He popped the thumb into his mouth suckling on it noisily as your eyes widened at him. God, your reactions were adorable, all doe-eyed and innocent, as if you weren’t a kept whore for one of the most dangerous men in Tokyo. He placed his hand on either side of your hips, crowding you between his shoulders as his hair flopped softly over his face. You looked up at him, at the way his chest strained beneath his white shirt, his tie tossed over his shoulder. You could trace the dark swirls of his tattoos beneath the ivory cotton, the scales and swirls faint and opaque in their loose meanderings across his skin. The soft brown leather of his gun harness lay tight across his pectorals. You lifted your hands and skimmed the leather, your fingers fluttering and barely brushing his skin beneath the layers of fabric that separated you. You pulled the gun from its harness beneath Hanma’s arm, lithe fingers running along the cold barrel and chambers as you examined the handpiece. The handle was carved, the symbol for sin deeply engraved into the stock of the gun. “It’s beautiful,” you breathed, the word rushing out in a hushed whisper that had Hanma’s hackles rising beneath his shirt. You held the gun so naturally, as if it were a part of you, as if you were a weapon. “Does the pretty girl like guns?” he asked, raising one neatly manicured eyebrow as you shrugged. “Not really,” you ran your hand down the barrel and Hanma shivered, “I just grew up with them.” Punishment closed over your hand, Hanma’s fingers interweaving with yours. “You know how to shoot, doll?” he asked and you nodded. “I can remember the basics,” you offered, and was suddenly picked up and off the windowsill. Hanma held you in his arms, spinning and shuffling you until you stood with your back to his chest, the pair of you looking out of the window over the empty car lot below. An abandoned Beetle lay at the furthest end of the lot, its tyres long gone and its paint chipped away by the gritty wind and dirty days in the sun. Hanma held the gun in your hands, long strong fingers arranging your own hands to hold the gun properly, the handle cradles in the palms of your hands. His touch was magnetising, the beat of his heart echoing across your back, the muscles of his chest rippling down your spine. Once certain that your hold on his gun was concrete, he withdrew his hands, leaving you cold and unsure.

He aimed you at the empty car at the far end of the lot, the barrel of the gun dead centre of one of the windows. “Show me how you shoot, doll,” he crooned in your ear. You shifted slightly, so that his smooth cheek was within view. You placed a cheeky peck to his cheek, cocked the gun and pulled the trigger. One, two, three! Three panes of glass shattered in the sunlight, dazzling at they splintered and scattered through the air. The gun rocked back in your hands with each shot, and you handled the kickback with ease, letting the huge gun pump your arms back. Hanma had put his hands over your ears, his honey-gold eyes melted wide with lust and wonder at how dexterously you handled the weapon. “Atta girl,” he praised, and tried to reach down for his gun. But you were quicker, and lighter on your feet as you ducked below his arms and wriggled away from him. He paused, caught with his arms empty and lips waiting. He spun around, smiling as you gave him a lazy grin and taunted him with the gun.

“Catch me if you can~” you challenged, boots already scuffing up dust as you shuffled out of reach. Hanma leaned back onto the empty window ledge, his half-lidded eyes glittering with mirth in showers of gold. His long, thick fingers came up to his throat and loosened his tie. He tugged on the silken fabric slowly, deliberately, watching as you stared at his hands. “And if I catch you, doll?” he threatened, tucked his tie in his pocket and taking a single step forward. You scuttled back, sticking out your tongue and setting off and away. “Wait and see!” you jeered back, sprinting as fast as you could, the gun clicked to safety and tucked close to your chest. You ducked and weaved about the warehouse, listening to the various curses and obscenities that spewed out of Hanma’s mouth as he chased you. You laughed, and he giggled, a high hyena’s cackle that told you he was having just as much fun being the predator as you were being the prey.

You broke out into broad daylight, finding yourself in the parking lot where you’d shattered the window of the broken down Buggy. The asphalt was covered in glass, glittering and glimmering in the late day sun. It was near dusk now, the pink haze of evening already settling in at the corners of the horizon. Hanma burst out from the open doorway with a cheer, his hands greedily reaching towards you and his gun. You held out the gun with one hand, ready for him to take it back with a smile. But instead, his lithe fingers curled around your wrist and tugged you from your feet.

