#and I wrote it while I was sick

[wheneverfeasible]

He should probably get a new car.

He didn’t want to. He loved his car, but it wasn’t really cool, was it? Preppy cool, maybe, but not my-boyfriend-is-in-a-metal-band cool. It had certainly seen better days too.

He’d used to reprimand the kids whenever they trailed in dirt and food crumbs or spilled their milkshakes or whatever, but after he stopped doing the same to Eddie, he couldn’t really do it to them either. Besides, he didn’t want to be a stick in the mud.

It was why he’d thrown out all his Wham! and Tears for Fears cassettes, threw out anything that wasn’t Judas Priest or Iron Maiden or whatever else Eddie liked. It was why he boxed away all his brightly colored polos and now just wore the band tees that Eddie let him borrow, why he’d bought some of his own, as well as skinnier dark jeans that he knew Eddie liked the look of his ass in. He even got some bracelets like Eddie’s, and now he actually looked the part of Eddie’s boyfriend and not so much like a sore thumb when he went to all of Eddie’s shows.

The only thing he needed to change, besides his car, was his hair. He’d been putting it off the longest. He loved his car, but he loved his hair more. He didn’t make it quite as styled nowadays, but it was the last part of him that spoke of his former personality. Because he had to change, didn’t he? He knew what happened when you didn’t make your partner happy. Knew what happened when your love was bullshit and he never wanted Eddie to find him unworthy.

So he liked the things Eddie liked now, he dressed the way Eddie dressed, and he did what Eddie did. If he made Eddie happy, if he didn’t make Eddie do anything he didn’t want to do, then Eddie wouldn’t find fault in Steve. It was simple as that. He knew better now. Because Nancy had broke his heart, but losing Eddie? It would break his soul.

So he needed a new car. Maybe a van like Eddie’s, or would that be too much? A BMW was hardly metal, after all. He needed something cooler. And then…then he would change his hair.

He would need to figure out what Eddie thought was cool. Needed to figure out what Eddie liked. Should he buzz it? Should he grow it out? He didn’t know. Eddie had never brought up hair before. He didn’t know what Eddie would prefer. Maybe he could ask Jeff. He’d known Eddie the longest, after all.

Maybe he should dye it. That would look cool, right?

The others had noticed, of course. They’d commented on his new attire, the fact that he didn’t listen to his favorite music anymore, that he only seemed to be doing what Eddie wanted to do nowadays. But Eddie just looked happy whenever Steve agreed to whatever movie Eddie wanted to watch, or what to have for dinner, or what to do on Steve’s days off. That was the important part: making Eddie happy.

So Steve just brushed off their concerns, explained it away as saying that he was growing up and his interests were growing. He even played stupid Dungeons and Dragons now, always making certain he got the names correct, always doing his best to play it how Eddie would want him to play it, even if it always gave him a headache afterwards with all the numbers and words and strategizing.

He always put Eddie’s needs first, be it physically, emotionally, or even just recreationally. If Steve did that, if he was good enough, if he became exactly what his partner wanted, maybe he wouldn’t lose this. Wouldn’t lose Eddie.

Maybe, if Steve made his love good enough, Eddie wouldn’t ever say it was bullshit.

-

Now with a part two

[landwriter]

Hi! I hope you feel better soon!

This is a great prompt by @academicblorbo about Hob Gadling being the landlord of the Dead Boys. It has a wonderful fill already by @omgcinnamoncakes but I’d love to see what you come up with for it!

Alternative prompt from me if that doesn’t work for your brain: remember the date between Jenny and Maxine? How about one between Jenny and Esther? Poor Jenny is going to really question her taste in beautiful blonde women 😭

Thank you! I saw ‘landlord’ and ‘decades’ and blacked out. I love Hob having them as tenants. Maybe even before the modern day meeting in Sandman.

The Sandman/Dead Boy Detectives, 2.4k, G Dream/Hob, pre-slash, alternating/outsider POV, found family, a reunion and revelations etc.

---

Hob did not, strictly speaking, have tenants. It was more of a minor haunting. Pun intended.

The small room above the pub and below his flat wasn’t worth charging anyone rent for; when he first bought the building he had put a handsome oak desk in there and some bookshelves before wondering who he was possibly keeping up appearances for. Who was he going to take back upstairs that would stop and say, Wait, can I see your office? So he’d left it as more or less an abandoned room.

When he realized a pair of boys were using it as their clubhouse, he didn’t do anything at first. He saw them quietly coming and going a couple times, disappearing around the corner of the first landing. Brazen things. He meant to call after them, but the shout had died in his throat. He’d been young once. He still remembered the need to get away from it all. It was only when he went to check if they’d been making a mess of the room that he discovered it was still locked.

He’d crouched down and inspected the latch and found no marks at all. Huh, he’d said, and jiggled it again, and been a little more interested in whatever clever way they were getting into it after they disappeared up his stairs. Then he didn’t see them for weeks, and assumed they had gotten bored and stopped.

Until they came back. In the middle of an argument, striding through the pub like they owned it. Hob straightened up as they passed him.

“I cannot believe you broke the mirror.”

“I was in a rush! It’s not my fault you forgot you needed Arcana Incantatum after we arrived at the church. And found the demon.”

“I hardly forgot, I only made the mistake of assuming you would know to pack it by now.”

