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darklinaforever · 1 year

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The way you ONLY ship bad boys/good girls who act as nurses/moral compasses/punching bag/psychiatrist (are you still in high school ? sorry the handsome popular boy never noticed you), I know you could never ship a female antagonist with the male hero/anti-hero.

Assuming an individual's age based on their taste in sailing is just childish and deeply stupid. By doing this, you just look immature, which you are undeniably saying / doing such things. Don't have anything else to do with your time but piss off people who are just enjoying their ships in peace ?

I don't owe you anything, but I still want to point out (for those who are interested) that I'm 22 years old and I'm studying modern literature at university.

Also, how hateful and stupid do you have to be to say something as dumb as :

"sorry the handsome popular boy never noticed you"

I appreciate these kinds of messages, because they only prove that the anti are real degenerates (yes I won't weigh my words because I'm pissed). But obviously the only reason you allow yourself to say such horrible things is because you hide under cover of anonymity in order to spread your hatred and negativity.

Just for information, in reality, there is rarely a "handsome popular boy" in high school, or in any type of school.

On the other hand, free and amusing anecdote, and just to make your big mouth shut, there was indeed one of "handsome popular boy", but in my college. And yes, he had noticed me. But I simply decided to refuse his interest, despite the consternation of all my friends at the time. (believe me or not, it's up to you)

Then, as for the fact that apparently I'm not able to ship a female antagonist with a hero / an anti-hero, ladies and gentlemen, since this is an opportunity to introduce you to other of my loved ships, here is a playlist :

I specify that in this playlist, there are Thomas and Lucille, from the movie Crimson Peak, but I also ship Thomas with the heroine Edith. I also specify that although I like Galavant & Madalena, I still prefer Galavant with Princess Isabella. Basically, a nice and a nice set. I also placed Wednesday and Tyler there, simply because Wednesday is an anti-heroine capable of horrible acts and certainly not a "good girl" and Tyler is basically a victim and not a vilain. Also, an inverted version of Darklina or Aleks is the summoner of light and Alina the summoner of darkness, simply because that possibility excites me madly ! 🤩

Also, your bullshit of only shipping bad boys with good girls, how does it work for LGBT ships ?

youtube

And now here's a playlist with some ships (because it is impossible to list them all because there are so many of them) of heroin / girls with good guys (Those who follow me will know that among them we can count Stydia / on which I have already published several times elsewhere, so blah blah the delirium of I only ship good girls with bad boys / and Bellarke) :

By the way, most of my ships are not a question of "good girls who act as nurses/moral compasses/punching bag/psychiatrist" but simply and generally reminders of Beauty and the Beast. Stories of redemption and forgiveness. I will not develop more, the real ones know.

Last little thing, the next time I receive a message like this I delete it purely and simply. I only answered because it was an opportunity to show new ships to those who follow me, and respond at least once to this type of bullshit, never to be tempted to do so again, for I would have the satisfaction of this answer.

And to end on a high note ! Dear Anon :

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braemjeorn · 6 months

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anyway, another aesthetic for despa x teru (oc) in an imperial-1870s-convenient-marriage!au.

teru frowned, "dear prince despa, you have shown no regard that indicated you esteem or admire me! you see that if we marry it will be for my luck than yours, don't you?"

"oh how so?"

despa's face took an air of complete innocence; it took her entire limbs to not roll her eyes.

"my dowry is not as grand as that of the now empress," she grits. "i have no material inheritance except for my father's book and...—oh, don't tell me you covet his collections, you horrid man!"

he laughed, "perhaps i do, but then—who said that your dowry is insignificant?! you are the granddaughter the king masse, and combined with the income my brother will bestow upon me after this union—my dear, we will live like kings of the south!"

teru scoffed, "if your desire is purely material, its hardly worth considering."

"my brother wants to shoo me and ouken to independence—and that pup won't marry his darling before i do. desha was also lecturing about ...," despa waved his hands about, "expanding and maintaining the dynasty, whatever; though i bet he wouldn't even take that responsibility hadn't he seen and fell over himself with your cousin. well, fortunately and unfortunately, such is the present duty for us three. and its not like there will or has been a proposal as good as this, princess teru."

she rose from her seat, a flurry of ruffles walking over him. "oh, you and your insolent mouth!

his footsteps trailed after her pleats further into the glass house, "you and your spirits! this is what i like—and what drove that miserable duke away and leave all the blessings for me to win your hand."

"you're no better than those perverse fiends spurred on by sheer feminine disdain—i want nothing of it!"

"i haven't talked to you as any less than human now, have i? tell me, teru, would you like a man who'd cower and nod at whatever you say or take an engaging partner?"

"peace and tranquility wont kill anyone. you'd never leave me to my own company."

