#Personalize Name Pouf

[facethefashionsworld]

Bird Art Personalize Name Pouf

https://www.zazzle.com/z/ilwe5s0f?rf=238740622818913034

[autistic-shaiapouf]

keep forgetting to send you this so doing it now - I find it rlly funny that we’re probably the only too ppl in the world that named themselves after the ants (me being nef and you being shai) so 🤝🤝 here’s to the most specific solidarity ever

I am shaking your hand SO enthusiastically right now,, I've pretty well documented it at this point but I VERY much saw myself in pouf and the name only felt right; I wanted to name myself after him for a while but was too nervous to actually go forward with it until I settled on the first part of his name; It felt a lot more legitimate in my eyes than clipping the name anywhere else (though ngl. I'm pretty sure I'd respond to his full name lmao). I actually do use the name irl as well! It makes me really happy to be identified with him, he's a major force in my trauma recovery + was (is?) the name and face to my dissociative episodes lmao; the name was a major act of love and I'm grateful every time I hear it 💖

[lamentingmidna]

i love meruem because of feminism

gonna yap about meruem and how his character comments on a nontraditional portrayal of masculinity.

im doing this for me after seeing these election results

because yeah, he's a shounen protagonist (yes! protagonist! but thats a different yap sesh for another day), he's big and strong and the GOAT or whatever. but consider the key values togashi writes him to have specifically in his relationship with komugi

togashi is has written lust before (leorio trick tower, hisoka...all the time...etc.) , so why doesn't he include that here in the ant arc, something already filled to the brim with a sort of psychosexual horror? i think its a fundamental exclusion to learning about women as people.

(also. how fucking lame that would it be if meruem was just horny instead of being down horrendous)

this near godlike creature is born to kill everyone who tells him no, doesnt see anyone as equals, sees human beings as objects/subjects (contradictory). QUICKLY he switches up when he meets komugi, who he values as an EQUAL because she humbles his ass.

okay, yeah. he does try to kill her. but why? because shes a woman? because shes disabled? because she told him no?

its because shes better than him and he knows it!!!!!

AND THEN all thoughts of killing her are squashed when he understands what her being in danger actually looks like and how that makes him feel. He realizes he doesnt want to live in a world where she and other people like her are not protected! When he realizes he owes her an apology he rips off his own fuckin . ARM. for her!!!!

and i am well aware it is bare minimum to say that he understands she is a person with thoughts, a personality, and feelings, but him asking her name, and Pouf was shocked he even bothered to learn it?!!!! because understanding her as someone who is just as complex as he is is the first fuckin step.

anyway

[timeskip]

I have Thoughts about how the idea of "calling someone's name" in chimera ant arc ties together with Killua witnessing Gon transformed, at the end of the arc. And this is especially important for my personal POV that Gon didn't actually survive because he saw Killua there, the way I've seen some people say (though I do think this POV has merit too). It was a hopeless, tragic situation, and Killua couldn't do anything to stop it because Gon went alone :')

The concept of names is SO important to all of CAA, especially with how the ants form their identities, but it appears related to Gon and Killua too!! Killua calling out to Gon when he was transformed was such an important moment, because he's trying to save him the only way he knows how!!! And the fact that Gon RECOGNIZES that Killua is there and tries to reassure him but still continues to destroy himself is important too, because while Gon is being called for, he still keeps fighting Pitou! It's all Gon thinks he can do in his current state! It's an exemplification of how tragic CAA is for both of them, that Gon can never be saved until after it's over,,

Back to calling Gon's name; first, Killua talks about the importance of calling Gon's name in chapter 294:

"That's my one condition! Let him know you're okay. He was so worried about you, up to the minute we came in here. Give him some peace of mind. Please, put his mind as ease. Only you, Palm, can do that now. Nobody else can reach him. Not me..."

Killua really does believe that just by calling his name, Palm would be able to help Gon. Palm, not him. That the act of knowing she's okay would be a relief that could help Gon in a way Killua was completely unable to, because to Gon, Killua wasn't involved in this--pushing Killua away in order to take on Pitou alone--and Palm IS, because she went missing. But this perspective that Killua has isn't true! Killua is important to Gon, and Palm tells him this!!!

But Killua is horrified at this because he doesn't know how to save Gon!!!

It's such a vital moment. Killua desperately WANTS to be needed, to be someone Gon relies on. And Gon has already pushed him away, so Killua thinks that even if Gon needs him the most, Killua wouldn't be able to do anything--not even as simple as calling Gon's name.

Either way, though--Killua thinks that calling Gon's name is important, whether or not Palm's presence would help. After all this, Gon is spiraling so hard and he goes with Pitou alone, and kills Pitou alone, which is what Killua was afraid of--he wanted to be needed, and he's being faced with Gon leaving, which makes Killua powerless to do anything for Gon's sake (unlike what Palm is telling him). Even when Pouf tells him what's going on, all he can do is try to make it in time.

And then in 307, when Killua finds Gon:

For Killua, this is him checking that it IS Gon, because... this Gon looks ENTIRELY unlike the Gon Killua knows. And in return, Gon calls Killua's name. He acknowledges Killua's presence.

Gon knows Killua is there. They've both called each other's names now, they both know each other is there, and Gon knows that Killua is watching him not just kill Pitou as Pitou's puppeted corpse goes after him again, but also expend all his power and life in order to do it. We KNOW what Gon is going through, the guilt he feels, and all the pain he's finally unleashing on Pitou, as his sole object of revenge. He'd already chosen to give up all of himself by this point, and I... don't believe there's any way to go back on a nen contract like that. He's using all of himself, one way or another.

Even though he knows this is the end, Gon is telling Killua that he's happy. That it's not hurting him. He's trying to comfort Killua, or he's just so numb he doesn't understand what he's doing to himself. Either way, he's HAPPY that he can be like Kite, losing an arm before he dies, because this is the self punishment he feels he deserves, and he doesn't realize how much pain he's causing Killua. Gon is fully aware of what he's doing and he knows that Killua is watching him, but it's impossible to stop the self destruction he's started.

In a way, I think Killua was right. He can't reach Gon now, or at least he stopped being able to after Gon made his nen contract. He wasn't able to save Gon during the palace invasion, because Gon WOULD'VE died if not for Nanika.

But at the same time, I think Palm is also right. She wouldn't have been able to do anything for Gon just by telling him that she's okay, because this is so much bigger than her, and bigger than just knowing that Palm or Killua are okay when Gon isn't; Gon needs someone like Killua, someone who's able to call his name and help him come back to himself. Gon wants Killua to live, even if he's unable to accept Killua's help.

This is a tragedy, after all :')

I'd be willing to argue that it's Killua watching Gon which allows KILLUA to choose to live, the opposite of Gon looking at Killua and deciding to live. Killua had been planning to commit suicide with Gon, to make sure Gon isn't alone, but seeing Gon like this and desperately yelling at him to STOP, because if he keeps going he's going to lose his entire life, and watching Gon turn back and look at him tearfully... Killua wasn't prepared to witness that. And I think it must have changed his mind from thinking it would be fine if he died, as long as it was useful to Gon, to him wanting Gon to apologize. Obviously it isn't healthy, but it was a change that needed to happen. Killua needed to choose to live and save Gon, instead of sacrificing himself for Gon's sake!!!

And then offscreen somewhere, Killua finds Gon barely alive. When Killua first saw transformed Gon, Gon had called KILLUA'S name, bringing Killua back to his senses and making him realize what he needed to save. After all, isn't Gon the same as Palm? He showed up, looking like that, and Killua was terrified. And Gon needed to call his name.

They're BOTH the one each other need the most, even if they couldn't save each other!!

But I do think Killua is helpless to do anything even up to the moment Gon's jajanken explodes. After all, Gon saw that Killua was there and still kept fighting Pitou's body with his full strength, not even relying on Killua, reassuring Killua that he was okay (like saying that Killua didn't need to be involved) after Killua pushed him out of the way of Pitou's attack (which Gon was fully going to take!!! He was fully going to die if Killua hadn't saved him!!!). His self punishment didn't have anything to do with Killua, but Killua watched it anyway.

