#and the droll humour?!!!

[foxsoulcourt]

i just sent u the earlier ask (about reading ur bookmarks), but i see u haven't bookmarked my fav jeremy/jean fic EVER. perhaps u read it and did not like it, but on the off chance u haven't seen it, it is "playing on" by flybbfly . (also the author's newest J/J fic , the end of the world, which has them as exes but pretending to be together for laila and Alvarez's wedding, is also a big fav of mine).

Dear Nonny + fellow JereJean fan (part 2 of 2),

THANK YOU for bringing up playing on + the end of the world by @wilsherejack here on Tumblr / flybbfly on AO3.

Forgive me, but may I speak plainly?

My initial response to this message was to LAUGH OUT LOUD + refer to you as a sweet summer child because, OHMYGOODNESS, Y E S, I read playing on WHILE IT WAS BEING UPDATED. Let me tell you: it was an E x P e R i E n C e. A *%!ING excruciating EXPERIENCE!

Before Red Rabbits was a fandom wide event, during the first seven+ months of 2018 many of us were riding the up, down + all around roller coaster 🎢 that was the WORK IN PROGRESS CALLED PLAYING ON. I can't remember which chapter prompted several readers to threaten mutiny because those two humans just.weren't.getting it. Thank goodness wisherejack l o v e d our crankiness, which made the whole experience even more fun.

So, yes, I read AND ABSOLUTELY LOVED playing on.

Even printed it out!

But, you're correct, I never bookmarked it, nor made a Tumblr post for it. Here's what I can offer you from an old post

playing on (M, 142k, 2018) - There’s a reason this is one of the most recommended JereJean works: it’s so damned good. @wilsherejack writes Exy games exquisitely well, her writing is economical + she knows how to write a slow burn, that’s for sure! Plus, there are playlists for the work and...another favourite aspects of her writing...most of the characters are people of colour. 

Thanks to your ask guess who went from reading your post to reminiscing to re-reading this fine piece of fanfiction, all within 24 hours? 😉 When I finish it this time around I WILL bookmark it + post that here.

💜 Love,

Foxsoulcourt

P.S. I'm glad you found the end of the world too. Gahhhhh, that one nearly broke my heart. If you haven't already read flybbfly's full catalogue of AFTG, 10/10 recommend it.

[mortalityplays]

How do you make a whore moan?

Extract sapogenins from a Mexican yam and employ Marker degradation to degrade the sapogenin side chain while leaving similar functional groups on the steroid nucleus (relatively) unaffected. Use acetic anhydride to block the hydroxyl group formed by opening the six-membered pyran ring. Then oxidatively open the five-membered furan ring with chromic acid. This forms the acetyl side chain of progesterone and an esterified hydroxyl group on the steroid nucleus. The ester is then hydrolyzed under strongly basic conditions. The use of acetic acid leads to the production of 16-dehydropregnenolone acetate (16-DPA). 16-DP can be converted into progesterone in two steps. Firstly, the double bond in ring D is hydrogenated, followed by Oppenauer oxidation of the hydroxyl group and the concurrent migration of the remaining olefin from ring B to ring A so that it is in conjugation with the ketone carbonyl group at position 3. Alternatively, a three-step procedure involving Br2, CrO3, and Zn/HOAc can be used. 16-DP can also be converted into testosterone and the downstream products estrone and estradiol. 👍

[images-drole]

[shortkingvi]

finishing the fallout show has just reinforced the evil monster within me that desperately wants a portal show

[hiddenreamers]

The Soprano & Midnight Wonderings - Oscar Piastri

SUMMARY: When he can't sleep, Oscar ponders the could-have-been. You're happier now, aren't you? That's what all your friends say. Now that you're away from the limelight of being a "WAG", you have exactly what you wanted. Still, he can't help but think about the things we lose too soon.

WC: 792

Oscar can’t sleep.

It’s not that he’s not tired, quite the contrary – he’s been craving the soft hotel bedsheets ever since he stepped out of the car after today’s practice. But slumber is like a capricious lover and rarely comes when called.

How funny it is, to speak of lovers at a time like this. It’s the same kind of humour that earns a bitter chuckle when you see your late relative's favourite flower or eat a snack that was once loved by a friend you no longer talk to.

Despite the melancholic droll, Oscar isn’t keen to laugh. Not even a sad giggle will brush past his lips. He’s haunted by a ghost that never truly leaves.

Instead, he finds himself scrolling through a conversation. It’s been on his mind ever since he had it a few days ago. Curiosity and heartache had gotten the better of him, so Oscar messaged one of your friends a very simple and yet fateful question: How is she? The answer he got was entirely expected but still, it hurt in the most profound, inexplicable way.

Your friend gave him a short, straightforward answer. As much as Oscar knew that she had no reason to lie to him, the text was only that – some words. Later on, however, she sent him a few videos from a recent party the two of you went to. It was then that the reality set in for him:

There you were, even more lovely than the day he met you. Laughing, yelling something, dancing like you’ve never known anything else. All of that, all of you, is painfully familiar to his heart and yet the person in the video is vastly different from the girl whose heart he had broken. Your style has changed, your hair isn’t the same, the music you’re so eagerly singing along to is not the one you’d play in the car. At first, he thinks it strange, perhaps you’re trying to distract yourself from your own pain? But as time goes by and the scraps of you Oscar sees present this new you, he realizes what it truly means: you’re happier.

It should make him feel good, relieved, shouldn’t it? This is what you’ve wanted, is it not? Living in the limelight, suffering public opinions, being nothing more but “Oscar Piastri’s girlfriend” made you miserable. Now that it’s over, he should be glad you’re finally thriving. And yet, he’s far from it.

“Why?” he whispers into the night. “Why couldn’t it be both?”

Maybe one day he will get the answers he seeks. Maybe one day Oscar will finally know why he had to lose you too soon; why it is that we must let go of the ones we love.

He remembers all the instances when he asked why you were upset. When it wasn’t online hate, it was something else caused solely by the fact that you’re his lover. Now, he wonders if someone ever asks why you’re so happy all the time. Would you tell them the truth? Does anybody ever wonder why the heartbroken girl has blossomed into a walking ray of sunshine?

Oscar definitely does. Although, he does know the answer. What he’s curious about, however, is how much he didn’t do. What if he handled it differently? What if he was more brash and made it clear for the world to leave you be? How much of this is caused by him and him only?

For a moment, he considered texting you. The rather aloof messages of you congratulating him for his endeavours only egg Oscar on. What right does he have to come back into your life and mess it up again? But then, is it not a lover’s right to hopelessly seek the other half of their heart?

He lets out a ragged breath. With what’s left of his reason and composure, Oscar tosses his phone on top of the clothes neatly folded inside his suitcase.

Desperate to free himself from the ghost of loves past, he turns in bed to now face the large window. The world outside is calm, unlike him. Once in a while, a car drives by. The moon like a silver coin lights up the otherwise empty sky. Oscar knows that feeling all too well. What’s the point of being the brightest when there’s no one to share the light with?

