#bitch goddess

[bitter69uk]

“In this business, until you're known as a monster, you're not a star.” Bette Davis, quoted in the opening credits of MaxXxine (2024).

“Bette Davis’ greatest creation was Bette Davis. She was – indeed – a fine actress, but she made sure that the world knew it, knew how hard she worked and what opposition she had to overcome to get great acting roles. She wanted to be known as an “actress” and she gritted her teeth, bulged her eyes and succeeded, winning two Oscars, eight nominations and numerous other awards. She became the Queen of Hollywood as surely as Clark Gable became its King, and she was a big box office star to boot.”

/ From The Illustrated Encyclopedia of The World’s Greatest Movie Stars (1979) by Ken Wlaschin /

Died on this day 35 years ago: Hollywood’s fierce “Mother Goddam”, Miss Bette Davis (5 April 1908 – 6 October 1989), concisely summarized by film historian John Kobal as “the most starry of actresses and the most actressy of stars.”

[bitter69uk]

Born on this day 91 years ago (23 May 1933): haughty veteran show biz diva, undisputed bitch goddess extraordinaire, camp icon and the woman forever known as Alexis Carrington - Dame Joan Henrietta Collins! In the spirit of generosity, because it’s her birthday, let’s draw a veil over Collins’ frankly unpleasant right-wing politics and support for UKIP! In terms of her trashy cinematic oeuvre, I treasure Collins’ performances in 1970s British horror schlock like Tales from the Crypt (1972) and Tales that Witness Madness (1973) (I’ve yet to experience the notorious Empire of the Ants (1977)), and the disco-era kitsch epics The Stud (1978) and The Bitch (1979) adapted from steamy novels by her sister Jackie. Pictured: young starlet Collins as Princess Nellifer in her big Hollywood break, Land of the Pharaohs (1955). (Tagline: “Her treachery stained every stone of the great pyramid!”). Collins was indebted to temperamental fashion model Ivy Nicholson (née Irene Nicholson, 1933 -2021), the original choice for the role. As Nicholson’s New York Times obituary outlined, “When Howard Hawks flew her to Egypt in 1954 for a role in his epic movie Land of the Pharaohs, she objected to the studio’s multiyear contract. So, as she later told the story, she bit one of the actors to get out of the deal. Her replacement was Joan Collins.” As for Nicholson, her wayward path led her away from both haute couture and Hollywood to underground stardom at Andy Warhol’s Factory.

Joan Collins, 1955

[j-august]

The back of my neck began to itch where the bitch goddess coincidence had bitten me before.

Ross MacDonald, The Ivory Grin

[pdxlocked]

[onlywombs]

[bitter69uk]

“Hollywood’s most representative “Great Movie Star” and the screen’s finest personification of no-holds-barred ambition, Joan Crawford created her own screen persona early, doubtless basing it on her own desperate climb from the bottom of society and pushed this screen image to the very peak of stardom. The outward manifestations changed, but the core of the image never altered: she was a tough, shrewd, determined woman who wanted the best things in life and would do anything to get them – even murder. “I love to play bitches,” she once said, and in the end, she came to symbolize the bitch-goddess success, the dark side of the American dream. She looked like a star, she behaved like a star, she was a star.” 

/ From The Illustrated Encyclopedia of The World’s Great Movie Stars (1979) by Ken Wlaschin / 

Born on this day: the fierce and regal Miss Joan Crawford (née Lucille LeSueur on 23 March 1904, although the precise year of Crawford’s birth is contested). Pictured: the diva photographed by Willy Rizzo in 1959. That’s almost certainly a glass of vodka next to her elbow. 

Joan Crawford gazing in the mirror, photographed by Willy Rizzo, 1959.

[black-women-appreciation]

Afro ✅

Dark skin ✅

Bad bitch ✅

[bitter69uk]

“… but what caught my attention and slightly disappointed me about her was not the colour of her foundation-smooth, pale pink complexion that seemed to take its tone from a sea of freckles (I hadn’t expected those), but the wild colour of her hair. I had thought it would be black or brown or some solid dark hue, and instead it was a kind of champagne pink, the colour one sees on a lot of California matrons in supermarkets.” 

