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amphibious-thing · 1 month

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Oh! the Roast Beef of Old England: Roast Beef, English Nationalism, Effeminacy and Epilepsy (ft. Lord Hervey)

While today if asked what the national dish of England is some might say bangers and mash, Yorkshire pudding or chicken tikka masala in the 18th century the answer was roast beef.

It was roast beef that was the star of the patriotic 18th century song The Roast Beef of Old England. Originally written by Henry Fielding for his play The Grub-Steet Opera (1731) and then reused in Don Quixote in England (1734) the more popular version was written by Richard Leveridge who set it to a catchier tune and added five new stanzas:

When mighty roast Beef was the Englishman's Food, It ennobled our Veins, and enriched our Blood; Our Soldiers were brave, and our Courtiers were good. Oh the roast Beef of old England, and old English roast Beef. But since we have learn'd from all-conquering France, To eat their Ragouts, as well as to dance, We are fed up with nothing, but vain Complaisance. Oh the roast Beef, &c. Our Fathers, of old, were robust, stout, and strong, And kept open House, with good Chear all Day long, Which made their plump Tenants rejoice in this Song. Oh the roast Beef, &c. But now we are dwindled, to what shall I name, A sneaking poor Race, half begotten-and tame, Who sully those Honours, that once shone in Fame. Oh the roast Beef, &c. When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the Throne, E're Coffee, or Tea, and such Slip-Slops were known, The World was in Terror, if e'er she but frown. Oh the roast Beef, &c. In those Days, if Fleets did presume on the Main, They seldom, or never, return'd back again, As witness, the vaunting Armada of Spain. Oh the roast Beef, &c. Oh then they had Stomachs to eat, and to fight, And when Wrongs were a cooking, to do themselves right; But now we're a-I could, but good Night. Oh the roast Beef, &c.

Leveridge's version espouses the masculine qualities roast beef making Englishmen "brave", "robust," and "strong". Fielding's version from Don Quixote in England contrasts this English masculinity with the non-roast beef eating "effeminate Italy, France, and Spain". (Edgar V. Roberts, Henry Fielding and Richard Leveridge: Authorship of "The Roast Beef of Old England")

[Politeness, print, after 1780, published by Hannah Humphrey, after John Nixon (1779), via The Metropolitan Museum of Art.]

A common element of English nationalist propaganda was to contrast the masculine beef eating Englishman with the effeminate frogs legs eating Frenchman. The satirical print Politeness compares the masculine John Bull to a stereotypical effeminate Frenchman. John Bull is depicted as a plainly dressed man, holding a pint of beer, with a Bulldog at his feet and a cut of beef hanging behind him. The Frenchman in contrast is depicted as foppishly dressed, holding a snuff-box, with an Italian Greyhound at his feet and a bundle of Frogs hanging behind him. John Bull says "You be D_m'd". The Frenchman responds "Vous ete une Bete". The caption narrates:

With Porter Roast Beef & Plumb Pudding well cram'd, Jack English declares that Monsr may be D------d. The Soup Meagre Frenchman such Language dont suit, So he Grins Indignation & calls him a Brute.

In 18th century English print culture the butcher became somewhat of a stock figure representing English masculinity. There was a series of prints in which a masculine butcher is depicted assaulting a fop. Often with bystanders cheering him on. Some of these prints identified the fop as a Frenchman (such as The Frenchman in London by John Collet and The Frenchman at Market by Adam Smith) but others either don't identify nationality or indicate that the fop is English.

[The Beaux Disaster, print, c. 1747, via The Wellcome Collection.]

The Beaux Disaster depicts the aftermath of an altercation between a butcher and a fop. The butcher has hung the fop up by the back of his breeches on a hook next to cuts of meet. A crowd of passersby point and laugh at the fop, enjoying his misfortune. The caption narrates:

Ye smarts whose merit lies in dress, Take warning by a beaux distress. Whose pigmy size, & ill-tun'd rage Ventured with butchers to engage. But they unus'd affronts to brook Have hung poor Fribble on a hook, While foul disgrace! expos'd in air, The butchers shout and ladies stare. Satyr so strong, ye fops must strike you How can ye think ye fair will like you, Women of sense, in men despise The anticks, they in monkeys prize.

[Docking the Maccaroni–or the Butcher's Revenge, print, c. 1773, published by Carington Bowles, via The Metropolitan Museum of Art.]

Docking the Maccaroni–or the Butcher's Revenge depicts a butcher cutting off a macaroni's queue. Fashionable men in the late 1760s and 1770s would wear elaborate hairstyles sometimes with hair tied back into a 'club'. This hairstyle is a common element of macaroni satire (for a more flattering rendering of the style see George Simon Harcourt by Daniel Gardner). The caption narrates:

A Spruce Maccaroni whose Hair and whose Clothes, Were the envy of Fops, and the Patterns of Beaus; Looked with Scorn on a Butcher; in passing the Street, And turnd up his Nose, at the sight of the Meat. Says the Butcher you Pig, if you'd eat such as that, You'd credit your Country, and grow plump and fat. Greasy Brute cry's the Fop! then the Butcher enrag'd, Snatch'd a Knife, & to punish the Coxcomb engag'd: Then seizing poor Mac, who began to look pale, He docked his Fools noddle, and cut of his Tail: Now Now cry'd the Butcher the People may stare. At a Skull without Brains, & a Head without Hair.

