#white privilege checklist

[stsebastiens]

#i need authors to stop trying to be self-aware right NOW #just. just own the fact that every single character in your book is white + financially privileged + annoying. youre still a bad person btw #my sister and i were talking about how she speed-introduced the more 'diverse' characters in the first 3 chapters 😭 #like she had a damn checklist and she was ticking those boxes FAST #icebreaker #ely.txt

[dreamgrlarchive]

what’s the impoartance of branding and how did you find your brand

Branding Yourself ❤︎︎

why do you buy lingerie from victoria’s secret and not target? why do you go to starbucks instead of looking for a local coffee shop? it’s the way these entities have displayed their aesthetic, values, and more than anything: THEIR AURA. they’re displaying a feeling that you can only get if you indulge in their goods and services.

when you carry yourself in whatever fashion that happens to be, imagine a logo plastered all over yourself. who’s attention do you want to grab with that logo? you’re showing potential employers, friends, love interests, what they’ll be getting when in collaboration with you. so this. this is what’s important about branding.

My Brand 🎀

i wanted to feel not only feminine in energy, but hyperfeminine in appearance… but with a cloak of sex appeal, maturity and exclusivity

i recently found and accepted that i am not “cute” aesthetically. i’m far more often seen as “pretty” or “sexy” and unknowingly working against my natural beauty archetype was hurting me badly

my color palette of midtone pink, black, white, gray, and nude/brown convey a feminine look while being grounded in minimalism from the neutral colors

sex kitten, video vixen, and victoria’s secret angel are archetypes/aesthetics i identify and get associated with often

i leaned into my result from vindicta’s feminine archetype quiz (the aphrodite + the diva)

i compiled a list of words i identify with and channeled them in my self expression and how i carry myself

studying my birth chart and infusing my natural traits into my essence with intent

all these things i’ve compiled over time and lots of trial and error to reach what i call #theprissygirlagenda (i can make a detailed post about this in the future)

things my followers said they associate with me, ie. “prissy girl core”:

louis vuitton bags, french tips, fur details, cheetah print, rhinestones, silk presses, fuzzy pens, rap and r&b, sexy over cute, hoop earrings

How to Build Yours 🎀

how do you wanna feel

how do you wanna be seen

what do you want out of life

these three questions will help you be able to reach a conclusion in conjunction with the resources below 🎀💕💗

What Even Is… #ThePrissyGirlAgenda?

My Guide to Making a Beauty Binder

Discovering Your “Vibe” 1 & 2 by @FILLEFATALE on twitter

She Is So Bougie Checklist by @babyphat05

Quizzes that Helped Me Develop My Brand

Vindicta Feminine Archetype Quiz + System

13 Feminine Seduction Archetypes Quiz

Tips to Enhance Your Natural Features

BabyPhat05’s Bougie Guide 101

Reinvention by @thevirgodoll

Walking in High Heels by @prettyvixenavenue

Pretty Privilege by @2pretty

How to Build Your Personal Brand and Self Concept by @femmefatalevibe

Tips for Self-Discovery by @femmefatalevibe

Understanding Archetypes by @femmefatalevibe

Knowing Yourself by @femmefatalevibe

Your Dream Girl Archetype by @femmefatalevibe

-xoxo!

#dream girl journey #the prissy girl agenda #branding #my posts #dream girl meets prissy girl

[blorbocedes]

galex + snap out of it : )

"Don't marry her." Alex says, feet on the sofa, a stripe of his stomach visible from where he'd untucked his white rehearsal dinner shirt, looking up at the ceiling.

George freezes from where he was pre-ironing his slacks, so the staff could give it a fresh press in the morning. "Sorry, what?"

"Don't marry her. We both know you don't want to." Alex says rather matter-of-factly, still staring at the ceiling.

"I thought the groom was supposed to get cold feet. Nice of you to assume that responsibility too." George jokes trying to be casual, but his hand is still holding the iron facing up, tense all over.

"Jury's still out on whether you even like women. I know you're looking forward to being a minor Earl by marriage or whatever, but otherwise you'll be miserable. 5 years, tops. So, let's cut the losses. Don't go ahead tomorrow." Alex's voice is the same dispassionate bluntness with which he'd break up with countless girlfriends, boyfriends, the implied 'it's not me, it's you.' He never directs it to George. George lives the security no matter how many hearts Alex breaks, his remains intact. Best mates privilege. He's still not fucking looking at him.

"What are you on about, Albon?" George forces himself to sound calm, resting the iron on its stand before he burns something. "Had too much brandy with the uncles? Projecting your own fear of commitment, yeah?"

Also. It's not important when faced with accusations he's not even into his future wife, but he's marrying into being a minor Duke, thank you very much.

That makes Alex sit up, look squarely at George. They both know how to get under each other's skin.

"You don't love her. You love me. And nothing's going to change between us, except you in your eternal misery might pop out a kid or two to be 'pragmatic.'" Alex rolls his eyes. "So I am asking you to reconsider."

You love me. They don't -- they don't really say that to each other. They know it, in the way Alex tags along to his family vacations, the way girlfriends would enter and exit his life but the only constant is George. It's like getting sucker punched, hearing it out loud, letting the forbidden words pierce the air, and they can't be taken back.

"Why in the world would you say this now? You -- we went ring shopping together! And you say this to me now, the night before I'm about to get married?!"

Alex sighs. He looks at him pityingly, those handsome almond eyes looking at him like he's missing something incredibly obvious and it twists something inside George. George had shown every cut of diamond to Alex and every band size. They had toured and tasted wineries together. And Alex had been completely neutral about it all, only a grimace when she'd join them for dinner. Then he started bringing his own date along, so they could make it a couples' thing.

"George. You wanted to be an architect. You wanted to design the next Bank of England. You're an IP lawyer."

"What's that got to with anything?"

"Because you will do anything once it's expected of you. I didn't want to have to say it to you. This entire year, I thought, any day now he's gonna realise it. When we fucked at your stag do, surely. You Googled what to write in your vows, mate! And I realized after tonight, no, you're actually going to do it tomorrow, sign yourself to this -- this mental nuclear conjugal fantasy cause Heaven forbid, you don't live up to being mummy and daddy's perfect little checklist. So you've forced my hand here, Georgie. And now I'm asking. Do it for me doing it for you."

Alex gets up and takes both of George's hands in his, who stands frozen, looking at him beseechingly; the gentleness Alex can be with him when no one else is around. George swallows on nothing, his eyes prickling already, thinking, Don't make me choose. Don't you dare.

"I booked your honeymoon. I still have your passport details. There's two tickets to Bali for tomorrow. We don't have to look back. Let the dust settle here, we'll be thousands of miles away." Alex looks at him with so much hope, and this close -- he can smell his cologne, it's something expensive George got him for his birthday, when they're standing this close the few cm Alex has on him in height is visible, makes George feel small for once.

There's probably a wedding caterer somewhere in the kitchens with a cake with his name and a statuette figure of a bride and groom on it. A tasteful 120 guest-list including family, important acquaintances, minor royalty have all arrived, flown in to be here. A years' worth planning, arguments over eggshell or pearl napkins, periwinkle or daisies in the bouquet, an actual six piece orchestral band because the bride's family is too good for DJs, the multiple photoshoots in cardigans and fake laughter to really sell their joint personal branding of upper class but down to Earth, completely in love but not over the top about it, a fitting match of young professionals but also from well-bred families. George's wedding isn't about him, it's about being the social event of the season, with his parents front and centre. Compared to years of law school, all he has to do is walk down an aisle tomorrow to make them proud.

He shakes Alex's hands off as if the touch were scalding.

"This is. This is wildly presumptuous of you, Alexander. And it is bloody disrespectful and borderline delusional to think I'm just gonna walk out on our families because you, what? You think that this is some wild romantic gesture? I'm just supposed to drop everything and run away with you? Don't fucking say you're doing it for me like some king of altruism. It's selfish, that's what it is. My great grandmother flew in for this! Jesus, Alex. You're scared because I'm doing the mature, adult thing here and you're scared I won't need you as much. You need to grow up."

This time, George is the one who can't bear to look at Alex anymore. He's scared his resolve will break if he does. He holds his breath, stands as dignified as he can with his righteousness, nose upturned. Alex stares at his side profile for a second before shaking his head and places something on the ironing board before leaving.

It's the velvet ring box.

George breathes out shakily, blinking the tears pooled in his eyelashes.

On the morning of the spring wedding of the season, the sun is shining, the pigeons are shooed as explicitly requested in the groom's itinerary, staff runs about making sure everything is perfect, every errant flower petal on the aisle is carefully placed, the suit jacket and shirt and slacks all ironed and delivered to an empty room.

George has never flown economy before. There's a baby crying and the growing irritation at the corner of forehead that would grow into a tension headache was distracting him from the obvious repercussions of what he is doing, the most impulsive and reckless decision of his life. His leg is tapping in the too small legroom, flimsy seatbelt loose around his waist -- did economy seatbelts even save lives? Alex's elbow nudges against his, grounding him, 30,000 ft in the air. He smiles at him, shakes no at the offer of the packeted nuts, and tries to keep the sinking feeling at bay, lacing their fingers together.

#galex #my fics #f1 rpf #op is microdosing how much an asshole I can write Alex before galexers of the world kick me out #snap out of it by the arctic Monkeys hehe #yes this whole thing is to use the graduate gif #blorbocedes ask #not naming her is a deliberate choice. But what does it say? 🤔 who knows

[takalzuoom]

Hii It's my first time Requesting and if they're closed ignore! Could I request Octo Trio x Reader whose like Cala maria? Like when they're in the water they get really big

Okay okay okay, so this took a while to think about because I had no idea how to write it. Like at all.

And I even ended up watching markiplier’s cuphead gameplay because of it 🙈 and this also inspired my whale shark y/n scenarios! I hope I did these okay 🙇🏻

i hope you like it! and tysm for requesting 😻😻 mwah mwah

cw: cursing, link of raccoon being flung, they/them pronouns!

𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐨 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐚 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚 𝐬/𝐨

𝐀𝐳𝐮𝐥

He already knew you were gonna be something big- as you tower over himself and the twins.

And frankly, he was excited to find out

Okay, I can say for sure that his face turns SCARLET when he first sees your merform. That you're much, much larger than him that you could easily crush him without a second thought

👁👁

And since we know that Azul is bigger than the twins in water (unlike on land), he did feel a little… threatened

but since it's you it's okay 😻

But it's great for business!

I think that you’re that last resort for some… bothersome customers... like you won't even do anything but stare at them…

silently

🧍🏻

SIMP IN DISGUISE

I see him cuddling up to you in his octo form if there isn't an octo-pot available/near :(

Of course, you coddle your little boyfie :(( when he’s in a mood or just stressed you offer a big ol' hug and just listen to him rant

But he's Azul, and has insecurities- so he'll use this to scare potential ‘suitors’

He’ll feign sadness, have you scoop him up into your arms, and fucking SMIRKS at the other guy

DEFINITELY makes the decapitating motion while you're just like :) happily holding your scheming boyfriend

Mama Azul APPROVES she’s a big lady. Much bigger than Azul

And she just LOVES the fact that you're a whale shark/ Since you eat a lot she has you as the official taste tester! She values your opinion a lot, as she’ll be your mother in law in the very very near future 👁👁

Azul and his mom plan out the wedding in advance- like years in advance- like so in advance they're also planning your first year anniversary

Like- girly will evaluate your every move. Having a checklist and all as she makes sure you’re good for her baby zuzu (she adds 20 points just because you're a whale shark)

He has scary dog privileges

Like if someone gives him trouble over vacation- and before he can even threaten to wipe out their entire bloodline, you’ll just pop up behind him, red smeared on the corner of your lips as you tell them to ‘leave’

(It was his mom’s new jam recipe!)

𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐝

Oh my god, it's spiderman! Spiderman! It’s spider-man!

Oh my god. Personal simp

Like okay, okay, okay.

You're tall, hot, and scary. What more could Floyd ask for in a partner??

When people hear about what kind of merperson you are, they run for the hills.

I mean, with those razor-sharp teeth, blank eyes, and looming presence, I wouldnt wanna be around a great white shark merfolk either.

Though you're not as tall as the other y/n’s, you’re still tall (great whites grow to be over 10 feet. Females are 15-21 and males are 11-13. )

But you fall on the scale of being around 22 feet in the water. And 6’3 on land!

When I tell you it was love at first sight for Floyd. I mean it. He would always drag you off (per your dismay) and bring you along with his shenanigans

Literally, the girl who’s like “oh y/n you're so funny😹😹😹” when you haven't even done anything

Kinda like an extrovert adopting an introvert since you're more prone to be alone. By choice of course, as that’s how you were raised in the sea.

Though I think sometimes Floyd will either respect it or just not give a shit

Like- I mostly see him hanging out with you. Maybe you're reading or just scrolling through your phone as Floyd sits there lazily talking about his day and how he annoyed the shit outta riddle

your occasionally inputs only egg him on

Y’all fucking bite the shit out of each other. 🧍🏻

LIKE OKAY LISTEN- after an impromptu make-out session he walked out looking like he was mauled by a bear

While you walked out looking like you barely managed to escape an axe murderer

Date people who’re willing to bite you 🤞

You play volleyball. And you’re fucking good at it.

