#knowing none of this would be in the story lol

[sturniololuvz]

could you do one where marylou needs help getting 2-3 year old sister to sleep and matt steps in, getting her tired and then tucking her in all the good stuff lol

yessss!

“Matt to the Rescue”

Sturniolos x sister

Warnings: none

The Sturniolo house was always a little loud, a little chaotic, and full of love. But tonight? Tonight was just exhausting.

MaryLou let out a tired sigh, rubbing her temples as she paced back and forth outside Y/N’s nursery. At two years old, her youngest was proving to be impossible to put to sleep. Every time she thought Y/N was finally dozing off, the toddler would suddenly sit up, wide awake and ready to play.

She peeked inside the room, where Y/N was sitting in her crib, babbling to herself and tossing her stuffed animals onto the floor. It was already past bedtime, and nothing—lullabies, rocking, stories—was working.

Defeated, she walked down the hall toward the living room, where her three eighteen-year-old sons were sprawled out on the couch, half-watching a random movie.

“Guys,” she sighed, hands on her hips. “One of you has to help me. Y/N will not go to sleep.”

Chris groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. “Mom, just let her stay up. Maybe she’s nocturnal.”

Nick chuckled. “Yeah, or maybe she just thrives on making your life harder.”

MaryLou shot them both a look, but before she could argue, Matt sat up and stretched. “I got it, Mom.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” he said, already getting to his feet. “I’ll get her tired.”

Chris snorted. “Good luck, bro. She’s built different.”

Matt just smirked. “Watch and learn.”

With that, he walked off toward Y/N’s room, rolling his shoulders like he was preparing for battle.

When he opened the door, Y/N perked up immediately.

“Matty!” she squealed, bouncing on the mattress.

Matt leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You do know it’s bedtime, right?”

Y/N grinned at him like he’d just said the funniest thing in the world. “No!”

He chuckled. “Okay, fair. But what if we made bedtime fun?”

Y/N tilted her head, intrigued. “How?”

Matt stepped into the room and scooped her up, spinning her around. “We gotta tire you out first.”

Y/N let out a delighted giggle as he tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He carried her into the hallway, where Nick and Chris turned to watch the chaos unfold.

“Is this your master plan?” Chris asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yup,” Matt said, plopping Y/N onto the floor. “We’re gonna have a dance party.”

Y/N gasped. “Dance?”

“Yeah, but only for five minutes,” Matt said, squatting down to her level. “Then we gotta go to sleep. Deal?”

Y/N considered this very serious offer before nodding. “Deal!”

Matt pulled out his phone and blasted a song, immediately starting to wiggle his arms in the worst dance moves possible. Y/N erupted into giggles and started mimicking him, her little legs bouncing as she twirled around.

Nick laughed from the couch. “Dude, you look ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well, she’s having fun,” Matt shot back, continuing his ridiculous dance routine.

For the next few minutes, Y/N jumped, spun, and clapped to the beat, her giggles filling the house. By the time the song ended, she was worn out, panting and stumbling slightly.

Matt grinned. “Alright, sleepyhead, time for bed.”

Y/N yawned dramatically. “Nooo…”

“Yeahhh,” he teased, scooping her up again. She rested her head against his shoulder, her little arms draped around his neck.

As he carried her back into her room, she mumbled sleepily, “Matty, stay?”

His heart melted.

“Of course, bug,” he whispered, gently laying her in her crib and tucking her in. He grabbed her favorite stuffed bunny and placed it beside her.

She blinked up at him, eyes barely staying open. “Sing?”

Matt chuckled softly. “You really know how to get what you want, huh?”

But he stayed. And he sang.

A soft, quiet melody—nothing fancy, just something to soothe her.

Before he even finished, Y/N’s tiny hand went slack against his arm, her breathing slow and even.

Matt smiled, brushing a stray curl from her forehead before standing up and tiptoeing out of the room.

As he shut the door, he turned to see MaryLou standing there, watching with a warm smile.

“You’re really good with her,” she whispered.

Matt shrugged. “She’s my baby sister. Someone’s gotta keep her in check.”

MaryLou kissed his cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

He smirked. “Told you I had it under control.”

Chris, who had been watching from the couch, scoffed. “Okay, yeah, but at what cost? That was exhausting just to witness.”

Nick grinned. “You are kinda like the baby whisperer, though.”

Matt just smiled to himself as he sat back down. He wouldn’t admit it, but spending time with Y/N like that? It meant everything.

And, if she asked him to do it all over again tomorrow night?

Yeah, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

[marvelrivalsimagines]

A Blessing From the Gods

Characters: Hela, Moon Knight, Scarlet Witch, Winter soldier

Prompt: “could you do Moon knight, Bucky and any other character of your choice with another avatar of a Greek gods?” - anon request

Author’s note: I tried to keep which God you are the avatar of vague so you can imagine whatever kinds of powers/backstory you’d like. Also I’m not sure if the requester wanted the HCs to be romantic or platonic but I think these can be read either way. 

Warnings: None!

When Hela sees you for the first time she is immediately intrigued by your presence, for better or worse. She can tell that you are definitely no god yourself, yet she can sense that you have brushed with divinity frequently. She has had brief, and awkward, conversations with Moon Knight about his connection to Khonsu so she realizes that you must also be an avatar. But an avatar of which god? As much as Hela likes to pretend she’s all knowing and above childish emotions like curiosity, she can’t satiate her burning desire to know more until she finally talks to you for herself. 

Hela approaches you with her usual confident smirk and a snide comment about how there appears to be “yet another mortal avatar running about”. As you share your first conversation Hela's face is stoic as she bluntly asks you her burning questions, but if you are observant enough you can see an amused look in her eye. Hela is pleasantly surprised, you are far more interesting to her than Khonsu’s little knight. 

As Hela learns more about your relationship with your god she says she finds herself even more thankful for her dominion over death, preferring to rely on her legions of Hel to do her bidding over having some weak and fickle human. A lot of your conversations have this same energy lol. It sometimes feels like the goddess looks down on you, but it’s undeniable that she enjoys your presence simply because she keeps coming back to you.

A lot of the other heroes think that Hela has it out for you with how much she picks on you. It isn’t common for Hela to have good intentions for anybody outside of herself, not even her own brothers. But with all the time you’re starting to spend with the goddess of death, you’re able to pick up on the subtle tone of affection in her voice when she speaks to you. Even if her words are just as demeaning as what she would say to others. 