The macaroni was often portrayed as a traitor to English culture not only for his love of french fashion but also his love of Italian pasta. The fabled 'macaroni club' was a reference to Almack's Assembly Rooms at 50 Pall Mall. (see Pretty Gentleman by Peter McNeil p52-55) The Macaroni and Theatrical Magazine (Oct 1772) explains that the origin of the word macaroni comes from:

a compound dish made of vermicelli and other pastes, which unknown in England until then, was imported by our Connoscenti in eating, as an improvement to their subscription at Almack's. In time, the subscribers to those dinners became to be distinguished by the title MACARONIES, and, as the meeting was composed of the younger and gayer part of our nobility and gentry, who, at the same time that they gave into the luxuries of eating, went equally into the extravagancies of dress; the word Macaroni then changed its meaning to that of a person who exceeded the ordinary bounds of fashion; and is now partly used as a term of reproach to all ranks of people, indifferently, who fell into this absurdity.

(Cited in Catalogue of Prints and Drawings in the British Museum edited by Frederic George Stephens and Edward Hawkins, vol.4, p.826)

Foppishly dressed men were blamed not only for the popularisation of pasta in England but also the growing disfavour for roast beef. A letter written to The Connoisseur in 1767 complains:

By Jove it is a shame, a burning shame, to see the honour of England, the glory of our nation, the greatest pillar of like, ROAST BEEF, utterly banished from our tables. This evil, like many others, has been growing upon us by degrees. It was begun by wickedly placing the Beef upon a side-table, and screening it by a parcel of queue-tail'd fellows in laced waistcoats.

(Volume 1, Edition 5)

With both his dress and diet the fop had betrayed English masculinity for French and Italian effeminacy.

Passed down by Lady Louisa Stuart* as an example of the "extreme to which Lord Hervey carried his effeminate nicety", when "asked at dinner whether he would have some beef, he answered, "Beef?— Oh, no!— Faugh! Don't you know I never eat beef, nor horse, nor any of those things?" Stuart was somewhat skeptical of this story wondering "Could any mortal have said this in earnest?"

*anonymously. Stuart wrote the introductory anecdotes included in the 1837 edition of The Letters and Works of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.

While it's anyone's guess as to whether Hervey said these exact words it is true that he didn't eat beef. Not because he "courted" effeminacy with the "affected and almost finical nicety in his habits and tastes" as John Heneage Jesse suggests (in Memoirs of the Court of England from the Revolution in 1688 to the Death of George the Second) but for his health.

Lord Hailes explained:

Lord Hervey, having felt some attacks of the epilepsy, entered upon and persisted in a very strict regimen, and thus stopt the progress and prevented the effects of that dreadful disease. His daily food was a small quantity of asses milk and a flour biscuit : once a-week he indulged himself with eating an apple : he used emetics daily.

(The Opinions of Sarah Duchess-Dowager of Marlborough edited by Lord Hailes, p43)

Lord Hervey's doctor George Cheyne believed that "a total Milk, and Vegetable Diet, as absolutely necessary for the total Cure of the Epilepsy". (The English Malady, p254)

In An Account of My Own Constitution and Illness Hervey explains that he followed such a diet for three years on Cheyne's prescription eating "neither flesh, fish, nor eggs" but living "entirely upon herbs, roots, pulse, grains, fruits, legumes". (p969) However after three years he reintroduced white meet. He explains his diet in a letter to Cheyne, written on the 9th of December 1732:

To let you know that I continue one of your most pious votaries, and to tell you the method I am in. In the first place, I never take wine nor malt drink, or any liquid but water and milk-tea ; in the next, I eat no meat but the whitest, youngest, and tenderest, nine times in ten nothing but chicken, and never more than the quantity of a small one at a meal. I seldom eat any supper, but if any, nothing absolutely but bread and water ; two days in the week I eat no flesh ; my breakfast is dry biscuit not sweet, and green tea ; I have left off butter as bilious ; I eat no salt, nor any sauce but bread sauce. I take a Scotch pill once a week, and thirty grains of Indian root when my stomach is loaded, my head giddy, and my appetite gone. I have not bragged of the persecutions I suffer in this cause ; but the attacks made upon me by ignorance, impertinence, and gluttony are innumerable and incredible.

Intriguingly in An Account of My Own Constitution and Illness Hervey focuses more attention on colic than epilepsy, dismissing his seizures as rare, but admits he had "two this year". This leads to the impression that his diet was prescribed to treat colic rather than epilepsy and Cheyne did prescribe a milk and vegetable diet in cases of "extreme Nervous Cholicts". (p167) Perhaps it was prescribed to treat both. But why downplay epilepsy in an account of his own illness?

While some enlightenment doctors approached epilepsy with a more scientific approach, superstitions still remained. Some believed epilepsy was a form of lunacy that was controlled by the moon (the word lunatick coming from luna). In An Historical Essay on the State of Physick in the Old and New Testament Dr. Jonathan Harle claimed that "people in this distemper are most afflicted at full or change of the moon." (p124)

Many believed epilepsy was caused by possession and this belief was supported by the bible. Mark 9:17-27, Matthew 17:14-18 and Luke 9:37-43 tell the story of a man who brings his possessed son to Jesus who "rebuked the unclean spirit, and healed the child". The boy's symptoms resemble those of an epileptic seizure and these bible verses are cited by Dr. Jonathan Harle as "an exact description of one that is an epileptick (had the falling sickness) or lunatick". (p124) Harle claimed that was "a truth as plain as words can make it" that some people with epilepsy were "possess'd by the devil". (p22)

