#denny dias
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guerrilla-operator · 2 years ago
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STEELY DAN
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misguidedmartyr · 9 months ago
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Steely Dan
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mychameleondays · 11 months ago
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Steely Dan: Pretzel Logic
ABC Records 89 604 XOT, 1976
Originally released: February 20, 1974
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rainingmusic · 2 years ago
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Steely Dan - Night By Night
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julio-viernes · 1 year ago
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Se ha estrenado un raro anuncio comercial que Steely Dan crearon para Schlitz Beer. Un jingle registrado por el grupo en algún momento de los ocho meses que transcurrieron entre su elepé debut de 1972 "Can't Buy a Thrill" y el segundo "Countdown to Ecstasy" (1973). Los de Schlitz querían controlar la canción, cosa que Dan no permitieron. Para la marca de cerveza lo más problemático era la utilización de la palabra "coger" (filfar, quilar, joder, follar), muy utilizada en ese sentido en varios países latinoamericanos.
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Buen, cachondo, pitufo jingle interpretado en inglés y español por Donald Fagen y Denny Dias, que contradice a aquellos que piensan que la esdrújula banda neoyorquina carecía por completo de sentido del humor. Lo tenían - partiendo del propio nombre del grupo, un dildo- pero generalmente era cerebral y hermético, esto es más extrovertido y gamberro.
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rayless-reblogs · 10 months ago
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Favorites Meme!
Thanks for thinking of me @deemoyza! I love this kind of thing.
Favorite painter: I say I love this kind of thing and then I don't pick a favorite. When it comes to figure-based art, I love the well-known classics, Alphonse Mucha (just lush and gorgeous), John William Waterhouse (softly cluttered, often a little unsettled) and Philip de Laszlo (fiery and opalescent). If we're talking animal art, I love the equine illustrations of Wesley Dennis (powerful nostalgia), all the shaggy warm creatures of Rosa Bonheur, and Theophile Steinlen's endless snoozing cats. And then with landscapes, there's John Brett (airy pure blues), Frederic Edwin Church (ethereal), and Mikalojus Konstantinas Ciurlionis (otherworldly, surreal).
Favorite poet/writer: That's even harder. Let's focus on just poets because it's narrower. I once heard Emily Dickinson described as terrifying in her spare use of language, and that's always resonated with me -- and it's something I've tried to angle towards in some of my own poetry.
Favorite band: Am realizing I don't connect as much with bands as with solo artists, so while there are lots of individual songs by bands that I like, I don't have a big pool to draw from. I've always liked the Something Real album by Meg & Dia -- very mid-2000s rock with a lot of cluttered lyrics. But I don't know enough about them overall to really say I'm a fan of them.
Favorite meal & drink: My family's macaroni and cheese recipe, which is kind of weird and atypical (it has cheese, but not an actual cheese sauce) but so cheddary and hearty and good. When I was learning to cook, mastering the macaroni and cheese was a big milestone. And then for drinks, a really good hot chocolate. One of our local restaurants has an amazing one with an enormous homemade marshmallow. For stuff in a packet, I love Starbuck's salted caramel version.
Favorite outfit aesthetic/style: I would maybe call it low-key romantic? I wear a lot of skirts, and I typically always put on jewelry when I go out. I like dark colors (though I've been branching into brighter colors and pastels), some light goth and medievaly elements. I like airy flowy lines, but I also want structure and shape. Am a huge fan of boots with skirts. Current favorite outfit is a dark floral corduroy mini over black leggings, black tee, and a long open-knit burgundy sweater. And of course boots. Adding a cameo necklace or pin gives it a little bit of Victoriana.
Favorite singer: Right now, it's a lot of Tori Amos. She has so many good stand-out lines, beautiful melodies, and also just so much music I still haven't even listened to, even after being a fan for well over ten years. Recently discovered her song "The Maids of Elfen-Mere" and may have to check out the album.
Favorite item you own: Hard to pick one. The year I finished writing The Price and Prey of Magic, someone, without knowing what was in the book, got me a pendant with stag antlers for Christmas. Stags are a big motif in the novel, and it felt like such a lovely, special coincidence. The person has since died, and so wearing the necklace is extra meaningful to me now; I wore it for my first book signing.
Favorite perfume: I don't wear perfume regularly. But my favorite scents are fairly straightforward -- vanilla, orange, rosemary and mint -- pretty simple stuff.
Thank you again! As for tagging, if you see this and would like to do it, go for it!
