#im not eloquent enough to put it in the body of the post but yeah <3 plz stop doing the mean lesbian thing <3

[fox-guardian]

oh I love reading bad takes so early into a show's life (sarcastic) (I'm dying) (god save me)

[quietmyfearswith]

perfect fit {ransom drysdale x fem!reader}

perfect fit {ransom drysdale x fem!reader} 

status — completed 

warnings — cursing, unprotected penetrative sex (pls be safe when havinf sex), mirror sex, semi-public sex, degradation (slight), oral sex (female receiving), mentions of blood and being poked (briefly and not detailed)

word count — 3,370 words

a/n — lmao i have no shame i got inspired to write this because of an something i listened to which had a similar premise. i had a sequel in mind but idk if im gonna write that since i have a lot of fics planned out. feedback is appreciated and hope u guys have a lovely day !! :> 

masterlist

It was something no one expected Ransom to do; but he did it anyway.

He was just lounging in his home one day and he took one of the many notebooks he had lying around and suddenly found himself sketching different clothing articles. By the time he was able to tear his focus and hands away from the notebook, it was already 11:45 at night, “Huh, so in the past five hours I was able to design 11 clothes,” he quietly thought to himself as he closed the notebook that contained his ideas and headed to bed.

The following day consisted mostly of doing two things; more designing and making calls. He was looking for possible suppliers who could give him the materials he needed in order to bring his designs to life. He also ordered his assistant to look for tailors who were willing to sew and stitch them to life, as he did not have any intentions on making those himself. Searching for a place to lease to station where the clothes would be made and sold was also something he did.

All of that happened almost 19 months ago; Ransom just suddenly had the idea of creating his own clothing line and he was successful in that endeavor. His brand was known for its eloquent and classy designs, while still being comfortable and affordable. It was also a bonus that the materials they used were cruelty-free and vegan; though this wasn’t really his idea, something his assistant had suggested and something he mindlessly agreed with as he was burying himself in designing a dress.

When his family found out about his current endeavor, there were various reactions in response. Joni seemed to be legitimately excited to see if Ransom’s design would match her taste and even told him how she was willing to post about his line on her Instagram. Meg and Walt finally had something in common as they both teased him and questioned his sexuality since he suddenly became interested in fashion; even his own father silently had the same thoughts and concerns. His mother, however, was somewhat proud of her son following in her footsteps and making a name for himself. While Harlan was surprised on how he was persistent in pursuing fashion, for he always thought that his first grandson would be his successor in terms of writing and in handling the publishing company.

Ransom, having had enough of their judgmental comments and half-assed support, snapped at them once he broke the news as they were enjoying dessert, “Alright, all of you, eat shit! No offense, Mom, but you had a loan from Granddad and without his money you’d be nowhere! Joni, cut the shit! We all know you rely on those brand deals you have and of course, on our family’s money. And Walt? At least I’m gonna make something of my own! Unlike you who just relies heavily on the books Granddad gives you to publish. And what the fuck does fashion have to do with one’s sexuality? If clothes make people gay then why are you wearing that sorry excuse of an outfit? Scared people might find your dick too small?” 

And with that, he left the house as a sea of screams and commotion followed him, but he chose to ignore it of course.

In the span of those 19 months, his clothing line took off. Critics spoke highly of it, consumers couldn't get enough of his designs, and he was being constantly praised for his creativity. So it made Ransom feel as if he was on top of the world.

After his designs being featured on various fashion shows and being worn by numerous celebrities, the pressure to put out equally great designs was taking a toll on Ransom. Hence why he often spends time on the main store and headquarters he had in Boston. The place was fairly spacious — it had an office for where he could have meetings or design some of his clothes, a spacious and luxurious space for the customers to try on the clothes, rows of sewing machine next to an array of cloth for the workers whom he fairly compensated for their hard work, and even a small circular platform placed in front of mirrors for alterations. 

Ransom advised his staff to go home early to enjoy the start of the weekend and he would be the one to close the store and balance what they had already sold and what was left. As he was busy in the counter checking the log and counting the money, he heard the chimes of the bell that hung above the door make a sound, directing his attention to where a lovely woman stepped into the store and it felt as if all the oxygen in his body left his body with how breathtaking the woman was.

“We’re about to close in a few minutes,” was all he managed to let out as the woman stood on the opposite side of the counter; she just smiled as she placed the gown wrapped in plastic down on the counter, “Oh? I’m so sorry but I was just wondering if I can have this gown altered? I bought it hastily last week and only got to try it on two days ago since I was incredibly busy with work and realized how loose it was on me.”

He looked down on the gown as he spoke, “Yeah well we close earlier on Fridays so,” prolonging the word so, he noticed how she moved as if she was about to exit the establishment, but he wondered, “What is the work you do that kept you busy?”

The question surprised both of them; Ransom didn’t know as to why he was curious about it, but it probably had to do with how he just wanted an excuse to talk to her and listen to her soothing voice. While Y/N didn’t realize that those were one of the requirements in order to have a dress altered, she told him anyway what kept her busy.

Nodding his head, he made an impulsive decision, “My assistants just left, but I can take care of it. It shouldn’t be a big problem” Her eyes lit up excitedly and she smiled widely and thanked him for being able to accommodate her. “Just go to one of the dressing rooms and change to the gown, and head to where the platform is — just right across, okay?” She nodded and followed to where his hands pointed to where he’d be waiting for her.

As she scurried off to the change, he found himself questioning himself as he switched off the open sign, grabbed a notebook, pen, and measuring tape, and waited for her to come out. Why the hell am I making such an effort for her? And when she did step out of the dressing room and made her way to step on the circular elevated platform, he remembered just why he was going out of his way to serve her; because she looked fucking gorgeous, especially seeing her wear a gown he designed.

Standing on the platform, she shyly looked at him to which he found adorable, “Why don’t you spin around slowly for me?” She nodded and did so, “What seems to be the problem with the gown?”

With her back facing him, she craned her neck and replied, “I found the length to be too long, I’m afraid I might trip on it,” as she faced him he noticed how he was standing dangerously close, and his facial features were dead serious, “So you just want to trim it a bit?”

She nodded, “Would it be possible to create a slit?” And just as she made that suggestion, she bunched up a bit of the gown and showed him how she wanted the slit to look like; but all it did to Ransom was make him drool with how luscious and soft her legs looked like. “Okay, yeah that’s something we can do.” 

Grabbing a small container full of sewing pins he took hold of the bunched up fabric she held in her hand and told her he got it. “You know when I designed these gowns, you were exactly the target buyers I had in mind,” she tilted her to the side, confused with what he meant so he further explained, “Gorgeous, elegant, and absolutely stunning; especially once they wear my clothes.”

Her cheeks suddenly became a dark shade of red as she tried to shrug off his compliment, “Well I don’t really wear these kinds of clothes, but when a wedding comes, you have to.” As he was placing the pins on the fabrics, he looked up from where he was sitting on the platform, him being eye level with her thigh was doing nothing to prevent him from nursing a hard on, “A wedding you say?” 