If you have a more adversarial relationship with your God, Hela is always eager to listen to your complaints and she always takes your side on arguments. Hela doesn’t have many good relationships with the other gods but she likes you, so as far as she’s concerned you’re always right. Hela also loves stirring the pot between other gods, so sometimes she’ll give you less violent ways to get back at your god. For example, she’ll tell you stories of something embarrassing that happened to your god centuries ago and then tell you to bring it up to your god whenever they start to bother you.

To be completely honest, the Moon Knight system doesn’t pay you much mind when you first join the fight for the multiverse. The Fist of Khonshu is here to carry out his god’s will so his senses are focused on the mission at hand, not necessarily the people around him. Marc knows you’re there as he’s cautiously aware of all the people around him, but it’s the old bird who brings his attention to you. Khonshu, with his knowledge of the other gods and their avatars, recognizes you and then proceeds to yap about your god in Marc’s head for 5 minutes straight. 

How your first interaction with Moon Knight goes depends a lot on what Khonshu has to say about your god. If he speaks positively about your god then Marc is definitely curious about what kind of a person you are. Khonshu historically hasn’t played well with the other gods, so Marc can’t help but wonder what kind of deity you’re wrapped up with if Khonshu can get along with them. If Khonshu doesn’t like your god then Marc may be pressured by Khonshu to confront you in an attempt to settle some 2,000 year old beef between gods. I’ll pray for you if that’s the case 

But whether your first encounter is out of Marc’s own curiosity or because of Khonshu’s petty drama, as the two of you inevitably talk Moon Knight feels a small connection starting to grow with you. Marc’s connection to Khonshu has always seemingly alienated him from the other heroes who think he’s plain crazy, but as a fellow avatar you’re both able to share some of your experiences with each other. Whether your relationship with your own god is as turbulent as Marc’s or not, Marc feels a slight weight lifted off his shoulders as he’s able to speak with someone who can truly understand the pressure of constantly being beneath a god’s gaze. 

Marc doesn’t let many people into his life, but when people do get close to him the entire Moon Knight system becomes very protective over them. So if you have a bad relationship with your god, or really anything in your life starts to go south, Moon Knight’s first instinct is to seek out some sort of revenge for you. However it’s obviously not possible for him to go against a whole god on your behalf and that fact is really frustrating for Moon Knight. Be careful what you complain about around Moon Knight, he will throw hands for you at a moment's notice lol.

Wanda is unfortunately another one who doesn’t pay too much attention to the people around her, so she might not acknowledge you at first. She’s worried about preserving the very fabric that holds her reality together, so you’re gonna have to do something kind of eye-catching to initially get her attention lol. 

As one of the most powerful magic wielding beings and the Sorceress Supreme of her universe, one thing that will definitely make her interested in you is any magical abilities your god may have bestowed upon you. While Wanda is concentrating on controlling her own chaos magic on the battlefield, her mind is still able to recognize a kind of magic she has never seen before. Cue her now being mildly distracted as she low key tries to watch you and fight the enemy team at the same time. 

Instantly Wanda has a need to know everything about your abilities, and as soon as the battle is over she’s trying to speak to you. What kind of magic do you wield? How did you get these powers? Are you just a beginner at magic or can you show her some of your advanced spells? Honestly it might kind of feel like when you tell someone you have a skill, like drawing or speaking another language, and someone just immediately puts you on the spot and asks you to do it for them. It’s especially intimidating if you know that she’s the Sorceress Supreme of her universe, like how are you supposed to impress her lol? But don’t worry Wanda means well, she’s just very blunt and is curious about the different kinds of magic people have access to in these new universes <3

Wanda isn’t known for being very social, but whenever there is down time in between missions you two tend to seek each other out now. Whether it’s a conversation about your personal lives over some lunch, or the both of you focusing on honing your magic in complete silence, Wanda is so used to your presence that it starts to feel strange when you’re not around. In her universe she’s constantly holding reality together, constantly fighting off magical threats, constantly trying to gain more control over her powers. But here with you Wanda greatly enjoys feeling more like a ‘normal’ person. 

You know, if you’re having a problem with your god you’ve now got a whole Sorceress Supreme on your side, and Wanda isn’t afraid of talking back to gods and higher beings. In her timeline she is constantly trying to stop power hungry gods from collapsing her universe, so if you need someone to just casually intimidate your god into being a bit kinder to you, Wanda has more than enough experience to get the job done. She will ask to speak to the manager for you.

Everything that’s happened in the first few weeks of the time stream entanglement has become a blur for Bucky. Suddenly he’s in another dimension with a new (and tentacle-y?) metal arm and he’s fighting alongside other heroes from different dimensions for the fate of the universe. Alright, cool. This is fine. Before all of this mess started, meeting you and being told that you’re an avatar of a Greek god could have shocked Bucky, but now that fact somehow seems like the most normal thing he’s been told in his life. 

As you, Bucky, and the rest of your team head out on your mission Bucky has heard a little bit about your background from Steve, who gave him a brief on all of their strange new teammates. As you clash with the heroes on the other side of the fight Bucky finds his normally focused senses drifting to you. Divine powers tend to be pretty flashy, and a trained soldier like Bucky can immediately see how skilled you are at what you do. As Bucky gets caught off guard by a diving Psylocke, the flash of your abilities is a welcome sight as you help him fend her off. Your reward for helping Bucky? A gruff “Thanks”, before he hones in on another enemy. Isn’t he dreamy <3

After that fight you’ll most likely have to approach Bucky first. Bucky knows he should probably give you a proper thank you for your help, but unfortunately Hydra brainwashing will do a number on your social skills. When you check in on Bucky after the fight is over, you’ll find that he’s slightly more talkative than usual - really just towards you, Steve, or Clint though. He has a lot of questions he'd like to ask you, he’s not as familiar with all these gods and aliens as some of the other heroes are, but he also doesn’t want to accidentally offend you. Bucky knows that he certainly doesn’t have a happy or inspiring story behind how he got his powers, so he doesn’t want to accidentally be too invasive. 