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cheemken · 1 year ago
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Idk how to explain my thought process but,
This is Iris and Hilda. I will not elaborate further
BXKSHXKDHZJSBSKS
NO YOU ARE SO RIGHT FOR THAT FR💀💀
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dennisdeimy · 5 months ago
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FOTO ESPECIAL 🌅💛✨☀️ Por que CABELLO DORADO ? 💛 Dude mucho en publicar esta foto😳😓 pero lo quise hacer por que representa exactamente todo la razón por que me quede todo este tiempo con cabello dorado, Existe una conexión con el la luz de sol en la tarde, esa inspiración que me refleja la luz radiante y dorada de la tarde ese efecto cálido natural del sol en las fotos 😳💛✨🌅 siempre fue mi inspiracion , esa foto representa TODO ESO ! Y aquél Dennis dorado en su cuarto en cualquier tarde viviendo el momento y sacando fotos😊😳 ... esas tardés radiantes y su luz dorada que combina con mi cabello y la armonía de colores que visto cuando estoy de ese color de cabello .. los rayos del sol me inspiran😊✌️☀️💛✨... Esta foto conmemora y celebra todas esas tardés solo en mi cuarto desde tanto años donde salieron mis mejores fotos fotos de Dennis Deimy inoxidables en la historia de mi vida 🥺😊✌️✨💛☀️🌅.. Foto especial Dennis Dorado .. . . He dudado mucho es publicar esta foto 🥺😳😳 Mas alla de los comentarios es lo que esta foto me inspiran y significa para mi u.u ahora estare asi todo el dia --> 😳😳😳😳 POSDT. Cuando. Capturaba y también cuando publicaba esta foto mi mente dijo .. " Mierda , quisera tener una novia u.u 😔😓😪" X.x joder xD El príncipe Dorado perdido por alli esperando en su torre 🤣🤣🤣🤣
. 📷 Instagram –> dennis.deimy 🌅🎁 OnlyFans –> dennis_deimy 🎬🤣 TikTok –> dennisdeimy
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911bts · 2 years ago
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6x13 "New Sensation" Synopsis
The 118 race to the rescues with emergencies at a spin class; in a hair salon and to a husband and wife in a compromising position; Buck discovers new cognitive abilities post lightning strike; Hen and Karen are concerned when they find out Denny has been seeing his biological father behind their backs; Maddie and Chimney enlist Athena and Bobby’s help with a suspicious neighbor in the all-new “New Sensation” episode of 9-1-1 airing Monday, April 10 (8:00-9:01 PM ET/PT) on FOX. (NIN-613) (TV-14 D, L, V)
Cast: Angela Bassett as Athena Grant; Peter Krause as Bobby Nash; Jennifer Love Hewitt as Maddie Buckley; Oliver Stark as Evan “Buck” Buckley; Kenneth Choi as Howie “Chimney” Han; Aisha Hinds as Henrietta “Hen” Wilson; Ryan Guzman as Eddie Diaz; Corinne Massiah as May Grant; Gavin McHugh as Christopher Diaz
Guest Cast: Tracie Thoms as Karen Wilson; Marsha Warfield as Toni Wilson;  Troy Winbush as Nathaniel Greene; Declan Pratt as Denny Wilson; Romi Dias as Chief Miranda Williams; Ronobir Lahiri as Captain Jeshan Mehta
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delirantesko · 6 months ago
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Anotações soltas 26/07/2024 (texto, escrevendo)
Uma das coisas que tenho observado a algum tempo, é no "gênero" nos textos. Eu sou apenas um homem hetero cis de 45 anos, que cresceu num ambiente onde qualquer manifestação que era contra o modelo de "macho pegador escroto" era atacada. Ser escroto era encorajado, embora eu nunca tenha feito parte desses grupos, então eu tinha poucos amigos, sem nenhum talento aparente, e viciado em videogame e leitura, que foram o pai que eu não tive, no sentido de alguém que me fizesse companhia, me ensinasse coisas diferentes e me recompensasse por meus esforços.
Mas voltando a questão do "gênero dos textos". Será que isso importa?
Se você é mulher, e lê:
"Não seja ansioso." (esqueça a resposta disso, foque no O no final de ansioso).
Isso incomoda?
A tendência dos textos, uma regra que se usa, é a de colocar os substantivos e adjetivos no masculino.
Mas a mesma frase acima poderia ser escrita como
"Não tenha ansiedade" (sim, como se fosse só falar não é?)
Isso importa pra quem lê? Se eu tento deixar meus textos sem um gênero específico? As vezes o que escrevo é direcionado, e então vai ter um ele, ela, você...
Estou me perguntando porque não sei. Estou perguntando porque gostaria que o que eu escrevo pudesse ser lido, compreendido e sentido por todos. Não gostaria que só por causa de uma vogal o leitor, digo, quem lê (OLHA AÍ!) se sentisse excluído.
Então importa se eu escrever
"Eles se beijaram" ou "Elas se beijaram" ?
Então prefiro colocar "Então se beijaram" porque não impõe um gênero aos atores da fala. Fica a critério do leitor, das experiências pelas quais o leitor passou, passará ou ansia passar.