Snatching a glance from where her hands rested on her hips to get out of his way, he took note of the lack of ring and voiced out his observation, “I’m not seeing any ring on both your hands, so I’m gonna assume that you’re not the bride?” She laughed softly and shook her head, “No, I'm not the bride-to-be, my best friend is.”

“Good to know,” Ransom said softly and she didn’t hear it well and was about to question what he just said as she felt the sewing pins poke her skin. “Ow, fuck!” She yelped, which made the designer realize that instead of piercing through the dress, he accidently lightly grazed her leg. “Fuck, I’m sorry!” He apologized as he pulled the pin and wiped her upper thigh that started to bleed a little. 

Feeling his warm hand envelope her hand and the thumb swiping away the crimson liquid, made her feel tingly as she looked down on him. Inching his face closer to her thigh, he looked up at her as his lips touched the area that he unintentionally hurt her in, “I’m so sorry for hurting you,” Y/N was stunned as his lips were back on her thigh after apologizing. 

Breathlessly, she just nodded and was surprised both his hands took a hold of her ankles and were softly caressing her just like how his lips were being gentle with her flesh. As his hands were sliding up towards her shins, she could feel the goosebumps on her skin rise, and by the time they reached her thighs, that was the only time Ransom detached his lips from her skin, “You taste divine, baby girl. But I’m not done with making it up to you.”

Having a sudden surge of confidence, Y/N spoke out, “Then keep kissing me if you want to make it up to me.” Ransom too, was surprised because this meek-looking beauty demanded him to do something, “I beg your pardon?” It was her turn to be brave and brazen as she smirked down on him, “Keep on kissing my thighs or else I’ll leave a bad review of your services.”

Quickly, Ransom placed his lips back on her thigh, kissing and smooching every inch he could find; he wasn’t sure if he was threatened with how his business could be negatively affected or was he just turned out at the prospect of being told by this beautiful woman to keep on admiring her figure.

Tangling her fingers on his hair, she tugged at him and guided her where she wanted his mouth as he gave verbal directions, “Higher, baby, kiss me higher.” Though his eyes were darkened with pleasure of having to know what her skin tastes like and aroused with how he met someone who was able to tell her what she wants and bosses him around; he’s never had someone do that to him, for it was always him calling the shots.

Poking his tongue out, he traced over the outline of her lace underwear which resulted in her letting out a moan and tightening her grip on his hair — urging him to keep going. Moving from her thigh, he kissed his way until he was face to face with the center of her pussy. Inhaling her scent, he closed his eyes as he groaned and took in her addictive scent and lunged forward to kiss and lick her clothed core. Even with the fabric in its way, he was nipping on her pussy lips and licking through it, getting a faint taste of her.

“Oh, more please,” she gasped out in pleasure; and with that plea Ransom moaned as he tore his mouth from where he was making out with her clit and smirked as she heard her sigh at the sudden loss of contact. Looking up at her, he gave her a grin as he asked, “Did you honestly think you would be the one who’ll call all the shots, baby?”

Somehow, her crimson red cheeks managed to turn into an even deeper shade of it at what he said. He then moved to pull her panties down her legs, he didn’t even wait for her to kick them out of her as he immediately licked from her clit down to her opening. Moaning out, she trembled a bit and Ransom’s hands latched themselves onto her thighs to help prevent her from falling.

“Careful now baby girl,” he warned her as he looked up to see her flushed face starting to drip with sweat, his lips never fully removing themselves from her clit so with every word he spoke the vibrations was felt throughout her core, “Wouldn’t want you to injure yourself. How are you gonna turn up to the wedding then?” 

As he finished his question, his tongue pushed itself into her tight opening and swirled around inside. Feeling dainty fingers push his face further, he was able to get a better taste of her juices that began to drip down to his tongue and he hissed at how delectable they were. Pulling out his tongue from her pussy, he immediately licked his way up to her swollen clit, “You taste amazing, baby,” he moaned out as he focused his efforts into sucking her clit hard and fast, feeling her thighs began to shake — a sign that she was close to her orgasm.

But Ransom wouldn’t let her cum right away, his left hand left the warmth of her thigh and slapped her clit multiple times, she opened her eyes in shock and looked down on the designer, aroused and elated with what he did. Getting the hint that she enjoyed what he did he teased her by saying, “You like it when I slap that clit?” Seeing how she nodded and bit her lip, he went on and slapped her clit multiple times but with not a lot of force, and his tongue went on to caress her tight opening until she once again began to quiver. 

“God you’re such a filthy slut,” he stated as he stopped the movements his tongue and hand were doing, and went on to bite lightly her thigh, “I’m gonna have so much fun with you. Have to make sure my customer leaves this place satisfied with my services.” As he mentioned the double entendre, his voice was laced with desire and hunger.

Giving her thigh one last kiss, he stood up from the platform and placed his hands on her hips and lifted her so she stood on the ground just like he was. Grabbing the back of her neck, he pushed her against him so their lips met and they began to hungrily make out. Her hands were at his cheeks, softly grazing his cheeks which contradicts how their tongues were roughly dancing with each other. While Ransom’s other hand was feeling for the zipper on her back, unzipping it and pushing the dress off of her.

Moving both his hands to touch her back, he noticed the lack of bra and felt how her nipples harden against the fabric of his shirt, he separated their lips from where they were entangled and looked down to see her breasts, “Such a nasty little girl you are, aren’t you? Wearing this gown with no bra underneath, like you wanted me to see just how good your boobs are.”

She shook her head, “The gown goes well best without a bra,” she defended. Amused with her reply Ransom decided that they’ve had enough foreplay; both his hands planted on her hips and pulled her back so it was flush against his front, “And you know what would go best with your divine body? My cock and cum,” one of his hands grabbed onto his cock and rubbed the tip of it against her folds, feeling her shudder at the sensation, “So come on and take it.”

“Shit baby girl, you’re so tight for a slut,” Ransom groaned as he threw his head back with how her walls squeezed his hard dick in one smooth motion. The hand that guided his cock in repositioned itself and held onto her hair, pulling her head back and arching her back away from his chest, which contrasted the way her ass was pushing back to accommodate Ransom’s cock.

Hand in her hair and the other on her hip, Ransom was pulling her into his cock with sharp, fast, and harsh thrusts; while her moans and whines did nothing but to fuel him to drive his thick meat deeper in her. “You like this don’t you, baby? You like how I’m just ramming into you like you’re nothing but a whore?” He taunted as he let go of her hip and began to rub, twist, and pull at her nipples.

Y/N could only nod, too blissed out to give out a verbal response for the way he was deliciously torturing her nipples disabled her from forming a coherent sentence, much less a thought. Unhappy with how she responded, he let go of her hair and slapped both her ass cheeks, “Answer me! Tell me you like it!”

She went still for a moment due to the sting of his slaps, she widened her eyes and peered over her shoulder to look at him, “I love it! I love how you’re treating me, sir.” The title she had given him made him even more feral as he ordered her, “Look in the mirror slut, look at how desperate you are for me.”