As the two of you grow closer you notice that Bucky tends to stick by your side a lot, both in and out of combat. In combat, Bucky sticks by your side as he knows that he can rely on you if things get rough. He also wants to be there in case he needs to return the favor and help get a diver off of your back. But when you both are just relaxing in between missions, Bucky finds comfort in your presence. Consciously or subconsciously, Bucky knows that you’re a person he can let his guard down around, which isn't a very common experience for him. With everything that he’s been through in life, the fact that the former Winter Soldier trusts you means a lot. 

Bucky really empathizes with you if you have a bad relationship with the god you serve. He has a lot of experience with being used as a living weapon, being treated like your only worth is what you can do for the person giving you your orders. He can’t stand to see another person live that way, especially not when it’s you. Bucky knows that he can’t go up against a god, and he knows enough about these kinds of power dynamics to understand that trying to stand up for you might actually make your situation worse. So Bucky commits himself to supporting you in whatever way you ask him to.

[deuxadeux-if]

heyyyyyyyy

hi omg. sorry i have been literally radio silent eeeerk. first and foremost thank all of you who messaged me to let me know about dashingdon shutting down. i haven’t logged in here in a hot minute, and it surprised me how many of you reached out. thank you :,)

bullet points on ray’s life:

graduated college! i now have a bachelor’s degree.

work is going fine! i am a full-time bartender. it’s fine, not a permanent fit for me probably but it’s okay for now.

i miss writing, but i don’t have much time to commit to it. i haven’t written anything in two (maybe even three?) months. this is partially because i’m trying to take a break to do other creative things, and partly because i love writing full-time. i’m not sure how to move forward writing in spare moments—the thought of doing that makes me a little sad. as such, i am avoiding it for the moment. lol.

my birthday is in a little less than 2 months. i will be 23! it is weird. i still feel like a teenager sometimes. sometimes even younger.

since i’m not writing at the moment, i spend my free time drawing, reading, and listening to albums. i also go on walks in the woods with my boyfriend when we’re both off work.

now about dashingdon. i thought about it quite a bit for the past week or two, and i don’t think i will be returning to deux à deux for the foreseeable future. i haven’t deleted any of my files, so it’s all there if i want to return to it at any point—but i think it will be a while before i even consider picking it back up again. a few reasons for this:

i need a much, much more concrete outline for the rest of the story, and as of right now, i don’t know what that would look like.

i don’t have much free time, and i have very little money. it feels best for me, at least right now, to fill my spare minutes with hobbies that are private to keep my sanity intact lol.

i want to spend 2025 thinking about writing more than actually writing. i have done a lot of speed-writing, just putting words to the page and blazing through—it feels like a good time to practice other skills. like sitting…thinking…stewing. i think this will help in the long run.

deux à deux needs to be consolidated. i think there only need to be 4 love interests, max, and i need to solidify exactly what parts of MC are set in stone (personality? gender? age? etc.)*

this is embarrassing but it’s fine. i need a better backbone when it comes to making stuff. i tend to accept all critique as essential. this is one way to go about creating things, but i don’t think it’s how i want to. i would prefer to make stuff that i just like, exactly how i want to make it. whatever response it garners is just how it is. i need to cultivate that vibe before putting deux à deux out there again.

*i doubt i would ever make MC genderlocked for deux à deux, though. not really my vibe.

so! since i’m not going to be writing deux à deux for i-don’t-know-how-long, i will not be transferring it over to the other site (i forget what it’s called) that is replacing dashingdon. i’m sorry if this is horrible news—i was pretty committed, initially, to writing all of deux à deux within the year once i started. then i graduated college and realized that (unfortunately) money was real and i had literally none of it and no real income. so, for now, real work it is—writing will happen when it’s a good time, but i’m not rushing it.

sorry again for the unfortunate update, but i figured it would be better to be straightforward. thanks again to all of you who reached out, it was really sweet to see all of your messages :,)

hope to see you all again soon.

— ray

[fascinationstreetmp3]

What if...what if past dm didn't happen. How do you see it playing out? And actually give your two cents about danlou too plz. Cause sometimes I think he is the devil ( angel) to Daniel's minion. Idk if that makes sense?

admittedly it sometimes is difficult for me to shut off my "past dm definitely happened" thinking because im just so certain there are too many hints that it did LOL but...

for armand, there's this boy he wrote off in 1973, who he maybe genuinely couldn't find anything "fascinating" or extraordinary about, who he has perhaps been underestimating this whole time in 2022— i could see him realising that now daniel is truly sharp-minded and ruthless, with none of the attempts to knock him off balance really working, and he's figured out so much in such a short space of time and ultimately gotten the truth (and a little revenge) he was after in the end. there's something very intriguing in that, despite the anger he feels that daniel took everything from him.

maybe turning him could feel like a punishment to armand (even though i think daniel did want to be a vampire by that point, armand might not realise that. and it could also be a form of punishment for louis, taking away daniel's humanity in a perversion of letting him live for louis in 1973), but maybe it's also subconsciously a way of keeping around someone who has figured him out and seen him so quickly, even if that is something he runs from.

for daniel, i think everything that went down in dubai sort of "woke him up." when we first see him, he looks bored, tired, and lonely. he barely talks to his family, only enough for them to know he's sick, and he's teaching internet classes now. the pandemic has kept him away from the world but it also feels like the passion has seeped out of him long before that. at this point he's expecting to die someday soon and leave his daughters some cash. being invited for a second interview with louis doesn't immediately break him out of that mindset; it's invigorated him some by the end of the first season, but once there's an even bigger mystery to crack after armand reveals himself, that's when he really starts enjoying himself.

by the end of season 2, daniel is so far in it he doesn't want it to stop, chasing a high. and for that reason, even if the turning was "spiteful" on armand's part, i think daniel would've wanted to be turned either way. just like daniel in the books, he can't go back to an ordinary life and function normally or sit around waiting to die after being so involved in this world. armand gives it to him in some form— but daniel wants more, he wants answers and a story from armand, he wants to crack the truth about him and figure out "where the bullshit starts." so he chases after him when armand leaves, and it turns into an inverse of their original chase in the books:

the highlighted lines could actually actually work in reverse in this scenario too— daniel wants to know what makes armand so fascinating, wants to know what and who he really is. even down to daniel himself not being able to move about by day now when armand can. and as the chase goes on, they learn more about one another, becoming drawn to each other despite the animosity between them.