And that is of course part of why Killua is so upset after the arc!! Because he's finally starting to realize that he's been putting so much of himself on the idea of being "needed" by Gon, but he can't live like that anymore. He needs Gon to apologize for running ahead without him and being someone Killua couldn't save until after it had already happened.

Anyways I love the ways that the arc builds into the tragedy throughout the whole thing, it's so good <3

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere V + H: Shaiapouf

This ant is born to be a henchman in every universe

Though one would not be wrong when questioning how often he feels the need to direct the villain he’s serving’s attention

Always willing to give up any part of himself for his precious villain to succeed

Ride or die they’re glory is everything to him

But only if that glory includes him

He’s a tad selfish but for all the right reasons 

It’s for you of course

When you rise from the ashes of his former creator to take on the role of an innovator 

You’re all he can ask for 

No longer tied by his biological connection or maybe just an overcomplicated pheromone mishap

He devotes himself to the legacy you’ve restarted making his uncalled-for connections to his old villain

But it’s the differences he does notice that lead him to be…so involved:

“Shiapouf make a note. Clearly, the titanium-devastating robot taught them nothing about better infrastructure.”

“Yes, my liege!” 

He admired your back which was beautifully annunciated by the elegant cape on your back. Pouf proudly squeezed at the bandaged tips of his fingers as he recalled personally sewing the insignia of your villain name onto its center. 

Turning before you he opened the door of the invisible jet for you, bowing as you entered the back seat. Closing the door he sent one more hidden glare at the construction crew working in the rubble of the old sky-scraper. In his deepest of hearts, he almost wished they wouldn’t try, shaking his head in punishment. You wanted this, therefore this was right. Entering through the door, he harshly yelled at the door of the cockpit,” Go.”

That was all that was needed for the jet to silently left the city, cruising above national waters in seconds. Pouf had located himself directly across from you watching in admiration and amusement as you twisted and tilted your face as you scrolled through articles on your digital pad. 

“Once again this proves to be ineffectual in making them evolve. This wasn’t a big enough sign for them to even consider using that material they discovered that could be made with the remains of that overgrowing landfill. “

Pouf resisted the urge to clutch his cheeks,” My liege, you’re so generous to these low-lifes.”

You let out a muted ‘thanks’ before closing your eyes in thought. Millions of images from various politicians and inventors calling for reform or change. None of them are worthy enough or even supported enough to be considered significant change. It started to make you wonder…

“Perhaps…this isn’t the right thing to do.”

Pouf’s smile was gone. A serious expression on his face as he asked, ”What do you mean your Grace?”

Sighing you looked out the window,” My whole goal is to help the humans of this world evolve but I worry all I’m doing is just killing the masses for no reason.”

If the cabin of the jet wasn’t cool, it was freezing because of Pouf’s glare.

“Who says this?”

“What do you mean I am—”

“Who said this.”

The question that didn’t need to be said brought a familiar pit in your stomach. Fidgeting with your fingerless gloves and then your raised collar that felt like it was making you hot. Pouf’s darkened tuscan-yellow eyes were filled with the retained fury of a protector. One that you found much more frightening than the hero you escaped from every time.

“A journalist from the Hunter’s Post. She just made some really good–”

“Name?”

“Pouf I don’t want to punish anyone–”

“Name, (Y/n).”

“Ponzu….her name was Ponzu.”

“Thank you (Y/n)--”

“Please Pouf I don’t want anything—”

Pouf smiled widely, “I think you should rest, my Liege!”  

You opened your mouth to protest, actually getting up from the seat you were in to plead. Finding you’re body refused to listen as you finally registered the shimmering colors and grand wideness of Shaiapouf’s wings. You didn’t need to see the sparkling particles to know what was happening, vaguely recalling this same scene playing out just a few days ago.

“Sleep peacefully, my (Y/n). I’ll deal with the parasite that’s poisoned you.”

Pouf smiled at your slumped figure before snapping his fingers. His joyful expression is gone now that three winged servants appeared at his side. All three bowing and awaiting his orders.

“Find the journalist Ponzu. Bring her to me alive, I will deal with her punishment personally.”

Two of the servants darted off, quickly flying out of a hatch that allowed them to leave without letting too much of the wind inside. The remaining servant stood still awaiting orders.

“Idiot. Get our Great One a blanket, can’t you see they’re needing one.”

The servant bowed their head swiftly heading to the back of the jet. Giving Pouf the privacy he desired to stand from his own seat and kneel before yours. Looking up at your sleeping face, he couldn’t deny himself the urge to caress your sleeping face.

“Don’t worry. I will always fight for your glorious mission. Even if you forget.”

[tagthescullion]

Do you have any sibling headcanons about Thalia and Jason?

hc time, my people (all based on the motherload hc that jason lives ofc)

thalia's a very tough-older-sister-turned-mum-friend person and jason's a tad jealous about having to share her with the rest of CHB + the hunters

thalia still has no idea why there's this sort of rivalry between jason and annabeth when it comes to spending time with her

jason's been a foster kid his whole life, so he doesn't really know what a stable, loving 'home' feels like, but somehow whenever thalia's around it always feels like a safe-space

jason's one of few who can make fun of thalia without nasty consequences

they used to sit on poufs in their balcony whenever there was a storm when they were little (bonus: zeus would throw some storm or other every so often bc afaik it doens't rain much naturally in LA)

they balance each other well enough: thalia's a rebellious, impulsive person who, in spite of this, fits well in --and enjoys-- leading positions, whereas jason's radical but less brutally, quieter and --despite accepting the role-- not happy being a leader

they're both dog people (both wolf people tbh, jason's obvious, and artemis has wolves around, bet thalia has one called some dumbass name like 'poof-poof')

I don't vibe with jason going to mortal boarding school, but let's pretend for a sec, thalia went to visit him every so often and loved playing the cool big sister role

they both have freckles on their nose that are noticeable when they spend over half a minute under direct sunlight

[dollyboned]

Is there any proof to komugi and meruem being romantic?like to me i know its romantic because its quite clear to me manga or anime, but some say they think its platonic,i disagree, but then i think it could actually be so…is there any actual proof its romantic and not just a deep platonic bond??

hello, anon! actually, i do think there's proof deep inside their dynamics.

they're not my sp-in (im killugon brainrotted) so im not exactly the best person to ask about solid references, but when analyzing merumugi (I love this name) it's pretty clear. meruem sees komugi as a crucial part of his personality, and we can see that love — categorized by his profound sense of protection towards komugi, and the feeling that something was missing when his memories were confused after pouf and youpi made him come back to life — softens him. komugi is, for meruem, the humanity spot inside his ant nature, just as the ying yang we're constantly presented in hxh when it comes to subtle couples.

not only this, but the constant idolatry from komugi — who saw his heart first, as she's blind and was unbothered by his looks — and the deep faith she puts on his integrity is solely romantic. it's way far from platonic. they're in love and i can't see how someone doesn't see it ahhsahahah

hope it helps ♡

[vibratingskull]

Long awaited reunion

Part1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30

Tags : fluff, domesticity, reader is disabled

Owning an appartment together and living together are two differents things. After months on the Relentless you still hope to catch Thrawn during one of your leaves

FemaleReader x Thrawn

Amusingly enough, this is not because you moved in with Thrawn that you see him more often. Your schedule doesn’t match most of the time and you work on a different ISD, only receiving his orders through the loudspeakers of your ship, most of the time you cross paths at a station or you catch the silhouette of his back when he goes and you arrive. So much time you rushed behind him to catch him and almost fell because of your mechanical legs but he’s always too far away and you never join him in time before the doors close. 

So you practically live alone, in this small apartment. Oh, you don’t complain, this apartment is great, practical, sunny with large bay windows, in a rather calm neighborhood and most of all: full of memories. It’s just that you moved in with the expectations of being two. So when you lay down, bathing in the sun in your living room/open kitchen looking at the white ceiling you feel… terribly alone. 