"quite the contrary!—have you forgotten those months ahead of the wedding? we got along splendid! and i intend to take you around the world, teru. see places; towns, villages, castles, beaches and those valleys under your mountain. i'd speak as my brothers emissary in stadiums and universities where you'd be welcome to its histories and architectures. what sights of the world! surely it will be better than wandering about your cousin's court? and don't you think we'd make a fine couple together? even if you do tire of me, i'm sure honi will take you in—"

teru bristled, "i won't depend on anyone!"

"then i'm offering my other house in the country. when you tire of me, i give you leave to go there and live your pastoral life."

teru's heart had soared at the thought of travels - but then with his offers for separate living might seem kindly but 'tis as if he doesn't want anything to do with her. her father would frown at it. not that it's a concern to be voiced now.

"there's hardly any benefit for you in this," teru said, sitting down on an old wooden bench before the orchids. "money, yes perhaps - but then what? companionship? a-and then even about the money; i might spend it more than you estimated and you'll have the same or less as you usually life on!"

"i'm sure you'll manage my allowance instead, so i have no worry on that part. you forget status! marriage is respected in the underworld (or will be, with what impression we're trying to build now), especially to a member of such a respected, old dynasty of sky-warriors like you! we'll be force a in the underworld - our brain, our looks, our character! imagine what you - we! can achieve together. teru, i see no one else filling that position of the grand duchess."

despa had paused in gesturing as if to drive his earnestness deep into her. she looked up at him, meeting his brown eyes. there was none of his goading smiles despite the fire in his eyes. the gift was unwrapped in her hand, she need only pocket it.

"don't make me laugh"

"nonsense. i have scoped the continent last year, none of these young ladies hold a candle to you. i thought you striking at our first meeting, and further months of contemplation only proved that—well, i won't—neither of us, that is! we won't will like it if you choose a fool instead."

teru smiled as he reverted into flattery. the preening lion of the underworld, desperate for a woman well-past the marriage market. she would not crumble as easily... but he was right in the sense that it is an opportunity...

so will she throw it all away and languish like a dusty, priced tome or seize the opportunity like a wick to a flame? to burst together into a fire cracker? it is simply too tempting...

"give me time." with that teru rose, resuming back into her ingrained royal air - back tall with an extended hand, "come to dinner tomorrow, prince despa."

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brotherhoodoftheblade · 1 year

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The pains of being a John/Percy shipper and yet rereading BotB and being like, smh, “Percy, if I were you I’d chuck him.”

#I read Gone With the Wind recently and couldn't stop thinking about how if you substituted Scarlett for John...#Rhett for Percy and Jamie for Ashley you'd have a rather satisfying little fic where Percy gets to tell John...#''Frankly my dear I don't give a damn'' and walk out on him like he deserves lol #referring to the last chapter of GWTW or the incredibly memorable last scene of the movie #my random ramblings #Lord John Grey #Percy Wainwright #john x percy

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izzythehutt · 1 year

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For the top 10 ship thing, Rhett and Scarlett from GWTW?

Hoooo boy this is a big one for me. I used to be a minor "thing" in the GWTW fandom, actually.

my favorite or a defining moment

Rhett's proposal after Frank's death. It's got humorous banter in an inappropriate setting, it's got angst, it's got Rhett letting his mask slip, it's got passion and Scarlett failing to understand that she's sexually attracted to Rhett or that she's actually in love with him, it's got him treating her like an asshole to prevent her from seeing she has emotional power over him. A grabbag of the ship.

whether they’re wholesome (affectionate), fucked up (affectionate), fucked up (derogatory), or boring

They have some pretty messed up moments but honestly it's a ship that is all about them being terrible in a way that's both compatible and self-destructive.

a song I think captures their essence

I used to have a whole playlist for them but then Apple killed iTunes and all my playlists died with it. Addicted by Kelly Clarkson was definitely on there and it fits them lol. Basically every angsty song that compares love to a drug addiction.

A Sister Ship

At some point early on into my Fruits Basket fan days I realized Akigure was just the manga version of them.

what kind of AU I’d like to stick them in

In college I seriously considered writing a fic where they both went to Japan in the 1870s and got caught up in the Meiji Restoration which would have been batshit but still better than the Ripley sequel.

bonus: whether they’re on my pre-made list of all-time favorite ships

Uh, unfortunately, yes, they are definitely a top ten ship for me even though I have increasingly mixed feelings about the book.

