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freedomfireflies · 2 months

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Overdrive*

Summary: The one where it's 1969 and Harry likes to drive really, really fast.

Word Count: 5.5k

Content Warning: 18+, smut, multiple orgasms, breeding kink, exhibitionism, very brief daddy kink

Five.

The sound of revving engines echoes between the tall, city buildings. Loud enough to startle a nearby flock of birds on a telephone wire as they take off into the dark night to escape the lurid noise.

Four.

The smell of burning rubber is everywhere. Tires screech against the pavement as the smoke dissipates into the warm summer air and the drivers prepare for that familiar white flag.

Three.

There’s a murmur amongst the crowd. The bets have been placed and the anticipation has set in. They pick their favorite driver, and they hope that somehow, they’ll be able to beat the unbeatable.

Him.

Two.

You can see your little speed demon just up ahead as he waits patiently in front of the makeshift starting line. He seems relaxed. Confident. One hand is settled on the steering while the other is flipping the bird to the driver beside him.

One.

The flag waves and the drivers take off. A streak of color flashes across the street as each of the five cars attempt to take their place ahead of the rest. But nobody can seem to get an edge on the black Lamborghini Miura already skidding around the first curve, effortlessly leaving them all behind.

You grin. It’s harder to see the cars now that they’re on the other side of the buildings, but you can hear them. You can hear his engine, specifically. You’d know the sound anywhere. After all, he spent weeks introducing you to the ins and outs of his favorite toy. Showing you exactly how to care for it, with those rough, practiced hands that also happen to care for you, too.

You catch a glimpse of his vehicle just before it disappears past the drugstore. He shifts gears and accelerates, just before the blue Stingray to his right can gain on him. You hold your breath as both cars drift around the corner onto the next road and the crowd begins to cheer.

Harry hasn’t lost a race in weeks. You don’t imagine he could lose if he tried. In fact, he could be blindfolded with no brake pedal and a faulty transmission and somehow, he’d still be miles ahead of the competition.

It’s one of the things you love most about him. The way his eyes light up when he gets behind the wheel. The way the engine purrs in his hands and the way he can bend the road to his will.

The Stingray veers to the right in order to get ahead of him, but Harry seems to anticipate this attempt. He cuts the other driver off just before he can speed up and your heart jumps into your throat. The only thing you don’t like about his racing is how careless he can be at times.

If you’re in the car, he takes the utmost care to make sure you’re safe. That you’re never put in harm’s way.

But when he’s alone, he’s in a whole other world of his making. He doesn’t consider the consequences or the repercussions. He doesn’t consider you. The way you’d feel if you lost him.

And you trust his instincts, you do. But you can’t always say you enjoy the show.

The Stingray slams on his brakes as Harry takes off and slides around the second to last corner. Tire marks are painted across the cement in his wake and the crowd cheers.

Your stomach twists. He seems to be doing all right, although one of his fatal flaws is that it’s nearly imposable to tell how he’s feeling. He’s eerily stoic when he’s under pressure and perhaps that’s a good thing.

But that doesn’t exactly help you now as he zigs and zags across the road before finally reaching the last turn that leads into the final stretch.

This is it. You hold your breath as you watch from the edge of the sidewalk, hands twisting in front of your chest as he races across the last few hundred feet. It’ll be close—the Stingray is gaining on him with each passing second—but Harry’s undeterred. He switches into a lower gear and the engine comes alive. Giving the car torque for those last few inches as he flies across the finish line. And the race is over.

The rest of the cars follow shortly after and the growing crowd of onlookers all swarm the street. They cheer and they holler, and they flock to the handsome driver now stepping out of his vehicle, desperate to congratulate him. But those soft green eyes only search for you.

When he finally finds you squished between the horde of admirers, he grins, and begins to push his way through to you.

The moment you meet, he picks you up, hugs you to his chest, and spins you around. And you squeal giddily, happy to be back in his embrace as you wrap your arms around his neck and hold on for dear life.

“My little lucky clover,” he whispers proudly. “What did I tell you, hm?”

The nickname makes your insides grow warm. He’s called you his lucky clover ever since that first race when the two of you met. He claimed he only won because he saw you standing there watching and was desperate to impress you. And that every race he’s won since has been because of you and your charming presence.

You aren’t so sure you believe him, but you have to admit it sounds pretty on his tongue.

You laugh as he puts you back down. “I know, I know,” you finally concede. “You were right.”

“Mhm.” He smirks—cocky—before he’s surging forward to kiss you. Soft and slow and with a desire that almost feels scandalous for such a public place. “I always am.”

His tongue brushes against yours while his hand splays across your lower back to tug your body to his and the crowd cheers as you giggle. But you don’t fight the way he loves you. Instead, you cling to his shirt and allow him to take what he wants.

When he finally allows you a moment to breathe, you gaze at him curiously. “How fast were you going?”

“120 on the main stretch. 80 on the curves,” he says, then chuckles at the way you frown. “M’fine, Clover. I promise.”

“You agreed nothing over 100,” you remind him.

“Yeah, but I needed to win.”

“No, you don’t need to win. You need to stay alive.”

“Well, why can’t I do both?”

Unamused, you huff, and lightly slap at his stomach. “Not funny, H.”

However, he merely laughs aagain and pulls you back between his arms. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says softly. “You know I’d never die on you. I’d miss you too much.”

“Let’s hope so.” You push up onto your toes to bring your lips to his once more. “Cause if you die on me…I’ll kill you.”

His smile is smug as he kisses you hard before he leads you back to his car. The large mass follows, anxious to ask him questions or offer their praise. And he listens to dutifully, perching himself on his hood while pulling you between his legs.

It’s the same after every race. The other drivers try to tease him while his growing group of fans are desperate to be noticed by him. He might not be inherently famous, but he is to this crowd. They love a lot of things about him. His skill, his confidence, his looks.

And you can’t exactly blame them.

It’s impossible to tell if you want to be him or be with him. You imagine for most people, it’s both. He has a sort of relaxed assurance that seems to make everyone else around him comfortable. And there’s a mystery about him. An intrigue to know more about the man behind the wheel. About who he is outside of these races. What he’s really like.

He slings an arm around your shoulder and pulls you back into his chest. He talks to the driver of the Stingray and they exchange comments about the almost collision that makes your stomach turn. But when he notices, he presses a quick kiss to your temple and changes the subject.

However, the rowdy celebration is cut rather short by the sound of sirens as two police cars come slinging around the side of a building with their lights flashing and their microphones on.

Everybody scatters, a collection of wild cheers and hollering voices as the officers step out of their vehicles in order to round up the crowd and instruct everyone to return home.

But Harry is unfazed as he pats your hip and nods his chin up. He’s rather good at his getaway now. After all, you imagine he’d have to be with all the times the police have broken up these races.

And he’s only been caught once.

You slip inside just as he starts the engine. The radio comes alive, the sound of Jimi Hendrix enough to rival the roar of the motor as places one hand on the back of your seat in order to look behind him before he speeds away from the scene, hangs a sharp left, and takes off down the adjoining road.

The sound of sirens follow. There’s a cop car on the next street over, attempting to chase after him as Harry weaves in and out between the scarce traffic. He’s good—incredibly good—but they haven’t given up yet.

They cross over and skid behind him. They’re getting closer and the red and blue lights are bright in the rearview mirror. Still, Harry is calm. Simply shifting gears with ease as the car accelerates and offers a bit more distance before he takes a last-minute right in order to shake them.

The force of the turn slings you against the side of the door and you huff as Harry shoots you a cheeky grin.

“Sorry, baby,” he calls over the music. “You all right?”

With a grimace, you nod and say, “Mhm. Just great.”

He winks before he’s blowing through one red light and then another. Somehow missing the few cars currently crossing the street while the police are forced to slam on their brakes as somebody passes. And once they lose sight of him, he veers into an old, abandoned alley to hide.

Seconds pass before they finally fly by. Oblivious to his plan as they head further into town while Harry takes another right and disappears from the city.

He cheers victoriously and rolls down the windows and you laugh as you gaze at him. Entranced by the way he nods his head to the music as a gentle, summer breeze blows through his curls.

Freedom tastes better with him. Life is better with him. His hand on your thigh, squeezing, while he sings along to Jimi Hendrix and grins at the open stretch of road ahead of him.

You wouldn’t want to be anywhere else and he seems to bask in your admiration before he finally looks over.

“What do you say, Clover?” he says with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Wanna see what a hundred feels like?”

A bit hesitant, yet wildly curious, you nod.

He reaches for your hand in order to help you across the car, and you crawl over the console until you can settle onto his lap. Once you’re snug over his thighs, his arms slip beside your middle to keep you safe while he holds onto the steering wheel, and you scoot back into his chest for support.

And it feels good. Comfortable. Even though the car is going faster and faster with each passing second, you feel protected. You know he’d never let anything happen to you. And there’s hardly any danger out here, along the old, backroads away from the city and traffic.

The needle on the dash rises higher and higher. 70…80…90. Harry’s grinning against your cheek as the wind dances across your skin. The moon is bright in the sky, illuminating the road even without headlights and it’s exhilarating. Limitless.

“How’s that, hm?” he whispers. He kisses your jaw before dropping his foot against the gas. “You sure you’re ready, sweetheart?”

You nod quickly and brace yourself in his hold. “Mhm.”

The car reaches 100 and it feels like flying. You laugh, giddy, and he grins. The straight stretch of empty street might as well be a runway and the faster you go, the lighter you feel. As though the tires will simply lift off the ground and carry you into the sky.

He shifts gears and the car jolts forward as the needle jumps to 110. You gasp and squirm excitedly over his lap before he suddenly groans. The sound is low and strained and you recognize the lustful cadence almost immediately.

Amused, you bite the inside of your cheek. “You okay, H?”

He takes one hand from the wheel and places it on your thigh. Squeezing it once. Pointedly. “Don’t stop.”

You don’t. You squirm again, settling into the feel of the hardening bulge beneath your ass and he makes another noise that goes straight to your cunt.

Your lashes flutter. The world blurs and your heart races. Perhaps you shouldn’t be doing this while you’re going so fast but Harry is calm. He trusts himself and you trust him.

The needle rises.

“Harry,” you whisper and his knuckles go white against the steering wheel. “Harry, please—”

“What?” His mouth rests against your cheek and you whine. “What, Clover? What do you need?”

He wants to make you say it. Wants to hear the words on your tongue and you swallow thickly as you intertwine your fingers with his. “H…”

“What, baby girl?” He nips at your skin with his teeth. “M’I making you nervous?”

You nod and he chuckles. A dark, sadistic sound.

“Do you want me to stop?”

There’s a quiet moment of hesitation before you eventually shake your head. Of course you don’t. How could you?

“No?” He squeezes your leg, touch slowly slipping beneath the fabric of your skirt. “Good girl.”

The car begins to go faster. 115…118…120. The same speed he reached during the race and even if you knew it was fast, this feels infinitely faster.

You gasp and clutch his hand. Terrified and enthralled all in the same moment. And even if you shouldn’t be, you feel insanely aroused. Legs squeezing together as he subtly bucks up into you.

The music is loud and the wind is loud and the sound of your heart pulsing in your ears is loud.

And then…the needle drops. The car slows. The speedometer goes from 120 to 50 in only a few seconds, and you blink curiously before glancing back at him.

He says nothing. His expression is firm but stoic and it’s not until he pulls off the road and into the dirt that you understand.

He turns the car off, then pats your hip. “Get out.”

You swallow again and swing the door open. Crawling off his lap before obediently trailing your way to the front of the vehicle while he follows.

“Bend over.”

You do. The hood is warm but not hot and it’s almost inviting as you place your hands against the covering to brace yourself in wait.

“Let me see.”

Your breath catches as you move your fingers to the delicate panties beneath your skirt. You pull them down your quivering thighs and the summer air makes you shiver. You feel nervous under his gaze. Under the way he owns you. But it’s thrilling. Addictive. And it leaves no room for questioning as you drop your underwear to your ankles in the middle of the open desert.