Epilepsy was also believed to be caused by sexual depravity. The popular anti-masturbation pamphlet Onania: or, the Heinous Sin of Self-Pollution claimed masturbation caused epilepsy (p23). Onanism: or, a treatise upon the disorders produced by masturbation, or, The dangerous effects of secret and excessive venery claimed that a 14-year-old boy "died of convulsions, and of a kind of epilepsy, the origin of which was solely masturbation". (p19)

With the stigma surrounding epilepsy its no wonder that Hervey kept his seizures secret only telling a select few. One of the people he trusted with this secret was his lover Stephen Fox. Hervey describes having a seizure while at court and keeping it hidden from the Royal Family in a letter to Fox written on the 7th of December 1731:

I have been so very much out of order since I writ last, that going into the Drawing Room before the King, I was taken with one of those disorders with the odious name, that you know happen'd to me once at Lincoln's Inn Fields play-house. I had just warning enough to catch hold of somebody (God knows who) in one side of the lane made for the King to pass through, and stopped till he was gone by. I recovered my senses enough immediately to say, when people came up to me asking what was the matter, that it was a cramp took me suddenly in my leg, and (that cramp excepted) that I was as well as ever I was in my life. I was far from it ; for I saw everything in a mist, was so giddy I could hardly walk, which I said was owing to my cramp not quite gone off. To avoid giving suspicion I stayed and talked with people about ten minutes, and then (the Duke of Grafton being there to light the King) came down to my lodgings, where * * * I am now far from well, but better, and prodigiously pleased, since I was to feel this disorder, that I contrived to do it à l'insu de tout le monde. Mr. Churchill was close by me when it happened, and takes it all for a cramp. The King, Queen, &c. inquired about my cramp this morning, and laughed at it ; I joined in the laugh, said how foolish an accident it was, and so it has passed off ; nobody but Lady Hervey (from whom it was impossible to conceal what followed) knows anything of it.

#not sure how to tag this?#food history #lord hervey

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isaacforalpha14 · 11 months

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Imagine # 115 Sam and Dean Winchester

A/N: This has been in the works for a while. I absolutely have loved Supernatural since the show started. I love both Sam and Dean and it’s so hard to choose which is my favorite. So, this is a selfish write just to get me back into the swing of things. It’s going to be a mini-series. I am not sure how long it’ll be but there will be different things to choose from on how you get an ending for Sam or Dean.

Pain; the emotion rippled throughout his system like a poison. Released from his heart in a bittersweet continuous trickle, infecting each nerve in his system as warm tears blurred his vision. Bobby Singer is dead; for real this time, no resurrections or ghostly visitations, just dead. To say it was difficult to let him go is an understatement; he thought he'd done it the first time yet as the vibrant flames enveloped the flask, contorting the metal into a liquid mound, it hurt just as much as when he watched the life leave his body in that hospital bed. Richard ‘Dick’ Roman, the leviathan leader extraordinaire, seared a target on his forehead the minute Bobby took his final breath. The Winchester brothers would never stop until the leviathan paid for his death. They’re distraught; torn into pieces by the death of a man that was closer to them than their own father. However, if there was anyone that felt this loss harder than Dean, it was definitely you; Bobby Singer’s only blood relative, his child. How could he ever fix this for you?

“I am so sorry.” Dean’s soothing baritone reaches your ears in a whisper, warm breath tickling the flesh of your tear stained cheek as his calloused fingertips brush a strand of hair behind your ear. He wraps your trembling frame in a sympathetic embrace, nuzzling his stubbled face into the softness of disheveled hair as your fingers clutch at his cotton shirt in tight fists. “I am here for you.” He places his forehead against yours, nudging you like a loving kitten before he continues. “I’ll always be here for you when you need me.” Dean’s body releases an involuntary shutter, goosebumps spreading across his limbs, thankfully hidden underneath his smoke gray button up, as your warm breath mingles with his due to the close proximity. He knows it’s terrible timing, he shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea, but he wants to tell you how he feels. He wants to be honest, to pour out his heart, in case the plan doesn’t work and this kills him. You had to feel something for him, right?

“Y/N.” The somber tone of Sam Winchester’s voice interrupts the moment, pulling away from Dean, your lower lip quivers as you meet the younger man’s gaze. He’s heartbroken by the sight; the impish glisten to your beautiful eyes is replaced with sorrow, tear stains reflecting off of your soft cheekbones, supple lips quivering as you fight the sob from creeping up your throat. He furrows his brow in concern, opening his arms in a silent invitation to seek comfort from him. Dean coughs, ignoring the pang of sadness that causes his chest to ache the moment you crash into his younger brother’s arms and sob against his brown plaid shirt. He’s cradling your head in the palm of his hand, threading his fingers through the soft tendrils of hair as he gently shushes you, mumbling words of comfort into your ear that his brother can’t quite hear.

Sam glanced over his shoulder, Dean’s tattered boots retreating up the cellar stairs without a word, his stout footsteps the sole interruption of your sniffles and sobs against Sam’s clothing. He knew something was bothering his older brother, obviously not just the loss of Bobby again, but something he wasn’t sharing. Maybe it was a mixture of grief and anger, he knew that Dean wanted revenge against Dick Roman but there was just a hint of something else that lingered in the air when he was around. He blinks away the thought, forcing himself to focus on the moment so he could be present for you. You needed him. “You want to go for a drive?” He offers in the faintest whisper, almost as if he raised his voice you’d shatter like delicate glass.

“Y-Yeah.” You stammer, sniffling as your fingers clutch at the sleeve of the plaid rolled up to his elbow. “Can we get a coffee from town?” Your pitiful tone made his heart skip, a smitten smile quirking his mouth as he nodded and placed an affectionate kiss on your forehead.

