#it’ll be good for me to go do some bookmark digging too as part of my re-dive into TF

[sroloc--elbisivni]

Just thought I'd say that as a bumblebee fan I actually love the way you write him...ik you've gone on record saying you're largely indifferent to him, but as someone who actually really likes that bumblebee being a people person meaning that he's /rlly hecking good/ at his job /in a war/, it's a relief to see takes in which he isn't just The Annoying One (tfa, though tbf that show did refuse to take him seriously) or Cute Puppy. So that's two excellent fics added to my bookmarks, thank you!

Aaaaaaa thanks!! I think I have gotten more fond of Bumblebee in the years I’ve been in TF fandom, especially as I’ve gotten to see iterations where he ISN’T The Annoying One or Cute Puppy. He’s a very fun character to have in an ensemble cast, and I do love me a social sneaky guy. I’m really glad you’ve been enjoying my take on him—do lmk if you’d like some recs and I can cobble some together!

[thelastspeecher]

Pint-Sized Sixer

Okay so this morning, I went through my bookmarks and AO3 and re-read @novantinuum‘s AMAZING fic in the Smaller Than He Seems AU, which is an AU where Ford gets stuck at a younger age while traveling through the multiverse, and returns to Gravity Falls as a child about the same age as Dipper and Mabel.  And after I finished re-reading it, I became inspired to crossover that AU with my own base AU that is part of my brand at this point: Stanley McGucket, aka where Stan gets effectively adopted by the McGucket Family and graduates high school and has kids and grandkids.  Sadly, none of my McGucket OCs appear in this, but Stan’s kids do.

A couple notes: Since it was a spur of the moment thing to write this, I avoided the majority of the angst that would come with this particular situation, so just assume it happens off-screen.  And in a similar vein, the very last scene takes place at the end of the summer, when everyone has had time to come to grips with Ford’s circumstances.

Anyways, enough rambling and background.  Have some...whatever this is.

              “We can probably come up with a way to fix this.”  Ford looked at his newfound niece, Emily.  He shook his head.  “What makes ya think we can’t?” she asked.

              “I’ve tried everything,” Ford said solemnly.  “Nothing worked.”

              “Yeah, but-” Emily started.  Stan looked up from the box of clothes he was currently digging through.

              “Squirt, go make sure Dipper and Mabel are in bed,” he instructed.  Emily rolled her eyes.

              “Fine,” she sighed.  She exited Ford’s study.

              “Ha!” Stan said triumphantly.  He pulled out a pair of khaki shorts and a T-shirt with a lion on it. “Knew I had some of Emmett’s old stuff.” He held out the clothes.  “Here ya go, Benji.”  Ford didn’t take them.  He frowned at Stan.

              “Pardon?”

              “I- oh.”  Stan grimaced.  He set the clothes on the floor.  “I just called ya Benji, didn’t I?”

              “Yes.  You did. Who’s Benji?”

              “Danny’s oldest.”

              “…Danny has children?”

              “Yep.  Four, and a fifth on the way.”  Stan dug around in his back pocket before pulling out his wallet.  He opened the wallet and removed a picture, handing it to Ford.  Ford looked at the picture of his niece, whom he had last seen when she was three.  He smiled faintly.

              She’s an adult now.  In the picture, Danny stood in front of a house Ford didn’t recognize, her arm around a man he assumed was her husband. Intelligence still sparkled in her eyes, even if they were hidden behind glasses now.  Three toddlers sat on the grass directly in front of the couple, while a young boy stood proudly by Danny’s side.  The boy looked more like Ford’s twin at the moment than Stan did. He had inherited the Pines family nose, Danny’s rich brown eyes, and rowdy brown curls from somewhere, despite Danny and her husband’s hair lacking both that color and texture.  He even wore glasses similar to Ford’s.

              “I see the resemblance,” Ford choked out.  Stan took the picture back and returned it to his wallet.

              “Yeah.  Luckily, Benji hasn’t been up here since the triplets were born, so no one around town should confuse you for him.”  Stan chewed on his lip.  “But if nosy people ask, maybe we should still say yer my grandkid.”