You hear him step closer. Feel his hand on your hip as he pulls the fabric of your outfit up in order to get a proper look. But he’s quiet. Almost too quiet, and you feel a touch warm as you wait for his remark.

“Have you been this wet all night, Clover?” he finally asks.

You nod once. “…yes.”

“Mm.” Another pause while his other hand begins to trail up the back of your leg, slowly pulling it open. “And when were you planning to tell me?”

“I…I figured you already knew.”

He hums and you can only imagine his smirk. “Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Is that what you were waiting for, then? For me to do something about it?”

“…yes.”

The tip of his finger drags its way through your folds and the sudden sensation makes you whimper.

“Then why didn’t you ask, sweetheart?” His tone is soft but condescending and you make another noise as you attempt to glance back at him. “Uh-uh. Eyes down, Clove.”

With a huff, you drop your chin to your chest and anxiously wait for more.

“Why didn’t you ask?” he repeats. “Thought I taught you better than that.”

When your only answer is a needy mewl, he lands his palm against your ass in a sharp smack.

“Speak,” he murmurs. “When I ask you a question, I expect you to use your words and answer me. Is that understood?”

“Yes…yes, I’m sorry.”

“So why didn’t you ask?”

“Was…nervous,” you admit, glancing off into the dark night to hide the shame in your expression. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

He steps closer and his touch becomes gentler. “You were nervous, baby girl?”

“Mm. Knew you were busy and…and didn’t wanna be greedy.”

“Oh, my sweet girl,” he exhales before he’s grabbing onto the cheeks of your ass to pull you open. Allowing him an even better view of the way you drip. “Can always be greedy with me, you know that? Don’t have to be nervous. All I wanna do is take care of you. My time is yours.”

You release a stuttered breath before your eyes fall shut. You love the way he touches you. The way he cares for you. The way he humiliates you, even out here where nobody can see.

“Look at you,” he whispers and you feel yourself clench around nothing. “Look at how pretty your little hole is when it’s so empty.”

The pad of his thumb brushes through your folds and he ignores the way you gasp his name.

“Think I should fix that?” he asks. “Think I should fill you up? Make it better?”

“Yes,” you pant. “Yes, please—”

“D’you need me to stretch you open? Hm? Play with your little cunny till you’re coming all over my cock?”

The dirty words inside his gentle voice feel criminal. Your mind turns to mush and you can do nothing more than press your chest into the hood as you excitedly wiggle our ass further into his hand.

He laughs, amused by your desperation in a way that only pushes you further toward the endless edge. “Is that a yes, Clover?”

You nod quickly. Your cheek rubbing against the car until you finally—finally—hear the sound of his belt flicking undone.

The metal clink is music to your ears and you release a deep moan at the thought of the leather against your skin. Of his cock as it brushes against your clit, mindlessly teasing you past the point of no return.

“Easy,” he says. “Give me your hands, sweetheart.”

Slowly, you pull your arms behind you until he captures them in his hand. He wraps the length of the belt around your wrists until he can securely bind them to the small of your back, and once your mobility is gone, you simper.

“There you go,” he coos. “You okay, honey?”

Another nod. “Yes.”

“Gonna tell me if it’s too much, yeah? If I hurt you?”

“Yes…”

“Know it’s a tight fit, baby, but m’gonna make it work. Promise.”

And this vow makes your heart thumb against the inside of your chest before you feel him disappear from behind you.

And then…his tongue.

He’s dropped into a crouch in order to taste you, fingers locked around your wrists to keep you still while his lips suck on your pussy.

“H,” you inhale, already undone by his technique. “I…”

He says nothing but the noise of wet licking echoes between your ears. His other hand pushes your leg away, creating more room for his head as he mouths at you. He flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue and you steel yourself against the hood, almost as though to get away.

“Careful,” he warns again. He smacks your thigh. “M’having so much fun. Don’t ruin it.”

And you try to be good. Try to stay still so he can do with you as he pleases. But it becomes increasingly harder when he nips at your cunt like he means to feast on you.

Your fingers wiggle about the air, desperate to grab him. To clutch onto his curls or yank on his arm. But he keeps you restrained, keeps you compliant. And you are nothing but a toy for him to play with now.

You hear the sounds of the world around you. The crickets, the owls, the flock of birds flying overhead. You’re reminded yet again that anybody could drive by, even out here in the middle of nowhere. They could find you, bent over the hood of a Lamborghini as you get tongue fucked by the handsome man on his knees.

And yet…you don’t care. In fact, you almost hope somebody does pass. Because you know Harry wouldn’t stop even if they did. He’d keep going until you were unraveling in his hands as you whimpered his name.

As if to prove this, he adds a finger in beside his devious lips. “Gotta make sure you can take me,” he says in a low grunt. “S’too tight in here, Clove. Don’t think I’ll fit.”

You whine louder and angle your ass closer. Desperate to get his finger in as far as it’ll go. “I’ll take it,” you promise. “I will. Always do.”

“Always do,” he repeats in a soft chuckle. “That’s right, you do. Treat my cock right, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Nearly purring, you allow the subtle thrust of his hand to drag you closer to that blinding pleasure.

“Do anything I ask. Even have my babies, wouldn’t you?”

The thought nearly does you in. Your tummy all swollen and full of him. Tits leaking milk that he’d eagerly lap up. The way he’d still treat your body like a temple. A prize to behold. Because you were carrying what he gave you. He fucked you so hard and so deep that you became a vessel for him.

And even past that, you’ve always wanted to be a mother. Always wanted to start a family with him because you know he’d be a wonderful father. He’d take them to races and hold them on his shoulders so they could watch. He’d kiss all over their little cheeks and tuck them into bed. And your kids would know nothing but love. Because they’d look up to the two of you.

It makes you smile.

“What do you say, hm?” he whispers between kitten licks to your pussy. “You wanna have my babies? Wanna make me a daddy?”

He adds a second finger and begins to scissor them almost immediately until you cry out. Loud enough to startle a bird from a nearby branch and this proves to be answer enough for him.

“Okay,” he decides. “Okay, I’ll fuck your little pussy and get it all nice and full. Give you all I’ve got. And you’ll take it, won’t you? Hold it in your little belly like a good mama.”

You cum. Suddenly and without warning as the intensity of the orgasm explodes behind your eyelids like stars in the sky. You cum and you don’t get a chance to warn him or prepare or even hold off as you feel yourself drip down his hand.

“God, H,” you moan. You sound pitiful. Voice hoarse from the way you’ve been wailing and arms sore from the way he keeps them behind you. Still, you don’t mind. The pain is pleasure in and of itself. “I…m’so…”

“Yeah.” He stands up and tugs his pants down. “I know, baby. I am, too.”

The tip of his cock drags through your soaked and sensitive pussy before he pushes in. He’s right, it is a tight fit. Even with the way you attempt to relax your muscles and draw him in. But it’s always snug with him and truth be told, you almost prefer it this way.

“There you go,” he breathes, dipping down to kiss your shoulder before drawing back his hips. “Just like that. Fucking hell, Clove, I wish you could see. Wish you could fucking see the way you look taking me right now.”

You wish you could, too. As it is, the feeling is enough to make your eyes roll back and send sparks of electricity up the length of your spine.

He keeps your wrists in his hand as he fucks into you. Sharp thrusts that sound sloppy and uncoordinated but feel like heaven. And there’s an urgency here. A desolate need to feel you unravel. He cares for you and he uses you all with the same technique.

He grabs your leg and forces it up onto the hood. Giving him more room and a deeper angle just to hear you moan. And you hate that you can’t see him. Because you know how pretty he looks when he’s in control. His adrenaline high and his eyes alive with the possibilities of what he could do to you.

Instead, you choose to imagine. The way a few rogue curls must be sweeping across his forehead, unable to stay constrained beneath the sticky gel he likes to put in his hair. His chest is probably heaving, offering peeks of his tattoos beneath the white shirt clinging to his sweaty torso. His thighs will be flexing with each thrust. The muscles rippling in such a way that would surely make you drool.

You understand why every woman you pass on the street tends to fawn over him. You know they’d do anything to take him home. Cook for him, clean for him, be good for him. Anything to earn his affection.

But you also know, his affection belongs to you. You’ve seen it, time and time again. He doesn’t even glance their way. He doesn’t notice when they giggle over him or when they try to call to him with their eyes.

Because his eyes are always on you.

“You’re beautiful,” you hear him whisper. It’s soft—restrained. Almost as though he doesn’t mean for you to hear it. But you do and you nearly sink into the car in bliss. “Fucking hell, sweetheart. You’re perfect.”

A fervent heat rushes through your body from his praise and subsequently has you clenching around him. The feeling makes him groan and you’re proud of the way you can still care for him. Even if you can’t see him. Even if he’s the one with all the power.

“This sweet little pussy takes such good care of me,” he says and reaches around your tummy in order to press his palm against the subtle bulge there. “Every…fucking…time.”

You careen forward, cheek squished into the hood, skin dewy from the way your body shakes with pleasure. It’s always this close and somehow, he keeps you there. As though reminding you not to cum until he says so.

The hand on your stomach moves down until his fingers find your sensitive clit. He rubs and he plucks and he plays with your body with the same precision and skill he uses when he drives. Because no matter how much he loves to race, he loves you more. And winning you will always be infinitely better than winning some goddamn race.

“What do you say, hm?” he mumbles from behind you, rubbing the swollen nerves while pistoning his hips to yours. Dragging you closer and closer and closer. “You gonna cum for me? Gonna let me feel it?”

You nod and when you start to waver over that edge, he chuckles.

“Okay,” he agrees. “Okay, baby, cum.”

You do. Again. Harder this time. Louder. It’s almost cruel how easily your body breaks beneath him but before you can indulge in the feel of the way he follows…he’s pulling out.

He guides you away from the hood and turns you both around. He sits in the spot you once were and he lets you see him. Because this is what you needed. The intimacy, the eye-contact. The beautiful look on his face.

He guides you closer with his hold on your bound wrists before pulling you onto his lap as best he can. He helps you place one leg back on the hood while his other hand moves to guide his cock between your overstimulated folds. Then, he brushes his swollen tip through, just to tease himself, before he’s pushing in.

And you can see him now. Can see the fucked-out expression on his face. The way his vision becomes hazy and his teeth grit together in ecstasy.

You whimper, whine, cry out. You want to hold him. Want to wrap your arms around his neck and curl yourself into his beautiful, broad chest.

But you can’t this time. In fact, he uses his grip on the belt to help roll you over his cock. A soft smile on his face as he whispers, “Just one more, sweetheart. Give me one more.”

He’s insatiable and greedy and you love it. Because you’d fuck yourself on his cock for the rest of time if you could. Even out here in the open.

“Wanna watch,” he whispers, then slips his other hand around the back of your neck to bring you down for a kiss. “Wanna watch the way I fill you all full of my babies.”

You make a rather pitiful noise against his mouth and he smirks.

“You want that, too, don’t you, Clove?”

You nod, although you imagine it should be obvious. You’d do anything for him.

“This little pussy was made to have my babies, wasn’t it?” he says and kisses the corner of your lips before moving down your neck. “Just made to be fucked by me. Perfect tummy to carry my kids. You’ll be so good, mama. Know you will.”

Your lashes flutter shut. The nickname breeds something new in your chest, a blossoming sort of urgency that almost makes it hard to breathe.

“Harry,” you plead. You nudge your nose against his temple. “Harry, please—”

“Shh.” His voice is soft. Still mischievous but kind. “I’ve got you. Yeah? M’right here. Just let me take care of you.”

And he does. He moves his hand from your neck to your shirt, slipping underneath until he can find your tits and give them a squeeze.

“There you go,” he coos. “Oh, baby girl. Do anything for you, you know that? Just to keep you.”

He moves from your chest to your clit, and you know the second his fingers make contact, you’ll be gone. You squirm in anticipation, and he grins against your cheek before kissing you hard. Tongues and teeth colliding as he sucks on your lip and murmurs, “Can I cum in your pretty pussy, mama? Will you let me? Please?”