The late, great film historian John Kobal dissing Joan Crawford’s pink hair in his 1986 book People Will Talk: Personal Conversations with the Legends of Hollywood. Pictured: Crawford in 1957. 

[bitter69uk]

From the amazing photographer Eve Arnold’s series of photos of fierce-eyed screen diva Joan Crawford for Life magazine in 1959. I love Arnold’s memory of their first meeting: before handing her two pet poodles to her personal assistant, Crawford lovingly kissed each dog on the mouth – then turned to Arnold and kissed her on the mouth, in that order! Read more here. 

Joan Crawford receives a facial photographed by Eve Arnold, 1959

[goddessmedusa9]

i control your wallet 😈

[bitter69uk]

“Hollywood’s most representative “Great Movie Star” and the screen’s finest personification of no-holds-barred ambition, Joan Crawford created her own screen persona early, doubtless basing it on her own desperate climb from the bottom of society and pushed this screen image to the very peak of stardom. The outward manifestations changed, but the core of the image never altered: she was a tough, shrewd, determined woman who wanted the best things in life and would do anything to get them – even murder. “I love to play bitches,” she once said, and in the end, she came to symbolize the bitch-goddess success, the dark side of the American dream. She looked like a star, she behaved like a star, she was a star.”

/ From The Illustrated Encyclopaedia of The World’s Great Movie Stars (1979) by Ken Wlaschin /

Born on this day in San Antonio, Texas: the fierce and regal Miss Joan Crawford (née Lucille LeSueur on 23 March somewhere between 1904 and 1908. The precise year of Crawford’s birth is contested although 1906 seems to be generally accepted). Pictured: the diva – in blazing colour! - featured in the August 1942 issue of Photoplay magazine.

Photoplay, August 1942

[pdxlocked]

[spoiltbrattyqueen]

Who's eager to take on a new task?

Get down on your knees🧎🧎and say hi 👋

[punk-in-docs]

A song of rage and salty waves: part I

— Emperor Geta x reader (Salacia)

— 2.5k words

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV — Part V

Summary; You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblog and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW!! some dub con/ threat/violence/basically forced marriage/forced smut situation/Geta is such a vile human being/Macrinus is villain sorry denzel ily

You’re imprisoned in Rome.

You certainly didn’t come here of your own free will. Your father had tugged you here from Corsica. Employed clever charm with letters and schemes from his high position in the senate.

As the role of your sex; you were born to obey.

He sent you imported silken stolas the colours of cornflowers or lazurite, with gold fibulae at the shoulders. Gem inlaid jewellery, rings to decorate every finger, and earrings the sway. A golden net for your hair. Wheedled you into coming to join him. Sending servants to travel with you and take heed of your every comfort.

He made sure you dined on plump fresh fruit. Seafood of lobsters and crabs. Drank wine so rich dark it looked black.

You despise it. The stone pillars and temples. And gods of old. Eyes watch you everywhere. See you. Follow you.The governing heat and noise and sweaty heaving mass of all forms of life.

You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa.

Salacia. The ocean nymph and the being of your name. Crowned with seaweed in your hair. Sea foam dripping off your fingers. Ripped from your home, an isle by the sea, at the whim of another.

Imprisoned here in this cold marble city. A fish out of water. Gasping dry on the shore.

Pulled inland and stolen away. You can’t hear gulls or waves anymore. It sickens you. Heart pangs that throb for home.

When you arrived, pulled back your folded palla down to your shoulders. He welcomed you with open arms and fondness. Wrists linked in gold cuffs. Tugged you to his chest and embraced you warmly. Hissed in your ear - abrasive like harsh sea spray - spies are everywhere.

He needed you close by. For reasons you had yet to fathom.

You dined like spoilt deity’s. Breads and wines, fish, fruits from far regions fattened by the suns heat, and succulent meat roasted in sweet cassia spices on a spit.

He had urns of flowers - picked by the servant - placed in every room. Lilies, juniper branches still bearing dark fruit, lavender, oleanders.

Companions join him and he is boastful of you. A nubile creature offered placement at a table of old muddled men. He introduces you to trusted friends and advisors in the senate.