Hob raised his eyebrows. The boys disappeared into the back hallway. He followed them as they went upstairs, too preoccupied with their drama to notice Hob. They turned onto the landing, still carrying on. Even as they walked through the door. The locked, closed door.

Hob blinked. Then he drew his keys from his pocket and opened the door. The boys were still inside. One of them was pulling a mirror out of a backpack that was several times too small for it. They didn’t even look up, and Hob wondered how he couldn’t possibly have put it together earlier. He cleared his throat.

“Hello, boys.” That caught their attention. Hob grinned. “Seems we’re neighbours.”

---

Edwin abhorred getting involved with the living. He and Charles got along perfectly well on their own. They were a duo. An intrepid pair. Best mates, like Charles often stressed whenever he was about to ask something particularly ridiculous of Edwin. They were solid together. As solid as two ghost boys could be. The living, though, were messy and unpredictable.

Perhaps the most salient fact at present: Charles invariably became attached to them.

“He’s sad, mate. I can see it in his eyes.”

“You said those exact words in ‘94 about a dog. At least ask Hob himself.”

Before you decide to adopt him too.

Hob Gadling, irritatingly, was unobjectionable on every ground Edwin could think of. He had made no imposition upon them. When he found them, he only asked them their business, and then told them he was usually downstairs, or upstairs, if they needed anything they couldn’t procure themselves. He had an interest in rare and old books, as it happened. In explaining this, he had also hinted at being far older than his looks would suggest, which vexed Edwin twice over. He knew his curiosity would not be slaked until he talked to Hob, but then he would be the one getting involved with the living, and Charles would hardly let him forget it.

“Do you think he’s really immortal? Mate’s far too calm. Last week I saw him stop a fight downstairs by stepping right between these huge blokes. He just said something and smiled and they backed right off.” Charles lit up. “Do you reckon he’d teach me how to do that? Conflict de-escalation, innit? I could show him some moves with the cricket bat, I bet. Oh, do you think he’s a cricket fan?”

It was obviously a hopeless case, and since the Dead Boy Detectives never took on hopeless cases, there was only one course of action that remained. Edwin had long since disabused himself of the notion he needed to breathe. He had no beating heart, yet when he was startled, he would find himself clutching his chest. Now, he exhaled slowly through his nose in an entirely superfluous sigh of resignation. “Well, Charles, shall we go talk to him?”

---

When the millennium came around, Hob found himself celebrating it with his accidental tenants. There was something gloriously satisfying about being able to make a toast to the next one and have it taken seriously. He’d asked them if they had something better to do - spectral trouble to get into et cetera - and they both looked at him with almost identical put-upon and incredulous expressions.

Hob had a terrible suspicion they thought they were taking care of him as much as he thought he was taking care of them.

Edwin, with his insatiable curiosity and, deep underneath it, something Hob thought he recognized from himself: a sharp animal ferocity and a refusal to go until he’s good and done, natural laws be damned. Charles, still brightly, painfully alive for a ghost - who should be alive still, by all rights, but nothing of this life was fair - who joked to cover up hurt in a way Hob knew too, and glowed any time Hob turned so much as a kind word to him.

He wondered what they saw when they looked at him.

The year ticked over, and technology kept working. Charles grinned innocently and said he could probably possess the telly and break it that way if Hob wanted?

Hob’s heart twinged. He knew they weren’t his, not to keep, but it seemed that teenagers didn’t change at all over the centuries, even if the boys were only sort of teenagers in the way Hob was only sort of in his thirties. It didn’t change that they’d been punted from the mortal coil before having a chance to grow up, and figure out the kind of men they were, and make their own choices and fuck up and try to be better than their fathers, and everything everyone deserved. Hob had made more than his share of mistakes. They hadn’t been given the chance to make nearly any at all.

So they made toasts to the new millennium, to the detective agency, to themselves, all stuck out of time in different ways and refusing to move on for different reasons, and Hob allowed himself to think of Robyn and privately pretend that they were his all the same.

---

A week later, Hob was reminded of the other universal traits of teenagers when he mentioned his stranger and both boys began to grill him with terrifying alacrity. Before turning to his dating life, like ravening bloody wolves. When Edwin had asked, in a specifically nineteenth century manner that Hob remembered all too well, if Hob had always been unmarried, he’d nearly put his head in his hands.

“It can be hard for me to associate with the living too, you know. For obvious reasons.”

Charles had turned to Edwin and hissed “See? I told you.”

Right in front of him. Nobody had taught them manners.

“Manners, Charles,” replied Edwin loftily. “We will, of course, respect your privacy. A man is entitled to his secrets.”

“You’ll go upstairs and rifle through my personal things, is what you’ll do,” said Hob.

Charles coughed to hide his laugh. Edwin flushed and looked away. Hob snorted, and told them about Eleanor and Robyn. Properly. It was a strange relief. He’d told the story wrong for plausibility’s sake so many times he had been worried he’d forget the truth of it one day.

They had listened, and been remarkably quiet until Charles piped up and offered to set him up with a ‘really fit’ ghost. Hob had roundly shut that down. Woefully, not all explanations were satisfying enough. Charles cornered him again the next morning while he was cleaning the bar.

“No, mate, I still don’t get it.” Hob was about to say he no more wanted to be with someone who couldn’t feel pleasure from his touch than someone who would grow old and be taken from him while he stayed the same, when Charles went on, bafflingly, to ask, “Why don’t you meet your mysterious friend more often than once a century?”

