#we're two steps away from discussing entails

[sabraeal]

Desert & Reward: Chapter 7

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Obiyuki AU Bingo Regency AU

Obi had been barely more than a boy when he’d put his back to Wistal, the only home he’d ever known halfway worth the name, and followed the ache in his chest north. North, to snows and stone, to warm furs and cold nights, to the girl who shone as clear as the stars above Lyrias, and was just as far out of his reach.

He’d missed it then; those months at the palace were an endless summer, a respite in a life that could only be describe in the kindest terms as a tumult. He’d missed warm breeze and sweet wine, the long rambling strolls Miss had dragged him on, the sweat on his skin after another spar with Kiki and Sir.

He doesn’t remember when it stopped. One day he’d longed for Wistal, and the next day -- the next day Lyrias was home.

Obi’s been back in the palace for two days, and already he’s got a short list of reasons why he can’t wait to put his back to it again. Number one would be this buzzing behind his brow; a tension that won’t break no matter how much he ignores it.

Number two would be these buckskins, which still cling to him like they’re painted on and threaten to tear with ever step. Heaven forfend he drops something on the floor; no matter how much of a master this maestro is, there’s no way the seams would do anything but give up the ghost the second he more to any attitude that wasn’t upright. That he made it through lunch was a miracle.

Number three would be everything else involved with this whole con, starting and ending with Izana Wisteria and his plans.

Yori leaps to his feet when Obi flings open the door to his chambers, dark eyes darting nervously over his shoulder, out into the hall, as if at any point he’s expecting Obi to produce yet another royal sibling from thin air as his dearest companion.

Obi can’t blame him; with the number of royal family members and retinue that’s paraded around him the last few days, he can only imagine the boy’s letters back home have seemed more fiction than fact. Oh, wouldn’t Morel love to hear how the prince stood up for his lord at his wedding. He’d break out the good brandy for news like that.

He huffs out a laugh. At least someone will be happy with the arrangement.

“M-my lord!” Yori yelped. “May I --?”

“What do you wear to a marriage meeting?”

That stops his valet in his tracks, blinking at him like he’s just walked from a dark room into the sun. “Sir?”

Ah, right, this isn’t -- it’s not a marriage meeting. That would be Master’s garden stroll with Miss Kiki, or even the leisurely tour of Pavilion Street he had taken with Knight-dono’s too-accommodating sister. This wasn’t about compatibility, about liking each other --

Oh no, they were far beyond things like that. This was about contracts, about trickery with words.

“I mean, a...a contract meeting, for marriage,” he clarifies, which only stymies Yori further. “You know, legal stuff.”

“But, sir,” Yori presses, brow furrowed with far more thought than the situation warrants. “Shouldn’t you have handled that at your engagement?”

The words, “My what?” burst from him before he can think better of it.

“Your engagement,” Yori says, as if he is being obtuse. “To the Mistress.”

Good thing His Majesty wants him as a lord, he’s clearly losing his edge as a spy. “The Mistress? You mean my mistress?”

“Isn’t that who you are marrying?” His valet stares him down in consternation. “How don’t you --? Oh!” He raised a hand to his mouth, face flushing a painful red. “I’m sorry, my lord, I forgot --”

That I am your boss? Obi just manages to keep down.

“--That you weren’t, well, you know...” Yori lowers his voice to a whisper. “A lord then.”

“Oh.” Obi blinks. That is...a fortuitous twist to this. “Yes. That’s...true. I would not have been. When I...”

When he proposed to Miss, before he left to collect his esteemed reward. Which he hadn’t, because she had been with Master. Which none of his staff knew because -- because --

He’s been so obvious. His chest feels three sizes too tight just thinking about it. If they had seen it, then what had His Majesty --?

“You might have told Mrs Carre what you were about,” Yori informs him primly, hands setting on his hips. “She had been hoping for a wedding at Cacciatore.”

“Had she?” he muttered, wishing there was some convenient furniture to lean on. Of course, he’d told them -- and they had all called her -- and Mrs Carre had asked were Miss would sleep --

“And don’t you leave me to tell her, my lord,” his valet warned. “She’ll take a strip out of me for letting it happen! And --”

“The question, Yori --” Obi sweeps a hand to the wardrobe -- “is what do I wear?”

“Oh!” His man considers him for a long moment. “Something comfortable.” He hurries over to the wardrobe with a grimace. “It’s my understanding these take...time.”

Obi let out a sigh. “I’m sure that will be an understatement.”

Shidnote is waiting for him when he swings open the door, luxuriating in the jamb with a casual lean. He lifts those angled eyebrows of his, and Obi can feel his blood pressure spike.

“That’s what you’re wearing?” he asks --

And Obi slams the door shut again.

“I do know where His Majesty’s study is,” Obi grouses as they take yet another turn through the halls. “I don’t need a guide.”

Shidnote’s mouth take a bend that Obi can only qualify as annoying, and he says, “Funny, seems Izana thinks that if he left you to your own devices, you’d throw yourself out the nearest window.”

Obi hunches, glowering at him with an intensity that had caused more than a few men of his -- albeit, brief -- acquaintance to suddenly find other countries to be in.

Shidnote just laughs.

Fine. His Majesty and Shidnote and the rest of their set can believe what they like -- the scrawny boy prickling with knives that volunteered himself into Master’s service would have done just that, would have thrown himself off the nearest balcony any made for any port leading away from Clarines -- but Obi...

He hasn’t been hovering around Makiri’s inner circle to learn nothing. He certainly has more of a working notion about arranged marriages involve, and Miss --

Well, he might make his escape, but he knows right where Miss would end up too.

“Don’t look so sour.” Shidnote grins in his infuriatingly rakish way. “I’m not here to bring you.” He jerks his head down the hall. “She is.”