as for the second part of your question, do you mean danlou kind of acting as the show's version of devil's minion? or their relationship being more similar to what armand and daniel's is in the books? i see danlou as something unique, and especially if there was any kind of past dm, i don't know that louis would be directly involved— in the sense that i believe he wouldn't be happy to fuck with this kid's life even further than he already did, with the "think of me as god or an angel" speech he gave trying to set daniel free from everything he'd seen and heard from armand. even if louis doesn't really care as much about humanity in general as he sometimes claims, daniel is a symbol of something to louis, proof he can still do good.

whereas with armand, no matter what love was there, dm is ultimately about keeping daniel embroiled in that life. armand shares his blood and lets daniel get addicted to it, and it slowly breaks daniel apart until he's losing his mind.

like you said, louis is more the "angel" where armand's the "devil." in a past dm scenario i actually think it's possible the words louis speaks to daniel in 1973 could be something that helps daniel towards the end of his relationship with armand in the 80s ("if things ever get bad again," "these words will hold you up and carry you; they are your lifeline") and could be what led to him finally breaking free of armand and maybe asking to be "let go" if he really won't ever turn him.

but to me whether past dm happened or not, danlou is about daniel being the first person in a long time to listen to louis both in 1973 and 2022, louis changing and saving daniel's life in a way no one else ever did, and daniel coming back 50 years later and eventually returning the favour. they're both fathers to daughters, they've both repressed themselves in various ways, they've both had their memories messed with by armand.

they're the vampire and the interviewer who kick off the whole story being told, and i think the show portrays that very well, keeping them (and hopefully their relationship) relevant going forward and expanding on their relationship with each other in a way the books never did, and not really borrowing any dynamic from dm or anyone else. armand of course hangs over them both, the same way louis hangs over dm, the same way daniel factors into loumand in 1973 and 2022, and they're all important to each other for different reasons.

[bridgeportbritt]

Ella's BUS Residence | Sage, SimDonia

Ella sighs

Ella to herself: We were so cute at prom.

Ella sighs

Ella to herself: Could've literally been a perfect night...

Ella to herself: If it wasn't for him...

Another day, another aged up girlie in this story! This time it's miss Ella who is officially a Britechester University of SimDonia student! But let's take a look at her SimDonia Prep graduation and larger than life bday party. Shall we?

Our girl was valedictorian, gave a speech and the event actually worked for her to get a diploma! (I did do a screenshotted version of the graduation just in case it didn't work though lol)

The whole squad got their diplomas and the whole fam came to celebrate the occasion!

The Creeksbrey ballroom transformed into a party palace fit for a young Duchess throwing a bash for her young adult birthday! All her friends came and even Maia and Kali flew in. She was showered in gifts, aged up and danced to a new life as a young adult!

[jellybeanium124]

.

[donut-entendre]

why are you starving your farmer's son to death. feed him

[emmaspolaroid]

Nikki viddy game knowledge:

the plumbers go Wahooo!

that blonde man in a tight shirt who moans when the zombies get him

Link and Zelda have some real I Love You In Every Universe stuff going on that I, frankly, am very interested in

Destiny players hate playing Destiny

Kirby eats stuff and also his friends but it’s not vore

Pokémon is fun I like it (Eevee! Yay!)

Transistor is one the saddest stories I’ve ever experienced I lost my shit when my bf finished the game y’all I cried my eyes out and whenever I think about it too hard I cry again because I’m a baby

Hades is really really really pretty I like watching him play it, and also easily the sexiest Hades design in recent memory. I speak for everyone.

God of War is fanfiction

[trashcanwithsprinkles]

How are you feeling about last act of the simulanka quest?

it started off meh because scara made his long-awaited appearance, but i had already anticipated that so i focused on navia and nilou being as wonderful as always

but then we got to the dragon and let me tell you scara is so fucking hilarious in this quest. my guy is genuinely projecting his self-inflicted trauma and issues onto a literal baby (half-self inflicted, dottore did deliver like half the punches there). like- you cannot make this shit up. god i love it, he's so ridiculous, very in-character of him honestly. i guess if nothing else he's rather good at staying consistent with that LMAO

little durin was adorable, and it's always funny to see alice again. these events are always just- don't trust anyone in the hexenzirkel and tbh i approve of that. at least when it comes to alice god but her va is so good it's such a delight to hear her speak always. my girl gets like two voiced scenes per year and makes damn good use of them hahah

overall it was decent! scara's inclusion does keep it from being as good as the first two acts. also do bear in mind that i haven't done the appendix (is that the name for it) yet so idk how the rest shapes up to be

[skunkes]

i quite like talon! i think hes one of the most real and interesting ocs ive seen, he feels very human! the fact he is able to be flawed and stay flawed is something that people dont usually do with their characters and its refreshing to see! he feels like your friend or someone you know as opposed to a character you made one day, hes super neat :)

thank u! I've gotten this sentiment about my ocs a lot over the years, I wish I could make more and have equal time and brain power/fixation for all of them, as well as. Actually give them Stories, beginning and ends.

but I also think they wouldnt be dis way without them being so rare from me + me spending several years focusing on One (with the help of another, which develops both in the process wee hee) in the form of Hanging Out With them In My Brain All Day (or again, making them hang out with another oc in my brain all day)

[moonpaw]

ohhh, I overlooked this last week, but I was under the impression that vegapunk was getting copies of living user fruits from current impel down inmates

Up until we see that S-hawk's is from number 1 who was an inmate for only a few months 2 years ago

really uh, makes you question what other kind of dna they have for use

[forcedhesitation]

stop fucking flirting with me, you rancid little man

[arcticmist0324]

One thing that is difficult about writing historical fiction is when you’ve set your story up in the same time frame as major historical events, which you KNOW would be on your characters’ radar yet they don’t impact the plot. What is too much? What is too little?

[heatherfield]

I'm halfway through the complete cut of Headless and !! I'm at the Bromtilda wedding!

Ahhhh! (You're probably done now—I'm sorry I wasn't able to answer sooner.)

I can literally remember my whole impressions and journey of the first time I watched "Headless" even though I've watched it countless times since. I remember thinking that Brom and Matilda were literally going to get divorced right away and it would amount to nothing.

I was not prepared.

[byakuyasdarling]

I remember hosting the poll about how many people who followed this account knew who Byakuya was in his source and I believe the sample I got was 90% (from memory) and that’s TERRIFYING /POS /LH like y’all know who he is AND STILL LISTEN TO MY “i love my husband, he’s gentle with me” talk?? LMAO, legends /Gen

Y’all know his chapter 2 atrocities and ARE STILL HERE??