You nod so quick and so hard, your head aches. But it doesn’t matter because nothing else will ever compare to the feel of his hand on your body and his cock in your cunt. Releasing the warm, sticky offering that means infinitely more now than it did before.

He thrusts up into you a time or two, milking himself with your pussy before he drops back down and pulls you with him.

You’re both panting. Heavy, hard. Depleted of all energy as he holds you as close to his heart as he can.

Eventually, he frees you, tugging on the belt with one, easy pull as it comes loose from around your wrists. And the moment your arms are returned to you, you use them to grab onto his shoulders and bury yourself in his embrace.

He laughs. A delicate sound that makes you feel just as warm as his cock does. And you stay there for as long as you can until he finally nips at your earlobe and says, “Need to get you home, Clove. Don’t want you to get cold out here.”

“M’not cold,” you pout. “And we can’t leave until it works.”

“Until what works?”

You look down and he looks, too.

Then, he grins. A big, giddy grin that’s all teeth and dimples. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Can’t leave until you’re pregnant, huh?”

“Mhm.”

“I see.” He squeezes your hips and kisses your neck. “Gonna have to hold me in there, aren’t you? Keep me all snug?”

“Mhm.”

“All right, mama,” he says and you giggle. “We’ll stay until you’re all nice and pregnant. And then I’m gonna take you home and fuck you again. Just to make sure.”

Your stomach flips.

“S’that sound good, Clover?” he asks, and you bring your eyes to his in order to see him fully.

You smile.

“That sounds perfect, Daddy.”

For a more immersive experience, feel free to play All Along the Watchtower by Jimi Hendrix during the chase hehe

Beautiful divider by @firefly-graphics 💞

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @lukesaprince @closureesny @lc-fics @0nlythrowharrybeaux @hannahdressedasabanana @dylanobandposts21 @butdaddyilovehim-hs @floral-recs @itjustkindahappenedreally @samanddeaninatrenchcoat

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mediumgayitalian · 3 months

Text

Nico cannot get out of the stupid van fast enough, practically throwing himself out of the sliding door.

“You should kiss the ground, next,” comments Will drily, stepping out of the van like a normal person. (Easy for him. He got shotgun.) “Since you’re being so dramatic already.” He nudges Nico with his toe, who is sprawled out in the beautiful, beautiful grass, basking in the SoCal sun. “It was not that bad.”

“Easy for you to say!” Nico cracks open one eye to glare, which is hard to do when Will smiles so fondly at him. But he’s a professional. “You had legroom! I was cramped in the back with Cecil!”

“I have long legs,” Will says haughtily, at the same time Cecil calls out, “Hey!”

Nico plucks a handful of grass — dirt and roots and all — and chucks it at him. He relishes in the screeching.

“You let one loose in the back of the already rank-ass van with broken windows. You’re lucky you’re still alive, you fucking asshole.”

Cecil really is lucky to be alive, and he knows it, so he doesn’t say anything. Nico had truly almost killed him. It was Lou Ellen, on Cecil’s other side, who had begun absolutely wailing on the son of Hermes with her book that had satisfied Nico enough to refrain from gutting him.

“I still think Nico should have killed you,” Lou Ellen mutters, from her own sprawl of relief on the ground. “I also think I am never road tripping with you people ever, ever again.”

“Except for the drive back in three days,” Will points out, and the whole lot of them groan.

In truth, it wasn’t that bad. Sure, the camp van is pretty much older than Nico, and sure, they all should have considered the implications of Will claiming he had the music handled before committing themselves to getting stuck on the I-80 with it. Sure, Austin is a horrible driver (he freaking zig-zags through traffic like he’s allergic to sticking to one lane), and Leo’s constantly bouncing leg makes the whole van shake, and Piper snores when she sleeps (and she slept at least half the drive), and Kayla gets chip crumbs everywhere, and Lou Ellen — well, actually Lou Ellen is great. No issues. It’s everyone else who is a menace.

But, well.

Nico had fun. Not that he’ll ever admit it.

“Next time, we’re shadow travelling,” he grumbles, accepting Will’s hand up. Will squeezes twice and says, without missing a beat, “Not a chance, sunshine.”

“Well, then, we’re getting fucking plane tickets. Zeus can kiss my ass.”

Will’s laughter echoes all the way across the Little Tiber, louder than even the roar of warning thunder.

— — —

part two

#part one of five i think!!!!!#a new rome visit :D #pjo #percy jackon and the olympians #hoo #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #nico di angelo & will solance #nico di angelo #will solace #solangelo #nico/will #cecil markowitz #lou ellen blackstone #just a whole crew of em #my writing #fic #longpost

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ziglikesrain · 3 months

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zig here for the zillionth time tonight w thoughts on the husk/angel age gap cause i’ve seen people mad about it (which isn’t UNreasonable) so i did the math for you silly gooses to ease your minds😇

angel died in 1947 as an (approximately) 35 year old. if we’re considering hazbin being set in 2024, he’s been “alive” (around?) for about 111 years.

husk died around 1970 as an (approximately) 60 year old, meaning he’s been around for about 114 years.

they’re three years apart. approximately. yay we can stop worrying now and trust that both of them can make judgements about who and what they want!! they’re both fucking ancient❤️

kisses gn😘😘

#me acting as if this is a real world issue #and they aren’t fictional characters #but this is a big deal #i did MATH #MWAH #nighty night bitches #hazbin hotel #huskerdust #angel dust hazbin hotel #angel dust #hazbin hotel husk

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klbwriting · 3 months

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Broken Prism

Chapter 5

Fandom: Red Hood

Pairing: Jason Toddxfemale!Reader

Warnings: violence

Summary: Jason takes a joyride in a chopper

That conversation had gone about as well as Jason thought it would. He frowned; guess he knew her name now. He didn’t hate knowing but was disappointed all the same. But he was used to disappointment, used to being a disappointment on top of it. He was surprised to realize that she was so angry about what had happened. They’d never even met but the venom in her voice, throwing something at Batman despite the fear he inspired in most people, was impressive. He felt a bit of heat in his chest at that, warmth that he hadn’t felt in years. It was nice someone thought he was worth enough to be pissed about his death. He waited for over an hour after Batman left, watching her pace the apartment. Once he figured she wasn’t going anywhere for the night he took off, he had business with Black Mask to attend to.

Black Mask had been able to take control of the city, first time in a long time someone had that much power and well, Jason wanted that to end. He knew the Mask had a delivery that night, some high-powered weapons and explosives, stuff that Jason could use and store up. He would need supplies to give to his friends for what came next. He knew the shipment was being exchanged on a rooftop in New Gotham, one of the buildings Mask had bought up a few weeks ago, the perfect place for a quick drop and dispersal to all his goons in the city. Jason got there early, tying up and staging Mask’s men so they looked ready to take shipment. Then he waited in his own Black Mask approved uniform.

The helicopter set down right on time and Jason approached. The pilot was annoyed, knowing that all of the guys should have been moving, but Jason made quick work of them, leaving the unconscious but alive pilots on the roof. He was feeling generous. Maybe seeing his soulmate made him nicer. Either way he left them there, noticing Batman and Robin arrive just as he was flying away. He had expected this, what he hadn’t expected was for Batman to shoot the harpoon at the helicopter and miss. He must really have been thrown by YN’s questions about Robin. Jason was away before either of the two vigilantes could catch up. He landed by one of his safehouses on the docks, getting the hired guys he had to unload the goods and get rid of the chopper. This was a waypoint for him, and he needed to get moving before Black Mask sent his own guys to take back what he’d taken.

Jason moved through the weapons, selecting the ones he wanted most, loading them into a duffle and leaving the rest for the mercenaries. He was just speeding out of the warehouse on his bike when several cars sped past him, the last one turning to follow him. He manuvered in and out of cars on the road, hearing them getting sideswiped or crashing behind you as Mask’s guys tried to catch up. He needed a place he could turn and shoot, a clear sight of the tires. He had a map in his head, remembering the on ramp that was coming up, get on the ramp, sharp left to turn on the bridge, the bike could handle it with speed, the car would need to slow. Perfect. He shifted gears and zig-zagged between a couple cars at the red light, moving up the ramp. The car behind him plowed through the stopped vehicles, tearing metal screeching behind him. Jason shivered involuntarily, the bike doing the same and he almost lost control. He took a deep breath and refocused, hitting the top of the ramp at a good speed, wrenching the handlebars to turn left. Once he was in place, he pulled his gun and looked at the car that was just getting to the top of the ramp. He fired; his aim true as always. The cars front tire exploded, sending the drivers side down to the pavement, startling the driver enough that he swerved the wheel, hitting the gas instead of the brake, and crashing in the barrier that separated the lanes. The passenger was sent through the windshield completely, landing in oncoming traffic. Jason heard the honking and the tires squealing as he drove off to his farthest safehouse in the Bowery, wanting to put as much distance between Black Mask and himself.

The gear he had stolen had trackers he figured so he dumped them into the river before going to his humble little apartment. It was completely off the books, no landlord, just an old forgotten building that he could squat in for a few weeks before moving on. He sorted and catalogued the new weapons, guns, some grenades, a very nice machete he hoped he could use soon, maybe on Joker. The thought stopped him, and he smiled. Ya, Joker, Jason really wanted to go give him a visit. He stood, but stumbled because the next thought after Joker was off the crowbar hitting his side, tearing flesh so deep he swore he had seen his intestines starting to leak out. He bent double as another vision, his head, smacking on the cement and the distinct feeling of something breaking in there, his brain bleeding. An iron, metallic taste in his mouth as he coughed up red. He closed his eyes, grabbing his helmet. He didn’t know what he was thinking, what he was doing, but he was back on his bike, then he was in front of her apartment. Then he was knocking on her front door. He heard the lock click and came to his senses, turning and taking off down the hallway. He heard her yell after him, her footsteps following him down the stairs. He was outside and on his bike again. A hand grabbed his arm, but not quick enough, he was gone again. What was he thinking? He couldn’t bring her into this. She would be in danger. What right did he have to a soulmate if he was only going to get her killed? He didn’t stop until he reached another safehouse, this one in the East End. He climbed the stairs to his parents’ apartment; laid in the old bed he had slept in as a child and for the first time since he returned Jason Todd cried. He mourned his parents, he mourned the relationship he couldn’t have, what he knew his pesky heart wanted, and then he mourned himself. The child he was that he never got to see grow up.

You had no idea what had just happened. It was nearly 2AM and you heard banging on your door. It was an idiotic move to open the door to a stranger at this time of night in Gotham but even in your sleepy daze you had needed to open it, knowing that someone important was on the other side. You had seen the helmet, the leather jacket. You didn’t even get a word out and he was running. Your feet were bare, and you had no jacket, but you didn’t care, chasing him down the stairs in your pajamas. You thought you had him at the curb, touching his arm, but he took off, making you fall to the sidewalk, catching yourself just before you broke your nose on the pavement. He had come to find you. Red Hood, maybe Robin, maybe your soulmate whose name started with J. Why? Why had he come and just ran like that? You climbed the stairs back to your apartment considering all of this, but honestly, you had no idea.

Did he want to see you? Did he not? Was he in trouble? O for fuck’s sake, why couldn’t your soulmate be just a regular person? Why did they have to be a vigilante that died and came back to life? There weren’t support groups for things like that. Therapy didn’t cover that shit, not that you had insurance to cover therapy. You groaned, climbing back into bed and staring at your ceiling. Tomorrow, you needed to find Bruce Wayne again. You needed more answers.

#jasontodd #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jasontoddxreader #jason todd x you #jasontoddxyou #redhood #redhoodxreader #redhoodxyou #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood x you #brokenprism

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iwriteloveletters · 6 days

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Manmade Weapons (Karl Heisenberg x Reader One shot)

TW- BODILY INJURY, NOT PROOFREAD

Words- 608

You ran as fast as you could through the cold forest, the snow wetting your skirt and causing your ankles to go numb.

“You can run but you can’t hide.” the old man's voice boomed throughout the forest.

You heard whacking and metal hitting trees follow you behind you, he was launching whatever metal scraps and screws he had on hand to try and get you. It felt as though your zig-zag movements are what saved you from being impaled with no regard of where it’s going to hit you. You couldn’t tell if he wanted you dead or alive.