Hob sighed. “Adults are often busy, Charles.” Nevermind that he had begun to wonder the same since the eighteenth century. He’d always just assumed time passed differently for his stranger.

Charles just laughed and perched himself on the bar top. “Ooh, low blow. We’re busy too, you know. Plenty of cases to solve.”

“Really,” said Hob. “You’re busy. Right now.”

Charles waggled his eyebrows.

“Charles, I am not a case,” said Hob, sternly as possible. “I’m not even a ghost. He’s not a ghost. No ghosts.”

“We could investigate. Maybe ghosts are involved. What even is he? Why every hundred years? Is it some sort of Persephone situation?”

Hob bit his lip against shouting I don’t know! I don’t know anything about him! Instead, he tried to smile, and felt it come out as a wince instead. “He’s very private.”

Charles scowled. “Yeah, obviously. You don’t even know his name. He can’t be that good of a friend if he’s too busy to see you more than once a century.”

Hob couldn’t see the expression on his own face, but he saw Charles’ shocked reaction well enough. It was so long ago for him, and still Hob knew at once what Charles saw now: that first time you manage to visibly hurt a grown-up’s feelings, people who seemed too old and too stern to actually feel pain, when you’d been going around kicking at them like a new foal, just to stretch your legs.

“Sorry,” said Charles, instant regret chasing his surprise. He was a good kid.

“It’s alright,” said Hob. He meant it. He looked down at the shining bartop. His hands were restless with the urge to light a cigarette. He gave in. It wasn’t like Charles would be dying of lung cancer any time soon if he decided to follow Hob’s example. “I don’t think he would say he’s very good at being a friend either. Truth is, I’d love to see him more often. But we had an awful fight the last time we met. If he forgives me, I’ll have to ask.”

“Mates always make up,” said Charles earnestly. He was such a good kid.

“I suppose they do.” Charles still looked sorry, and Hob clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. Thanks for looking out for me, Charles.”

Charles beamed at him. “Always. We’ve got your back, me and Edwin.”

---

Charles couldn’t bloody believe it. Hob’s friend was here. There was nobody else it could be. He and Edwin were watching from a nearby table, pretending to be absorbed in their own conversation. Neither man noticed them. They were too busy looking at each other.

He couldn’t imagine spending more than a century apart from Edwin. The way Hob had talked about him and his stranger over the years, it sometimes seemed like they were best mates too, no matter how little they saw each other. He was dead sure that’s what had Hob looking so gutted when he thought nobody was looking. He had known they would make up, though. Maybe now Hob would be happier.

“Charles, we really ought not eavesdrop,” hissed Edwin. Right as he scooted his chair closer, the cheeky hypocrite. Hob and his friend were talking too quietly to properly hear, their heads bent together. Lots to catch up on, Charles reckoned. A hundred years. He couldn’t stop thinking about the number. It seemed impossible. Funny, he couldn’t imagine that long away from Edwin, but he could imagine spending that long being best mates. There was nobody he’d rather hide from Death with.

Hob’s face was doing something strange as his long-lost friend talked. Then Hob moved and grasped him by the shoulders, so tight that his knuckles stood out in relief. The man said something in low tones and Hob shook his head, and then pulled him in for a hug. The man stiffened and then relaxed, and his arms came up around Hob’s.

Their cheeks both looked wet.

Charles swallowed and it felt suddenly a little like he was choking. He should look away, only he couldn’t.

“They must be great friends,” said Edwin softly.

“Yeah,” he managed to croak. We won’t ever need to have a reunion like this because I’m never going to lose you, mate. I won’t let them take you. It was stuck behind the phantom lump in his phantom throat. His hand, without him telling it to, reached out and grabbed hold of Edwin’s. Edwin squeezed it hard, and Charles knew he didn’t have to make his voice work after all.

Then the man pushed Hob away, but only far enough to grab his face and pull him back again, thumbing over Hob’s cheeks, and beside him, Edwin honest-to-god gasped, and then Charles momentarily forgot how thoughts worked too.

---

It happens thus: in the New Inn, just next door to the White Horse, some 639 years after they first met, Hob Gadling and Dream of the Endless share their first kiss. Neither, if they had bothered to think about it, would have intended to have an audience, but it’s a well-known fact that some kisses cannot wait, and theirs was chief among them, being that it had so much to say, and was so very long overdue.

I missed you, it said, and I came back, it said, and Please don’t go away from me again, and I could not.

And atop them, like blankets, were laid invisible the daydreams of those who saw them, including two long-dead boys, whose dreams were woven from the fresh and unaccounted-for possibilities of Hob kissing his mysterious stranger. Another man, thought Edwin. His best friend, thought Charles. Dream was the only one who could have heeded this, but he did not, because Hob Gadling was holding him tight and daydreaming loudly of this kiss and more, of this today and tonight and tomorrow, ever greedy and ever easily pleased, and Dream could hear nothing at all over their clamouring and comingled joy; the bright gold daydream between the scant space of their bodies that sounded so much like at last.

[chikaras-garden]

I think Demonhead Damian would absolutely love to take care of his lover when she’s sick, even going as far as to do the cooking himself instead of relying on his servants (just in case someone tries to take advantage of your weakened state and poison you).

This one goes out to all the babes who apparently got sick over the holidays (I'm babes).