I can imagine Floyd helping you practice. Like where your both peppering, but you're both just- spiking at each other.

(Mark my words I’m gonna make separate headcanons for him and his great white hottie)

But in water- he’s a fucking gnat. Like he’s swimming around you every which way as you're just cruising along

Will annoy the shit out of you.

Like you're not used to having this kind of company, especially in the water. But he loves it. Loves how he can scare people with just a mention of your name.

Loves the attention he gets as well.

Just everything about it he loves.

Except when he’s in a bad mood.

You’ll take your little Floyd, put him vertically on your back, and just swim.

But if he’s being especially pissy one day while he's on your back, sulking, you'll start spending up, your boyfriend slipping a bit as you’ll spy hop out of the water and fucking FLING HIM

LIKE HE GOES FLYING OFF INTO THE DISTANCE SPINNING IN THE AIR

AND THEN HE’LL JUST- COME BACK, BEGGING YOU TO DO IT AGAIN

More than once has he asked you to fling him on land so he can

1. Freak out his fellow students by playing zombie

2. Freak out his fellow students by pretending to be a fish out of water. Then attempting to drag them into the water when close enough

Everyone and their mother regrets bringing you two together.

*Floyd standing in front of the ocean*

“Hey babe”

*25” great white shark emerging from the water like the lost city of Atlantis

“Hey”

Someone has pissed themselves in your presence OUIBWERFHIGR

𝐉𝐚𝐝𝐞

Ah yes, Jade and his Orca lover😁

😟

No

Oh god no

The WORST absolute combo

Between jade’s… charming personality, height, and teeth- and your mischievous behavior, large size, and (once again) sharp teeth

You're avoided like the plague

Sometimes, people feel like you're mixed up

“Shouldn’t Floyd be dating the orca while Jade dates the shark?”

You and Floyd's partner are like night and day. And you could understand why they would think that.

They’re more reserve, patient, and sometimes assertive. While you're more sociable, affectionate, and charming… you think they’re dead wrong

Cause, on one hand, you and Floyd tend to clash. Sometimes, while Floyd’s s/o and jade have one-sided conversations (or telepathic ones)

don't let them talk cause they'll plot world domination...

“hey orca- why do they keep looking at us like that”

“couldn’t tell me”

But overall, you love your boyfriend, and he loves you even more. You kind of remind him of his brother with all the hijacks you pull.

But when you're in water, oh my god- he falls in love all over again

You're a bully. Let’s get that straight, when you see another merfolk minding their own business, you both share a look and immediately- like with the snap of a finger, start harassing them.

AND YALL JUST GIGGLE, SWIMMING AWAY WHEN THEY THREATEN TO CALL THE COPS-

He loves your dynamic, loves how you value personal relationships and how much you care for your family

HAS met your family. Your two moms welcoming him with open… hands? It was kinda weird, 'cause you're all so much bigger than him that he couldn’t hug them without it seeming awkward.

WILL use your height in and out of water for his advantage.

I think he might be a little bitter about how you're so much taller than him, but that ends when he sees you struggling to do normal things

Like when you get stuck in the rocks underwater, not able to go to half shops since you can't even fit your arm through the door.

And even on land, you're constantly bumping your head on doors, getting suck in hallways, pouting at him to help you.

Like Floyd, he has recreated that moment. But in different fonts

Like okay- setting the scene

Imagine some customers are trying to give Jade a harsh time in the lounge. By this time Floyd dipped, Azul's in his office (said yall could handle it) and the other employees didn’t know what to do.

Of course, you were in the lounge, trying to take a quick snooze before your shift. But accidentally eavesdropping on your boyfriend and his new 'friends'

And when Jade finally backed up against the glass, monkey grin stretched upon his face as he knocked on the glass saying ‘babe’

They were meant with a singular eye. First looking up, then snapping to them as they stood frozen in fear.

Jade, chuckling, slowly walked towards them as you you swam by giving them a preview of your body that never seemed to end…

Until it did

Bending down towards them, jade places a hand on two of their shoulders, the others watching the tank intently as Jade only whispered one thing.

“Run”

And before they even had the chance, you emerged from the water's surface. Water ran off your ink and snow-stained body, as you smiled eerily at them.

Before you could even open their mouth, they sprinted out the door, pants a little wet as they promised to never come here again.

There was a brief silence until you started laughing- cackling hysterically.

The employees and regulars joining in as they were used to this scenario.

Jade only chuckled, reaching up to caress your hand. Silently telling you how you did well.

“I didn’t even say anything” you huffed, picking at your ear. Jade was about to say something until a loud sigh was heard

“Really y/n?” Again?” Azul groaned, looking at the water stains around the tank.

You both shared a look, then shrugged. “It was the most efficient way to handle rowdy customers. Besides-” he gazed at you, who was bored out of your mind, leaning against the glass.

“Something tells me we won't have any problems for a long while”

I see him catching a ride on you. When you want to spy hop he’ll hold onto your dorsal fluke and just enjoy the view of the endless oceans and the setting horizon.

( curse you anon! I now making separate Jade and Floyd scenarios 👿) /lh

#takalzuoom #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #kai…🌊 #anime x reader #twst x reader #azul x reader #floyd x reader #jade x reader #jade leech x reader #floyd leech x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #octavinelle twisted wonderland #octavinelle x reader #jade twst #azul twst #floyd twst

[asexypersondisorder]

(Signalis Snippet) Ariane Tries That One Scene From Detroit: Become Human

Another stroke of black is added to the paint, completing the hair.

Ariane steps back in the small space of her quarters, appreciating her work. Her companion, pictured reclining, asleep on their couch. Peace is abundant on the Penrose, but to see Elster like this is a privilege. She’s always on her way to do something or other - As she should be now, given the length of the work checklist she’d grabbed that morning.

A soft beep and whoosh of the door sliding open came from behind. Ariane pretends not to hear the thud-clank of hard, pointed legs on the mostly metal floor. It sounds less like unenthusiastic hammering and more like someone dropping something on the floor - her partner must be trying to be sneaky.

An hour early, too. How mischievous.

Ariane was proven right when a pair of unyielding arms were quickly - but gently, as always - wrapped around her.

Elster waits a second, then sighs, “You knew.”

“Yes, darling.” Ariane tries to hold in a laugh, just about succeeding. “I knew.”

“Was it the door?”

This time she does laugh, turning in the Replika’s arms to look Elster in the eyes and see the smile there. She’s a bit disappointed to see it fade after a moment, morphing into a small frown.

“Ariane, did you have trouble sleeping again?”, Elster asks, cupping the white-haired girl’s face in her hands.

She squirms a little in her grip, knowing the bags under her eyes are on full display.

“I tried to go to sleep last night - Seriously!” she huffs at Elster’s doubtful gaze. “There just comes a time when I realize that I’ve been laying there for hours and it’s not happening. I might as well just get up and do something, right?”

“The something in question being this?” Elster asks, finally glancing over at the painting.

Ariane shrinks a little. Elster doesn’t seem entirely happy with it.

“Is there something wrong with it?” Ariane blurts out after a few seconds. She likes to think she’s grown a bit since the start of this expedition, but she just can’t handle herself around her art. It’s too close to her heart.

Elster blinks, surprised, and pulls her in again.

“No, sorry”, she says, “You just tend to take quite a bit of time putting that level of detail into a painting. It’s at least a day’s worth of effort.”

Ariane puffs up a little, in pride.

“So much time and effort that I find it odd that you could have tried to sleep last night and still finished it.”

She deflates again.

“The painting is amazing - even though I’m sure I don’t look that graceful when I pass out - but you can’t be doing this the whole trip. I like the alive Ariane.”

The alive girl in question sighs. How to explain this?

“I just-”, she falters. “When I get it in my head to make something…That’s not a constant thing. It’s there, then it’s gone. I have to use it when I have it.”

Elster clearly wants to protest, but she’s also obviously curious.

She asks, in an oddly timid voice, “What does that feel like? Wanting to make something?”

“What do you mean? Don’t you make things all the time?”

Elster drops her hands to her sides, huffing, “I fix things, to specifications. You make things, because you want to.”

Slowly nodding, Ariane says, “I suppose it feels like an itch, or an ache. An eagerness, because it’s the potential to take something that only existed in my head and give it a presence. To make something that feels more real than my imagination.”

Elster seems to turn the words over in her head, humming. She looks at the painting, curiously, perhaps a bit lost.

Ariane, stricken with a sudden curiosity of her own, excitedly asks, “Do you want to try?” Elster’s gaze snaps sharply back to match Ariane’s.

“What?” she asks, a bit startled. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin. And you only have so many art supplies.”

“I don’t mind”, Ariane chirps back, already moving to grab a new canvas, “and you don’t need to know anything! You can just try and see what comes of it. I promise I won’t make fun of you.”

She finishes this declaration with an uncharacteristic firmness.

Elster shuffles in place, a bit nervous. She’d planned on spending time with Ariane before checking the work log, perhaps letting herself be convinced to watch a movie or sit close to the officer as she read.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to do this…But really, what were the consequences of failure, anyway? Ariane would be happy she tried, and if she messed up, she could push to do something else.

Plus, she couldn’t deny that she was a bit curious as to how it felt to paint.

And so, Elster found herself gently shoved in front of a blank canvas, paints and brush at the ready, feeling completely lost.

“What should I do?”, she asks after a moment of silence.

Ariane scoffs, “I can’t just tell you what to paint, that ruins the whole process. Just put some colors on there and see what you make. It doesn’t even have to look like anything if you don’t want it to.”

Elster sighs, and just decides to use whichever color catches her eye. She dips the brush in the orange, and makes a long vertical streak of it on the center of the canvas.

Looking at the single streak of bright color, isolated against the background, she feels…something. Cleaning the brush in the provided cup, she adds a few streaks of gray to the orange. She smudges them a little, making clumped, fluffy shapes.

Then she adds a bright blue to the background.

She is blinded as a second sun blooms in the sky.

A hint of wispy, white rings at the middle and bottom of the gray-orange mass.

Shockwaves, looking almost slow and serene in the distance.

Some darker blue, mixed at the bottom of the brighter.

Ocean water, which had always seemed so boundless in volume, swelling upwards to swallow the world.

Gray-brown shoreline, a sloppily rendered lamppost, bent slightly at the base.

Lilith stands there like an idiot for a few seconds, uncomprehending. The cloud is so big that it’s impossible to tell how far away it is - How long she has. The white rings of force radiate out slowly, but she knows that’s an illusion.

She’s brought out of her stupor by shouts from her squad - What’s left of it, after everything. Someone tugs on her arm, and she follows, stumbling. Alina doesn’t look back at her as they scramble for what cover they can find. Lilith has to turn her head a bit to see the trench she’s being led to.

Looking behind them, Alina pales, and Lilith can’t bring herself to follow suit. She’d rather look at Alina, if this is it.

The trench nears, and she finds herself being swung and then shoved forward. She tumbles in, smacking her head on the hard dirt. Gaze to the sky, she gets to watch, dazed, as Alina looks down at her. She seems to be trying to lurch forward-stuck?

Alina stops.

Smiles at Lilith.

She starts to say something, but it’s lost in the roaring as the shockwave arrives-

“-lster!”

There’s hands on Elster’s shoulders. She turns.

Red eyes are staring at her in concern.

“Are you alright?” Ariane asks, somewhat haltingly. “You were staring at it for a good few minutes, there.” Elster looks back at the painting, trying to focus. A scene is rendered in more detail than she ever could have expected. The strokes jagged and varied, obviously unpracticed, but horrible in their honesty.

Ariane leans over her shoulder.

“It’s a damn good first try, darling. A bit grim, considering, but art isn’t-”

“Get rid of it.” Elster says, tonelessly.

“What?” Ariane asks, shocked. “But-”

“I’m sorry for wasting the canvas, I’ll find a way to make it up to you.” Elster steps around Ariane, marching to the door. “I need to go handle something, I’ll back in a bit.”

The door lets out a soft whoosh as it opens.

“Elster-”

She looks back at the painting, passed Ariane’s hurt and bewildered expression, just before the door clicks shut again.

It’s perfect.

Lilith hates it.

#signalis #writing practice #fanfiction

[serenailith]

the silent sounds of loneliness (best of my love)

for the @dreamlingbingo​ 

Square: c5 - turn over a new leaf (combined with march monthly prompt haunted by regrets) Word Count: 11454 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling, johanna constantine/rachel moodie Warnings: none Additional Tags:  alternate universe - human, age gap, age difference, hob gadling loves dream of the endless | morpheus, dream of the endless | morpheus loves hob gadling, though he doesn’t want to admit it, canonical child death (though in a different manner than canon), recluse!dream of the endless | morpheus, uni student/errand boy!hob gadling, anal sex, rimming Summary:

When Hob lands a job with Helping Hands, it's a dream come true for a poor uni student. He loves what he does, and he likes to think he's good at it. The only thing he isn't so sure about? The client. He hasn't seen nor spoken to the mysterious Morpheus, a reclusive man only doctors have seen over the last seven years. But between a sudden surge of courage and a lot of luck, everything changes.