[queenlucythevaliant]

A Liturgy of Surviving

Scarlett always wanted to be like her mother, and maybe in another world she could have been. If the war never happened, she could have grown softer instead of sharper. She could have curbed her temper, married well, and been received in respectable homes all her days. Maybe, if it hadn’t been for the war, Scarlett O’Hara could have lived out her days in genteel artifice, just like Ellen before her.

Maybe. Maybe not. If you asked her, Scarlett would say that the question was irrelevant. “God’s nightgown!” she would exclaim. “Don’t ask me what could have been. The war happened and that’s that.”

          I won’t think about that now.  

The day after Scarlett’s world ended, she swore an oath that she would never be hungry again. 

She woke in pain. Her muscles ached and her joints creaked. She was nineteen, but she felt like she had a hundred years weighing her body down. Morning light slanted through the window and her head ached with the moonshine liquor that she’d downed the night before. From another room, she heard an infant crying. 

She passed through the dining room without eating, pausing only briefly beside her grief-ravaged father. She found Pork on the porch shelling nuts. The sun was up. Scarlett O'Hara drew herself tall and began to marshal her troops. 

Melly and her sisters were still infirm, so they were useless for now. Mammy could tend them, and Pork and Prissy were to round up the livestock. Dilcey to Macintosh, herself to Twelve Oaks; perhaps they’d find food. Yes, I know. I’ll worry about that tomorrow. Now get going. 

Those days as the war staggered to its end were some of the longest of her life. In between them, Scarlett would collapse into bed and rub the welts on her feet with clumsy fingers. Sometimes she’d picture Ellen and all her gentle admonitions to kindness and refinement, and she’d say aloud to the walls, “What happened to me? What am I doing?”

She didn’t dwell on the question, but somehow, she always knew the answer. “I’m doing what I must,” she would answer herself. “I’m surviving.”

People didn’t talk back to Scarlett anymore. They were all afraid of her sharp tongue, of the new person who walked in her body. This Scarlett bullied and cajoled until everyone obeyed her, and inevitably her orders were to work. She was all edges; any softness that she’d once possessed had been sanded away splitting rails and picking cotton. Good, she thought. Let them fear me, if it keeps us all standing. 

          I’ll think about it tomorrow. 

Scarlett was sixteen when the war began: sixteen in green muslin, fearless and unencumbered. She had her mother’s slim waist and her father’s square jaw, but her clear green eyes were her own.

She was sixteen when she married Charles Hamilton and lost him, seventeen when she bore his child and draped herself in black crepe. She got Melly and Wade in the bargain, but she didn’t want either of them. She wanted Ashley. She wanted to dance! She wanted, she wanted. She wanted Scarlett O’Hara back. 

At nineteen years old, Scarlett survived the destruction of her whole world. She could have cried for the loss of her girlhood, for her old self long gone with the soft hands and dancing slippers, but what good would it have done? Curled up in her childhood bed at Tara, Scarlett didn’t cry. Instead, she folded in on herself, knees tucked up to her chest, and tried not to feel her muscles aching. She would have to get up again tomorrow, no matter how badly her shoulders still hurt.

She had strong shoulders, Scarlett O’Hara. That was maybe the most important thing about her. At any time, at any age, her shoulders could bear whatever they were given. “I’m surviving,” she would say each morning when she rose. A stranger’s freckled face greeted her in the mirror, but Scarlett only squared her small thin shoulders, breathed in, took one step and then another.

          Tomorrow, when I can stand it.

Calluses form like this: repeated pressure or friction is applied to the skin, most often of the hand or the foot. The outer layer, which is made of dead cells, begins to be retained rather than flaking off normally. The dead cells accumulate, forming hard layers sometimes hundreds of cells thick. 

They form like this: you use your skin. The shell of hardness around it slowly thickens. 

          I can stand anything now. 

The day after Rhett left, Scarlett packed up Wade and Ella and she once again drove the long road home to Tara. She pushed her way past Suellen at the threshold, exchanged brief pleasantries with Will, and then fell into her old bed as she’d done so many times before.

The next morning found Scarlett basking in the slanting yellow light that struck the porch from the east. Her eyes were fixed on the fields beyond and there was a devilish look on her face. 

When Rhett came back—and he would come back, he had promised he would—he would find her here at Tara, where she was strongest. “He liked when I was strong,” Scarlett said to herself. That was something she’d always known, for all that she’d been blind to the true dimensions of it.

Day after day, Scarlett rose and moved through Tara’s halls. She ate her breakfasts in the place where she’d faced down the Yankee army, sorted through figures where she’d once debated with Melanie over whether they ought to risk sending Pork out on the horse to look for food. Twenty times a day, she walked past the place at the base of the stairs where she’d shot her deserter dead. Here, in these halls, she had made her greatest stands.

She’d stood more rigidly then, threadbare and starving and uncertain. She’d come to the end of herself, only to find that she had wells of strength hidden deeper than she knew. Her hands were calloused and dirty. What else could she do?

          I’ll never be hungry again.

It’s easy to view Scarlett as hard and amoral. Even those closest to her would not have contested that characterization. Perhaps Melly would have argued, but then, Melly always saw the good in everyone. Scarlett killed and she stole and she schemed and she cheated, and she did it all in cold blood. What a selfish, conniving bitch, you might say.

It’s easy to forget Scarlett’s compassion. When she beat that poor horse to keep it trudging the long road home to Tara, she regretted hurting a tired animal. Her concern for Melanie, her friendship for Will Benteen, her joy when Rhett made her laugh: these were all true and genuine.

Didn’t Scarlett love her father and mother? Didn’t she grieve to see her friends and neighbors ruined by war? Scarlett O’Hara risked her life to save Charlie’s sword for Wade to inherit, and she built her mills for him and Ella both.

None of this negates the ruthless things she did in the name of survival, but it does begin to explain them. Scarlett made herself hard when hard was what she needed to be. She determined to live without reservation, without softness and with little kindness. Rhett called her cruel, and maybe he was right. But Melly also called her sacrificial and devoted, and maybe she was right too. 

          No, nor any of my kin.