Something is wrong with your powers. Not in the sense that you’re a danger to those around you, no—but they are draining you more than usual, leaving you hopelessly fatigued and, well, sick.

So sick that you barely have the energy to lift your head when a pair of servants enter your room shadowed by Damian, who watches them like a hawk. 

When one of them sets a bowl on your nightstand, you eye it curiously. Blearily, you ask, “What is that?”

Damian gives you an incredulous look. “It is soup.”

The servants step back into the shadowy corners of the room, and it’s almost as if you’re alone with Damian when he sits on the edge of your bed, then pulls the bowl into his lap. 

“Red lentil soup. I made it myself,” he murmurs while presenting the spoon to your dry lips. You eagerly take what he feeds you, and it tastes so wonderful that you suddenly, painfully recall that it’s been too long since you ate anything.

“Why?” you husk, rubbing at your tired eyes for but a moment before Damian’s hand replaces yours, and he soothes your face with a warm cloth. 

And there’s that look again. “Because you are ill.”

“But we have servants—“

He silences you with a kiss on your forehead. “I trust no one around you when you are so weak, beloved. I barely trust myself.”

“Damian,” you whisper, suddenly breathless with something much more pleasant than your lingering cough. It isn’t that you doubted his ability to cook—you’re certain he can do anything he decides to do—but you’re surprised and touched that he would go to all that trouble, humbling himself in this way only for you.

“Hush,” he soothes. When he dips the spoon into the soup again, you catch the faintest hint of a shy smile on his lips. “Eat now, please. I need to ensure your strength returns.”

[buttercupshands]

MHA didn't create some miracle way of helping others. It was never promised to be this way. And when it came to villains...

Spoilers for manga all the way to chapter 423.

The only way to get anything in life in MHA was to be born "normal" like everyone else and that way of thinking never left Izuku with Toga getting the same treatment she did before from everyone from her family to her "normal" classmates. It was Ochako who helped Toga even if just a little by lifting the weight of all the feelings that Toga had.

She couldn't save Toga the way one could save a civilian by saving them from harm. If it worked that way Dabi would've saved Toga even before Ochako could apologize for failing to notice Toga. She was so lazer focused on saving everyone else, that she was just another villain to stop, not a human.

Even if by the end of it Ochako helped Toga to deal with her grief, acceptance as it was wasn't something possible when a quirk makes you want to drink someone's blood from jealousy.

We got a bittersweet ending with Toga, in which she probably died from blood loss just like her double did in MVA. If it wasn't for Twice she would've died back then.

Giving away her blood for Ochako wasn't a redemption or a way to save Toga in the end, more as it was her being true to herself until the very end.

Just like Twice chose to stay with the League even if Hawks offered him a way to survive that battle. He refused and died protecting his friends who accepted him instead of choosing to betray them and accept Hawks' offer.

After Twice's death... It was a matter of time that more 'active' LoV members would join him as well. As sad as it is, we now can return to Izuku.

Who, after his time OFA-AFO quirk space, now wanted to help a "crying boy" he saw in Tenko just as before with Katsuki in chapter 1. He didn't forgive Tomura and didn't excuse the way he chose to solve his problems.

It didn't mean that Tomura would survive in their battle, even if Izuku didn't see killing others as a way to solve problems. He didn't understand Tomura, but he still wanted to try, and try he did.

The rest of this post was nothing more than a contextual prologue to understand that it's not the first time a hero failed to save a villain and in Twice's case we know that he died and his death was the reason Toga started thinking about her own possible death and Dabi finally revealed himself as Toya.

The goal of saving a "crying boy" never was an end-goal for Izuku in the Final arc, since helping Tomura deal with his feelings just left him hollow with a goal that clashed with Izuku's. As being a hero for villains meant destroying the world for them to help them live freely.

But that was before AFO resurfaced.

Sadly after that Tomura who was talking about making his own choices for a while now stopped doing that. Even if he still had a goal of helping villains and only villains, Tomura was almost gone. And his goals were now unreachable.

Izuku helped Nana who in turn kept Tomura from fading away entirely. In MHA there were countless situations where Izuku's help affected people by helping a different person to keep hope, All-Might being the first one and Nana being the last one at the moment.

Hollow after Izuku helped him to get rid of his hatred Tomura could do the only thing he did - accept the situation as it was.

Accepting AFO as his Sensei, accepting Stain's ideals and Overhaul's deal was the way he solved his problems. Just like Izuku had a problem of understanding something outside of his norm, Tomura was accepting too many things, which lead to his downfall after accepting AFO's quirk.

Just like Twice could've given up everything that he had for his friends so did Tomura.

With Izuku helping as much as he could let Tomura to finally rest as he wasn't really living ever since waking up in the hospital. With his body now affected by AFO's wishes instead of his own until the end.

In a way Izuku didn't succeed in his wish for Tomura to stop ever since PLF war arc. As he "kept fighting to destroy" no matter how hard Izuku tried to stop him.

The only thing he succeeded in was changing Tomura's mind about himself, instead of viewing himself as a monster he accepted that he was a human just like Izuku said. A "crying boy" who couldn't really destroy Izuku's hands in the end.

For a group of Villains who weren't supposed to get profiles of their own at the start of the series, League is slowly fading as the most memorable group that there was in MHA, getting backstories, their own Villain themed arc all the while being as human as anyone else.