You don’t know what he wanted from you, you were afraid of what he wanted from you or what he wanted to do to you. He was one of the lords afterall, everyone in the village was afraid of them and what they were capable of.

But you, why were you the one he targeted? The one he bullied in the freezing woods.

“I’m not aiming at you for a reason, I'm actually enjoying the chase.” He said, the man otherwise known as Lord Karl Heisenberg was not too far from you but luckily you weren’t in his reach.

“Why are you doing this to me?!” You cried out, you felt like a helpless animal on the run from the predator, the much stronger and larger predator behind you.

He said nothing in response to that, he wasn’t at all obligated to answer your question.

All you knew was that you were going to die now.

You kept running, you kept fighting, you wanted to live and not become whatever monster he wanted to turn you into. No one fully knew what came out of his factory but everyone knew it wasn’t good.

You were now outside of the village based on how long you’ve been running for your life.

All you could hear behind you was the man-made monster laughing and talking about how it was good for him to get away from that dreadful place every once in a while.

“Leave me alone! Please, I’m begging you!” You yelled in between breaths, you weren’t anything compared to him. You were human, you were ordinary. Your stamina was nowhere near his, it felt like he could run to the ends of the Earth for you and you were thirty more feet away from collapsing into the snow. Letting him carry you off, hoping wherever he takes you gives you a few seconds of warmth before you perish.

“Why would I do that?” He said as he sent a screw right through your calf. He laughed, he enjoyed this more than he should have been.

You let out a guttural scream as you landed in the snow, you were so far from the village it’d be impossible to be saved or have anyone intervene. You highly doubt anyone would have helped you against Lord Heisenberg himself. You were the defeated prey.

His footsteps inch closer to you by the minute and eventually the second.

“Aren’t you a pretty one?” He crouches down to get a better look at you.

The state he left you in prevented you from being snarky in response to him talking to you like an animal.

The screw he shot you with went right through you, this was his makeshift bullet. He has no need for a gun when he himself is the gun. You were being hunted by him.

“You know, I’ve never been one for a chase but this was fun.” He says as he gets closer to your ear, “maybe when I fix you up we can do this again.”

Again?

Hello hello!! This is my first time writing for a character that isn't Eren but don't worry I still have plenty of love for him, I'm hoping to update soon teehee or put anything new out!! Anyways I hope you enjoy - Cherub

#yandere #tw yandere #self shipping #self insert #self insert x canon #canon x self insert #karl heisenberg they could never make me hate you #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x reader #karl heisenburg fanart #karl heisenburg x reader #re8 village #resident evil village #re village

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justagalwhowrites · 7 months

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Yearling Ch. 14 Teaser

Want a lil peek at what's coming soon?

Sure hope so, because you're getting one 😌 Love you!

“You really don’t have anything to be worried about.” Ellie was perched on a rail as you worked with the last of the feral horses, Artemis. You’d gotten her to dumb broke but she still needed a little time to get her the rest of the way. “I’m not worried,” you said, guiding Artemis in a zig-zagging pattern through the paddock. “Oh, yeah, sure,” Ellie rolled her eyes. “Shut it, kid,” you glared at her. “I’m not.” “Well, you’re acting fucky,” she said. “From everything I’ve heard about overnight patrols, they’re basically like camping and shit.” “The fuck do you know about camping?” You asked, bringing the horse back around. “Didn’t you grow up in a QZ as a sad little orphan?” “Ha ha,” she rolled her eyes again. She was such a teenager. “I can read, you know, I know what camping was. And everyone who goes on the overnight patrols make them sound fun and shit. Get out of town for a night, be in the woods, maybe shoot an infected or two…” “Sounds like a blast,” you brought the horse around to her. “Want to give her a go? She’s in a good groove.” “Hell yeah!” You dismounted and held the reins while Ellie got situated on her back. You gave her a quick reminder of the ways to guide the horse, telling her she might need a second to respond to commands or something a little firmer than she was used to giving with Shimmer. “I’ve got it, geez Mom,” she teased. You mockingly mouthed the words back at her as you handed her the reins. You stuck close as she took Artemis around the paddock. “You worry too much.” “Stop acting like a stupid teenager and I won’t worry,” you replied. “Hey, I wasn’t even talking about that!” She said, indignant. You’d yelled at her the day before when you’d caught her climbing on the roof of the stable to get a frisbee down for some kids who’d been playing in the street nearby. She’d acted personally offended that you’d had the audacity to think she might break her neck doing shit like that. “I mean, you worry too much about shit like the patrol. I can tell you’re basically freaking the fuck out…” “Am not!” “And I’m telling you, you have nothing to worry about,” she said. “It’s cool. We haven’t lost someone on patrol in a long time. You don’t need to worry about that.” “You realize that I lived, on my own, in the wild, for longer than you’ve been alive, right?” You asked, brows raised. “Watch your legs, you’re relaxing them too much, you need to keep your knees in closer.” She adjusted. “Being outside overnight doesn’t bother me.”

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #yearling

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abybweisse · 1 year

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Webster

Because this post was getting so long.

Webster bites Sebastian and says he's from Queimada Grande, aka Snake Island, which is in Brazil. He's a pit viper of some kind.

Though Webster doesn't too much look like examples I've seen, his homeland suggests he's a Golden Lancehead viper, which are only found on that island. Wikipedia. Smithsonian. It's a cousin to the Fer-de-Lance viper found on the mainland. According to the Smithsonian article, they evolved from the Jararaca, which some people consider synonymous with the Fer-de-Lance, but Wikipedia has a separate page and species name for it. To me, Webster's strongly zig-zagged sides make me think of the Fer-de-Lance, but 🤷🏻‍♀️. Well, it's got to be a Bothrops, either way. The Golden Lancehead's venomous bite is so potent that it practically melts human flesh, and a victim can be dead within an hour. No wonder Webster is shocked by Sebastian's ability to stay alive, let alone remain standing. We are talking major necrosis, kidney failure, and bleeding to death.

If Webster bit Doll.... 🤔

#black butler #kuroshitsuji #snake #snake's snakes #thoughts #observation #identification #doll #mar 30 2023 #golden lancehead #fer de lance #jararaca #brazil #snakes of brazil

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fateinthestars · 5 months

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Star Crossed Myth Advent Calendar Fanfic: Day Six - Fleeting Touch (Scorpio/MC)

(Twenty-Four days of Star Crossed Myth Flash Fics using this prompt list)

Title: Day Six - Fleeting Touch

Pairing: Scorpio/MC (MC's name left blank so you can fill it in with whatever you wish in your head)

Characters: Scorpio, MC, Zyglavis

Word Count: 618

Rating: T

Prompt: "A quick brush of hands, almost unnoticeable"

Summary: Scorpio is frustrated at being stuck at work, but his feelings soon change after certain circumstances mean his wife joins him.

A/N: WARNING: Major spoilers for Scorpio's route. Set after his Promise of Infinity story.

Day Six: Fleeting Touch (Scorpio/MC)

Scorpio sighed heavily as he worked through the punishments list, glaring at it a little. It didn’t matter what year it was, work around this time was always a nightmare. Not as bad as Valentine’s day but it still irritated him that he had all this to do instead of spending time with ___ .

It was the first Christmas since she had awoken from her centuries long sleep and they had got married. Whilst they wouldn’t be able to go down to Earth this time, he had at least hoped that they could do something that would have been familiar to her time as a human. He figured she would like that sort of thing, even if he wasn’t entirely sure why. There was no point in looking back on such things now.

“Scorpio.”

Hearing Zyglavis’ voice, Scorpio looked sharply up from the reflecting pool. “Is there a problem, Zig?”

“... Perhaps,” Zyglavis hesitantly admitted, glancing to the side. He handed the other his own part of the punishments list.

Looking down at it, Scorpio scowled. “... A planned attack on a shopping centre huh? At this time of year when it’d be at its busiest. Well I’m sure you can deal with these bastard humans in the…” he trailed off, his eyes widening as he noticed the location. “Wait… this was…” he shook his head. It might have been ___’s neighbourhood once upon a time, but that was a very long time ago now. No one she had known would even be alive now. Even so… he was sure she wouldn’t like this. But what could he do? He could let Zyglavis deal with this and never mention it to her, but no doubt she would notice something was bothering him. He might be the one able to read thoughts, but she really did know him far too well. He looked hesitantly up at Zyglavis. “I’ll handle this one. Could you fetch ___ ?”

“... Very well,” Zyglavis conceded, snapping his fingers.

Scorpio got on with the rest of his own list whilst waiting for them to return, only looking up when his wife came into the reflecting pool room.

“Scorpio? You don’t normally like to be disturbed at work… is something wrong?”

“Tch, you could say that,” Scorpio muttered. “I nearly didn’t bother you but I know you’d be a damn pain in the ass later and insist on knowing details about what had happened. Come over here.”

___ hesitantly approached the reflecting pool and looked down into it, her breath hitching slightly. “I remember this place… so there’s someone who needs to be punished here? Why is it bothering you?”

Scorpio glanced away. “It’s not. I just thought you might be interested as it’s part of your old life. Thought maybe it’d be interesting to see how it’s changed.”

Just as long as he makes sure no one gets hurt, there could be descendents of my friends and family about. I know Scorpio will do whatever is needed to make sure everyone can have a peaceful Christmas. I’m happy just to be by his side tonight.

Scorpio’s face flushed red as her thoughts filtered without warning into his mind. He hadn’t even noticed that she had briefly touched his hand but it had been enough for him to hear all that. “Dammit woman! I need to concentrate! You’re still just as bad as ever at not letting your thoughts leak out!”

However, deep down he was happy to hear that calling for her had made her happy, even if it wasn’t quite in the way he had envisioned.

From that year onward, Christmas Eve was one of the few days he allowed the other to accompany him to work.

#star crossed myth fanfic #scm fanfic #scm #star crossed myth #scm scorpio #star crossed myth christmas #star crossed myth advent calendar fic #scorpio x mc

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cliozaur · 6 months

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The sewers digression may be over, but Valjean's journey into the sewers has just begun. Hugo knowingly commented that he 'had fallen from one circle of hell into another.'

This chapter is both bleak and beautiful. It’s so sensorial in the way it describes Jean Valjean struggling to orient himself in the sewers, especially during the initial moments when he was blinded by darkness. And I find it so moving and heartwarming how Valjean’s and Marius’ bodies are in the intimate physical contact with each other. Marius’ arms are round Valjean’s neck, his cheek is touching Valjean’s cheek, and Valjean feels Marius’ breath on his ear. Earlier in the chapter, Hugo mentioned Valjean was not certain if Marius was alive (and maybe did not even care), but with Marius’ breath near his ear, he knows for sure that Marius is alive.

Jean Valjean fascinates me: he's incredibly composed, resourceful, and inventive—a perfect survivor with impeccable intuition. Despite his fear and numerous unanswered questions, he remains unpanicked, analysing the situation rationally and reacting swiftly. He is absolutely amazing!

Speaking of amazing, Hugo's attention to detail regarding the sewers—describing their branches, angles, zig-zags, descents, and ascents—is astounding. How could he be so precise in his descriptions while writing far from Parisian sewers? It's probable that he visited the sewers before his exile and had maps at his disposal while writing this. Yet, the accuracy in describing not only the topography and technicalities but also the sensorial details is truly unbelievable.

#les mis letters #lm 5.3.1 #les mierables #jean valjean #marius pontmercy #sewers

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shamelesscloudbeliever · 3 months

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The Silencers

(Part One )

Scott Adams paid his cab driver the fare plus a $20 dollar tip and got out of the back of the taxi. He decided to walk the remaining five blocks to his destination on that warm early Sunday morning, not because of a desire to keep fit, more a desire to stay alive. Adams had taken three cabs this morning zig-zagging across Los Angeles to ensure he wasn’t being followed and was confident enough now to finally go to the office he had rented six months ago when these suspicious events began taking place.