He closes his eyes, hoping to find sleep before the memories of you find him first.

Sometimes, when he’s awake at night, he thinks about it – the story of you and how he has no place in it if that story is to have a happy ending. And Oscar does not have the heart to ruin his most beloved tale.

Check out other fics in the Ampersand Themed Works

[gessorly]

So the other day I was searching for something in the library catalogue when a - how shall I put this? - different title caught my eye. This is the whole thing, as listed:

"The Sad and mournful history of that amiable and loving couple William Rattling and Sweet Poll of plymouth, With the humours of his friend Jack Oakum, containing among other particulars, Rattling's birth and genteel education, is bound to the sea, goes several voyages. Courts Sweet Poll of Plymouth. A song, in which is an invocation to love and the ocean. His ship overtaken by a terrible storm, is cast away, the captain drowned, with great difficulty gets on shore, robbed and stripped by some outlaws; arrives at a cottage, is treated with great hospitality. Hears of Polly. Sets out for Plymouth and is married to Polly with the consent of both their parents. An account of the wedding. Several letters and a journey to Exeter. Rattling goes to sea again in an Indiaman, has a good voyage, arrives safe in the downs, is pressed and sent on board a man of war. Joins the gallant Admiral Rodney, at Port Royal in Jamaica, sends a letter to his wife, by his old friend [Jackoakum], he falls in love with Sally, who also was a particular friend of Poll's, his humourous courtship and droll wedding. The adventures of Nancy Powell, who disguised herself in sailors clothes and went on board a man of war to seek her sweetheart. The humours of a quarrelsome couple.-Squinting Peg shews her airs and gets basted.-Her husband goes to sea for good reasons, and leaves her in the dumps. Peg hears that one of her 7 husbands is dead, goes on board to receive his wages, gets drunk with the sailors, falls into the sea and is drowned. Sweet Poll grows melancholy at not hearing from her husband, and being told of the engagement with De Graffe, and that her husband was killed, falls into extreme sorrow and dies of grief. Rattling comes home, finds his wife dead. His sorrowful behaviour and her funeral. The celebrated song of "Sweet Poll of Plymouth was my dear." Rattling enters on board the Royal George, is drowned with Admiral Kempenfelt, some account of that fatal accident, the diving Bell, &c. With many favorite new and old sea songs."

Thinking perhaps there'd been some error in transcription, I followed the link (it was available online), and--

--no, that really was the title page. And apparently fifty-odd pages of story after it, despite SPOILERS for the entire thing.

Dear 18th Century, bless.

[scotianostra]

On December 22nd 1930 the author and poet Neil Munro died in Helensburgh.

Neil Munro was born the illegitimate son of a kitchen maid on June 3, 1863, in Inveraray in Argyll and Bute. There is a commemorative plaque marking his birthplace near Inveraray’s historic jail, a suitable connection as his mother Ann married the jail’s governor when Munro was a boy.

He was raised by his mother and his grandmother, both of whom were native Gaelic speakers who taught him the language, though he was schooled in English at the local parish school. His father was rumoured to have been a member of the household of the Duke of Argyll at Inveraray Castle, and perhaps through that connection Munro was found a good job on leaving school in the local Sheriff Clerk’s office.

His training as a clerk included shorthand, and at the age of 18 he left Inveraray for Glasgow to try for a career in journalism, starting in Greenock and then the Falkirk Herald before “graduating” to the Glasgow Evening News. He turned out to be a natural reporter and commentator – Victorian era journalists often had to be both, and Munro was such a skilled practitioner that he rose to become chief reporter of the News on a salary of £100 per year at the age of just 25. At the same time he married his landlady’s daughter, Jessie Adam – they would have two sons and four daughters.

Despite his journalistic success, Munro hankered after more serious writing and his memories of Argyll and the stories told to him by his mother and grandmother influenced his first attempts at fiction, published in 1896 in a collection of short stories called The Lost Pibroch.

One of the best stories in it was Castle Dark: “Once upon a time Castle Dark was a place of gentility and stirring days. You have heard it, you know it; now it is like a deer’s skull in Wood Mamore, empty, eyeless, sounding to the whistling wind, but blackened instead of bleached in the threshing rains. When the day shines and the sun coaxes the drowsy mists from the levels by the river, that noble house that was brisks up and grey-whitens, minding maybe of merry times; the softest smirr of rain– and the scowl comes to corbie-stone and gable; black, black grow the stones of old ancient Castle Dark.”

Munro then took to novels and wrote two successful ones in quick succession – John Splendid and Castle Doom, the first about the Marquis of Montrose’s campaign for King Charles I, and the second set against the background of the ‘45 Jacobite Uprising

Having become assistant editor of the News, Munro retired from full-time journalism around 1902 to pen more novels, of which the best is The New Road, published in 1914, about the effects of military roads on the Highlands.

He retained his connections to the News by writing a weekly column under the pen-name of Hugh Foulis. They were really short stories featuring memorable characters such his “droll friend” Archie, the commercial traveller Jimmy Swan and the best-loved of them all – Para Handy, skipper of the Vital Spark.

The boat was a puffer, a small steam-driven merchant vessel carrying varied cargoes on the Firth of Clyde and up and down the West Coast. Para Handy and his crew became fixtures in Munro’s columns and indeed in his readers’ lives. The television versions of the Para Handy tales err on the side of humour and sentimentality, but Munro’s original writings are slightly darker and edgier, though nevertheless hugely entertaining.

At the outbreak of the First World War, Munro returned to journalism and eventually became editor of the Glasgow Evening News. During the war he suffered the loss of his elder son Hugh who was killed in France – Munro’s health was never the same after that tragedy, and his output of non-journalism works diminished.

Munro received honorary doctorates from Glasgow and Edinburgh Universities but for him his greatest honour was to be given the Freedom of Iveraray. He said at the presentation ceremony: “The things we love intently are the things worth writing about. I never could keep Inveraray out of any story of mine, and never will.”

Retiring to his house Cromalt at Craigendoran near Helensburgh, Neil Munro died there on December 22, 1930, 91 years ago today. He is buried in Kilmalieu Cemetery, Inveraray.

I like this poem by Neil Munro and dedicate it to all Scottish exiles, be it physical, or in your hearts.

To Exiles.

Are you not weary in your distant places,

Far, far from Scotland of the mist and storm,

In drowsy airs, the sun-smite on your faces,

The days so long and warm?

When all around you lie the strange fields sleeping,

The dreary woods where no fond memories roam,

Do not your sad hearts over seas come leaping

To the highlands and the lowlands of your Home?

Wild cries the Winter, loud through all our valleys:

The midnights roar, the grey noons echo back;

Round steep storm-bitten coasts the eager galleys

Beat for kind harbours from horizons black;

We tread the miry roads, the rain-drenched heather,

We are the men, we battle, we endure!

God’s pity for you people in your weather

Of swooning winds, calm seas, and skies demure!

Wild cries the Winter, and we walk song-haunted

Over the moors and by the thundering falls,

Or where the dirge of a brave past is chaunted

In dolorous dusks by immemorial walls.