Não sei se isso importa. Pode ser uma completa bobagem minha, assim como me importo com outras bobagens que talvez ninguém mais ligue. Minha ficha por exemplo, caiu ao terminar de escrever o primeiro parágrafo desse texto. Quase apaguei tudo porque as vezes a sua mente se acha genial por uma coisa e basta pensar um pouco mais e outra parte da mente faz o HE he do Nelson dos Simpsons, e em menos de um minuto você passa de espertalhão pra bobalhão.
"Porque você faz esse auê por causa de umas frases" meu crítico interior se pergunta.
Mas é porque eu me importo com isso. Na minha cabeça isso é um tipo de "gentilza literária". Como se quem está lendo pudesse se identificar, independente do gênero.
Falando em estética e estilo, eu simplesmente não CONSIGO reblogar algo que escrevi . As vezes eu vejo reblogs e penso "legal, senti isso de novo, eu poderia facilmente repostar." mas um dos desafios desse blog é só postar textos diferentes. Gosto de ver os outros reblogando seus próprios textos porque é uma chance de um, eu rever e reanalisar algo que li superficialmente antes e dois, ver algo que nunca vi antes. Alguns dos meus textos e frases inclusive são respostas "anacrônicas e atemporais" do que vejo por aqui.
Gosto de seguir gente do mundo inteiro porque é uma forma de ver onde muda a estética e estilo de pessoas de outros países. Como elas se expressam? O que desejam? Do que reclamam, o que as deixa com as pupilas dilatadas?
Falando em pessoas, as vezes eu comento em algumas postagens, quando gosto bastante do que leio ou vejo. Acho meio cringe da minha parte, mas espero que minhas palavras sejam vistas como encorajadoras.
Estou no capítulo VIII de Dom Quixote (quem usa números romanos nos dias de hoje?).
Hoje não consegui escrever quase nada até agora, por causa de "estou ocupado pra caramba" mas estava pensando que meu vilão tem como uma das inspirações Dennis Reynolds, do It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, especialmente dos seus deliciosos rompantes de ira quando lida com certas pessoas.
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guerrilla-operator · 2 years ago
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jornadainterior · 3 months ago
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Neste dia em 95, em Aida, Jan Magnussen fez sua estreia no Formula 1. Surpreendentemente, tendo sido contratado por Ron Dennis por seu recorde estelar na F3, Jan nunca mais correu com uma McLaren na F1 novamente. Mas correu por Stewart na F1 e ele teve um sucesso prolífico em outras séries desde então.
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1264doghouse · 5 months ago
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Jim Hodder & Denny Dias
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vannahmontannah · 1 year ago
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Who are you guys?
Eisley and Dennis have been together for 5 years and all 4 years in college. Dennis is a star football player in college, Clark Atlanta University, and he is this most popular in his school and in the state. He is number 25. Dennis is know for his loyalty, commitment, and chill personality. He is a team player, motivating and supportive. Eisley (girl with the hat) has had plenty of competition from girls coming at her man left and right, but they've all failed to even play with her like that. Dennis is actually a loyal man to his lady and respects her because he's supposed to. Something you mother fuckers don't know about. Eisley is taking up Fashion Design and Dennis is taking up Computer Science.
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Ronnie (girl with the locs) is the best friend of Dennis and Eisley. She's actually the one who introduced her to Dennis. Dennis and Ronnie have been friends since kindergarten and they met Eisley in 11th grade. Ronnie is a very popular cheerleader at the school and she is also the team coach. Ronnie is taking up Astronomy.
Kai is a very close friend to Dennis and has been friends since third grade. He also has a best friend, Diamonté (Dia or Monté for short) and they have been friend since 8th grade. Kai is a popular basketball player, number 15, and he is known for his energetic personality and outstanding performances. Kai is taking up Music.
Diamonté is Kai's best friend and they are also friends with the others. She goes to Georgia State University College of Law to become a Lawyer. She will occasionally go to CAU and chill with her friends and support their games.
Miami is a junior at CAU and is taking up Biology. Miami is friends with the others as well and she is a transfer from Loyola University Chicago. She has been in ATL for a few months now and she is doing good in all of her classes.
Latimore (Jacob) is a student at Morehouse and he is taking up Drama and Dramatics/Theater Arts. He is also apart of a fraternity, Omega. He is enemies with Jawan who attends CAU. He has a girlfriend, Deyjah, and she's captain of her cheerleading team at Morehouse. She is taking up Business Administration and Management.
Jawan, who goes to CAU, he is also in a fraternity and he is a Kappa. He is taking Cybersecurity. He has been a well known friend since 8th grade as well, he's just the more laid back one who is barely in the scene. But when he shows out, he shows out!
