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kainscape · 3 years

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Slashers with an S/O who talks in their sleep

@chibizombiebehindyou: Could you do the slashers (including Asa and Jesse) with a reader who talks in their sleep?

A/N: Decided to do this in a short prompt type of writing piece so I can practice writing short stories without going way overboard

A/N: okay maybe it’s not as short as I thought but hey, it’s not over 2 pages- yeah no it’s pretty lengthy 💀 and it’s not proofread ‼️

Bo Sinclair

It was a consuming and bone-breaking job that the Sinclair brothers did. Therefore, sleep was never guaranteed. But, with you? You decided on your own that you would keep yourself awake to see Bo come home in one piece. He always brushed your worry off as your so called obsession with him. After a few times of butchering your sleep schedule, it wasn't long before you were fast asleep when Bo retuned home. He made his way up the stairs, shedding his boots at the top. Discarding his mechanic coveralls, he was left in a stained but washed grey t shirt and his boxers. He had heard some quiet mumbling but didn't really look into it. The noise had vanished as he pulled back some of the old cover, slowly resting his body beside you. You had looked dead asleep, your body contracting slow and steady breaths. Exempt your mouth moving and forming words. He smirked, realizing you were taking in your sleep. He had some assumptions about it when you would ask questions with no reasoning. He wasn’t too worried. He propped himself up on his elbow to look over at you. “What do you mean you didn’t see it?! It was as big as your ass dude!” That’s something he’s never heard before. He couldn’t help but genuinely laugh at your behavior, shaking his head until he heard his name. “Well, Bo, what else do you want me compare it to, your dick!? Yeah right.” His face deadpanned, furrowing his eyebrows. He scoffed, turning over dramatically as he rolled his eyes. He faced away from you, biting the inside of his cheek. In the morning, he might tease you or ask questions around what you said. Either way, he’s not bothered by it.

Vincent Sinclair

It had been a long day for the boys and you within Ambrose. What a better way to go to sleep cuddled up together and arise later in the day by Bo? Of course, you were always first within the bed, already dead asleep and dreaming of whatever your mind wander to. Vincent kept awareness of where the creeks were in the floorboards, avoiding them so he could peacefully lay in bed next to your sleeping form. Yet he heard some prominent mumbling coming from you, serving closer and gently easing up the blankets to slip in. He had removed his mask already, carefully turning to face you. You had your arm over your eyes, mouth open and moving from incoherent sentences. But one was clear as day, “I’m convinced Vincent uses Gucci conditioner and shampoo, my god.” You mumbled a few after that but he was utterly confused. Why were you talking about that weird brand you had showed him once, and why did it correlate to your dream?? He shook his head gently, scooting closer and resting his arm across your waist/stomach, pulling himself against your form until he fell asleep to your rhythmic breathing. Sometimes, he’s entertained by your night time conversations.

Lester Sinclair

Your boyfriend had a fairly easy job compared to his brothers, but when there were visitors piling up after one another, it took a whole lot longer to come back home to you and your shared bed. The frogs and cicadas were a whole lot louder than usuals, but it was like a lullaby to you by now. Which queues the small mumbling escaping your mouth. He was quiet when he came, but of course, Lester wasn’t the best at silence. Luckily you were to lost in your dream to realize he was already snuggling in beside you. He had took notice of your nonsense sentences from time to time, not that it bothered him. If anything, it was an entertaining thing to listen to before going to sleep. It gave him a sense of what your brain really thinks of. “Lester… if I dressed up as roadkill… would you pick me up too?” He tried so damn hard to stifle his laugh, his body almost shaking as you formed a stupid grin on your face. Lester took in a deep breath, biting the inside of his cheek as he buried his head into the side of your neck. “Sure, hun’” he was sure to keep his words to a hush, taking note to your shared silence. There was a comfortable coldness that covered your bodies compared to the blistering heat outside. What a way to end the day.

Will Graham

Go to work, panic, panic some more and get no sleep. This was Wills routine even with you trying to hassle him into bed. He was always focused on something, or just simply to stubborn to let himself rest for once. But tonight, he had one hell of an excuse. Jack had kept him for a lot longer than both of you would like. But you knew what you signed up for when you accepted to go on a date with Will. You figured out after multiple nights of fruitless attempts at staying up and waiting for your boyfriend, you just gave in and went to sleep on your own terms. This gave Will the opportunity to overthink in peace without the guilt of making you worry. The job had took a huge toll on his physical capacity, leading him to shrugging off his clothing while he made his way to the side of the bed. He rubbed his eye, yawning as he lifted the blanket to the new queen bed you guys had bought, giving more room for dogs and the two of you. He stopped his motions, watching closely as you turned your body towards him. You were mouthing words but they were quiet and blotched. Will slowly slid underneath the covers, feeling his body sink in the end to a relaxed position. He had took not of your sleep talking, not bothered by it. To be honest, he likes to hear what you would say when you weren’t conscious of it. “I wish we had one of those stress powered lightbulbs…” A very quiet and short chuckle made its way out of you, “of course it’s for you, you could probably power Russia with how much stress you have.” And with that, he scoffed and turned the other way, mumbling to himself before attempting to sleep.