Though rains may thrash on us, the great mists blind us,

And lightning rend the pine-tree on the hill,

Yet we are strong, yet shall the morning find us

Children of tempest all unshaken still.

We wander where the little grey towns cluster

Deep in the hills, or selvedging the sea,

By farm-lands lone, by woods where wildfowl muster

To shelter from the day’s inclemency;

And night will come, and then far through the darkling,

A light will shine out in the sounding glen,

And it will mind us of some fond eye’s sparkling,

And we’ll be happy then.

Let torrents pour then, let the great winds rally,

Snow-silence fall, or lightning blast the pine;

That light of Home shines warmly in the valley,

And, exiled son of Scotland, it is thine.

Far have you wandered over seas of longing,

And now you drowse, and now you well may weep,

When all the recollections come a-thronging

Of this rude country where your fathers sleep.

They sleep, but still the hearth is warmly glowing,

While the wild Winter blusters round their land:

That light of Home, the wind so bitter blowing —

Do they not haunt your dreams on alien strand?

Love, strength, and tempest–oh, come back and share them!

Here’s the old cottage, here the open door;

Fond are our hearts although we do not bare them,–

They’re yours, and you are ours for ever-more.

[assortedseaglass]

Borne & Bound - II

[Masterlist]

Aemond Targaryen x OFC

Summary: When Prince Aemond insults the commander of the Braedel cavalry, Viserys sends him to their kingdom so that he may learn the art of diplomacy and do battle with the commander herself, the spirited Lady Geowyth.

Content Warnings: Strong Language, Violence, Smut, Canon-typical Sexism, Mentions of Incest¸ Mentions of Sexual Assault

Word Count: 3.3K

When Geodred Beridan smiled, the apples of his cheeks rose and pinched wrinkles formed around glimmering, beetle-black eyes. The smile was broad and often accompanied by a droll remark or gentle laugh; a shock to those who did not know him, for his broad shoulders and oaken height disguised a gentle-natured and respectable soul whose purpose, so he believed, was to live in kindness and good humour.

As he moved along the Red Keep’s stone walls, many a gentleman stopped to shake his hand in greeting, and many a woman smiled demurely as he passed. The heir to an independent kingdom and commander of their army, he stood tall and sure, feet firmly rooted wherever he found himself. As swift as he was to laugh, he was as quick with the sword. In his presence women found safety and assuredness. Men, counsel and quick wit. In short, when kindly Geodred Beridan had cause for alarm, it was not long before others’ anxiety grew and when he was in a good mood, those around him could not help but join in his merriment. This was most common in the case of his sister.

He found her in her chambers that morning, sat at a small vanity and fixing her hair as a maidservant talked gaily of her time at the Red Keep.

“-mostly, I am with the Princess. She’s ever so gentle. Couldn’t tell you who she takes after,”

Geowyth laughed. “She must be a wonder indeed if she finds herself in your good graces,”

“How do you mean, my Lady?” The young girl was turning down Geowyth’s bed.

“In service of the royal family, you must have seen it all. Every member of this household, the family and those who serve them, at their best and worst. I know I could not see the worst of people and still sing their praises.”

“As I can attest!” Geodred stepped into the room, arms folded across his broad chest. The maidservant curtsied to him. “Is that why I have not had a good word from you since we left Braedel?”

“Alma.” Geowyth addressed the maid. “Spend a week travelling across Westeros with my brother and I promise not even you could find something to defend.” At this, Geodred threw back his head and laughed. Alma smiled nervously. She had been sent to attend Geowyth as she had come with no maid of her own. Indeed, in Braedel the fashions were far simpler and practical than those in the capital and Geowyth had no need of a maid to dress her except in the case of her court duties, wherein any of her uncle’s maids would do. Geodred tutted at his sister and spoke to the young girl.

“Alma, is it?” The girl nodded. “Well, Alma. My sister is to be on her best behaviour during our stay.” Geowyth rolled her eyes and stood from the vanity. “As you seem such a good judge of character, I shall come to you at our visit’s end for a full report.”

“For Alma, I shall be as good as gold.”

Through her giggles, Alma asked if there was anything else the Lady of Braedel needed. At Geowyth’s declination, she excused herself from the room, eyes roaming over Geodred as she did so.

He watched his sister as she moved about the small guest chambers she had been granted. Her dark hair, usually down or plaited simply and been drawn back from her face in ornate braids. One hand fidgeted with the skirt of her burgundy dress as the other ran over the pages of the books open on the table at her bedside. She was muttering under her breath.

“Your hair is different.”

“Is it alright?” She span around, hand flying to check the braids.

“I have never known you to care-”

“Every girl cares. I asked Alma to do it in the Targaryen style.” Geodred nodded at his sister, a sad smile crossing his usually bonny face. Geowyth continued. “We both know that soon you will rule Braedel, and I will take your place as commander. I am fully aware that my attendance at this council is to prove to our uncle, and the rest of the kingdom, that I am capable.”

Geodred took his sister’s hands in his, and together, they made their way from her room towards the council chamber. “Are you nervous?”

“Very.”

“Don’t be. All you have to do is observe.”

“It’s being observed that makes me nervous.” The pair nodded their heads to a passing Maester as they carried on their progress. Geowyth heard from her brother the unmistakable huff of air that gave away his attempt to contain a laugh. “What?”

“As long as you mind your tongue, all you have to do is stand behind me and look pretty. And,” he continued as Geowyth opened her mouth to protest. “If you have anything you wish to say, counsel me first. They do things differently here. Look at Princess Rhaenyra.”

Even in the independent island kingdom of Braedel, tale of the princess’ deposition in favour of her brother sent ripples of fear throughout their society. Even more so when all but three of the Beridan family perished and eyes turned to Geodred and Geowyth, the sickly king’s remaining heirs. Could these children, one of them a girl, rule the kingdom? Perhaps the mainland way was better, do away with the women and leave it to the men.

The two fell silent, haunted by the ghosts of their family, and the task left to them in the wake of their deaths. The closer they edged to the heart of the Red Keep, that is, the Throne Room, a great din of noise fell on their ears. Servants scurried to and fro, preparing the cavernous chamber for the King’s name day feast. Breaking from her brother, Geowyth darted to the open doors. Tables adorned with candelabras, flowers and fabrics ran the length of the hall. Atop the vaulted steps, another table had been drawn across the room, lined with ornate chairs for the royal family. Geowyth counted eleven, twelve including the seat edging the table. It was as she was recounting the names of the royal household in her head that Alma hurried past with a basket of fabric. Catching each other’s eye, Geowyth nodded to the sword-strewn throne at the head of the hall.

“A little over the top, don’t you think?” At this, Alma smirked and hurried to join her fellow maids.

“Geowyth.” Geodred’s face had turned serious. “Widercwedan.” Let’s go. She took her brother’s arm once more they rounded the corner to the council chamber. Many men were already filing in, Lannisters, Baratheons and Hightowers among them.