Feeling shy from seeing her blissed out state on the reflection, she instead diverted her gaze on the man behind her who was mercilessly pounding into her. She found it absolutely hot how his jaw was clenched so hard and his eyebrows were furrowed; it made her clench down on him hard which led to Ransom to slam deep inside her and grab onto her shoulders, “You’re close aren’t you, baby? You’re about to cum on my cock aren’t you?” She nodded and whined, “Yes, sir, I’m so close. Please let me cum,” he chuckled in appreciation, she begged him to cum without even telling her to do so. 

Speeding up the pace of his thrusts, his one hand was now alternating with rubbing and pinching her clit, in order to get her right on the edge. His lips were resting against her ear, his pants were only turning her on even more and with a final pinch of his fingers, she was cumming hard and with a loud wail.

Feeling how her walls squeezed him too tight to the point he couldn’t move anymore, Ransom stilled inside her and wrapped his arms around her stomach, “Fuck, you feel good.” After a couple of breaths, Ransom collapsed to sit down on the platform, taking her with him. Sitting down, he took the time to steady his breaths and recover from the intensity of their intercourse and orgasm. 

Snaking his hand to her cheek, he tilted her head enough for him to plant his lips on hers and let her give a faint taste of her own juices and he pulled apart from her not without planting a small kiss, “The gown will be ready in a week, baby. And it’s on me.”

[fourthwingingit]

Two

Edit: tumblr didnt post my edits from my original post (like you know when you save something as a draft and go oh wait there are some errors like no header and awkward phrasing lemme fix them) so im gonna repost this eventually but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Edit 2: tumblr sucks and never lets me put the thing so... This is for the anon who requested a fic of touch starved clark and conner with the prompts 'nobodys ever done that to me before' and 'i just want to be held' sorry it got angstier then i ment it to.... hope you like hurt comfort

Clark hovered awkwardly outside the door to conners room. He was nervous about seeing the teen with everything between them and what he wanted to ask him.

He took a breath. Conner almost certainly knew he was there already. But that didnt matter.

Ma always said that manners matter

He knocked.

From inside came a muffled, annoyed, and clipped

"What is it clark?"

Taking that as the best invitation he was going to get he opened the door and went in.

He looked at conner. The kid was on his bed, facedown on top of the covers like an angsty teen in a movie.

Clark thought he looked too small for the position he was in. Like he was waiting for some blow that was going to take a part of him with it to land... or like it already had and he was cradling a hole

Clark shook off the disturbing thought and steeled himself. He swiftly walked to Conner's bedside, and said, eloquently,

"Well. I... you see...... uh... lois- i mean to say..... uhh"

Lord this was already going to hell in a handbasket.

Conner turned his head enough to raise one eyebrow

"What the hell was that?"

He sat down a respectful distance away (as far away as he could) and tried again

"Hmm... you see i uhh- hmm you know how uhh.... things umm. Sometimes.... uhh"

Conner slowly turned his head the rest of the way to clark, confusion now written in every line in his body. great.

Clarks back bowed fast. Like his head gained 20 pounds in a half a second, his arms planted themselves on his knees and he gave up trying... he'd try again some other day. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe lois should do it.... Kal-el you coward.

"I... i dont know, ive got nothing."

But now he was scrambling, he needed a reason for being here. And what came out was;

"Ma told me shes uhh, seen you acting in a... less than..... ideal...... kind of.... way.?"

"Wow."

"No yeah i heard it"

"That was some next level awkward," and there was some distinct venom in that voice shoot. "if its that hard to be around me then you can find the door. I certainly dont need your pity handouts anyway."

Well.... shit

"No thats not.... im.... i wanted to ask- uh... whats been bothering you..... sport."

He now had what bruces kids called The Awkward White Man Smile... great.

Suprisingly, Conner chuckled.

Maybe a small part of Clark's brain said its not hopeless?

"Right now? Your social skills."

Banter! He hung around batman! He could do banter.

"Aww man and here i was thinking i was handing out winning lines."

"Oh no, youve gone senile a little early, well... maybe not early... good thing you've got Kara."

There was a small smirk playing at conners lips and an actual opportunity. God was real and he loved Clark Kent.

"At least I know I have two good boys to pick me up after im down." He looked away fast.

Silence stretched on

.......

Awkwardly

Oh lord he messed up the moment

He presumed too much and their only friendly interaction in over a month is ruined

"Two?"

The voice Conner used was so painfully soft and small. Like it didnt dare to hope anymore and had stopped trying a long time ago.

Clark never was good at leaving voices like that alone. And he was always more comfortable when something needed doing anyways.

Superman courage steadied him enough to take a risk.

He reached out his hand, and ruffled Conner's hair, trailing his fingers down after to rest on the shoulder closest to him and said.

"I have two kids dont i?"

More silence

Conner was frozen beneath his fingertips

He panicked

Oh god

He had fucked it up

He had fucked up enough times that conner didn't want anything to do with him

Okay damage control

"That is...." Conner stiffened further "if i haven't been so horrible to my eldist that he doesnt want anything to do with me"

The silence was now so deep he could hear the dust motes brushing against everything

He heard a tiny sniffle

And then he telltale sound of tears hitting bedsheets.

His head whipped around, his glasses flew off somewhere into the room. He barely noticed.

Shocked, he started to speak but Conner cut him off before he could finish the first syllable.

"You know when i was in Hawaii i used to watch families. Specifically parents and children. I'd be so jealous of-"

Conner cut himself off.

"Nobody's ever- i mean...... parents do that to their kids.... the hair touching thing.... Nobody's ever-" his voice broke, he cleared it. "Nobody's ever even tried to touch my hair if we werent kissing."

He gave a pitiful, watery laugh and, after a breif, stunned, pause, started rambling about how "of course i get it cut, like, the barber touches it and stuff..."

And it all hit clark.

Somehow it had never occured to Clark, that even though Conner looked like he was so much older than Jon, he wasnt.

He wondered who raised him

Who fed him

Who hugged him through nightmares

Clarks heart broke

Because he was certain the answer to most of those kinds of questions was 'Conner' and none of them were "Kal-el" or "Clark Kent"

Clark turned a bit and ran his hand over Conner's back softly, cutting off his rambling and said in a voice that was somehoe warm but still felt guilty and mourning;

"What do you want? What can I do?"

Conner was stunned. Kal had never given him anything like this. So he kept talking to give his brain time to catch up.

"I don.... i- i used to watch families... in- in Hawaii, and I'd get jealous of the kids, that they got to have families. Got to have parents. I dont..."

Clark turned a little to properly face his son and grabbed his hand.

"What can i do Conner?"

One day ago Conner would have asked for a lot. To never see Kal again, the superman title, his spot in the JL, even some time with Jon. But now?

Conner shifted, he sat up as best he could. And guided Kals hand to the side of his face, through tear tracks, held it there for a second, and then slid it into his hair. All thr while leaning into it like it was the only support he needed.

"I just want to be held.... without expectations..... without titles or rules or anything in return."

Connor wouldnt meet his eyes, or look up from the bedspread during his request.

For the second time that day Clark's heart broke. But now he had something he could do.