They turn the last corner, and Her Majesty awaits, a slim hand pressed to her round belly, radiant.

“I’m afraid, Sir Obi,” she murmured softly, a smile softly curling her lips. “You’ll have to suffer being waylaid one last time.”

“Well.” His mouth is so dry he doesn’t know how he manages to speak. “This seems like it will be more pleasant than any of the others.”

Shidnote let out bark of a laugh. “Well, that just shows how little you know her.”

To her credit, Her Majesty does not bully him into some side room or direct him toward some cleverly laid detour, timed perfectly to allow her to discuss what she wishes. Instead, she wraps one delicate hand around his elbow, and guides him into a walk slow enough for snails to pass.

Shidnote falls in behind them, taking great care to pretend they’re going at a normal pace. Obi takes his cue that he should do the same, putting on the expression of a man quite enjoying a leisurely stroll, and not a knight vaguely concerned that his queen will trip if he walks faster than a crawl.

“I take it that you’ve never done this before,” Her Majesty asks, somehow making even a question sound like a matter of fact. He wonders whether this was a skill she had in Lyrias as well, honed to a point, or if this is part of His Majesty’s influence. Maybe both; an inclination only bearing fruit now that it’s been suitably encouraged.

Obi grimaces. This is treading dangerously close to speculating about their bedroom, and any dog knows better than to chase rabbits into their warrens.

“Been married?” It’s a better answer than, walked to His Majesty’s study? Rumor has it that Her Majesty has a sense of humor, but Obi isn’t about to bet his head on hearsay.

“I would never presume to know that much of you,” Her Majesty demures.

Ah, so she is funny. He would have never thought His Majesty the type.

“I meant a contract,” Her Majesty clarifies. “Certainly whatever your...marital status before, you hadn’t needed a clerical representative involved.”

He blinks. “Well, I signed one when I started working for Master.”

“Oh?” Her delicate brows lift.

Shidnote grunts in surprised, “Did you read it?”

Obi grimaces. Therein lies the rub, as these noble types say. “Ah...mostly.”

He’d at least read the part about being paid and having food and accommodations provided. Those had been the important bits, after all. And even though he may not have known Master, not really, he’d seemed trustworthy enough. More than any of his previous employers, at least.

“Mostly?” Shidnote shrills; an overreaction when everything turned out just fine. “You didn’t even--?”

Her Majesty holds up a hand, drawing the knight’s words up short. “There is not enough time to discuss Marquis Conti’s questionable business practices.”

It takes him what feels like a whole minute to realize she’s talking about him. “Hey, that’s not --”

“What is more pressing now is that you do not cede ground once we are in negotiations,” she tells him, firm. “No matter how tempted you may be.”

“Cede ground?” he echoes as Shidnote steps ahead, reaching for the handles to His Majesty’s study. “Negotiations? We?”

Her Majesty smiles gently, patting his arm. “Just leave everything to me, Sir Obi.”

The thing about informal negotiations when they involved royals was: they always formal. Obi might be able to dress down, just wearing his usual shirt and trousers, so long as they didn’t have holes -- that Yori could find, at least -- but they still have to wait for an official announcement to be made, and for His Majesty to graciously accept them into his presence.

“You’d think being his wife would get you past all this red tape,” Obi mutters, before he can think better of it. “Do you have to do this for bed, too?”

It takes him only a moment to realize what he said -- what he was asking -- and in a fit of blind panic, he hopes she hasn’t heard.

“My husband and I usually enter his bedchamber together,” she tells him conversationally, as if he had only asked her about the weather, or the menu for luncheon. She catches his gaze from the corner of her eyes, and her mouth tips in a sly cant. “The thing about rules, Sir Obi, is that there is usually a way to confound them. If you are creative enough.”

“He says you can come in,” Shidnote tells them, leaning out the doors. “Guess the royal couch isn’t too comfortable.”

Obi stares, but Her Majesty only smiles. “My husband is far too wise to ever find out.”

Shidnote lets out a bark of a laugh and throws open the doors. Obi takes a breath as he steps inside, and --

Oh, he is -- he’s not ready for this.

Yori might have dressed him for comfort, but Miss -- Miss looks stunning, her hair pulled back into a tail and laid carefully over a shoulder, her gown cut just as Her Majesty’s, only somehow, when she wears it, it seems --

“Sir Obi,” Her Majesty murmurs, tapping her fingers lightly on his forearm. “Please remember, we are not to cede ground.”

He swallows. Right, of course. He leads the queen over to her seat, sitting beside her, and dares another look at his miss.

Their eyes meet.

His heart sinks to somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach. Cede ground? Her Majesty doesn’t need to worry about details like that.

Not when he’s going to serve his heart up on a platter.

A clerk sits at His Majesty’s desk, sandy-haired and squirrelly, a single long finger tap-tap-tapping as Their Majesties speak. Without the king behind it, the room seems -- tilted, wrong, as if Obi’s walked straight through a looking glass to the other side. Without His Majesty’s presence, the man is just a body in the chair, a puppet slouched and awaiting a hand to move it.

Obi jolts upright. Thinking like that...makes it sound as if he likes the king.

Now there’s a sobering thought. Hopefully, he’ll never have cause to have it again.

The clerk shifts in the chair, switching his finger for his pen as he waits for Their Majesties to get on with the negotiation. Obi agrees; if he has to hear another dissertation on the precise nature of is, he’ll negotiate himself right out the window. Miss too, for good measure. They could both skip the country; sail straight across the sea to Viande, or maybe even paddle out to Ivora.

Anything but this.

He sneaks a glance at Miss, watching the way her eyes glass over, staring sightlessly out the great windows before them, and he thinks she might go for it, might gleefully take his hand and leap --

If we leave you alone, Kiki’s voice wryly reminds him, Shirayuki will find some way to get you to elope.