Adams was the Head of Operations for the FBI for the entire west coast, in his early forties, ruggedly handsome, athletically built at 6"3". A man in his prime. As he walked to his secret office which he had rented, under an alias and paid for out of his own pocket, for fear that his own office was bugged, Adams remembered the day when all this began and he and his team had arrived at what could only be described as a bloodbath. Someone had taken out the entire L.A.branch of the Russian mob in an outrageous hit at a party of its leader. Adams and his men had never seen anything like this before. The 31 dead Russian mobsters never even had a chance to defend themselves, such was the obvious ferocity and surprise of the hit, and all this with no signs of forced entry. The hitters disappeared into the night without a trace. No DNA, no fingerprints, no witnesses.

What Adams now realized was this was only the beginning. Since that day, each major criminal organisation in Los Angeles had systematically been wiped out, the Japanese, the Italians, the Mexicans. Same M.O. as the Russian hit each time. No survivors, no witnesses, a bloodbath each time. And once whoever was carrying out these hits had disposed of their criminal opposition, they turned their attentions to the forces of law and order. In the past month, judges, lawyers, policemen, politicians, each, a trusted and valued ally of Adams, all blown away with ruthless efficiency, not a clue as to who was behind it all.

And within the last 48 hours each of the city's 12 L.A. SWAT Teams had been ambushed in separate parts of the city, each time by a group of eight assailants, clad in sheer tight black leather catsuits, in pairs of two on four high powered motor cycles. armed with rocket launchers and sleek black Heckler and Koch G36 assault weapons, the assassin's identity disguised by black visored motorcycle helmets. 240 of the best trained elite policemen in the city blown to pieces in their armoured vehicles, the survivors each executed with a single shot to the center of the head as they lay helpless on the ground. Meticulous, ruthless planning and execution each time.It was all out war and the cops and the FBI were losing. This new criminal organisation was ruthless , lethal and deadly. They were wreaking havoc and the police and FBI were powerless to stop them. Adams knew he had to work fast. Once he had irrefutable proof of who was behind this killing spree he would bring his good friend Dan Carter, Chief of the Los Angeles Police Department into his confidence. The two men together, Adams knew would bring this criminal organisation down.

Adams was worried but through painstakingly long hours he had managed to piece together a theory so incredible he had not yet shared it with anyone except his wife, who thought him crazy.

Adams was convinced the hitters were women.

He had confided in his wife that this was the only way it could be explained that there was never any forced entry at the scene of the murders. No-one would ever expect a woman to carry out a hit, that was the stuff of movies and fashion magazines, where actresses and models got to play with guns. This was the real world.

As he approached the deserted building which housed his clandestine office, Adams felt confident that he was close to making the breakthrough he needed on the case. All of his information was stored on a laptop he had kept in this office, unbeknownst to anyone except his wife and now he had decided that one last trawl through the details would offer up enough facts to allow him to unmask these killers. As he approached the building he nervously glanced around one last time to ensure he hadn’t been followed. The street was deserted. Adams smiled and felt safe and punched in a complex seven digit code to open the door to the building and breathed a sigh of relief to be safely inside. Adams thought it strange that the Security Guard was absent from his desk, probably just in the john thought Adams, I’m just being paranoid, nothing to be concerned about. Adams proceeded to walk down the corridor to his office with an impressive confident stride and turned the handle of the door to his office.

Adams opened the door and was immediately shocked to find a beautiful woman in her mid-thirties with shoulder length lustrous raven black hair, blood red gloss lips, cobalt blue eyes, The woman was clad in a Roberto Cavalli Silver Python waist length leather jacket, fully unzipped, underneath which she was wearing an Agent Provocateur sheer black basque which complemented her superb breasts. The woman was leaning back, nonchalantly in Adams' long backed leather office chair, waiting for him, her seemingly endless long lean legs encased in a pair of Temperley skintight custom made black leather trousers which were tucked into a pair of equally black Jimmy Choo Moda thigh high stiletto boots with scarlett red soles for Adams to see, resting contemptuously on his desk. But what really caught Adams’ attention was the 9mm Glock 43 pistol gripped tightly and expertly in her right black leather glove wearing hand, which she was pointing aggressively at him. Adams noticed to his dismay that the suppressor was already expertly attached. “Good morning Scott, we’ve been expecting you” said the woman in a distinctly sensuous refined English accent. “We”? Adams asked curiously. When suddenly he felt a shiver run down his spine as a cold sensation of metal pressed against the base of his skull and he heard another woman’s voice, also in an almost identical tone and similar accent say “ Your luck has run out Scott darling I have a Glock 41 Automatic pressed against your head, if you don’t do everything exactly as we do tell you I will not hesitate to decorate the walls of your office with your fucking brains, are we understood ?”. Adams nodded gently to confirm agreement. He had no other choice but to be utterly compliant. The woman behind Adams laughed mockingly , “two against one isn’t fair, is it Scott, but then again we don’t play fair that’s why we’re the fucking best contract killers in the business”. She continued, “now very slowly remove your gun from your holster under your jacket with your left thumb and index finger and place it gently on the desk. Adams did as he was ordered and placed his Heckler and Koch on the desk whereupon the dark haired woman picked it up and tucked it into the waist of her black leather pants, smiling as she did so to her accomplice. A smile that said " Scott Adams had proven no match for these ultra professional assassins and was about to pay the ultimate price."

His life!

#hitwomen

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rabbitcruiser · 4 months

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National Squirrel Appreciation Day

With their bushy tails and quick movements, these little creatures are a joy to watch as they scamper through the trees and hunt for nuts.

Squirrels are one of the most common animals that people see on a regular basis. These little creatures with a fluffy tail are practically everywhere–in cities, parks, college campuses and forests. They might live in trees or dig a hole in the ground to serve as a home. Some people might even say that squirrels are nuts for nuts, and can last through the harshest of winters without much trouble at all.

Squirrels have the ability to adapt to their environments quickly, they have a decent memory for some of the best locations for food, and they are super soft and fluffy. National Squirrel Appreciation Day encourages people to learn whatever they can about these creatures and admire them for their resilience in the wild.

History of National Squirrel Appreciation Day

With more than 250 species of squirrels that exist across five continents (excluding Australia and Antarctica), these little creatures are fairly prolific in most of the world. And that’s a great reason to appreciate them!

Squirrels are part of the Sciuridae family, which makes them cousins to a variety of rodents such as chipmunks, groundhogs, prairie dogs and other rodents. The earliest fossils of squirrels date back to the Eocene epoch which was perhaps more than 30 million years ago.

National Squirrel Appreciation Day was founded by wildlife rehabilitator Christy Hargrove, who is affiliated with the North Carolina Nature Center. According to Hargrove, people should consider helping to celebrate these creatures by putting out extra food and learning about the species.

Many rock funky hairstyles, survive rattlesnake bites and are extremely adorable, so appreciate the squirrels today by giving them some nuts to eat!

How to Celebrate National Squirrel Appreciation Day

National Squirrel Appreciation Day is a fun excuse to have a celebration on a random day in January. Share this holiday with friends and express that love for squirrels and try out some of these other ideas with the intention of enjoying the day and honoring squirrels:

Discover Fun Facts About Squirrels

Squirrels are considered by some to be beautiful creatures and, depending on the type of squirrel in question, it’s certainly possible to find out amazing facts about them. Try out some of these interesting facts and tidbits about squirrels to impress friends, family members and coworkers in honor of National Squirrel Appreciation Day:

An arctic squirrel can lower its temperature to below freezing to help survive the longest hibernation, which is over 8 months.

To survive in winter months, squirrels bury nuts and other treasures as a food source to come back to later. If they live in snowy climates, they may have to use their sense of smell to locate their stores, then dig through up to a foot of snow to retrieve the object.

The zig-zag patterns squirrels often run in usually means they are concerned about being chased by a predator. This clever little trick helps them to stay alive and avoid being caught by birds, foxes, cats, badgers and other predators.

Squirrels’ bodies are amazingly agile, which helps them run, climb, jump and more. They can turn their ankles 180 degrees while climbing, and can leap up to ten times the length of their own bodies.

Become More Knowledgeable About Squirrels

One great way to celebrate and appreciate squirrels is by learning more about the kinds of squirrels in each local area. Common squirrels in the United States, such as the American red squirrel, Eastern grey squirrel, and black squirrels all have their own habits and tricks that they do to survive. This is also a great day to take some time to learn about all kinds of other squirrels, even ones that are further away, especially the flying Japanese squirrels which are absolutely adorable.

Learn About Squirrel Eating Habits

It is obvious that squirrels, whether they’re ground, tree, or flying squirrels, all have their unique purpose in the global ecosystem. One way they do this is when squirrels work to bury nuts into the ground, which is a behavior called caching. This work they do not only allows them to save food for the winter months, but it also allows them to assist with fruit and tree renewal, because while some will be able to remember where they buried the nuts, others will not make it back to them.

Squirrels don’t just eat nuts and seeds, though, as their diet is much more diverse than many people think. They also eat many fruits, plants, insects, berries and vegetables. One interesting way squirrels contribute to the ecosystem is through eating mushroom spores. By eating the spores and then excreting them after they’re digested, the fungi help matter to decompose and give plants the nutrition they need to grow. Thus, squirrels help maintain the symbiotic relationship between plants and mushrooms and help spread the growth of plants all over the world.

Have a Squirrely Get-Together

For those who just love any reason to throw a party, this is a unique one! Host a squirrel-themed party in honor of the day. Have guests dress up as squirrels or other rodents, and give friends squirrel-themed gifts. Snacks and treats for the party could include squirrel shaped cookies decorated with icing, or really just about any type of food that is made out of nuts! Decorate with acorns, leaves and squirrels as well as other woodland creatures. It’s likely the guests will have never been to a party quite like this before!

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islandtarochips · 2 months

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Call of Duty OC: Kanoa Toa 🇦🇸

The Captain of the US Marine Corps and the Leader of the Warriors Task Force. A man who has confidence for his team that they will protect and save the people from any threats. A funny guy to keep you smiling in any serious situations. And it questions everyone of how he became CAPTAIN with that kind of attitude.

General:

🇦🇸 Name: Kanoa Toa 🇦🇸 Alias(es): Noa, Alpha 6, Toa, Captain Funnypants (Only Tiala can call him that) 🇦🇸 Gender: Male 🇦🇸 Age: Early 30s 🇦🇸 Birthday: April 1st 🇦🇸 Nationality: United State National (American Samoa) 🇦🇸 Place of Birth: American Samoa 🇦🇸 Home: Kahaluu, Hawaii (Living with his sister) 🇦🇸 Spoken Languages: English, Samoan 🇦🇸 Sexuality: Heterosexual 🇦🇸 Occupation: Captain in the Marine Corps, Leader of the Warriors Task Force

Appearance:

🇦🇸 Eye Color: Dark Brown 🇦🇸 Hair Color: Black 🇦🇸 Height: 6’2”/187 cm 🇦🇸 Scars: Scar on his chest, back and on left side of his hips. 🇦🇸 Face Claim: Alex Tarrant

Favorites:

🇦🇸 Color: Any Shades of Green 🇦🇸 Food: Any Samoan Food 🇦🇸 Drink: Diet Coke 🇦🇸 Flower: Not into flowers but will get some for the pretty ladies 🇦🇸 Hairstyle: His hair are short so…don’t know what hairstyle he likes🤷

Personality:

🇦🇸 Myers Briggs Type: ESFP If you think that Kanoa is the kind of Captain who is VERY serious. You guessed wrong. First time meeting, when you salute him first and he’ll do it back. And give you a big HUG (He’s a hugger by the way). He will be the first responder without even THINKING. Like going into the battlefield not caring of other dangers but focusing on one main thing. Just like Tiala, he chooses his words carefully since he doesn’t want to upset or offend other people. He’s also an older brother figure for his comrades. Since he always bail them out from any troubles that they have caused. But he still needs to think of a punishment if they went TOO far. 🇦🇸 Hilarious: Kanoa is the most FUNNIEST guy you will ever met. He will always find a way to bring up some ridiculous story or jokes to his team. And they’ll laugh with him. And sometimes AT him too. 🇦🇸 Strong Common Sense: Even though Kanoa is the funniest and the nicest guy you’ve met. Don’t think that you can take him down so easily. He has good common sense. He trusts his own judgment but is open to other suggestions.