He reached out with his other hand, guiding his son into his arms, and gently layed them down

He kept one hand on the back of Conner's head, stroking the strands there. And one hand on Conner's back slowly moving back and forth.

From the first point of contact, Conner's world narrowed to the hand Kal had put on him. And now, there was more. Now he was allowed to reach out. He wanted to get closer. To bury his face in Kals chest and curl up small. To let the world fall away around them. Until nothing existed but them. Holding each other forever.

Kal seemed to read his mind, and guided his head to tuck itself under his chin and pressed them closer together.

No promises, no strings, no obligations after.

He could leave whenever he wanted.

He wanted to stay forever.

Conner wondered breifly what was like to be held by a father. If it felt as nice as this. Like everything crashed in on him, but it was okay.

Maybe, he thought.

They had a maybe.

And this maybe was a lot of ground to stand on.

[shewasanamericangirl]

screamin bout zi-o 36

i had fun doing this last week, so let’s make another screencap post! of course, i said that, and then it took several days to upload all the pictures because tumblr just stops fucking working sometimes. anyhoo! it’s yuko kitajima roast hour. image-heavy and spoiler-heavy, naturally.

so ginga blew everyone up and they ran away to a sewer it seems.

honestly that theory makes as much sense as anything else on this booty ass fuckin’ kamen rider show

i was just like...he isn’t

but then he was

swartz: she could step on me in those red pumps and i’d say Thank You

hora: i regret so much right now

uhr: *shonen anime character walking down the street pose*

then over quartzer plays and im starting to feel a little lost because i don’t get to hear about the episode according to woz’s book? hello??

yuko’s still out gettin her spa treatments and shit, god only knows how she got the money for all that, and somehow she never crosses paths with the cops or anyone who recognizes her from the news?? uh

honestly yeah?? a queen deserves to look GOOD. her theme music is eerily sexy, i need an mp3 of it right now

don’t get me wrong, im well aware that swartz is being a suck-up to try and get yuko to help with his plan to seize ginga’s power, but damn im kinda shipping swartz with yuko now too...i mean, he WAS looking at her while doing the sexy ice cream thing last week. what flavor ice cream would yuko be? black cherry chip maybe?

(headcanon: woz tries apple pie ice cream and declares it a crime against both apple pie and ice cream alike--but he still eats the whole coneful)

hora and uhr get ZA WARUDO���D down the stairs by swartz

we were all uhr right here

yeaaaaaah she just doesn’t want to fight ginga

tsukuyomi’s a mood. someone put a band-aid on geiz’s forehead pls

ok woz i get that if you’re looking for a despotic ruler to follow that yuko is likely a better bet than sougo, but you’re missing an important detail: if yuko actually had a shot at becoming queen of everything, she’d already have one of you in tow, and you would most likely hate each other.

...majou means “demon queen” in this case, not “witch”, right?

aaaaaand this...is the moment when yuko started making me very uncomfortable. the way she responds: “yes...i do remember. it’s you.”

and sougo’s face just lights up--my guy, she could so easily be lying. she didn’t say one thing about the band-aid or the playground or anything that’d indicate she’s actually sougo’s crush.

like...if not for the fact that sougo had such a crush on the seifuku girl, it wouldn’t be all that major a memory. it likely wasn’t for the girl in question--just a happy sunny day cheering up a lonely little boy. a beautiful memory, yes...but memories fade.

can someone please explain to me why woz’s characterization is all over the place in kiva arc? are you pro-yuko or anti-yuko, woz? i don’t understand what’s going through his pretty head at all honestly. he gets pretty taciturn in the scenes he’s not inhaling pie, but then at times he seems to think yuko’s cool aaaaaagh i don’t know

junichiro: meowing, just wanted an excuse to cook lots of food

sougo: “yay, uncle’s cooking!”

woz: [deadpan monotone] “yaaaaaaay uncle’s cooking...”

ive had enough of this evil bitch honestly but when she points it’s still Good Shit

ridiculous move name, but also an awesome move name

and turning to stone to heal up while the sun’s clouded over? very cool

denied

i noped so hard at this part. like...i really do feel protective of sougo. yuko doesn’t give a damn about him, she just doesn’t want him to get in her way.

nope. no. nuh uh. you two step away from each other right now.

YOU CANNOT MAKE BABIES WITH AN IDIOT FETUS

ok but in all seriousness, do you want time jackers? because, im calling it now, letting oma zi-o go in raw is how you get time jackers.

yeah im pretty sure miho would’ve kept at it if she’d lived, and yuko...shes not gonna listen to sougo

thank you for the much needed reality check furry man

so she’s a...fu-joshi? 👀

☝☝☝

yuko wears such fabulous shoes

was anyone surprised at this point that yuko was the real killer? i sure wasn’t. not after all the obvious lies.

i love her leitmotif. i need it. where do i download

SHE DIDN’T PROMISE SHIT

hey kids! it’s time for *mashes play button* la-la-la lies! yeah, tell me that you love me! la-la-la-lies! look deep into my eyes! la-la-la-lies! say there’s no one else above me! i’m the king of fools, cuz baby, you’re the queen of actually very hurtful and manipulative lies!

that’s such bullshit

now im the last person to be like “don’t play the dead mommy card”--i practically keep that card in the hello kitty wallet my dead mommy gave me. but i bet you yuko’s mom is just fine (aside from living with the trauma of knowing her daughter’s a murderer and pathological liar).

sougo,,,,,pls

thank you tsukuyomi. god sougo really needs a chaperone with yuko around, he’s way too dumb and thirsty.

GUESS WHO’S BACK. BACK AGAIN. fortunately, it seems swartz and woz have been just standing there watching him for the duration of the rain shower.

lest we forget (because i didn’t screencap it), when zi-o took the brunt of ginga’s attack earlier, it sent him flying. now, that’s a human body, which has some ability to absorb force because it’s mostly pretty soft and fluid. yuko’s manhole cover almost completely absorbed this blast--she barely shifted her weight on impact. is it just that she’s THAT ripped? 

then The Boys rider kick ginga to oblivion. rip ginga, you didn’t have a personality or a character arc, we never even saw you un-transformed--you were just a cool looking plot device with pretty attacks. but for that much, we appreciate you!

swartz looks so pleased with himself. he must not have watched the preview for this episode.

YOINK! gotta love how swartz doesn’t look surprised so much as puzzled.

sure am glad kurowoz took his other self’s advice and kept an eye on swartz

i love it so much how woz just has these magic scarf powers and it needs no explanation? hell, he can fly and time travel and make people fall asleep and he’s super strong too, with no explanation? and he’s the comic relief? ALSO HE’S REALLY HOT? woz is a being to behold honestly

speaking of super strong and really hot, yuko is KILLING IT in that gown. i mean...i guess that’s the intention. killing it. cuz she’s a homicidal maniac. haha.

she’s so good at pointing. yuko could be a prosecutor in shuichi kitaoka: ace attorney. (FUND IT)

yuko throws her manhole cover at the boys (rude!) and next we see geiz holding it. a shame we don’t get to see him snatch it out of midair. or did woz catch it and just hand it to him? we may never know.

zi-o. listen to geiz, zi-o. use the fucking watch. just use the watch, zi-o. you seriously plan on just letting another kiva go on a killing spree? do you not get by now what she’s capable of?

thank goodness zi-o has his retainers to make wise decisions so he doesn’t have to.

please note the placement of mars on ginga woz’s suit. very important.