On that road home to Tara, Scarlett once said, “If the horse is dead, I will curse God and die too.” Someone in the Bible had done just that—cursed God and died. Scarlett remembered feeling like that person, a despair of Biblical magnitude.

But the horse was alive, and so Scarlett did not die. Later, she thanked God that her knees still had the strength to support her, that her neck was still strong enough to hold her head high. Scarlett was not Job’s wife, nor even Job himself. She was Rahab, who escaped the destruction of Jericho, who saved her whole household and survived.

“What a fast trick,” said the Old Guard when she stole Frank Kennedy away from Suellen. No, Scarlett could never be Job. She was Jacob, the trickster and supplanter.

          Just a few more days for to tote the weary load.

Scarlett was easily provoked into courage; that was one of the first things that Rhett learned about her. A few insults, a pointed comment, and Scarlett lifted her chin and flounced off to prove just how brave she could be. She shed her crepe years early, and to Halifax with anyone who objected.

Rhett did that same thing to her on the awful day that Atlanta burned. He insulted her and laughed at her, and when Scarlett spat, “I’m not afraid,” it was true. Her hands, which had moments ago been shaking too badly to hold anything, were steady now, and anger had crowded all the fear out of her voice.

Rhett kept needling her all the way out of the city, until they reached the Rough and Ready where he left her. The banter kept her sharp. As long as her eyes were flashing in indignation, she hardly noticed the fire.

Even after Rhett left, his jabs stayed with her. “What would Rhett say if he knew I couldn’t do this?” spurred her back into action more times than she would ever admit. It was a petty kind of courage, and it felt smaller than the great, soaring motivation that came with thoughts of Tara, of the O’Hara name and Irish pride and red earth, but sometimes petty courage was enough to bridge the gap between strength and exhaustion.

He gave her something to hold onto, something to ground her, and even Rhett only halfway understood what that meant. I want you at your best, he never told her, but he pulled her into it by taffeta ribbons and witticisms. As the years rolled by, she rose to meet him. They swapped sharp words and insults, him always claiming to know her and her shouting, “You don’t know half!”

One day on the jostling ride out to her mills, Scarlett told Rhett about the fire that the Yankees set in Tara’s kitchen. “I’m not afraid of fire anymore,” she declared with something like pride, and Rhett remembered goading her past the flames the night Atlanta burned. “I beat it out with my skirts, and then Melly had to beat me out when my back caught,” she went on. “Now I’m not afraid of anything but hunger.”

I don’t want you to fear anything in all the world, Rhett didn’t say. Once they were married, he laughed at her appetite and teased her, “Don’t scrape the plate, Scarlett. I’m sure there’s more in the kitchen.”

           No matter, ‘twill never be light.  

After the war, Rhett had his millions. Ashley had his honor. Melly had the Association for the Beatification of the Graves of Our Glorious Dead. Scarlett held a ball of red clay in her fist and whispered, “I have this.”

Her father built Tara from nothing and he loved those acres like they could love him back. He had come to Georgia a poor immigrant boy and he had won that red earth. Whatever Gerald could do, his daughter could do too: of this she was certain. This land, this firm red clay on which she stood, was both her battlefield and her prize; her birthright and her hallowed ground. She gripped it tight with all the passion of a lover. She longed for its rolling fields on cold nights in Atlanta, sleeping beside Frank Kennedy.

“Yes, I have this,” and she let the dirt run between her fingers and lodge beneath her nails. Melly had Ashley and Ashley his senseless honor. Scarlett had Tara.

          I’ve still got this.

When she rode out in her buggy with her lap robe pulled up to her bosom, Scarlett heard how people whispered. She felt indignant about it the first time, and the second time she worried what Ellen would have thought. The third time, she decided not to care.

She still complained to Rhett about the whispering as he was holding the reins one afternoon. He didn’t laugh at her, just looked sideways from the road with his dark eyes and nodded like he understood. “Be different and be damned!” Rhett said, and his tone was like a soldier who’d heard the bugle. It was so strange, how Scarlett could tell him all the worst things about her and he would always answer back like they were medals instead of secret shames. 

Most of the city was in mourning, but Scarlett wore colors. She pilfered the store’s inventory in search of bright green, washed and mended her curtain dress as many times as it would stand, and when the money came she wore gowns of emerald, blush, indigo, and scarlet. Let them stare, she thought. See if I care.

At twenty-two, Scarlett rode up to Pittypat’s in the evenings, long after Frank had come home from the store, and she felt condemned. To the well-bred folks of Atlanta, she was as bad as a Scallawag. But sometimes, when she was alone, Scarlett ran her hands beneath the lap robe and hoped that Rhett was wrong about children and grandchildren, that the child she was carrying would understand one day. I hope you’re nothing like Frank, she thought. I hope you have shoulders like mine.

           I’ll never be hungry again.

“It’s no use, Scarlett. You can’t scrub out the past,” said Rhett when at last he came to Tara. “You can’t take back the last ten years, no matter how you’ve come — to appreciate my charms.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Scarlett snapped. “There’s never any going back. Not ever. But Rhett—” she reached for his hand. “I love you, and at last we understand each other. We can build something out of that.”

They argued about it until Rhett left again, fuming and bitter, his Panama hat pulled low over his face. Scarlett made an unannounced visit to Charleston the next month. “I was thinking,” she suggested, “That we might sell the Peachtree Street house.”

Scarlett knew all the words for making men love her, so long as she understood what it was that they wanted. The Tarleton twins had wanted merry excitement; Charles had wanted to feel important and Frank had wanted to feel like a strong, successful man. Ashley had wanted someone braver and better than he was, and he’d found it in Melanie without having to risk himself on Scarlett. Scarlett had never understood what it was Rhett wanted, but she did now. Why, it’s always been my love he wants! So Scarlett spoke the right words, and this time she meant them.

“You were right when you said that we’re alike. Only—you’ve always known about me, whereas I’m just starting to know you. Will you tell me about that knife fight in California again? About the sail boat you won at cards?”

“You know those stories,” clipped Rhett. “You don’t need to hear them again.” So Scarlett went downstairs and pried the stories out of his mother instead.

The house on Peachtree Street sold within the month, snatched up by some Carpetbagger who wanted it for a hotel. Rhett traveled to Mexico, and returned to find Scarlett back at Tara preparing for spring planting.

“What do the women wear in Mexico?” she asked him, leaning on the porch railing in the slanting light. “What is your favorite place you’ve ever traveled?”