#ship asks #rhett butler #scarlett o'hara #rhett x scarlett #asks

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gnpwdrnwhiskey · 5 months

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Southern Inhospitality

Pairing - Dieter Bravo x ofc!Ava

Word Count - 1.7K

Warnings - God, I don't even know. Mentions of food, mentions of tense family gatherings and insecurities, just general Thanksgiving family gathering vibes....oh and also, hopefully Rhett & Scarlett don't mind I borrowed a few lines

Author's Note - this takes place like a year or two in the future of where Dieter and Ava currently are in the main story but it's pretty spoiler free. Big big thanks to @tinytinymenace for sending me this prompt for a first sentence fic thing. And to @wildemaven and @trulybetty as usual for cheerleading me through this lol! 💕

As he stepped on the escalator and descended into the arrivals terminal, he thought to himself, "this is the dumbest idea I've ever had."

Okay, maybe not the dumbest. He's Dieter Bravo, he's done a lot of dumb shit in his life. But this probably ranks right up there.

And Ava hadn't exactly invited him but when they'd talked the previous evening, she had said she missed him and that was pretty much the same thing right?

Besides, she'd sounded so miserable back in her family's clutches, it was like his duty or whatever to sweep in and rescue her. The last time she sounded that withdrawn- well, he doesn't like to think about it, but he'll be damned if they ever repeat it. Time for him to step up and white knight this shit.

He's starting to second guess the whole idea though as the Uber makes its way up the long oak lined drive, the massive magnolia tree taking up the majority of the front yard coming into view before the actual house does.

"Goddamn," he whispers to himself as the car comes to a halt in front of a true southern plantation house- fucking columns, gleaming black shutters, coach lights, rocking chairs and all.

What the hell has he gotten himself into he wonders as grabs his bag from the Uber and makes his way up the steps to the imposing front door and ringing the bell.

He's halfway expecting the door to be answered by a housekeeper or a butler or some shit and is surprised when it swings open to reveal a pre-teen boy in perfectly pressed khakis and a polo.

"Yeah?" The kid says nonchalantly, more interested in the phone in his hand than the actual guest at the door and Dieter catches a glimpse of chipped glitter nail polish as the boy's fingers fly over the keys.

"I'm looking for Ava. Ava Greene? Is this the right place?" He asks, sliding his Ray-Bans down his nose and trying to peer behind the kid into the house. "Or like the right fucking century? They know the south lost right?"

The kid looks up at Dieter and flashes him a mischievous grin and suddenly Dieter sees the family resemblance. At least he knows he's at the right house. Must be one of Drew's spawn.

"The news of the fall of the Confederacy has not yet reached the man of the house. We fear, due to his advanced age and frail condition, such a staggering blow may cause him to expire."

Dieter snorts out a laugh and the kid smiles even wider. "Welcome to Oak Hill," he says with a dramatic bow. "Please, do step inside and join us on this day when we celebrate the most problematic of American holidays."

"Harry! Who's at the door? You didn't let the Jehovah's Witnesses in again, did you??" Ava's voice comes from somewhere further in the house and Dieter finds himself automatically stepping inside as if drawn to her.

"They're actually here for you," Harry calls over his shoulder. "Something about how you've been living in sin with a cad and a scoundrel."

"Haha," Ava laughs. "Very funny, smart ass. Seriously, who's here?"

"Seriously, it's for you. Come see."

The tapping of heels on hardwood flooring comes closer and Dieter thinks maybe he's stepped not only into the wrong century but also into a completely alternate reality- Ava- his messy, wonderful, Converse wearing Ava, in heels?

His gaze starts at her feet as she comes into view and hot damn, she really is wearing a killer pair of pumps, then some long swirly plaid skirt he doesn't have a name for, crisp white button up, pearls at her ears and throat, hair pulled back in a complicated looking up-do.

"Harry, everyone I know is already here...." And then she catches sight of him standing behind Harry and he grins at the surprised expression on her face. "Dieter-- what are you doing here? What about your meeting?"

"I rescheduled. I should've never agreed anyway," he shrugs, reaching out to pull her into his arms and she goes willingly. "I shouldn't have let you come here by yourself."

"I told you it was fine, that'd I'd be fine," she says as she wraps her arms around him and leans into him. "I'm mostly fine."

"You're not fine, look at you," Dieter laughs, pulling away enough to hook a finger in the vee of her shirt, accidentally on purpose undoing one more tiny button and sneaking a peak. "You have a bra on. I didn't even know you owned one."

Ava snorts out a laugh and melts back into him, tucking her face into his neck and nipping at the skin there. "Behave, Bravo. We're amongst civilized company here."

"I'll try, but you do look like every sexy librarian fantasy I've ever had," Dieter whispers into her ear, hands sliding down her back to rest on the curve of her ass.

"You're an idiot," Ava whispers back, holding on to him a little bit tighter. "But I'm so glad you're here."

"Take your sunglasses off," Ava says as they walk hand in hand towards the family room.

"What?"

"We're inside. Pretend you're a normal person and take your sunglasses off."