“Of course, we can, princess.” The nickname brought a sad smile to your face, butterflies tickling your abdomen as you grasp his much larger hand in yours, intertwining your fingers. There’s always been a place in your heart for the Winchester brothers, a magnetic connection you’ve shared with both of them, and yet, despite moments like these you could never be certain if either of them possess feelings for you on more than a platonic level. Neither had ever gone further than smitten glances and flirtatious banter. To say it’s difficult to love someone when you don’t know if they feel the same is an understatement, but it’s even worse when you’re in love with two people and you have no idea how either feels about you.

Everything went wrong in the worst way, the ‘plan’ appeared to work but before there was even a chance at feeling satisfaction in the win, the happiness that might’ve been just disappeared. Kevin Tran had told you and Sam about Dick Roman’s ‘creamer’ that would wipe out thinner people. He made you guys promise to blow up the laboratory before leaving the building, you three had just burst through the lab doors when you spot Dick Roman with the specialized bone weapon in his neck; Dean standing before him watching as he gurgles and struggles to maintain his meat suit facade, Castiel standing behind him watching the scene as he prayed they’d succeeded and it’s when the sounds stop and a weird ripple pulses from Dick Roman that you knew something was about to go wrong. Sam’s breathing is labored as he begins to back away, broad frame pushing you back into Kevin as he tries to gesture for you to retreat. The atmosphere around the monster’s silhouette begins to ripple in stronger waves, you were about to scream for Dean to back away when his concerned willow irises met yours, he mouths something you don't quite understand before Sam’s arms wrap around your body and he shields you from the sudden explosion.

There’s Leviathan goo covering the entire lab, the tar blood dripping off the walls onto the pristine floors. Peeking around Sam’s broad shoulders, you can feel your stomach drop as you’re met with nothing. Dean and Castiel are just gone. You’re frozen in shock, ignoring the exchange between Sam and Kevin as the hunter tries to figure out what’s happened and Kevin just tries to urge you to leave. Crowley appears and you can feel yourself losing it, you’re trembling, mind racing, throat unable to form words as you purse your lips feeling the bile rise from the pit of your stomach. Just like that, Crowley exchanges a few select words with Sam before he snaps his fingers, Kevin disappears with a couple of demons and then he himself just vanishes.

“Breathe, just breathe.” Sam’s soothing voice murmurs, warm palms cradling your cheeks as his charming hazel eyes meet yours in a concerned gaze. He knew about the panic attacks, Bobby had confided in him years ago about how you’d been on medication for anxiety ever since your mother’s death. Sam is no stranger to comforting others in times of distress but he’s never been present for an episode like this. He vaguely remembers reading about panic attacks, he’s desperately trying to wrack his brain for anything that could help you in this situation. He lands on distracting you; or maybe it was his subconscious urging him to finally be honest with you about how he’s always felt now that he had you and you alone.

The sound of frazzled breathing dissipates, instead being replaced by a gasp as Sam’s delightful mouth meets yours in a tender and cautious kiss. With a subtle groan, your body instinctively relaxes, pressing yourself painfully close to his broad muscular frame as your fingers grasp at his chestnut hair and you find yourself kissing him in return with the feelings you’ve tried to hide over the years. Sam sighs through his nose, the kiss becoming more heated as he gets caught up in the moment. He’d definitely succeeded, you were distracted, but now so was he. The distant splat of leviathan dripping from the lab walls onto a surface somewhere in the room is what had brought you both back to reality.

“We should... w-we should go.” Sam offers in a murmur, clearing his throat with a deep cough, warm pink hue brightening his cheekbones in the most adorable manner. “We can figure out what happened to them. Someone has to know something, right?”

Wrong; it’s been four strenuous months since that fateful night at Richard Roman Enterprises. There hasn’t been a sole indication that whatever happened to Castiel and Dean wasn’t- fatal or reversible. Sam found himself toeing the line between losing himself to the pain of his brother’s absence and the paralyzing need to keep a suffocatingly tight grip on you in fear of losing the only person he has left. Sam’s need to be protective seems to have worsened as his feelings for you became like a tsunami tide; his heart was lulled into the calm waters of the affection he’s held for you since he can remember, only to be devoured and swept into a chaos of domestic dreams and a relentless wave of love that crashed into his heart with no warning. He’s always been smitten with you, but now, he was hopelessly in love. He remembered the promise he made to Dean vividly, if anything happened to either of them then the other was to live a normal life. An apple pie life. He’s never considered the promise before but now, with you, everything is different.

“C-Can I ask you something?” Sam clears his throat, rubbing the palms of his hands against his jean clad knees as you place a cold beer bottle on the battered motel coffee table, a dulled thud interrupting the tension filled silence. There’s something strange about his demeanor, something that spreads a hollow nerve in the pit of your stomach as you offer him an unsure nod. “Will you sit here with me, please?” His warm voice trembles, gesturing to the empty space on the sofa with his signature puppy eyes.

“Sammy.” There’s a beat of silence as you gnaw on your lower lip and contemplate how to broach the remainder of your thought. “Is this about Dean? I-Is he..”

“No.” He rushes, placing a comforting hand on your thigh as he meets your gaze. “I m-mean, I don’t know if he’s-” He pauses with a pained expression, before scooting closer to you and brushing his calloused fingers across the delicate flesh of your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Dean and I made a promise to each other. If anything were to happen to either of us, the other is to find a way to be happy. Move on and try to live a normal life.” There’s a coy smile that quirks his mouth, warmth creeping up his neck as he intertwines your fingers before continuing. “I want to do that with you.”