Rhett indulged her in brief, but then abruptly he chuckled and shook his head. “I know what you’re doing, you little minx.”

“Yes,” said Scarlett. “Of course you do.”

           Tomorrow, oh tomorrow!

The clay soil of Georgia is red from iron oxides. It’s red the way rust is red, the way blood is red. If a blister splits open and your blood falls on the ground, that iron-red soil will just swallow it up. You can bleed and bleed, and the stuff in your blood will always be one with the stuff of the soil.

When cotton and vegetables sprout from the ground, it’s easy to believe they grew from your very own blood, and that your own sweat and tears watered them.

           Never look back.  

“We women were soldiers too,” Melanie said once. Scarlett didn’t respect her yet—at least, not consistently—but this might have been one of the moments where she first looked at Melly and thought not that her heart was soft and timid, but that it was a sword.

“We never expected to be – or at least I didn’t.” She looked around the circle of ladies, at India and Fanny, until her eyes came to rest on Scarlett at last. “We were children then. We all imagined the world far simpler than it was.”

Melly, India, Fanny, Scarlett. These women had all been girls together. They knew one another at seven, twelve, fifteen, swaddled in silks and trying to seem more grown-up than their playmates. They’d competed for beaus and Scarlett had mostly won, except where Ashley Wilkes was concerned. They had lived through the war together. Now, Scarlett sat among them on Melly’s front porch and tried to remember if she’d ever in her life felt like one of them.

For Christmas, Melanie gave Scarlett a small book of poetry. Scarlett never read it, except for the one verse which Melly had marked with a green ribbon. She bit back the urge to sigh when she undid the wrapping, but Melly pointed out the bookmark and said, “This one made me think of you, dear.”

Scarlett didn’t like to think of it now, but once she’d been sixteen in green muslin, confident that dimples and a clear complexion were the only weapons she’d ever need. She had been a child, but that child had not died when Atlanta burned. The belle of Clayton County was not in the grave with all the boys who’d never come riding home from war. Scarlett was alive. She was right here.

“What is a dead girl but a shadowy ghost/ Or a dead man's voice but a distant and vain affirmation/Like dream words most? / Therefore I will not speak of the undying glory of women. / I will say you were young and straight and your skin fair/ And you stood in the door and the sun was a shadow of leaves on your shoulders/ And a leaf on your hair—"

Scarlett came home from her mills in the gray evening and she made her way back to the Wilkes’s ramshackle front porch. She left her buggy feeling condemned and she sat with the other ladies feeling alienated, but all the same she couldn’t bring herself not to go. The war was over, and these were the survivors. They were through fighting, hung up on glory, but Scarlett still hadn’t holstered her guns. 

“We were soldiers,” said Melanie, and in her heart Scarlett added, “Some of us still are.”

           I won’t let them lick me.

Supposing that Ashley had married her. Perhaps the sight of her in green makes him brave enough to shed his veneer of honor and say, “Yes, you’re right, I can’t live without you.” It’s a minor scandal when he casts Melanie off in her favor, but not for long. The war is beginning and besides, good men have made themselves fools for Scarlett O’Hara before. By the time the soldiers march away, the scandal is all but forgotten in favor of the fine figure they cut as they embrace at the depot: Ashley so brave in his uniform, his young wife radiant as she clutches him.

Ashley sends her long, meandering letters full of philosophical musings. Scarlett reads them uncomprehending and sends back missives full of I love yous. She kisses them when she mails them, sometimes with a Hail Mary for her husband’s safety.

Rhett doesn’t notice this Scarlett at Twelve Oaks, and so he’s caught off guard when he hears the young Mrs. Wilkes say something blunt and scathing at the Bazaar. He chuckles to himself in delight and later he asks her to dance, and of course Scarlett simpers and agrees, and it’s a merry night. But Rhett doesn’t come back to Atlanta for the rest of the war.

This Scarlett leaves for Macon with the rest of the women when the Yankees come to Atlanta; after all, she has no Melly to keep her in the city during the siege. She takes Ashley’s child with her, and it’s in Macon that he finds her after the war. He waxes poetic about the Old Days, the Horrors of War and Götterdämmerungs and the like. He looks at her with sad, tired eyes and Scarlett says yes, I heard you the first time. But what are we going to do?

Twelve Oaks is razed. They go to Tara. Ashley tries his hand at farming, but it’s Scarlett who manages to pick and plant and organize while Ashley’s fumbling attempts at working with his hands yield scant success. His heart isn’t in it, which infuriates Scarlett. C’mon, get up and fight! She looks into the tired face of the man she loved so ruinously at sixteen and wonders what she ever thought was so noble about him.

When taxes come due there’s no way to pay. What’s more, Ashley doesn’t even try. It’s here that Scarlett breaks with her husband. Between Ashley and Tara, it’s Tara every time.

So Scarlett bullies her husband into calling old debts in from a few impoverished friends and when that isn’t enough, she goes to see the tax assessor dressed in green velvet and makes some very personal insinuations about Mr. Jonas Wilkerson. From there, Scarlett bullies her one-time-beloved and does as she pleases, and Ashley has to live with the fact that it’s his wife who provides for the family. In every world, it is Scarlett O’Hara who keeps Ashley Wilkes alive after the war.

His pride lays down in the dirt and dies. Scarlett Wilkes shakes her head bitterly and plants more seed in her red, red earth.   

Supposing Scarlett could have imagined all this. What do you think she would say? Perhaps in her youth she would have cherished the idea, but the hard-eyed Scarlett who emerged after the war would have only leveled her small shoulders and said, “What does it matter what would have happened? I’ll think about it later.”

           There but for a lot of gumption am I.

The day after Bonnie died, Scarlett called for the buggy and went to her store. Rhett took this as proof that Scarlett had never really loved the little girl, that she was devoid of maternal affection as he’d always suspected, but Scarlett was grieving in her own way. She threw out two uncut bolts of blue velvet: expensive fabric over which she’d have upbraided a clerk to hell and back if he’d wasted even a few inches. 

It was true that Scarlett had never wanted any of her children when she’d carried them. She had not felt joy or love or any of the feelings that other women described when first she saw them. What she did feel, in the moments after Dr. Meade placed each child in her arms, was a fierce surge of protectiveness. She was certain that she would work and sacrifice and even die for her children, if need be. They were her blood, her flesh, her kin.