"But why?"

"Are you high?"

"What? No!"

"Then take them off. Please do not make this any worse than it already will be. When we go in for dinner, sit up straight, keep your elbows off the table, mind your manners and take your sunglasses off."

And with that warning, she escorts him into the belly of the beast.

"We'll have one more guest for dinner," Ava announces to the room. "Most of you have already met Dieter, but I'll leave you to get reacquainted and set another place at the table."

"Play nice," Ava grins, leaning in to kiss his cheek and giving his hand a quick squeeze before scurrying out of the room like the traitor she is.

He can do this. He can. He's an Oscar winning actor for fucks sake. How bad can one family dinner possibly be?

Three hours later he's hating himself for putting that thought into the universe. Turns out it can be so, so incredibly bad.

Dinner itself was fine, delicious even- the turkey was moist, the potatoes were smooth and buttery, the pumpkin cheesecake was downright sinful.

But the conversation has been downright atrocious. If someone had given Conrad Greene a list of topics not to talk about at a family gathering, he's tried his damnedest to hit every single one of them.

He's watched Ava's mother masterfully try to steer them into safer conversational waters time and time again, he's listened to all the praise of Drew and the newspaper he can stomach while Ava's own accomplishments get brushed off as inconsequential and she withdraws farther and farther into herself. Even Harry is not exempt from his great grandfather's ire and he watches the bright eyed kid who'd met him at the door deflate like an old party balloon.

Dieter has always thought his own childhood was shitty, but it's nothing compared to this. Sure, he may have never known his dad and his mom may have ditched him, but between his grandparents and Ms. Rose, he'd never once felt anything less than accepted for exactly who he was. Or pressured to be someone he wasn't.

By the time the table is cleared and after dinner coffees are served, his back is starting to hurt from the damned uncomfortable dining chairs, his jaw hurts from clenching his teeth and his fucking knee hurts from how often Ava has dug her nails in to stop him from saying something he most likely shouldn't.

And he's had about enough. Of all of it.

"Are you staying here?" He leans in to ask Ava.

"No," she shakes her head. "I've been staying at Drew's."

"Great. Did you drive here separately?"

"Yeah, Harry wanted to ride in your Porsche."

"Even better. We're leaving," he announces, pushing his chair back from the table.

"Dieter--"

"We're leaving, Ava. Say your goodbyes and grab your things."

Ava leads Dieter up the side stairs and into the little loft apartment over Drew's garage where she used to live and where she's been staying for the last few days.

"I'm sorry. It didn't....it wasn't always like that," she says as she kicks off her heels. It's the first thing she's said since they left her grandfather's house and Dieter's heart aches for her.

"Ava, honey, you don't have anything to be sorry for. None of that shit is your fault. He's a bitter old man with fucked up ideas of how the world should work."

"Growing up....before my grandmother died....it was different. She tempered him I guess," she shrugs, taking off her pearls and tucking them safely in a little velvet pouch she puts in her make up bag.

"What was she like?" He asks, coming up behind her at the bathroom counter, beginning to hunt for and remove all the pins keeping her hair pulled back.

"She liked to cook and work in her garden, and take Drew and I bargain shopping. She was always smiling or laughing. A little bit mischievous. People gravitated to her. She would've liked you a lot."

"You think so?"

"I do," Ava smiles softly at him, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "I wish she would've gotten to know Harry, she would've gotten a kick out of him."

"He's a pretty cool kid," Dieter grins. "Clever, quick-witted. You sure he's not actually yours?"

"Positive," Ava laughs, spinning to face him. "But I did spend a lot of time with him when he was younger. Guess I rubbed off on him."

"Hey, that's not a bad thing, you know that, right? You're incredibly brilliant, Ava. It's their loss if they can't see it."

"I know. I'm working on it...."

"And, you know what else?" he grins, cupping her face in his hands and adopting a ridiculous southern accent. "You deserve to be kissed and often and by someone who knows how."

"And I suppose you think you're the proper person?"

"I might be....if the right moment ever came."

"What about now, Rhett?"

"Thanks not your line, Scarlett."

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

"That's not your line either."

"Hey, Bravo....shut up and kiss me already."

And he does.

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x ofc #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo fanfic #dieter x ofc!Ava #dieter & ava #cwams #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro stories

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bookwormchocaholic · 1 year

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Okay, I sort of did this poll yesterday and I goofed - I set it for one day instead of one week. I am reposting it and have added a few other couples.

#pride and Prejudice #jane eyre #anne of green gables #north and south #wuthering heights #little women #gone with the wind #my brilliant career #the great gatsby #the tenant of wildfell hall #literature #literary couples

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magnolia-pollen · 4 months

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Once, in a dry season, I wrote in large letters across two pages of a notebook that innocence ends when one is stripped of the delusion that one likes oneself. Although now, some years later, I marvel that a mind on the outs with itself should have nonetheless made painstaking record of its every tremor, I recall with embarrassing clarity the flavor of those particular ashes. It was a matter of misplaced self-respect.