And as one day you were idling around the flat, something struck you : ceiling? White, walls? White, bedroom sheets? White, dishes? White, sofa and poufs? gray/beige, towels? White, ect… You live in a goddamn hotel room without any charm. The most personalized thing here is the pile of mail at the name of your great uncle from his army of mistresses… You check the wardrobe, Thrawn’s clothes are neatly folded taking just the space it needs, while you spread yours, taking all the spaces. You count three identical uniforms and as much civilian clothes, so basically nothing. You check the bathroom, here too it’s the desert, only the chemical shower gel and shampoo the navy distributes, no perfume, no flavored toothpaste, the most personal thing here is his toothbrush. You check the kitchen and all your napkins are neatly folded in their place, untouched, he uses paper ones. You roam around the apartment, no pictures, no canvas, no plants, no nothing. It’s like he never lived here, he barely colonized the place. You look up the living room, he didn’t buy any holos, any music despite the stereo, any gaming console… True you did not either, but you just arrived, he's been here for more or less 8 years! 

Is he afraid to take up too much space in a place that isn’t his? Does he feel at home here? You’re technically the proprietor but it is his home as much as yours. 

Or so you thought…

He never let any traces of his passage, the bedsheets are always fresh when he leaves, his clothes smell of detergent and you can’t compensate his absence by inhaling his scent on the pillows, he never left any leftovers in the fridge so you have no idea of his diet, and even less in his tastes in entertainment. 

In some way it pierces your heart to live with a ghost conscious to erase any clues of his existence.

You sigh deeply, bathing in the sun.

But maybe his absence is more prominent at night.

When the nightmares seize you, and you wake up in tears, screaming. 

When you relive those fateful days in this cavern, you would give everything to have Thrawn here, to embrace him, for him to cradle you and shush you to sleep, embraced by his warmth. 

Maybe facing the angered neighbors that you woke up would be easier with his presence behind your back. Or if you could feel only his presence through his arrangement in the apartment.

For now your apartment is terribly… empty.

So one day, when you can’t take it anymore, you send him a text through his comlink.

“I’m fed up with those bedsheets, they all look the same and mine are getting old. But I can’t decide which one to buy in this catalog, could you make a first selection?”

You didn’t hope for much, you didn’t even hope for a response at all. He’s busy and this message isn’t about work or the safety of you both.

But…

The evening of that same day you receive a ping on your comlink.

He chose several bed sheets!

You review his selection with a fluttering heart, finally a window on his personal tastes!

At first you’re disappointed: he chose several plain white sheets without much personality and you’re afraid you did this in vain. But towards the end of the selection, several motifs started to appear, with touches of colors. A thin smile appears on your lips and you take command.

Once your new colorful bed sheets are in place you pass to the next step: the cookery. You resume the same steps and send him a catalog of plates, he selects a few and you have the last word. You end up with a complete new service of ceramic mint and tangerine plates. As you put them in the cupboards you observe the white walls of the apartment. This is an old, old building and the apartments are still made of cement and not fancy metals. You could do something with that…

So one day, in the course of a conversation you asked, messaging him:

“How was your home back there?” 

“A building in red tones, carved into stone.” 

And he closed the matter.

But you got what you wanted.

You pass the next three days searching the decoration shops for a nice shade of wallpaper.

You settle with a burgundy paint and subsequently cover your whole apartment in sheets and start painting. It takes you your whole leave of two weeks to do it, all alone while he's away in campaign.You broke your back and arms to have them always extended to paint the ceiling, you almost fell from the stepladder several times and spilled a whole bucket of 10L of paint once. But it was worth it, because when you came back the next leave you found a flimsi card with “Thank you.” written on it.

You kiss it, leaving a smudge of lipstick on it and let him here for him to find next time.

He picked up on what you were trying to do because he proposed to change the color of the bedroom to a castleton green, and when you got back you found out he painted it himself. 

Now the whole apartment smells like paint.

You changed the sofa, the poufs, the chairs, the tables… Slowly it became more and more like a nest for both of you. At least to you. He remained really set back in his propositions, not implicating himself too much, but a bit.

It’s a start, you think. 

It is way more colorful now, much more to your liking. You could add some tiles to the kitchen and change to wood cupboards and surfaces… You should do a list.

 You realize the most decoration he used to have must have been the holos of pieces of art that he tidies when he’s not here. Something pocket sized that didn’t leave any trace…

With all that you did not finish to move on, you still had some boxes unopened laying around in the flat. 

You’re opening one when you hear your door shuffles.

‘It’s him!’ flashes in your mind.

You run up to the entrance and see him with his luggage, taking off his trench coat.

“Thrawn!” you exclaim, delighted.

“(Y/n).” He salutes back with a thin smile. 

You walk slowly to him, fidgeting your fingers, feeling suddenly gauche and shy. How much time has passed since you talked face to face? 

At least 10 whole months since the trial.

You just look back at him with a stupid smile on your face, and he observes you with a gentle gaze awaiting your reaction. As you remain immobile he extends his hand to you and you gladly take it, squeezing it.

“Welcome home.” You greet.

“Welcome home.” He murmurs, pulling you into an embrace. 

You bury your head in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent.

“I missed you.” You say almost to yourself.

“I missed you too.” He squeezes you and releases you without letting go of your hand.

You guide him into your freshly decorated flat.

“What do you think?” You ask.

“It is way more colorful than in my memories.” He chuckles, “But it is comforting and…Vuckust… Cozy, I think you would say?”

“Yes, that was the goal.” You nod 

“You like what I have done to the bedroom?” He takes off his white jacket, remaining in his black tank top. You admire his arms from the corner of your eyes, heading towards the kitchen to prepare some caff.

“Yes. A really nice color.” You hand him a cup, “You’re here for how much time?”

“I have three weeks. I managed to match it with your last one. I wanted to see you.”Instead of taking the cup, he caresses your cheek with his thumb. “Seeing you eases my mind. 10 months apart has proved more difficult than first anticipated.” 

Your heart flutters at those words. You’re not the only one thinking this has been too long. You press your cheek in his palm with a sigh. A whole week together? It must be a present from the Maker. He takes his cup and you clink them, you speak about everything and nothing, eye in eye, slouching on the couch. He speaks lengthy about the different art form of the cultures he met during his campaign, about the last political mess he ended up in without understanding a thing and you speak about the new recruits you took under your wing, how Konstantine is driving you bananas some days when the Relentless isn’t with the Chimaera how happy you were to met Sealan and Norcaus under your commandment again. 

You pout.

“So that means Karyn is leading the Chimaera for now?”

“Indeed.”

“How far away?”

He grins lightly.

“She too will have a leave soon, I promise.”

“Yeah… When I get back to work.” You do your caprice, much to his amusement.

“By the way, I checked your closet. It is not good.”

He looks at you puzzled.

“I am having a hard time determining what the problem might be?”

“Only three civilian outfits? You never go out?”

“I principally remain in the office to work when I am here.” 

You sigh.

Of course he would be working, even when on leave.

“You should go out and meet people. We could visit Eli’s parents someday? We should give them some news about their son… They must be terribly worried." Your enthusiasm fades spectacularly, remembering the disparition of Eli. You don't know if Thrawn warned them that he sent their pride and joy away. Maybe they think he's a traitor to the Empire, maybe they think he's dead… You didn't have the chance to meet them, and even less to go see them to ease their pain. He nods slowly. 

"You are right, we should visit them." He looks around "You did not finish opening your boxes ?" 

"I'm almost done" You defend. "You interrupted me."

"I will help you finish." He informs you.

It makes you giggle: he's gonna help you move in like a cute little couple! You grin like a child who got candies.

“Speaking about Eli, we have to empty his apartment while he’s away.” he finishes his caff in one gulp.

“Alright.”

__________________________________________________________________

You only finished opening your boxes and you had to close them with Eli’s stuff inside.

“Pfffff… He got more things than it looks like.” You realize, closing the lid of a box.

“Indeed, you can surround and drown yourself in materiality if you are not careful” Thrawn throws from the kitchen.