“Deos forhtlic?” Who’s afraid? Geodred let go of his sister and she settled into place behind him.

“Not I,” she whispered to him, and together they entered the chamber.

Whatever Aemond Targaryen did that day, he could not escape this ghastly feast. Ser Criston was unable to spar with him in the training yard, as all King’s and Queensguard were either with their patrons or on duty. The library was not immune to the hubbub of the castle, and the volume of Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms he sought was missing, alongside the one book with any mention of Braedel. His mother had even forbidden him from riding Vhagar, such was his inclination to assure her he would be back within a few hours, only to return in a few days. And so it was that he found himself at his father’s name day feast, shunted to the end of the royal table, bored stiff by the day’s idleness.

Nobles stood around the royals, chattering excitedly as stewards and footmen removed tables for dancing. The band had not stopped their playing, and a few of the younger noblewomen were already jumping with glee. Indeed, at his own table Rhaena and Lucerys stood hand in hand, ready to lead the evening’s festivities. Aemond watched the boyish red of Lucerys’ cheeks grow as Rhaena inched closer to him. Watched how he beamed at the people below them, and how they smiled back. Saw how his father gazed, misty eyed, at his grandson. The scar beneath Aemond’s eye patch prickled with pain and he pushed his goblet away, no longer inclined to drink. A pale hand closed around the cup, and the chair beside Aemond screeched along the floor as a dead weight fell into it. Aegon raised his eyebrows to his brother and brought the cup to his lips. For a while, neither spoke. They settled instead, to watch their guests.

Jason Lannister was speaking spiritedly to Borros Baratheon, the latter sat somewhere between annoyance and fascination. Ser Tyland, bounced on the balls of his feet in embarrassment. The princes’ Hightower aunts and uncles had already found themselves a seat, watching Alicent with pride or else gossiping with Beesbury and the Tyrell delegation. Aemond sighed. He had not the proclivity for this aspect of royal duty; socialising. Nor dancing, for that matter, but he understood it from the not-so-subtle hints of his mother that enough was enough. The Baratheon girls were terrified of him, and the incessant giggling of the other young noblewomen was driving a headache. Perhaps Helaena would dance with him. Aemond turned his head to see her seat already vacated. Ah. Jacaerys had stolen her to the dancefloor.

The brothers watched her, all sadness fading from her face to be replaced by joy. The hesitancy that had lingered about her since marrying Aegon faded into some semblance of contentment as she danced with her nephew. Under the candlelight, her skin glowed gold and her hair shimmered like spun silk. It buoyed Aemond, to see her happy. When the dance was done, Helaena clapped the band with girlish light-heartedness, and began chatting animatedly to someone at her side. At first, Aemond believed it to be Jacaerys. It was not until his nephew took a step sideways to whisper in the ear of Lucerys however, that Aemond saw Helaena was not speaking to her dance partner, but the young lady of Braedel.

The woman’s hair, though darker than Helaena’s, was similarly styled. The long, frizzy strands of it cascaded down her back, a singular braid keeping it from her face. As they spoke to each other, their hair bustled about them and in the firelight looked like embers and sparks of flame. Where Helaena was bedecked in yellows and golds, the lady by contrast wore blue and bronze, and her eyes, that had rendered Aemond so completely speechless the day before, burned orange. It took Aemond a moment to realise how he could see their extraordinary colour from where he sat, but when Helaena led her towards the royal table, he saw the smearing of charcoal that lined them. Unlike the other ladies of court, who had enhanced their delicate beauty with rouge and powder, this woman had seemingly run her thumb in coal and brushed it across her face. Looking to the where her brother and the rest of her party stood, Aemond saw that they too wore this strange streak of black across their eyes.

“Are you not going to ask about the council?” Aegon had finished another cup and was growing bored of Aemond’s silence.

“As you are going to tell me, I see no need.” Still, he watched his sister and her companion. They approached the top table and Helaena took a seat next to her brother-husband. The Braedel woman curtsied before the king and queen, uttered something to which Viserys smiled, and made her way towards Helaena’s outstretched hand. She curtsied to the princes, Aegon briefly nodding in acknowledgement, and settled by the princess.

Over Aegon’s increasingly slurred babbling about the council, Aemond watched Geowyth. Though their voices were low, the two women spoke quickly, Helaena most of all and Geowyth’s eyes shone as she listened. Aemond noted that when Helaena momentarily withdrew, Lady Geowyth leant closer, or else held her hand near his sister’s in encouragement. Never had he seen Helaena so open with a stranger.

“- council’s just a load of old wankers trying to beat each other off, in more ways than one-”

The two women laughed at something. Helaena’s light like a bell peal, Geowyth’s hearty like her brother. Something akin to gladness settled over Aemond.

“-Aemond is a far better rider than Aegon or I, I think.” Every sense in Aemonds’ body keened. At Helaena’s words, Geowyth glanced to him. She smiled brightly as their eyes connected. Aemond looked away. Damn.

“- and it’s a wonder grandsire made mother marry father. You’d think, with the way he carries on, it would have been him in the wedding dress.”

“Aegon, please.” Aemond was finally starting to enjoy the day, intrigued by the woman before him. The last thing he needed was Aegon’s vulgarity.

“-though I must say, Lady Geowyth, the council was made much easier by your presence.”

Aemond’s head snapped up. Surely not. Was Aegon so drunk he couldn’t tell the tired old council from young noblewomen? His eyes flickered to Geowyth, shock shadowing his sharp features when he saw that the lady was smiling.

“I shall whisper it, for I don’t want to offend the court,” Geowyth leaned forward, eyes gleaming from beneath a curtain of hair. “But you must not have had a great deal of good company if you found my presence pleasant.” She punctuated her statement with a wink at Aegon as Aemond found his voice.

“You were at the council?” Geowyth smiled at him in gentle affirmation. “Why?”

Geowyth had not expected the bluntness of his query, but knew that sooner or later questions from the rest of the court would follow the council. Indeed, even some council members, namely a certain golden-haired lord, asked King Viserys the question as Geowyth flanked her brother’s seat at the table. She turned to the young prince, serious but still smiling and said simply, “I am my brother’s heir.”

“But second in line to the throne?” It sounded more like a question than a statement, a hesitant ponderance, as though he were trying to solve one of Helaena’s riddles.

“Yes, but with our uncle so unwell-”

“-and your brother is to marry soon, is he not?”

Realisation dawned on Geowyth. “Your Grace, Geodred is indeed to marry, and he and Folchild will rule well together. But if all those above us will it, he will have heirs long before our forebears take him. No, when our uncle dies and Geodred assumes his position as King, someone will need to take his place as commander of the renward.”

“I’m sorry?” The words were sharper than Aemond intended. The slight aghast shake of his head as he spoke irked Geowyth, but she clarified her meaning nonetheless.

“I will take my role as commander of the cavalry.”

“You?”

“Yes?”

“A woman?”