You fell in his arms, his chest warm and chuckling as he hooked his arm around your waist and pulled you close. You stood as if ready to dance, two hands out holding his engraved gun, the rest of you closely intertwined in a tangle of black ripped denim and grey pinstripes. You looked up at him and smiled at the wild wolf’s grin he wore, his white teeth flashing in the low light of the day. His eyes simmered, staring at you beneath long thick lashes and lowered lids. “Caught you,” he teased and you found yourself holding onto the front of his shirt. “But what if I wanted to get caught?” you breathed, the lot suddenly silent save for the distant sound of traffic. You could hear you heart thump-thumping away at your chest, your blood rushing through your veins.

“You play a dangerous game, my queen,” Hanma warned, lifting the gun from your hands and tucking it behind his back. “If this is a game,” you started, “then you’re playing too,” you gripped both of his lapels and leaned back, pulling you down towards him. He smiled, smaller now, but the glimmer in his eyes far more deadly. “But when I play games, doll, I play to win,” he snarked, feeling you flush against him. He steadily walking you back, shuffled you until your back hit the side of the broken down car and you let out a soft gasp in surprise. Despite the afternoon sun, the metal still ran cool. You shivered, pinned between the car and Hanma’s narrow needling hips. His hands came up to your face.

“Then claim your prize,” you dared him, you dared him to kiss you, to take what he wanted from you ever since you’d sat in his lap last week, you dared him to take you, despite the danger, despite dark shadow that loomed over your freedom. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, sweetheart.” And then he kissed you.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his chest thundering beneath your palms, his hair dishevelled. “Yea,” you panted, pressing another peck to his lips, “fuck,” His hands spread downward, cupping your ass and squeezing. He stayed like that for a few moments, his head tucked into the crook of your neck, his hands wandering the expanse of their body. “Not enough,” he grumbled, suddenly standing to his full height and taking your hands. “What?” you bumbled, still slightly breathless, your chest flush to Hanma’s hard torso. Your stomach gave a twist, suddenly sure that the kiss hadn’t been as good for him as it was for you. Your whole body buzzed, a mere kiss setting you aglow to beam up at Hanma. He rumbled, reaching for your lips once more, catching you in a sloppy open-mouthed kiss that had you letting out a slight moan as he pressed you back into the car behind you.

“Not here,” he murmured, more to himself than you. He suddenly turned away from you, and grabbing your hands, dragged you down the streets behind him. You had to run to keep up, continuously stopping for him to steal the air from your lungs with his wild kisses. You got back to his bike and he halted. “This is where you tell me to stop, doll, else I’m not driving you home,” he warned. You raised a brow. “I’m surprised you’re even giving me the option to say no, Mr Hanma –“ his lips stopped you from finishing his name. “Shuji, sweetheart. You call me Shuji,” he mumbled against your lips, “and I wasn’t gonna let you stop me even if you wanted to,” he seated you onto his bike, kissing you between putting on your helmet and sliding in front of you. “Good thing I’m not stopping you,” you murmured, slinging your arms around his waist and resting your head against his back. You could feel his heart thrum at you through his shirt, his blood pumping at a fierce beat that had you biting your lips and pulling him closer. “Fuck, doll. You’re gonna be the death of me,” and he took off, long legs pushing his bike into a roar out of the ghost town, the empty stores the witness to everything. If it was possible, Hanma drove even faster back into the city as dusk fell. The sky bloomed peaches and roses, soft pink tones scattered across the clouds as the sun sunk beneath the horizon. Hanma drove you deep into the city, downtown where the skyscrapers stood encased in glass, reaching for the heavens. He drove up into a parking garage, waving at a doorman and driving into a lot with his name on it.

@red-letter-imagines / @ranilingus / @twochainsandrollies / @atenisis / @reinrein @cursedmoonchild / @aathenax / @4leafcloverwithawhitecraneforyou / @heichouswife / @kio_kookie / @Noonetoworryaboutt / @eroscastle / @halite-writes / @carrobrumbrum / @httpsdolly / @chaotic-fangirl-blog / @opwolfe / @vampirec0w / @wish42 /@Cyaniderainfall / @bonten-bunny / @wisteria-aa

join my taglist

I do not own Tokyo Revengers, or any of the related characters. Tokyo Revengers is created and owned by Ken Wakui. This story is intended for entertainment purposes only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of Tokyo Revengers belong to Ken Wakui. Please do not copy, re-use, or distribute this work as your own

reblogs and likes are greatly appreciated

all images and gifs used are either from popular media or from stock photos. I do not own or take credit for any of the images, only edits

#hanma x reader #hanma shuji x reader #hanma #hanma imagine #hanma shuji #hanma shuuji #hanma shuuji x reader #hanma x you #hanma shuuji x you #shuji hanma #killingmoon n/s/f/w #sex work cw #gun cw #killingmoonmoon tr

47 notes · View notes