I had not been elected to Phi Beta Kappa. This failure could scarcely have been more predictable or less ambiguous (I simply did not have the grades), but I was unnerved by it; I had somehow thought myself a kind of academic Raskolnikov, curiously exempt from the cause-effect relationships that hampered others. Although the situation must have had even then the approximate tragic stature of Scott Fitzgerald's failure to become president of the Princeton Triangle Club, the day that I did not make Phi Beta Kappa nevertheless marked the end of something, and innocence may well be the word for it. I lost the conviction that lights would always turn green for me, the pleasant certainty that those rather passive virtues which had won me approval as a child automatically guaranteed me not only Phi Beta Kappa keys but happiness, honour, and the love of a good man (preferably a cross between Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca and one of the Murchisons in a proxy fight); lost a certain touching faith in the totem power of good manners, clean hair, and proven competence on the Stanford-Binet scale. To such doubtful amulets had my self-respect been pinned, and I faced myself that day with the nonplussed wonder of someone who has come across a vampire and found no garlands of garlic at hand.

Although to be driven back upon oneself is an uneasy affair at best, rather like trying to cross a border with borrowed credentials, it seems to me now the one condition necessary to the beginnings of real self-respect. Most of our platitudes notwithstanding, self-deception remains the most difficult deception. The charms that work on others count for nothing in that devastatingly well-lit back alley where one keeps assignations with oneself: no winning smiles will do here, no prettily drawn lists of good intentions. With the desperate agility of a crooked faro dealer who spots Bat Masterson about to cut himself into the game, one shuffles flashily but in vain through one's marked cards—the kindness done for the wrong reason, the apparent triumph which had involved no real effort, the seemingly heroic act into which one had been shamed. The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others—who are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation—which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O'Hara, is something that people with courage can do without.

To do without self-respect, on the other hand, is to be an unwilling audience of one to an interminable home movie that documents one's failings, both real and imagined, with fresh footage spliced in for each screening. There’s the glass you broke in anger, there's the hurt on X's face; watch now, this next scene, the night Y came back from Houston, see how you muff this one. To live without self-respect is to lie awake some night, beyond the reach of warm milk, phenobarbital, and the sleeping hand on the coverlet, counting up the sins of commission and omission, the trusts betrayed, the promises subtly broken, the gifts irrevocably wasted through sloth or cowardice or carelessness. However long we postpone it, we eventually lie down alone in that notoriously un- comfortable bed, the one we make ourselves. Whether or not we sleep in it depends, of course, on whether or not we respect ourselves.

To protest that some fairly improbable people, some people who could not possibly respect themselves, seem to sleep easily enough is to miss the point entirely, as surely as those people miss it who think that self-respect has necessarily to do with not having safety pins in one's underwear. There is a common superstition that "self-respect" is a kind of charm against snakes, something that keeps those who have it locked in some unblighted Eden, out of strange beds, ambivalent conversations, and trouble in general. It does not at all. It has nothing to do with the face of things, but concerns instead a separate peace, a private reconciliation. Although the careless, suicidal Julian English in Appointment in Samarra and the careless, incurably dishonest Jordan Baker in The Great Gatsby seem equally improbable candidates for self-respect, Jordan Baker had it, Julian English did not. With that genius for accommodation more often seen in women than in men, Jordan took her own measure, made her own peace, avoided threats to that peace: "I hate careless people," she told Nick Carraway. "It takes two to make an accident."

Like Jordan Baker, people with self-respect have the courage of their mistakes. They know the price of things. If they choose to commit adultery, they do not then go running, in an access of bad conscience, to receive absolution from the wronged parties; nor do they complain unduly of the unfairness, the undeserved embarrassment, of being named corespondent. If they choose to forego their work—say it is screenwriting—in favor of sitting around the Algonquin bar, they do not then wonder bitterly why the Hacketts, and not they, did Anne Frank.

In brief, people with self-respect exhibit a certain toughness, a kind of moral nerve; they display what was once called character, a quality which, although approved in the abstract, sometimes loses ground to other, more instantly negotiable virtues. The measure of its slipping prestige is that one tends to think of it only in connection with homely children and with United States senators who have been defeated, preferably in the primary, for re-election. Nonetheless, character—the willingness to accept responsibility for one's own life—is the source from which self-respect springs.

