#but it has to be intense and deeply intertwined and permanent and just. more. it needs to be more

[dolce-peach]

out of time

pairing: obi-wan kenobi x jedi!reader

summary: obi-wan is plagued with dreams, but he finds comfort with you, an unexpected visitor.

warnings: some angst, mentions of death, obi-wan sad hours

a/n: i can't believe i haven’t written anything for star wars yet 😆 i’ve been watching the kenobi series and literally have fallen back in love with one of my fav characters ever 🥺💖 will most likely write more stuff to cope after the finale on wed lmao 🥲 or feel free to request some stuff hahah

permanent taglist: @kaitlynmalikisnotonfire @just-another-loki-fangirl

** TO MAKE A REQUEST -- please check the status in my bio **

masterlist

----

“Master!”

The disheveled Jedi awoke lying on his side, his cheek wet against his pillow.  His heart pounded against his ribcage as his blue eyes glowed in the soft moonlight and flashing lights of passing speeders that fell through the window.  It took another moment to come to his senses and blink away the blurriness of sleep.  It was just too early to rise.  Sighing, he turned on his back to fix his gaze on the ceiling.

It was that part of his days he hated most.  He’d rather stay awake for the rest of his life if it meant that he could be spared of those awful nightmares.  He tried everything he could to prevent them, meditation, intense training, even consulting Master Yoda.

There was a quiet knock at the door, along with a voice.

“Obi-Wan?”

His muscles instantly relaxed upon hearing your voice.  He was almost reluctant to get out of bed and answer the door.

When he opened it to see you, you immediately engulfed him in a hug.

“I could feel your pain from across the hall,” you admitted.

As he slowly wrapped his arms around you, he whispered your name like a prayer.  Breathing in your scent brought him home.  It grounded him enough to let you inside, shutting the door behind you.

You guided him back to bed, your hand soft and warm.  You didn't probe him with questions or empty words, and he deeply appreciated that, more than you would ever come to know.  Instead you caught his blue gaze, letting him find solace in yours.

He knew you didn’t know the pain of losing a master, and he prayed that you never would.

“I miss him,” he finally said.  “Master Qui-Gon.”

You looked down, squeezing his hand.  “I know,” you replied.  “I do too.”

Obi-Wan laughed bitterly.  “You’d think I’d let this go already.  It’s been years, but his death still has me in a vice grip.  I can’t breathe.”  His voice wavered.  “I keep thinking that maybe there was something I could’ve done.  I still had so much to learn from him.”

“Sometimes you can't let go, and maybe that's okay.  I know I wouldn't be able to,” you said.  “You did everything you could.”

“But the Council --”

“The Council doesn’t show enough empathy when they need to.”

His lips teased a ghost of a smile.  “You sound like him.”

You returned his smile before it quickly dissolved.  “No one said this road would be easy.  They strip us from our families before we could bond with them, and then further our isolation by forbidding strong attachments.”  Your gaze was distant, fixed somewhere outside the window.  “But it’s that devotion to another living being that is something the course of time cannot stop.  It’s in our nature to potentially care so strongly for someone...even if it hurts.”

“Even if it hurts,” he echoed.

Nodding, you muster a smile as you brought his hand into your lap, gently intertwining your callused fingers through his.

“Your thoughts and feelings you have are real and true, and they shape your character,” you began.  “But don’t dwell on them forever.”

As he watched you illuminated in the moonlight, he was overcome again with how lucky he was.  Of course, there was no such thing as luck, as everything happens for a reason, but somehow all the stars that were working against him granted him mercy in that moment.  In the slim chance that the galaxy would implode, he knew that as his world came crumbling to the ground around him, there you’d be.

As if hearing his thoughts, you ran your thumb over his skin in slow, mindless circles.  “I’m right here, Obi-Wan,” you said softly as you leaned closer.  “Right here...”

He leaned in towards you, his forehead grazing yours.  He closed his eyes as he sighed.

You trailed your hand up towards his cheek, his trimmed beard tickling your palm.  His cheek was soft under some gentle swipes of your thumb.  “You should get some sleep.”

Sensing distress through his skin, you slowly lay him down, sitting up next to him.  Your hand never let go of his as you sat.  The fingers of your free hand brushed the hair from his face, stroking a slow rhythm enough to make you sleepy.  His eyes were a welcoming blue as he watched you carefully, as if you were going to disappear.

He said your name again, fighting sleep.  His anxiety still desperately reached out to you.  It was as if you were his last lifeline.

“Please stay.”

It broke your heart to see him this way.  You had known Obi-Wan since you were both younglings in the temple.  You knew him like the back of your hand, his reactions, his thoughts, his moves, and you were sure he knew you the same way.  Not often did he show this crumbling side of him, the side that neither healed nor scarred.

Those two words were pleading but laced with regret as he spoke them.  He knew he could never have you.  You were his pressure point, his one sign of weakness.  He knew this well and yet when you were with him, his mind was at peace.  Surely something considered so bad couldn't be good.  The last thing he wanted to do was to hurt you.

Much to his relief, you nodded.  “I’m not going anywhere.”  Nudging him over, you lay down next to him.  “My place is right here next to you.”

“Good,” he said quietly.

The next moments were filled with a healthy silence.  White street noise came in through the window.  

“I don’t want to sleep,” he admitted.  “I’ll just fall back into the same nightmare again.”

You shook your head against the pillow.  “You won’t,” you reassured him.  “And if you do, I’ll be here still.”

He brought your hand up, brushing your knuckles against his lips.  He earned your brightest smile, and his whole world seemed to fall faster in a way.

You laughed as he pulled you closer.  You rested your head close to his chest.  His warmth made you drowsy.  He smelled of gentle spices and clean linen, the smell of...

“Home,” you found yourself murmuring.  Upon hearing him hum with confusion, you continued.  “You smell like home.”

A chuckle rumbled through his chest.  “Lavender,” he breathed as he ran his fingers through your hair.

Eventually his breathing slowed, and you knew from his steady heartbeat that he was asleep.  You pulled back to see his eyes closed, his long lashes were still.  His usually furrowed brow was relaxed.  He looked youthful, though you could still see the signs of grief and aging etched in his skin.