I Love You

lmao

WHERE IS YOUR MANHOLE COVER NOW

my favorite character gets a beautiful rainbow final attack. i feel so blessed.

i mean...protecting all mankind would probably include protecting them from people like yuko. just sayin.

is it bad of me that my immediate thought right then was “at least woz’s attack wasn’t what did her in.”

this shot, especially in the context of the church, definitely gave me pieta vibes--albeit reversed somewhat.

weirdly enough, woz does an outro instead of an intro this episode.

at this point while watching, i said to shylax “you know what this calls for? pie!” but before i could finish--

--PIE! cmon sougo, it’s time to gobble up your feelings!

fucking woz, i swear, you have pie in your mouth and pie in your right hand and pie on your FACE and when your overlord expresses how miserable he is you just go for his uneaten pie with your empty hand.

...is it normal to eat pie like this in japan? because the only times i’ve seen americans make this much of a mess eating pie is when they’re toddlers.

oh hey, what do you know? looks like sougo’s first love wasn’t a violent crazy person after all. she also wasn’t yuko.

sougo’s just an idiot who will mistake any older woman who rubs him on the chin and calls him cute for his sailor girl.

previews!

i blame joshua kiryu

how eloquently this one line sums up not only kamen rider zi-o but kamen rider decade as well. that’s it, that’s the show. that’s the clusterfuck we will inevitably get whenever toei decides to make a kamen rider crossover.

LOOK AT THIS! TSUKUYOMI REMEMBERED SOMETHING! who is she smiling at? is it her dad? is that swartz behind her?! omg baby tsukuyomi is so CUTE!

“a team”. uh huh. is that what the youth are calling it these days? cuz when i was a wee lass, i believe they called it “fucking”.

so what have we learned this week?

very little about ginga

sougo does not remember faces all that well

before sougo dates ANYONE that person should be fully vetted by junichiro, geiz, tsukuyomi, and woz because CLEARLY HE CANNOT SAFELY CHOOSE A PARTNER FOR HIMSELF

i still really like yuko as a character, if not as a person. same as i enjoy junji ito manga, but would be very upset if most of it happened in real life.

swartz loves a woman who can kick his ass

what the fuck are manhole covers in this world

i can’t wait for baby tsukuyomi flashbacks! that, and more tsukasa.

[anthropwashere]

Revive: maybe one day I’ll be home again

AO3 || FFN

(So glad I got something posted during Phanniemay! Here’s 3.6k of Danny having a bad time, which is like slipping on a nice pair of well-worn slippers at this point. Fic title comes from Skip the Use’s “Nameless World.”)

=

It’s a robbery. Just a plain old robbery at the 7-11 on the corner of Jacob and Marley, no ghosts involved at all. Just some guy with shaky hands and a gun. It’s like the opening out of one those crime shows there’s fifteen ripoffs of on TV; idiot teen steps in front of loaded gun in idiot attempt at playing hero. The pounding in his ears could almost be mistaken for the opening theme music.

“Oh, shit,” the guy says.

Danny’s mouth stutters, but he can’t push any words out. He can’t seem to breathe around the dull heat punched through his chest. His sneaker’s wet. The glass Coke bottle he’d been holding must have broken.

“What did you…?” The cashier shakes his head, eyes so wide Danny can see white all around his dark irises. “You shot him.”

“I didn’t mean to,” the guy blurts out. Like saying that will magically make it all better.

“You shot him.”

He can’t breathe. He’d just stopped in here for a soda and a couple protein bars on his way home from patrol. The guy had burst in waving the gun when Danny had been mentally calculating if he had enough for a bag of gummy worms too, stammering out hoarse demands without even looking to see if anyone else was in the store. It’s after midnight on a Tuesday though; who would be?

“Shit,” the guy says again. He looks terrified. He looks like somebody who’d be desperate enough to rob a corner store; gaunt and unshaven, stains and holes in clothes a little too big for him. He doesn’t look like a murderer.

Danny swallows. He finds the strength to lift his arm, to touch fingertips to the wet hole in his chest. They come away red. Way too red. He’d just touched it for a second, but his fingers are slick to the crease of his palm. He sways. One of the men shouts as his knees hit the floor, protein bars scattering from his other hand. Cold soda soaks his jeans; warm blood soaks his shirt.

He’s been hurt before. He’s been hurt bad before. But never when he was human. Never by another human, never with a weapon that wasn’t at least a little bit jury-rigged with ghost-fighting tech. This. He doesn’t. He doesn’t know what to do.

The guy’s hands had been shaking, but Danny had walked right up to him, overconfident and stupid. He’s been fighting ghosts long enough that he forgot humans can be just as dangerous. Shaky hands. Fear? Drugs? Doesn’t matter. The gun couldn’t have been more than a few inches away when it had gone off.

He can’t breathe.

“You shot a kid,” the cashier’s yelling. “Are you crazy? I was gonna give you the money!”

“He—he got in the way! He was trying to stop me!”

“So you killed him? Shit, man, put the gun down, okay? You’ve done enough.”

They keep yelling at each other, both high and frightened. The gun’s still in the guy’s hand, not like he means to shoot the cashier but. Still. It could still be loaded. The guy’s freaked out. What if this plays out like bad TV? No witnesses, trash the security tapes. The gun’s probably stolen already. The cops’d just have two bodies on their hands. Danny’s school ID is in his wallet. He wonders what the cashier’s name is, who this guy with the gun is too.

He slumps against a rack of candy bars, feels it bow under his weight. “Nnn,” he slurs. He can’t breathe. The pounding in his ears is hiccuping, hard and off-kilter, like he’s about to pass out. That’s. That’s not good. His shirt’s soaked. He’s shaking. All bad signs.

“Put the fucking phone down,” the guy with the gun yells, brandishing it at the cashier. Danny can’t see what the cashier’s doing from where he’s spilling across the floor. This is bad. If he doesn’t. He’s gotta do something. The guy’s gonna kill—

“St—” He chokes. Blood in his throat, filling his mouth. He drops his chin and lets it leak out, too weak to spit. “Stop.”

Incredibly, the guy stops. Stares down at him like he’d forgotten Danny was even there. Danny’s chest hitches pointlessly. Is it his imagination or can he feel the bullet, an alien lump of metal caught at a weird angle between his muscles, his organs? Don’t. Don’t think about it. Can’t breathe. Who cares. He doesn’t bother breathing half the time he’s Phantom anyway. What’s it matter now that he’s human?

“Luh. Leave ‘im ‘lone.” Ugh. Not his most eloquent. So sue him. “Drop it.”

“Kid,” the cashier says from somewhere out of sight. “Kid, hey, don’t talk. Just stay still. I’m gonna call an ambulance—”

“Like hell you are,” the guy yelps, not looking away from Danny.