Her jerks his gaze away, dragging it back to -- to somewhere safer. Somewhere he’s not tempted to think about that.

The clerk seems safe enough. Obi squints. “Have we met?”

The man nearly drops his pen. “Excuse me?”

He takes in the artful swept hair, the lazily aristocratic face. “You look familiar.”

“Obi.” Her Majesty lays a quelling hand on his arm, voice hardly louder than a murmur. “It’s bad manners to harass the help.”

“The duration of the marriage before legal rights.” His Majesty’s voice is too loud, now that Obi’s thoughts aren’t drowning it out. His legs cross languidly at the knees, giving the air of a careless lounge, as if he were entirely bored of this conversation he’s been dragging out for what seems like hours.

Obi glances at the clock. A half hour. He has died, and this is purgatory.

“Can we agree upon that?” His Majesty’s eyebrows lift in question, although his smile says that he already knows the answer. “Five years minimum.”

“Five years?” Obi yelps, darting a helpless look at Miss. She won’t meet his eyes, her body twisted away, face flushed and chin tucked down as if the giant globe between them is the most riveting part of the room.

“I believe,” Her Majesty drawls, shooting him a warning glance, “that Conti finds the duration too long.”

Forever would be less than enough, but Miss --

Miss’s heart doesn’t leap when he enters the room, doesn’t wonder how close she can come without him pulling away. She doesn’t compose words in advance so she won’t show more of her feelings than is welcome. She doesn’t love him.

Obi can’t stop this marriage, but he can make sure she’s not in it for any longer than she needs to be.

“One year,” he creaks out. “One year and she can go.”

Her Majesty turns to him, soft. “Obi,” she sighs, resting her hand on his. His fingers flex, only just managing to keep flat against his thigh. He’s not use to it, to gentleness. “You cannot pick so short a time. You may be a man in love, but you are a marquis, and she is no-one.”

“She’s everything,” he snaps, and oh, the way Miss is looking at him, so lost --

“If I were in love, I mean.” Every word is like a kick to the ribs. “I’d think she was everything.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Her Majesty meets his eyes; he’s grateful, it’s a safer place to keep his gaze than Miss. “But Tanbarun will have suspicions.”

Obi couldn’t care less what Tanbarun thinks, what anyone thinks, but --

But he has to. The king has to believe that Miss is well and truly married, or else all of this is for nothing.

“Two years,” Her Majesty proposes. “And entitled to half his properties and income, should the marriage fail after that time.”

Miss surges forward in her chair. “I don’t want any of that. Please.”

His Majesty shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes with two fingers. “Lady Shirayuki, I understand the sentiment, but do you think Shenezard will believe that your feelings have eclipsed your pragmatism?”

Miss sat back, eyeing the king warily. “I suppose...no.”

“Quite.” He fixes her with a look laden with meaning, and Obi wonders if they had exchange words before his arrival, too. “And even if you were too overcome, your bridegroom would doubtlessly wish for you to be seen to, even if a parting was...inamicable.”

She shrunk back, cheeks flush. “Oh.”

“Three,” His Majesty offers, louder, a counter-proposal. “Enough to seem incautious, but not so much to be foolish. A man blinded by love, confident in the match.”

Three years. Shorter than they were even in Lyrias. But it’s also forever, if his miss is unhappy.

He looks to her now, mouth too dry to manage more than, “Miss...?”

“I...” She glances at him from the corner of her yes, cheeks painfully red. “That would be agreeable. For Entaepode.”

“For you,” His Majesty corrects, so gently. “Two months ago, you would have had no inkling of your new position. It should be a surprise, even now.”

“Oh,” she breathes, small beside him. “Right.”

“Three years and half his titles and properties,” the clerk repeats, his fastidious voice a bucket of water upon the proceedings. “Should I add a proviso about lessening the amount, if she comes into her own fortune?”

“No.” His Majesty shakes his head. “They would not have any idea of Lady Shirayuki’s...sudden windfall.”

“They do know that Shirayuki’s father had been disinherited,” Her Majesty mentions, as if it were merely a curiosity, and not the basis of yet another debate. Her pale eyes spark as they meet her husband’s and Obi settles in for the long haul. “So it would not be out of the realm of possibility that Sir Obi might have considered his wife’s potential status, if he was a pragmatic man. Or perhaps...optimistic.”

Or ambitious is what she doesn’t say, but Obi can hear it loud and clear in the silence.

His Majesty straightens in his seat, mouth curling at a corner in pleasant anticipation. “We have already stated that the man in question is in love to the point of incaution. To leave the door open for shrewdness might lead to speculation.”

“However he is in the employ of the royal family of Clarines,” she counters, leaning ever so slightly closer. “Or, more accurately, he was before his elevation. And it has never been said that the king of Clarines hires fools.”

“An excellent point,” His Majesty allows, “though it will take more than flattery to cause one to forget that even a clever man may have too much pride in his intuition.”

“You make my point for me, husband,” Her Majesty nearly purrs. “For could not a man be blinded to his love’s ambition but not his own?”

The room is getting entirely too warm. “Wife --”

“Ah, I recognize you now,” Obi interrupts, his gaze fixed on the clerk. The clerk who now looks quite worried indeed. Good. “Yuuha.”

Miss’s head jerks up at the name, cheeks flushed.

“My goodness me.” Obi’s lips peel back in a grin that shows all his teeth. “It’s been a long while. What, four years? five?”

Yuuha’s mouth pulls into a thin line -- but sweat beads across his brow too. “I’m sure I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Is that so?”

The clerk lifts up his nose, attempting to look down it. “I don’t associate with those beneath my station.”