As sad as their story is they were not "unlucky", they didn't need a happy false ending where they would need to change to be normal - they chose to live this way and they lived it to it's fullest.

[stupidfuckingwindow]

Logan who won't sit on your face because he's scared his Adamantium ass will break your neck

[mirkwoodmunson]

you get woken up by the calloused hand gently pressing onto your forehead, a thumb stroking your temple while warm breath puffs the shell of your ear, a soft voice murmuring to you and helping you gain back your consciousness. the further you wake, though, the more you’re aware of your discomfort — aching and groggy and… damp? you start to tremble.

“baby… your fever’s breaking.”

“mmnnnngg…”

“you’re sweating, honey — c’mere, your shirt is soaked.”

sure enough, as eddie gets up and starts to help you up as well, you grimace and whine as you feel the damp, heavy fabric stick to your clammy skin, hair clinging to your forehead that eddie swipes away before pecking a kiss.

you can tell by the darkness behind the curtains it’s not time to wake up yet, but eddie is determined, knows you’re really out of it but that you must be uncomfortable. and he would not be having that.

the sheets and even eddie’s own shirt are damp, he sees the grimace twist deeper as you fist his ratty black sabbath tee, bottom lip pushed out in perhaps the cutest guilty pout he’d seen. he chuckles softly and takes your hand from his shirt, lifts it to his lips and kisses your knuckles.

“hey hey hey, it’s okay. we’re gonna get changed, okay? get you feeling cozy again.”

he sets your hand back down, and gently begins to lift the hem of your shirt, encouraging you to lift your arms. when you do, he easily lifts it up and away, discarding it into the dirty pile. instantly you begin to shiver, and eddie scolds himself.

“shit i’m sorry baby i’m sorry,” he scrambles to yank a clean tee from the dresser and quickly, gently dresses it onto you, stroking your shoulders, and instantly you’re warm again. you hum a soft, gravely sound and he smiles before removing his shirt as well, not bothering to grab a new one.

eddie leaves the room for just a moment, and returns with a blanket that he opens and spreads over the sweat-damp sheets, helping you to lie back down. he settles in with you once you’re comfortable, face to face now rather than him spooning behind your back to give you room, your arms and legs tangled together as he nuzzles and kisses your fingers.

“comfy?” he whispers, and you murmur a soft, nasally reply in confirmation. eddie smiles wide and nudges forward to kiss the tip of your nose, settling in close to you.

he listens to your breathing — slightly ragged and low, but even and calm — the slowing of your breaths as you fall back asleep in a newfound state of comfort. he refuses to let himself doze off until he hears the little snores, a confirmation of your peace.

[freightandgroove]

Two statements can and should coexist:

1. The Hunger Games movie adaptations are kind of reproducing the very "violent spectacle as mass entertainment/fascist or capitalist propaganda" that the books are warning us about.

2. The books were always published for entertainment purposes! They're meant to be good and fun to read and gripping! It's okay to laugh when a character makes a joke! It's okay to enjoy watching the movies without following it with a Communist Manifesto-sized warning like we KNOW

[bidamonalbarn]

im just a spideypool & scogan shipper in a poolverine world

[braincellwhatsthat]

i would love love love to see kasanoda in your style !!

HE AND MEI ARE SO CUTE TGT IN THE MANGA GRAHHHHHHH

[amphibious-thing]

This is maybe a dumb question, but looking at the portraits of Hervey, I have a hard time noticing anything about how he's dressing that seems out of the ordinary or especially more 'feminine' for the time period (barring that one where he just has his coat buttoned super low and his whole shirt out?). Am I missing some obvious detail (material they were made out of maybe?) or was the his effeminacy/the perception of him as effeminate just more based on behavior than 'presentation'?

Not a dumb question at all. It was combination of his sexuality, his diet, his androgyny as well as his clothes & makeup. While Hervey's femininity was almost certainly exaggerated in satire written by his enemies there was some basis to this satire.

Sexuality

In the 18th century there was an association between effeminacy and sodomy. I don't think we can discount the role the rumours surrounding Hervey's sexuality played in the public's perception of him. William Pulteney's 1731 pamphlet A Proper Reply to a Late Scurrilous Libel satirises Hervey as Mr. Fainlove. Pulteney describes Fainlove as a "delicate Hermophrodite", a "pretty, little, Master-Miss" and insinuates that he's a pathick who "enjoys every Moment and Fruits of his Guilt". The 1739 pamphlet The State of Rome, Under Nero and Domitian satirises Hervey as Sporus (an allusion to Pope's satire of Hervey) describing him as a "Male-female Thing," who is "Fit only for the Pathicks loathsome Trade".

Pope's choice to satirise Hervey as Sporus in An Epistle from Mr. Pope, to Dr. Arbuthnot (1735) was itself a comment on Hervey's sexuality. Sporus being the boy that Nero is said to have castrated and taken as a wife.

Diet

Hervey was epileptic and suffered from a chronic colic. He details his medical history in An Account of My Own Constitution and Illness. At the recommendation of his doctor's George Cheyne he adopted a milk and vegetable diet. Cheyne believed that such a diet was "absolutely necessary for the total Cure of the Epilepsy” and also prescribed milk and vegetable diets in cases of “extreme Nervous Cholicts”. (The English Malady, p167 & 254) Hervey ate no meet for three years before reintroducing white meet. This diet was seen as effeminate by his contemporaries. Lady Louisa Stuart cites his refusal to eat beef as an example of the “extreme to which Lord Hervey carried his effeminate nicety”. (Stuart wrote this anonymously in the introductory anecdotes included in the 1837 edition of The Letters and Works of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.)