Jason Voorhees

Jason always makes sure you’re getting enough rest for your health. He’s adamant about you being your best self with a healthy body and mind. But, he’s never really surprised to see you up waiting for him time to time, honestly he can’t complain. He loves seeing you there in the cabin with the fire still going as you greet him with that beautiful smile. It’s truly warming for him. The rest of the nights, you’re always in the dark comfort of your shared room, resting atop the creaking bed and under the quilt blankets. The cabin door whipped open, quickly caught by the giant hand wrestling against the harsh winter wind. He tried his best to quietly close the door, pushing the lock in place he had added after a break in from a trespasser happened. He observed the room, laying his machete within the kitchen sink after shedding his jacket and laying it on the chair around the wood table. Expertly avoiding the creaks in the floor, he gently pushed open the bedroom door, slipping in without a sound. There was a severely dim light coming from the window, which shadowed over your face just right so he could see you. Jason had took off his boots while he listening to the common small talk from your sleeping form. You guys had decided to look in all the cabins, landing on the jackpot of a bigger bed so you could have more room. Therefore, it wasn’t a huge hassle for Jason to slip into the bed without the alarm of waking you. You were turned away from him, slow breaths from to body. The hockey mask laid on the dusty end table, facing up as Jason looked down at you. A small smile formed on his lips, listening as your talking grew a little more coherent. “Come on Jason, you got all that cake.. and you’re not gonna give me none?” His smile slowly faded, realizing what you meant by ‘cake.’ It ha mentioned before, especially when you went out of your way to slap his ass and look him in eyes to say, “a whole damn bakery back there..” Jason took it on himself to get used to it, not bothered by the comments. He shook his head, inching down so he could pull you closer to his chest, a very strong arm wrapped around you.

Michael Myers

There’s never a sleep schedule with the two of you. There’s times where Michael is out for days at time, retuning only when your asleep and unknowing. There are those very rare times like this one where you’re aware of Michaels presence in the bed while you drift of into sleep. He’s definitely not the type to pull you close or make a move to hold you, but he’s not going to push you away if you wrap yourself around him. Which is where you lay on his chest, listening to his eternally calmed heart beat as you knocked out. It had took a damn long time, but you achieved the privilege of seeing Michael without the infamous mask you grew accustomed too. His eyes usually zeroed in on the ceiling, waiting until he need to close his eyes came. But this time, he looked down at you shifting a bit in his chest, a few words spoken. “I really don’t know how people can’t smell you form your hiding places.. I can literally smell you before you walk in a room.. it’s not a good thing either.” His eyebrows furrowed together, trying to understand why you were composing about how he.. smelled. Yet here you are, your face completely shoved into his chest. He gave you an unimpressed eye roll, turning his head on the pillow for an attempt at some sleep. He found it rather amusing that you would speak whatever you thought without restrictions when you would sleep talk. Something to quietly tease you about.

Jesse Cromeans

He had already experienced your sleep taking, the cameras in his house capturing anything you did. Sometimes you asked questions or said random comments, all that made Jesse smirk or silently laugh. He had also taken notice to the earlier times you went to bed, your stubborn idea to stay up and wait for him dying down. He didn’t mind this, satisfied with your healthy sleep schedule returning. He set the tapes in a box for tomorrow’s checking. Jesse eased open the bedroom door, a small ray of light traveling across the room to reveal the bed you laid in. The black silk sheets covering your sound figure. He pushed the door back closed, taking off all his work attire to be left in his boxers and undershirt. He shimmied underneath the covers, slowly scooting closer to your body. Of course, there were some unconscious words to be shared. “I just realized I’ve got to sleep in every room…” there was some silence before you spoke again, “why?… look don’t even worry about.” There was humorous tone in the last sentence, one that felt oddly genuine for someone asleep. He shook his head, smiling while he took in your scent that comforted him. His hands caressed any exposed skin as the room fell silent, including his mind as you both shared a deep sleep.