“And yet look who’s sitting in front of the desk,” Obi remarks, airy, hooking his hands behind his head. Yuuha goes as red as a cherry, the crowning glory of a just desert. “Looks like you picked a winning personal policy there.”

“If you are quite done harassing the clerk,” His Majesty sighs, “I think we have more pressing details to discuss. Lady Shirayuki, did you have --?”

“Children,” Miss blurts out, face as flushed as her hair. “I mean -- heirs. There should -- should be one for Tanbarun.”

Obi stares.

“That’s -- that’s what marriage agreements look like, don’t they?” She turns to the king, eyes wide, voice wavering in desperation. “Obi asks for an heir for Conti, and I ask for an heir for Entaepode.”

“Yes,” His Majesty allows, looking far too amused. “A good consideration. Save that two months ago, you had no property to require an heir for. Unless,” he adds, eyebrows raised, “there is something about the positions in the pharmacy of which I am not aware.”

Her skin turns painfully red. “Ah. Oh. Right. I didn’t...this is all very confusing.”

“Of course it is,” His Majesty soothes, completely insincere. “However, it is a good proviso to discuss now.” He fixes his gaze to Obi with a smile that gives him chills. “After all, Tanbarun will certainly request it, when they hear of your marriage.”

Obi grits his teeth. “We can worry about that bridge when it’s burning.”

“Ah,” Her Majesty sighs, eyeing him with amusement. “Just the sort of sentiment I would have expected from a marquis.”

“At least this one,” her husband agrees.

Obi’s mouth pulls thin. “We should be more concerned with what Tanbarun will expect to see now, not -- not later.”

“Of course, of course.” His Majesty smiles. “One step at a time. Please take note,” he tells the clerk, not once taking his eyes off Obi, “that Marquis Conti would like to discuss heirs at a later date.”

Obi doesn’t bother to hide his glare. That was not what he’d meant.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Yuuha replies blandly. “Should I ask for it to be scheduled?”

His Majesty’s smile glints like a knife just before the stab. “If you would.”

The man nods. “We’ll be in touch, my lord.”

“Great,” he seethes. The clerk chances a glance at him before his gaze flutters away, trying to hide his fear in the business of paperwork. It’s at least a small balm to his pride.

“No rush,” the king tells him, far too pleased. “Just please be sure not to precipitate negotiations with any...material considerations.”

Miss blinks, confused. “What do you --oh.” She coughs, cheeks flushed. “Oh.”

Obi takes a deep breath, reminding himself that regicide is a capital crime, no matter how much a man may deserve it. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

“I’ve found, my dear marquis, that it is best to be prepared for any eventuality,” His Majesty drawls, “no matter how probable one finds it.”

His tone, coupled with the pleased curve of his smile, implies he finds it very probable indeed.

Obi’s fingers dig into the wooden arms of his chair. “I--”

A hand comes down hard on his thigh, and Her Majesty’s smile is thin as she says, “I think we have spent enough time on hypotheticals, have we not? Let us get back to the matter at hand.”

His Majesty grins. “I must yield to the superior wisdom of my wife. Mister Yuuha, if you would read back the terms?”

It’s as the clerk begins his bored drone that Her Majesty loosens her grip on him, leaning in to murmur, “Do not start fights you cannot win, sir.”

A laugh burst from him, soft and bitter. “Why start now?”

[ducktracy]

165. porky’s building (1937)

release date: june 19th, 1937

series: looney tunes

director: frank tashlin

starring: mel blanc (porky), billy bletcher (dirty digg), berneice hansell (rabbit), tedd pierce (sandy c. ment, dog)

alas, the photo limit prevents me from placing this in here, but the cartoon opens with a highly amusing disclaimer:

any similarity of characters or happenings in this picture to actual people or events is definitely intended................. if you think we're going to sit around for days thinking up new ideas - you're pixilated!

somewhat of a strange anomaly is mel blanc voicing fat porky. this is the first frank tashlin cartoon since porky’s romance, the last cartoon to feature porky’s original voice actor, joe dougherty. fat porky wouldn’t survive past 1937—frank tashlin was the sole person who kept him going, after tashlin’s porky’s double trouble he got a diet. this is more of a personal anecdote than a concrete observation, i always found this so-called “transitional period” amusing. nevertheless—it’s up to porky you beat his rival, dirty digg, to see who can build the best town hall the fastest.

frank tashlin, ever the cinematographer, introduces the cartoon with a silhouette behind a closed door, the door identifying the silhouette as sandy c. ment, city building commissioner. tedd pierce provides the voice for sandy, discussing the plans for the new city hall about to be built. we see porky and a particularly grizzly brute as the gentlemen sandy is referring to, the only two contractors in the city. they’re both tasked with building the city hall--whoever can come up with the cheapest bid wins. i believe it’s norm mccabe who does some particularly funny animation of porky waving to his rival, only to receive a steely glare in return, much to the rejection of porky. i’m certain frank tashlin’s feelings towards porky were projected into that glare.

sandy displays the city hall plans, revealing a poster of an art deco feat of modern architecture. tashlin’s cartoons in the 30′s are particularly rife with the streamlined, art deco feel, supported by his tendency to use jazzy underscores as we see here as well. more norm mccabe(?) animation as porky and his rival get the papers they need to sort out the bids. lovely animation as any sense of camaraderie between the two is gone in a snap, both nose to nose (or nose to snout?) as they stalk over to their desks to crunch the numbers, not once breaking physical contact or eye contact until absolutely necessary. mel blanc and billy bletcher’s voices collide as the two crunch the numbers aloud, the billy bletcher brute deliberately copying porky’s numbers. the two finish, the staring contest resumes, and they do the same furious tango back to sandy.