Hervey also drank "ass’s milk with powder of crab’s eyes and oyster-shells" for his heath. This is mocked in the poem The Lord H-r--y's First Speech in the House of Lords (1733-4) that calls him "a perfect curd of ass's milk." Alexander Pope included a similar line in An Epistle from Mr. Pope, to Dr. Arbuthnot (1735) describing him as a "mere white Curd of Ass's milk".

[Certain City Macaronies drinking Asses Milk, print, c.1772, via The British Museum.]

The association between effeminacy and asses milk features in the satirical dialogue The City Macaronies drinking Asses-milk, at the Lacteum, in St. George's-fields published in the November 1772 edition of the Oxford Magazine which was accompanied by the above illustration. The dialogue mocks macaroni for drinking asses-milk as a treatment for "nervous cases" and "hysterics" claiming that it's "delicate men" such as the macaroni "whose fine feelings are sensible of the slightest pressure, that are acquainted with hysterics". The son of the milk woman wonders aloud whether the macaroni are men or women. His mother tells him "they're neither, they are a kind of half and half breed."

Androgyny

With his slim figure and a bit of a baby-face Hervey was considered to be naturally androgynous. When Lady Deloraine said to him and Miss Fitzwilliams that "in her opinion a woman could never look too much like a woman, nor a man too much like a man" Hervey admitted that "considering the two people she said this to, it was certainly well said; and I can forgive her having bragged of it to every creature she has seen since" (Hervey to Stephen Fox, 18 September 1731)

Satirical descriptions of Hervey liken him to a cherub or a fairy describing him as pretty, little, soft, dainty, delicate.

In A Proper Reply to a Late Scurrilous Libel (1731) Pulteney satirises Hervey as "pretty Mr. Fainlove" who he describes as a "delicate Hermophrodite", a "pretty, little, Master-Miss", a "pretty, little Scribbler", and comments that he shouldn't "sully those pretty Fingers with Ink" that "a Fan would become them much better than a Pen."

The Lord H-r--y's First Speech in the House of Lords (1733-4) describes him as "the softest, prettiest thing". In An Epistle from Mr. Pope, to Dr. Arbuthnot (1735) Pope describes him as having a "cherub's face". Tell-tale Cupids (1735) satirises him as the "pretty baby fac'd Lord Dapper".*

In A Fairy Tale (1743) by Horace Walpole depicts Hervey as a literal fairy describing him as a "Dainty little Figure", "most delicately Fair and light" who "would have been vastly Pretty if it’s cherry-lips had ‘nclos’d any Teeth".

*quoted in Lord Hervey: Eighteenth-Century Courtier by Robert Halsband

Clothes & Makeup

Pope didn't describe Sporus as a "bug with gilded wings" and a "Fop at the toilet" because of Hervey's natural androgyny, clothing & makeup absolutely played a role in the public perception of him.

The Duchess of Marlborough described Hervey as a having "a painted face, and not a tooth in his head". Pope described him as "painted Child of Dirt that stinks and stings". And the The Court Garland refers to him as "Thou powder-puff, thou painted toy". (see The Opinions of Sarah Duchess-Dowager of Marlborough p42, An Epistle from Mr. Pope, to Dr. Arbuthnot & Lord Hervey: Eighteenth-Century Courtier by Robert Halsband p138)

The fashionable look of the period required pale clear skin, flushed red cheeks and dark eyebrows. While washes and creams were used to achieve clear pale skin, white cosmetic paint could also be used to lighten and smooth the skin. Rouge was used to give colour to the cheeks. Burnt cloves could be used to darken the eyebrows. While some of these cosmetics contained lead or mercury not all of them did.

[Lord John Hervey, oil on canvas, c.1741–1742, by Jean-Baptiste van Loo, via Art UK.]

It's hard to know how reliable the accounts of Hervey's makeup use are however his portraits do depict him with this fashionable look (in particular the rosy cheeks of the Jean-Baptiste van Loo portraits and the Enoch Seeman portrait). While modern depictions of 18th century fops will sometimes exaggerate makeup depicting men with pure white faces and almost perfectly round red circles on their cheeks, Hervey's portraits are more accurate to the look these cosmetics were trying to achieve.

The use of cosmetics are highlighted in satirical depictions of effeminate men throughout the 18th century century. As early as 1691 Mundus Foppensis: or, the Fop Display’d was mocking men for the "wanton use" of "Spanish Red, and white Ceruse". In 1773 The Old Beau in an Extasy depicts a "Fop at Sixty two" who uses "Chinese Paint for Artificial Bloom". In 1812 Regency A la Mode depicts the Prince Regent applying rouge to his cheeks while he gets laced into stays. The Court Garland's satire of Hervey is just another example of a satirical depiction of a fop in makeup:

Thou powder-puff, thou painted toy, Thou talking trifle, H----y; Thou doubtful he, she, je ne sçai quoy, By G-d, the K--g shall starve ye.

[Left: The Old Beau in an Extasy, print, c.1773, by John Dixon, via Lewis Walpole Library.

Right: 1812, or, Regency A la Mode, print, c.1812, by William Heath, via Lewis Walpole Library]

As for clothing I have to admit I'm better at late-18th century menswear. That being said material and colour seem to have played a role in what was considered effeminate.