Markus (Mario) is a much older man who is dating Ronnie. They have been together for three years. He does not attend college, but he is doing well on his own. He is a music artist and he has built a solid fan base. He's aware of all of Ronnie's friends, but he's always busy so they rarely hang out. The only one who really sees him is Ronnie.
Patricia is also a good friend of theirs. She has been around since Kindergarten too and pretty much got a chance to know who everyone was. She is a student at Spelman and she is taking up Health Sciences.
Lastly, the girl who has this weird obsession with Dennis is a girl named Charity. She's had a big crush on Dennis for years and is scared to talk to him. She's known about Dennis since she's first attended CAU. She is taking up Computer Science as well and Dennis and Charity have a class together.
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toughpaperround · 1 year ago
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911 Cast Bios
Here's a list of them in one place, in order of appearance in 9-1-1 (fox, later abc). I choose them based on characters I enjoy, or where there are interesting connections / factoids to be found in their bios.
Gavin Stenhouse (The Priest)
Mariette Hartley (Patricia Clark, Abby's mother)
Claudia Christian (LAFD Capt. Maynard)
Debra Christofferson (Sue, Dispatcher)
Grasie Mercedes (Beth, in prenatal yoga class, 1x07)
Rebecca Wisocky (Marjorie, in lift crash, 1x09)
Connor Trinneer (bomb squad, 2x01)
Bryan Safi (Josh Russo, dispatcher)
Romi Dias (Chief Miranda Williams)
Ana Mercedes (Abuela Isabel)
Terri Hoyos (Aunt Pepa)
Christine Estabrook (Gloria, Dispatcher)
Devin Kelley (Shannon Diaz)
Wes Brown (Mounted Police Officer)
Rick Chambers (Dwight, newsreader)
Tara Karsian (Ruth)
Lawrence Pressman and Francis X. McCarthy (Mitchell & Thomas)
Romy Rosemont & Daniel Roebuck (Lola & Norman Peterson)
Brian Thompson (Capt. Gerrard)
Lou Ferrigno Jr (firefighter Tommy)
Brian Hallisay (Doug Kendall)
Julie Oullette (Blair, Elf Helper)
Marsha Warfield (Toni Wilson)
Danny Nucci (LAPD detective)
Sasha Roiz (LAPD Det. Ransone)
Paula Marshall (Helena Diaz)
George DelHoyo (Ramon Diaz)
Pepi Sonuga (Athena Carter, flashback in 3x07)
Nicole Delgado (Maynard, flashback in 3x07)
Eddie McGee (Frank the therapist)
Jack McGee (Red the retired firefighter, 3x16)
Deborah May (Cindy, 3x16)
Rumer Willis (Georgia, train Vic, 3x18)
Brooke Shields (counsellor, 3x18)
Dee Wallace (Mrs Margaret Buckley)
Gregory Harrison (Mr Phillip Buckley)
Colin McCalla (Connor, Buck's friend)
Chelsea Kane (Kameron, Connor's wife)
Aaron Staton (Daniel Buckley)
Laith Wallschleger (133 medic, 6x15)
Mark Lawson (pilot, 7x01)
Kathryn Boswell & Chris Gartin (hot-tub couple, 7x01)
Mercedes Colon (Ship Captain, 7x01-3)
Rick Cosnett (cruise crew, 7x01-3)
Eddie Jemison (cruise ship doc, 7x02-3)
Jesse Palmer & Joey Graziadei (7x04)
Richard Brooks (Chief Simpson, s7)
Exie Booker (Carl, 7x06)
Malcolm-Jamal Warner (Amir, s7)
Veronica Falcón (Cllr Ortiz, s7)
John Brotherton (Tim Nash, 7x08)
Tony Amendola (Herman, 7x08)
Paul Nobrega (Monty the Beekeeper, 8x01)
Hotshots group, s8: Callum Blue (Brad); Justin Taite (#1); Morgan West (director) & 1st AD
Bee-nado airplane gang: Cindy Chavez (Capt Dominguez); Devin McGee (Co-pilot); Bayley Corman (Tia); (Mr & Mrs Grandparent);
Adela Paez (Nurse Camila, 8x03 etc)
In draft ofc. Do check the updated OG post if you're looking at a reblog:
Finnigan and Silverman (divorcing couple, 8x06)
Zach Tinker (Officer Sparks, LAPD, 8x07)
Kelvin Han Yee
Glenn Plummer (Dennis Jenkins, 3x07, s8a)
Main resource is IMDb, with extra material from Wikipedia, podcasts or youtube on occasion. Where I use 911 images they are screengrabs I edited. Other images generally from imdb.