Asa Emory

It wasn’t something he really cared to take notice about, never really sleeping at the same time as you due to his large amounts of work he took on. It was to the point he would drift off into a dreamless sleep on his desk. Not that you could really do anything about it with his stubborn view point, so you kept to yourself and went to your bed without him. Well, went to bed also meant brining a pillow and blanket down to Asas work place and sleeping the the chair. You just wanted to feel your boyfriends presence before you fell asleep. He only looked up for a few before looking back down at the scatter of papers, shuffling though some before writing. You made yourself as comfortable as you could get, sighing as you let your body relax. The sleep came easier than expected, the few sniffles sounding in the room letting you know Asa was still there. It was oddly comforting. A flash of worry did strike you, the worry that your sleep talking would annoy him, causing you to have to leave. But it was worth the few bits of it. Asa sighed, running his hand down his face as he battled the tired feeling back. Lending back in his seat, he crossed his arms while looking up to you in the leather chair. Without a warning, a question was asked out loud from you, “What color box would I get if I was one of your butterflies?” He tilted his head, furrowing his eyebrows before humoring himself by answering, “Red. To match the original one.” It seems like your dream had answered for you, the words quiet on your tongue as your chest arose slowly. Asa took in another breath before rising to his feet, walking over to you. He brought a hand up to your resting face, his thumb brushing your drink. What a beautiful butterfly you would be.

#bo sinclair #slashers #house of wax #lester sinclair #slasher #vincent sinclair #slasher x reader #x reader #fan fiction #bo sinclair x reader #lester sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x s/o #jason voorhees #jesse cromeans x s/o #asa emory x reader #michael myers x s/o #will graham x reader #hannibal 2013 #will graham

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largemaxa · 7 years

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Analytic vs. Intuitive Methods of Learning about Art

(Originally published 1/29/15 on old blog)

I started a close reading of EM Forster's Room with a View yesterday. By doing this, I'd like to increase my understanding of both the craft of story construction as well as literary aesthetics in general. My approach to reading so far has been something like: "just experience what you're reading, let the words wash over in waves and you will absorb what you need to understand". I've had a sense that I'm "missing something" in my understanding of literature, and from general knowledge as well as specific encounters with various critical perspectives have had a vague awareness that more deliberate techniques could be used. But I've been hesitant to go too far into such any such approach myself. On thinking about it, I realized that, over and above the chief obstacle of inertia, the hesitancy has to do with my surprisingly troubled relationship with the role of "analysis" in appreciating and creating "art" generally.

When I started studying jazz seriously in high school, I led myself down some dubious roads in search of musical enlightenment. For at least the first year or two, I'd practice mechanical exercises on relating scales to "chord changes", finding all possible permutations/inversions of various jazzy-sounding-jazz-chords, and so on, in a way that was totally removed from musical context. In short, I fetishized the trivially "intellectual" aspect of jazz that is fetishized by naive jazz students in the way it's most typically fetishized by naive jazz students. (To those who are unfamiliar with the world of insecure intellectual-aspect-fetishizing jazz students: this is a thing.) To my credit, I somehow managed to recognize that what I was doing was wrong ("not soulful"?), and attempted to correct it. At some point between my senior year of high school and freshman year of college, I fell almost entirely under the sway of a selective misreading of Marsalis family-camp** policy regarding jazz education and practice. This misreading heavily stressed listening and memorizing/transcribing notable jazz solos solely by ear - WITHOUT the sort of "analysis" that students usually perform on those works to extract musical information(identifying how the notes relate to the chord sequences, etc), instead paying much closer (aural) attention to subtle aspects of articulation and rhythmic placement. I spent a good part of my freshman year of college memorizing all of Louis Armstrong's solos on one volume of "Hot Fives" and Lester Young's solos on "Lester Young meets Oscar Peterson".

This misreading of their methodology combined with several abused/overextended mental images to lead to a dogmatic mental model of musical creativity that something like this: music is somehow "absorbed" and then "assimilated" by some sort of subconscious creative-musical-faculty. Through deliberate cultivation(like intensive listening, memorization, and reproduction) one could facilitate this process of absorbtion. Eventually, the subconscious creative-musical-faculty, in some mysterious way, projects "true music" forward through the instrument. The analytic mind could have nothing to do with any aspect of the process: seeking to mentally understand things and put them in the right place(like the transcription analyzing approach, the matching chords to notes approach) could only lead to a Frankenstein-collage of synthetic approximations rather than authentic, organic, soulful musical "speaking".

I actually made a great deal of progress with that dogmatic model. And, in fact, it led me to some areas of musicianship that many naive-jazz-students never get to - subtle issues of touch, phrasing and articulation. Most importantly, I learned how to "swing"(though a Marsalis family member may disagree). (I doubt you will find two people who give you the same definition of "swing", but I'll define it as a (surprisingly) subtle musical method of rhythmic placement, delivery, and attitude that is the key to "speaking" jazz authentically.)