One man in particular takes keen interest as to your recent arrival. His name was Macrinus. Man of information and resources. Dealt in cunning and cruelty though you found him sincerely charming. Your father watched you with a desperate eye.

Macrinus bore a smile so dazzling and blinding it made you dizzy; made think of the sun god. Apollo and his light cast across golden wheat fields. Notes of fine music. He sipped his wine slow, as he learned the flavour of your name. Where you came from. Understanding the rolling sea foam in your veins.

There’s a game to be held at the coliseum. He will have your father as his guest - and you by a very pretty extension. He nods at you; his eyes glimmer like pooled liquid gold in the half lit dark. It almost makes you feel safe.

They dine and drink into the small hours. Yet you slip away.

You watched this awful city out your window that night in your silk dress the colour of night time tidal waves. The air is stale. Carrion to you. Hot. Full of dust and sweat. Here, It smells like mulberry trees and a green garden waiting for blessed rain.

You couldn’t hear the sea. Or your sisters. Your mothers humming as she wove cloth and mended clothes. And you wept.

Salt found in your tears to be your only sacred comfort of home.

~

You are soft to this hard stone city. The coliseum is magnificent. As large as it is those who hold their powerful fists over its rule. Clutched in gold. Fine for the rich. Deadly for the slaves and warriors thrown into the pit at the whim of others. Met with carnivore teeth and sand and death.

The senators, generals, and the rich merchants watch from their perch, up among the gods they serve, presiding in shade and clothed in perfumed silks and jewels. Ladies and men both.

Your hair took hours to fasten in its current coiled style. Plaited and weaved. Your dress is the colour of the softest blue shore. Your servant lavished your arms and fingers in golden finery. A serpent cuff coiled around your arm. Skin draped in lemon oil because it’s the small piece of Corsica you carry here with you. Serenity to push against this place of gore, butchery and death.

You find yourself seated here amongst giants. Macrinus is seated one side. Your father the other. He fondly lays his hand across yours in gentle touch.

His palm is damp. Gold rings wet.

His face looks haggard with age. The lines by his eyes more prominent. Rome is poisoning him. The golden apple just a fingertip shy of his reach. St Bartholomew flayed and stripped of skin piece by piece. Schemes and plots lay thick in his mind like rot. Sweat beads down across his brow and the thinning salt pepper of his hair.

He says something to Macrinus that you’re too absorbed to hear. It’s low. Dragged through a growl. He appears unmoved, with a slow flick of his eyes to you. Watching this finery and loudness devour you. Your eyes so full wide and round. Salt and innocence entwined.

You all rise when the emperors pass by, Geta and Caracalla, who stride in, garbed in gold and cloaks. Come to take their rightful place at the mouth of the box where you are seated.

They are like twin suns to the Roman people. Lion gold hair kissed by fire. They burn and twist and shine with it. Make noises like gold coins that clack when they move. Strung in riches and golden crowns of olive leaves and branches.

Together they make you think of Romulus and Remus. Raised rabid by wolves. And they certainly make an impression. You’ve heard tale of the voracious nature of the blood sport they all but live for. Faces limned in the glory of gore.

The crowd cheers for them. They nod and wave but it appears barbed. The games begin with a wave of applause and a regal hand.

Caracalla twists and casts an eye in your direction. Seeing new meat.

The way you sit sedately and can’t cast your mind into the butchery and violence happening below. The clash of steel. The hollow squelching cries that proceed death. The spill of viscera and the scatter of brain matter from split heads.

Each new gash or split in skin made them smile. The taint of blood. Metallic sour. Spilling of offal and exposed bone.

He tilts his head like a clever wolf. Eyes darken. His sneer as terrible as a skulls. He leans across and whispers something to his brother with a knock of his arm to gain attention.

Another set of wolfish eyes join the first in hooking to your skin. Silly soft girl. Made of gentle sea breezes and lapping blue waves calm and soft enough to wade in. Pearl shining in moonlight. So watery and weak. So good. Untouchable.

Geta swept his gaze on you from head to toe. Appraising you hungrily through greedy eyes. The beauty of your figure in that soft folds of that stola. The gold that crushed your neck. Broaches at your fair shoulders. Hair glistening and finely arranged.