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scifrey · 2 years ago
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Cling Fast: Chapter Five
by Losyark
The Sandman (Netflix with some sprinkling of comics canon, and Gaiman Cinematic-Literary Universe canon)
Dreamling (Hob Gadling x Dream of the Endless | Morpheus)
Unfinished (tentatively 10 chapters)
PG-13 (for now)
Unbeta’d
The next week flies by in a flurry of fittings, script meetings, emergency calls from Dennis when he’d janked the ordering list, a daily visit to a stable and archery range so Hob can practice both skills, and late nights with Shami as they walked Hob though the time-consuming and careful process of scanning El’s diary and Robyn’s sketchbook. Hob drops into bed each night sometime after midnight, falling asleep to the sound of The New Inn going through its closing routine, and waking to the harsh jangle of his alarm clock just after dawn.
Either out of pity for his exhaustion or because he had duties of his own to prioritize, Morpheus doesn’t appear to Hob during his sleeping hours in this week. Hob only manages to concentrate enough to relocate himself to the castle only the one night. He finds himself alone in the throne room, and enjoys the opportunity to spend some time with his own company, after so many hours being crowded by the rest of the Historics team.
Hob has more respect for his friend than to sit on his throne, but he does walk to the top of the dias to admire the three arched stained glass windows behind it. The symbolism is lost on Hob, but each window depicts a different object. The first: a fishhook on a ring, held aloft by a rat. The second: A heart in an intricate mirror, leaning against the sleek black flank of a cat. The third: A fish with delicate flowing fins against a swirl of light. Each of the images moves slightly, the animals each turning to look at Hob as he approaches.
“Hello,” he greets them kindly, but they don’t reply, so Hob supposes that these aren’t dreams or denizens.
Hob sits behind the throne, leaning his back against the cool stone, and settles in to admire the artistry. He wishes Morpheus was here to explain it to him. Hob misses Morpheus when he’s away, and the desire to see him rings like a silver bell across his nerves and in every waking breath.
The rat, the cat, and the fish look at one another, and then resume ignoring Hob. Hob, in turn, simply watches the colors in the stained glass shift and kaleidoscope until he wakes up.
*
While television isn’t generally filmed in order, Hob’s first scene of the shooting block is his talking head introduction. The crew hasn’t finished setting up at Gadlen house yet, so Hob is being filmed in the study-cum-meeting room where he’d originally met Harriet, being prompted through questions about his field of study and awareness of his relationship to Robert Gadlen the Third.  
Harinder, the director, keeps reassuring him every time that Hob pauses before answering. He thinks that Hob is camera-shy. What he’s really doing is weighing his answers very, very carefully. Good thing they can edit out his thoughtful pauses.
The other reason Hob keeps pausing is because, while they’re shooting against the bookshelf, they’re asking him to talk and dress at the same time. The wardrobe department has recreated the outfit he wore in his solo the portrait, the heavy black velvet and scarlet number. And once again, it’s the sweltering peak of summer, and the aircon can only do so much to offset the heat of the studio lights, the extra bodies hovering close, the effort of dressing, and weight and number of layers of the clothes themselves.
It doesn’t help that the wardrobe assistant they’ve picked to help him on camera is getting a bit… liberal with their touches. It’s the glamorous one with the amber-brown eyes, the blond pompador, and a smile like they’d like to unhinge their jaw and swallow him whole.
He’s sitting on a chair with his leg up on an ottoman, trying to give Harinder everything he needs to explain why Doc Bob’s never visited Gadlen house before, while the assistant rolls his stockings up his bare calves far slower than is necessary. Hob’s wearing a swanky pair of loose modern-day boxers, but they’re lost under the billow of his shirt tails, and he knows that there’s at least one of the three cameras focussed on his nude thighs right now.
He’s not ashamed of his body, and is actually quite proud of the muscle definition the return to horseback riding has given his legs, but those hands are getting a bit frisky.
"I'm perfectly capable of tying up my own stockings,” Hob says, shooing the assistant away when then kneel beside the ottoman. “I think it’s fine if I–get your hand away from my codpiece!" Hob yelps.
Harinder clears his throat warningly, and the assistant sits back with their hands up, like ‘don’t shoot’.  
“Please don’t SA our presenter on camera.”
“What about off camera?” the assistant asks Hob, flicking a look up at him through their mascaraed eyelashes.
“I recognize and appreciate the, uh, appreciation,” Hob says softly to them. “But let’s keep this strictly professional, yeah?”
“Fie,” the assistant purrs.
Far be it for Hob to play the I have a boyfriend card, especially when the one person he’d like to attach that label to doesn’t seem to be interested in him like that. Still, he says: “I’m taken.”
“Oh, are you?” the assistant asks, sounding genuinely curious. “Is that what you’d call it?”
“Yes,” Hob replies, not entirely sure what they’re asking but certain he wants to draw a line under this whole flirting business.