as fate has it, the two reach a tie with their bids at $3,000,000.02 each, with a hilarious detail of dirty diggs’ paper including scribbles of a stickman and a self serving game of tic tac toe, indicating just how dedicated he is to his craft. the tie stumps sandy on how to determine who gets to build the city hall, until he reaches a conclusion—both get to build the city hall. whoever finishes first, wins. a lack of sound effects hides the detail, but there’s some rather amusing animation as sandy jabs a finger in porky’s face and honks dirty digg’s nose daffy duck style.

transition to the two now at their respective construction sites, waiting to take off like runners in a race, accompanied by a crowd no less. sandy fires a starting pistol, and the two take off to build. digg hops into his backhoe, clearing the land for his building. can’t go wrong with the backhoe scooping up a giant boulder and crunching it up with an anthropomorphic mouth, spitting the chunks into a cart. porky’s dinky little contraption is just as whimsical, with a mechanical boot slamming itself against an actual shovel suspended by a pulley to clear the way. frank tashlin does a wonderful job juxtaposing the personalities, through mannerisms and extraneous details such as their equipment. 

the rubbery animation associated with digg is only furthered as he struggles to pull his backhoe out of the deep hole he dug for himself--we see that the street lamps in the city are caught in the machine, bobbing up and down in their respective “posts”. finally, digg prevails, pulling out a tangled mess of rubbery street lamps. points for creativity. 

elsewhere, the cartoon takes a rather morbid yet wonderfully hilarious turn: a dog construction worker loads crates of dynamites into a hole, chuffing halfheartedly on a pipe as he waddles back to the dynamite lever, hands in pockets, marching along to a whimsical rendition of “boulevardier from the bronx”. rolling up his sleeves, he prepares to pull the lever, when a crowd of spectators approach, leaning in as the dog prepares to fire. the dog opens one eye and grunts “step back folks, ya bother me,” VERY well timed to a nice little oboe underscore with each syllable. the crowd gives him his space... until the dog prepares to fire again. another “step back folks, ya bother me.” they oblige, until they don’t. the charade continues, until finally the dog waddles back to the hole where the crates are stashed, rendition of “boulevardier from the bronx” and all. the dog pokes an eye open as the lemmings inevitably wander to the hole of dynamite (a fitting underscore of “let’s put our heads together” to boot.) the dog squeezes his way through the crowd, heads to the lever... and BOOM! cold blooded murder dismissed with a mere dusting off of the hands. a WONDERFUL gag timed succinctly and purposefully prolonged--the same dog would reappear a year later in porky the fireman, another tashlin piece, doing the same prolonged waddle and same accompaniment of boulevardier from the bronx. 

a collection of some whimsical animal gags, gags that feel like something out of a harman and ising cartoon, albeit more polished. two beavers load cement and sand into a cocktail shaker strapped to the side of a camel, a pelican dumping water from its beak into the makeshift cocktail. the camel shakes the shaker, all of the animals swaying along. perhaps slightly outdated, yet still fun nonetheless. turtles flip their shells open (wheels attached to the top--or in this case, bottom--of the shells) and tow away the mixture created by the animals. meanwhile, a dog carrying a load of cement, the hod carrier, marches up a support beams thanks to suction cups tied on his shoes, complete with some jaunty music and animation. dirty digg lives up to his namesake by playing dirty, hurling a brick at the dog. the dog falls, his suction cups continuing to ascend up the scaffolding, underscore and all. 

we meet camera shy porky for the first time in a few minutes, a reflection of frank tashlin’s distaste and uncertainty regarding the character, who encourages his team to “get in there and fight!” they’re all lined up along a bench, a sign above labeling them as “HOD CARRIER SUBSTITUTES”. thus sparks the running gag of the cartoon: as the substitutes dash off do to their duty for porky, a diminutive rabbit (voiced by berneice hansell, of course) zooms up to porky, donning a sweater that reads “HOD CARRIER” as she squeaks “how ‘bout me, porky?” porky isn’t at all convinced by her diminutive stature, snapping “no!” 

on porky’s team, a few pelicans pull the appropriate levers to mix water, cement, and sand in their bills, flying off and twirling their heads and bills around to create the mixture. one pelican successfully discards his load down a long chute to the construction site. the next, however, isn’t so lucky. ever the conniving weasel (or dog), digg attaches a dead fish to a balloon for the oncoming pelican to feast on. the pelican, eager for the snack, spits out its mixture in favor of the fish, the mixture pouring from the sky and landing right on porky. none too deterred, porky encourages his cement mixer substitutes, a line of pelicans, to, once again, get out there and fight. as they fly off, the eager rabbit from before, now donning a sweater labeling her as a cement mixer, squeaks “how ‘bout me, porky?” the same routine as porky once more yells “no!”

digg’s construction site is going swimmingly, as to be expected. a wonderful slanted layout as we spot the builders hard at work. despite the success of the building, digg barks “okay boys, c’mon down. i don’t need you anymore.” digg marches into his office, a makeshift shack on the site, and we’re left to ponder what it is he’s scheming as a rolling pan of the exterior shields us from digg's view, the billy bletcher laugh the only thing cluing us in to nefarious acts. tashlin loved to do the concealing pans, and they work out well in his favor, adding a sense of suspense and anticipation. out on the other side comes digg in a fancy new machine--DIRTY DIGG’S BRICK BRICK LAYING MACHINE.

porky, who’s dutifully laying his bricks the old fashioned way, spots digg’s new trick, and is hardly pleased. mel’s stuttering is particularly heavy, still attempting to emulate joe dougherty as porky complains “say! you can’t do that!” digg takes no offense. “well, i’m doing it, ain’t it?” settings on digg’s machine include start, full speed, super speed, super colossal speed, gosh darn fast, and reverse. digg pulls the lever to start, increasing the speeds as bricks inevitably hurtle out of the chute and land right into place on the site of his building. wonderful (and tedious!) complex animation as the bricks pile on, one after the other, even porky taking a moment to admire the handiwork. tashlin’s cartoons always seem to entail bits of animation that seem so tedious and complex to animate, such as a whole mess of train cars zigzagging on train tracks in porky’s railroad, or the interminable pile of luggage carried by daffy in porky pig’s feat. tashlin’s eye for detail is keen.