Self-respect is something that our grandparents, whether or not they had it, knew all about. They had instilled in them, young, a certain discipline, the sense that one lives by doing things one does not particularly want to do, by putting fears and doubts to one side, by weighing immediate comforts against the possibility of larger, even intangible, comforts. It seemed to the nineteenth century admirable, but not remarkable, that Chinese Gordon put on a clean white suit and held Khartoum against the Mahdi; it did not seem unjust that the way to free land in California involved death and difficulty and dirt. In a diary kept during the winter of 1846, an emigrating twelve-year-old named Narcissa Cornwall noted coolly: "Father was busy reading and did not notice that the house was being filled with strange Indians until Mother spoke about it." Even lacking any clue as to what Mother said, one can scarcely fail to be impressed by the entire incident: the father reading, the Indians filing in, the mother choosing the words that would not alarm, the child duly recording the event and noting further that those particular Indians were not, "fortunately for us," hostile. Indians were simply part of the donnée.

In one guise or another, Indians always are. Again, it is a question of recognizing that anything worth having has its price. People who respect themselves are willing to accept the risk that the Indians will be hostile, that the venture will go bankrupt, that the liaison may not turn out to be one in which every day is a holiday because you’re married to me. They are willing to invest something of themselves; they may not play at all, but when they do play, they know the odds.

That kind of self-respect is a discipline, a habit of mind that can never be faked but can be developed, trained, coaxed forth. It was once suggested to me that, as an antidote to crying, I put my head in a paper bag. As it happens, there is a sound physiological reason, something to do with oxygen, for doing exactly that, but the psychological effect alone is incalculable: it is difficult in the extreme to continue fancying oneself Cathy in Wuthering Heights with one's head in a Food Fair bag. There is a similar case for all the small disciplines, unimportant in themselves; imagine maintaining any kind of swoon, commiserative or carnal, in a cold shower.

But those small disciplines are valuable only insofar as they represent larger ones. To say that Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton is not to say that Napoleon might have been saved by a crash program in cricket; to give formal dinners in the rain forest would be pointless did not the candlelight flickering on the liana call forth deeper, stronger disciplines, values instilled long before. It is a kind of ritual, helping us to remember who and what we are. In order to remember it, one must have known it.

To have that sense of one's intrinsic worth which, for better or for worse, constitutes self-respect, is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent. To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference. If we do not respect ourselves, we are on the one hand forced to despise those who have so few resources as to consort with us, so little perception as to remain blind to our fatal weaknesses. On the other, we are peculiarly in thrall to everyone we see, curiously determined to live out—since our self-image is untenable—their false notions of us. We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gift for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give. Of course we will play Francesca to Paolo, Brett Ashley to Jake, Helen Keller to anyone's Annie Sullivan: no expectation is too misplaced, no rôle too ludicrous. At the mercy of those we can not but hold in contempt, we play rôles doomed to failure before they are begun, each defeat generating fresh despair at the necessity of divining and meeting the next demand made upon us.

It is the phenomenon sometimes called alienation from self. In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the spectre of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that one's sanity becomes an object of speculation among one's acquaintances. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves—there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

#joan didion #self respect #article #commonplace #words

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thegreatzombieartisan · 1 year

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TRoP Fanfic Prompt:

Circumstances coerce Sauron, Galadriel, & Celeborn to “play house”

Who portrays Celeborn here? Why, it’s Tom Hiddleston

Prompt

What if Galadriel binds herself to Sauron and Celeborn returns? But instead of being conveniently side-lined, he moves in? Because he has to.

Reality is faced: Galadriel’s fea/spirit is split between both husbands, each as different as frost from fire. Consequences are to be had - the kind that force all three into an unimaginable and reluctant arrangement.

Dynamics inspo: essentially, maximum drama.

Miriel, Elven queen whose fëa/spirit was depleted

Inessa Armand x Lenin x Nadya Krupskay

Heathcliff x Cathy x Edgar in Wuthering Heights

Rhett x Scarlett x Ashley in Gone with the Wind

Vicky x Juan x Xtina in Vicky Christina Barcelona

Example Storyline

Soon after binding to Sauron, Galadriel’s occasional bouts of sorrow become more frequent and intense, threatening Sauron’s lifeline to the light. Until, these bouts inexplicably begin to wane.

Alas, it’s discovered why: Celeborn lives and had been journeying back to his wife. Now split between two husbands, Galadriel’s weakened fëa/spirit and Sauron’s penitence coerce all three into an unthinkable & taboo arrangement. For only the Valar can dissolve a binding.

Receiving the Valar’s intervention hinges on Sauron begging pardon from Manwë. But should Sauron return to darkness, they are all doomed to remain in the reluctant ménage a trois. Somehow they have to put aside drama and make this work.