“Yes.” Though her voice was indignant, Geowyth felt she had been slapped. A clap of laughter escaped Aegon as his eyes darted between his brother and Geowyth with glee. Beside her, Helaena picked at the skin on her palm. Despite only being mere inches shorter than Aemond, Geowyth felt herself shrink. Already, the doubts of the kingdom were knocking at Braedel’s door. She steeled herself against the fire glowing in her chest. “I know it is hard to believe, Your Grace, when your dear cousin and sister were swept aside so easily. But that is not how things are done in Braedel.”

The hall became chill. Aemond was certain a gust of wind had ripped through the chamber and he looked briefly around. Nothing was changed. The guests were revelling in the royal splendour. His siblings were still at his side, one nervous and one neurotic. But when he looked back at the lady before him, he found the source of his discomfort. The light of nearby candles flickered in her amber eyes, and something of the would-be warrior woman haunted her face. Seven Hells. He tried to recover. Not to sound like a bitter child or obnoxious ass, but interested.

“And do you find yourself to be as adequate a rider and swordsmith as your brother?”

“Would you ask the same of your dragon riding sisters?”

“Sister.” His voice was firm.

“Pardon?”

“She is no sister of mine.” He grew silent, and Geowyth didn’t need to ask which sister he meant. She’d seen how he’d looked at Helaena. How he was looking at Princess Rhaenyra now, across the hall. Her eyes followed his and, as they scanned the crowded hall, landed upon her brother. He would make a good king. He could sense trouble, for he was looking at Geowyth with a mixture of assessment and warning. “Deos forhtlic,” she heard him say. It would not do to make enemies of the King’s children on the second day of her visit. Swallowing whatever retort was pressing against her lips, Geowyth tried a different tac.

“Do you dance, Your Grace? Perhaps you will join the princess and I in the next? I have seen many a girl looking hopef-”

“You’ll note, my Lady, that I only have one eye.” Aemond cut her off before she could finish and he was astonished when she began to laugh.

“Do you dance in circles?”

Aegon laughed louder than he had all evening, the wine in his goblet slopping onto the table. A little of the red splashed the sleeve of Aemond’s doublet and he looked down slowly. When his eye returned to Geowyth’s, it was cold and unamused. He looked down his eagle nose at her, steadying his feet as though readying for a fight, and Geowyth found herself breathless at the power that suddenly radiated from him. For the first time in her life, she felt truly small. She turned to Helaena. The princess had resumed the picking of her hands, her shoulders stooped and mouth downturned. She would not look at her new companion. Without a dance partner, and her pride decidedly dashed, Geowyth retreated into the crowd towards her fellow horse lords. Aemond’s gaze followed her, body humming with embarrassed rage.

“Shame you weren’t born in Braedel, brother.” Aegon slapped Aemond on the back as he made to hunt a more rakish kind of revelry. “You’ll just have to make do with being my spare.” Aegon made his drunken trail through the crowd. The newcomers bowed before him. Those used to court life at the Red Keep turned away, among them Ser Westerling and the princess of Dragonstone. Ser Harrold was deep in serious conversation with the Braedel beast Herumbrand, no doubt discussing military strategy and their glory days, and as Aemond watched them his Targaryen blood ran cold. For beside the guardsmen stood Rhaenyra, smiling at the guard who had always favoured her, and Lady Geowyth, her eyes bright with self-satisfaction as with a laugh, she turned away from him.

Notes: Split this in two so I could get a chapter out.The first sentence begins the same way a Far From the Madding Crowd. I love Thomas Hardy and I think his description of character is amazing, so I used it as a way to open the chapter.

In this world, Vizzy T is still alive, and Rhaenyra was ousted as heir when Aegon was born. I’ve said before that this will not be a canon compliant story. The background of the Beridan family and why Braedel keeps to itself will be revealed soon. Sorry it's taking so long, I'm not myself at the moment - will correct any mistakes when I've had a good night's sleep. Hilde x

Renward = horseguard/cavalry

Tags: @arcielee @mefools @bladeofdreadfort @glitterandgoldfinds @heimtathurs @ewanmitchellcrumbs @babyblue711 @wingeddeliciouscanonrebel @greenowlfactif @fantasias-creativebubble @httyd-marauders @sirenangelroyal

[weclassybouquetfun]

Everyone Gets Lost in SALTBURN.

Including me, as I've gloried in this film three times -enduring the annoying Academy aspect ratio format (writer/director/filmmaking genius Emerald Fennell explained this ratio was used to accommadate the squareness of the estate and to enhance close-ups).

I love films that are bold and audacious; ones that are polarizing and divisive because that means it has touched the audience - for good or for bad - they have been given food for thought. Now, you may savour it, or vomit it out but you will wolf it down. I don't see how anyone could look at this film and be bored.

TL;DR

WARNING: MORE SPOILERS THAN ROOMS IN SALTBURN

THE GOOD

EVERYTHING. Barry Keoghan owns every single frame of this film. He gets to use so many colours in his acting palette and while I don't have faith in the Academy, I hope that they nominate him at least.

Same goes for Archie Madekwe as Farleigh. He is the Tom Wambsgans of SALTBURN (complimentary). He's a hanger-on who hates the other hanger-on. Fennell could have just written him as one note - just nasty and cruel bully, but he had more dimensions than that.

We get a glimpse at how he hates that his mother has to beg (by way of Farleigh) for financial support. He could have just been someone who held the attitude of, "I've got mine, now get yours", but it bothers him that his mother is struggling. He hates that he lives a pampered life while the footmen are ignored. I especially love how he has no shame over being taken care of by the Cattons. Kicked out of 3 schools for blowing teachers? Oh, well. Sir James' connections will get him somewhere.

He sets up Oliver to karaoke to The Pet Shop Boys' "Rent" and when Oliver remarks, "Felix, I think this song is yours too." (a line that never failed to pull a reaction from me), Felix doesn't tuck his tail between his legs. He's not embarrased. No, he gladly takes the mic.

Then there is Rosamund Pike who is never not fantastic in everything. Elspeth is so droll, so cutting, yet so loveable.

Pike tosses out these lines that carry such humour in it, effortlessy. Like Farleigh, Elspeth is someone you probably should dislike - not batting an eye when discussing Pamela's death, judgmental, gossipy - but she, like Sir James are charming. Their obliviousness comes across as a mere quirk in their personality versus a deal-breaker.

The humour. This movie is so funny. What I appreciated though is that where most directors would put laughs to diffuse the preceeding scene, Fennell plays it straight. You are sat there without any quip or hammy performance to distract from Oliver drinking Felix's cummy bathwater and lapping the drain for good measure.

Or from Oliver and Venetia's menstrual blood swapping. Or grief stricken Oliver humping Felix's grave. The laughter, however comes from the audience. I've seen it three times so I've experienced three different audience reactions and I was surprised by how much people laughed (and gasped. Or closed their eyes), when to me it was serious bizness.

The first screening I attended had a Q&A with the film's composer, Anthony Willis, and he said that when he does panels with Emerald she always apologies to the audience for the pervisity. Why apologize, Emerald?! Talk your talk!