“He’s gonna die if I don’t. I don’t care about the money, man, just let me help this kid before—”

“Stop.”

They stop.

Danny stops too. He forces himself slack, makes himself limp. Don’t struggle. Stop. Stop. He’s been hurt before. He’s been hurt bad before. This isn’t. This is bad, but he isn’t dying. He isn’t. He won’t die here. His lungs empty. His head lolls. The pounding in his ears beats once, twice, then stammers to a standstill.

“Oh god,” both men whisper feebly.

Oh. Hey. Hey. Now that his body’s not having a conniption, he feels—okay, good is maybe stretching it, but he feels better than he did a minute ago. He’s pretty sure he can stand up. It takes him a couple tries; he’s still feeling cold and weak, there’s not much leverage off the rickety shelves, and he’s a sticky mess of blood and soda. He manages it okay though, one elbow resting heavy on the counter, a slippery grin on his face, his knees shaking but keeping his weight.

Both men are screaming at this point, and the guys pointed the gun at him again. He huffs. It feels weird. He decides not to think about why it might feel weird. “Seriously?” It comes out phlegmy, or maybe it’s better to say bloody. Ugh. He swallows, grimacing. “I, nngh. I think you did enough already. Don’t you?”

“Wh-what the hell are you?!”

That’s a dumb question. This is Amity Park. He doesn’t bother dignifying that with a response. Instead he narrows his eyes, bares his teeth in a feral grin as neon green stains the flickering white lights overhead. “I think you should go,” he rasps. “Before I change my mind. Leave the gun.”

The guy drops the gun and bolts. The automated chime on the door sounds so absurd after everything that’s happened Danny wants to curl up and giggle. Maybe later. He swallows—guh—and looks over at the cashier. The poor man’s pressed up against the wall of cigarettes, gray-faced with eyes wide as saucers, his mouth a perfect O.

Nothing he says is going to make the man any less afraid. He doesn’t have a clue what he’d say anyway. He doesn’t have a clue what’s happened. He looks down at the spill of blood—his blood—across the tile, the candy bars, the counter. The broken glass, the spilled soda. What a mess.

Wait. Blood. Bad crime shows always do DNA tests, right? He doesn’t know anything about how that stuff works, but he does know he’s spilled… well. More than enough to stop his heart. A lot.

He looks back at the cashier, who hasn’t moved. The cashier swallows, stammers out, “Wh-what?”

He doesn’t say anything before he sets fire to the counter. More specifically he sets the blood he’s left smeared all over on fire, but the sudden green flare sure looks intimidating. The cashier whimpers. Danny, one hand clinging tightly to the counter, methodically melts down the entire rack of candy to a noxiously sweet-smelling slag, then burns the tiled floor black and bubbling. As an afterthought he runs a hand across himself, drying the blood on him in a wave of sour heat so he doesn’t drip anymore.

He bends down—whoa, easy there gravity—and picks up the gun. It’s heavier than it looks. He keeps the barrel pointed at the ground, finger off the trigger ‘til he taps the safety on. That’s about all he knows how to do with guns that aren’t meant for ghosts. It’s enough for now.

He should probably care about the security footage too. He takes an experimental breath; he’s almost positive he can feel the bullet shift. Yeah. Screw the footage. He’s got bigger problems.

“Sorry about the mess,” he says, and, since his cover story begins and ends with horrible 7-11 apparition, he vanishes. He stands there a minute longer to make sure the fire goes out; he’s not trying to burn the place down, he’s just trying to destroy any evidence he was there. The cashier watches the fire too, gaping like a fish. When it gutters out he sinks to the floor and buries his head in his knees, breathing wetly.

Danny phases through the door. Some terrible part of him wants to turn visible long enough to set off the automated chime to scare the cashier one last time. He doesn’t. He keeps walking, unseen, down the street for the nearest alley three buildings down. He can duck in there, have a minor panic attack because seriously, what, then he can call—

Call who?

Tucker can’t handle anything worse than a bad scrape without going gray and shaky. He’s got the steadiest hands out of all of them, sure—that A in Sewing isn’t a fluke—but this isn’t something he can bribe Tucker to patch up with puppy eyes and movie tickets. This isn’t something that can just be patched up, period.

Sam’s got the strongest stomach of the three of them and she’s a better liar than Tucker, but this is way beyond anything they’ve had to deal with before. They’ve smuggled a lot of medical supplies out of his parents’ basement, but they aren’t equipped to handle gunshot wounds. The bullet’s still in there. He can’t ask her to go digging around in his chest for it. Did it shatter? He could just phase it out. Maybe it’s better to leave it in for now. Less evidence to leave lying around—

His chest throbs. A low cry is squeezed out of him, more surprise than pain. He staggers, trips over his feet, almost faceplants on the sidewalk. His bloody hand jumps to his chest, fingertips pressed to the hole over his heart. He wavers in the middle of the sidewalk, in the relative darkness between two pools of yellow street light. What was that?

Another throb, as sharp as a knife, as hard as a kick to the ribs. He feels it under his fingers, feels something pulse under his skin. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t need to breathe right now. His jaw is clenched tight enough to make his teeth ache; his lungs feel like wet plastic bags. Throb. He curls in on himself, forcing one foot in front of the other. Throb. Stay invisible. There are cars passing by, people lingering at a street sign, looking around for whatever made that funny noise. Throb. Almost at the alley now. Almost there. Almost there.

He turns in and it’s mercifully empty. He staggers to the end of it, where dented trash cans and bulging black bags make a decent hiding spot. There’s a faint smell of old beer, old piss, something greasy gone to rot, all of it settling heavy on his tongue. He’s distantly glad he doesn’t have to breathe right now, more focused on the pulse beneath his crabbed fingers.

He turns visible again as he sags against the brick wall, grunts as another throb beats through him. There’s another one right on the heels of that one, and another after that. Something cool and wet dribbles out of the wound and he yelps, pulling his hand away.

Neon green paints his palm, filling the alleyway with dim luminescence. He’s gobsmacked, straight up speechless, even through the next hard throb of what can only be his heart trying to kickstart itself again. His heart, trying to pump ectoplasm, somehow funneled through that cold little spark in his chest that never leaves, that connection between his two halves, the reason he was able to walk away from being shot at all.

Okay. Okay. This. Uh. This is new. This is good? It hurts, but that makes sense. Maybe phasing the bullet out now is a good idea after all. He passes his hand through his chest, hears metal ping on the asphalt by his knee. Another pass to be safe. It’s probably enough. He’s more worried about the hole he can’t do anything about and the ectoplasm splurting sluggishly out of it with every beat of his inexplicably beating heart.

His vision blurs, dips, hazes over with unearthly shades of green. He swallows, blinking rapidly until he can see clearly again. Okay. Bad. This is bad. This is arguably worse, maybe. He doesn’t know. But he can’t stay here. He’s gotta get—where? Who’s closest?