You placed a kiss on his forehead before smoothing out his hair, and you whispered three words he would never hear you say aloud again.

--

When he finally came to, he felt toasty in the unforgiving desert sun that entered the cave.  Sitting up, he groaned, his older bones aching from lying on the thin cot.

It took him a while to finally roll off the rock and prepare a meager meal.

It had been about ten years since everything went wrong.  Majority of the Jedi were gone, the entire temple was destroyed, and the only people he loved in the entire galaxy were dead.  When he was instructed by Master Yoda to live on Tatooine and watch over one of Anakin's children, it was almost a blessing to seclude himself.

He had missed his old life, but after fighting through years of war, settling down seemed inevitable.  He selfishly only hoped to do it with you.

You were one of the last to perish when Anakin attacked the Jedi Temple.  When Obi-Wan finally got there to take in the damage, his heart fell to his stomach when he saw you battered and bloody.  A youngling lay in your arms, their cheeks stained with tears.

Your eyes were closed, and a certain peace softened your features.  You weren't in pain when you breathed your last.  Your body was uncomfortably light as Obi-Wan fell to his knees and held you one last time.  Your skin was so cold, yet your features and lips were still warm.  Your hair still smelled of lavender.  

His sobs weren’t enough to wake you.  He caressed your face in anguish.

You were gone.

He couldn’t feel you.

As if his own Padawan turning against everyone didn’t hurt enough, he failed you.

Time was always so slippery.  There were so many things he wanted to say to you and do with you.  He never had the chance to give you proper thanks for everything you had done because of the war exploded overnight.

He was sure you knew how he felt, but nevertheless he wanted to tell you so badly.

Whispering your name quietly in the cave gave him some comfort.

I miss you.

And something he had not heard in a long time echoed.

“My place is right here next to you.”

[roadtohell]

@mynamesdrstuff​ thank you ur brain is so big, i had like 10 moments of revelation while writing this

A Labour of Love- or, How to Write a Song That Makes Me Want to Lie Facedown On The Floor

Four decades separates the respective rises of singer-songwriters Hozier and Bruce Springsteen, nearly as large as the gap between the worlds in which their public images reside. According to popular myth, the former is the tall, near-ethereal Bog Man, half in this life and half in the next, who rose from a fae-inhabited woodland after 1000 years of slumber to find he was able only to mourn his lost love through song; the other is the Boss, a hardy yet compassionate working-class hero permanently streaked with the blood and sweat of a marathon shift, toiling endlessly alongside the heart-stopping, pants-dropping, hard-rocking, earth-quaking, booty-shaking, Viagra-taking*, love-making, legendary E Street Band. The domains of fen and factory may appear to be irreconcilable, but in reality the musicians have many things in common:

Broadly speaking, they both create wildly variable mixes of folk and rock, often with particularly strong Irish and African-American influences.

Their lyrics are poetic and commonly reflect on social issues with a progressive voice.

Songs about romantic relationships typically portray them as complex and difficult but remain respectful, sometimes near worshipful, of women.

Their characters yearn, long, pine and crave more often than not.

They both really like to use religious imagery.

They enjoy and return notable amounts of wlw love.

Representative of many of these are Hozier’s “Work Song” and Springsteen’s “Maria’s Bed”, two songs with close thematic parallels. Each is ostensibly told from the perspective of an exhausted labourer who dreams of returning to his lover. In a twist, however, “Work Song” is a melancholic love story, while the upbeat “Maria’s Bed” is a subtle tale of death; the opposing moods are complex reflections of these underlying narratives. These songs have Hozier and Springsteen skilfully intertwine the concepts of love, death, freedom and spirituality, creating two deeply moving portrayals of desire** that never fail to eviscerate the listener after 10pm.

Though the songs differ in overall lyrical structure, the similarities in narrative are evident from the first few lines:

Boys, workin' on empty / Is that the kinda way to face the burning heat? / I just think about my baby / I'm so full of love I could barely eat

Been on a barbed wire highway forty days and nights / I ain’t complaining, it’s my job and it suits me right / I got a sweet soul fever rushing round my head / I’m gonna sleep tonight in Maria’s bed

The audience can gather that each character works in a harsh environment where they are exposed to the elements. Their work is likely in manual labour, but the details are skimmed over because the narrators don’t particularly want to think about the details. Pushed to their limits, each instead copes by preoccupying himself with thoughts of his lover, though it makes him literally lovesick.

I’d never want once from the cherry tree / ‘Cause my baby’s sweet as can be / She gives me toothaches just from kissing me

She gives me candy-stick kisses ‘neath a wolf-dog moon / A sweet breath and she’ll take you, mister, to the upper room

The worker recalls his lover’s kisses as being vibrantly sweet, sweeter than nature. So, too, is her company- in contrast to the grim situation he is currently in, she is something to be savoured. Sugar cravings, an innate biological compulsion, come to mind; his hankering for her is likewise deep-seated and out of his control.

The reason for such devotion, the narrator reveals, is that she saved his life at a time when he had already resigned himself to death. He believes he was undeserving of such a deed; Hozier describes “three days on a drunken sin… she never asked me once about the wrong I did,” while Springsteen’s character recounts being “burned by angels, sold wings of lead / then I fell in the roses and sweet salvation of Maria’s bed”. In other words, his state of ruin was at least partially self-made, and her care seemed completely inexplicable. He eagerly returns her love, perhaps feeling that it’s the least he owes- but he still doesn’t quite understand where it came from.

True to both songwriters’ styles, these lines are direct allusions to the idea of redemption in Christianity: God sheltering a faithful person from the literally hellish consequences of their wrongdoing, through no merit of their own. However, the worker is notably dismissive of traditional doctrine:

My babe would never fret none / About what my hands and my body done / If the Lord don’t forgive me / I’d still have my baby and my babe would have me

I’ve been out in the desert, yeah, doing my time / Searching through the dust for fool’s gold, looking for a sign / Holy man says “hold on, brother, there’s a light up ahead” / Ain’t nothing like the light that shines on me in Maria’s bed

His faith rests not in God but on his lover; she is his religion now. Her act of grace already gave him a new, better life- he doesn’t need biblical promises when her love is tantamount to anything heaven might offer. This implication conveys a staggering depth of feeling, particularly to a religiously raised listener. Spirituality is, at its core, emotional; combined with the values and customs of religion, it is a force that can exert incredible influence over a person. The worker doesn’t reject spirituality itself- it’s an intrinsic part of him- but he has put all that power in the hands of the one he adores. It may make him vulnerable to her (that’s love!), but he is certain that she will give him the strength he needs.