“Understood,” the assistant says, and something about their whole demeanor changes, like they’ve become an entirely different person. “Why don’t you stand, and we’ll get this doublet on you.”
For the rest of the day, they’re completely professional, not a touch out of place. Hob appreciates their understanding, and the rest of the talking head interview flies by. He feels comfortable enough to focus on what he’s saying, letting the assistant move his limbs and skim in and out of frame to wrangle him into all the remaining layers and accessories.
Working around a valet while simultaneously maintaining a conversation comes back to Hob frighteningly easily, even though it’s been at least eighty years since he’s needed someone to dress him.
“Last touch,” the assistant says, holding up the replica ruff like it’s a serving platter full of champagne glasses.
“Absolutely not,” Hob says, making sure it’s loud enough for the mics to pick up. “You and I both know that that darn thing is too scratchy and too fancy for everyday wear. He would have only worn it for the portrait, or at court. I’ll take that picadil over there, instead.”
“As the Prince Consort commands,” the assistant murmurs with purring good humor, and Hob laughs as they fling the ruff out of the shot like a frisbee.
“Just a knight, if you please,” Hob says, tapping the embroidered badge over his heart. 
As they button the high, stiff band of fabric around Hob’s throat, a precursor to the starched collar and cravat of the later ages, they murmur something. Hob doesn’t quite catch it, but thinks it might have been: “Not for long.”
He doesn’t have time to ask for clarification, though, because then they’re stepping back with a ‘tah-dah’ gesture at his outfit, and Hob has to smile for the camera.
*
Costumed and filled with a hasty lunch, Hob, Glenn and Harriet are packed into the back of an anonymous van with a few other crew members, and driven to Hither Green. It takes just under an hour, and Hob uses the time to learn how to read his call sheet from Harriet, while Glenn takes a nap against the window.
Clover, the sweet-tempered mare that Hob’s been training with, is waiting for him by the front gate to the estate when Hob is kicked out by transpo. The van lingers just long enough for the driver to sign off on the delivery of talent to the first AD Celia, and Hob is grateful that it’s blocking his view of the house.
All he can see right now is the wide, well-manicured lawn of Manor House Park, a rolling brook in the distance, and the golden gravel of the drive. This part of the Park is hemmed in with a wrought-iron fence, which is definitely of a more modern style than it would have originally been, and Hob can’t recall exactly if this boundary has moved at all in the last few centuries. He feels like it’s closer to the house than it used to be, but it could just look shorter because there’s a fleet of trailers, tenths, vehicles, and great metal storage containers filled with equipment between the gate and the entryway fountains.Those are definitely newer. It used to be a lily pond.
Hob takes in the landscaping–the orchard is gone, is the apple tree he’d planted out the back still here–but his gaze skitters off the house itself. He’s not ready yet.
When he sees Gadlen House again–for the first time since he was dragged backwards, literally kicking and screaming out the kitchen door–he wants to do so deliberately, purposefully. 
Lovingly.
Forgivingly.
Clover lips at the replica ostrich plume on his flat-cap beret as the van drives away. Hob turns his face into her tawny-golden neck to give himself a moment to breathe and get his feet under him. He scratches her cheek in thanks for the help and she lays her head on his shoulder, the sweet old thing.
As soft chirrup from the nearby stone fencepost catches his attention. Over Clover’s back he can see Matthew shifting from foot to foot.
“That bird has been hanging around all day,” Celia says, following Hob’s glance, and giving Matthew the stink-eye. “It better not be a bad omen.”
“It’s a raven,” Hob says. “They’re symbols of intelligence, and new experiences. I think it’s a good sign.” Matthew tilts his head at Hob, clearly amused by this description. “So long as they don’t interrupt our takes, and don’t steal anything shiny.”
“Caw,” Matthew sneers at him.
The camerawoman, who is finalizing her shot setup, whips her head around to stare at him. ���Did the bird just say ‘caw’? Like, in a human voice?”
“Corvids are excellent mimics,” Celia says. “I bet a lot of people say ‘caw’ at it.”
“Well, whyever it’s here, I appreciate the moral support,” Hob says, staring right at Matthew. “And seeing as I’m about to make a fool of myself, I’m sure it’s going to be very entertained.”
Celia’s walkie-talkie crackles, an order comes from the house, and she says: “Okay, good Sir Gadelin. Mount up. We’re ready for your first exterior shot. When I call action, ride Clover up to the front door, and get off–an extra playing a groom will lead Clover away, and you approach the door. You don’t need to open it, we’re not set up for that shot. Just walk up to it and reach for the handle. Got it?”
“What kind of speed are we looking for here?”
“Uh,” Celia says. “Not slow but not fast?”
“A trot, got it,” Hob chuckles. 
He positions beside Clover, making sure she’s aimed in the right direction without raising his eyes to the house.