Random plots, arcs, & themes:

Celebrian’s unusual parentage. Galadriel has separate sexual relationships with Sauron and Celeborn, who tolerate each other for love of her. That is, until one wine-filled night. An exact year later, Celebrian is born. While the child looks undeniably like Celeborn, it’s not long before she displays Maia powers.

Dark/Murderous. To restore Galadriel’s fëa/spirit. and have her to himself, Sauron schemes to be rid of Celeborn - permanently. But seemingly gentle Celeborn is an unsuspecting formidable foe, having also “touched darkness” during his travels.

Two bucks in Spring. Despite unspoken mutual attraction, Galadriel insists that her alliance Sauron is only a platonic “Faustian bargain.” Things begin to heat up until Celeborn returns. Events force all three into a household and relationship of sorts, although only Celeborn has carnal access to Galadriel. Despite lines seemingly drawn, Sauron competes with Celeborn to usurp Galadriel’s favor.

Hannibal-ish bromance/the “missing ingredient.” Celeborn finds his deep loathing for Sauron giving way to the other man’s charisma, defiance of limitations, lack of shame of who he is. Things Celeborn struggled with under his gentle exterior. Perhaps Sauron’s the key to mastering his own fears - or the spark to breaking bad. Will Galadriel be pleased or unexpectedly jealous?

More Husbands-focused/Wuthering Heights-ish. Lest her weakened fëa/spirit kill her, Galadriel beseeches both men to be at peace. But it proves too much and her spirit leaves her body to heal in Mandos’s Halls. Can both men relinquish possessiveness and grudges? Or will they both loose Galadriel and Middle-Earth to darkness?

Change of heart. After initially desiring to be with Sauron, Galadriel sees his repentance is doomed. She returns to being Celeborn’s wife. Or perhaps, seeing how she’s changed, Celeborn gives her up.

Felt inspired and wrote a fic? I want to read it! Tag me and feel free for each out for any guidance.

#just MAXIMUM drama #headcanon

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fireolin · 1 year

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Tag 9 People You Want to Get to Know Better

Thanks so much for the tags @sunlightslastglimmer and @autumnxsunflower ! (Also, @sunlightslastglimmer i hope you've recovered and are feeling well now.)

Three Ships: Killugon (all my fic lol), Nobunaga x Hinrigh (from hxh but I don't know the ship name, and after the next hiatus I bet at least one dies), Steve and Eddie from OFMD

First Ever Ship: I really don't know, but I remember reading Gone with the Wind when i was fourteen and having Scarlett O Hara and Rhett Butler break my heart

Last Song: Luxurious from Gwen Stefani (the last song in an online workout I did today)

Currently Reading: Molly House by A R Pip (the author's first book, which I saw a rec for. So far, it's very good! I'm on holiday atm so this is holiday reading)

Currently Watching: Extraordinary Attorney Woo (have watched two episodes and it's as good as people have said so far. I cried within the first ten minutes in a good way

Currently Consuming: Gin and tonic

Currently Craving: To have edited my fic lol

Everyone I would have tagged has already been tagged! Happy holidays everyone <3

#asks for me #sunlightslastglimmer and autumnxsunflower #i'm away atm so not at my laptop much bc i don't have my ergonomic set up #thanks so much for tagging me!

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scarfacehastings · 2 years

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Memories

“Scarlett..What happened?” The voice was so distant after the sudden rampage that filled her. Her fingers were still curled up into a ball, and she had just finished destroying every inch of her room mere seconds before Rhett walked in. “Scar..Hello?” This time he was closer, his hand on her shoulder, trying to pull her back to reality.

Tears swarmed her eyes as she turned around to see the male in front of her, she inhaled sharply. She forgot that he was coming over. Horror filled her face as she chewed anxiously at her bottom pout, peeling the skin off of her lips. “Wh-When did you get here?” She stammered, but he just shook his head grabbing her hands to examine the damage that she had created. Her knuckles were bruised from where she punched holes into her walls, and the wooden door. “This isn’t what it looks like, I-” Of course she couldn’t come up with a lie. Not now.

“It’s okay, why don’t we sit down?” His voice was calm, something she hadn’t experienced in what felt like forever. Normally, the both of them were fighting or spoke in passing and he was monotoned, emotionless. Guiding the both of them to the bed that sat mere inches apart he stared at her, brushing the dark locks away from her face as they clung to her tear-stained cheeks. “Why don’t you tell me what happened,” he coaxed. Scarlett knew there was no lie to get her out of this one, but she still didn’t know where to begin or where the photo went that triggered all of this.

“I don’t know what happened,” she lied. That was the best part that she could muster up. Looking in every direction but his, she finally turned her head towards the middle of the room. Almost perfectly in the center was the Polaroid in question and just like on cue Rhett followed her gaze. The bed shifted as he picked up the photo.