He liked the way you winced when another sword blow came. The pull of your brows and how you had to look away. He wanted you gathered up in his lap; fingers crushing your jaw as he turned your head; force you to watch as the men cleaved at each other and drew blood. Hacked off limbs. Laugh at your revulsion.

Looking at you sat there; He has an urge to take his dagger, slit that fine silk from your shoulders and bare your real beauty. Grab it off you and snatch your dress down. Spoil himself on your curves. Grab your breasts. He’s sure you’ve tits that even a goddess would envy. He’d reel you in by grabbing your ass that definitely needs a spank and some attention.

You’re even prettier than some of the finest whores he’s had grace his bed. They never kept his interest too long. Too entwined in filth and sin like him; you look pure as a vestal virgin.

He likes that. He wants to pluck it off you and spoil it.

You don’t dare meet his eyes. Of course you don’t. He’s an emperor. He could have you executed for looking at him wrongly. Instead; you wring your hands in your lap and squirm. Close your eyes tighter with every dying wail.

He turns back to the fight. As do you. A gasp flies from your mouth when you draw your eyes to one of the measly soldiers in the arena. Your father left his seat to stand, mouth gaping.

You saw the familiar arrangement of strong limbs. Garbed in warriors clothing. The way his arms shook holding a sword. Inexperienced and struggling. The fight was not fair. The same head of hair that matched your own.

Your oldest brother.

Macrinus grinned. “He’s not my finest fighter. But I wager he’ll be good sport.” He smirks.

Your father turned, cursed the gods, and exploded with venomous rage. Flew for the man with his fists. Grabbed his clothing. You tried to restrain the storm of his temper - but then you’d got that trait from somewhere hadn’t you? - an ocean thrashing wild and free. Terrifying in its rage.

“You promised me.” Your father roared. Spittle flying.

“I never promised to protect your traitor of a son. Let us see if the gods spare him. Yes?” Macrinus commented.

You couldn’t take your eyes from the pit. Nor could your father. He clutched to you like he could barely stand. Weakened and shrinking. Hand a vice on your shoulder. It burned like the sting of sun but you couldn’t shrug him off.

Your brother was meeting with an opponent far larger than he was. A Retiarius. Helmet, trident, dagger and a net.

Of which had currently knocked your brother to the blood dusted dirt. Spearing the trident deep into his thigh. Pinning him to earth like a bug. His cry of pain ringing out. Blood sheeted down one side of his head. His scream is the most horrible thing you’d ever heard.

You can’t help it. Where you’re stood, you cry out. It pours forth from you.

The Retiarius loomed over your bother like a terrible storm cloud. Looking up at the stands for direction. The whole audience cheered and screamed for more.

Geta stood up and the crowd bayed. He sneered at the sight before him. All the power of a god; crammed into a mortal man.

He raised his arm. And hesitated for a moment. Before he smirked. And pointed his thumb right up.

Death.

Your father wailed. The huge lumbering gladiator descended onto your brother. Flinging the net off and cutting his throat in one fast slice. Blood poured and pooled around lifeless eyes. Stained the sand.

Macrinus stood to his feet and clapped along with everyone else. The emperors’ laughed like hyenas at the sight. Blood and pain only made their smiles grow.

Before you knew what was happening, the palace guards had you and your father surrounded. Hands viced around your arms. Your shoulders. Your father too.

Traitor. He decried. A traitor in the senate. The tarpeian rock.

Just like his now dead son. People’s poised against the glory of Rome. Against Caracalla and Geta. Death to all.

Macrinus spoke harshly to the guards to release you. He backhanded you across your cheek. Your eye felt like it was going to burst. Cheek flamed with fire. Lip cut and bleeding down your chin from his ring.

He then wasted little time in digging his fingers into your finely done hair. Hauled you along screaming. Tears streaming.

Your father could only watch, limbs wrenching forwards in terror to help, as Macrinus marched you across the stands to where they sat.

He threw you to the ground like a feral animal. Tumbled you onto your knees. Skimmed your hands. As you squirmed and cried at your body twisted to his cruelty.

“Your majesties. I have personally uncovered a traitor in your court. Senator Aurelius. Not only was his first born placed in rebellion against Rome. But he himself has been sowing seeds of treason in your senate. I bring you his filthy kin as recompense…” He spat at the Emperors. Releasing your mussed hair to throw you to their feet.