The only scene I could think of where humour was added to diffuse a scene was when Oliver kills Elspeth and he's draped over her trying (and failing) to put her limp arms around him. I think that was necessary so audiences can go into the end scene of him dancing victoriously through his ill-gotten estate.

-When Felix starts clueing in that Oliver lied. The way the unasked question where they pull up to Oliver's home. You can see that he's taken aback by a supposed addict would live there. Then you can tell the realization is falling on him when he spots the lawn being watered because what hardcore adcict would care about maintaining the lawn? But it's the "Gone Fishin'" sign that made him realize he's been duped. Jacob played it so well because it was very understated. Even the entire scene with Oliver's parents (played by Dorothy Atkinson who displayed that same fierce love of her child in "Pennyworth" and Shaun Dooley who's usually playing a tough nut.).

THE BAD

The bad actually has nothing to do with the film itself. It's the perception of Felix that Jacob Elordi and Emerald Fennell holds. They both paint Felix in the most terrible light with Elordi saying Felix is scarier than his character in EUPHORIA and Fennell calling him callous, misogynistic and racist. While I can see where she paints him as such in the film (leaving Oliver to walk his bike back to campus, not talking to the girl/s he's going to have it off with, just hitting her on the butt and walking off with her, having the very tone-deaf attitude of "not seeing race" by telling Farleigh that he doesn't care that he's "different" from them. But does that make him a truly awful person? Maybe it makes me an apologist because I can see how Felix's life of privilege makes him oblivious on how to treat people.

Fennell says her direction to Elordi was that Felix is a bad kisser and bad at sex because he never has to try; he doesn't need to impress. That makes sense because if one is wealthy and/or conventionally beautifully those things does the heavy lifting and grants you a ton of leeway. Since it works for him, why would he even think he needs to pivot on his behaviour?

I just don't see Felix being a terrible person. He ran interference for Oliver at the bar, he tried to get someone to hook Oliver up with a friend, he ditched the graduation party to support Oliver after the "death" of his father. Duncan was so crushed by Felix's death that he couldn't even close the curtains. Liam or Joshua (the Footmen Farleigh said Felix didn't know the names of) ran off crying after closing the curtains while Felix's body passed by. You would think if he was such a horrid person the staff wouldn't be so affected by his death. He pushed Oliver to stay for dinner at his parents house because he could see how much it meant to them to just have homemade SpagBol and cake.

He may be oblivious and has blindspots, but I'm not buying that he's abominable.

THE REST

-When Venetia is telling the story about the doppleganger, there's a window to the garden behind her and you see a man in a pink shirt walking past, then we cut to the reactions at the table to her story and Felix is wearing a pink shirt. Could it be Felix's doppleganger? A harbinger of his death in the garden? If we take Felix seriously, Saltburn is inhabited by Felix's dead granny. What's one more supernatural occurrence?

-In the credits are images that alludes to what has transpired: we see a spider because Venetia tells Oliver Sir James calls him Spider-Man because she skulks and she says he spins his web, she thinks he's more of a moth (I say he's a kitsune. He's a shapeshifting, beguiling trickster.).

There's a puppet on a string - and that has a dual meaning of the shoebox theatre of Catton family puppets that Felix examines when he first arrives at Saltburn and latter stops in front of at the end when he fixes their memorial rocks atops it; and also how Felix was ultimately a puppet master. There's also an ouroboros and a pair of glasses, which I loved seeing because Oliver sheds his glasses when he gets into Felix's circle. We eventually realize that they were merely an affectation. A costume he adorned to get in order to get into the character as humble, unassuming scholarship kid and shedding him once he was ensconced in Felix's circle.

-I ponder whether Felix truly considered Oliver a friend. Ewan Mitchell's Michael (the other asocial scholarship kid) warned Oliver that Felix would get bored with him. Venetia tells Oliver that she likes him better than the last one. Her words seemed like this is Felix's folly and he does this all the time and Oliver was merely another stray. Then we hear from Felix that a friend he invited had a fling with Venetia and it ruined his friendship. Maybe Felix doesn't get tired of these guys, but they make a mere (perceived) misstep and he ends the friendship. We see it almost happen when Felix yelled at Oliver for making a fuss about the state of his dorm room. Which is why Oliver deployed Operation Dead Dad - he needed a gambit in order to not lose Felix's friendship.

There were a few times where Felix could have ditched Oliver, but he didn't. If he's as flighty as people perceive him to be then I think he would have just made an excuse for Oliver to not attend the fancy dress party. Cancellation wasn't the only option. He could have just pulled an Elspeth and had Sir James make Oliver leave in the dead of the night.

Instead, even after everything he now knows about Oliver's deception, Felix looks crushed after their talk in the maze. His anger from earlier seemingly turned to sadness. Maybe his apparent dejection stemmed from what Oliver said to him: how he was just giving Felix what he wanted; thus (screw you Farleigh, "thus" is a good word) probably making Felix ponder whether everyone around him are playing roles - court jesters trying to appease Felix their king and no relationship he has with anyone outside his family is authentic.

Or maybe Felix had sexual interest in Oliver (because I don't think anyone had a romantic interest in each other in this film; sexual/carnal/opportunistic, yes)? It's powerful when someone obviously wants you. Even if you didn't have any prior interest in that person the, "What if?" or "Why not?" aspect comes into play and you want test how far it could go. Venetia told Oliver, "Felix doesn't like to share his toys. Even the ones he doesn't want to play with anymore." Maybe he just liked male attention, but had no intention of following through. I don't know. Maybe Oliver wasn't the only unreliable narrator.

"I wasn't in love with him."

[angellayercake]

WIP Whenever

Instead of working on everything else I should be working on I have become obsessed with this idea and I can't think of anything else. So far too long ago @sweatandwoe tagged me in a WIP post so here we go.

Papa Nihil travels the USA with his three sons posing as a preacher to ingratiate themselves with rural Christian communities to sew discord and spread sin. One summer finds them staying with a family, helping them work their struggling farm in exchange for somewhere to stay.

I'm tagging @ghostchems, @ramblingoak, @da-rulah and @meowsaidmissy if you have any wips you would like to share (no pressure of course 💜 Little taster below the read more and the playlist can be found here because I really am in a hole with this fic 🙃

The clink of ice cubes and the gravel crushing under your feet would have given you away long before you had rounded the side of the barn if not for their argument. Well you suspect they are arguing, you can never be certain due to them always speaking Italian to each other. It was hard to tell what kind of conversation they were having most times, what with their loud voices and waving hands no matter what was going on. You pause just out of sight watching the glasses of lemonade your Mother had forced you to bring out to them as they worked in the afternoon heat begin to sweat. The condensation slid down the glass shallow pools collecting at the bases on the precariously balanced tray as you listened.  

‘In ogni caso, perché ti preoccupi dei sentimenti di tutte queste stupide ragazze?’ (Anyway, why do you care about the feelings of all these stupid girls?) The words while foreign sounded dismissive and rude as though this heated discussion was already well underway before your arrival. That was Mr Emeritus you were sure, he often took that tone when he was talking to his sons. 