Theological redemption also has close ties with death, as its benefits aren’t meant to be reaped on earth. Instead, the love, glory and freedom that are promised are relegated to the afterlife. Historically, the presumed ecstasy of achieving this gave death a sexual connotation; after all, if a lover could take the spiritual place of God, then perhaps sex could take the role of death as a gateway to paradise, far away from a life of pain. Work Song embraces this analogy, explicitly linking spiritual fulfilment to the pleasure of sexual intimacy:

When I was kissing on my baby / And she put her love down, soft and sweet / In the low lamplight, I was free / Heaven and hell were words to me

The equally suggestive Maria’s Bed allows the audience to draw similar conclusions, but it accomplishes this using a far less serious method: regular mentions of the titular bed, wink-wink-nudge-nudge. Yet this light-hearted sauciness is something of a misdirection. It’s easy to gloss over the song’s references to water, but they are strong hints that support an alternative reading: Maria is not a woman, but a river***. The story, from this perspective, then becomes much more sombre- the worker is a dying or suicidal man who wishes to have his body laid at the bottom of a river that provided for him in life, and whose real desire is for the peace he hopes to find there in death.

Got on my dead man’s suit and smiling skull ring / Lucky graveyard boots and a song to sing / I keep my heart in my work, my troubles in my head / And I keep my soul in Maria’s bed

This darker interpretation arguably makes more sense than the face-value love story, as it resolves some figures of speech that otherwise seem out of place. Even so, the more obvious reading is no less meaningful****; in fact, the coexistence of these narratives is what makes Maria’s Bed an almost perfect thematic inverse to Work Song.

When my time comes around / Lay me gently in the cold dark earth / No grave can hold my body down / I’ll crawl home to her

Hozier uses the finality of death to illustrate the strength of a man’s desire for love- his narrator embraces his own passing as he is certain not even the most permanent of barriers can keep him from his lover. Springsteen, through the personification of the river, uses the language of romance to demonstrate how fervently a man might desire death- his narrator embraces his demise because it offers a reprieve from life, just like a lover would.

All that said, no amount of lyrical analysis will reveal the clearest point of contrast the songs have: their music.

Work Song primarily draws from blues and folk music, both of which have roots in historical work songs used to coordinate physical tasks as well as boost morale. Reflecting this musical heritage, instrumentation is fairly simple, with the steady rhythm of claps and piano chords punctuating hard. It is slow and heartfelt, almost mournful; though there’s no mention of time frame, the audience has the sense that the worker still has a long way to go before he can return to his lover.  This notion comes largely from the song’s circular structure. By ending with the same music it opened with, its story is also implied to finish at its beginning: with the men hard at work in the “burning heat”, and no true relief in sight. This is furthered by having little development over the course of the song- though iterations of the chorus are more intense than the verses, the arrangements underlying both sections barely change. The worker, it seems, is never quite far enough from his reality of hard labour, and never close enough to home.

On the other hand, Maria’s Bed is relentlessly optimistic, driven by a strong forward momentum. Where most modern songs have their choruses as their most powerful feature, here the wordless refrain (“hey hey, la la la li li li li”) acts more like a transition between verses, keeping the story moving. The jaunty fiddles that fade out are quite different to the introductory guitar and organ, suggesting the worker’s situation has developed for the better. In addition, the orchestration builds continually, only briefly pulling back before the music culminates in an extended musical outro. Many of the instruments work in counterpoint, each additional layer contributing to an air of an unrestrained joy that is further spurred on by Springsteen’s high hums and whoops. The linear musical direction and overall impression of good cowboy fun results in the feeling that, unlike the singer of Work Song, the narrator is already on his way to his heart’s desire- though, in light of the lyrics, what this actually means is somewhat ambiguous. Are those final echoes him moving out of earshot… or his ghost ascending to the “upper room” of heaven?

We may not know for sure how either of these stories end, but we can feel the aching hope for something better. This longing is an emotional line that runs all the way through both Springsteen and Hozier’s work, though it never seems to get old. Combined with explorations of love, faith, life, death- that’s why we return to their music again and again; they are experts at playing on old motifs and universal themes in new and creative ways, their crafted melodies and narratives touching wild and industrial hearts alike.

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* I am legally obligated to include all these adjectives.

** Maria’s Bed seems to be sadly obscure even among fans; the one and only online forum discussion I have seen about the song refers to it as “not that deep”. Having written this whole essay- if Springsteen himself said that to me, I’d laugh in his face.

*** A random internet comment I can’t find anymore backs me up on this. It even specified that it was about the Santa Maria River in California, as quoted “from Bruce”. Obviously an infallible source 😊

**** It’s important that “[drinking] the cool clear waters” can totally be the description of oral sex you thought it was.

[driftinglightofthewoods]

Priority || Drabble

Summary: Miston pours out all his heartache in a letter, in the hope that Legolas will understand how he feels. Wordcount: 1582 Tagging: @prxnceling, @antleredthrone

My dear Legolas, I haven’t truly written a letter in a long time, but I feel it’s the only way I can finally express my feelings and be smart about it. Because I do want to be smart about it. I don’t want more arguments, more fights, more discussions about who’s point of view here is the right one. I hope you and I both know neither of our views is better than the other. But, I feel if I don’t address and lay out how I experienced these events without you trying to explain your side that I might just implode, or worse.

And I honestly don’t want that.

 Let me start this off by saying that I love you. Because I do. Deeply, intensely. After all we’ve been through I doubt that will ever change. I have never taken of my wedding band when we were apart. In fact, it was the one thing calling me to Valinor when I thought I had lost all hope in the ruins of the great elven kingdoms of Middle Earth. And I miss you. I miss your warmth, your love, the way you would make me feel safe and secure and like the world couldn’t harm me as long as I got to retreat in your embrace. I miss our love, and have been missing it ever since the day we had the biggest argument in our entire time together.