“Give up hunting?” There’s confusion in your tone as your heart hammers against your chest. Were you hearing him right? Give up on helping people? Give up on Dean?

“No more hunting.” He swallows the nerves, heartbeat drumming in his ears as he hopes to God that you’ll agree. “Just me and you, we can settle down somewhere. We can find a house, a normal nine to five and maybe-maybe, i-in the future, we could get married?” It’s impossible to ignore the startled expression on your face, he’s uncertain whether it’s leaning toward a yes or a no, so he hopes pleading his case can sway you. “I am in love with you.” His confession is tender, voice so gentle that you feel a warmth spread through your chest as you meet his beautiful hazel eyes. “And I think that you know that. I’ve been in love with you since we were kids but I never thought you’d feel the same. So I kept it to myself, continued being the best friend that I could be to you and just enjoyed the time we spent together.” His massive hand squeezes your thigh, the other playing with your fingers as he continues. “Things have been teetering on the line between friendship and more with us since our kiss,” He hesitates, cradling your face as his thumb brushes your bottom lip. “I finally felt like you might’ve had feelings for me too. If I am wrong, and you don’t, if I am just reading too much into this, tell me now.” The sofa releases a squeak as he shifts his weight, leaning dangerously close as his forehead meets yours.

"Sammy." The lighthearted giggle and dazzling smile caused Sam's heart to skip a beat, the contagious laughter coaxing an amused chuckle as he wrapped his lean muscular arms around your waist, pressing your back against his toned stomach. "We're never gonna make it to the lease signing if we don't choose a color."

"I am content with whatever you choose." He mumbles in your ear. "I just want you to be happy, baby."

"Samuel William Winchester, you promised." The adorable pout directed over your shoulder softened his expression, heart skipping as he met your gaze with a smitten smile. He released a sigh, reaching toward the paint chips in your hand and plucking the card with a gray hued blue.

"This." He murmurs into your hair as he wraps his arms around you once more. "There, the promise fulfilled."

"Thank you." It's almost impossible to keep from smiling, the terms of endearment still felt fresh and made your heart flutter. He's always called you princess but since that day in that stale half dilapidated motel when he expressed his love for you, he's really taken to calling you sweet names like babe, baby, love and honey. There was a sole instance that he'd called you sweetheart and something in you broke. He instantly noticed you tense and a sadness glistening in your watering eyes that broke his heart. He didn’t want to admit it then but he knew the reason; Dean. So he’d silently promised himself he would never call you that again. Sam never wanted to be the reason for your pain, even if it was unintentional.

“Have you put any more thought into the lease time frames?” Sam questions, releasing you from his tight hold to push the shopping cart toward the next aisle. There’s hesitation in your response, he can sense the tension that looms in the air as the squeaking from the shopping cart wheels goes silent and he’s watching you with a curious tilt to his head. “Baby?”

“Sorry.” You whisper, gnawing on your lower lip. There’s still no answer to his question and it’s starting to worry him that maybe you’d changed your mind altogether; you didn’t actually want this, want him. He leaves the shopping cart, fingers tugging the soft cotton sleeve of your peach cardigan as he urges you to come closer to him. The emotion reflecting in his hazel eyes causes you to frown and place the palms of your hands against his stubble covered cheeks. “I know that look, Winchester. Don’t do that. It’s nothing you did, I promise.” Pressing an affectionate kiss to your delicate fingers, he nods with a sigh of relief, ushering you to the shopping cart to continue the journey to the registers. “I was thinking about my dad and I just didn’t want to ruin our trip.”

“It’s perfectly okay to miss him.” He responds with an empathetic smile in your direction before greeting the cashier and placing the items on the conveyor belt, fishing his wallet out of his jean pocket. “I miss him too.” The remainder of the shopping trip was silent, it wasn’t that you thought Sam would judge you for thinking of your father but you didn’t want to have to admit that you were afraid of returning home. That’s why you’d agreed to rent a house with Sam about two hours driving distance of Sioux Falls, South Dakota. There’s a piece of your heart that yearned to return home, like being on the junkyard property line would help you feel like a part of your father was still here with you. Yet, the wounds were still fresh and it was hard to grasp that he really is truly gone.

“Are you okay, baby?” Sam’s concerned voice is barely heard over the rumbling of the Impala engine, his fingers interlacing with yours as he lifts your clasped hands to his mouth, pressing an affectionate kiss upon your knuckles.

“Mhmm.” There’s a subtle squeak from the leather seats as you scoot closer to his massive frame, nuzzling into his side as you enjoy the ride to the place you’d be calling home for a while. The cassette tape peeking out of the radio catches your attention, there’s an uncomfortable knotting in the pit of your stomach, a pain you’d often get when you focused on reminders of Dean. Sam is humming, you’re uncertain of the song but it takes everything within yourself to keep from pushing the cassette tape in and turning the radio on. Neither of you have been able to bring yourself to turn it on since Dean’s been gone. Swallowing the sadness, you try again, as you have each day since their disappearance, to pray to Castiel. It still hurts each time that the prayer is answered with radio silence. Sam makes you that happiest you’ve been in a lifetime but with Castiel and Dean still missing it feels like pieces of your heart have just vanished. The most painful part of the ordeal is the unknown; are they in pain? Are they in danger? Are they dead?