‘Non chiamarli così!’ (Don't call them that!) Terzo. You push aside any thoughts about why you recognise his voice so easily. He sounds irritated, his voice clipped and angry even in his more melodic mother tongue. Interest now truly piqued, you wish not for the first time that you were more cultured, more intelligent so you could have learned another language and be able to follow the conversation. 

‘Prima la scoperai, prima potremo uscire da questa discarica.’ (The sooner you fuck her, the sooner we can get out of this dump.) The sneer in his voice is so obvious it almost makes you cringe like you are on the one on the receiving end but he is almost cut off by the intended recipient, if the scuffling sound you hear is Terzo lunging at his father as you suspect. 

‘Fermare! Smettetela tutti e due. Corrompere la gioventù cristiana non significa che dobbiamo lasciare dietro di noi una scia di cuori spezzati. Il suo modo funziona, devi fidarti di lui.’ (Stop! Stop it, both of you. Corrupting Christian youth does not mean we must leave a trail of broken hearts in our wake. His way works, you have to trust him.) While spoken loud enough to cut through the fight that was clearly about to break out, the even placating tone must belong to Primo, ever the mediator of the family you had noticed.

‘Non sono più gli anni Sessanta, vecchio mio. Ci vuole qualcosa di più che sussurrare sull'amore libero per aprire loro le gambe.’ (It's not the sixties anymore, old man. It takes more than whispering about free love to open their legs.) And that must be Secondo, his deeper voice was tinged with a droll note which could be directed at any one of his father or brothers, maybe even all three. You liked him the best so far even if his sardonic humour had almost gotten you in trouble already.

‘Ah, parli della troia e lei appare.’ (Ah, you talk about the bitch and she appears.) You round the corner just as your arms start to urgently complain about you standing there with your laden tray and just in time to witness the last of their cross words.

‘Vaffanculo!’ (Fuck you!) He spits at his father, stabbing his pitch fork into the soft dirt as if he is about to storm off but he stops short when he spots you. His expression is pinched, his brow furrowed enough for lines of frustration to form. He pushes his hair back from his face, smoothing it back into place as he schools his expression into a casual smile. He is good, probably the best you have seen squashing all his true feelings behind a mask but you can see the tension still in the corner of his eyes and the tightness of his smile. It isn’t your business though so you plaster a smile on your own face and announce the reason for your interruption.

 ‘Refreshments for the workers!’ You offer the tray to Mr Emeritus first, your Mother’s hosting rules so deeply ingrained now you wouldn’t dare to do otherwise. He takes a glass from you looking at the drink then you with an air of distaste that makes your skin prickle uncomfortably. ‘It’s lemonade sir, that Mama made fresh this morning.’ He takes a cautious sip before gesturing you away. 

‘Thanks to you and to your Mother, Signorina,’ Primo says, accepting his glass. Secondo takes his with a nod and pull of his lips that could be mistaken for a smile which you return in kind. Which leaves only the youngest Emeritus. He is watching you having settled into his casually relaxed demeanour leaning against his still stuck pitch fork. Something makes you pause until he gestures you towards him. 

‘I take it this one is for me, si?’ Your mouth inexplicably goes dry as you make your way towards him. Now your job is almost complete, you have the opportunity to take him in properly. A stubborn lock of his hair, despite his best efforts has fallen loose sticking to the sheen of sweat covering his brow, in fact his youthful face positively glows with perspiration so you hurry the last few steps towards him, needing to provide him with a means to ease his heat inspired discomfort. You avoid his eyes as he takes his glass, relieving you of your burden at last and you tuck the underside of the tray against your chest in a futile attempt to shield yourself from his piercing gaze. 

He barely hesitates bringing the glass to his full lips, tipping his head back, greedily drinking the cool refreshment. He finishes it quickly with a satisfied sigh and he hands the glass back to you, his fingers grazing yours as he makes the exchange. A drop escapes the corner of his mouth slipping off his chin before he can catch it. You can’t help but follow its progress down his neck and into his open shirt collar where it settles where his chest hair begins. For some reason you find yourself transfixed as the vivid image of you closing the distance between you and following its path with your mouth fills your mind. 

‘Thank you Canaria.’ His voice abruptly snaps you out of your trance with a gasp and you can feel your blood rushing into your cheeks as you register the impropriety of your thoughts. You realise all four of them are now watching you and you pray that they hadn’t noticed your momentary distraction. They had all finished their lemonade so you shakily collect their glasses worried that the tray will slip from your grip at any moment. With a final weak smile you make your escape. 

 ‘Ci vorrà una settimana prima che tu possa indossare le sue mutande.’ (It'll be a week before you're in her underwear.) You hear Mr Emeritus mutter as you leave but you don’t wait to hear anymore. You need to get a hold of yourself and to do that you need to be as far away from him as possible.  

[kwebtv]

TV Guide -  May 16 - 22, 1964

Sir Alfred Joseph Hitchcock, KBE, (13 August 1899 – 29 April 1980) Film director and producer, at times referred to as “The Master of Suspense”. He pioneered many elements of the suspense and psychological thriller genres. He had a successful career in British cinema with both silent films and early talkies and became renowned as England’s best director. Hitchcock moved to Hollywood in 1939 and became a US citizen in 1955.

Along with Walt Disney, Hitchcock was among the first prominent film producers to fully envisage just how popular the medium of television would become. From 1955 to 1965, Hitchcock was the host of the television series titled Alfred Hitchcock Presents. While his films had made Hitchcock’s name strongly associated with suspense, the TV series made Hitchcock a celebrity himself. His irony-tinged voice and signature droll delivery, gallows humour, iconic image and mannerisms became instantly recognizable and were often the subject of parody. (Wikipedia)

[stoicbreviary]

Ellis Walker, Epictetus in Poetical Paraphrase 53 

LIII. 'Tis but a sorry sort of praise to be  A droll, the jester of each company,  A raiser of loud laughter, a buffoon,  The sport, and the diversion of the town.  For he that strains to please and humour all,  Into the common shore of talk must sail.  He that would make each merry, must of force,  With ev'ry folly temper his discourse;  Sometimes talk downright bawdry, then defy  The gods, and laugh at dull morality.  For such behaviour, what can you expect  But to be laugh'd at and to lose respect?  You think you're much admir'd, tho' much deceived,  You're neither lov'd, respected, nor believ'd.  For who would trust, love, honour, or commend  The wretch, who for a jest betrays his friend;  To whom there's nought so dear in heav'n or earth,  He would not make the subject of his mirth.  

[annngallina]

[sounknownvoid]

🤣🤣😂😂🥰🥰...love the edit ..

But also I remember the scene n how droll n dry sam was as if he fully expected his idiot brother to attempt breaking the wall without goggles n Jared's flat "i expected this" line-delivery n wry quirk n raised eyebrows... perfect!.... he's good at the dry humour!....

emoji series 7/?