Negative Traits:

🇦🇸 Kanoa always so prideful for his team and his own work. You can hear him bragging about the good thing about himself for HOURS. 🇦🇸 Good at hiding of his pain (mentally). He also has “Smiling Depression”. Smiling in front of everyone making them think that he’s alright but on the inside he’s just a stressful Captain. 🇦🇸 Kanoa is like Tiala when it comes to deal with an enemy who has family. 🇦🇸 Kanoa is another one of those TERRIBLE driver. He can drive perfectly in a very calm state but when you ask him to speed up. This man will just ZIG-ZAG left and right.

Skills and Abilities:

🇦🇸 Fighting Style: Hand-to-Hand Combat 🇦🇸 Weapons: M4A1, HK416 and M550 🇦🇸 Distinct Weapons: Fixed Blade Dagger 🇦🇸 Special Skills: Has a good sense of improvising last minute. Like, when a mission goes wrong and it doesn’t go as planned; Captain Kanoa Toa got your back by finding another way around to finish it.

Family:

Nakoa Loe Toa (Father, Alive)

Elei Toa (Mother, Alive)

Hōne Toa (1st Older Brother, Deceased)

Sami Toa (2nd Older Brother, Alive)

Serah Toa (Sister-in-Law, Samis’s Wife, Alive)

Penny Toa (Niece, Sami’s Daughter, Alive)

Dinah Toa (Niece, Sam’s Baby Daughter, Alive)

Rangi Toa (3rd Older Brother, Alive)

Tiala Toa (6th Younger Sister, Alive)

Hemi Toa (5th Younger Brother, Alive)

Iosefa Toa (4th Younger Brother, Alive)

Tamah Toa (3rd Younger Brother, Alive)

Fetu Fetuao Toa (2nd Younger Brother, Alive)

Iona and Kiona Toa (Youngest Brothers, Twins, Alive)

Trivia:

🇦🇸 Kanoa is the only funny kind of siblings in his family. Always make a good joke to keep them laughing and make them forget all of the bad things that happened. 🇦🇸 He’s the 2nd brother that Tiala is really close to after his older brother, Hōne, had passed away 🇦🇸 Kanoa will give you dad jokes 24/7 and even gives you the most embarrassing story about his brothers and his sister. But NEVER about himself. 🇦🇸 He’s always the first one to ask his comrades of who wanted to arm wrestle with him. If they win, he’ll get them ice cream. 🇦🇸 Give good love relationship advice but never get one for himself. (He’s single as heck man and he’s in his 30s!)

Background Story:

Kanoa was proudly born and raised on the island. The funniest man you will ever meet. He joined the Military at the age of 17. Which means he signed up right after High School. Just to keep the family lines going. He was really inspired by his dad, Nakoa, hearing his stories of joining the military.

He signed up with Rangi, his 3rd eldest brother, for the Marine Corps and they both started working hard on reaching to the top. He had also met his other older brother, named Hōne. Who was a Lieutenant at that time. Always make good fun with him during their military times. Until he heard the news of Hōne being KIA from one of the missions. It really took a toll on him.

But he kept going as he worked even harder to pass up the ranks. Until he reached up to the rank of being a Corporal. That’s when he met his sister, Tiala, who is a Private. He was happy and proud to see his little sister working hard to honor their older brother’s name. Until 4 years later, he found out about Tiala volunteering. To go on a solo mission to find out about the intel of the next location; by being the pretend victim for one of the human trafficking.

He’s not very sure about this mission until he gives in to Tiala reasoning with him. But how much he wishes he could take his words back. Finding out that his little sister has been taken away by the enemies. He was devastated and angry to hear this news. So he asks permission from the General to let him and the team he chooses to find her. FAST.

He didn’t give up on searching for Tiala until 2 months later. He finally found her. From the location where no one even KNEW it was there. He raided into the enemies hide out and unalive almost everyone without hesitating.

He took her back and stayed with her in the medical bay. Kanoa was heartbroken to see her in this state and that’s when he decided to make his own special team. He named it “Warriors Task Force”. And started working under one of the Generals of the Marine Corps, Alana Kalani.

He promised himself to bring protection and justice to the people who were victims from the trafficking and being hostages. And that’s when he became Captain of the Marine Corps.

#kanoa toa #cod oc #cod ocs #call of duty #call of duty oc #call of duty original character #original character #character profile #original character profile #oc profile #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty mw2 #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #captain kanoa toa #captain toa

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mariacallous · 3 months

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FIRST SOCIALITE (HUSBAND): “I can’t read this thing!” (Tossing aside Truman Capote’s magazine excerpt from his forthcoming novel Answered Prayers.)

SECOND SOCIALITE (WIFE): “But darling, you must read all of it. If you don’t, we won’t have anything to talk to anybody about.”

The above exchange actually occurred, but as often happens with popular hot controversies, the principals prefer not to be identified, even after telling the tale on themselves. The social stakes are too high. Being on the wrong side in one of these tempests in a teabag could be fatal. What if Kitty Miller never invites you again … or “Swifty” Lazar hangs up on you … or the Bill Paleys hear you didn’t step over the line at what has now become the Smart Set’s own Alamo? Or what if Truman Capote prevails and comes out on top? What if he writes a sequel that tells even more?

Staying alive and well in society means never zigging when you should zag.

“Whoever gossips to you will gossip of you,” goes the old Spanish proverb, and this one came home to roost for the International Set’s crème de la crème with the publication in the November Esquire of Capote’s “La Côte Basque 1965” — the “tail” of the long-awaited “kite” called Answered Prayers that is the writer’s next major work of fiction.

Society’s sacred monsters at the top have been in a state of shock ever since. Never have you heard such gnashing of teeth, such cries for revenge, such shouts of betrayal and screams of outrage. Well, anyway, not since Marcel Proust flattered his way into the salons of the Faubourg St. Germain and then retired to a cork-lined room to create a masterpiece, recalling the details of the Baron de Montesquiou’s “preciosities” and rendering him into the “Baron de Charlus,” setting down the vivid details of a world of le gratin where the rich see only one another.

What did Capote write that so enraged so many? Oh, just everything he ever heard whispered, shouted, or bruited about — the same kind of stories that have been wafting among the fine French furniture crowd since Maury Paul first saw the Blue Book dining out on Thursday and coined the phrase “Cafe Society.”

“La Côte Basque 1965” is a 13,000-word story about a luncheon between “Lady Ina Coolbirth,” a 40-ish multiple divorcée on the rebound from an affair with a Rothschild, and the innocent narrator, “Jonesy,” at Henri Soule’s exclusive Manhattan restaurant. While drinking Champagne and eating a soufflé Furstenberg, “Lady Ina” gossips about the International Set, telling one “no-no” after another on one and all, including herself. Capote has peopled his story with real persons, using their real names as well as with a number of other real persons, using fake names. The most shocking of “Lady Ina’s” send-ups are the stories about Cole Porter putting the make on an Italian waiter called “Dixie,” the one about “the governor’s wife” and her sordid sexual put-down of the climbing Jewish tycoon “Sidney Dillon,” and the histoire of trashy “Ann Hopkins,” who tricked a blue blood into marriage, then murdered him after he got the goods on her and threatened divorce.

Other naughty things in the story are the opening dirty joke … the bad breath of Arturo (Lopez Wilshaw) … the duchess of Windsor never picking up a check … Maureen Stapleton’s nervous collapse … Carol Matthau’s dirty mouth … Princess Margaret’s dislike of “poufs” … Gloria Vanderbilt’s failure to recognize her first husband … Oona O’Neill fluffing off the boyish J.D. Salinger … Joe Kennedy having his way with an 18-year-old school chum of his daughter’s … “Sidney Dillon” and his womanizing and social climbing .. . “Cleo Dillon” loving only herself .. how the famous TV comic “Bobby Baxter” goes off with a hooker and his pushy wife, “Jane,” has the last laugh … the weird young movie cutie who marries the son, then the father, only to find herself divorced because of a German shepherd … Lee Radziwill coming off better looking than Jackie Kennedy, who resembles “a female impersonator” … the love affairs of “Lady Ina,” how much she needs a man, and her envy of the domestic bliss of two attractive lesbians who reside in Santa Fe, “the dyke capital of the United States.”

Capote insists that the gossipmongering central character, “Lady Ina Coolbirth,” is strictly an invention — but friends of Lady (“Slim”) Keith, Pamela Harriman, Carol Portago, and Fleur Cowles are all nevertheless incensed. “Well,” sniffs Truman, “let them all martyr and identify themselves if they like … let them hang from the cross claiming they’re hurt … those who want to say they are models, that’s up to them!”

Other characters in “LCB ’65” are so thinly disguised as to be seen through tissue paper clearly — among them “Ann Hopkins,” undoubtedly representing Mrs. William Woodward Jr., who killed herself on October 10, seven days before Esquire hit the stands, and “the governor’s wife,” said to be the late Marie Harriman.

Many other names were dropped, some in passing, some to devastating effect. John Hersey has said that “the final test of a work of art is not whether it has beauty, but whether it has power.” But try telling that to the friends of the late Cole Porter, or Maureen Stapleton, Elsie Woodward, Josh and Nedda Logan, Johnny Carson, “Babe” Paley and her powerful husband, Bill. (I remarked to Truman that I didn’t know that his now ex-friend Mr. Paley had ever been an “adviser to presidents,” as “Sidney Dillon” is described in the piece. Truman just grinned and said, “I didn’t either.”)

Everybody written about in “LCB ‘65” has been guessed and second-guessed at with little or no concession to Capote’s own thesis — that this is a fictionalized version of a world he knows very well.

For years Capote has been society’s adored and adorable resident intellect and court jester. In a world where parties are still often “given against someone” … where bitchery, snobbery, and hauteur are still prized right along with poise, manners, and money … where the merits of plastic surgeons are argued in the same way the religious used to argue theology — gossip has always been the great staple, the glue holding beleaguered life-styles and sinking social values together. But it’s one thing to tell the nastiest story in the world to all your 50 best friends; it’s another to see it set down in cold Century Expanded type.

Capote has always been the gossip’s gossip nonpareil. He has been leaving them laughing and quaffing blanc de blanc with the best of them, ever since he came of age as an enfant terrible pet of the rich after Other Voices, Other Rooms catapulted him to fame in 1948. He has sailed on their yachts, masterminded their love affairs, and been such a focal insider that his Black and White Ball for publisher Kay Graham is still remembered as one of society’s best parties.

When the gorgeous women of the world’s tycoons and power brokers sat down to spoon up soufflé with Capote, or when Truman tickled the risibilities of the powerful tycoons themselves with his outrageous tidbits and fascinating possibilities, he was always the brightest, most entertaining little imp imaginable. Oh yes, of course, he was — well, everyone knew, “queer.” But in such an amusing classy way — in the manner of the great Italian count who remonstrated with an English lord for snobbery, saying, “My dear fellow, when your ancestors were still painting themselves blue, mine were already homosexual!” You know, that sort of thing. And then, of course, didn’t that more or less make dear “Tru” all the more manageable and “safe”?

Society always thought it had something on Capote, in the same way the French le gratin had Proust’s desperate desire to belong, his suspected inversion, and his Jewishness on him. What’s more, society believed Truman to be a lightweight climber who aspired to stay in its good graces. (Snorts Truman, “Yes, they have always made that mistake about me! Why, if anybody was ever at the center of that world, it was me, so who is rejecting whom in this?” Summoning up an echo of Beau Brummell’s “In society stay for just as long as it takes to make an impression. After that — go!,” Truman continues: “I mean I can create any kind of social world I want, anywhere I want!”)

It seems simply never to have occurred to many people that the writer’s goddess might turn out to be not “Babe” Paley, but Truman’s own muse. He was, after all, so seductive, so naughty, so charming. He knew everything about everybody and — what’s more — had total recall. But now, the same people who listened so delightedly and told tales out of school find themselves hoist by their own windiness. There they are, splashed through the pages of Esquire like hollandaise that has missed the asparagus. God! And that ain’t all — there’s more to come. It is all going to be bound between hard covers into a book. A book!