a score board gloatingly displays digg’s lead over porky: digg has 22 stories, porky 2. as porky mourns his loss (”woe is me... woe is me!”) no matter--the eager beaver bunny from before is there to cheer him up, donning a “brick layer” sweater with the same “how ‘bout me, porky?” porky declines. a quick zoom in and out, and the rabbit asks the same question, now donning a “colossal brick layer” sweater. porky once more declines. with the third and final “super colossal brick layer”, porky finally yells “no!”, to which the rabbit sulks off. thankfully, porky has a change of heart. “ok-ok-o-oka-ok-ok-oka--alright, eh-geh-geh-go in there and eh-feh-fi-feh-fight!” little rabbit is ecstatic.

the power of popeye compels the rabbit as she flexes her muscles, even flexing her ears to make a pair of makeshift muscles. one ear scoops the mortar, the other tosses a brick on top, and we very quickly realize she is MORE than capable for the job, laying bricks three times as fast as digg’s machine. the scoreboard hurries to adjust porky’s “score”, both of them now tied at 77 stories each. even better is the little “whew!” the rabbit sighs after pausing to rest, a lovely bit of comedic timing both underscoring and highlighting her work.

now, digg rushes to beat porky’s building, realizing he has a worthy competitor on his hands. the two are neck and neck... until the poor mechanical design of digg’s brick layer lands him in hot water. he mistakes the reverse setting for the highest speed setting, and with a hearty kick to the lever, the lever breaks and is now stuck in reverse. mel blanc seems to provide digg’s exclamation of “gosh! it’s stuck in reverse!” instead of bletcher. just as quickly as he had laid the bricks, the bricks of digg’s building come hurtling back into the machine, the machine swelling bigger and bigger as it threatens to burst from the congestion. digg’s entire building is now without a brick, and to make matters worse (or better), the machine finally explodes.

porky’s dinky little backhoe from before comes to life, digging a plot of land the perfect size for digg to fit in. digg flops to the ground from the impact of the explosion, receiving a swift kick to the ass with the machine’s shoe and a konk on the head via shovel for good measure.

elsewhere, porky triumphs, his city hall now complete. the cartoon’s motif of “fifty-second street” triumphantly underscores porky’s victory as he shakes his fist in the glory, perched on top of his architectural feat as his adoring fans shout from below. suddenly, we’re visited by a familiar friend: the little rabbit from before zips to porky’s side. “how ‘bout me, porky?” instead of shooing her away, porky is more than happy to lift her up and have her pose on his outstretched hand. a wholesome iris out as the little rabbit clasps her ears together like fists, reveling in the glory.

truthfully, this is probably the one porky cartoon i forget about the most. not that it’s bad by any means, but out of his hearty filmography of 153 cartoons, this one isn’t the most notable. with that said, this is a fine cartoon. the animation is certainly the highlight: whether it’s porky and dirty digg doing their furious nose-to-snout tango, the dog lumbering around the site of the dynamite hole, the animals mixing cement together, or the entire brick laying montage, there is a lot to admire, the climax of the cartoon especially. the “how ‘bout me, porky?” gag is especially amusing, albeit taxing (as it was intended to be), and the dynamite gag with the dog is wonderfully morbid. porky still has a very transparent personality, yet mel’s deliveries are fun to listen to, especially at this stage when he’s still figuring out the speech patterns. the cartoon’s music score is absolutely WONDERFUL, very jazzy, very upbeat, a fitting score to match the streamlined look of the cartoon.

while this isn’t my go-to recommendation for porky cartoons, it makes for an amusing watch. i wouldn’t urge you to drop everything and see it, and if you don’t watch it you’ll be just as well off, but this is a fine cartoon with a lot to admire. 

link!

[d-a-v-i-d-j-o-n-e-s]

We're The Jones' | Chapter 61 |

Rated M for Smut Trigger Warnings: Mild Language, Anxiety

Featuring David Jones and his domestic life. Meeting the lady of his life and building a home and family with her…

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In any household, there was bound to be something that people were challenged to cope with in another person; whether that be mental health related or simply, clashing personalities. It is all part of living with another person or multiple. It isn’t always going to be a harmonious fairytale time. It’s seeing people that closely, and studying them that often that makes you notice the smaller things in them. It’s coming to love another, that helps you move past them. Because if you’re sharing a house, and in relationship terms, a bed with another person, day in, day out, there’s bound to be ups and downs. It’s all a natural, and healthy part of life.

It would be more insane of a person, to never once crack in the comfort of their own home, than to have a few moments of downtime, or maybe quite a few. Some experienced more low moods than others. David experienced low moods often, he had become better at coping with them over the years, and masking them, but not necessarily experiencing it any less. It was harder for him to expect to get better, when he had to shovel it all away for later, in the fear of breaking down in front of a crowd, an audience. But he had realised, that although he didn’t at all, like the feeling, of breaking down in front of someone else, anyone else, he was in good hands when he had someone as close, as Iman. Without her, he’d probably still be struggling with his alcoholism, still giving up, still letting it consume him. He was convinced that was going to be the end of him, drinking himself to death. It had been completely, coincidentally, perfect timing, when they met.