In only six months, he learns more about life and love than he ever thought was possible.

Link: on ao3 masterlist

Hob stares up at the enormous house stretching before him. Mansion, really. He wraps a hand around an iron picket and lets out a low whistle. Early morning sunlight glints off massive windows, white brick surrounding the glass a sharp contrast to the dark grey masonry of the exterior. Large slabs of stone make up the walkway to the covered veranda. With a slow breath to steady his nerves, Hob walks to the gate and digs the keys from his pocket.

Unity Kincaid had warned him that the client is, for lack of better terminology, a recluse. No one besides his doctors had seen hide nor hair of him in seven years. Hob has no idea why–he hadn’t bothered to ask. What business is it of his? All he needs to worry about is doing a good job and getting paid. And damn, he can almost taste the influx of money from the job. It’s more than he’ll ever have made in one cheque.

It takes three different attempts before he locates the correct key for the front door, but find it he does. Twisting the key in the lock, he glances over his shoulder then pushes open the door. Dimness spreads before him. He inhales deeply before stepping inside.

A shiver races down his spine. A heavy silence lingers in the air, oppressive and suffocating. Hob can smell nothing but the faint hint of a cleanser and disuse. He takes another step, pushing the door closed behind him, and comes to a stop in the centre of the grand foyer.

On either side of the foyer are massive sets of ornate doors. He wonders where they lead, but he knows better than to go exploring. Unity said there would be a tablet waiting for him, and there it is, resting on top of the end newel of the sweeping staircase. Twin banisters curve outward as they stretch up the sides of the stairs until they reach a landing that overlooks the foyer. He gazes up into the darkness for a long moment then decides it isn’t worth trying to figure out what’s upstairs.

He digs out his phone to check the onboarding email Unity had sent, finds the six-digit passcode, and types it in. The only four apps on the device are the calendar, the camera, a photo gallery, and a to-do checklist. The calendar holds a schedule–doctor appointments in red squares, medication pick-ups in blue, his days off in sunshine yellow. The checklist has a list of tasks that need doing and which Hob is expected to do: Shop for groceries and essential items, pick up medications when needed, let the doctors in and show them out whenever the client has appointments. (Here, Hob snorts. What privilege must this man have that he can afford in-home doctor visits?). He’s also to clean the house but never go into two specific rooms: The one at the far end of the upstairs corridor and the one across the hall from it.

Hob’s curiosity grows instantly. What lies beyond those doors, then, that needs to be kept a secret? An urge to find out nearly overtakes him, but he manages to shake it off. Unfortunately, he already has one foot on the third step and is poised to continue up the stairs.

No, you bloody idiot. Keep to the rules. He needs this job too damn much to break the rules already–or ever. Sighing, he straightens his spine and goes back to the email. It says to check the gallery, so he does. The only photo is of a blueprint of the manor, each room except the forbidden ones marked and labelled in squared letters. The forbidden rooms have large Xes overlaid.

He studies the map for a moment longer then points himself in the direction of the kitchen. He might as well explore what he can, while he can.

It takes longer than he expected, but Hob finally feels like he’s memorised the layout of the manor rather well. At least, enough that he doesn’t think he’ll get lost in five seconds flat. The solarium, as notated on the map, had been his favourite room of all. Warm and full of sunshine, it made him want to sit down and never leave.

He makes his way back to the kitchen and plucks a piece of paper off the refrigerator door. He’d seen it on his walkthrough but decided to wait until he was finished to read it. Spidery letters spell out a list, this one of groceries. Hob wonders why this client doesn’t just order delivery. It’s a lot cheaper and faster.

But then again, if they’re as reclusive as Unity claims, of course they wouldn’t want delivery. The delivery people usually want to hand off directly to the recipient. Whoever this client is, Hob is rather jealous. They have wealth, and they have privilege. Too bad his twenty-year-old self doesn’t have the same.

Hob tucks the list into his pocket and heads to the front door. He might as well get a jump on his list of tasks. Whistling quietly, he locks up the house and ambles down the walkway to his car. The beat-up vehicle struggles to start before coming to life with a roar; Hob winces. This is a nice-with-a-capital-N neighbourhood. His lemon of a car doesn’t belong here, and there is no reason to draw attention to himself.

Shopping goes as well as it could. The email had stressed the importance of getting exactly what was on the list, down to the brand name and quantity, so Hob spent an inordinate amount of time comparing product to list. Three workers asked if he needed help, but he’d waved them off politely. How could he have explained his new boss is apparently the most particular person he has ever even heard of?

By the time he leaves five hours later, Hob has done fuck all. He’d gotten the groceries, sure, but there wasn’t much to clean and no medications to pick up. Easy money, he thinks, as he drives home, the wind slipping in through the open window. A bead of sweat drips down his back, pools at the base of his spine, and he squirms a bit in his seat. He really needs a new car, one with air-con. Thankfully, this job will make saving up easy.

Johanna and Rachel are already waiting at the New Inn by the time Hob arrives, freshly showered and ready to relax. Rachel waves him over, knowing full well he’s already seen them in their usual booth, and gestures to Alan for a new round of drinks. It’s a testament to how often the trio drinks here that there are no questions asked as to what they want to drink. Hob slides into the bench across from the women and swipes the pickle from Johanna’s plate. She scowls but doesn’t bother punishing him.

They all know she wasn’t planning on eating it.

“How was your first day?” Rachel asks, all but bouncing in her seat.

She’s been more excited about Hob’s new job than he has, and he’s been damn excited. Mostly about the prospect of money. Maybe now he can pay for nights out with his friends instead of Jo always paying the tab. She never complains, not really. Despite the gruff, acerbic facade, she’s quite a lovely woman, especially when Rachel is involved.

Hob still wonders how the two met in the first place. Rachel is vibrant, open and kind and always quick with a smile. Johanna is the complete opposite towards everyone who isn’t her girlfriend. They’ve never told Hob the story of their meeting, and he’s long stopped asking. Doesn’t stop him from imagining different scenarios, each more unlikely than the last.

Accepting the glass of whisky from Alan, Hob tells Rachel the truth: The day was uneventful, and he hasn’t yet met the client. “Ms Kincaid told me I probably never would, to be honest.”

“How the fuck does that even work?” Johanna asks. “Did he just ring in one day and go ‘Yeah, I need an errand boy to come ’round for a few hours and do what I refuse to do with my own two hands’?”

“I have no idea,” Hob replies with a laugh.

And he doesn’t. He’s new to this; he’d only applied at Helping Hands on a whim. A lark, truly. Hob couldn’t say where he even heard of the agency, but he had decided to throw in an application along with the seventy others he’d filled out. It’s a sad state of affairs when even retail won’t hire a willing applicant.

But Unity had taken a chance on a twenty-year-old with only handyman work on his CV. She’d warned him she was unwillingly, reluctantly throwing him to the wolves: “Everyone else I have has been dismissed by this particular client.”

Hob was–is–confident in his abilities to keep this job. He doesn’t scare easily, and he’s been told he is quite the charmer.

By the time the pub closes down for the night, Hob has spent four hours drinking and chatting with Johanna and Rachel. He goes with a woman named Claudia to her flat and doesn’t leave until half-six, when she kicks him out so she can get ready to go to class. They don’t bother exchanging numbers; they both know what the tryst was. It was merely a way to pass the time and satisfy needs, and nothing more.

Hob has to admit, as he’s walking back to his own rundown studio, he kind of misses the structure of a class schedule. He’d failed due to lack of attendance. Working two jobs made it impossible to have any time for something so trivial as schooling. There’s a small part of him that regrets not trying harder, not asking his parents for any sort of assistance. They would have helped without hesitation, but his pride had gotten in the way.

He wanted to be self-made, to make them proud of how hard he worked to reach the top.

He’ll never make it. He’s not naïve enough to actually think he will. But it’s a pleasant enough dream.

The manor is silent as it was the day before when Hob arrives. He locks the door behind him, just like the list of rules told him to, and checks his email for the day’s tasks. First up is sorting the post that waits in the box at the end of the walkway. He isn’t entirely sure what’s ‘important’, but he sets aside anything that looks like it may be junk. He leaves the legitimate post in the basket by the front door then turns to his next task: Cleaning.

Hob isn’t necessarily an untidy man. He keeps a clean enough home, he thinks. But here in this mansion, he feels as if he is the most unkempt human being on the planet. The only dust that lingers is the barest coating that he hadn’t wiped away yesterday. Everything has its place and is in said place. He can see no signs of life. Might as well be a mausoleum. He wonders if the client is even still alive, or if they’re actually dead and their estate is merely paying for the upkeep.

“Don’t be daft,” he chides himself as he gathers up the supplies. “Of course they’re still alive. The estate wouldn’t pay for groceries just for them to go to waste.”

Would they?

Hob quickly falls into a routine. He wakes in the morning and showers, feeds the neighbour’s cat while fighting to avoid the claws that swipe at him (one would think Shakespeare would warm up to Hob after five months of this, but no. The feeling is mutual, if Hob’s honest), then heads off to the mansion. It’s easy work, really, and he finds himself bored more often than not.

Two weeks in finds him saying “Fuck it” and baking a—quite frankly—absurd amount of brownies in the kitchen. He’s almost surprised that the client has so much cookware; then he remembers—recluse. He doesn’t get delivery. Wondering what the client makes for themself, Hob washes the dishes he uses and puts them away where he found them.

He leaves half of them in the refrigerator and takes the other half home. Johanna appreciates them, eating six in one sitting. Rachel refuses them, but Hob sees her sneaking a few into her bag before she exits his flat.

The brownies are gone from the refrigerator when he shows up for work the next day. All of them.

The job is as he thought—simple and straightforward. Unity emails on Friday evenings for a recap of his week, and his replies seem to assure her that there are no problems. And why would there be? He never sees the client, so there is no clash of personalities. There have been no complaints about how he cleans or his singing as he goes from room to room tidying up what doesn’t need tidied.

By the end of the first month, Hob can afford to get a new car on lease. He’s almost sad to say goodbye to the hunk of junk he’s called a vehicle for twelve years, but the new one more than makes up for it. It has air-con and heated front seats and windows that actually roll up and down as they’re meant to. He feels like a lottery winner as he drives back to his flat in the powder-blue sedan.

Hob finally learns the client’s name a week into the second month. Morpheus. There is no surname given, and Johanna doesn’t seem bothered by that. Hob doesn’t ask how she found out who his employer is, though he desperately wants to. There’s something about the way she can ferret out information that enthralls him; she always refuses to tell, so he’s learnt to stop asking. Rachel has promised to tell him one day, but Hob has no hope of that actually happening. She’s too loyal to her girlfriend of four years.

Hob should feel weird, uncomfortable, about the fact his two best friends are seven years older than he is. Neither Jo nor Rachel seem to mind that he’s only twenty, though. They treat him like the adult he is, though he can live without all the teasing Johanna does. He loves her as if she were his sister, and it’s all done in love, but damn, she can get mean without intending to. Product of her upbringing, he figures. He’s met her parents once. They weren’t exactly the loving, nurturing type.

It’s a wonder she came out as personable as she is.

He leaves the pub that night with a man named John and is unceremoniously shown the door immediately after. Hob doesn’t mind; the sex wasn’t that great anyway. The September night air steals his breath away as he waits for the ride-share to arrive. He shivers slightly at the cool breeze, tugging his jumper more tightly around him, and curses himself for not wearing his leather jacket like he planned. But Jo always takes the piss out of him for it, says it looks like he’s trying too hard to be a badass. Hob only cares that it’s warm.

Finally, he arrives home at half-three. He makes sure to rate the driver for not getting into an accident on the way or chatting the entire time. Hob’s head hurts now, and incessant conversation would have made it worse. He tosses his keys into the bowl on the table by the door, toes off his trainers, and stumbles toward the couch. Making it to his bed isn’t on the agenda for the night.

He falls asleep almost instantly.

Unfortunately, he only has ten minutes the next morning before he has to leave for work. Not showering is not an option, so he does so in icy water. The water’s just begun warming up by the time he steps out of the shower stall. Cursing under his breath, he speeds through getting dressed and brushing out the tangles in his hair. He’s meant to get it cut for the last two months, but something always stops him. He frowns at his reflection and tells himself to set an appointment as soon as possible.

Hob taps in the tablet’s PIN a mere minute before the hour changes over. Unity had made a big deal about him being on time. He hadn’t known in the beginning that the tablet keeps record of when he unlocks it, but he’d found out quick when she called him up to ask why he was late:

“We try to not make our clients wait.”

In his defence, Hob has never even met this Morpheus fellow. He is honestly beginning to doubt he ever will.

The mansion feels more like a mausoleum with every passing day. There is hardly ever anything to really do: An hour every couple of days is spent cleaning, dusting, and generally tidying rooms that don’t appear to have ever been stepped into. More often than not, though, he wastes away the time by lounging on a couch in the most exquisite study he’s ever seen, reading books he never would have gotten his hands on otherwise. Being a poor uni student doesn’t exactly lend itself to a lavish lifestyle. Hob finds himself jealous of this man he’ll never see.