Sam Winchester could never have envisioned this; feeling comfortable enough to let someone in wholeheartedly, to allow himself the pleasure of falling hopelessly in love and nourishing the dream of a happily ever after. This is everything he’s ever wanted; this is perfection. The morning sunlight radiates from the bedroom window, revitalizing warmth descending upon the bare and exposed flesh sprawled across the mattress. The muscles in the hunter’s tanned arm were roused as he twirled a strand of hair around his finger, the movement provoking a content sigh as your foot grazed his leg in a gesture of instinctual fondness. There’s sleep evident in his movement as he savored the astounding happiness that devours his heart, his enamored hazel eyes hypnotized by the serene expression on your face. You’re beautiful; he’s always thought so however in this intimate sense of domestic bliss, bare skin wrapped in the floral print sheets, conquered by peaceful slumber due to the previous night's love making, he couldn't help himself from equating you to a goddess of celestial perfection. Aphrodite; in flesh and bone gracing him with the blessing of her presence. Then a realization hits him in the depths of his stomach as his heart skips; he’s ready. He wants this to be the rest of his life. This has been the best year of his life and everything in him is aching to spend the rest of it with you by his side. He’s going to propose.

#supernatural #supernatural imagines #supernatural imagine #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester imagine #dean winchester imagine #sam x reader x dean #sam winchester x reader x dean winchester

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saintsenara · 2 months

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writing patterns

[list the first line of your last ten fics and see if there's a pattern.]

thank you so much for the tag @perverse-idyll! a variety of multi-chapter and one shots here, so let's see if any similarities emerge...

subluxation - rodolphus lestrange/percy weasley

It is an ordinary day.

2. one year in every ten - harry potter/tom riddle

In the United Kingdom, a man kills a woman every three days.

3. the war of the roses - sirius black/severus snape

It begins with blood.

4. ecclesiastes three - andromeda tonks & her sisters

How bizarre, she said to herself, that the charms on the ceiling of the Great Hall should have held through a battle.

5. bó na leath adhairce - merope gaunt

The village of Little Hangleton was a cluster of houses and shops - stone walls the shimmery colour of brown sugar, gardens neat with lupins and alliums - set in a rolling swipe of bucolic Lancashire splendour.

6. sparkling cyanide - hokey the house elf & hepzibah smith

Eokhí is waking up one morning in her nest on the kitchen floor.

7. the pleiades - bellatrix lestrange/lord voldemort

The cupboard had been unlocked the day she turned ten.

8. catmint - minerva mcgonagall & pomona sprout

For thirty years, her morning stomp to the greenhouses had been marked by a crunch - crunch - crunch-ing of gravel under the stout boots she used to shield her ankles from the more nibbly plants.

9. scylla and charybdis - severus snape/lord voldemort

[this one needs two sentences, for obvious reasons.]

In 1963, Richard Beeching published a report called The Reshaping of British Railways. This has made many people very angry and has been widely regarded as a bad move.

10. everlasting ink - delphini riddle & ginny weasley

When she was sixteen, she nearly died.

well. it's clear we can learn that i'm not particularly fond of a long opening sentence - which is at odds with the fact that i use a lot of compound sentences elsewhere in all of these stories.

although sentence structure isn't - as i doubt it is for most people - the thing that readers particularly comment on... what gets brought up to me most frequently when people are kind enough to leave responses to my writing is the idea that each of my characters has a distinctive narrative voice, whether they're part of an ensemble piece [readers of one year in every ten have told me a lot that they particularly look forward to sections from ron's perspective as a emotionally mature respite from harry being reckless and tom being a dick] or the sole focus of the piece, and i think you can see that in these lines.

and - y'know - hopefully they're a good hook...

[i'll tag @ashesandhackles, @cealesti, @midnightstargazer, @celestemagnoliathewriter @incalculablepower and anyone else interested in playing.]

#asenora fics #asenora on writing #for someone who doesn't shut up i can be surprisingly restrained when it comes to the written word...

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soulmusicsongs · 9 months

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youtube

Love Is A Hurting Thing - Richard Stoute (Love Is A Hurting Thing / Any Day Now, 1973)

#Soul #Soul Music #Soul Music Songs #Music #Music Songs #Richard Stoute #Love Is A Hurting Thing #1973 #Wirl #Youtube

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nakeddeparture · 5 months

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Bridgetown, Barbados. What’s in your news for Sunday, November 26, 2023.

https://youtu.be/rXK-o2l7l5o

youtube

Death of an icon. Schools and teacher sick outs. Patty Cheltenham. To trust or not to trust Bajan attorneys. Advocating for the abused. Racism. The Obits. And more. Naked!!

Like. Share. Subscribe. Comment on YouTube.

#naked departure #barbados #what’s in your news #Richard stoute #Cheltenham #Youtube

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docgold13 · 1 year

Photo

This list reflects just one individual’s personal opinion... that said, let’s get started:

1). Sherlock Holmes created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

2). Batman created by Bill Finger and Bob Kane

3). Auguste Dupin created by Edgar Allan Poe

4). Hercule Poirot created by Agatha Christie

5). Philip Marlowe created by Raymond Chandler

6). Jane Marple created by Agatha Christie

7). Frank Columbo created by Peter Falk, Patrick McGoohan and Steven Bochco

8). Sam Spade created by Dashiell Hammett

9). Virgil Tibbs created by John Ball

10). Nancy Drew created by Carolyn Keene

11). Alex Cross created by James Patterson

12). Dirk Gently created by Douglas Adams

13). Byomkesh Bakshi created by Sharadindu Bandyopadhyay

14). Jessica Fletcher created by Peter S. Fischer and Richard Levinson

15). Mma Precious Ramotswe created by Alexander McCall Smith

16). Velma Dinkley and Fred Jones created by Joe Ruby and Ken Spears

17). Jim Rockford created by Stephen J. Cannell and Roy Huggins

18). Shawn Spencer created by Steve Franks

19). Leroy ‘Encyclopedia’ Brown created by Donald J. Sobol

20). Harry Bosch created by Michael Connelly

21). Adrian Monk created by Andy Breckman

22). Nero Wolfe created by Rex Stout

23). Shinichi Kudo created by Gosho Aoyama

24). Benoit Blanc created by Rian Johnson

#Fictional Detectives #Lists #mysteries #crime drama

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bad-biddie · 8 months

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The Unruly

Chapter 2

When you are born in a burning house, you think the whole world is on fire. But it’s not.

Tito Merello Vilar // Richard Kadrey

Regulus sat on the velvet green sofa wringing his hands. He didn’t know where to begin.

“Would you rather me look for myself Regulus?” Snape stated clearly becoming agitated with the on going silence

“No I… I just don’t know what to say” His eye still glued to his hands

“Begin with how she ended up in my house on my table” Snape was at his whits end rolling his eyes in irritation

“The Dark Lord needed a servant. He arrived at our house intending to use Kreacher but my mother decided differently….”

The Dark Lord stood in front of Regulus and Walburga, staring down at Walburga in surprise.

“A squib?”He asked raising his eyebrows “Why is this the first I’m hearing of this?”

“We didn’t want to disgrace Our Lord with the knowledge of the abomination. No one knows of her but those in this house, She will not be missed” Walburga said keeping her head down to avoid His gaze

Regulus dug his nails into the hands resting by his side, focusing on regulating his breathing.

“Regulus go get the girl while I speak more with your mother.” the cold voice demanded

“Yes my Lord” Regulus bowed before exiting the room

As soon has the door shut behind him, he ran stumbling up the stairs and whipping around the corner to the room next to his slamming the door open. Making the girl on the bed shoot up.

“Regulus what-” Regulus held his hand up cutting the girl off

“Keacher come” With a crack the elf was in the room as well

“Arabella you are about to meet the Dark Lord you must not speak with him unless spoken to, you must not look at his face, and you must not speak of what i am about to tell you. Do you understand?” Regulus stated pulling her from the bed and smoothing her hair down

Her large gray eyes looked up at him her bottom lip quivering with fear. She gave him a short nod showing her understanding.

He grasped her shoulders and began “He is going to take you somewhere and what he will have you do will most definitely hurt. He will leave you for dead. You must clear our mind and call out Kreacher's name when this happens.”

He paused glancing over at Kreacher who was looking at them with round eyes “Kreacher it is imperative that you go to her when she calls. You must bring her directly to me without hesitation.” Kreacher gave a stout nod

“Regulus j'ai peur” Arabella's voice quivered

He pulled her into his chest “N'ayez crainte, nous sommes en paix.”

He gave her a firm kiss on her hairline before taking her hand and guiding her down to the sitting room. He gave her hand a firm squeeze before whispering “Être fort.”, letting her hand fall to her side before pushing the door open.

Walburga and the Dark Lord stopped their conversation and looked up. The Lords pale hand stretched out beckoning the smaller girl to come forward.

Arabella shuffled forward carful to keep her gaze to the ground.

She felt his cold eyes boring into her as she stopped in front of them. She felt a cold hand grasp her chin as the Dark Lord forced her head up to meet his gaze. He looked over her face with cold calculating eyes as she forced herself to fixate of the wallpaper behind him.

He let out a tsk before letting her head fall back down. “It’s a shame she would have made a beautiful witch. What a pity.” He stated patronizingly making both Regulus and Arabella stiffen

For just a moment Arabella felt rather grateful she was a squib after remembering the stories Regulus shared about what the Dark Lord does to witches he finds beautiful.

“She will do.” He said looking back at Walburga

“Thank you My Lord for allowing our family to serve you once more.” Walburga said bowing

“Indeed” He turned and began walking towards the door his dark cloak bellowing behind him.

Walburga all but shoved Arabella in his direction indicating for her to follow. Kreacher was the at the door opening it for the Lord. The wind outside was beginning to pick up as the Dark lord walked out with Arabella behind him. She took one last look behind her as the he hair bellowed around her face making her look like she was flying before the man took a firm grasp on her upper arm making her flinch. The couple disappeared into swirl of black smoke shooting up into the sky.

“I don’t know where she was taken or what he had done to her. It was only a few hours later that Kreacher appeared in my room with her.” Regulus said concluding his recount of the previous night still looking down at his hands

Snape stayed silent for a few moments, taking in the information before asking a question which he felt he already knew the answer “And why have you brought her here?”

“You’re the only one I know with Occumulacy powers strong enough to keep the knowledge of her survival a secret.” He paused looking up at Snape, “Please Severus you and I both know of the prophecy. This war will not be waging much longer. All that I ask is that you give her shelter until it passes.”

Severus shut his eyes deep in thought. The two sat in silence for a few moments before Severus gave a nod.

Regulus let out a sigh of relief before bending to hold his head in his hands.

“Can you swear it?” He mumbled

Severus looked at him in surprise, the nerve of this kid dropping an unwarranted guest on his feet and now asking him to make an unbreakable vow.

“Not unbreakable obviously theres no witness. I just need your word that you will hide and protect her until this war is over.” Regulus clarified sensing the change in air around Snape.