They examined you as one would a creature. Nothing of humanity left. Devoid of any feeling. You crawled slowly to your elbows. Tried to claw away sobs. Raising up but not daring to look at them. You weren’t worthy. You feared them.

Geta was the one who rose slowly to his feet. Coming to stand before you. “We are most grateful for your revelation, Macrinus. You will be rewarded for such loyal service.” Though he spoke to him, his eyes never left you.

You father shouted and cried pleas. They go unheard. He snaps to the guards who hold him. “Silence that treacherous snake-“ he barks. They beat him into submission.

You stay cowering on the ground. In amongst the gritty dirt, and the blood like those slaves and gladiators. That’s how they saw you. That’s how much you were worth. Held in the same regard as the dirt on their shoes.

You feel a ring clad hand tip a finger under your chin. Blood dripping down onto that digit as he made you raise your head to look at him until your neck hurt.

“What is your name, pretty little traitor-“ He sneers. Because that is all you are. They’ve tarred and feathered you with the same brush.

You give it to him through tears that run freely. You give this awful golden haired emperor with dark lecherous eyes your name.

“Salacia.” You cry. Voice watery and cloaked in heavy salty sobs. Lips parted. So soft and pliable. Lovely and ripe and waiting for him. A gift from the gods-

He tilts his head down at you. Looking like some sun gold lion. Showing his canines in a cruel white smile.

“Imprison them. Both.” He smirks.

He thinks he may have them bring him your fathers head on a platter. Strangulation seemed too soft. Too forgiving. He had to make an example of you.

He had a particular way in mind for your fate. He watched you get led away crying as he sucked your sweet blood off his thumb.

You tasted like salt and sea foam

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people—

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[bitter69uk]

“Cigarettes were such a Davis signature that her Jezebel co-star Henry Fonda once joked, “I’ve been close to Bette Davis for 38 years—and I have the cigarette burns to prove it.” They were not just accessories, either, but an extension of her already over-the-top self. Per biographer Ed Sikov in his 2007 book Dark Victory: The Life of Bette Davis: “Cigarettes were to Bette Davis what a bottle of Southern Comfort was to Janis Joplin, or a half-unbuttoned black shirt is to Tom Ford: a mundane prop elevated by sheer force of personality to the level of a stylized autograph.” The book also quotes Dr. Ivin Prince: “She used smoking in a way I’d never seen before. It was a signature.” She was so dependent on her signature Vanguards—of which she smoked up to four packs a day—that she could not abstain from them, even during a ten-minute television appearance. “If I did not smoke a cigarette,” she explained to TV talk show hosts, “they would not know who I was.” No one told Davis to put out her cigarettes, though, not even her dentist—who told Sikov that the actress smoked in both his waiting room and in the actual dentist’s chair. “She pretty much did what she wanted,” Prince said. Davis’s accessory was so omnipresent and iconic that when the U.S. Post Office noticeably photoshopped out the actress’s cigarette, for a postage stamp in 2008, some Davis fans jokingly suggested a revolt.”

Born on this day: the turbulent Miss Bette “Mother Goddamn” Davis (Ruth Elizabeth Davis, 5 April 1908 – 6 October 1989), concisely summarized by film historian John Kobal as “the most starry of actresses and the most actressy of stars.” And as this 2017 Vanity Fair article by Amy Miller quoted above reminds us, she was also virtually a cigarette in human form! Portrait of Davis by Victor Skrebneski, 1971.

Bette Davis

[ifevilz]

please, on behalf of all the greek deities, I beg for more fanfics with the most perfect and crazy goddess of the greek pantheon, HERA. she is so hot, angry and possessive. despite all her hard layer, we know that there is the sweet hera kind, compassionate, diplomatic and loving. she just needs to be truly loved, for god’s sake. she is the best goddess, despite her crimes committed by anger. I understand her, and I love how creative and cruel she is with her punishments. she has several layers, toxic and healthy. anyway, I love her and would love that she had more stories.

(I love the way she is in the anime “blood of zeus”, I miss your peacocks but I like the aesthetics of the crows. my wife can do anything.