Wealth, privilege, and access to such fantastic reading material… Hob wonders if Morpheus knows just how damn lucky he is. If Hob had this life, he would never take it for granted.

He certainly wouldn’t have to juggle his studies and his job. He’d be able to forgo one or the other, anyway. Perhaps he wouldn’t. He does like gaining knowledge, and he does enjoy working. At the very least, he likes making money.

Thankfully, Unity assures him that the client knows of his schedule and is willing to work around it, except for days on which there are appointments. Those days, Hob is expected to skip class long enough to do as his job requires. It isn’t much of a sacrifice, really, Hob thinks. It’s only one measly class, and he can easily make up for the time lost.

So it goes. August has faded into September which melts into October. Three months without a single sighting of his boss, and a balance in his bank account that he can actually be proud of. Hob decides to take his parents and siblings out for dinner—and doesn’t even sweat when his dad orders a whisky and his mum two glasses of wine. Hob even splurges on dessert for everyone. They have to share, but it’s an extra expense nonetheless.

He makes a mistake at work. It’s a simple one, inconsequential, though he still must fix it: He does the shopping as he’s meant to, but he forgets to pick up the medication refills on his way back to the mansion. He doesn’t realise it until he finishes putting the eggs in the refrigerator and reaches for the pill-keeper.

The bag with the bottles isn’t on the counter like it should be, so Hob bustles out of the house. The quicker he retrieves the medications, the less likely it is that Unity will find out about his lapse in memory. He doesn’t think she or Morpheus would fire him, especially not since he’s rectifying the mistake, but Hob doesn’t want to take chances.

He makes it to the pharmacy and back in less than an hour. It’s a record, he thinks, considering the massive queue he’d had to wait in. But it’s over now. He can fill the pill-keeper then go home to… do nothing, really. Hob is pathetic enough to have no plans on a Friday. Even Johanna has plans, and she’s the type to stay home because she dislikes people so much.

He opens the little box for Tuesday and reaches for the anti-anxiety pills. The hair on the back of his neck rises, skin prickling, and Hob freezes. Is he going to die? Has someone broken into the manor and he just hadn’t heard? It wouldn’t be that much of a surprise, not with how cavernous the house is.

He fists the orange bottle—he could probably use the pills as a diversion by throwing them in the intruder’s face before rushing them, if it comes to it—before turning around. There in the doorway stands a pale-skinned figure. Wide grey-blue eyes stare back at Hob from under a shock of raven hair. The man’s lips part on a quiet, shuddering gasp, then he’s gone from view. Hob listens to the pattering thud of footsteps on the steps before a door upstairs slams.

Hob isn’t entirely sure, but he thinks he just got his first look at the elusive Morpheus.

He takes his time organising the tablets and putting them in the pill-keeper. If he moves any quicker, he will make a mistake. Morpheus may be a grown adult who can double-check his medications before taking them, but that doesn’t mean Hob should be careless. It would be just his luck that he’ll lose his job over it and never get a better look at the client.

Don't be stupid. He warns himself that it’s a poor reason to want to do his job properly. He should want to do it for the sake of doing it. That has to be good enough.

Once he’s finished, Hob puts the keeper away and unlocks the electronic tablet. He taps the square on the to-do list, waits until the checkmark fills the box, then sets the device aside. There is nothing else to do, so he heads toward the door. He’s just grabbed his keys from the hook when he glances up the stairs.

He wonders what Morpheus does all day, why he hides himself away so much. Surely whatever the reason is can’t be that bad, can it?

Shaking his head, Hob steps out onto the covered veranda and locks the door behind him. There’s no point in speculating on something he will never learn. It’s best to just forget his ruminations and that he’s ever seen Morpheus.

Unfortunately for him, Hob can’t let it go. The memory haunts him for weeks. He dreams about seeing Morpheus for those few seconds. He can’t stop wondering if it’ll happen again. Hob is… He’s almost desperate for another look. He likes what he saw. It wasn’t much—even he can admit that—but it was enough to catch his attention. The eyes… It’s the startling grey-blue of Morpheus’s eyes that Hob sees most in his dreams. They held such depth, and Hob wants to drown in them.

He sighs and reminds himself he’s never talked to the bloke. Hell, he’s barely even seen him. It’s absurd to be so hung up on someone he will never know.

I’m sorry for startling you a few weeks ago.

There. Simple, to the point, and professional. Hob sticks the note to the fridge with a handprint magnet before heading off to hide in the study. He’s made it through the entire collected works of Poe and started on Lovecraft. He has studiously avoided Shakespeare (he still has nightmares of having to perform Romeo and Juliet in year nine, and he really detests his neighbour’s cat), but his to-read pile is growing steadily larger the more he spends time in Morpheus’s study.

Thankfully, he hasn’t been found out, judging by the fact he hasn’t been reprimanded by Morpheus or Unity. So Hob continues to push his luck by rushing through his tasks then slipping through the doors of the study, sitting behind the mahogany desk, and sloughing through the stack of books he’d set aside.

He stops by the shops on his way home to purchase a small square notebook and a pack of pens.

Over the next two weeks, Hob leaves notes pinned to the refrigerator door: wishes for Morpheus to have a good day, ramblings about the weather and the latest news (he isn’t sure if Morpheus even watches the news; Hob hates doing so. It’s always so disheartening). He writes about his days. Once, he even apologises for the enormous aloe plant dying. He thought he’d been taking care of it, but evidently not.

He’s putting away groceries on the second day of the third week of leaving the notes, when he hears footsteps behind him. He tenses, hesitates, then turns. No one is there, but on the counter is a folded piece of paper. His head tilts, and Hob frowns. Had it been there before now, or did Morpheus leave it within the last minute?

Hob shrugs and crosses the kitchen to pluck up the paper. In the same spidery letters as on the grocery lists are the words Thank you for your hard work. At the bottom, Morpheus has written Do not worry about the aloe plant. It was an unwelcome gift from a sibling. I should thank you for killing it.

It’s so stupid that Hob beams and tucks the paper into his pocket. He knows the note means nothing, but it’s something.

Hob goes home with a stronger desire to actually meet this Morpheus, to see his face once more.

He writes even more notes. These are more personal, having been struck with the urge to let this elusive man know about him. It makes no sense—Hob doesn’t know this man, but maybe that’s the problem. Maybe Hob can’t handle the unknown. No, he can’t. He knows that. He likes figuring out everything that life has to offer. His may not be glamorous, but it’s his, and that’s all that really matters. Why shouldn’t he know all there is to know about it?

Dream tells him little in return, though it doesn’t discourage Hob at all. He merely continues writing notes; if he’s become a perfectionist about his handwriting over the last month and a half, no one needs to know. No one needs to know that he spends over an hour rewriting the notes until the words are perfect, letters evenly spaced and legible.

Before Hob knows it, Christmas is on the horizon. He can hardly believe it’s been almost four months since he first began working for Helping Hands and, by association, Morpheus. As he sits in the study a week before Christmas, he finds himself unable to focus on the book in front of him. Does Morpheus have someone coming to visit, or will he spend the holidays alone?

The very idea that Morpheus would be by himself on Christmas is absolutely depressing.

But there’s really nothing Hob can do. It isn’t like he could spend the holidays with Morpheus, though the thought is enticing.

I hope you have a wonderful Christmas. See you in the new year. Hob pins the note to the refrigerator before leaving the house two days before Christmas. Snow swirls around him as he steps out onto the veranda, and he tugs his coat more closely around him before starting the trek to his car. The heating system kicks on as soon as he starts the engine, though it blows icy air for a few minutes. He grimaces and shivers until the air turns warm.

For some inexplicable reason, he glances through the windscreen toward the house. The upstairs window, more specifically. A figure stands there, peering around the curtains. The man’s skin is pale, and the black his hair blends into the shadows behind him. Even through the distance, Hob can see the way his eyes are narrowed.

He raises a hand and waves at Morpheus. Morpheus lets the curtains drop into place.

He spends Christmas at his parents’ and New Year’s with Johanna, Rachel, and a few of Rachel’s artsy friends. Hob knows he doesn’t belong amongst these people—they’re all older, more sophisticated, more educated—but Jo wouldn’t let him leave even if he tried. So he grits his teeth and tolerates the silent judgement.

He also gets very, very intoxicated.

Thankfully, the new year brings a sense of calm. Hob goes to his classes once they start up again, and he goes to work. He falls into the routine easily and rather enjoys it. Unity compliments his work ethic—and the fact he’s gone four months without a single complaint from ‘the client’. Hob is only thankful it’s a phone call and not an in-person meeting; having his boss watch him preen at the praise would be devastatingly mortifying.

The new year also brings an enormous rise in his courage. Hob leaves another note on the refrigerator: May I see you? If Morpheus says no, then it isn’t surprising, nor would it be disappointing. If he says yes… Oh, but then it’ll be a dream come true for Hob. He wonders if it would be anything like his fantasies, where Morpheus would realise Hob is a decent bloke if a bit young, and they’d strike up an unlikely friendship. Maybe Hob would find out why Morpheus stays locked away.

It’s two weeks into the year when the doctor comes. Hob lets her in and sits in the plush chair in the foyer to wait for her to finish. The hour ticks by slowly; he wishes he’d brought a book, but it’s too late to sneak into the study now. He should have paid better attention to the time, since he knew this appointment had been scheduled for today. Thankfully, before he decides to start counting the wavy lines in the marble floor, the doctor descends the stairs and heads for the door. Her trainers squeak on the floor with each step.

“He will have a new prescription to pick up tomorrow,” she says briskly as she passes Hob. “Do remember to collect it.”

“I always do.”

She gives a succinct nod then vanishes out into the freezing January air. Hob watches her get into her car then drive away, before locking the door. When he turns around, he runs a hand through his hair and gazes around the foyer. Something catches his attention, and he nearly shrieks. Thankfully, he clamps his teeth together in time, though he can’t stop the muffled shout.

There, at the top of the staircase, stands Morpheus. He blinks placidly down at Hob, but something in his expression doesn’t ring true. Hob recognises it, has felt it often enough: Morpheus is nervous about something.

“Oh. Hello.”

“Hello.”

Hob suppresses a shiver at the rich, low timbre of Morpheus’s voice. “I, er, wasn’t expecting to see you?”

“I suppose not.” Morpheus squares his shoulders, adjusts the front of his silken black robe. “I have… appreciated your work these past few months.”

“I’ve enjoyed doing it.”

“And your messages.”

“Ah. Those. They’re nothing, really.”

Morpheus frowns, gaze dropping to the floor. “I do not believe that,” he finally says. “They mean something to me.”

“Oh.”

And isn’t that something. Hob tucks his hands into his pockets and very nearly scuffs the toe of his trainer against the floor. He doesn’t, purely out of willpower, but he certainly feels like a child caught unawares.

“Have you enjoyed my study?”

At this, Hob’s head snaps up, and he stares at Morpheus with wide eyes. He knows? Of course he does, Hob’s brain whispers. It’s his house. Why wouldn’t he know what goes on in it? But then, why hasn’t he said anything?

“I—I’m sorry. I know I probably don’t have any right to go in there, I certainly don’t have permission, but—”

“I don’t mind, Mister…?”

“Gadling. Hob.”

Morpheus’s eyes narrow, and he slowly descends the staircase. “And how old are you, Hob Gadling?”

“Twenty, sir. Why?”

“There is no reason beyond curiosity, don’t worry.” Morpheus comes to a stop on the bottom step and scrutinises Hob more closely. Hob barely manages to not shiver beneath the intensity of the stare. “May I ask why you wished to see me?”

“Curiosity, really.”

Hob mentally curses at himself for the answer. Morpheus isn’t some specimen on display, meant only for people to gawk at as if he’s an oddity of some kind. No, he’s a human being with what Hob can only imagine is a good reason to stay away from humanity. Hob is such an idiot.

But… Morpheus is smiling. It’s barely an upward curve of his lips, but it’s a smile nonetheless. “Would you like a cup of tea, Hob Gadling?”

“Of—of course, sir.”

The man turns out to be nothing like Hob imagined but so much more. He carries himself as royalty would, though his fingers tremble as he holds his mug. His words falter on occasion, and he frowns more than Hob thinks is normal. His grey-blue eyes rarely meet Hob’s. He may seem unbothered, imperial, but there’s something beneath the surface that says otherwise.

The pair discusses books that Hob has read, his opinions and philosophies. They talk about Hob’s dislike for Shakespeare, both playwright and cat. Morpheus listens as Hob tells him stories of his childhood he never relayed before.

The hours slip away from them. By the time Hob realises what time it is, he was meant to go home nearly two hours ago. His tea has long gone cold, and he hurriedly swallows the dregs before rising to his feet. Morpheus’s lips turn down in the corners as he gazes at Hob. Hob gives an awkward shrug.

“Sorry, I just—I have to go. I have schoolwork I haven’t done yet.”

“Of course. Have a good night, Hob.”

“Thanks, sir. You, too. And… Thanks for talking to me.”

As Hob exits the kitchen, he thinks he hears, “Thank you for seeing me.” He wants to turn back, to confirm that Morpheus actually said it, but he wasn’t lying. He has too many essays to write and worksheets to fill out. So he clocks out on the tablet and heads to his car.