“Is this what happened?” He asked examining the picture closely nearly cringing at what it contained:

It was the family Christmas photo back from six years ago. Scarlett was obsessed with the camera she had gotten from my parents, so naturally, wherever she went that camera went. Going from left to right were the following people: Asher, Adams, LeAnne, Andrew, Rhett and Scarlett.

It was the photo of the century, the one where Rhett had officially met the entire family, and the day her world came crashing down. Faces were scratched out, but only two remained; LeAnne and Rhetts. Scarletts face included was nothing but a huge X going through it. As Rhett brought the picture closer, his fingers ran over the harsh damages to the faces and sighed. “Scarlett..” He started but the woman just shook her head, holding a hand up.

“There’s nothing to talk about..I just.. Lost it. It was a reminder of the time I had a sense of happiness. A sense of direction of how I wanted my life to go. Now? It’s nothing but a painful memory of everything. How I’ve lost who I am, what I was.. None of it makes sense anymore and I’m just.. Lost.” She admitted before her hand dropped, fist opening to the small tennis bracelet that she received that same night. Two for one memories if you will. Quickly tucking it underneath her pillow she just looked up at him with a somber expression.

“You aren’t lost, Scarlett. You were, are, better off without any of them anyways. Look how far you’ve come. You’ve learned so much, you’re keeping up with your sobriety. You aren’t alone in any of this, I promise.” Picking a lighter out of his pocket, Rhett flicked it open and stared at her as the flame came to life. “It’s time to let go, Peach. It’s time to make a new name for the Hastings. Fuck the old,” He said before the flame connected with the photos nearly scorching the top as the plastic back started to melt.

As the token memory became ash in her garbage can she rested her head against the males muscular build. His limbs encased tightly around her as they both watched the memory that was painful to the both of them disintegrate right before them. “Thank you, Toad,” she whispered as her eyes adverted up to him, smiling weakly as his lips pressed to her forehead.

“Anything for you, Princess peach,” he whispered, finally falling silent as the both of them allowed the process of the burning photo erase all memories, any evidence of what used to be.

Welcome to Sanctum, a place where new beginnings start. A place where you can rebuild yourself, and forget the past.

#—[wrting]#—[ac]

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texascountrymiss · 5 months

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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Gone With The Wind Silk Tie.

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ofrbjsdy · 10 months

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Joan Didion:

[...]

The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others — who are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation, which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O’Hara, is something people with courage can do without.

To do without self-respect, on the other hand, is to be an unwilling audience of one to an interminable documentary that deals with one’s failings, both real and imagined, with fresh footage spliced in for every screening. There’s the glass you broke in anger, there’s the hurt on X’s face; watch now, this next scene, the night Y came back from Houston, see how you muff this one. To live without self-respect is to lie awake some night, beyond the reach of warm milk, the Phenobarbital, and the sleeping hand on the coverlet, counting up the sins of commissions and omission, the trusts betrayed, the promises subtly broken, the gifts irrevocably wasted through sloth or cowardice, or carelessness. However long we postpone it, we eventually lie down alone in that notoriously uncomfortable bed, the one we make ourselves. Whether or not we sleep in it depends, of course, on whether or not we respect ourselves.

[...]

It has nothing to do with the face of things, but concerns instead a separate peace, a private reconciliation.

[...]

Character — the willingness to accept responsibility for one’s own life — is the source from which self-respect springs.

[…]

Self-respect is a discipline, a habit of mind that can never be faked but can be developed, trained, coaxed forth. It was once suggested to me that, as an antidote to crying, I put my head in a paper bag. As it happens, there is a sound physiological reason, something to do with oxygen, for doing exactly that, but the psychological effect alone is incalculable: it is difficult in the extreme to continue fancying oneself Cathy in Wuthering Heights with one’s head in a Food Fair bag. There is a similar case for all the small disciplines, unimportant in themselves; imagine maintaining any kind of swoon, commiserative or carnal, in a cold shower.

[…]

To have that sense of one’s intrinsic worth which constitutes self-respect is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent. To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference. If we do not respect ourselves, we are on the one hand forced to despise those who have so few resources as to consort with us, so little perception as to remain blind to our fatal weaknesses. On the other, we are peculiarly in thrall to everyone we see, curiously determined to live out — since our self-image is untenable — their false notion of us. We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gist for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give. Of course I will play Francesca to your Paolo, Helen Keller to anyone’s Annie Sullivan; no expectation is too misplaced, no role too ludicrous. At the mercy of those we cannot but hold in contempt, we play roles doomed to failure before they are begun, each defeat generating fresh despair at the urgency of divining and meting the next demand made upon us.

It is the phenomenon sometimes called ‘alienation from self.’ In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the specter of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that answering it becomes out of the question. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves — there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

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