Scarlett had hated pregnancy each time it happened to her. She hated feeling large and lumbering, hated the way that her tiny waist bloated and grew until even her modified dresses didn’t fit right. She hated the inconvenience of morning sickness, the limitations on what she could do, the necessity of seclusion as delivery drew near. It was nine months of hardship and frustration capped off with many long minutes of excruciating pain. 

Bonnie had died in an instant. She’d been flying towards the hurdle and then, half a breath later, she’d been gone. Standing in the back of the store with two bolts of blue velvet before her, Scarlett swallowed back tears that Rhett would never see. It wasn’t right that a child who’d taken her so much time and effort to bring into the world could be gone from it so quickly. 

When she returned to the house a few hours later, Rhett had locked himself in the bedroom with Bonnie’s tiny body. Scarlett paused for a moment outside the door, but then she squared her shoulders and kept walking. 

          Just a few more days for to tote the weary load. 

Scarlett had a habit of humming “My Old Kentucky Home” while she worked. Splitting wood, planting and picking cotton, driving between her mills, keeping the books—even sewing. The song was a thoughtless thing, an instinctual thing. She hummed it the same way a person might worry lips between teeth or tear at nails. 

She repeated the words again and again until her heart pulsed to their rhythm. Just a few more days for to tote the weary load. I’ll think about it tomorrow, when I can stand it. Tomorrow, tomorrow. No matter, ‘twill never be light. I’ll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my kin. I’ll never be hungry again. They were a mantra: something to hold onto when the whole breadth of her world had narrowed to a single point. A refrain. A liturgy of surviving.

          Just a few more steps

Rhett loved Scarlett and it was terrifying. He feared that she would treat him like one of her country beaus: a lovely toy to play with and to tear to ribbons when she was done. He was afraid, so he hid his heart behind his impressive poker face and said “I want you” instead of “I love you.” He called her “pet” instead of “sweetheart.”

Scarlett loved Rhett and it was slow. He brought her bonnets and bonbons and Scarlett thought, “Why, it’s almost like I was in love with him!” He came to help her the day Atlanta burned, and Scarlett thought that she’d like to stay in his arms forever. When he chauffeured her to the mills, she thought that he was the only person in the world to whom she could tell the truth.

"You never told me you loved me, you know," Scarlett said the next time she visited Charleston. "I never knew. That's not to say you were wrong about me - about what I would have done if you had said something. But you should have been brave enough to risk it all the same."

Rhett closed his eyes for a moment and his mask slipped away. It was doing that more and more these days.

"But I did tell you — once."

"I think I would have remembered that," said Scarlett, pursing her lips.

"Ah. ‘It is far off; and rather like a dream than an assurance that my remembrance warrants.’ I suppose my humble confession was the least of your worries that day."

Scarlett wrinkled her nose. "What?"

"The day Atlanta burned, my dear."

After a long moment, Scarlett gave a little gasp which turned into a sigh as it ended. "Oh. That's right, you did then, didn't you?" She shook her head. "Rhett, I do believe you have the worst timing of any person I know."

          As God is my witness

The day she married Charles, she wore Ellen’s cream-colored silk gown, aired out in a hurry from the chest where it had been sitting since the O’Haras married back in 1846. She couldn’t breathe for how tight her laces were —sixteen inches, like Ellen’s waist was when the dress was purchased— and perhaps that was a good thing. Scarlett was light-headed throughout the ceremony and she scarcely remembered it afterwards. 

The day she decided to have Frank, it was raining hard. Scarlett left the jail in sodden velvet and was grateful for the drops falling on her cheeks to disguise the tears. It was sunny the day of the wedding, but she scarcely noticed that. Afterwards, when she thought of marrying Frank, Scarlett would always remember the rain. 

There was a fine mist over everything the day she got Rhett back for good. Scarlett was wearing her work clothes when he came riding up to Tara; she’d been walking the cotton fields that day, overseeing the progress of the crop. They were both a little damp when he kissed her.

           I’ll never be hungry again.

O’Haras and Robillards had always known how to dig their nails in, and by God, Scarlett was both. Her namesakes had long ago fought for their own plots of Irish earth; had survived and died and been hanged fighting to hold onto it. All Scarlett’s forebears, her folk, had left crescent-moon imprints on all that was theirs when it was finally pried from her hands. Scarlett gripped her little ball of clay and felt her nails dig into the heels of her hands.

She was her father’s hot-tempered daughter, but she had her mother’s steel-hewn spine. All the years of her life, she never saw Ellen Robillard O’Hara rest her back against a chair.  When Scarlett’s own time came, she held herself every bit as straight as her mother: she didn’t rest or lean, just stood and stood.

Maybe this is what she was always made for. Her green eyes weren’t for charming young men, they were for seeing dresses in curtains. Her hands were never supposed to be soft; they were meant for digging in the red dirt. Even her lips—Rhett was wrong, they weren’t meant for kissing. Scarlett’s lips were as sharp as the words that she spoke when she wasn’t afraid what anyone thought. They were meant to draw blood.

She had been sharp all her life, even when her edges were carefully concealed in layers of satin. Scarlett was not made to be soft; her core held no gentleness. She could not pretend otherwise. All she could do was stand straight, and hold up her tired old shoulders like they were the strongest thing in the world.

           I’ll think about it tomorrow. 

One day, at the Butler home in Charleston, Rhett taught Scarlett how to play poker, and subsequently how to cheat. They were still playing hours later, counting cards and hiding them in sleeves and making all kinds of ridiculous bets on losing hands. Just as she was taking off her right earbob to call, the thought rose to Scarlett’s mind unbidden: “What on earth are we doing here?” And just as quickly, there was the answer. “We’re living.”

At the end of this most recent road home, weary and damp from running through the fog, Scarlett found her way back into Rhett’s arms. In the evenings she listened to his stories and witticisms, and late at night she listened to the sound of his breathing. I will not speak of undying glory, she thought. Rhett was still here, and so was she. They were both still here.

Scarlett took off her left earbob too, for good measure. “I’ll raise you,” she said. “I have a good feeling about this hand.” There was still an ace hidden up her sleeve, but if Rhett noticed it he didn’t say anything. 

They survived together. They built something new. There is always profit to be made in building things, and these two were nothing if not industrious.

           After all, tomorrow is another day.