But when I look back at the development of my playing, it's clear that a lot of the progress from that dogmatic period was built upon work from the intellect-fetishizing period - the fact is that I DID know the scales I should use and their sonic implications, even if I tried not to "think" about it, instead attempting to channel Sonny Rollins and Lester Young. And the fact that I wasn't willing to be "analytical" during this period held me back, even relative to the kinds of things I would have wanted to accomplish at that point. It's difficult to get to crazy layered substitutions a la Michael Brecker or Mark Turner without deliberate "analytic" cultivation. Interaction with Steve Lehman's spectral harmonies is not accessible through pure hearing. (***) I don't remember if my intent was not to deal with that sort of material, or if I believed I really could get there with the dogmatic approach, or if I thought I'd just approximate it with my methodology (possible, actually - though they'd be "organic" approximations rather than "plastic Frankenstein" approximations).

Around 2008, I took my focus away from music and directed it towards a lot of other things. I've developed no great capacities or bases of knowledge, but have managed to catch hold of "a certain way of thinking about things". Last year I read Against Method by philosopher of science Paul Feyerabend and encountered a phrase and formulation that summed up and clarified my approach to "thinking in general" - musical or not - during this post-2008 period: "methodological anarchy" - the idea that anything and everything can(not WILL) be useful in any individual case - and the details of each individual case do indeed make a lot of difference. Absolutely, learn a Ben Webster solo by heart, paying close attention to rhythm and articulation, and keep careful track of the influence of Charlie Parker on John Coltrane. But also feel free to analyze Coltrane's substitutions or develop theories of melodic/harmonic motion derived from any aspect of one's studies. (More generally, feel free to break out of the box this discussion takes place in and question to what extent "jazz" tradition and practice itself is a coherent entity.) If (when?) I take a deep dive into music again, all of these aspects (and more) will be a part of my approach.

I'd like to suggest (of course, ridiculously) that in this close reading of a classic early 20th century novel - the sort of thing that you'd find on a 19 year old's college syllabus - I'm attempting to channel a radical "methodological anarchist" spirit: I'm taking an approach to understanding the aesthetics and craft of writing that I haven't yet considered; a way that is (historically) considered suitable to it rather than a way that is in line with my preexisting conceptions. My approach to writing/reading has so far been guided by two things. First, there's a sense in which it's modeled on the (old) approach I took towards music: I concentrate on reading widely in an attempt to "absorb" whatever ideas and devices I'm able to; work with local properties, permutations of thoughts and words; issues of how to shape words around the contours of individual thoughts; and pay a lot of attention to the "flow" and "rhythm" of my language****. The second guide is what I call (in my internal language) "first principles analysis". Think: spending a lot of time pacing up and down a hallway with internal dialogues featuring phrases like "...what a story even IS..." - which often fruitless and frustrating (and incoherent), but enjoyable. I claim to get a lot of clarity out of this sort of exercise, but I can never point to what that clarity actually is, because it always seems to dissolve right back into what I already thought I knew about whatever I was thinking about.

But so far I've avoided historically accepted categories and concepts like 'plot', 'character', 'themes', 'social structure', 'textual structure'(at the level of 'paragraph', 'scene', 'chapter', 'work'), 'recurrent words'/'imagery' because knowledge about these aspects has neither "washed over me" nor been derivable (for me) from "first principles". I do have a concrete sense, though, that paying attention through deliberate analysis to these aspects of texts could be helpful. (And I seem to have enough will to get me through the next chapter or two, at the least.)

**Important note: there are socio-cultural-political overtones and debates around many of the issues implied here. Unfortunately I don't feel that I'm up to the task of creating a coherent narrative even of the truths that I do perceive about the situation. But very briefly, the Marsalis Brothers, Wynton and Branford, rose to public prominence in the 1980's as stellar jazz musicians and proponents of a neo-conservative narrative of the jazz tradition. A "pro": In addition to their numerous artistic successes, their advocacy work brought a great deal of attention to jazz and securing institutional funding and support, and, quite possibly, nursing jazz to whatever health it still has today. A "con": generations of jazz and jazz-affiliated musicians resent the simplistic narrative of "jazz progress" that left out incredibly important branches, streams, and musical/artistic values and served to further marginalize those branches by delegitimizing them.

***Branford Marsalis actually gets at essentially the entire world of harmonic/melodic freedom that I imply is hard to reach through "non-analytic" methods, while at the same time heavily (if not exclusively - I don't know ALL of his viewpoints) endorsing some of the "non-analytic" methods I described. So I don't want to say that it's not possible IN GENERAL to get to any particular destination by any particular method.

**** My use of "flow"/"rhythm" here is not abuse of a metaphor or weak analogy: I felt very concretely when I started writing more in 2013, after not having written much since high school, that I was very sensitive to the rhythmic and tactile elements of language in a way that I wasn't before, and it seemed to be directly related to my musical studies.

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