‘It’s sure not to you it would happen’ you think. You look around your vicinity and notice the pictures on the wall. Some disappeared but a few remained. You approach the wall, crossing your arms. The one you took at the ball disappeared. Only the rectangular shapes of the frame where the sun didn’t shine remains. You smile as you take down the one you took in class with Eli sleeping and Thrawn absorbed by his datapad.

“You like this picture.” Thrawn says right behind you.

You jump, you didn’t hear him approach.

“Yeah…” you put one strand of hair behind your ear. “I like it very much, I don’t have many pictures of Eli.” you sigh.

“Really? You do have a series of portraits of him in your imager.” He recalls.

“Yes but they’re… Wait, how did you know that?” You turn fully towards him suspicious.

“You let your imager on, on the table.” He explains.

“And you took it as a permission to go through it?” you nudge him “There is some private stuff in there!”

“I saw none of that, I promise.” He calmly defends himself.

You pout.

“That is not the problem presently, you got through my stuff without my permission.”

He seems to realize his error as he takes a step back.

“I got curious.” He confesses “I shouldn’t have done that. I present my sincere apologies.” He lowers his head “I tend to get carried away when presented with a new artist.”

“Well I got an account on the holonet if you want to see my pictures. Do not just take my imager like that.” You turn your back to him. You’re not fully angry, just a bit annoyed. Those pictures are your hobby, your little personal pleasure, if he asked you would have let him go through your whole imager no problem, but he didn’t.

He circles your body with his arms, tilts your head and kisses your cheek.

“I am truly sorry,” he whispers in your ear “It will not happen again.”

You grin snarky.

“Is that a new tactic to sway me?”

“Does it work?”

You press your lips, thinking.

“I don’t know. Do it again?”

He kisses your cheek again, tenderly. You smile, the last remnant of annoyance disappearing like snow under the sun.

“Yeah, it works.” You giggle.

He pecks your cheek again, slowly heading towards your lips. He makes you turn your head towards him with the tip of his fingers, your eyes meet but you're inextricably called by his lips. You moisten yours hungrily, which makes him grin slightly in return. He slowly leans over you, closing the gap. Your heart beats at 100 miles per hour, threatening to burst through your ribcage.

Your first proper kiss…

You take a grip on his arms and dig your nails in his flesh in anticipation.

He stops a mere inches away from you, waiting for your consent.

You close your eyes and hold your breath, feeling his on your lips. You part your lips slightly, invitingly.

His comlink rings, completely destroying the vibe.

You reopen your eyes with a sorry smile.

“Another time, your duty calls.” You pat his arm and caress his cheek.

He kisses the tip of your nose and parts from you to take the call.

You finish taking down the pictures, you’ll take one to brighten the apartment, you decide. The portraits you’ve done of Eli are more like a fashion magazine, with a stern expression, you don’t find his gentleness in those. The one where you are sleeping on the table like a cat is perfect for you.

You finish taping the box when you turn towards the counter where his plants sit. Or rather the cadavers of his plants. They’re all dead. 

Except one.

You throw all the dead plants in the bins and turn towards the survivor. It’s a reddish, purplish plant that looks like a bay tree. It holds on surprisingly well.

“Thrawn? What do we do with this plant?” you ask.

“We could dispose of it?” He said, coming back to the living room.

“You sure?” You notice all the gardening tools behind the counters and all the compost in a bag “It would be a waste. Eli gave himself so much trouble to make them grow…”

He eyesides you.

“You want to keep it?”

“We could at least try.” you propose “It would be a memory of Eli.”

“We got plenty of memories tidied up in boxes right now.”

You wince.

“It would be a living memory of Eli.” You correct. “I know plant peoples, they are like their babies to them. I’m sure he would like us to take care of it.” You explain.

He tilts his head.

“I have never really tried to keep a plant alive in my life.” He confesses.

“Well… I got some basics with my parents.” You take the pot to observe it better. “I’ll call her Benedict!”

You hear an amused scoff.

“You want to name the plant?”

“Yes! If you humanize it you’ll take more care of it. Say hi to Benedict!” You press the pot in his face.

“I am not saying hi to Benedict.”

You pout, lowering the pot.

“You heartless man… Don’t worry Benedict, I’ll take care of you.” You whisper.

“Do we have the necessary place at the apartment?” he asks.

“Of course, if we push some stuff. It will be our first baby!”

He seems to twitch at that mention, crossing his arms and laying against the wall.

“No? You don’t want babies? I want several.” you continue “It would brighten our life.”

His gaze goes from the plant to you

“Are we still talking about a plant?” he investigates.

“Of course I’m talking about the plant, what do you… Oh!” You suddenly realize and flush “No I am talking about plants.”

He tilts his head, dubious.

“I swear!”

“Alright.” he nods with a grin “Keep it if you want. We will find Benedict a place somewhere.” He kisses your forehead.

“Unless you wanted to talk about… well, you know…” You can’t even bring yourself to formulate it. Isn't it a bit soon for that? Do you even want one? Is it compatible with your career? What the accommodations would…

“Do not stress yourself, Chacah. I play with you.” He grins satisfied.

“Oh… okay.” You feel a bit stupid now.

“But I take good note that you are open to the subject.” He says softly, leaving the living room.

You remain alone with the cheeks heating up like a fire started under your skin.

“Well Benedict… He played me well on this one.”

_____________________________________________________

You can’t sleep.

You’re too excited to sleep with Thrawn again, your body is full of energy, straight like a bowstring, ready to jump up and down at anything. You feel shivers through your whole body.

You sigh.

Are you a child to get excited like that over anything?

You breathe deeply, trying to calm down. You turn your head to Thrawn, sleeping peacefully. At least one of you doesn’t have trouble falling asleep. You turn fully towards him, observing his relaxed face, his deep and regular breath.

Could you start a family with this man? You’re still young, is it what you want yet? And him? He’s older than you by 20 years at least, your life goals must be quite different. He seemed pleased with your reaction earlier, but he could be joking. You bite your lips. That’s a lot of uncertainty for one relationship. Maybe you…

“You are not sleeping.” he says in the dead of night, breaking the silence.

“Indeed.” You admit. Nothing escape him

“What is it, cha’cah?” He opens his flaming eyes and dive in yours.

Again with ‘cha’cah’, what does that mean?

“I’m thinking about the future… Our future.” you whisper

“I told you not to stress yourself over that.” he gently chides you.

“But don’t you think about it even a little? Doesn’t it worry you a bit? Don’t you have projects? Life goals?”

He sighs. Great, you managed to annoy him. But instead he gently takes your hand and squeezes it gently.

“I think about our future everyday. I planned a lot of things in my head, but I did not want to scare you off with it.”

You crawl closer, completely focused.

“You planned things? Like what?” you murmur in the dark, the only source of light being his eyes.

“We could start by finding a larger apartment. With more rooms.”

“Why?” You ask fully knowing where that conversation is heading, but you can’t help but play coy.

“For a second bedroom.” He murmurs.

“For a baby?”

“For a baby, yes. And their brothers and sisters, if you want it.” He says so low you barely hear him, grazing your palm with the tip of his fingers.

“You want several babies?” You ask incredulously, but you feel a warm sensation spreading in your stomach, something soft and comforting.

He shruggs.

“Why not? I am used to large families, even though our notion of families differs from human’s.”

“Would you teach it to me one day?”

“Of course, cha’cah. Anything you want.”

“Wait hold on…” you say with a flash of lucidity “We are talking babies, and we haven't even kissed yet.”

He stares at you like it dawned on him.

“You are quite right.” he admits, passing his hand in his hair. “We are burning bridges here.I may have planned too far too quickly.” You can’t help but giggle, that is so fitting of him. “Are you mocking me?”

“No, no I don’t think so at least.” you laugh “I just find it adorable of you.” you squeeze his hand lovingly “It is flattering that you already thought so much ahead for us.”

He planned this far with you, envisioning such important matter with you in it. He is serious with your relationship and that flutters your heart.