No one stands in the upstairs window to watch him leave.

Morpheus is waiting for Hob when he returns to the mansion with the medication the next day. Hob hides his surprise; he’d assumed it was a one-time thing, seeing Morpheus. Today’s conversation occurs while Hob puts the pills in the keeper. Hob thinks it should be awkward, doing his job with his boss at the island counter behind him, but it’s easy. It’s easy to let the words flow, more stories of his youth and his family.

Morpheus swallows up the tales eagerly. It’s almost as if he desires to hear about wild escapades and siblings and—

Does Morpheus even have siblings? Hob aches to ask, but it’s outside the realm of professional. Then again, so is chatting with Morpheus like they’re even friends.

Who cares about professionalism when you’ve finally got the chance to talk to the man? Hob cares, so he bites his tongue to stop the questions. He doesn’t ask after Morpheus’s family, he doesn’t ask about Morpheus’s life. He only tells Morpheus what he wants to hear and lets the enquiries fester in the back of his mind.

So it goes. Each day Morpheus is waiting, and each day, Hob has more memories to recall. He tells Morpheus of the time he and Johanna were arrested for public intoxication despite the fact they were only walking to the next street to get to Rachel’s SUV. Of course, the arrest probably had something to do with Jo getting into a physical altercation with a man who was pestering a woman just trying to go about her way. Hob was merely a victim of circumstance, and he paid the price for his best friend’s chivalry.

It isn’t until the week of Valentine’s Day, three weeks later, that Hob finally acknowledges what he’d been trying to deny since he first spoke with Morpheus: Hob is absolutely, undeniably falling for the enigmatic man. There is still so much he doesn’t know about Morpheus, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He yearns to spend more time with the man and to actually hear about Morpheus, though he knows it will never happen. Morpheus is too much a mystery, with too many closely-guarded secrets that Hob will never know. He wants to hear Morpheus’s laugh and know his hopes. Hob doesn’t even care if Morpheus ever tells him why he stays hidden away. He just… wants Morpheus.

He’s woken too often in the night, aching to phone Morpheus or to hold his hand as if they are sweethearts in primary. He dreams of what it might be like to kiss Morpheus, even with the knowledge that it would most likely not be like his dreams. It’s worth the loneliness, Hob thinks when he wakes after a night of imagining far more than filthy kisses with his boss. He at least has enough respect to not stroke himself to completion on the mornings after those dreams.

He only takes cold showers and wills his libido—and desires—to calm.

Everything comes to a head, as is wont to do. Morpheus and Hob sit in the study, both reading to themselves but occasionally reciting passages to share with one another. Hob rises to his feet and makes his way to the shelf that contains the collection he’d read a week ago, the poem that says what he wishes he could say in his own words.

“‘I crave your mouth’,” he begins, ignoring Morpheus’s sharp inhale, “‘your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day. I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps’.”

Morpheus closes his book and sits back in his chair. His voice is rough, low, when he says Hob’s name. Hob closes his eyes against the shiver racing down his spine and waits for Morpheus’s next words. Instead, he gets footsteps padding across the room, a soft, cool hand against his cheek.

“You know not what you say.”

“I know enough.” Hob finally meets Morpheus’s gaze. “I dream of you. Nearly every night, you haunt me. I… I don’t know how else to tell you that…”

“That what, Hob Gadling?”

“That you’re what I want.”

Morpheus’s fingers cradle Hob’s chin, then his grip tightens until Hob clumsily rises to his feet. They’re the same height, but Hob feels so much smaller. He shudders when he sees the heat in Morpheus’s eyes, the want in the bow of his mouth. Then that damned mouth is on Hob’s, and the world explodes around him.

With a low groan, Hob presses closer only to be forcibly turned to walk backwards toward the door. The two part only to stumble up the stairs together. Hob registers that they’re tumbling through the door to one of the forbidden rooms, but he gives less of a damn than he thought he would. He’s no longer curious about what lies inside—at least, not at the moment. That’s liable to change the instant Morpheus isn’t causing his blood to boil with nothing more than a tight grip and fervent kisses.

Morpheus wastes little time in steering Hob toward the bed; the two men fall to the mattress in a tangle of limbs. Hob whimpers into the kiss when Morpheus nips at his lower lip. HIs cock twitches in the confines of his jeans, and he wonders if this is how he will die—in the throes of desire and need while his boss (fuck, his boss) devours him whole.

“Are you sure?” he pants as soon as Morpheus pulls back for a breath.

“More than you could know” is the response given on a harsh rasp.

Hob shifts, slides his thigh between Morpheus’s, and drags the older man down for another kiss. This one is just as graceless and filthy and begging for so much. Promising even more. Hob will not leave this house until he’s given Morpheus all he will take. He has been called greedy dozens of times in his life, but this? This is one area he refuses to be selfish in.

So like a teenager, Morpheus ruts against Hob’s thigh, his hands locked in Hob’s hair, and he gasps when one of Hob’s hands slides along his back to dip under the band of his pyjama bottoms. There’s nothing underneath. Hob groans against Morpheus’s mouth and lays his hand flat against Morpheus’s arse, pulling him even closer.

“Fuck, love,” he nearly whines when Morpheus gives a rough tug of his hair.

Morpheus lifts his hips long enough for Hob to slip a hand between them; his cock is hard, leaking, by the time Hob wraps his fingers around the length. He rests his weight on his elbows, fucking into the circle of Hob’s fist as he buries his face against Hob’s throat. He lets out a long keening sound as his hips move faster, and Hob stretches his arm further to press a finger against Morpheus’s hole.

Morpheus comes without warning, with a cry of Hob’s name.

“I—I’m sorry,” he mutters moments later, though he doesn’t move from where he’s sprawled atop Hob. “I…”

“It’s okay. Not a problem at all. I’m taking it as a fucking compliment, thank you very much.”

Hob releases Morpheus’s softening cock and pulls his hand away. Morpheus lifts his head in time to see Hob licking his fingers clean. The whimper he lets out would force Hob into orgasm were he to have been focusing on himself at all. As it is, he wants nothing more than to continue pleasing Morpheus. His own pleasure can wait.

Except it can’t, judging by the fact that Morpheus is sliding gracefully along Hob’s body. He glances up through thick lashes as his hands make quick work of unbuttoning Hob’s jeans; Hob barely gets his hips lifted before Morpheus is tugging down his jeans and boxers. His hand presses to Hob’s stomach, fingernails scratching lightly, then he takes Hob into his mouth in one smooth move.

“Fuck!”

Morpheus hums around Hob’s cock, and Hob has to clap a hand over his mouth before he shouts again. There is no one else here, no one else around, but it feels taboo to bring attention to what he’s doing right now. With his boss, no less. Maybe that’s what makes it feel so right despite being so wrong. He moans when Morpheus slides a hand between his thighs. Presses against his hole before slipping just the tip of his finger inside.

Just before Hob can leap over the edge, Morpheus pulls away and stares through the dimness at Hob. “Roll over.”

And who is Hob to argue with that voice, the one that brooks no argument? He does as commanded, yelping when Morpheus's hands tug on his hips. Morpheus nips at the curve of his arse before whispering an order for Hob to place a pillow beneath him. The cool silk of the pillowcase feels wonderful against his overheated skin, and he melts into the chill. Of course that’s when he loses all sense of anything but the press of Morpheus’s tongue against his hole, thumbs holding Hob’s arsecheeks apart. The heat of his breath ghosting along Hob’s flesh, the sparks lighting up along his spine.

Hob has never, never, never been on the receiving end of this, though he’s given plenty of times before. He never imagined it could feel so great. Perhaps, he’d thought, his former lovers had been merely attempting to make him feel as if he was better in bed than reality. He whines and moans and clutches at the bedsheets as Morpheus’s tongue mercilessly fucks into him.

It takes two strokes of a cool hand on his cock before Hob is spilling a release all over Morpheus’s fist, the pillow, and the bedsheets beneath him.

He collapses to the mattress as Morpheus runs a soothing hand down his flank. “Shit, love, I think you’ve done it. I think you’ve killed me.”

“You exaggerate.”

“Well, I can guarantee you’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

“And I’ve not even fucked you properly yet.”

Hob’s cock gives a valiant twitch, and he groans at the words. That’s all he can think about now. How it would feel to have Morpheus fuck him as roughly as he had with his tongue. How amazing it would be to be filled with Morpheus’s cock for as long as he can. He aches for the stretch. He is, as an ex-boyfriend claimed, a slut for a good cock, and Morpheus? Well, he’s got the best one Hob has ever seen.

They lie there together for the next hour, silent and still save for Morpheus’s index finger running up and down Hob’s spine. Hob, for his part, is struggling to keep his hands to himself. He doesn’t want to push before Morpheus is ready; it’s taken months to get to this point in the first place. He’d hate to ruin it by being selfish and demanding.

In the end, it isn’t Hob who demands. It’s Morpheus who leaves burning kisses across Hob’s shoulders. It’s Morpheus who reaches toward the bedside table and extracts a tube of lubricant. He bites down where Hob’s neck meets his shoulder, grinning against the skin when Hob lets out a sharp cry. It hurts, and God, does Hob love it. He wants more. Probably more than Morpheus will give him. Definitely more than is appropriate.

Five minutes of meticulous prep later, Morpheus helps Hob roll onto his back before pushing into him with a tenderness that is at odds with the throbbing in the bite mark left behind. Morpheus gazes down at Hob steadily; the gentle glow of the moon casts stars in his blue eyes, and Hob reaches up with one hand to tug him down for a kiss. It’s softer now, more tame. They share breaths for a long moment before Hob nods once. He’s ready.

He needs it.

He yearns for it.

He craves it, and it hasn't even truly begun.

His legs tighten around Morpheus’s waist, pull him in with each thrust, and Morpheus exhales slowly—unsteadily—as he shoves his hips forward. With a soft sigh, Hob lets his head fall back to the mattress, and he closes his eyes. Morpheus’s cock drags along his prostate, and Hob knows he won’t last. Not with as much as he wants this.

Morpheus moves slowly, a tantalising pace that is just enough to keep Hob on the edge. Hob moans and scrabbles to cling to Morpheus. His fingernails find a hold in the pale skin, and Hob bites down on his bottom lip when Morpheus lets out a bitten-off gasp. His hips move faster, though still too slow, and Hob could cry with it.

Pleas spill from his lips—a litany of babbled desire that hardly makes sense even to himself—and Morpheus leans down to kiss away the words. Hob’s hands slide along the warm body until they press to sharp shoulderblades. One hand continues, cupping the back of Morpheus’s neck, and a burst of hot breath gusts along Hob’s cheek. The laugh goes ignored.

Hob was right, he thinks when Morpheus pulls back, straightens his spine, and fucks into him with a rough thrust. Hob will never find anyone to make him feel like this. Morpheus has ruined him. Sex is good and all, but it’s different with Morpheus. It could be everything, if Hob lets it.

He wants to let it.

He curses when Morpheus wraps fingers around his cock, stroking in time with each thrust that rocks his body; the crooked grin Morpheus sends him brings a boil to Hob’s blood. He groans and bears down on Morpheus’s dick; he’s never cared much one way or the other, but now… Now he wants to feel Morpheus filling him up.

He isn’t disappointed. Not even seconds after he comes across his own belly, he feels the hot spurts of Morpheus’s release. Another splatter of cum drips from the head of his cock at the sensation.

“You, love, are a dream come true,” Hob murmurs shakily before dragging Morpheus down for a kiss, disregarding the mess between them as Morpheus rests over him.

“You are more than I imagined,” Morpheus whispers against his lips.

Hob huffs out a laugh at that. If anyone is more, it’s Morpheus. Morpheus has proven himself better than Hob’s fantasies. He’s starred in many a dream, but none of them have come close to reality. This… This is something Hob will remember for the rest of his life.

He remembers to clock out on time, but then Morpheus drags him back up to the bedroom.

Hob doesn’t leave Morpheus’s bed until near dawn the next morning. He drives home in the grey dark of early morning, aching and devastatingly satisfied. His mind replays the night, the hours spent in Morpheus’s bed, the touches and kisses that lit his nerves anew. He gets home, locks the door behind him, and falls facefirst onto his couch.

He falls asleep to the memory of being full of both cock and love.

A woman stands just outside Morpheus’s front door when Hob climbs out of his car only hours later. She takes a step forward into the weak February sunlight, and he eyes the envelope in her hands. Her wire-rimmed glasses glint golden in the sun; on her face is a severe yet unreadable expression. Hob feels much like a chastised child with no clue what he’s done.

“Mister Gadling, I presume?”

Hob nods then clears his throat. “Yeah. What’s, er, what’s going on?

“Mister Emrys no longer requires your services. Consider this your severance. If you would please return to your vehicle and leave, it would be appreciated.”

Hob gapes but doesn’t take the envelope she holds out. What? Morpheus… Morpheus doesn’t want Hob around? Hob can’t make heads nor tails of the situation. Everything had been fine—had been great—when he’d left. He can still feel the aftermath of everything they had done. But now he’s being unceremoniously evicted from the property for a reason he can’t find.