But that doesn’t mean your actions didn’t hurt me, as mine did yours. I take responsibility for everything I’ve put you through, because I know fully well that I haven’t been fair to you either.

So here in this letter, I will lay it all out from my side. I’ll try to be reasonable, but I make no promises that this will be entirely without anger or distress.

I apologize in advance for any of that.

 I know fully well that the Fellowship was necessary. And knowing the grief the inevitability of mortal friends brings, my heart breaks all as much for you. I know now better than ever what it’s like to lose friends permanently, and I think I would’ve preferred going my entire life without it. However, losing them also made me understand your grief better when I remember what you went through even before the war of the Ring. I wonder what it would’ve been like had you taken me along on the journey.

 We can argue practicality and protocol on that all we want and won’t get an inch further than we did back then, but you knew fully well that I would never grovel at the feet of another just to be deigned good enough to be in the presence of my husband.

And as much as I hate to admit it, you broke my heart more with every word we had in that argument.

 Not only did you seem to expect from me to beg for the permission of others to join this Companionship, you then decided that your destiny was no longer intertwined with mine and that the faith of the world was more important.

Maybe it was. It very well could have been. What’s one life compared to saving the world, after all?

 But to me you could have just as easily have said that I had no value as a companion, no value as your husband, and that you’d rather be rid of me as a liability all together. I’m sure my heart would’ve taken it that way regardless.

I stand by some of my words on that day. Not all of them, but I told you that I hated Imladris before and that this would only make my dismay for the place worse, I meant it.

And it’s true.

Between my own personal issues with status and family that made me leave town before, I now had the added memory of feeling abandoned on the brink of war. Hypocritical of me, perhaps, to condemn you for a similar action of leaving; I’m sure Nethel would happily and venomously remind me that I bailed on my town as much as you did.

I’m also sure she wouldn’t care that I didn’t do so in trying times that were soon to turn much worse, but honestly I think she would have a point. Regardless, that feeling of abandonment was only fueled by every time I turned to try and find you on the battlefield- at my side. I don’t think anything has ever hurt me so bad as the expectation of you having my back and you just not being there. The time before the war was spend worrying in sleepless nights about what was yet to come, and not having you there to comfort me and tell me everything was going to be okay just worsened my mood every night.

I’ll be honest, I stopped sleeping in your chambers all together. Staying there just made me nauseous with grief and desperate longing.

After the war ended, it wasn’t much better. The war itself was gruesome, Legolas. Our enemy used the forest against us; ripping trees out of the ground roots and all, only to set them ablaze and use them as dangerous projectiles. We’ve lost many good people and friends that day, and I can still hardly bring myself to think about them because I feel like I’ve failed them all.

It was like that patrol I once came back from, where you needed to keep me together after all the loss.

But much, much worse.

 Thranduil, Eru bless his soul, somehow found time between endless repairs and total exhaustion to keep me from completely losing my mind and potentially even fading from existence all together. My home was in shambles, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt more horrible for him. He realized early on that this has been the only war situation I’ve ever experienced firsthand.

At the same time, I realized that for it was just another addition to a long list of sorrow and heartbreak.

  And then you came back, with both of us so changed by events and… I’m not even trying to be mean, witty, sarcastic or inconsiderate. I truly don’t know what you wanted or needed from me when you came home. My anger at the argument and grief at the war had molded me into this numb shell. Truth be told, I don’t think I’ve felt a single emotion ever since the day you came home to the day you set sail.

Did you feel it too? The unspoken bond we had before, where we never needed to express ourselves and yet the other understood? We lost it, that’s for sure. I wonder if our dependence on it is the reason why we struggled to voice our hurt and needs so bad.

I hope you don’t see our most recent argument as some kind of proof that I never cared for Thranduil. His decision not to sail hurt me deeply, for he’s the only reason I’m actually able to come here. Both in a physical sense as he offered me a boat when I told him I wanted to come here, but also because I’m sure I would’ve faded from my grief without him.

And the only reason I got upset in that argument is because I felt again like you were just pushing me away. What could’ve been a deep and good talk about what Thranduil means to both of us just turned into… That.

When I said I want to share in all your emotions, I mean your grief, too. But it feels like that’s something you’re not willing to share. You don’t have to be so strong and shut off about the negative things you feel.

I’ll try not to be about mine, in return.

 Soo, now we’re here in Valinor. The nights are warm and cozy, the days long, peaceful and sunny. We have all the time in the world to spare, now, and I’ve been thinking about what I would have wanted from you when you returned from the Fellowship.

I know it’s not realistic to ask you to be the one you were before this war. None of us can be. So that it’s not what I’m asking.

I will be honest, however.

Legolas, I am so scared of being abandoned again, that my heart starts pounding and my stomach turns just thinking about it. I guess what I want to ask of you is, now that we’re here, in Valinor… with no regal or rogue expectations, with no royal obligations, with no people to defend from impeding danger or anything of the sort….

Can you please try to make me feel like a priority to you, again?

 I love you.

 Miston

 And as he signed the letter, Miston let out a long sigh of relief. The paper was stained with the tears that had emerged as he had tried his best to bare his soul in the words, and he quietly rolled it up and tied it all together with a ribbon.

He left it on the pillow of his lover; together with a small note stating that he would be in the gardens of Irmo, that Legolas was free to join him or that he would return an hour before dinner if Legolas decided not to.

He quietly shut the door of their home behind him and took a deep breath before making his way to Irmo’s gardens.

[speedsterimagines]

Hey, love! Can i request #36 “I tried to stay away, but I just can’t.” with Nick Amaro pls??

A/N: This got kind of intense, it talks about anger issues and shitty childhoods. Just take warning, if you’ve had either of those proceed with caution. 

You sat on your couch, blanket tightly wrapped around your body that still smelled of him, finishing your second drink of the night. There was something on the television, but you weren’t paying attention to it. It was just noise in the background to make the overwhelming quiet of the apartment seem smaller. This was your routine for the last few weeks as you tried to force yourself to accept that it was over, he’s gone. 

As with every night, you fell asleep on the couch knowing you would wake up with stiff muscles and a still broken heart, but you didn’t care. The only time you would step foot in the bedroom you two shared was to get dressed in the mornings. At this point you thought maybe packing a suitcase to keep in the living room would make life easier, but you would still have to go into the bedroom to pack. 