His nostril flares.

“Yes, but I planned all that without knowing your opinion on it. I may have just built up a fantasy of mine.”

“Well…” you temper “It is a bit soon for me to speak about babies. But with you… I think I can see that future for us.”

He looks back at you with what you think is hope in his eyes.

“Really?”

God you love this man you realize. You take a minute, weighting your words and thinking about it. You nod and kiss his cheek.

“Yes, Thrawn.” You snuggle against his really warm body “I don’t know when, but I will try. For you… For us.”

He circles you with his arms, squeezing you tightly and kisses your forehead, diving his nose in your hair.

“Thank you.” He whispers. “It makes me happy.”

“But we have a lot of things to try first, mister. A family and a relationship doesn’t build themself like that!” You remember him, bursting with laughter.

“I know.” He softly says “I can wait for you. Until you are ready, I will be patient.”

Your cheeks heat up and you hug him back, burying your own nose in his pectoral muscles. You feel so at peace and safe in his arms.

You drift off to sleep without a worry.

@bluechiss @justanothersadperson93 @al-astakbar @thrawnspetgoose @readinglistfics @twilekchiss @pencil-urchin @ineedazeezee @mssbridgerton @dance-like-russia-isnt-watching @Cortisolcosplay @obbicrystaleo, @germie2037

[noirandchocolate]

@purpledemoncat asked me for headcanons about my Master Kohga’s Nana (also named Master Kohga as described in the linked post), so here we go.

Was her father’s third child, but her much older sister and brother were both killed before she was born. Her father was already nearly 100 years old and very much wanted his heir to be a child of his, so he remarried and had Nana (hnnngh it feels weird to call a child “gramma” but I don’t know her pre-Kohga name and probably wouldn’t post it even if I did, for reasons).

Growing up with such a much older father, who was pretty strict about training her to be Master someday, definitely influenced her personality. However, her mother (who was around 40 at the time of Nana’s birth—big age gaps don’t bother Yiga and Sheikah very much since they live longer than Hylians—look at Robbie and Jerrin) did soften her a bit.

As in, unlike Great-Granddad, sometimes Nana would let herself have fun! She not only let the Clan have festivals and parties for morale and tradition-continuing purposes, she’d join in with the dancing and drinking and game-playing! She was very good at the Yiga equivalent of Go and was fond of smoking safflina in her later years. She was also a fan of big jangly jewelry (at least to wear around the Complex). However, when it came to Clan business, Nana was no-nonsense and hard-working.

Once when Nana was around 25, she and an older cousin were coming back across the snowy Highlands after a scouting mission together that this cousin had asked to be partnered with her for. When they were almost home, this guy just casually declared that when her father died he intended to Challenge her for the Master position. She uh. Well she immediately kicked his feet out from under him, slapped a binding talisman on him, dragged him by his leg to the nearest cliff, and dangled him over it by a hand around his neck. She told him if she thought he’d be better than her for the Clan she wouldn’t be doing this. But since he’d announced his intent so smugly, as though he wanted to be Master for power, she really couldn’t allow it. Did he understand that? That he should only Challenge her if he intended to take responsibility?

Nana Ascended to become Master Kohga at 31. Nobody Challenged her! How about that!

Favorite plant-type food after bananas? Hearty radish! Favorite meat? Marinated venison tataki, specifically from deer taken on Satori Mountain (with the marinade containing apple juice from the Mountain too)!

Learned SO many powerful arcane techniques from her father and aunts and uncles. Her signature one was self-duplication, and she could make two more of herself. Full-bodied copies like we see Maz Koshia and her grandson do, not spirit-y ones like Impa’s. She’s the one who taught our Best Guy!

Current Koh’s prized demon carver was her favorite weapon too. He’s very proud to have and use it.

Nana married shortly after becoming Master Kohga but didn’t have her only son until six years later. This wasn’t for lack of trying. Nana and Granddad’s relationship was pretty intense. He was younger than her, a Blademaster, and it was one of those “we knew each other when we were kids and I didn’t pay attention to you but now suddenly I noticed you grew up hot” kinda things, ha. They were courting when she Ascended and he was her Right Hand until his death. (Before her grandson was born; he only knows of Granddad from stories.)

Wore her hair in twin poufs as seen here. And she was always a chubby gal. It hid a really strong core; as suggested by that lil’ story above she could flip big dudes over her head. Woman was 6’2” and broad and no slouch in the fighting department.

Once led a raid on Castle Town itself, back when the King before Rhoam was reigning. Which was ballsy as hell. They did it in disguise of course, and via stealth, and got away with all kinds of nice luxury stuff and plenty of rupees.

However in general, especially as she got older, Nana was less about straight-up raid attacks and more about shady dealings with Hylians willing to sell crops at low prices. Under her, the Clan got an amazing deal on rice by blackmailing a farmer near Hateno Village. She was big on playing the longer game and strategizing to improve the Clan’s well-being while not giving away its location, operatives, or anything else. Most Hylians caught up in her web of transactions had no idea they were involved with the Yiga—just as the Clan had operated for millennia, but more ambitious than ever.

Speaking of being protective of the Clan, Nana was very strict about dealing with intruders getting near Karusa Valley, especially if they disrespected the frog statues dotting the areas all around Gerudo Canyon and the Highlands, or strayed too close to the usually-magic-hidden gates leading up to the Clan's Complex. If obfuscation and gentler dissuasion didn't work on those stumbling into Clan territory, better to make sure the bodies would turn up somewhere farther away looking like something other than a vicious sickle made them. More rarely, if she was angry enough, Nana would say that a nosy group of travelers ought to be reduced to one, who could go home and remind others of the "wicked spirits" inhabiting Satori Mountain and the Highlands.

Nana was a good mother in many ways but really put a lot of pressure on her son to learn everything she knew about martial, arcane, and leadership skills. After Granddad died, Nana even chose Dad’s best friend Chisao as her Right Hand instead of him, for a few entire years, to drive home the point that she thought he ought to be taking his responsibilities as her Heir more seriously. Luckily Dad really wasn’t hurt by this—but this is a post about Nana, not him, so more stuff about him will have to wait!

By contrast, Nana absolutely doted on her grandson. Sure she was determined to also teach him as much as she could, but she was readier with the bananas than the sticks with her handsome smart talented [pre-Kohga name redacted] than she was with her son, ha. Definitely the “oh no the child came back from hanging out with gramma and now he’s hyper and knows how to be two of himself” kind of grandparent.

All in all Nana was incredibly proud to serve the Clan as its Master Kohga and did so for 65 years. She died at 96, more annoyed about it than anything because that’s really not that old for someone with Sheikah Yiga blood. Kohga was 9, his father 59. She was quite beloved by her people and left behind a legacy of relative prosperity (as in, the Clan was and is still marginalized and had all the disadvantages that came with their position outside Hyrulian society, but everyone was fed etc etc which was not always guaranteed, y’know?).

Shortly before she passed, she warned her son that although the King of the time was old and unlikely to do much against the Clan, his young son Rhoam had "the attitude of snot and a fire in his belly to prove himself. You'd best be wary of him." But that's information for another time because it's getting off topic again and this post is already very long!

So that's some stuff about Nana Master Kohga! Her grandson loves her very much and still talks to her sometimes. <3

[stuff-i-write-for-fun]

MOANING MYRTLE

Part 1

The girl who never got to grow up…

Myrtle wanted nothing more than to feel the warmth of a hug again. Her parents had been able to visit from time to time after she had died and she had held on to their affection for a while. Her mother always gave the best hugs. Unfortunately, she had died a few years ago, followed swiftly by her father. Myrtle was alone. She had tried to make friends, with the dead as much as the living…But, all her tentatives had failed. She had hence decided that she would no longer try, even though she still wanted someone to talk to…to talk to about all of the things that made her feel sad or upsetted her—like the fact that her death had not even been on purpose ! She had heard the voice of a boy and then, pouf, she had become a ghost…

June 13, 1943.