...Valerie is, actually, but he doesn’t think this would go over well. He hisses laughter between his teeth. Home, then. Home, and Jazz. Jazz is gonna lose her mind when she sees him, and honestly? He’s not gonna blame her one bit.

Another particularly sharp throb makes him cough, hoarse and wet, and he spits out a glowing gob of he-doesn’t-wanna-know. His chest goes tight. Spots dance in his eyes the longer he sits there, rubbing at the slick mess all down his front. He spits again, wheezes on pure human instinct, and feels better.

Oh. Breathing. That’s a thing his lungs would like him to do again, apparently. He takes shallow, careful breaths. Guh. It smells nasty here. But he’s breathing, and it’s sore sure, but he’s breathing, and his heart’s beating, and while he’s not so sure he’d be able to stand at the moment at least he’s feeling pretty clear headed. All in all, he’s arguably doing better than he was ten minutes ago.

His hand’s wet again, cold and syrupy, like he stuck it in a can of paint. He wipes it on his jeans, leaving a huge neon smear. He peels his shirt off his skin, shivers when it sticks reluctantly, slips his hand under to palm the wound directly. Ectoplasm, at least, has a higher viscosity than blood.

He shivers again. Shock, maybe? He snorts, wincing when his chest protests sharply. Of course it’s shock, idiot. Each sluggish throb of his heart still feels like a kick to the sternum, green hazing his periphery. He breathes, putting as much pressure on the wound as he can. He breathes. He’s got to do more than this, but he doesn’t know what. Stop the bleeding—how? It’s his heart. If he plugs his chest, then he’ll have to deal with internal bleeding. Right?

...He’s definitely got to sign up for Anatomy next year. If he makes it that long. At this rate, he’s not sure if he’s gonna make it to school tomorrow—no, shhh, shut up, he’s gonna be fine. This is fine. He’s alive, sort of, right? He’s fine. He’s gonna be just fine. Somehow.

He knocks his head against the brick, looking skyward. From here he can make out a few twinkling stars, the dark gray smear of a cloud, the blinking red light of an airplane passing by. There’s always so much going on above the city. It’s not so out of reach as it used to be for him, but it’s all so still so impossibly far. Funny, that he finds some kind of comfort in that. Here he is, bleeding out for the second time in one night in an alleyway, and if he did die right here the universe would wheel on without him. It wouldn’t even notice.

He likes that. He likes that just fine. Sam’d call him morbid, and she’d be proud (and maybe a little worried), but hey. A guy’s gotta cope somehow, right?

...Huh. His heartbeat doesn’t hurt as bad now. Is that good? That’s probably not good. He takes a deeper breath, expecting splintered pain… and is surprised when there’s only soreness. He eases up the pressure on the wound, expects a fresh spill of cool ectoplasm, and yeah, there’s a little, but not nearly as much as before. What the heck?

The gun’s still in his left hand, nearly forgotten. He’s not willing to put it down, still uneasy about the bullet he’s left on the asphalt by his knee, glinting in the green light of his ectoplasm. He can’t forget that, just in case. This neighborhood’s poor, not dangerous. A trashed corner store and an alley coated in ghost gore not a hundred yards away is going to raise questions, even in Amity Park. His parents are going to be all over this place tomorrow with a fine tooth comb. His dad might miss the bullet, but his mom? No way.

Right. Gunshot wound. Not bleeding as much as it was just a minute ago. That should be concerning. That should be really concerning. But, funny thing, he doesn’t feel worse. He feels… better?

He prods at it experimentally, and his middle finger doesn’t slip through like it did before. There’s—muscle? Something that feels like the slippery firmness of exposed muscle, anyway.

“No way,” he whispers, wide-eyed. There’s healing quick and then there’s straight up video game logic. This shouldn’t be possible. But even as he’s thinking that he feels something shift under his fingertip, feels something grow. He twitches his hand away. When he dares to touch again, there’s skin. Raw, tender, like the skin under a torn off scab. He swallows, reeling, belatedly remembers to keep breathing. “Oh. Oh, wow. Okay. Okay. Right.”

So. Not going to die. He wasn’t planning on dying here, no way, but. Still. Nice to have that confirmed. Uh. He’s maybe just going to sit here a bit longer. Give his body—his ghost half?—time to do… whatever it’s doing. No sense jumping up to head home just to bust his heart open again.

He grins weakly. “Oh man, this is nuts.”

But hey, if it works, right?

Mmm. Home. Right. He pulls his hand out from under his shirt, wrinkles his nose at the mess of blood and ectoplasm smeared up to his wrist. Gross. His left hand, the one holding the gun, is still clean. He eases himself cross-legged, places the gun on one knee, fishes out his phone and dials Jazz’s cell. She doesn’t pick up the first time so he calls again. She picks up the fourth ring.

“...’lo?”

“Hey, it’s an emergency.”

“Danny...? It’s the middle of the night. Where are you?”

“Yeah. Patrol ran long, then I, uh. Had some trouble. I’m gonna need your help when I get home.”

“Mm. What happened? Are Sam and Tucker—”

“They’re fine, probably home by now. I—” He swallows through a low throb of pain, tries not to think about what might be happening inside himself. “—I got hurt.”

“Hurt? What happened? How serious?”

“...Uh. Bad.”

“...Danny?”

He clears his throat, shakes off the cobwebs. “I’m gonna be fine. I just need to get cleaned up. Where are Mom and Dad?”

“Um, I don’t know.”

“Well find out.”

“Okay, okay. Just a sec.” Shuffling sounds. “Do you need me to come get you?”

“No. Just. I could use your help hiding some stuff once I get there.”

“Stuff?”

“My clothes are, um. Trashed. There’s a gun too.”

“A what?!”

“Yeah.”

“Where did you get a—a gun from?”

“Tell you later.” Ooh, he’s tired all of a sudden. He feels wrung out, sore, and starving. “Nnngh. Any sign of ‘em?”

Her voice drops to a whisper. “Looks like they’re asleep.”

“Mm. Perfect. Meet me in the lab with some clean clothes for me, okay? I’ll be home soon as I can.”

“Danny, talk to me. Tell me what happened. How badly hurt are you?”

“Told you, Jazz. M’fine. Just need to get cleaned up.”

She hums like she’s not convinced. “You sure you don’t want me to meet you?”

“I can fly faster than a car. M’not far, okay? Just. Fifteen minutes, tops.”

“That’s a long time if you’re flying.”

“I’m taking a breather right now, nosy.”

“Danny—”

“Jazz.” He sighs, almost rubs his eyes but remembers how gross his free hand is. “I’m… I’m okay. I just need a few minutes. Picked up a new ghost power, I think. I’ll explain at home.”

“...If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay. See you soon.”

“M’kay.”

“I mean it. If you’re not here in fifteen minutes I’m calling you back. You don’t pick up, I’m calling Sam and Tucker.”

He chuckles softly, too tired to laugh. It hurts, but not half as much as it did a few minutes ago. “Okay, okay. Fifteen minutes, tops.”

He hangs up after they exchange quiet goodbyes and he sets his phone on his right knee, opposite the gun. He takes a deep breath, wincing a little. Not too bad. Two more minutes. He’s going to sit here two more minutes, then he’ll get up and head home.