You reached forward grabbing the bottle to pour another large serving of alcohol into your glass when you heard a knock at the door. Every hair stood on end as you walked to the door, standing on your tiptoes to see the peep hole. You let out the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in as you opened the door to see Nick standing in front of you. 

You stared at the man in front of you that used to be anything and everything you needed in life.

“I tried to stay away, but I just can’t,” Nick spoke first to break the silence. 

“You don’t get to just waltz in and out of my life whenever you feel like it, Nick.” The view in front of you was blurred due to the tears building up in your eyes. 

“Look, can I come in? Miss Ramirez is watching and you know how nosy she can be,” you looked across the hall to see your elderly neighbor standing outside her door pretending to fumble with her keys. No doubt, she’d be spreading the gossip to the other neighbors in the building. You stood to the side and granted him passage as he walked towards the couch, sitting in his usual spot. “Looks like you broke out the good stuff, that’s the-”

“It’s the tequila your abuela gave us on our anniversary,” you interrupted. You were sure to add emphasis on the last word, letting it sink in that you’d probably never share another year with him. 

“It’s coming up,” he nodded and leaned forward to pick up the bottle. “May I?” 

“It’s just as much yours as it is mine,” you said sitting on the far end of the couch from him, watching him pour a shot in the glass and tip it back. “I’ll take one if you’re pouring.” He obliged, pouring you a drink and sliding the glass your way.

You took as sip watching Nick rub his hands together as he tried to speak the words that had been in his head since the night he left. “Look, you know I’m not all that good with expressing my feelings unless it’s anger.” You nodded your head agreeing and let him continue. “The night I left - I didn’t know how to fully express what happening. My wife took my daughter, Cynthia was taking Gilberto, I, I had absolutely no control in my life. I was in a downward spiral, I wasn’t in control of my life. I didn’t have a lot of control in my life, ever, to be honest. My father-” Nick wiped away his tears and tried to gain composure, wanting nothing more than finally speak his truth. “My father was mean, esta malvado, evil. He was an angry, angry man and I began to see him when I looked in the mirror. I’ve lived through that and I swear on my life that you will never live through that.” 

You took a deep breath and scooted yourself forward, placing your hand on his, touching him for the first time in almost a month. “Nick,” you waited for him to look at you before you continued. “You are not your father.” He intertwined his fingers with yours and sighed, no doubt relishing the contact he’d missed just as much as you. “You were so good to me, Nick, you were the best anyone has ever been to me and the thought that I could have allowed you to believe that makes me the bad one in this situation.” 

“I’ve messed everything up, lo siento, mi amor,” he placed a kiss on your hand as you touched his face to kiss his lips. He immediately reciprocated, kissing you deeply. 

“Just come home,” you said kissing him again. “I’m not good without you, Nick. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I worry about every second of every day.” He began placing kissing across your face. “Don’t stay away from me,” you whispered as he removed the blanket that seemed permanently wrapped around your frame. 

He stood up, taking your hand, and walked you down the hall. The anxiety grew in your veins, knowing you were being led to room that you’d been avoiding with every ounce of your being. He noticed that you were hesitant and placed his hands on either cheek, kissing your forehead. “This is our bedroom,” he whispered. “I want to lay with you in our bed, sleep in our bed, and wake up to you in our bed.” You nodded allowing him to walk you into the room. 

“Does this mean you’re staying?” 

“Si, mi amor. I can’t keep myself away from you any longer, and I’ll stay with you as long as you’ll have me.” You kissed him once again, this time with more need, with no intention of ever letting him go. 

Request / Masterlist

[kenzieam]

The Experiment - Chapter 3 (Eric X OC)

Rating: M (swearing/smut :p)

Genre: General

Thanks everyone for the re-blogs and support!!! IT IS SO AWESOME!!!  

@emmysrandomthoughts @beautifulramblingbrains @iammarylastar @tigpooh67 @bookwarm85 @frecklefaceb @mom2reesie @elaacreditava @badassbaker @captstefanbrandt @jaihardy @treeleaf @pathybo @beltz2016 @lilu46 @equalstrashflavoredtrash @girlwith100names @gaia25 @readsalot73 @bookgirlthings @slayer0507 @stone-met @lostinthebeans

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An alternative stand-alone with Eric and Fox, where they’re brought into a controversial faction experiment……may be sensitive subject matter/triggers…..enjoy :)

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Just a short and sweet chapter before the steam and screams lol

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Fox drifted into that half-awake state the body seeks when trying to escape; she was aware vaguely of Eric stroking her back, of his chin on her head, but they were far away, not really there. She floated in and out of semi-consciousness, the pain too strong to allow her to fall completely out, and waited for it to end. Eric’s body was strong and warm, his touch surprisingly comforting, but Fox would die before she admitted that; they’d spent the last four years at each other’s throats, couldn’t change now.

Fox was mildly hallucinogenic, that was the only explanation for what happened next. Eric’s hand drifted up to her cheek and he sighed, inhaling her scent from her hair deeply.

“Fox,” he murmured quietly.

Fox didn’t respond, believing it to be a dream, too comfortable floating to crash back down to reality. Whatever the big jerk had to say wasn’t important enough to pull herself out of this security. Whatever he said was probably just her pain-addled mind’s creation anyway.

“Please Fox,” Eric continued, his voice a bare whisper. “Please accept me.”

Hallucination, that’s the only explanation, Fox’s mind mused; there’s no way he really cares for you.

“Fox LaRue.” The doctor called, stepping into the waiting room, his eyebrows raised only briefly at the sight of Fox cradled in Eric’s arms but he said nothing. Eric stood and walked towards him.

“Have you given your sample?” The doctor asked.

“No,” Eric replied, his voice sharpening. “Can’t it wait until after Fox is done? I’d rather not leave her.”

“Sorry, no. Set her on the table here and return to the waiting room, the nurse is waiting for you.”

Eric bit his tongue to keep from snarling back and set Fox carefully down. She didn’t respond, eyes still closed when he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. She had to be out completely, that would be only reason she didn’t react. Eric returned to the waiting room and grimaced when the nurse approached, holding out a specimen cup. She pointed to a nearby door.