[dickens-daily]

THE FUNNY YOUNG GENTLEMAN

As one funny young gentleman will serve as a sample of all funny young Gentlemen we purpose merely to note down the conduct and behaviour of an individual specimen of this class, whom we happened to meet at an annual family Christmas party in the course of this very last Christmas that ever came.

We were all seated round a blazing fire which crackled pleasantly as the guests talked merrily and the urn steamed cheerily—for, being an old-fashioned party, there was an urn, and a teapot besides—when there came a postman’s knock at the door, so violent and sudden, that it startled the whole circle, and actually caused two or three very interesting and most unaffected young ladies to scream aloud and to exhibit many afflicting symptoms of terror and distress, until they had been several times assured by their respective adorers, that they were in no danger. We were about to remark that it was surely beyond post-time, and must have been a runaway knock, when our host, who had hitherto been paralysed with wonder, sank into a chair in a perfect ecstasy of laughter, and offered to lay twenty pounds that it was that droll dog Griggins. He had no sooner said this, than the majority of the company and all the children of the house burst into a roar of laughter too, as if some inimitable joke flashed upon them simultaneously, and gave vent to various exclamations of—To be sure it must be Griggins, and How like him that was, and What spirits he was always in! with many other commendatory remarks of the like nature.

Not having the happiness to know Griggins, we became extremely desirous to see so pleasant a fellow, the more especially as a stout gentleman with a powdered head, who was sitting with his breeches buckles almost touching the hob, whispered us he was a wit of the first water, when the door opened, and Mr. Griggins being announced, presented himself, amidst another shout of laughter and a loud clapping of hands from the younger branches. This welcome he acknowledged by sundry contortions of countenance, imitative of the clown in one of the new pantomimes, which were so extremely successful, that one stout gentleman rolled upon an ottoman in a paroxysm of delight, protesting, with many gasps, that if somebody didn’t make that fellow Griggins leave off, he would be the death of him, he knew. At this the company only laughed more boisterously than before, and as we always like to accommodate our tone and spirit if possible to the humour of any society in which we find ourself, we laughed with the rest, and exclaimed, ‘Oh! capital, capital!’ as loud as any of them.

When he had quite exhausted all beholders, Mr. Griggins received the welcomes and congratulations of the circle, and went through the needful introductions with much ease and many puns. This ceremony over, he avowed his intention of sitting in somebody’s lap unless the young ladies made room for him on the sofa, which being done, after a great deal of tittering and pleasantry, he squeezed himself among them, and likened his condition to that of love among the roses. At this novel jest we all roared once more. ‘You should consider yourself highly honoured, sir,’ said we. ‘Sir,’ replied Mr. Griggins, ‘you do me proud.’ Here everybody laughed again; and the stout gentleman by the fire whispered in our ear that Griggins was making a dead set at us.

The tea-things having been removed, we all sat down to a round game, and here Mr. Griggins shone forth with peculiar brilliancy, abstracting other people’s fish, and looking over their hands in the most comical manner. He made one most excellent joke in snuffing a candle, which was neither more nor less than setting fire to the hair of a pale young gentleman who sat next him, and afterwards begging his pardon with considerable humour. As the young gentleman could not see the joke however, possibly in consequence of its being on the top of his own head, it did not go off quite as well as it might have done; indeed, the young gentleman was heard to murmur some general references to ‘impertinence,’ and a ‘rascal,’ and to state the number of his lodgings in an angry tone—a turn of the conversation which might have been productive of slaughterous consequences, if a young lady, betrothed to the young gentleman, had not used her immediate influence to bring about a reconciliation: emphatically declaring in an agitated whisper, intended for his peculiar edification but audible to the whole table, that if he went on in that way, she never would think of him otherwise than as a friend, though as that she must always regard him. At this terrible threat the young gentleman became calm, and the young lady, overcome by the revulsion of feeling, instantaneously fainted.

Mr. Griggins’s spirits were slightly depressed for a short period by this unlooked-for result of such a harmless pleasantry, but being promptly elevated by the attentions of the host and several glasses of wine, he soon recovered, and became even more vivacious than before, insomuch that the stout gentleman previously referred to, assured us that although he had known him since he was that high (something smaller than a nutmeg-grater), he had never beheld him in such excellent cue.

When the round game and several games at blind man’s buff which followed it were all over, and we were going down to supper, the inexhaustible Mr. Griggins produced a small sprig of mistletoe from his waistcoat pocket, and commenced a general kissing of the assembled females, which occasioned great commotion and much excitement. We observed that several young gentlemen—including the young gentleman with the pale countenance—were greatly scandalised at this indecorous proceeding, and talked very big among themselves in corners; and we observed too, that several young ladies when remonstrated with by the aforesaid young gentlemen, called each other to witness how they had struggled, and protested vehemently that it was very rude, and that they were surprised at Mrs. Brown’s allowing it, and that they couldn’t bear it, and had no patience with such impertinence. But such is the gentle and forgiving nature of woman, that although we looked very narrowly for it, we could not detect the slightest harshness in the subsequent treatment of Mr. Griggins. Indeed, upon the whole, it struck us that among the ladies he seemed rather more popular than before!

To recount all the drollery of Mr. Griggins at supper, would fill such a tiny volume as this, [4] to the very bottom of the outside cover. How he drank out of other people’s glasses, and ate of other people’s bread, how he frightened into screaming convulsions a little boy who was sitting up to supper in a high chair, by sinking below the table and suddenly reappearing with a mask on; how the hostess was really surprised that anybody could find a pleasure in tormenting children, and how the host frowned at the hostess, and felt convinced that Mr. Griggins had done it with the very best intentions; how Mr. Griggins explained, and how everybody’s good-humour was restored but the child’s;—to tell these and a hundred other things ever so briefly, would occupy more of our room and our readers’ patience, than either they or we can conveniently spare. Therefore we change the subject, merely observing that we have offered no description of the funny young gentleman’s personal appearance, believing that almost every society has a Griggins of its own, and leaving all readers to supply the deficiency, according to the particular circumstances of their particular case.

[4] [In its original form.]

_____

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[truculentbitch]

https://www.tumblr.com/truculentbitch/772026630789103616/belly-do-you-keep-up-with-whats-hasan-doing-do?source=share

shouldve sent this off anon in the first place im an idiot. anyway, hi!! im happy to hear that hasan is a lot more comfortable showing himself online and id love a stream like that from him. but idk if austins even doing those anymore, so we can never say.

i have only seen the highlights of the episode with valkyrae by some other yter, and it was pretty good. loved their dynamic. started watching the ludwig in the tub vod, but it got kinda boring in the middle, so i left it there. maybe i'll just skip that part when i get back to it next. also tbh out of the whole fear&, ik the least about will neff, so havent watched that one. is it worth watching as a new viewer?

hi!!!

austin'd def do a special hasan ep even if he was done with the series. we just have to put the pressure on!

i think i'll watch the rae ep - she has a sneaky, droll humour that i love.

i love will neff and think he's almost always entertaining so i'm biased but that ep is ummm well... ah it's most def a will neff ep. i need you to know that will neff on fear& is toned down to about 1%. just be aware of that.