“Sir?”

He finally pinches the edge of the envelope with two shaking fingers and turns away from the woman. There is no point in arguing, he knows it. She looks like the type of woman to phone the police if the situation calls for it, and Hob refusing to leave Morpheus’s home is definitely a situation that warrants a police presence.

He’d had plans for today, damn it. He wanted to read more with Morpheus, he wanted to—let’s face it, he thinks. He wanted to make love with Morpheus, be the one to push into him so carefully and make sure Morpheus could feel the depths of Hob’s feelings. A month of constant talking, months of notes passed back and forth, and one perfect night is all Hob gets from this ordeal.

He glances through the windscreen. Morpheus stands at the upstairs window. Hob wants to get out of his car. He wants to storm inside and shake Morpheus until he gives answers, until he explains what the fuck is going through his head.

Morpheus lets the curtains drop into place, and Hob feels his heart stutter. Collapse into nothingness.

He manages to drive home and get inside before the tears win the fight. Hob throws the envelope onto the counter before stumbling to his bedroom. He sits on the edge of his bed, head in hands, and lets himself feel all the pain he’d hoped to never feel again. He thought it was bad when he broke it off with Eleanor because he knew he couldn’t handle a long-distance relationship, but this… This might actually be worse.

Jo finds him later that night in the New Inn, already six beers and two shots of whisky in. She takes one look at his face, orders another round, and drops onto the stool beside him. They drink in silence; she doesn’t want to hear his problems, and he doesn’t want to talk about them.

The next morning, he doesn’t remember how he got home.

He phones the Helping Hands office and quits.

He spends the next week looking for a new job during the day and his nights at the New Inn, drinking until he forgets even his own name. Unity sends one final email congratulating him on such hard work, promising a recommendation should he need it for his next job, and apologising for how abruptly his employment with the agency ended: You were such a wonderful employee, and I know the client appreciated all you did for him. Yeah, Hob thinks, Morpheus appreciated it so much, he fucked me and ditched me. The pain starts all over again.

His mum is less than pleased that he lost his employment at Helping Hands—“You worked so hard and did so well, what happened?” His dad only tells him to keep his chin up—“You’ll find something, lad.” Nothing will compare to the job he had. He loved working as what amounted to little more than an errand boy. Even before he ever started writing notes to Morpheus, Hob enjoyed what he did. It was easy work, and it was nice to not have anyone pestering him to work harder. What happened with Morpheus was only a bonus, even though it turned out to be one helluva beautiful mistake.

It takes another two weeks (and asking his parents for rent money), but Hob finally manages to get a job as a courier for a solicitor’s office. He still drinks every night, but Johanna only joins him less than half the time. After the fifth night in a row of destroying their livers, she’d snapped at him without remorse.

“You’re a grown man, Gadling. Either deal with the shit that happened, whatever it is, or keep drinking yourself into a hole. But don’t expect to drag me down with you.”

Rachel perches on the stool next to him one evening, nearly two months after his night with Morpheus. She asks for a martini then crosses her arms on the bar-top. He ignores her and finishes his beer, gesturing for another.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” she starts, rolling her eyes when Hob interrupts her with a derisive snort. She continues without acknowledging the interruption further, “I don’t know what happened, but I’m here if you need to talk.”

“Nothing to talk about,” he snaps.

“Yes, because that was so believable.” Rachel sighs and accepts her drink with a smile at the bartender. When he moves on to the next patron, she takes a sip before setting the glass down. “Have you not noticed that nobody wants to be around you when you’re like this?”

The words hit Hob like a punch to the gut. He squeezes his eyes closed, but the tear slips free anyway. Rachel murmurs low in her throat and tugs on his hand. He stumbles after her to the corridor leading to the toilets. Her arms wrap around his neck, and he lets her pull him into a tight embrace. She doesn’t shush him, doesn’t say a word except ‘That’s it, sweets, let it out’ as he cries. He should feel pathetic, sobbing like this in his best friend’s arms so long after he got his heart broken, but he knows Rachel would never judge him.

Not even Johanna would.

Hob finally manages to blubber out the story of what happened, of how he stupidly fell in love with his boss, slept with said boss, and was pushed aside as if none of it mattered at all. Rachel’s grip tightens, and her voice shakes as she tells him everything will be okay.

“You just need some time, and I need to find this prick and—”

“And nothing, Rache.” Hob pulls back and wipes at his eyes with his palms. “He showed me what I meant to him, and… I can’t change it. I can only accept it. You kicking his arse won’t do a damn bit of good.”

“It’ll make me feel better. And it might even cheer you up.”

“Doubt it, but thanks.”

Rachel sighs and brushes away a stray tear with her fingertips. “Look, Hobsie. No matter what he made you believe with this shit, you deserve better. Okay? So forget him. Stop drinking so much, focus on your schooling and job, and everything will work out. I promise.” Hob only nods in response. She smiles and laces their fingers together. “Good, now let’s go finish our drinks and go home. Jo won’t mind if you stay at ours tonight.”

Jo doesn’t mind at all. However, she makes Hob swear that he’ll make pancakes and waffles in the morning. He does so willingly.

His studio flat is a mess when Hob walks in the next day. Dishes clutter up the countertops, and mugs and empty beer bottles spread across the coffee table. He sighs and heads to the kitchen. He might as well follow Rachel’s advice to get his life in order, starting with this bullshit.

By the time he finishes clearing out the rubbish, scrubbing filth from plates and forks, and washing three loads of laundry, the sun has begun to set, and he actually feels better. Less like he’s on the verge of falling apart, as if one wrong move will shatter him. He finds himself thinking of Morpheus without the agony from before. It’s a dull ache, the ghost of want that has plagued him since After. He finishes sorting through all the post he’s let collect in a pile on the counter, frowning when he sees an envelope with a blank face.

Hob tosses the junk mail into the bin before sliding his finger under the flap. Inside is a cheque and a folded sheet of paper. He doesn’t recognise the handwriting on the cheque, but he remembers now. He recalls the woman handing him this very envelope: Consider this your severance. Hob sets the envelope and cheque on the counter, clenches one hand into a fist, and squeezes his eyes closed at the wave crashing over him. He’d somehow forgotten, in all his drunken hours and time spent working and in school, exactly how that morning had gone. After a moment, he pulls out the folded paper.

The spidery handwriting forces open the rift in Hob’s chest, and he chokes on a broken sob even as he reads Morpheus’s words.

Hob, I am truly sorry for this. You do not deserve what I am about to do. You have been a tremendous help in more ways than you shall ever know. Your kindness has helped heal a wound that has been festering inside of me, eating away at the very heart of who I am. I will never be able to find the words to show my appreciation for all that you are, all that you have done for me and will do for this world. My sincerest apologies for hurting you the way that I am. Forgive me, though I have no hope of ever deserving that forgiveness.

I hope you have stopped dreaming of me. Much like your forgiveness, I am not worthy of it.

Yours, Morpheus

“What a load of shite,” Hob snarls though he can’t drag his gaze away from Yours. “Mine, are you? Mine? Then you better fucking prove it, you prick.”

Deciding that action is better than standing around shrieking curses at the unresponsive air, Hob storms out of the flat and down to his car. Yours. Yours. Yours. God, does he hope it’s true. He hopes it isn’t too late.

He hopes that Morpheus will forgive him should he be compelled to actually punch the man in the face.

A beat-up two-door sits in front of the house when Hob pulls up. He parks behind the compact, turning off the engine with a vicious twist of the key. Praying no one notices him, he stomps up to the front door and reaches for a key he no longer has. It’s an attempt borne of desperation, but he tries the knob anyway.

The door is unlocked.

Someone is going to get fired, he thinks even as he quietly slips inside. The foyer looks the same. Nothing has changed, and that alone hurts Hob’s heart. He’d hoped, before everything went to shit, that things would be different for Morpheus. That he’d make different decisions and do what he could to make himself happy.

Hob had hoped it would be him to make Morpheus happy.

He sneaks up the stairs on near-silent footsteps and stops just at the top. He remembers clearly which door is the one he seeks; he just needs to find the courage. Now that he’s here, confronted with his own stupid idea, Hob isn’t so sure he can follow through. What if Morpheus turns him away again?

“How did you get in here?”

Hob turns to see a young Black woman with a rainbow in her hair. She frowns and walks closer, closing the door to one of the guest rooms behind her. Hob swallows thickly and glances back at Morpheus’s door.

“You can’t be here, sir.”

“I’m not leaving without talking to Mor—Mister Emrys.”

“Leave, or I’ll phone the police.”

Hob closes his eyes at the quiet squeak of hinges. Rose’s gaze cuts to the space behind him, and he stifles a broken sob at the achingly familiar voice.

“It’s quite alright, Rose. I will handle this.”

Rose’s frown grows, but she takes a step back. “Of course, Mister Emrys. I’ll be in the study if you need me.”

As soon as she’s disappeared with one last dark look at Hob, he turns to Morpheus’s door. It’s still open, but the man has retreated further into the room. Hob glances at the staircase, though Rose doesn’t reappear, before slipping inside the bedroom. He closes the door behind him and blinks in the sunlight that pours in through the window.

“That was a shit thing you did.”

Morpheus’s shoulders tense; he stares out at the garden as he says, “I did what I thought best.”

“Your thoughts fucking suck, then.”

“You do not understand,” Morpheus replies, though it comes out a plea.

“How could I?” Hob scoffs, throwing his hands into the air. “You’ve told me nothing. I don’t know whether you have siblings, what your dream job is, anything. Hell, I barely know your name! I literally just learnt your surname the morning after you fired me.”

“And that’s the way it should be. We should never have…”

“Yeah, well, it’s a bit late to take it back, isn’t it?”

Morpheus sighs, raises a hand to press his fingertips to the glass, and keeps his gaze on the world outside. “Would you, if you could?”

“No. Never.”

“You are young.”

Hob snorts, crosses his arms over his chest. “As if you’re some ancient being. You’re only a few years older than I am.”

“A few?” From where he stands, Hob can see the curve to Morpheus’s lips, though he knows it isn’t a kind smile. It’s wry, sharp. Cold. “Hob, I am fourteen years older than you are. There is a wealth of experience I have that you do not.”

Hob gapes for a second. Fourteen years? Shaking himself from his disbelief, Hob approaches slowly and comes to a stop at Morpheus’s side. Neither man looks at each other.

“I don’t care,” Hob finally says. “I enjoyed spending time with you. Being with you. Quite a lot, actually.”

“Though you know so little of me?”

“I like a mystery. Tell me, don’t tell me. It’s your choice. I won’t push. But no matter what, it won’t change my mind about you.”

Morpheus turns his head away, hand falling to his side once more. The drag of his fingertips on the glass causes a squeaking sound to break the silence. After a moment, Morpheus speaks.

“Then sit, Hob Gadling. Let me tell you a tale.”

Hob frowns but takes a seat on the edge of the bed. Morpheus still won’t turn around, and Hob aches to force the man to look at him. To see him, to know that Hob is here and not going anywhere. But he doesn’t. He only listens as Dream talks about growing up in a family with loveless parents who had no time for their seven children. The third oldest ran away at seventeen, and no one has heard from him since. They don’t even know if the brother is still alive after all this time.

“I haven’t spoken to my once-favourite sibling in nearly a decade. We had a massive fight. I hardly remember the cause now, but it is too late.”

“It’s never too late, love. You can—”

Morpheus continues, speaking over Hob with ease, “I met a woman eight years ago, beautiful and kind. Intelligent. We married within the year, and our son was born only ten months into our marriage. Our struggles only grew worse. The distance between us widened.”

Then, Morpheus says, tragedy struck. Their little boy, only four years old, died in a car accident in which Morpheus was driving. Morpheus and his wife could hardly stand the sight of each other after that. Their fighting grew harsher, more frequent. They spoke words they will never be able to take back. She left him three months after the funeral with an empty house and a heart full of blame.

“She has blamed me since. If I am being honest… I have blamed myself.”

“This whole time?”

“Losing a child is devastating enough. To be the cause of that loss, it is unforgivable.”

“It was an accident.”

“I was scolding him, Hob. My attention was no longer on the road, and the last thing I ever said to him were words of anger.” At this, Morpheus finally turns to Hob. His eyes are filled with tears, and some spill over. “Tell me, how does one move past that?”

And that’s a question too difficult to answer. Hob has no words. For once, he is utterly speechless. He can do nothing, say nothing, to assuage the guilt that still wracks Morpheus. He rises to his feet and moves to embrace Morpheus, but the man takes a large step back.

“It is my fault that my son died. It is my fault my marriage dissolved—no, imploded. There is nothing of me to care for.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Hob pleads. “Let me make my own damn choices.”

Morpheus grins that same cold grin. “And when we end in disaster? What then, Hob, would you feel? Would it be resentment towards me for taking so much of your time, your affections? Would it be the same hatred and blame that Calliope has carried in her heart for seven years?”

“Oh, Morpheus… It will always be love.”

Morpheus flinches bodily, shoulders coming up around his shoulders as if to guard himself against Hob’s words. His expression turns from defiant to wounded, to frightened.

“Leave.”