“Will you require any assistance, Mr. Coulter?” She asked, a slight purr in her voice.

“No,” Eric replied shortly, slamming the door.

Fox drifted back up as the doctor began to speak to her, explaining the process he was about to start. Fox only half-listened, the cramping still intense and she stared hard at the ceiling as the doctor began. Sharp pains accompanied his movements and Fox found herself wishing Eric was with her, if only so she could squeeze the shit out of his hand. The nurse and doctor spoke quietly to each other, and Fox wished they’d hurry the fuck up. A commotion started outside the room and the door burst open, Eric crashing through, a furious nurse at his heels.

“You’re not allowed in here.” The doctor said, still concentrating on Fox.

Ignoring the doctor, Eric strolled towards Fox like he owned the place, and Fox was relieved that he had the decency to keep his gaze locked on her face, not looking at the rest of her as she lay there. Fox’s embarrassment at Eric literally seeing her with her pants down, he’s going to be seeing a lot more than that by the time you guys are done, Fox’s thoughts reminded her; was eclipsed by her relief to have someone with her right now. Pulling up a chair, Eric threw a baleful look at the nurse that had followed him, making her huff in exasperation and leave, and sat by Fox’s head. He favoured her with reassuring smile and Fox found herself smiling slightly back. Without asking, typical, Eric reached up and took Fox’s hand, pulling it down to his lap and intertwining their fingers. Fox was absurdly touched, it has to be the drugs LaRue, and didn’t even act on the automatic impulse she usually had to pull away. A faint sheen of sweat shone on his forehead, and he moved easy in his limbs, hinting to Fox that his ‘contribution’ had already been given.

“What?” Eric asked mildly, seeing a smile tug at Fox’s lips.

“Did you fill the cup?” Fox asked.

Eric barked a laugh and nodded his head. “Two of them,” he replied, smiling wider when Fox laughed. Testing the waters, he squeezed Fox’s hand and felt a warmth build in his chest when she didn’t pull away and faintly squeezed his fingers back instead.

“Alright,” the doctor said, pushing away on his rolling stool away from Fox, “you’re done. We collected ten eggs.”

“T-ten?” Fox asked in surprise. There were going to be ten of their children grown in the lab?

Reading her thoughts the doctor shook his head,“ no, we average four successful implantations for every ten fertilizations.”

An absurd sorrow hit Fox, six of their children weren’t going to make it? They’re not your children, they’re single cells, get over it, and she glanced up at Eric, surprised to see a similar distress on his face.

A nurse appeared at Fox’s side. “C'mon dear, I’ll help you up.”

Fox pulled her hand from Eric’s, suddenly embarrassed, and stood. She pushed away Eric’s steadying hands when she swayed before finding her equilibrium and muttered, “I’m fine Eric, thanks,” before following the nurse out of the room. Perturbed, Eric could only watch her leave.

A half an hour later, Fox was steady enough to go home; Eric had phoned ahead for a truck to be waiting for them and Fox was secretly relieved, although she bit her lip to keep from sharing this. Bitch.

The ride back was silent, Eric wordless as he drove, confidently shifting gears, acting surprisingly considerate to keep from jolting Fox too much and Fox stared determinedly out the side window. By doing so, she missed Eric reach out tentatively to touch her hand where it lay on her thigh, and pull back to rest it on the gear shift instead.

Eric had barely brought the truck to a full stop before Fox opened the door and leapt from the vehicle.

“Fox, wait!” Eric called, but Fox disappeared into the elevator.

She didn’t answer her door when Eric knocked on it a few minutes later, and finally, reluctantly, Eric turned and left. ______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Fox managed to successfully hide out in her apartment for the next three days, having her assistant bring over any paperwork that needed to be done and playing deaf whenever there was a knock on her door. The cramps had stopped as the doctor had promised with the second shot, but Fox stayed tender for the next two days and swore angrily to herself whenever she allowed herself to remember the appointment. Laying all over his lap, holding Eric’s hand! What the fuck?!

The evening of the third day of Fox’s new hermit existence was just as unremarkable as the previous two until a knocking started at the door. Fox managed to ignore it until it sounded like whoever was there started kicking the door with every third bang. Snarling, Fox threw the door open to give them the whatfor and stopped short when she saw Eric towering in the hallway. She moved quickly to slam the door again but Eric was quicker, sticking his foot into the gap and pushing a massive forearm through the doorway. With a grumble, Fox allowed the door to stay open, she’d listen to whatever he had to say, then kick him in the nuts and send him on his way.

“You can’t keep hiding out here.”

“Yes, I can.”

Eric sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “We signed a contract-”

“Fuck the contract!”

“-I don’t want you getting into trouble by backing out of a legal document-”

“Ha! Yeah! That’s your only concern, my legal wellbeing, not getting your dick wet!”

Eric frowned at her. “Is that what you think-”

Fox gave Eric an almighty shove and he was distracted by her words enough to stumble back out into the hallway. Fox slammed the door and locked it. She heard a thump as Eric leaned against the door.

“Okay…..you’re wrong, but we can talk about that later,” Eric sounded almost sad. “Come by my apartment tomorrow at seven, I’ll make supper and we’ll see what happens.”

It was on the tip of Fox’s tongue to tell Eric to go fuck himself but she stopped. She had signed a contract, and fucking Erudite was notoriously anal with their legal paperwork……it was just supper, she could duck out after and figure out a more permanent solution to this massive clusterfuck.

“Okay, seven o’clock.”

Fox caught just the barest murmur from the other side of the door, it sounded almost like ‘thank you’, and Fox turned away. After a moment she growled and turned back, throwing open the door, but the hallway was empty.

[lichenthrope9]

a day in the life: interference, disturbance, and intersensoriality in a domestic cooking space

I have always been sensitive to sound. One of my earliest memories is from when I was two years old, learning my shapes from my mother. She would take my pointed finger and draw in the air with it: A circle – “OOooooo-WOOP!” (/u˥˩wup˩˥/: a falling pitch on the first syllable, and a rising pitch on the second as I closed the imaginary loop). A square: “EEEE-aaah, EEEE-aaah.” (/˥iː˧ãː˥iː˧ãː/: A high tone on “EEEE” and a mid tone on “aaah”). A triangle: “eeek! eeek! eeek!” (/˥ḭk ˦ḭk ˥ḭk/: All high in tone and creaky-voiced).