She remembered the date like it was yesterday. And she felt as if her vengeance on Olive Hornby was not what kept her in the school. She yet to have succeeded into making a true friend, and not even Harry Potter was kind enough to befriend her…But, she should have known. Boys like that never wasted time on girls like her when she was still alive, why would they start now ?

She sighed, one of the sighs that many mistook for whining. She then looked at her reflection in the water and started sobbing at her appearance…She had wished that once her teen years over, she would become beautiful like all of the other girls that had dared make fun of her.

But now ? She would be stuck in this form forever. She felt as if fate had played a very cruel joke on her.

Myrtle's ghostly heart ached for the fact that no one understood her. Everyone just thought she was being dramatic and whiny when really, she was just being misunderstood. She wanted someone who would look past her ghost-like appearance and see the person inside. Someone who would see her true character and take the time to get to know her. But she had resigned herself to the fact that it would never happen.

She continued to gaze at her reflection, and her tears turned to sobs. What was the point of staying if she was all alone ?

She extended her hand towards the water and let it sink to her elbow...She used to love water, but now, she was tired of it. She wanted to feel things again—anything—but the content sadness and emptiness that she seemed to feel all the time now. She stayed like that for a while until, something unexpected happened…Someone entered her toilets. A boy. She had already seen him before, she thought his name was Drago…Or was it Draco ? He didn't seem to have noticed her yet and looked scared beyond anything. She stayed silent for a while—waiting,—which was unexpected coming from her.

But then, he looked straight at his reflexion in the mirror, and Myrtle could see the exact same look she had given her own reflection a few moments ago. Suddenly, he saw her in the reflection and turned around bruscally and drew out his wand out of instinct. She nearly smiled at his instinctive reaction before saying in a matter-of-factly tone.

"Sorry to disappoint you but, I don't think that'll do much..."

Her words took the boy by surprise. He stared at her for a moment, taking in her ghostly appearance and familiar pigtails. He looked like he wanted to say something, but then just stood there, staring at her as if he wasn't sure what to do next.

"You're her," he said in a whisper.

Myrtle nodded, but she didn't say anything else. A faint smile crossed her face as the boy's eyes met hers and she could tell he was still trying to process everything that was happening. He looked at Myrtle for a few seconds, as if considering his options for a minute before finally lowering his wand.

"You're her, aren't you ?"

Myrtle arched an eyebrow at his comment before crossing her arms defensively.

"If you're talking about Moaning Myrtle, the whining ghost with pigtails, I think you already have your answer..." She said while pointing at her two pigtails and Draco only shook his head before speaking again.

"No, I mean, you're the Dark Lord's first kill..."

She shook her head again before rectifying.

"Rectification. First accident…His knack of killing people on purpose came afterwards…"

She had never discussed the events surrounding her death in more than 40 years ago, and it was a sensitive topic for her.

"So what if I am ?…I'm not some trophy you can show off, you know," she said, her voice cracking just slightly. In her mind, she recalled the day she died at the hands of a young Voldemort. An accident, but an accident that had robbed her of the chance to live a full life.

He bit his lip before looking quite..sad ? He was shaking and Myrtle could see that he was obviously feeling sad and upset. Myrtle had not felt or had contact with emotions for a while now and couldn't remember what it really looked like anymore. But, she still wanted to help this boy that seemed so torn by his feelings.

She was surprised by the empathy she felt for Draco. Despite her bitter attitude and aloof nature, she was still able to recognize pain and sadness when she saw it. She let her arms rest at her side as she took a step back, her expression softening slightly.

"I have gone through a lot in my life, but I have never seen anyone look as hopeless as you do right now. What's wrong ?"

For a moment, Draco was caught off guard by her kindness. She really was nothing like the moaning ghost the stories had told all the years. He felt…seen.

He hesitated for a moment, before he finally opened up to her.

"I'm scared. I have been charged with a mission and I…don’t know what to do. I feel trapped. I can't do anything right anymore and I just want..I just wanted…" He started crying.

She sat on the edge of the sink near him and saw him suddenly break into tears. "Don’t cry," she said and continued. "Don’t cry...tell me what’s wrong…I can help you...I'm sure I can…"

She wanted to put her hand on his shoulder, but, decided to against it. She listened instead when he answered her between sobs.

"No one can help me," said Malfoy "I can’t do it...I can’t...It won’t work…and unless I do it soon...he says he’ll kill me..."

Her heart went out to him. The poor boy was clearly terrified and she couldn't help but want to comfort him.

"Shh...shh...calm down," she said softly, trying to reassure him. She took a deep breath before continuing. "Just slow down and...and tell me everything. Who is the 'he' that says he'll kill you ?"

Myrtle would be lying if she said she didn't have a small idea of who he was talking about. She was still a Ravenclaw after all. She tilted her head to the side a bit before deciding wondering if she should try to touch him, even if she knew she wouldn't be able to truly touch him…being a ghost and all. She waited for him to answer her.

Draco saw her hesitation, the way she wanted to reach out to him but didn't.

"V...Voldemort," he said, his voice cracking with fear. He was clearly reluctant to speak the Dark Lord's name out loud. He shook his head again, as if trying to dismiss the thought, but still the tears rolled down his cheeks.

The name made the little ghost sigh…Of course.

"You don't have to do anything that you don't want to. You have a choice, even if he likes to make you think you do not."

Draco blinked in surprise, as if he hadn't expected her to say that.

"But I don't," he said softly, his voice shaking with sadness and fear. "If I don't do what he wants, he'll kill me. He'll kill me and my family. He says I have until the end of the school year to do as he says, and I..I can't...I can't do this..."

By now, Draco was full on sobbing, his whole body shaking with each wave of emotion.

She saw how sad and conflicted he was and suddenly had the urge to hug him. And then, she decided to follow her instincts and try to hug him—expecting to pass right through him. But her eyes widened in shock as she felt…something solid. She didn’t walk past him. She. Was. Touching. Him. She was actually touching him ! She seemed awestruck for a moment, as shocked as him at the fact that she was feeling the fabric of his white shirt under her palms. They looked at each other for a moment, unable to utter a word. But she still hugged him tightly.

Draco found himself being embraced and his tears immediately stopped.

He had never in his whole life felt so much warmth and comfort as in that hug. He felt her arms wrap around him and his entire body let out a sigh of relief. As the moment of shock passed for both of them, he looked down at her and saw her ghost face, only inches away from his own.

It felt so real, and yet he knew it couldn't be.

The two of them stayed in the embrace for another moment until Draco finally spoke.

"You're hugging me…"

She nodded and didn’t speak a word. She couldn’t. She had spent decades without being able to touch any living being…

Draco couldn’t believe it. It felt so weird, the way her arms felt around him and the way she could feel his heart beat against her chest.

She was hugging him, and more importantly she was able to. He hugged her back tightly, as if he were trying to hold on to this strange and surreal moment for as long as possible. And as he did, he saw a small smile appear on the ghost's lips.

She felt so happy…But the moment was suddenly cut short when she heard footsteps and immediately hid in a corner.

Draco, still shocked, had his eyes still wide open when Harry walked in and used the forbidden curse on him…

Myrtle could have forgiven Harry a lot of things, but nearly killing the only living person that she had ever been able to touch in more than 40 years ? That, she couldn't.

Draco's shocked expression turned to terror as he felt the pain of the curse coursing through his entire body. His last thought was of Myrtle, the ghost who had suddenly gained an inexplicable ability to touch him, and whose soft embrace now suddenly left him in agony.

At that moment, the lights flickered and a cold breeze swept through the bathroom, as if some unseen force had suddenly stirred up in the toilet.

Harry's eyes suddenly turned to the corner of the bathroom in which Myrtle had been hiding.

He had no idea why, but he could have sworn that he had sensed something.

He approached the corner, his wand held tightly in his hand out of habit.

He hesitated a few seconds, but finally decided to point his wand at the corner and cast a Lumos. Harry jumped in surprise as he suddenly saw an enormous, shrieking ghostly form in front of him.

For a moment, he thought that the thing before him was going to kill him, and he pointed his wand at the figure in the corner and prepared to defend himself.