A letter to the Read's Weekly Journal or British Gazetteer published on the 8th of May 1731 complains; "Rich and coloured Silks are in themselves effeminate, and unbecoming a Man; as are in short, all Things that discover Dress to have been his Study- 'Tis in vain for a Fop of Quality, to think his Title will protect him." In particular the article criticises poke sleeves and green waistcoats. While poke sleeves are absent from Hervey's portraits the Seeman portrait depicts him wearing a green waistcoat.

Green waistcoats are also mentioned in a story published in the Universal Spectator and Weekly Journal on the 18th of October 1729 describing and effeminate man's clothing as follows:

He had a flower’d pink-colour Silk Coat, with a Green-Sattin Waistcoat lac’d with Silver. Velvet Breeches, Clock’d Stockings the Colour of his Coat, Red-heel’d Pumps, a Blue Ribbon at the Collar of his Shirt, and his Sword-Hilt he embrac’d under the Elbow of his Left Arm,

This green waistcoat is laced with silver. In the Jean-Baptiste van Loo portraits you can see a embroidered silver waistcoat peeking out from beneath Hervey's coat.

[Left: Lord John Hervey, oil on canvas, c.1737, by John Fayram, via Art UK.

Right: Lord John Hervey, oil on canvas, by Enoch Seeman, via The Collected Verse of John, Lord Hervey]

While the quality of the photo leaves much to be desired I wonder if the coat from the Seeman portrait is supposed to be silver. The coat he wears in the The Hervey Conversation Piece could also be silver but it might simply be grey. Sarah Osborn thought that silver coats looked effeminate. She wrote to Robert Byng on the 2nd of June 1722:

I believe the gentlemen will wear petticoats very soon, for many of their coats were like our mantuas. Lord Essex had a silver tissue coat, and pink color lutestring waistcoat, and several had pink color and pale blue paduasoy coats, which looked prodigiously effeminate.

Hervey wears a "prodigiously effeminate" pale blue, possibly paduasoy, coat (possibly a long sleeved waistcoat?) in the Fayram portrait.

The low buttoned waistcoat is somewhat interesting and consistent throughout his portraits, buttoned particularly low in the Fayram portrait. The effeminate Captain Whiffle from The Adventures of Roderick Random (1748) is described wearing his waistcoat "unbuttoned at the upper part to display a brooch set with garnets" but Hervey is broochless and looking at other portraits from this period the low buttoning doesn't seem to be unusual.

[Left: Detail of The Hervey Conversation Piece, oil on canvas, c.1738-40, by William Hogarth, via Fairfax House.

Right: Lord John Hervey, oil on canvas, c.1741, by Jean-Baptiste van Loo, via Art UK.]

Fur-lined suits like that worn by Hervey in the Jean-Baptiste van Loo portraits were imported from France or Italy and could be very costly. Mary Delany describes Lord Baltimore wearing "light brown and silver, his coat lined quite throughout with ermine" at a ball where "finery was so common it was hardly distinguished". (Mary Delany to Ann Granville, 22 Jan, 1739/40)

Fur-lined suits were somewhat of novelty in England and would become a feature in Grand Tour portraits. Peter McNeil explains in Pretty Gentleman (p123):

The novelty and glamour of new fashion goods generated excited responses to Lyons silk waistcoats, Italian velvets and fur-lined suits. There was a well-established tradition of wealthy men acquiring clothing on the continent and then having themselves painted in them, either in Italy or back in England.

(see Benjamin Lethieullier 1752, Lord Archibald Hamilton 1755-56 & John Scott 1774 all by Pompeo Batoni an artist well know for his Grand Tour portraits)

Hervey's buckles in the Jean-Baptiste van Loo portraits look to be set with paste (glass) or gems (buckles could even be set with diamonds). While it's impossible to tell what Hervey's buckles are set with these buckles could get very expensive. Later in the century macaroni were mocked for their expensive taste in similar buckles. (see McNeil p90)

[Left: Shoe buckle, metal & paste, 18th century, British via The MET (83.1.103).

Right: Detail of Lord John Hervey, oil on canvas, c.1741, by Jean-Baptiste van Loo, via Art UK.]

While Hervey was certainly a fashionably dressed man he doesn't take it to the extent you might imagine of the archetypal fop. Satire exaggerates. Hervey's enemies chose their words deliberately to humiliate him. The amphibious thing of Pope's poetry was in reality a chronically ill queer man with a taste for fashion.

[ultimatepinkgirl]

Comparisons

I feel like this is important bc uhhh um I wanted to make it. And also show their similarities bc I thought it was interesting!

Barbie and Miss Piggy started off quite different from what we now know, neither one pink! In 1959, Barbie debuted in a black and white swimsuit, based off of adult gag gift toys. Eventually the doll line turned from its origins and began marketing to children. The Muppets: Sex and Violence showed an unnamed pig who began appearing in more and more episodes until she became the character we know and love today. I've also seen mentions that Miss Piggy originally appeared on a talk show or ABC special as Piggy Lee, but I couldn't find anything concrete about it.

Both characters ran for president, though Barbie tried 8 times! Barbie could have defeated Clinton, Bush, and/or Obama, but Miss Piggy could have defeated Regan.