I still learn things from my mother’s sounds, and from the sounds of the house. I learned over the years what angry sounds like: stomping footsteps that resonate through our doorless house above and below, slamming cabinets and syllables lobbed like projectiles with velocity and sharpness. I have learned what sleep sounds like: heavy snores muffled behind thick blankets and a thin door, obscured by the screams of foxes and the howls of coyotes outside that pierce me like moonlight. Sometimes there’s a sharp crack in the house, disrupting none but me or my cat, and I walk into the kitchen to absorb the tense silence.

This project is a final for a semester-long course, yes, but it is also the naming of years of sounds I never had words for, and the affects that traversed me whenever I heard them. It’s a collection of specimens from a sonic ecosystem that I’ve only just begun to make sense of.

The comforts and anxieties of a small household are stories best told through sound, scent, and texture. My mother and I are large personalities with rigid and brittle needs. The intensities we generate are marked both by extreme sensory presence and by absence; at times it’s impossible to escape each other, and at times our home is incredibly lonely. I find comfort in my soft cat, the murmur and laughter of Dungeons & Dragons podcasts, and concentration on my artistic and academic pursuits that fill my head with thoughts that buzz like insects or transport me to a soundless moon of creativity and promise. The common thread that links all these states is the anxiety I feel when the soundscape becomes unpredictable – that is, when it becomes noisy. “Noise pollution results when man does not listen carefully. Noises are the sounds we have learned to ignore… Only a total appreciation of the acoustic environment can give us the resources for improving the orchestration of the world soundscape” (Schafer, 2012).

The sounds and noises I tried to parse out for this project fell into two broad categories: anthropogenic, which I defined loosely as created directly by a human person (e.g. footsteps, tapping a spoon on a skillet) and non-anthropogenic, which I defined as all other environmental sounds (e.g. the house settling, foxes crying outside, the radio). These categories helped me sort the noise of my kitchen into cycles of hi-fi and lo-fi sound environments that changed in predictable ways depending on the time of day. A hi-fi sound environment is a soundscape in which individual sounds are completely intelligible and can be traced to their source; there is a high signal-to-noise ratio and, in my kitchen’s case, no sound I would describe as painfully loud. A lo-fi sound environment is the converse of this: a low signal-to-noise ratio, individual sounds blend together into a background murmur and it’s difficult to hear a sound in its entirety or trace it to its source, and occasionally there are sounds which are painful to me.

As I mentioned, my needs are rather rigid, and this extends to my expectations for a sonic environment. I am irritated by noise, especially in the bustling mornings. Now that I have done this project, I notice that I am attuned to the purposes and origins of the noises that used to irritate me, and there is now less irritation. I am now irritated by lack of noise, or I am paranoid of the noises for which I cannot discern a purpose. I feel tension in silences, and connection and networking through the noises that bring me comfort. This hints at Kassabian’s networked subjectivity: “Like Star Trek’s Borg, we are uncomfortable being unhooked from the background sound of ubiquitous subjectivity, so we turn radios on in empty rooms and put speakers under our pillows… We prefer to be connected, need to listen to our connections, can’t breathe without them” (Kassabian, 2001). Sounds in my kitchen can be organized by time of day, creating non-linear subjectivities like those described by Kassabian’s ubiquitous listening and ubiquitous subjectivities. In this case, the subjectivities experienced in the kitchen are more cyclical than ubiquitous. I insert myself into the space for different purposes and different affects traverse me at different times of day, but these purposes and affects are predictable.

How is the kitchen placed in the soundscape – or, how does the soundscape of my house center around the kitchen? “Sounds emerge from and are perceptually centred in place, not to mention sung with, to, and about places” (Feld, 1994). The sounds of the radio are not bound to the kitchen but are associated with the kitchen; the radio is a “kitcheny” instrument that cannot be played without evoking some sense of “kitcheniness.” The sound of cooking is bound to the kitchen and produces an acoustic centering of comfort, creation, and bodily function in that space. The lack of these sounds, or the presence of exterior sounds from other rooms or from outside the house, makes the kitchen feel strange; they mark a sudden lack of kitcheniness even in the only space that can take on that exclusive role.

I used to find myself trying to listen to music through these kitchen noises as if it were a battle: I strained through the cooking sounds and the running water and the conversation to hear every sonic detail. Then I read Brian Eno’s account of being unable to hear a record of harp music over a rainstorm: “It was raining hard outside, and I could hardly hear the music above the rain-just the loudest notes, like little crystals, sonic icebergs rising out of the storm” (Eno, 1996). When I try listening to music through noise interference now, I think of this passage and try to incorporate the “interference” into the performance. In my recording, I wanted to capture the ways the radio and I constructively and destructively interfered in the soundscape of the kitchen.

Because it’s the kitchen, sound is certainly not the only non-visual sense bound up in these affects. In this ethnography, I tried to prioritize aromas as well. “The association of hearing with feeling rather than cognition probably comes from our modern sense that feelings happen to us rather than being willed or subject to conscious direction” (Connor, 2001). Intersensoriality is related to new modes of attending presence in the world; the association of hearing with feeling rather than cognition is related to the association of scenting with sensing rather than cognition. It is an older sense, a chemical one, and deeply intertwined and implanted into memory formation and recall. These relationships between senses create powerful place-images, place-affects, and place-memories, such as the confusing irritation-anxiety-comfort-cooking-noise-smell that takes place in the mornings in the kitchen vs. the quiet-tense-hifi-natural-noiseless-absence that takes place in the afternoons and nights in the kitchen.

Attending to any ecosystem is all about observing and managing relationships across many different scales. The affects I named as sources of “comfort,” “tension,” “business,” “irritation” – they are all interrelated and their sources are interrelated. They disturb and jostle each other, seeking attention and creating excess with their forces. I didn’t expect such strong correlations between anthropogenic sounds and comfort, or between near-silent hi-fi environments and tension. But to discover this, I had to attend to a phenomenon of assemblage that Anna Tsing – appropriately enough for this paper – compares to polyphonic music: “[T]o appreciate polyphony one must listen both to the separate melody lines and their coming together in unexpected moments of harmony or dissonance… to appreciate the assemblage, one must attend to its separate ways of being at the same time as watching how they come together in sporadic but consequential coordinations” (Tsing, 2015).