Even at happiest, which he definitely was currently, feeling far more upbeat and motivated than ever with a newly acquired love life. He could still get low, and still have occasional anxiety, and paranoia attacks. It was something he wouldn’t share with others and it wouldn’t ever come into conversation, even if it did, he’d be reluctant to ever share that with anyone. It just wasn’t something you’d want to talk about. Or ever really know how to talk about. See. They taught us a lot of ‘useful’ things in early life education, but how to face real problems, and actually live among society, was not one of those lessons. It was a matter of learning from mistakes, and making a journey of your own first. Learning that it was not conventionally acceptable to act a certain way, or share certain things with people.

But it’s something society was definitely lacking, especially in this day and age, progressing to the new millennium, and still, everyone seemed to repulse at the thought of discussing, or acknowledging the very real problem, that was mental health, and what that entailed exactly.

With the bath ran, and just enough bubbles for David to tolerate, he laid there, with Iman between his legs, laid back, eyes almost closed, enjoying his gentle, and silent affection. Brushing her hair back between his fingers, reaching up for the hair products of hers, and applying them as he went, washing her hair for her. Gently massaging his fingers through, relaxed back, taking his sweet time with each strand, enjoying the quiet, gentle moment between them. Intimacy. It came in all forms, whether it meant holding hands, or something more lust-driven. Either way, it was intimacy, and it bonded two beings closer. Any form of touching, was a very special intimacy of it’s own really.

David gently rinsed her hair off, making sure it didn’t run into her eyes. It made her smile softly, it reminded her quite fondly, of her childhood. That was the last time she could happily remember, having her hair washed so carefully, and caringly. But of course, not quite like this. The man she loved more than any other in the world, holding her, and performing such a gentle act, no prompt, other than kindness, which he never seemed to run dry of. He scooched up and lifted up from behind her, letting her rest back, coming to sit further down the tub, hoisting one of her legs up, and grabbing a razor and gently bringing it to her leg, shaving the short hair away gently. This was what she had always wanted. When she thought of marriage, when she thought of relationships, she didn’t necessarily expect someone to be there to kiss her ass - or well - but she thought of someone that she could share such moments with, as simple, and meaningless as they may seem to anyone else. That was the point. It was their moment. He looked towards her, with his soft, butter-wouldn’t-melt eyes, kissing at the tip of her toe, a smile growing as he did so, warm, it was cherry on top.

Whenever people asked her. What are you doing with a man like him? Or whenever someone had the audacity, to ask David, how he had managed to pull her, while clearly gesturing to her, and then him, as though they weren’t both attractive people, she kept a cool composure, but on the inside, she was laughing hysterically. Nobody knew her David, David Jones. Not like she did. It made her feel special, and honoured, to have him all to herself, truly, she had a man, all to herself. Whatever anyone else knew, or fell in love with, was an image, a persona, him all the same, but not the version she was gifted. He was a very handsome man, but a whole new level of attractive, as a person. Such a beautiful person. Oh they didn’t even know, and what was better, they had the inside joke, of equally, finding amusement in what others said. They truly, knew nothing, the comments were fruitless to them.

In the same manner, he sat there and carefully, gently shaved her legs for her, sharing a glowering gaze, and matching smiles. It was loving, but of course, it had that touch, where the eyes did linger, and roll up and down one another suggestively. Patience. By time they would finish washing, and get out, the pizza would be due to arrive. So once he had finished shaving her legs, he washed himself off and finished the job, washing her body, and stepping out of the bath first, wrapping a towel around his waist loosely, before he held one out, arms wide stretched, stood there, awaiting her stepping out, coming to wrap it around her, and end up cuddling her up in the process, stood there with his check against her warm chest, padded by the towel, as she wrapped her arms around him and started to rub him dry while he blissfully cuddled into her, eyes closed, breathing deeply, letting her rub him dry.

“Ooh..” David was brought of his bliss when he heard the door rasp loudly, pulling the towel tighter, and rushing off to collect the pizzas, slipping and sliding across the laminate floor, grasping his wallet off the side and padding towards the door at once. He opened it only halfway, smiling towards the pizza delivery man, mostly hidden behind the door, but it was clear to see, he’d just gotten out of the shower, with his still sopping hair, and reddened skin.

“That’ll be twenty-five dollars sir.”

“Here you go, keep the change, thank you, have a good night.” David gave him a fifty and took the pizzas indoors, smiling and offering the delivery man a polite farewell, hoping the tip, and lightheartedness would do some kind towards him too. He was generally generous towards people like that, they were usually doing it purely for the desperation, needing to keep the job to afford the rent, but barely paying it, and finding themselves miserable in the process. All the shitty, tipless customers they had to deal with on a night-to-night basis. He always tried to cheer them up, and he always tipped nicely, he could afford to, why not give back?

Iman had dried herself off and leapt straight back into bed after pampering her legs with cream and letting the bath water out, laying there, the towel still wrapped loosely around her waist, snuggled up in the duvets awaiting him, when he came padding back in, balancing the pizzas in one hand, and holding at his towel with the other. He let go of it and huddled over to the bed, kicking the towel aside, and placing pizzas on her lap, jump into bed, getting comfortable under the covers with her.

“God it smells amazing, this is just what I wanted..” Iman sighed, smiling, taking her pizza from the top, smartly, they had labelled the pizzas, so they could tell which one was which, without having to open them up, one idea at a time..

“Mmm..” David agreed, this was definitely much better than being stood in the kitchen, still, like he would’ve been if he’d decided to give cooking another shot. He much preferred this plan B, to his original idea. Relaxing back in bed, snuggled up close, eating pizza. What would go well with this? Well for them anyway, keeping up with the soaps of course. He was still very much British in that way, no matter where he had lived, been to, over these years, he kept up with his British Soaps. Eastenders. It was a tradition, to sit down at seven thirty on an evening, with tea, and cakes, kicked up on the sofa, or cosied up in bed, watching the latest installment of Eastenders. Coronation Street. And perhaps Emmerdale, if you were to go as far as that.