He rests his head against the brick again, watches stars twinkle impossibly far away. A thought comes to mind unbidden that has him biting his lip to keep from laughing outright. It’s so dumb, but it’s the middle of the night and he may or may not have just discovered he’s a little bit functionally unkillable. So sue him, he’ll laugh a little.

He can never go back to that 7-11 again now that he’s gone and haunted it.

[apexart-journal]

Radha Gomaty in NYC Day 2

Been catching myself humming two or three songs that popped into my head from nowhere past couple of days as i walked endlessly on N.Y roads at 7 degrees celcius. I stopped for a moment and decided to listen in and then smiled.

No wonder.

One of them happened to be  Pat Boone’s chocolatey gooey 1957 hit (Now dont laugh!) DONT FORBID ME… “Its so cold and your lips might freeze…”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VgTkfWeyyVI

In what is this freezing cold for me that maybe isn’t such a big deal to New Yorkers, I try  sticking  my poor palms  deeper and deeper into my pockets for warmth .

For the first time I become aware of a  branch of some kind inside my body that goes  all the way up from my palms  to the top of my head where a not very skilled drummer sits thumping away fairly tunelessly  on a flaccid drum .

No .

I cannot see his face because he is all muffled up and is indifferent to all attempts to reach out .He is an Afro American alright and his Drum is a large hemisphere with tiny beads on it .

Now where have i seen on like that before?

The more numb my palms get the more he drums.

Is the  call of that distant unseen drummer to whose tune I am supposed to dance ,alas,  only a winter headache wreaked upon this body ?It cannot be blamed after all because it came into to being in a place mapped on this planet at 9°55'52.44"N by 76°16'2.29"E !

I can’t write a post now based on days as i haven’t been able to write daily as i need to do .Writing is a personal need like bathing because i do not know what i feel till i start talking to someone, real or imaginary, who i know loves me  enough to not judge me.So its good to write .

Correction .

it is a necessity to write if Im not to go numb all over and not just my palms.

On official day 2 of my schedule when i woke with a fever, I got by with a little help from my homeopathic doctor friend from back home down with  pretty bad virus herself who walked me through a strict schedule of heavy medication to help speedy recovery .

So I dont really know how i pulled myself together and got my body through the subway to my first destination that was the Grand Central Terminal.

For a while I stood dazed and disoriented in the cold with the fever still wracking my body . 

I found myself inching my way onto one of those dysfunctional old public call phone booths not used anymore .I guess it is my old response of wanting to curl up into the smallest place available to wait things out ,for the storms to blow over that suddenly acted out in a public space  .

 So it was just me there in that tiny cubicle looking at the remnants of a partially torn out phone that in its heyday must have facilitated so much of live stuff going on  between people .

I must have looked a little crazy too ,I suspect ,perhaps a little homeless too though i wasn’t carrying a placard .I had already seen about four people like that on the road by then and they always hurt my heart . I stopped for a coffee and a bagel from a van more for just telling myself that I’m alive .

Finally i found my way with the help of a friendly cop .

The gargoyle like decorations on the building looked rather scary , In fact i realized i do have an inbuilt problem with colonial buildings and their Grand and more than Human Scale generally. 

Not trying  now going into the ‘why-s’  though i do have some idea why this might be so .

I wandered about and vended my way to the library way before schedule by which time  i was already feeling like a total train wreck.

Sarah Jeffe,the sprightly elder who took us around was amazing in terms of energy and quite whom i’d like to be maybe 20 years from today in terms of her indefatigability, her love for what she does, her facility for unbroken speeches and her wit.

Often in my stupor ,though I missed her words I enjoyed the visual of her face and just let myself ride the animated arabesques of her lilting eloquent cadence.

By lunch time the Sun was suddenly in full form outside.A steely silvery blaze of a  molten metal light. 

I touched the walls , the floors ,even the asphalt on the roads with my chilled up hands hopefully .But no .

There was only this light  and hardly any warmth .

By then I was kind of gone pushing my endurance like a distance runner about to pass out but not letting go of the sight of finish line.

Though looking at the food carts and their offerings made no impact on me whatsoever I decided to buy a falafel sandwich and work my way through it , no matter what i felt about it. Still a bit dazed I settled into a little nook stone bench of the library with a little bush to my right side.

That’s when it happened .

…Sparrows ,or Kuruvi in my language ,are birds once so common in childhood that have almost completely disappeared with the breakdown of local paddy cultivation in my home state of Kerala .I’m told, the increasing reliance on chemical pesticides that modern Agricultural practices brought in increased the toxicity of produce to lethal levels spelling disaster for these bright little inquisitive birds.

Sparrows here , I noticed are a plumper version than their cousins back home.

One suddenly hopped a little closer.

i still can see her beady little  black eyes ,her slightly cocked to a side head looking a little curiously at me.

Then she lightly picked up a bottle mouth wrapping plastic strip in her beak and flew away .

I watched after her up and down ,don’t-care ,nonchalant flight through the air and saw her make her way into a tiny surveillance camera where she was building her nest .Such delightful enlivening resilient impudence!

Soon suddenly many emerged into sight.The little bush was a kind of Union Square for them i realized.I forgot my blankness and began to share my falafel sandwich …That attracted the larger more belligerent pigeons too .Something smiled inside and lifted a little.Enough for me to mentally revoke my message to Margaret that I’m not well and am going back to rest.

I signed up at the Fencing class run by Vladimir ,a former Ukrainian National champion (”whaaat?a national champion?!what you doing here teaching folks like me baby steps in a library garden , young man??! “), apologise for my being totally unfit physically , re-enter the library , meet up with the pleasant &helpful folks at the local history section with all the energy I can still muster to make a few queries and then make my way to the subway to Brooklyn trundling in a not so clean local subway train across the bridge made famous by the movies.

Everything is different about Brooklyn -the light , the air , the space…

I'm before schedule here too and end up falling asleep sitting on a bench awaiting my guided tour group through the Brooklyn Museum.

Oh dear! what a sort figure I must be presenting of  apexart foundation and my country of origin!

I make another round of apologies.But actually i realize I’ve been far more receptive in this open eyed  zombie walking  stupor state than ever before ,now as i write…The masks, the tunics worn by the Egyptians,Banana leaves ,so common back home,i see for the first time as decorative motifs on the Chinese Blue pottery ,The light of the sun through the paper white flowers of the trees in front of the museum , the intent expression of a lone man taking selfies beneath their canopies , the light in the eyes  of a pair of lovers who have just caught sight of one another waiting for their tryst , the father and the son in  the subway train and the dad asking his little boy playing with game cards

“...so you wanna be badass?”

“yeah dad…i wanna be badass”

if i got back to 1 irving place , it is because the universe is kind and decided to reach me here safely by letting me open my eyes at the right time not missing stops, put kind people in front of me who showed me the right way to get home…yes ,home.

Its begun to look just as comfortably sloppy and lived in.

April 20 ends in a restorative sleepathon.

The world is good.

I am too.

Amen to that!