Homes are more fickle than many realize. In a home where I’ve been threatened with placelessness, non-belonging, and eviction countless times, I’ve internalized a sense that uncertainty is an enemy to be monitored. This project has helped me approach the soundscape of my home in a different way: it’s an ecology that exists neither in harmony nor in conflict with itself, much like the pine trees, pine sawyer beetles, pine wilt nematodes and matsutake mushrooms that Anna Tsing writes about in Mushroom at the End of the World. It cycles between different types of comfort and discomfort, and I belong to it in intimate and inscrutable ways. My eventual, more permanent absence will be a different sort of disturbance to this soundscape, and taking this perspective has eased some of my uncertainty for now.

  Works Cited

 Connor, S. (2001). Edison's Teeth: Touching Hearing. Hearing Culture. Morelia, Mexico.

Eno, B. (1996). Ambient Music. Audio Culture: Readings in Modern Music, 94-97.

Feld, S. (1994, June). From Ethnomusicology to Echo-muse-ecology: Reading R. Murray Schafer in the Papua New Guinea Rainforest. The Soundscape Newsletter.

Kassabian, A. (2001). Ubiquitous Listening and Networked Subjectivity. ECHO: a music-centered journal.

Schafer, R. M. (2012). The Sound Studies Reader. In J. Sterne, The Tuning of the World (pp. 95-103).

Tsing, A. (2015). The Mushroom at the End of the World.

[zodiacc-horoscope-blog]

Pisces Horoscope for 2017

Pisces/Alias: The Fishes( 2/19-3/20) Pisces, you are wistful, sensitive, kind, intuitive, and dreamy. Not everyone gets you because you are truly a fish of a different color. Your creative nature sometimes defies logic, but somehow you can make progress with even the wildest of ideas. You may have struggled last year with certain responsibilities in your life. It isn't that you are irresponsible; you are truly moral and reliable in terms of your character. Sometimes, though, you become so distracted and scattered that you don't fulfill all of our obligations and you occasionally find yourself floundering. As the year came to an end, however, you began to see a light at the bottom of a long path, and you have been headed in the right direction in an effort to improve yourself and your life. You are doing well, Pisces. You bring with you into 2017 a new sense of yourself, a new determination to do better, and an extremely creative nature. The possibilities for you this year are endless, as long as you stick to your new way of doing things and you don't give up. Above all, you have to be true to yourself, to your vision for your life, and to making your dreams come true. Be brave in 2017, and work on building up your confidence. With proper confidence, you can do anything you set your mind to this year. Love Love aspect has been a challenge for you lately. Perhaps even for several years now. It may have been that you haven't known what you wanted, or that the relationship you had, if attached, was conflicted; or the people you met, if single, were wrong for you. You have certainly had your ups and downs in love, and right now you may be thinking that you've had mostly downs. If that's how you feel, then you'll be happy to hear that it's about to change in 2017. Where you once met frustration and longing, you will soon find comfort and excitement - a rare combination. Attached people born under your sign will find yourself thrust into situations that will enhance and empower your relationship with your romantic partner. You will learn more about each other, and you'll be in for some pleasant surprises. You might even decide to take another honeymoon, or take some sort of voyage for just the two of you. This will help you to grow closer and feel even more intertwined. For single Fish, the world is your oyster. You should have a variety of potential partners to choose from if you wish to explore the possibility of a permanent relationship. It may be a hard choice, but someone will eventually stand out from all the others. At first, you may be thrilled by the prospect of a thrilling life with this person, but there could be a few bumps in the road until you get into the right groove and begin to grow closer and build a strong foundation. Cherish whatever you have, and devote your time and attention to it, and you can make this year quite memorable. Family It has been a long process, Pisces, and it isn't completed yet, but you have grown increasingly closer to family members that have been estranged or distant in recent years. You may have felt that you weren't appreciated or admired, but you have grown more confident in yourself, and that has allowed you to accept that others do love you and respect you and your talents and abilities. This new sense of who you are and what you are made of is contributing greatly to the heightened quality of your life and all of your relationships, and it will continue in the year ahead. Last year there may have been some significant challenges with a parent, a child, or perhaps a sibling. This is someone who is or was intensely involved with you, and someone you felt deep love for. You may have felt that you were rejected or looked down on by this person, but that was not the case. You have come to see things more clearly, and now your relationship can expand and evolve. There may be one more barrier you would love to break through where a family matter or a family tradition is concerned, and you will have the chance in 2017. Just keep in mind that you need to understand and empathize with other perspectives, and sometimes you need to move slowly if you want something to change. This year should be dramatically more fulfilling and enjoyable if you maintain a harmonious approach to family members, if you nurture your own self-esteem, and you devote your time and attention to making your family life better every day. Career You may feel you have been bewildered where your career is concerned - or the lack of the career you dream of. You may have tried on many different kinds of work outfits by now, but for a Pisces, it has to be a perfect fit - one that allows you to use your creativity and your intuition too. Sometimes we have to do whatever we can to get by, but if that's where you are right now, you may find it lonely and dull. You crave the challenge of creative thinking, and you want to allow your imagination to run wild, but that isn't always possible in the line of work you've had recently. If you are looking to change your career then open your mind and allow yourself to think less restrictively about your career options, you will discover something that can provide all of the things on your checklist. You may have to go out on your own to completely fulfill all your desires for your work life, and that comes embedded with certain risks. But what's at stake is your happiness, and taking a few risks for achieving happiness will certainly be worth it. If you have something specific in mind, see if there is someone you know who can assist you or guide you. An excellent mentor is likely to be available for you this year. By indulging in your own personal interests, you will cross paths with a person who will understand you very deeply, and will feel honored to guide you toward the career or the business of your dreams. Don't close your mind to possibilities that may not seem like a perfect fit on the surface, because there may be a possibility in August that is extraordinarily right for you, even if it doesn't appear so on the surface. Let your heart lead you, Pisces.