Capote, meanwhile, is also a literary name. The almost universal acclaim for In Cold Blood lifted his reputation from that of a poetic mannerist into the pantheon of American belles lettres. So the Establishment world that reads and writes has also joined the hue and cry. The question whether Capote has indeed ruined his reputation by stooping to writing gossip, as opposed to whether he is only doing the same kind of work attempted by ether famous writers in the past, will be argued for a long time. There seems to be no such thing as an indifferent opinion of “LCB ’65.”

Feuds and furors flash and die in these media-mad days, but the roar over Capote’s roman á clef vignettes, observed and recorded in explicit detail, rages on. “LCB ’65” was a one-shot last November, but its reverberating ripples still lash both coasts.

(Capote yelps: “When I was in New York a few weeks ago everybody was falling all over themselves being nice to me. The machinations going on behind the back of the people who are in the book you wouldn’t believe. Most of the attackers are just pilot fish, trying to outdo one another in being vicious in their sycophancy. They all want to stay in my favor but maintain a great front of animosity.”)

Capote rushed back to California from New York to finish up another 30,000-word installment for May publication. The reaction to “LCB ‘65” inspired him to crank that up to 40,000 words, and now, he says the literary Establishment can sit around waiting for their turn. They are “on” next, and then there’ll be four more magazine assaults before Answered Prayers appears in hardcover.

Dissenters to what one social Don Quixote calls “Capote’s character assassination in the guise of art” have been pellucidly vocal: “Disgusting! It’s disgusting!” says society’s favorite extra man, real-estate investor Jerome Zipkin, shooting his immaculate French cuffs. “Truman is ruined. He will no longer be received socially anywhere. What’s more — those who receive him will no longer be received.”

Patrick O’Higgins, a writer and pal of Elsie Woodward — the mother-in-law of the late suicide, Ann Woodward — is himself one of the more exquisite tale-tellers of this same world, but he says: “Truman’s gone downhill. People think, ‘What a shame that a great talent should be reduced to writing gossip.’ Some people are really hurt because they’ve been kind to him. The Paleys were always so fond of him. But Elsie hasn’t been hurt. She didn’t even read the piece. She couldn’t care less. All she’ll say is ‘Je ne le connais pas!’ — isn’t that perfect?”

Columnist Jack O’Brian: “He knows what will sell in this market … he’s Jackie Susann with an education.”

Writer Wyatt Cooper, husband of Gloria Vanderbilt: “I hate talking when my feelings are negative. It isn’t constructive. I’m very fond of Truman. We used to have lunch, gossip, and it was fun. But lately it wasn’t. His viciousness ceased to make it fun. I even talked to him about it two years ago and he thanked me later for caring. I think this destroys all the things he has built up. He can’t really pretend to sneer at these people in the Jet Set. He worked too hard to be ‘in’ himself. Of course Gloria is offended! He made Carol Matthau come out tough and bright, but has Gloria looking vapid and dumb, in a very unfair way.”

Wyatt, who collaborated with Truman on a television project and has known him for years, continues in his “more in sorrow than in anger” vein: “I had always wanted Truman to write a truthful, non-idealized version of his painful and strange childhood as an outsider. It could have been great. But, you know, he has always had a love-hate for all these beautiful women he has been close to. His mother was an alcoholic and killed herself, and children of alcoholic mothers often end up attacking women. Truman would like to be glamorous and beautiful. He has often acted out fantasies of his own by telling his women friends how to act, who to have love affairs with, by manipulating them. Now he has his ultimate revenge, by making them ridiculous in print.”

Gloria Vanderbilt: “I have never seen it and have heard enough about it to know I don’t want to.”

Director Peter Glenville: “Ignoble, utterly ignoble!”

Esquire’s own media critic, Nora Ephron, who didn’t even like the mild version of reminiscence and revelation dished out by Brendan Gill in Here at The New Yorker: “There has always been a disparity between Capote’s fiction and the public personality, and now finally the two have come together and the public personality has won.”

William and “Babe” Paley are said to have now instructed their distinguished relatives to the effect that longtime pal Capote is persona non grata. And society’s favorite current story is of how Truman phoned Paley to ask what he thought of “LCB ’65.” Paley reportedly said, “Well, I started it and dropped off to sleep and when I woke up, they’d thrown it out.” (Zing!) When Capote protested that it was important that Paley read it, his old friend said wearily, “Truman, my wife [get that — “my wife,” not “your friend Babe”] is ill. I really haven’t time for it.” (Zowie!)

Truman found Wyatt Cooper unable to lunch with him when he was in New York over the holidays. (Cooper: “How could I — out of loyalty to Gloria. She says she’ll spit at him if she sees him.”) And Capote tells of being “cut” in Quo-Vadis by “a pitiful old society woman I often took about in Paris because I felt so sorry for her. No, don’t mention her name — it’s too sad.”

Mrs. Josh Logan was said to be so incensed she rushed across a crowded room to call Dotson Rader a “traitor” just because he also writes for Esquire. Nedda Logan informed Dotson that “that dirty little toad is never coming to my parties again.” (Some dialogue in “LCB ’65” refers to a Logan soirée: “‘How was it?’ — ‘Marvelous. If you have never been to a party before.’”)

Then there are the artful diplomats, like those two brilliants who’ve won fame straddling the fine line between practicing journalism and personal social acceptance among the Upper Crust — yes, fashion’s elegant Diana Vreeland, as well as that friend-of-the-“400” (sometimes now referred to derisively as “the 4,000”) Aileen (“Suzy”) Mehle. Told that Truman wanted to know why she had never written so much as a word in her syndicated society column about the only subject consuming “her crowd” since November, Suzy says: “Why? Why, there’s nothing for me to write. Truman’s done it all himself!”

And Mrs. Vreeland (rising high above the smoke of controversy just as a perfect hostess ignores a cigarette in the butter) dismisses the gaudy gossip, the sex scandals, the barely concealed identities, the homosexual revelations, the obscenity, the accusations of murder, and the matter of whether or not Capote has been “antisemitic,” “anti-gay,” and/or “disloyal” to friends and playmates, by putting one unerring finger on just what she considers important. “Yes — yes! The paragraph on the fresh vegetables and their size is really unique in the article. It’s a ravishing statement on the rich!”

Then there are the happy cynics like Emlyn Williams, distinguished Welsh actor-writer: “It was terrible, just awful, but it was so funny-riveting. I couldn’t help laughing.”

Then there are the defenders of Art. Rust Hills, a former fiction editor: “Fascinating stuff. Yes, of course, it’s okay he published it all. I think the artist does have a supreme right to use any material. Remember, life is short but art is long” … Painter David Gibbs: “Oh, don’t be absurd — all art is revolution! Why can’t people get that through their heads? This is brilliant stuff!” … Dotson Rader: “Marvelous, beautiful writing. It’s unimportant whether it’s true or not, since it is presented as fiction. Truman was always treated by these people as a kind of curiosity, expected to do his act. That was humiliation coming from people who had no qualifications other than being rich and social. Everybody in the world has been telling Truman their deepest confidences for years and he never said he wouldn’t use them.” … Geraldine Stutz, a woman of fastidious opinions: “It’s only a scandal to a small insular world; most people won’t know, and couldn’t care less about who might be who. What counts is that it is a wonderful piece of writing and an extraordinary re-creation of the tone and texture of those days in that world” … C. Z. Guest: “Everyone knows the man’s a professional and they told him those things anyway. He’s a dear friend of mine, but I wouldn’t discuss very private matters with him. I don’t even know who those fictional people are.”

Screenwriter Joel Schumacher, himself one of the Beautiful People: “If Truman had written a glittering vision of society, he’d have been termed an ass-kisser and his work a piece of crap by these same people. They always want some candy-ass lie written about themselves. This same world thinks it supports art and artists, but never understands that all a writer has is his experience. These people feel a good press is owed them. Why? In the fame-and-fortune game, whether it’s society, show business, big business, or politics, everybody lives on a plane of incomparable elitism, more money, more privilege than others. So why are they so shocked when somebody tells even a slightly unattractive truth about them?”

So, speaking of Beautiful People, the night before flying to Los Angeles to interview Capote I’m at Pearl’s with seven of them (or what I call semi-B.P.s, in that most of these work hard yet are still “social” enough to be written about and invited everywhere). After the lemon chicken has been served and Pearl has stopped clucking over us, the question goes: “What’s the one thing each of you would like to know from Capote?” They told me.

In this gathering, these youthful realists were amused and entertained by Capote’s daring. Most of them thought the writing was important. Only one of the seven Beauties completely disapproved of the piece. This Frito-colored hair and the women with was the most “social” — by whatever terms — person there; also the richest: a person who found “LCB ’65” “disgusting, unnecessary, mean, bitchy, Truman, like some Napoleon on spiteful, disloyal, and not even very well written.”

General laughter and the retort: “We’re sorry you can’t express yourself more definitely.” But such dissenting opinions were in the majority in the weeks to come. And always, the final clincher by Capote’s detractors was that this hideous, disloyal, tasteless thing the writer had done was bad enough in all its aspects, but its chief minuses were that it was “boring” and “wasn’t even well written.”

A society that habitually enfolds ennui and stinging cultural criticism around its shoulders like a familiar sable wrap could make such pronouncements and still not talk about anything else for two solid months.

Beverly Hills: La Côte Basque 1965 may have been a place, as Esquire noted, “where the plat du jour is seated somewhere in sight,” but La Scala, late 1975, is a place where Henri Soule probably wouldn’t have sent his enemy Harry Cohn. La Scala’s food is indifferent and its service based on benign neglect, yet it offers a carelessly cultivated charm and ambience of New York–in–California. Once inside, out of the relentless 73-degree sunshine, away from the gas-fed fire burning in the Beverly Hills Hotel lobby, away from the denim-tailored suntanned men with Frito-colored hair and the women with smart-looking Mark Cross–type bags that read “Bullshit,” a person can almost imagine being in New York.

Truman, like some Napoleon on Elba yearning for the East (I fancy), suggests we meet here. He has a day off from his acting role as the portly eccentric who lures facsimiles of the world’s most famous detectives to his mansion for sinister purposes in Neil Simon’s movie Murder by Death.

Enter reporter, tape recorder cocked, to find Truman talking with the departing screenwriter Peter Viertel. We slide into a booth and Truman, looking more and more like a diabolical version of the character actor Victor Moore, says nix to the recorder. “I’ll have more to say if you don’t use it.” I protest that I haven’t his fabled total recall. “Oh, you’ll do all right. You’ll see, you’ll get a better story this way.”

Already the interview is out of my hands into the subtle control of Capote. Only around Truman do I ever feel a real kinship with those glamorous women like C-Z, Jackie, Lee, Gloria, Carol, Slim, Babe, Kay, Fleur, Pamela, etc. He inspires a compelling intimacy. I begin to tell him everything. I spurt confidences, betray my instincts, and allow myself to be drawn out. For each question I ask, Truman asks two. “Seductive” is how one longtime friend described Capote, and she is right. I cling to the edge of the table to keep it from turning completely.

Then he orders a double Russian vodka with no ice and a tall orange juice on the side. Oh well, that makes me feel better. If he’s going to drink like that, I’ll be okay. (When the interview ends, two double vodkas, a half-bottle of red wine, and four J&Bs on the rocks later, Truman is as fit as ever and I am still in his power.)

Truman answers the questions put by Pearl’s diners. He punctuates his softly drawled, easily imitated, and widely recognized vocal mannerism with bursts of irrepressible laughter. And some amazed and genuine outrage. He begins most of his sentences with a drawn-out “W-e-e-e-l-l-l…”

WHY DID HE DO IT? WHY GO QUITE SO FAR? asked the retailer.