“You said you were mine,” Hob counters. “In that letter. You said you were mine, Morpheus. So fucking prove it.”

“I wish—”

“I know, I know. You wish me gone. But I wish you to know that I don’t give up on what’s mine. Now prove that you are mine as I am yours.”

“I know of no way to do so,” whispers Morpheus; his voice shatters in the glow of the sunlight spilling across his pale face.

Hob lets out a slow breath. “I do.” He cups Morpheus’s cheek and presses their foreheads together. They share breaths for a heartbeat, two, three. “Let me love you the way you deserve.”

“And if I cannot?”

“Then I’ll love you anyway until you can. I’ll love you enough for the both of us.”

Lacing their fingers together, Hob pulls Morpheus toward the bed. Morpheus goes willingly, lying down under Hob’s insistent hands, and Hob sighs in relief when Mropheus curls into the comfort of his arms once they’re both stretched across the mattress. Morpheus lets out a shuddering breath, and Hob stifles tears of his own as the man he loves falls apart. Sobs shake his entire body; Hob imagines he has nearly a decade of tears to shed, of remorse and agony to work through.

Eventually, long after Hob has stopped keeping track of time, Morpheus calms. His breathing evens out as he drifts off to sleep, his head on Hob’s chest. Hob presses a kiss to the crown of Morpheus’s head and makes a vow to always be there, every step of the way. Fourteen-year age difference be damned.

Hob can be what Morpheus needs.

#the sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dream of the endless x hob gadling #dream x hob #dreamling #human!au #my writing #dreamling bingo

[broodpeas]

A short post on Champion.

Random Thought Before I Begin:

I'm currently watching a judiciary audience of a Very Bad Man. You don't need to know his name, unless you're from Colombia, and if you are, well then you know whom I'm referring to.

I haven't watched this audiences in a very long time. I used to, when it was my job, when I knew knowing this was necessary and I endure it. When it wasn't, I realized I felt too much and I just couldn't anymore. Maybe because I took so much distance (and dissasociation) that I can now watch this audience, and I actually told my sister I thought this man, who had done so much harm and pain, knowingly so, seems...very nice. It's kinda like what Hannah Arendt wrote about the Eichmann trial many years ago- she felt sorry for him because he was just a sad, little, scared man standing trial. This man however doesn't look sad or scared, he just looks like someone who's doing something bureacratic. But what he's saying is not bureacratic, it's relevant to hundreds of people who know this man is a monster- my sister said "above all, he's human", and I want to point out here how dissonant it is when we acknowledge the humanity of someone who took it away from so many people. Whose legacy is cruelty, violence, pain, evil.

Something to think about.

On "Champion. An opera in jazz". Champion is an opera by terence blanchard and michael griffith. It is the second balck opera ever presented in the MET history and blanchard's second work with the Met. I saw it a few weeks after its premiere in NYC, because one big movie company in Colombia has this streaming rights for the entire Met opera season and I finally have the money to afford to go to almost all the season. I didn't know this opera would happen because I'm not an expert in Opera, I just go because this is the best way to learn about classical music and performers and so on. This is why I was so blown away when I went to the first operas of the season and I saw a latina woman performing a leading role, with 30% of the cast that was black and asian. Black and asian people! On a stage! Performing the whitest of the arts! And like I have pointed out many times, I am almost always the only POC person in the audience, and even though I know I'm not the only one who understands the importance of seeing POC performing opera, it will never get old to sit down and see a damn opera where POC are actually performing.

And Champion is actually more than just a representation checklist opera. It's not just that the cast is 99% black, with drag queens and gay issues as part of the plot; or that the conductor is a queer person who not only loves classical music, but has fun and makes fun of it. It's also that behind the scenes POC had active roles and that the day of the premiere and the shows after this, POC have shown up, again and again, to support this opera, not because it's a black opera, but because it's really damn good.

I went that saturday knowing that the movie theater was going to be a bit empty, and it was. I had the entire row for me. I was the only brown person in that room- something that, I think, it doesn't mean much, unless something happens that reminds me that I am a brown person who has the means to afford tickets to opera and no one in that movie room questions why I'm there because they know I have the means to be there. It is not mind boggling. It's the reality of the privilege of being brown in this country and not fitting the racist notions people have about brown and black people in Colombia.

And so I sat, alone in a row, and the opera started and from scene 1 my heart did jumps and hoops and I thought well this was to be expected because I'm a sensible blob and I always feel everything too much. But when the final scene came, and the entire black cast came out, and the clapping began and everyone was kinda leaving the room, I just sat there and sobbed. Because in all my years watching opera, and going to white spaces knowing I wasn't white, I had never experience why representation matters, not at this level anyway. And even if this representation may fall short or be perceived as performative, to me it isn't. Champion made me cry because when I was growing up, in the 90's, I didn't had this. My dad used to play classical music where all composers and performers where white and european, and he only listened to this when he needed to focus or wanted to work. I never knew black and brown people could make, play and/or perform classical music. My only reference that wasn't white was....Bugs Bunny. So seeing this opera meant so much to me. And I left that theater crying my heart out because I am also wrapping up the document where I write about black representation in colombian art, knowing that this is jus the beginning for I am going to do in terms of not bringing a seat at the table, but to flip the table and see what happens.

black people really are stars.

[dhaaruni]

Oh lord I just saw a post saying white woman are more violent than white men and I was like what?? Like I know what racist white woman are like, I know what it is like when racist white woman will turn on you on a dime when you get something they think you are owed. But like?? No they are not more violent, no they are not worse or more privileged than white men. Like pple swearing up and down that white woman have never been oppressed??? What??

I just do not understand at it and as a WOC seeing white women self-flagellate themselves like this is embarrassing. You would not see white men feeling guilty like that. Also so many people on this site act like WOC are not misogynistic. And when they are they often tend to direct their misogyny to other woman of colour. This is what happens when you are so wrapped up in identity politics.

For sure. When white women loudly and constantly self-flagellate about being privileged over people of color, it centers themselves in talks about racism and doesn’t actually help people of color in a material way. I just flatout don’t believe in standpoint theory like of course racism and misogyny and other isms impact the way we move about in society but fixating on identity as some kind of checklist doesn’t help anybody.

When people claim white women have never been oppressed, they’re really telling on themselves. With abortion for instance, Black men aren’t directly impacted by it while white women are, like this isn’t a complicated concept and yet, I’ve seen Black men on Twitter claim that they’re more oppressed than white women because sundown towns exist and Black people couldn’t travel freely in the past. Nobody’s saying those things aren’t true and Black men aren’t marginalized for their race but right now, Republicans aren’t trying to criminalize Black people from trying to cross state lines, they’re trying to ban interstate travel for women of all races getting abortions. 

And you’re right, white men never self-flagellate, they just blame white women (or women of color who are white-adjacent cough) while taking no responsibility for their own actions, and I’m completely over it.

#answered #anonymous #politics

[rametarin]

Saw a post, got a bit mad

Revisionist history.

I couldn’t reply to it, so I’ll post about it here. It was a post that said, “ever think about how rich and diverse Americans actually are? But that all gets stamped out in favor of the whiteness.”

And then they determined that “whiteness only cares about power and blandness and uniformity.”

And.. no. This is revisionist horse shit. They take the phenomenon of secular modernity brought about by liberal rationalism and they rephrase that as if to be modern and descended from white people is to be aggrevated out into this “cultureless” bland film. Because they’re already coming at this from the direction white people are illegitimate, “have no culture of their own,” and are just a non-people anti-culture.

When the reality is white people are told BY the supposed “progressive” people, you aren’t fractions of anything. You are only white and you get no credibility or ethnic cred as anything but an oppressive person. Your ethnicity is oppression. Your culture is oppression. You’re either an oppressed underdog ethnic culture, or you’re the schmooze anti-culture oppressor overlord.

That’s your fucking beef, you revisionist fucks. That’s you fuckers deciding that a white person can’t also possess the ‘ethnic cred’ as being descended from others. That’s you deciding that every person that’s “white passing” in the US is a wanna-be Nazi. You came up with that shit. It isn’t true. It’s nowhere near a good assessment of the ethnic backgrounds of people from the United States and the descendents of people that largely look European. That’s you ascribing the value of white supremacy solely because pressure and natural selection, not redlined districts, gave us a white (passing) majority with a rich cultural and ethnic heritage.

You fuckers that insisted if you were white passing that you don’t “get to” celebrate your background shamed and mocked and punished the whites that did so, because that would mean someone was MORE than a “privileged white person.” Those people with actual registered, Native American, card carrying and/or reservation living grandparents? Just considered flavorless, cultureless, disgusting white overlords, now. And getting talked about in gross as “just more Americans that think they’re white but don’t know anything about their glorious ethnic heritage because of overbearing Whiteness.”

You fuckers are why background is a checklist not of where you come from in your family tree and whom those people were, but, “how oppressed by the white cis hetero able bodied patriarchy are you?”

You fuckers are why when I talk about how my father’s ancestors were mixed European and modernized Native Americans (that continued to mix back and forth as they modernized and adapted to the modern world) in Maine, I’m told I’m “just another Justin or Keith that whoops up about being 1% Cherokee. You’re just white, Kevin.” Despite the fact the European element was making families, consensually, with the Native element from before the god damned Mayflower arrived. Gatekeeping whom is allowed to say they have ancestry and heritage where and whom are just evil evil white people and don’t get that “cred” because, “you don’t engage with the culture, so your bloodline doesn’t matter.”

Marxist Race and Culture Science is every bit as disgusting as the totalitarian and white supremacist race science of any given Stormfronter, it’s just more subtle, subversive and has more friends in higher places. It’s no less a threat, and in fact, has always been more of a threat, for it can wag the dog and incentivize xenophobia and tribalism from any group to conflict with another, before blaming that conflict on nativist supremacist elements inherent to those group and pretending they’re the actual peacekeepers and enlightened thinkers.

[joriullrich]

The series on Netflix "New Amsterdam" is a medical drama series on Netflix that follows the story of Dr. Max Goodwin, the new medical director at New Amsterdam Hospital. Dr. Goodwin is determined to disrupt the status quo and provide exceptional care to patients of diverse cultures, patients with a low economic status, and advocates for women's health. Max Goodwin's advocacy for different races reflects a commitment to health equity for everyone regardless of color, as he works tirelessly in the show to create a more inclusive and equitable health care system. Max engages with the local community, particularly underserved and marginalized populations, to understand their healthcare needs better. He advocates for resources and programs tailored to address the specific health disparities faced by different racial and ethnic groups. Max prioritizes patient-centered care and advocates for the rights and well-being of patients, regardless of their race or background. He ensures that all patients receive respectful, compassionate, and high-quality care, and he actively addresses any disparities in access or treatment experienced by minority patients. In season 6, episode 3, "Why Not Yesterday", Dr. Goodwin worked to start a Black Lives Matter movement throughout the hospital to help make it more inclusive and to help African Americans feel like they have a sense of belonging, in hopes to put a stop to systemic racism.

'New Amsterdam' Spoilers: Season 3, Episode 6 — System Racism (tvline.com)

Dr. Goodwin realizes that the only way he can improve patient cares is if he listens to the patients directly. Dr. Goodwin’s catch phrase throughout the show is “How can I help?” He says this to his coworkers, strangers on the street, and most important of all, his patients. Max works to engage his patients in the best care plan that they can have and asks specific questions to make sure he understands what is wrong, where they come from, and their background. Max's main goal is to end systemic racism as is shown in the video below.

Max's approach to patient care really follows alongside with Peggy McIntosh's privilege list. Two of the statements on her list of what we went over in class resembles how Dr. Goodwin approached his patients to connect with them on a higher level than just knowing their name and reason to be in the hospital.

This brings the conversation to white privilege and how Peggy McIntosh explains how people do not realize that they have white privilege or that they are more fortunate than others.

I can do well in a challenging situation without being called a credit to my race.

I can choose public accommodation without fearing that people of my race cannot get in or will be mistreated.

Dr. Goodwin rounds with patients to let them know that is it not their fault that they are in the situation that they are in and let them know that they will get the same treatment and cares that everyone else gets, no matter the race.

This shows how white privilege can circulate so easily, as we see that the only patients who were worried about receiving health equity were people of a different race.

White - Privilege Checklist | Project Humanities (asu.edu)

"White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack" and "Some Notes for Facilitators" - National SEED Project

Many patients throughout the show expressed their worries about getting care in the hospital due to their race, socioeconomic status, and gender identity. Several patients admitted that they always would avoid health care due to being a different race or not having the funds for healthcare. Max Goodwin made it his priority to advocate for these patients and let them know that they are in a safe environment with the best cares around.

Richard Dyer, a prominent cultural critic, known for his work is cultural theory and whiteness studies has an article, "On the Matter of Whiteness." This articles main idea is that how whiteness operates as a normative category, influencing perceptions of identity and power. In the article Dyer explains how we (white people) talk about the "blackness" of an African American or the "Chineseness" of a Chinese person, but no one ever talks about the "whiteness" of a white person. Dyer argues that this is because "white" is the "normal" category when it comes to race.