“Uh, before we start, um–” he looks over at the camera. “Sorry, I never caught your–”
“Melia,” she interrupts.
“Melia,” Hob repeats. “You can call me Bob. Melia, I um, not to tell Celia how to do her job but I, um, before I start Clover going I’m going to take a second to just… look. Is that okay?”
“Why?” Celia asks.
“Well, I—I’ve never seen the house before,” Hob lies. “I’m not much of an actor and I thought, you know, I thought it might be nice for my real reaction to be–”
“Yeah, yeah!” Celia is saying, “Smart, yeah, hold on let me just let the guys on the other side know there’s going to be a delay before movement starts, yeah,” and then she’s pacing away a bit, relaying this into her walkie.
“Let me try something else then,” Melia says, repositioning the camera on the tripod to capture more of the drive, and shrugging quickly into another one mounted onto a steady-cam contraption that looks nothing so much like a baby carrier.
Coward, Hob tells himself as they scramble to set up the new shot. Matthew caws again, this time distinctly more bird-like, and Hob flashes him a watery smile.
“Alright, everyone good?”
“Good!” Melia confirms.
“Good,” Hob echoes, and gets his hands in place. Clover snorts, busses his arm ribs with her soft nose, and seems to settle into her role as well.
“And… action!”
With one last deep breath, Hob jams his boot into the stirrup, and in a smooth arc, heaves up and swings himself into the saddle. He takes a few long seconds to adjust the reigns. Then he looks up. 
The house is the same, and different at the same time.
He can’t deny that it’s been beautifully preserved. Made of red brick, it stretches three stories up, with matching octagonal turrets on either side of the front door. Each turret is fitted with a door and a stonework Juliet balcony, though they didn’t call them that then, which opens off of one of the bedrooms. His and El’s to the left, the nursery and later Robyn’s chambers to the right. There are small led-mullioned windows to either side of the turrets, four to a side. Intricate overlapping designs in the brickwork gives the frontage the illusion of being made of red lace. And the proliferation of chimneys is a direct nod to Hampton Court palace, and a physical ode to one of Hob’s favorite of humanity’s inventions. 
It’s amazing, but it’s not what he would call elegant. In later years, when glass became a real statement purchase thanks to crafty old Bess and her Hardwick Hall, Hob had added an entire room at the back of the house for El with as little brick as his architect could get away with and still create something that wouldn’t fall in on itself.
It is a braggart’s house, boorish and proud, sturdy and loud. But he knows every capstone, every sill, every smoke-tanned rafter. He knows the size and smell of every room, remembers haggling with the designer late into the night to get the details just right. He remembers how to get to each hidden back stairway, built twice as wide for the serving staff as was common, because Hob’s served table and he remembered what a nightmare it was to clank up and down dark passages with clattering platters.
Beside him, Melia pushes in tight, lens aimed right at his face, but Hob can’t spare a thought for her. He’s too busy swallowing his heart back into his chest.
The front door is a different, a metal thing the deep blue of an aegean sea. It’d been black in his day, built of sturdy oak and iron rivets. A fountain, likely added by some fanciful Victorian, stretches along the frontage, and what was once just a plain gravel dive is now a circular path curving up to the door and dotted with a riot of wildflowers and roses.
Hob’s clutching the reins to his chest, patting the too-full space over his heart, before he’s realized he’s moved.
He loves this house.
He forgives it.
“Got it,” Melia whispers, which Hob takes as permission to go.
He blinks hard, hoping the camera doesn’t pick up the moisture in his eyes, and clicks Clover into motion. Clover trots for the first few paces and then, fizzing with joy at this bizarre homecoming, Hob knees her faster. Clover picks up speed, cantering by the cameras they have set up by the drive, and his hat flies off.
Hob doesn’t care. Even if he has to redo the shot a hundred times because of it, he doesn’t care.
He’s too damn happy to be home.
A sharp kraa! catches his attention, and he glances to the side to see that Matthew has decided to join him. The raven soars along beside Hob’s head, firmly on camera. His eyes sparkle with delight, and Hob breaks into full-body laughter.
It’s going to be a hell of an opening shot.
*
It’s Tuesday, so when Hob has finished scrubbing off the makeup and smell of horse, he ambles downstairs in fresh clothes and damp hair. Dennis has staked out his usual spot on the long banquette, at the tiny two-top closest to the door that leads up to his apartment. 
“Cheers,” Hob says, when the new kid brings him a pint unasked.
He takes a long deep drink, and flops down onto the seat. Did he ever arched this much back when he was riding daily? Surely the inside of his thighs and the small of his back can’t have been this sore on a regular basis.
I mean, sure, half of the reason he hurts like this is because he and Matthew borked the first take so spectacularly. He'd had to do it about a dozen more times, all at varying speeds, and by the time they'd gotten a shot they liked, the'd lost the light for anything more than walking up to the door.