Then, suddenly, the figure turned back into a ghost and he saw the familiar form of the moaning Myrtle.

Her eyes were filled with rage and hatred, and it was so unexpected that he froze in his tracks.

"GET OUT OF MY BATHROOM !" She screamed and all the doors of the cubicles opened as she looked straight at Harry with loathing.

Harry was taken back by her scream and the sudden opening of the bathroom stalls around him.

He tried to point his wand at her, but he couldn't. Her rage was too powerful and her eyes were filled with a pure, unfiltered hatred.

"I was jus—" he started, but was cut off as Myrtle screamed again. "OUT ! JUST GET OUT !"

Harry's mind was racing, filled with a sudden fear and confusion.

He had never seen anyone, let alone a ghost, look at him with such hate. He could feel her rage burning into his own body, as if she was trying to burn his soul away.

With a last attempt to regain his composure, he tried to speak again.

"I was just trying to—"

"GET OUT !" And with that, she raised her hand and used the wind to throw Harry out of her bathroom.

Harry was completely caught off guard by the sudden force that hit him like a ton of bricks. He was flung out of the bathroom and across the corridor.

He hit the ground hard, and for a moment he laid there, stunned, his entire body in agony. He could still feel Myrtle's rage burning into him, and he shuddeted as he desperately tried to get away from her.

She closed the door of her bathroom before returning to Draco. She tried to see if he was still alive.

"…Are you okay ?"

Draco lay on the floor, eyes closed and the pain of the curse still coursing through his body. As Myrtle approached him, he slowly opened his eyes and turned to face her. He was clearly shaken, his breathing shallow and his body covered in cuts and bruises. But he was still alive.

He tried to sit up, the pain of his body sending him into agony.

"Myrtle…you…you protected me."

Myrtle sighed and shook her head.

"Harry is upset. But he is not a bad boy. And I will not let him kill you…"

Draco's eyes widened in surprise. He didn't expect her to be protective of him. He thought that she would let Harry kill him..

But she hadn't.

She had stood up for him when he needed it...

His body was in pain, but at that moment, his heart was filled with gratitude for her.

"But why…Why would you…?"

Myrtle herself didn’t know why she had protected him. She just knew she had to.

She was grateful when she saw professor Snape entering the bathroom and take care of Draco. She wanted to get out of the shadows and take his hand, to at least make him feel as if he wasn't alone…But she knew better than meddling with human affairs and just stayed quiet while seeing multiple people walking around her toilets. She didn't even try to stop them and some of the teachers as well as students were even surprised by the fact that the young ghost was quiet, her who usually never was able to stop complaining or whining. She just stayed in one of the toilet cubicles, sitting on one of the toilet seats—thinking.

…What had just happened ?

[mariacallous]

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!”

[autistic-shaiapouf]

Like. The name was a touchy thing bc it felt ridiculous, to look at the entire man and to decide to name myself after him, but I love having this name and I love hearing it and using it, this character has genuinely helped me through a massive chunk of my recovery and my using this name is representative of a lot of love

Checking to see which name I have first in my bio to see if there's a reason people are defaulting to calling me Shai

[shaiappreciation]

Shaiapouf's Wings

Hello hello, I've returned with another biological meta analysis! This time I'd like to discuss: wings!

When a butterfly first emerges from the chrysalis, its wings need to dry and expand, so the insect will usually hang underneath the chrysalis or a nearby structure so gravity can help to fully draw the wings out. In addition to gravity, the insect will pump body fluid into its wings to help them expand; this is a process it only needs to perform once, as it is done to unfold the wings so they can harden and be used for flight.

Pouf's wings open and close at his will, suggesting a similar but only slightly more complex biology; he seems to have control over either his own bloodflow (forcing it into his wings to open them) or the surrounding muscle structures (guiding bloodflow into the wings). It could also be reasonable to believe that the channels he uses to open his wings may not need to stay open the entire time he's using them - the channels could open as the wings open, then close while they remain open, re-opening once he needs to close them. This excludes the idea of it simply being part of his nen; while the abilities he demonstrates while using his wings (i.e. - Spiritual Message) are nen derived, I believe that the wings themselves are firmly an insect feature he naturally possesses.

Now let's about colors! The biggest draw to the insect is the wings - people can't reliably identify butterflies without their wings (which is something I encountered in research I had personally conducted), with patterning being the quickest way to tell species apart. So, how does color and pigmentation in wings work?

There's a number of factors at work, but the barest answer is, of course, genetics. A study from Cornell University found that a notable amount of genes seem to be preserved across species, suggesting that a lot of the patterns and colors may have emerged from a common ancestor across species. Lots of butterflies also employ forms of mimicry, such as Batesian mimicry (non poisonous species evolving to resemble poisonous ones to evade predators) and the development of characteristics such as eyespots. Wings can also be largely different in the same species due to sexual dimorphism, which certain species of swallowtails being excellent examples of such.

So what does this mean for Pouf? A lot of discussion of genetics goes out the window when it comes to the biology of the chimera ants, so the space for speculation begins to shrink. While a broader discussion isn't totally feasible, I believe the individual aspects of his wings can still be topics for conversation, namely the heart pattern and the rainbow gradient. The gradient can easily be read as iridescence, a property that develops not from the pigmentation of the wing itself, but due to the way light refracts through the scales (most strikingly and famously visible in the blue morpho); this can be interpreted as Pouf having scales that are most likely completely clear and at various angles, making them appear in rainbow colors as he moves. Scales not being fully aligned can also be read in line with him employing them as a offensive/defensive tactic - the scales rapidly repopulate, hence why they may be regenerating unevenly. As for the heart pattern, I believe two biological explanations may be at play. One is that they could represent modified eyespots (prominent in the common buckeye) or general patterning (like the white dots on a monarch), or they could simply be a stunningly unnatural-looking development (like the number pattern on the "89" butterfly).

Another point I'd like to discuss is Pouf's hypnotic scales. Personally, I think it's a bit of a shame it's not known at what dosages the effects kick in, because I think it could make for an excellent contender in a discussion about poison, which is actually something that butterflies fit into quite neatly! Many species employ poison as a defense mechanism, most famously the monarch, which gains it ability from the poison in the milkweed plants the larvae host on. Overwhelmingly, larvae consuming toxic plants is what gives the adult insect a chemical defense; this concept, like the pervious, becomes much more difficult to work with when given the chimera ants' biology, not just with Pouf having begun life as an adult, but also with him being heavily implied to be carnivorous, making him unlikely to be consuming toxic plants in his spare time. I believe this is where some give needs to be given and for the toxic/hypnotic properties to be chalked up more to nen, though it can also be assumed that the poison is just part of his base state, the same way his wings are.

In the future, I'll be returning to this to discuss the mechanics of flight ✨️

[takerentpe]

How to Set Up a Baby Shower Photo Booth

Creating a memorable baby shower decoration involves many elements, but one of the most engaging and entertaining aspects is the photo booth. A well-set photo booth can provide hours of fun and create lasting memories for both the parents-to-be and their guests. In this article, we'll guide you through the steps to set up a fantastic baby shower photo booth, incorporating various baby shower decoration ideas, as well as tips for seemantham decoration and godh bharai decoration.

Choose the most wonderful and memorable Baby shower decor themes from Take Rent Pe, an online provider offering rental decoration settings, to enhance the special and amazingness of your baby shower celebration. Choose from the more than 100+ décor set options available, and let the experts handle all aspects of the event planning.

1. Choose a Theme

The first step in setting up a baby shower photo booth is to choose a theme. The theme will guide your decorations and props, ensuring everything is cohesive and visually appealing. Popular themes include:

Gender Reveal: Blue and pink decorations, balloons, and props.

Jungle Safari: Animal prints, greenery, and stuffed animals.

Princess or Prince: Crowns, tiaras, and royal backdrops.

For a traditional Indian touch, you can integrate seemantham decor or godh bharai decor themes. These themes often feature vibrant colors, traditional motifs, and cultural elements like marigold flowers and diyas.