He reached for the remote, holding his pizza slice in the other hand, taking a big bite as he switched the TV on and flicked through the channels, finding the channel airing Eastenders, which was due to come on soon. The only downside was, watching the episodes a day late in America, due to time differences and such, they aired yesterday’s episode, a day later, at seven-thirty instead. But as long as he got up to date with it, he didn’t mind seeing them a day late, he still kept up with the soaps.

David scoffed his pizza down rather quickly, ending up with hiccups, giggling mid-hiccup when he sat up and sat forwards and Iman pat his back, trying to coax it out of him. But he got up and placed the box aside, going for a quick cigarette, pulling on his boxers and standing out on the balcony, the glass was frosted, so he was pretty much protected from unwanted eyes, if they did look up this far anyway. But just to be sure. Plus, it was pretty chilly, he probably could’ve down with a gown, but he liked the rush of cool air, it reminded him of England. The fresh, cool air hitting his face. That was a pretty bog-standard morning in England, always frosty cold and windy, even indoors.

He smoked his cigarette at leisurely pace, while Iman remained in bed, enjoying her pizza, glancing at him stood out there, seemingly smirking to himself, about god knows what. Probably being soppy, or making up something comical in his head. He had a tendency of doing that, he was always good humoured, he just usually didn’t have anyone to share it with, not until he met her at least. When he had finished his cigarette, he came back indoors and lit a few candles before he slipped back into bed, a little chilly, he giggled when Iman squealed and cursed at him for placing his cold fingertips right against her thigh, almost spitting her pizza out.

“David.” Iman frowned at him as he laughed, laying back, cuddling up to her, for warmth, his cheek against her shoulder, gazing over at the television, one of his hands starting to gently explore. It ran against her tummy, stroking softly, sub-consciously really, he was getting engrossed in the episode. Iman soon finished her pizza, placing the box aside, watching the television, pretending to pay little note to David’s wondering hand, stroking up and down her body, across her thighs, over her tummy, and up against her chest.

They spent the entire hour, deeply ingrained in the programme, both of them were fans of the show, Iman newly introduced to it after becoming used to David watching it religiously, ended up getting into it herself and learning the characters and plots. Now it was a ritual of theirs, settle down in the evening and watch the soaps. She loved the little British quirks in him, maybe he didn’t drink tea like expected, but he did do other things. She did have the guilty secret of loving to lay in bed and watch food, or sit on the sofa and eat, whilst watching television. But it’s not what she’d been brought up on. Her family had been rather strict mannered, sitting at the dining table, no exceptions. But David made her realise that lounging about and eating food was acceptable, or at least, in England it definitely was. Some families liked to come together and eat together, but a lot of the time, especially more Northern families, simply sat around the television.

His hand snaked up to her chest, massaging it gently, grasping her attention, just as the credits came on, and the famous theme tune began, thudding along. Turning her head towards him, a half lidded, sultry gaze upon him. He had been sensually teasing her for almost an hour now, she hadn’t realised quite how worked up she had become, when she was all engrained in the show. The towel was definitely ruined, that was for sure. He gazed upon her in the same manner, suggesting, coaxing, leaning closer, as she tilted her head down towards him, and they caught in an embrace, his hand still stroking down her front.

“Mm..” Came their hums, as it grew steamy, open mouthed, he found himself being pushed onto his back, and held down, as Iman pressed her palm against his chest and suddenly shuffled, rolling over, mounting his thighs, coming to straddle him, still making out, not breaking away once. They panted against another lips desperately, his hands coming to firmly grasp at her backside, massaging it between his slender fingers, a few of them slipping down further to tease at her slit gently. “Mmh..” David grunted against her lips breathlessly, groaning when she bucked her hips once, aligning with his settled, prodding length, rubbing up against it.

Iman grasped at his hair, as she fiercely, passionately kissed him, to which he slapped at her ass in response, before breaking away and suddenly throwing her down under him, reversing their positions smoothly, coming to straddle her instead, clambering up, pinning her down and resuming their heated kissing once more. “Mmmm..” Iman moaned into mouth as he ground his hips firmly, causing a much wanted, much needed, much sought after friction, making him gasp against her. He slipped his hands down to her hips, taking a grasp of them, kissing her deeply still, grinding harder, groaning into her mouth again.

Iman held her hands at his ass, encouraging him, to which he broke free of her lips, leaving them both panting furiously already, eyeing each other lustfully, as he moved his hips and suddenly pushed into her, grunting as he started to enter, and groaning once he had settled in. His thrusts were strong, and desperate, growing in speed rapidly, rocking against her, trying to contain his moans, breathlessly unable to do so, panting out his pleasure as she moaned his name and grasped at him strongly, assisting his thrusts.

“David.. ohh..” Iman’s eyes rolled closed, as he pressed hot, wet, open mouthed kisses against her exposed neck, his own groans muffled against her skin, steadily thrusting harder and harder until the flesh against flesh was undeniable. Undeniably pleasurable. He lifted his head back, panting out, gasping for air, slowing down suddenly, pulling out only to turn her over onto her front, slapping at her ass, a cue for her to curl up onto her knees for him, as he grasped her by the hips and thrust back in strongly, continuing his merciless thrusting once more.

“Ah yesss..” David slapped her ass roughly again, making her moan louder, and jerk against him, bowing her head, leaning against her forearms, keeping her hips held high for him. He kept going and going, gasping for breath, only surrendering when he felt her suddenly buck harshly against him, slowing his thrust as he moaned out in the epic height of their climax; the sweetest sound of all, even in bed, the most elegant, and erotic tone.. And that face he pulled. Iman tugged him down onto his back and straddled him instead, slipping down onto him as he recovered, still wearing that face as he panted and tried to collect himself, barely managing to before she caught his lips and started roll her hips against him again…