In the show, Max Goodwin made it a goal for patients to not see themselves as different because they are African American, Chinese, Hispanic, etc. and that there is no "normal" race. Dr. Goodwin put in efforts to show that every race deserves equal rights and treatment to show that there is no normal.

Dyer.pdf: Multicultural America (instructure.com)

#health equity #new amsterdam #white privelage #Youtube

[fluffypotatey]

Macky’s online creator milestone checklist is as follows: get a rival trying to out one you, get a copy cat being genuinely inspired, make your first apology video before youtube doxxes you for not being a white female with pretty privilege, have your content get called cringe and bland by reaction channels, anymore issues you know he might run into?

musical copyright if he uses unoriginal music and scores for his films, not having a license for specific locations he wants to film, accusations of employee abuse, having your content be called underrated and amazing by reaction channels, having people comment “who else is here because of [insert some meme here]”

just to name a few

#asks #lmk 6earm4c au #hilariously he has less crimes as a filmmaker than as a villain/partner of swk

[jimarionwill]

Black Lives Matter social media

the subject of my social media selection is the Black Lives Matter social media account (Blklivesmatter). Black Lives Matter is a decentralized political and social movement that seeks to highlight racism, discrimination, and racial inequality experienced by black people, and promote anti-racism. Its primary concerns are incidents of police brutality and racially motivated violence against black people. I chose this social media because it relates to our topic in class about the civil rights movement. a nationwide movement for equal rights for African Americans and for an end to racial segregation and exclusion arose across the United States. by how the " March on Milwaukee " contributed to the national fight for civil rights for African - Americans and to passage of the federal fair housing act in 1968. Like an example of this is in our week 4 articles with the articles titled Richard Dryer , " on the Matter of Whiteness " and Peggy McIntosh " white privilege : unpacking the invisible knapsack" , and Peggy McIntosh " white privilege checklist". Black Lives Matter is a protestested social group demanding the police and kkk afilliates to stop killing the black community just because they have a dark skin tone. Police and the whites were killing these African American's for the wrongful reasons. an example of this is in Minnesota where a man named George Floyd was wrongfully accused and a police officer kneeled on his face and he was telling the officer " I can't breathe". In addition there was a teenager named Trayvon Martin who was just eating skittles with his hood up and gets fatally shot and murrdered for no reason at all. What I mean by white privilege is that the whites are more superior than any other color. An example would be Emmitt Till and how was brutal murdered and hunted by the neck for whistling at a white lady. Black Lives Matter also relates to week 7 African Americans pdf. Like I said before Black Lives Matter is a group that wants justice for the whites wrongful actions and the civil rights movement had no say in anything. the African American wasn't always like this with the 13th amendment in 1865 with slavery being abandoned and the 14th amendment in 1868 were all slaves were granted citizenship in the great migration. In week 1 race and ethnicity with the articles titled Gregory Jay, "what is multiculturalism" with how the world was segregated. It was the black community vs the white community in this battle for equality. Blacks couldn't do things that the whites couldn't do like drink out the same butler , and eat at certain spots at restraints and justice just wasn't equal to the African community.

Dyer.pdf

white-privilege.pdf

whatismc.pdf

Week 7 African Americans.pdf

[lydiascheidler]

Kat Graham: Actress, Singer, Activist

Kat Graham is an American actress, singer, and activist, born on September 5th, 1989 in Switzerland. She was raised in California, primarily by her mother, who raised her in her Jewish religion. Kat Graham is most well known for playing Bonnie Bennett in 2009-2017 TV show The Vampire Diaries. Graham has reported facing discrimination on set because of her race. However, she has taken these experiences and turned it into something positive through her activism which she frequently shares on her Instagram.

"So this is my fro coming out party! 🎉💕Never before have I ever broken down my hair or skin and make up routine like this (Ever!). This was the most vulnerable video I have ever done. And I wanted to do it with the biggest fashion magazine in the world, so I could help show young girls honesty versus unrealistic expectations of ourselves. I know that there are a lot of young girls right now that need to know that they are beautiful and that they don’t have to change who they are to be accepted and valued. Black women we should stand in our truth and power!! Thank you @pay_gz @gabriellereich @_uncle__lee_ @polisg for being with me every second thru this liberating moment. Thank you @voguemagazine for standing with me in this important message during a time when we need to be louder than ever. Check out Vogue’s YouTube for the full vid." (Caption by Kat Graham)

Here we can see Kat Graham talking about how she has been on a self love journey, especially with her hair. She states that she never thought she would own an afro pick because the African hair texture is not something that Hollywood accepts or celebrates. This reminds me of a couple things that we went over in Multicultural America. Peggy McIntosh's "White Privilege Checklist" that we studied has an item that particularly stood out to me. The item that describes being able to turn on the TV and see my race widely represented. This is a huge privilege that many non-White individuals do not get to enjoy very often. Also, as we see here, even if they are represented, it's in a White-washed way. This is why Kat Graham advocates for Black leads.

This is an image from Kat's Instagram from campaign by Netflix called "Strong Black Lead". She states in the caption that the vision of this campaign was to bring Black creatives and icons together. It is extremely important to advocate for every race to have an equal amount of lead roles so everyone can see themselves represented in movies and TV.

Kat Graham also advocates for refugees around the world.

"It’s easy to be discouraged with all the uncertainty and hurting happening in the world with #COVID19 right now. But refugees like Kituza teach us all an important lesson in resilience and perseverance. Twelve years ago she escaped unspeakable violence when rebels attacked her village and killed her parents in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Only 16, Kituza fled by herself and found safety in Mozambique. In Mozambique she continued her favorite hobby, making dolls. Now she has turned a therapeutic hobby into a small business that can help provide for herself and her family. @refugees is working hard to not only provide emergency support for refugees in need, but to give refugees like Kituza opportunities that allow them to live safely, with the dignity everyone deserves to have." (Kat Graham's caption)

Here we can see a post in which Graham is sharing the story of a refugee from the Democratic Republic of Congo. I think that this is very similar to some of the story we studied in class of the image that was circulated of the boy who got beaten to death for simply being Black. Sharing personal stories makes these issues more real and prompts people to help.

Because of her work, Graham has been named a UN Goodwill Ambassador.

Kat Graham stated "I am so honored and grateful to be named a United Nations Goodwill Ambassador for UNHCR, The UN Refugee Agency.  The refugees I’ve met over the years have inspired me through their strength, resilience and incredible capabilities to teach and help support their communities." (Graham, 2020)

Graham has also done collaborations with other celebrities to gain more support for refugees.

I think that videos like this definitely gain financial support for the issues that they support, because fans of the celebrities will donate just because they like the celebrity. No matter how she makes it happen, by humanizing these people or just because people like her, Kat Graham is making a difference every day.

Citations:

Instagram, @KatGraham https://www.instagram.com/katgraham/

#Instagram

[multicultural-america-blog]

Blog #2; Get Out

The movie I chose for blog #2 was “Get Out” written and directed by Jordan Peele. This movie is about a bi-racial couple, Rose and Chris, visiting Rose's white family for the first time and the family seems accepting and liberal.

After Chris encounters many sinister events, it turns out the family was using the daughter to lure black people to the house to steal their bodies, and put white people's brains into the black bodies, to acquire the physical advantages they believed African Americans possessed. They did this by the mother, who was a psychiatrist, “helping” the black person with hypnotism. In this case, she was helping him quit smoking, therefore she did hypnotism where he ended up in the “sunken place”. The sunken place is how they sedate him so he can’t fight back, since it puts him in a coma-like state. From there, the father, who was a surgeon, can do the procedure to switch the highest bidding white person’s brain into Chris’s body, where he would live in the sunken place forever. 

Chris tricked the family by putting cotton in his ears so the hypnotism wouldn’t work, therefore able to fight each family member for his survival. Once he takes out every family member, he fights Rose last, and as she’s dying on the pavement, a cop car pulls up with their lights on. Rose starts reaching for the cop car saying “help”, and Chris puts his hands on his head and backs away from Rose. Chris’s friend steps out of the car instead, who is there to save Chris. The movie ends with Chris and his friend driving away from the house in the cop car. 

This movie dives into the manipulation and objectification of black people, specifically their talents and natural physical abilities. Although the movie shows a very dramatized idea of how white people feel the need to control black people, the movie shows how black people are used for their talents rather than appreciated for their talents. In the movie, although they were okay with having a black body, the white people taking over the bodies still show white supremacy by valuing the white brain over the black person's existence. This shows that the physical abilities of black bodies are seen as a commodity to racists, rather than a human. 

The part of this movie that spoke volumes was as the cop car was pulling up, Chris, the victim, put his hands on his head while stepping away, and Rose, the criminal, acted innocent while saying help. I connected this back to the white privilege checklist because this shows blatant white privilege. In class, we explored Peggy McIntosh’s “White Privilege Checklist” and in our Media project, we explored what someone would add to the list. I believe “When I am in trouble, need help, harmed, or am involved in a crime, I can trust to call the police for help without fear of being harmed, or wrongfully accused” would be a good start to add to this checklist. 

I also connected the obsession with the abilities of African American bodies in the film to a discussion I had with my aunt for the Media project. She explained how she would like to see more black people acknowledged for their academic and personal achievements, rather than just their talents in entertainment, such as athletes, rappers, actors, etc. This relates to the movie because the black bodies were valued for what they could do for the white brains in control of the body. This connects to the spotlight around black artists and athletes for what they can offer, rather than who they are or what they can accomplish from who they are. 

Overall, this film was a unique depiction of how internalized racism can create evil ideas and the dangers of objectifying African Americans for what they can do for white people. This is one of my favorite movies, and I enjoy the brilliance that went behind creating this film.

Rose and Jack

Roses Parents

Chris being hypnotized.

"The Sunken Place"

Surgery Room

[maxlambert2]

Multimedia Blog 1

The Curse is a new show by creators Nathan Fielder and Benny Safdie about the creation of a new reality tv-show gone haywire. The initial premise, although comedic, takes a dark turn with the introduction of a “curse” which seems to have an impact over everything, whether the curse is real or not.

On the surface, it provides a satire of reality tv stars and productions, exploring the artifice that comes with television, but dives into deeper social issues along the way. One major example relating to Multicultural America is the White Privilege Checklist by Peggy McIntosh. The two lead characters, Asher and Whitney are both white and wealthy people, which provides a strong contrast to the working-class and indigenous communities around them. The premise of the show relates directly to point three, that the reader can turn on the tv and see someone of their race. Home improvement shows are famously populated with Caucasian couples, a trope The Curse plays with. The main characters operate as acknowledging their privileges and choosing to use them to benefit the local community. But all while they say they are aware of their privileges, and try to benefit the community, they simply contribute to the exploitation of indigenous land and to gentrifying this place. 

The exploitation of Indigenous land in The Curse by the hands of the lead characters brings to mind segments of Aleta Ringlero’s Prairie Pinups. In relation to the pinups that are the subject of Ringerlo’s text, they say “They make the viewer uncomfortable, and a general tone of reticence towards the prairie pinups.” In episode two of The Curse, the leads take a local artist out to dinner, hoping to use her artwork in their tv show. They wine and dine her to exploit her for their own monetary gain. The situation is uncomfortable, with the viewer being plainly aware of the business deal at play, presented with long takes of uncomfortable silence.

Like what Ringerlo said, these images in the show are made to make the viewer uncomfortable, which might not have been the original intention of the pinups, but is the historical context brought upon through our knowledge of the exploitation of Native people. The tone of the show is restrained, letting the awkward and uncomfortable moments shine through, letting the audience decide if our characters are knowledgeable of their exploitation and white privilege. The Curse judges from afar. 

#Youtube

[iea123]

Gen V Tumblr Blog Post 1

Gen V is a superhero show on Amazon Prime Video which is a spin off series of the boys. It is sort of a parody of other super hero shows and movies but even though the boys started off more like that Gen V is more of a political commentary through superhero's. In the show a group of super powered main characters attend a super hero school and find dark secrets and deal with a ton of problems. It relates to our course topics through literal examples as well as through metaphors. In the entire series the idea of superheroes and they're existence is treated as a separate race and class. In episode 7 there is a town hall interview at the campus and while the political candidate is talking about prosecuting super heroes the students get upset because they feel like super-people as a race are better than average humans and are above the law which is how white privilege can sometimes feel and be. In the final episode a group of executives are trying to decide who to add to a super hero team. Instead of choosing based off ability or personality they decide on rating and race. They discuss how black people and trans people wouldn't do well with certain demographics and regions so they rate them lower. This relates to the ideas presented in week 4 and in the Dyer on how whiteness is the norm and has power that it shouldn't. The main character in this show is a black woman who has faced adversity in her life due to what her powers are and her race. She doesn't get opportunities other get and then when she is in the limelight she gets used a model for her race, similar to one of the questions in Peggy McIntosh's White Privilege Checklist "I am never asked to speak for all of the people of my racial group". This show takes every chance it can get to metaphorically and literally criticize the way the world treats race, ethnicity, and gender. It doesn't hold much back in terms of gore as well as social commentary and breaking of norms. I think it's a good example of how ethnicity is portrayed in digital media.

media1.popsugar-assets.com

www.tvinsider.com

Blaze

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