2. Select a Backdrop

A striking backdrop is essential for a photo booth. It sets the stage for photos and ties together the theme. Here are some backdrop ideas:

Balloons and Streamers: Create a fun and festive atmosphere with balloons in coordinating colors and streamers.

Floral Arrangements: Use fresh or artificial flowers to create a beautiful and elegant backdrop. Marigold flowers are especially popular in seemantham decoration and godh bharai decoration.

Custom Banners: Personalized banners with the baby's name or a sweet message add a unique touch.

For a traditional touch, consider a backdrop that incorporates elements of seemantham decor, such as intricate fabrics, gold accents, and traditional patterns.

3. Gather Props

Props are what make a photo booth truly fun and interactive. They encourage guests to let loose and get creative with their poses. Some prop ideas include:

Baby-Themed Props: Bottles, pacifiers, baby shoes, and onesies.

Signs and Speech Bubbles: Fun phrases like "Mom-to-Be," "It's a Boy/Girl," and "Future Grandpa."

Costumes: Hats, glasses, and wigs that match the theme.

For seemantham decor or godh bharai decor, consider props that reflect cultural traditions, such as traditional jewelry, miniature cradles, and small pots decorated with henna designs.

4. Lighting and Camera Setup

Good lighting is crucial for capturing high-quality photos. Ensure your photo booth is well-lit, either with natural light or additional lighting equipment. Here are some tips:

Natural Light: Position the photo booth near a window or an area with plenty of natural light.

Ring Lights: Use ring lights or softbox lights to ensure even lighting.

DIY Lighting: If you’re on a budget, string lights or fairy lights can add a charming glow.

Set up a camera on a tripod for stability. If you want to take it a step further, consider a remote shutter release or a timer setting on your camera so guests can take photos themselves.

5. Create a Comfortable Space

Ensure the photo booth area is comfortable and accessible for all guests. Provide seating options, especially for older guests or those who might need a break. Decorate the surrounding area with baby shower decoration items like cushions, rugs, and poufs to match the theme.

6. Encourage Participation

Encourage guests to use the photo booth by making it a focal point of the event. Place it in a high-traffic area and provide clear instructions on how to use it. You can also designate a “photo booth coordinator” to help guests with props and take pictures.

7. Personalize with Keepsakes

Make the photo booth experience memorable by offering personalized keepsakes. Here are some ideas:

Photo Strips: Print out photo strips on the spot and provide frames or envelopes for guests to take home.

Guestbook: Have a guestbook where guests can paste their photos and write messages for the parents-to-be.

Digital Copies: Share digital copies of the photos via email or a private online album.

 8. Integrate Technology

For a modern twist, integrate technology into your photo booth setup. Consider using a photo booth app or software that offers instant filters, digital props, and the ability to share photos directly to social media.

Conclusion

Setting up a baby shower photo booth is a wonderful way to add fun and interaction to your event. By incorporating thoughtful baby shower decoration ideas and blending traditional elements from seemantham decoration and godh bharai decoration, you can create a unique and memorable experience for everyone. Whether you choose a modern theme or a culturally rich decor, the key is to ensure the photo booth reflects the joy and anticipation of welcoming a new baby into the world.

For all your decoration needs, from baby showers to traditional ceremonies, remember that Take Rent Pe offers a wide range of decor materials to help you create the perfect setting for your special occasions.

[ultraericthered]

Anime Update V3 14

From Me To You - Sawako got to have her first semi-sleepover with friends, spending Saturday night in Ryu's room in the upper floor of the ramen shop with Yano, Yoshida, and Ryu. And then Kazehaya got called to the place because Yano and Yoshida wanted the lulz. And then Mr. Pin went up there 'cause he's a frequent patron, so we got more wackiness with him. And the big reveal was that Kazehaya used to play baseball? It was all a bizarre but wholesome affair.

Hunter x Hunter - Finally facing Pitou has turned into an unexpected moral dilemma, as while Gon can't hold back his rage at Pitou for what they did to Kite, Pitou's sole concern at the moment is healing and protecting Komugi so that she doesn't succumb to her wounds. In a sense, Pitou has developed in the reverse direction from Pouf in that they love and appreciate the way Meruem has changed for the better and will devotedly defend the one who inspired that change. Good on Killua for keeping his head and recognizing the situation for what it was, though it drives Gon absolutely ballistic to the point where he doesn't care who he kills so long as he can fight and kill his hated enemy. It's only thanks to Killua that Gon is held back from embracing his worst instincts and agrees to wait it out for an hour.

SHUFFLE! - Uh, what the Hell? I noted in an earlier Sia-focused episode that something was amiss with Sia when she was looking in the mirror, but I still wasn't prepared for "literal Green Goblin style split personality takeover!" Sia's more messed up inside than I'd expected and somehow that only makes me love her all the more!

The Case Files of Lord El-Melloi II - Halfway done with the Rail Zeppelin mystery now! The train is has been stranded in a snowy forest, Olga-Marie decides to has barricaded herself in her own room, Melvin makes a startling entrance into the plot and is on board now, Karabo and Yvette then ask for assistance in finding a way out of the cold terrain, but Gray is caught up battling Hephaestion while the rest of the group restore the leyline and returns to the train. And in the midst of this, Olga-Marie made a very unpleasant discovery...

KonoSuba - Two episodes again; Darkness made her return and confirmed that what was happening to her was indeed not what it seemed to be, as she was being set up by her own family to be wed to Lord Alderp's son, Walther, who turned out to be quite a likable young gentleman and very amusing to watch as he had to contend with the ever fiendish Kazuma and a crazier than usual Darkness before leaving on good terms as the arrainged marriage is called off. Then the party had to return to the old dungeon to find and strike out a demon responsible for explosive attacks on the kingdom. The archdemon Vanir comes in the form of a two-toned mask he attaches onto people to possess them, and after his initial body is destroyed he chooses Darkness to be his next host only to be completely put off by her masochism. Megumin casts Explosion to destroy Vanir (we think!), Kazuma has his debt cleared and is given a hefty reward for defeating Vanir, and Darkness' real name gets mispronounced.

K-On! - Now that the Light Music Club is up and running, Yui eyes a guitar she wants to play but to her dismay its price is far beyond her current budget. The girls get part-time jobs to raise money for it but turn up unsuccessful in earning enough, so Tsumugi rises up to the occasion and gets it purchased like she probably could've just done from the start since her family is rich and partially owns the store.

Eureka Seven - Dewey's finally made his play. Wounding the planet once again so that more antibody Coralians emerge and leave destruction in their path that terrorizes the masses, he seizes the moment and makes a grand speech before the capitol, painting the Scub Coral as a scourge that must be erradicated in order to secure humanity's future on this Earth, and introducing the Ageha Squad in their special Nirvash units, led by Anemone in THE-END. But the real twist of the knife is that Dewey proclaims that Adroc Thurston was the first to see the threat and credits his research for his plans, which understandably upsets Renton as Gekkostate watches the speech. As they head to find the Great Wall, they know that the stakes are accelerating and they're going to be in for the fight of their lives.

Gintama - Kagura made her official return to Odd Jobs after some hilarious efforts by Otae, Catherine, and Sacchan to take her place as the main heroine on the show, which pesters Gin, Shinpachi, Otose and Hasegawa, all with running commentary from Kagura herself as she watched from outside the bar. I don't know if it was because she was kept off-screen for most of it or just a fluke of solid direction, but Crystal Lopez actually hit the bullseye with most of Kagura's lines in the dub this time and got a lot of laughs from me!

Air - Really just a standard second episode with not much going on other than easing us more into this setting and giving us more exposure to the characters. Only at the end did it get...strange.

[loominaire]

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When you shop at Rugs Direct, you’re not just buying decor; you’re investing in quality. Loominaire’s commitment to excellence is evident in every product we offer. From the finest materials to meticulous attention to detail, Loominaire provides premium home decor that is both stylish and durable. Their expertise ensures that each piece is crafted to perfection, adding value and beauty to your home.

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