“I give you my word.” Severus said plainly “Just one question, Why not take her to Sirius?”

Regulus grimaced at the name “He left her in that house for a reason.”

#harry potter #ron weasley #fred weasley #george weasley #ginny weasley #severus snape #severus #snape #snape community #snape x oc #snape x reader #sirius black #regulus black

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homomenhommes · 5 months

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THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more December 1

Today is World AIDS Day! What will you do to be involved?

1886 – Rex Stout (d.1975) was an American writer noted for his detective fiction. Stout is best known as the creator of the larger-than-life fictional detective Nero Wolfe. Wolfe's assistant Archie Goodwin recorded the cases of the detective genius from 1934 (Fer-de-Lance) to 1975 (A Family Affair), for a total of 33 novels and even more short stories.

It's a mistake to assume there is any direct relationship between the subject matter of a novelist and the novelist himself, especially since imagination is the fundamental resource of the writer, but ... before he turned to the detective novel in 1934, Rex Stout wrote an ambiguously Gay Western in which the married hero is attracted to his assistant. The notion, though psychologically plausible, is certainly unique to the Western adventure yarn of the period and suggests an equally unusual relationship between two men that was to prove central to Stout's work over the next four decades. What exactly is the nature of the friendship, if it can be called that, between Nero Wolfe, Stout's famous detective hero, and his live-in assistant, Archie Goodwin?

1922 – Richard Walters, who wrote under the pen name Sweet Lips, (d.2010) was a longtime Bay Area Reporter columnist who started writing for the paper when it was founded in 1971.Sweet Lips was born in Illinois. He eventually moved to San Francisco in the 1950s. Sweet Lips had been an only child.

Sweet Lips and the late B.A.R. founding publisher Bob Ross were roommates when Sweet Lips started his self-described gossip column.

Thomas E. Horn, the B.A.R.'s current publisher, called Sweet Lips "the Herb Caen of the LGBT community from the 1960s on," referring to the late, longtime San Francisco Chronicle columnist.

For years, Sweet Lips wrote about people, bars, and events in San Francisco's Polk and Tenderloin areas. He worked in a few of the bars in the area.

"When the Polkstrasse was the center of gay life in San Francisco, Lips knew every bartender, every club owner, most of the patrons, all of the cute boys, and, thus, most of the gossip of the community," said Horn in an e-mail.

"He will always be a seminal part of gay history in San Francisco," Horn added.

Sweet Lips reportedly was one of the people responsible for raising the money to start Operation Concern, which was founded in 1974 as a men's mental health services agency. At the time, homosexuality was still considered a mental illness. In 1976, 18th Street Services was formed to provide substance abuse services. In 1995 the two agencies merged into New Leaf: Services for Our Community.

1955 – Olivier Rouyer, born in Nancy, France, is a retired football striker from France. He earned seventeen international caps (two goals) for the French national team during the late 1970s and early 1980s. A player of AS Nancy, he was a member of the French team in the 1978 FIFA World Cup. He coached Nancy from 1991-1994.

Rouyer came out as gay in 2008 after leaving the team.

1970 – Matt Sanchez is a journalist, who has worked for Fox News and other organizations. He previously served as a Marine reservist and was involved in a controversy about access to campus for military recruiters at Columbia University. In March 2007, Sanchez was awarded the first "Jeane Kirkpatrick Academic Freedom Award" at the Conservative Political Action Conference.

In the early 90s, Sanchez performed in gay pornographic films as Pierre LaBranche and Rod Majors. In 2003, Sanchez joined the United States Marine Corps and was trained as a refrigeration mechanic with the rank of corporal. On March 16, 2007, John Hoellwarth, a staff writer for Military Times Media Group, reported that Sanchez was the subject of a Marine Corps inquiry about his appearances in gay pornographic videos and related allegations. Of concern was whether "Sanchez had enlisted prior to the end of his film career," "if Reserve Marines were prohibited from doing porn when not in a drilling status," and "how the current 'don't ask, don't tell' policy might apply.

On March 2, 2007, Sanchez was awarded the Jeane Kirkpatrick Academic Freedom Award at the annual Conservative Political Action Conference (CPAC). A featured speaker at the conference, Ann Coulter, made controversial remarks at the event, indirectly referring to presidential candidate John Edwards as a "faggot". In an article for Salon.com, Sanchez discussed how a photograph of him taken at the conference with Coulter brought him to the attention of bloggers, one of whom recognized him as a former pornographic gay film star. In the same article, Sanchez stated that bloggers had compared him to Rich Merritt, author of Secrets of a Gay Marine Porn Star, and Jeff Gannon, a conservative journalist who was outed as a gay escort.

as Rod Majors

In a 2007 interview, Sanchez commented that "I don't like porn, it reduces the mind, flattens the soul" and that he considers his pornographic career an identity outgrown.

1981 – The Worldwide Church of God published "The Plain Truth," which speculated that the illnesses being diagnosed in gay men were God's penalty for promiscuity.

1715 – An Oxford University student notes in his diary that sodomy was very common there. "It is dangerous sending a young man who is beautiful to Oxford."

1927 – A California appellate court upholds the sodomy conviction of a man after a private investigator hid under his bed to catch him in consensual sexual relations with his partner.

1974 – The Greek letter lambda was officially declared the international symbol for gay and lesbian rights by the International Gay Rights Congress in Edinburgh, Scotland. The lambda was selected as a symbol by the Gay Activists Alliance of New York in 1970.

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