Currently there are 41 Barbie movies with a new live action starring Margot Robbie coming out this year! On the other hand, the Muppets have 13 movies (12 depending on how you count.) While I'm not sure if Miss Piggy is in 2 of them, she always takes iconic roles when she's on screen.

Each of them are black belts in karate, with their own custom karate gis. But while Barbie is usually seen working in a professional setting, Miss Piggy does not hesitate to chop one her fellow Muppets or celebrities (see Acts of Violence section in the Miss Piggy's karate chops page of the Muppets Wiki.)

What Barbie is arguable most known for (outside of her extremely long resume) is her iconic color, Barbie Pink! 2022 was named the year of the color with Valentino and a number of celebrities wearing the vibrant color. While Miss Piggy doesn't have her own color, the flower Miss Piggy Pigsqueak (Bergenia cordifolia) is named after her.

[theboarsbride]

BETWEEN HER TEETH🦷🐻‍❄️🩸💋

Sir John Franklin cannot sleep, and receives a nighttime haunting from a bear-faced visitor.

(a short snippet featuring Sir John and my bear-woman "Terror" oc Bear Wife, a hallucination of his that's the result of insomnia and lead poisoning)

[desultory-novice]

Hello, kind of new here, so if this has already been done, then oops. When you write a story about Marx and Magolor, Magolor always seems to be the tragic, traumatized, mind-is-broken one (well at least In the hell branch) so what if MARX is the traumatized one? (Evil laugh for some reason) do you think you could make something with that? Not forcing anything, just giving ideas. Have a nice day/ night!

Ahh, you noticed my secret!(/lh) But yeah, I do tend to have Magolor be the one wallowing in mind-break trauma. In my defense, he's dramatic enough that his reactions are too fun to explore!

(I love you Magolor ^^;)

As a reward for your cleverness, I've written this mentally strong Magolor x mentally vulnerable Marx! (Actual マホマル Marxolor?!)

(Seriously though I can't thank you enough for giving me a Marxolor prompt)

[districtscare]

something something you do realize gale was a child too. being 18, 19 and legally classified as an adult doesn't take away the fact that there's a TEEN in there. a CHILD. gale's whole thing throughout the entire trilogy was to protect katniss & her family, even if he caused harm to her outside of that (which is ultimately his treatment of her as some sort of trophy/something to be had.) gale's reason for rebellion is because he's seen his home suffer. he's seen his home suffer for so long, he's seen his parents, siblings, best friend struggle. to bring down the capitol is a mission tied to his angry heart, and that anger burns even brighter when forced to evacuate 1000 people in a small, overpopulated district that is blazing with the cruelty of their oppressor's fire.

gale had every right to fight back, but it backfired when his rebellion became cruelty, too. designing the bombs to try and become a weapon for those he wanted to protect, and aiming fire in the wrong places. gale gets so so so much shit for being a flawed and nuanced character, and being boiled down to the "prim reaper" despite his justifications, despite his complexities even feels a little microagressive, considering characters such as PRESIDENT SNOW (arguably the most evil character in the trilogy) gets treated like a saint due to tbosas despite his cruel nature showing there. (he's also, what! white? in comparison to gale being an impoverished poc teen! huh!!)

gale is one of THE most hated characters in this fandom for, what? trying to survive? trying to war on an aching side that craves tranquility and a want to see another sunrise? not getting those means in the correct way, but still having a part in the end game. we could talk about gale as a PERSON, who is painfully messed up and happens to have a lot of moments where his character is unsavoury, but we can ALSO talk about gale as a fighter and a boy in a position of heroism— who is simply a boy in piled-on armour, foolish and naive in his brutish and millitant ideals and finds the cost of revenge a personal consequence (prim's death.)

[answrs]

curse you hank green for making me think about hybridization with a "donkeys and dragons are the same species in shrek" video while I may or may not be running a fever. my ramble below:

they aren't necessarily the same species, just two species able to hybridize. the offspring appear to be a mix of traits from both parents and there is no confirmation that any of them are able to breed themselves, or if they're sterile hybrids. (though, tbf, that's not all-encompassing either. in a microscopic chance a normally sterile hybrid like a mule has been seen to be fertile. alternatively, wolf-coyote "coywolf" offspring are perfectly fertile as well as hybrids to the point their breeding causes issues in conservation, and the same holds true of "beefalo" - domestic cows and american bison hybrids)

i was going to add that this suggests donkeys are likely descended from a winged ancestor animal like pegasus, otherwise they'd be so far removed from each other on the evolutionary tree at the split of four and six limbed vertebrates. this might suggest donkey is a form of pegasi that have lost their evolutionary need for wings and the trait has become vestigial if not gone almost entirely, much like whales and dolphins wrt what used to be their ancestors' hind limbs.

.....but then i remembered the sturgeon and paddlefish(?) hybrids that are so far removed from each other but somehow developed into an entire hybrid with a 70% rate of survival and throw my hands up with a big I_GUESS.jpg

[venelona]

@dazatsuweek 2024 day 7 - Free day

(+ technically post-canon, and you won't believe how far forward it goes)

This was such a crazy week AHHH!! I'm so happy I got to participate, and everyone had such cool entries! Can't wait to catch up on them all 💖💖💖

I made an art for this day too, but it's big big spoilers for the fic, so I'll put it under the cut

yes i made a ship kid. they write him into the Book. don't ask me how fanfic ended up that long i literally wrote it solely for myself to read