“Why did I do it? Why? I have lived a life of observation. I’ve been working on this book for years, collecting. Anybody who mixes with a certain kind of writer ought to realize they’re in danger. [Chuckle.] I don’t feel I betrayed anybody. This is a mere nothing, a drop in the bucket. To think what I could have done in that chapter. My whole point was to prove gossip can be literature. I’ve been seriously writing this for three and a half years. I told everybody what I was doing. I discussed it on TV. Why has it come as such a great big surprise?”

IS THERE REALLY MORE COMING, OR IS THIS ALL? THEY SAY YOU CAN’T FINISH THE BOOK, asked the fashion arbiter.

“This thing was only a chapter. My God, what will happen when ‘Unspoiled Monsters’ comes out? [Don’t you like that title?] I’ve never before heard it suggested that this wasn’t part of a whole book. Even my ‘Mojave,’ published in Esquire before this, was part of Answered Prayers, though we didn’t publicize it as such. ‘La Côte Basque 1965’ is certainly no short story. Of course it’s a book! [Exasperation.] Lord, I have a lot to say, baby! I haven’t even begun to say it, though the book is 80 percent written.”

IS IT TRUE YOU ARE DYING OF CANCER? asked the art dealer.

“Irving Mansfield likes to go around telling everybody I’m dying of cancer, but I’m well now. Oh, that reminds me of a story.”

Truman cocks his platinum head so I get a good view of his flat baby-pink ears, which seem to have come in a child’s size and never grown.

“When Jackie Susann died, the Times called me for a quote. I was reminded of a judge who once ruled against Father Divine in some property dispute. Later the judge dropped dead of a heart attack and when they asked Father Divine to comment, he said, ‘I hated to do it, but …’ “

Capote explodes with roars of laughter that rumble up out of his ample belly into a series of hah-hah-hahs. “So I just told the Times, ‘I hated to do it, but …’”

DID YOU WRITE THIS JUST TO MAKE MONEY AND TO SOCK AWAY SOMETHING FOR A LOVER, AS THEY SAY? asked the producer’s wife.

“I have never in my life done anything just for money. I’ve never had any reason to. Why would I need money? My God, I made over $3 million from In Cold Blood and I haven’t spent it. I sure haven’t made any money out of ‘La Côte Basque 1965.’ That’s absolutely cracky! You know you don’t make money from magazines.

“As for my personal life, I don’t care what anyone says or writes about me personally. I have been a public exhibit all my life. So let them go ahead and make me a monster. I was a beautiful little boy, you know, and everybody had me — men, women, dogs, and fire hydrants. I did it with everybody. I didn’t slow down until I was 19, and then I became very circumspect. But everybody knows where everybody else is sexually. There are no secrets, and that’s why I don’t understand the shocked response to ‘La Côte Basque 1965.’ What is all this business? Are these people living in some other medieval century? I’d never sue anyone for anything, but I’ve been lied about my whole life. I’m just surprised they don’t hire a hit man.”

We stop to order. Truman has steak sliced thin as prosciutto, special mayonnaise, fettuccine Alfredo, and Brie. He is emphatic that he won’t be driven out of New York or sell his U.N. Plaza apartment. (“No, no. that’s not so.”) Nor has he bought a house in Topanga Canyon. (“I guess they think that because that’s where the Manson family lived and I’m a monster, too.”) I notice a slight tremor to Truman’s tiny hands as he lifts his glass and feel a pang for his strain.

WERE YOU TAKING REVENGE FOR ALL THOSE YEARS IN SOCIETY, LIKE A PET DWARF KICKING THE ROYALS IN THE SHIN AT LAST? asked the WWD biggie.

“I didn’t mean anything vengeful, not even remotely. And I’m disappointed in these people, with all their pretensions for reading, art, theater, and culture that they’re so stupid and can’t see it as a work of art. This book is a serious work of art — if you don’t see it as that, then you don’t see it as anything. I’ve always done good things. Would I actually sit down and write about something like that as a joke, as revenge?”

I ask, “But didn’t it really occur to you that you’d be called a traitor and disloyal for publishing this specific kind of work, using people’s names?”

Truman sighs: “Well, it is true nobody likes what you write about them. Even those I was sympathetic to in In Cold Blood didn’t like themselves in print. Loyalty wasn’t the question, but on the other hand, I don’t care. I really don’t. If that’s the mentality — tant pis … I haven’t lost a single friend I’d want to keep in any event. These people saying these things weren’t friends of mine to begin with. Nedda Logan has always hated me, ever since I published that Brando piece in The New Yorker. What do the Logans have to do with anything, just because they once gave a party for Princess Margaret, who everyone knows is a terrible bore!”

IS IT TRUE ESQUIRE LAWYERS SHOWED THE “ANN HOPKINS” PART TO ANN WOODWARD FOR LEGAL CLEARANCE AND, RECOGNIZING HERSELF, SHE KILLED HERSELF? asked the designer.

“The most vicious thing about all this is that story! It’s absolutely untrue that Esquire showed her the copy. That’s ridiculous. Of course nobody showed it to her, as it would have been tantamount to admitting it was about her. I never let anybody read it in toto, and that’s why it was impossible for her to have seen or heard of it. The manuscript was kept in a bank vault. I was very careful with it; sometimes I let a few people read part of it with me sitting there. The new portion, ‘Unspoiled Monsters,’ I’ve never shown to anybody. This book wanders in all directions. It’s not just about the ‘Côte Basque’ people, and my God, of course I’m not taking out after Babe Paley in the next part. She isn’t even mentioned. How do these things get started? The book is really about ‘Kate McCloud.’ And nobody but me knows who she is, and nobody is going to know.”

I tell Truman that Elsie Woodward herself does not feel Ann committed suicide for any reason having to do with him. He says, “You see …. “

DON’T YOU CARE THAT ALL THESE PEOPLE ARE GOING TO CLOSE THEIR DOORS TO YOU? asked the play producer.

“Well, in the first place, I don’t think all these people will. I maintain the people who are really mad are the ones left out. Jean vanden Heuvel said, ‘I hope it isn’t true I’m not going to be in by name. “La Côte Basque” was delicious and I hereby propose myself for another section.’

“Look, I’m not using Proust as a model because what I’m doing is in the latter half of the 20th century as an American. But if someone like Proust were here now and an American, he’d be writing about this world. People say the language is filthy. I think that’s the way people talk and think now — exactly. I think it’s beautifully written. This thing about me never being invited again just shows such an ignorance of human nature that I can’t believe it. People don’t understand how their own minds work. No matter what happens, you have to respect somebody because he is an artist, if you have any pretensions to culture. There’s a fantastic ingratitude in America toward its artists. I mean, you do marvelous things and they just …

“Well, France is loyal to its artists, England to its artists, even Russia to its artists [chuckle], when they are dead. No other country treats its creative people like we do. Here they wait for you to fail. They love it. If people think I’m just a bitch, then I surely am 100 percent misunderstood. I consider myself a fine artist. I drove down here from working in British Columbia to start work on the movie and found the world had exploded. This place has been in the same uproar as New York.”

I say that maybe people in Hollywood are afraid they’ll be next.

Truman laughs. “Oh, they’ll get theirs!”

He turns serious: “Look, my life has been dominated by my own levels of taste in art, especially the art of narrative prose writing, wherein my particular art lies. I have never compromised that. I may have compromised other things in my life, personally, emotionally, or whatnot, but never that. This book, this whole thing, has been the ultimate of my art. You have to be true to your work. I’ve always said there’s no such thing as writing down. Writers always do the best they can.”

We go out into the sunshine. I take a good look at Truman and am infected perhaps by his own line describing Henri Soulé as “pink and glazed as a marzipan pig.” We walk toward the Beverly Wilshire while I think only in food clichés. I note Truman’s new butter-colored moccasins … his apricot-yogurt sweater … his Champagne lick of hair … the strawberry-colored heels of his tiny French carroty hands … his pale raspberry-tinted sunglasses … his soft Cardin hat with its gingerbread texture. l’m relieved to see that he is wearing an ordinary unappetizing pair of trousers that make him look as if he has been hit in the ass with a shovel.

Truman carries his current overweight bulge before him like some defrocked Santa Claus. He gives several autographs en route. He tries to buy a denim vest covered with pockets, discovers that an expensive camera comes with it, and shrugs, “They should give it to me.” At the hotel we fall into the El Padrino bar and Truman asks for a telephone. Disturbed by reports of Diana Vreeland’s displeasure, he dials her direct.

He calls her “darling,” “angel,” “precious one,” and tells her twice that he loves her. He hangs up triumphant and exclaims: “She says it’s the only important and interesting thing she has ever read about the rich!”

Burbank, Stage 15: I am watching Truman “act.” He stands on a step ladder reading Murder by Death lines in a singularly hideous dining-room set. Peter Sellers, Elsa Lanchester, and Timmy Coco play the scene with him. As far as one can see, Capote makes no effort to “act” but simply plays himself. When the heavy chandelier falls, smashing the table and almost causing serious injuries, Capote quips: “The ghosts of Gore Vidal and of Jackie Susann, no doubt.”

In his mobile dressing room, I ask about this acting bit: “Oh, I just thought it would be fun to do something different and I really liked the script. It’s going to be a good movie. I probably won’t act again. It was just for a change from working on the book, and I knew I didn’t have time to take a vacation. How am I as an actor? [Chuckles.] Let’s see, just say, ‘What Billie Holiday is to jazz … what Mae West is to tits … what Gucci is to loafers … what Schlumberger is to enamel bracelets … what Cartier is to tank watches … what Guerlain is to perfume … what Roederer is to Champagne … what Chekhov is to the short story … what Seconal is to sleeping pills … what King Kong is to penises, Truman Capote is to the great god Thespis!”

Truman is suddenly struck by an idea. “My agent Mr. Irving Lazar has given several parties of late and didn’t invite me. So maybe you’re right. Maybe I am a social outcast. Tell you what — call him up and ask about it!”

I’m reluctant, but Truman pays no attention to me. He gets Lazar’s phone number, he dials, and hands me the telephone. I give my message to the secretary, who says “Swifty” will call back. When I hang up, Truman is exasperated. “No, that’s not what I want you to say.” He re-coaches me in my lines. Before Lazar can return the call, Truman is called to the set. When the call comes through I tell Lazar that his client is now a social outcast and ask if this applies in Hollywood, since Truman has not been invited to Lazar’s parties.

Lazar says, grimly, “I wouldn’t have any comment about that.”

Floundering, I say, “You wouldn’t have any comment?”

Lazar: “No.”

I stumble, “Okay, well, I’ll tell Mr. Capote what you said.”

Lazar’s voice rises. “I didn’t tell you to tell Mr. Capote anything.”

“Yes, I know,” I reply, weakly, “and I will tell him that you say you have no comment.”

Lazar screams: “I don’t want you to tell Mr. Capote I said anything. Dammit, I knew I shouldn’t have taken this call!” (Slam.)

Truman loves it. He roars over having discomfited the agent of Richard M. Nixon. Two weeks later he calls New York to ask what people are saying now. I sense that he is anxious. He speaks bitterly of what he calls “the ‘walkers’ … my vociferous critics … what do they have to do with me … with my work?”

Soon it comes out that now the Paleys, the Whitneys, Gloria Vanderbilt, Mike and Jan Cowles, others who were indeed real friends, have drawn the line against Truman. Unlike the Baron de Montesquiou writing to Proust for reassurance that he is not the model for “Baron de Charlus,” Lady Keith does not get in touch with Capote at all. No, she has gone on a trip to the South Pacific with — the Irving Lazars.

Where does all this leave our hero? “Well, I won’t retire to my cork-lined room yet,” says Truman. “I’m just going to a Palm Springs spa to take off 20 pounds before a college lecture tour. Then I’ll drop the other shoe.”

I remind him that nobody can really judge a literary work for 50 years. “This won’t even be dated in 50 years!” says Truman with a bulldog tenacity.

Then I tell him the story of how Gertrude Stein, with all her artistic pretensions, didn’t like the portrait Picasso painted of her and made the classic hick comment: “But it doesn’t look like me!”

Picasso then said, “But it will!”

Truman applauds. He says, “You know. I’m beginning to think what’s happening now is better than the book!”

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