Hob hasn't even been inside the house yet.
The last time these muscles had hurt this much, he’d stumbled–dehydrated and disheveled–from an hours-long lovemaking session with one of the Ladies of the Night who’d frequented the White Horse in the 1890s. Not Lou, no, he'd helped her find stable housing, and employment in something she actually enjoyed.
No, it had been the one who liked sex work. Who'd chosen it for the freedom and control over her own life, and finances and body. She'd been what they'd call trans now, blonde with hilarious fake tits that she'd slapped him around the face with as they both giggled. She'd pegged him better than he’d ever had before (or since) happy to help him drive away the thought of his Stranger and happier still to see gold for it.
Hob frowns a little at the memory. Why on earth has he been so damned horny today?
And not just in the sexual sense, either. Everything had been enticing, and exciting, and gravitationally fascinating. The food at craft services had tasted amazing, he’d gone back for thirds when he rarely does so. He’d caught himself stroking the velvet of his doublet, marveling at how soft and fine it was. He’d run his hands over the textured wallpaper in foyer, and satiated every whim smell the roses, gazing in joy and horror at the way the generations of owners who’d come after Hob had added to the facade. He'd taken Clover on an extended gallop around the park between setups, and begged to brush her down himself before she'd been loaded back into the trailer for the sleepy trip back to her stables. 
He had wanted today, and hadn’t denied himself.
Maybe it was just the excitement of being back at the house again, miraculously and thankfully unshadowed by the grief he expected to encounter in every stone, but it did feel like getting everything he’d never known he’d longed for, all in one afternoon.
Well, not everything, Hob thinks as he catches sight of Morpheus slipping in the front door.
The Endless flows his way through the joyous gatherings between Hob and door.
All the tables gilded with happy people, and shot glasses, and laughter. Maybe Hob's not the only one feeling revved up tonight, because the air practically shimmers with whatever gold dust it is that's been simmering in his veins since he arrived at Broadcasting House.
Hob licks his lips and swears he can taste it.
And Morpheus just looks so good. There's something different about him tonight, something more self assured. He's always moved with liquid grace, completely comfortable being folded up into this corporation of his choosing in the Waking world, and offhandedly aware that the body that everyone sees, no matter how differently they see him, is an undoubtedly attractive one.
But tonight, Morpheus looks satisfied in a way that Hob's never seen before. He looks pleased with himself. Sure of something. Before he's always looked like being the Waking world is vaguely itchy. Now, he looks like he's been slathered in calming skin oil, glistening with relief and damp with…
Christ in his heaven, no daydreams!
Humanity parts before Morpheus like a heaving inhale, and then every single head swivels so people can watch him pass by, blissfully unaware that they are doing so.
And then Morpheus is folding his lanky frame into his usual seat. The heat of a bar full of bodies in summer must be getting to even him, because there are two bright spots of pink high on his cheek.
“Hello, Hob,” he says, voice even more like chocolate and sin than usual.
Get a grip, Gadling! scolds himself. Another image comes to him and he adds, Not like that, and not in public, you dirty old man.
“Hello, my friend. Where’ve you been lately?” Hob asks conversationally.  "I haven't run into you in the Dreaming."
Morpheus’ face twists in displeasure. “I regret that I was forced into negotiations with my siblings over a matter that I would rather not discuss.”
“For a whole week?” Hob clarifies, waving politely at Dennis for service. His co-owner doesn’t even bother sending over a server to ask what they want, just walks over and drops off a fresh beer and the vinosanti himself with a welcoming nod to Morpheus.
Morpheus indulges in a gulp of the sweet wine, which is a greater indicator of his lingering irritation than anything he might say. “Desire has an unfortunate tendency of hostility toward me, and where they lead, their twin would follow. It makes arbitration of this sort tense.”
“Yikes,” Hob says sympathetically. “But did everything turn out the way you wanted to?”
“Death was able to mediate a satisfactory arrangement, yes,” Morpheus says. “I got more than I gave, and I wanted what I got.”
“Don’t think that I don’t notice you’re quoting Lin-Manuel Miranda at me, Prince of Stories,” Hob laughs. “Fine, you don't have to tell me. It'd probably be over my little human head anyway. I’m just happy that you’re happy.”
“I am,” Morpheus concedes. His expression is soft, when he meets Hob’s eyes, pleased and easy.
Hob’s mouth goes dry. His own gaze sinks to land briefly on Morpheus’ parted lips, before jumping back up to more polite territory.
He clears his throat to cover the awkward pause and then says, "So did Matthew tell you what we did today?"
"He did not," Morpheus admits with a self-satisfied smile. "He knows that I prefer to hear it from you directly."
That's all the encouragement Hob needs. "Well!" he starts.
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