              “What?  No!” Ford burst out.  Stan sighed. He sat down on the floor in front of Ford.

              “Whattaya want us to tell ‘em, then?”

              “Nothing.  I won’t be going out in public.”

              “Ford…”  Stan rubbed his forehead.  “You can’t stay cooped up in the house.  It wouldn’t even be the full house!  If you don’t want people outside the fam’ly to see you, you’ll be stuck with only part of it.  We’ve got tourists tramping through every day to see the exhibits, after all.”

              “I can and I will stay indoors.”

              “I don’t think-” Stan started.  Ford crossed his arms.  “…Fine. You’ll get sick of it sooner or later.” Stan got up with a small groan. “Sittin’ down was a bad idea,” he muttered to himself.  He nodded at the box.  “Go ahead and put on whatever you want.  I’ll send Emily out to find some more clothes tomorrow.”

----- 

              Ford poked his head around the door plastered with the “Employees Only” sign.

              The coast is clear.  Damn Stanley and his correct assessment of how I would feel about staying inside the house.  Ford took a cautious step into the empty Gift Shop.  Nothing happened.  No tourists appeared out of nowhere to stampede over him, no relatives manifested from thin air to ask him prying questions.  Ford let out a sigh of relief.  Perfect.  He made his way over to the shelf of souvenirs he could most easily see at this height.

              “$100 for a snowglobe?” he mumbled out loud, picking one up. “Ridiculous.”

              “You lost or something?” a voice asked behind him.  Startled, the snowglobe fell from his hands.  “Aw, man.  That sucks.  Bet you’ll be breaking the piggy bank to pay for that.”  Ford slowly turned around.  At some point while he was distracted, a teenage girl had entered the Gift Shop.  She blew a strand of long, red hair out of her face.  “Better find your parents fast.”  The girl took a seat on the stool behind the register, propped her feet up on the counter, and opened a magazine.  Ford continued to stare at her silently.  After a moment, she sighed and closed her magazine.  “I was kidding.  I’m not actually gonna make you pay a hundred bucks for a cheap snowglobe.  I’ll just tell Stan that it got knocked off the shelf or something.”

              She must be one of Stan’s employees.  The girl raised an eyebrow at him.  If you try to go back to your room now, she’ll stop you, because she thinks you’re a tourist.  Introduce yourself!  Ford opened and closed his mouth silently.  Say something!  She’s just a teenager, she shouldn’t intimidate you! The girl got up with another sigh. She walked over to him and crouched down to his eye-height.

              “All right, kid, I’ll help you find your parents.  Did they go on a tour?”  She frowned.  “Hang on. You look a lot like Stan.  You one of his grandkids?”

              “…Yes,” Ford squeaked, seizing the less-than-ideal way out of the conversation.

              “Ah, okay.  Didn’t realize he had family other than Dipper and Mabel visiting.  He usually makes a big fuss about it.  When’d you get here?”

              “Last week.”

              “When that earthquake happened?” the girl asked.  Ford nodded.  “Oof. Bad timing.  Usually, things don’t float around here.  What’s your name?”

              “F-Ford.”

              “Ford.”  The girl stuck out her hand.  Ford hesitantly shook it.  “I’m Wendy. So, which of Stan’s kids is your parent?”

              “Um…”

              “Wendy, get ready, we’ve got a busload comin’ in ten minutes!” Stan shouted, barging into the Gift Shop.  He frowned at Wendy crouched in front of Ford.  “Get back to work.”

              “Geez.  You usually like it when I talk to your grandkids,” Wendy muttered, standing back up to her full height.  “Whatever.” She ambled back to the register and resumed her position behind the counter, idly reading her magazine.

              “You lookin’ fer food or somethin’, Ford?” Stan asked.  Ford’s stomach rumbled.  “Yeah.  It’s lunchtime.  Let’s fix you up a sandwich before I gotta run tours again.”  Stan ushered Ford back into the residential area of the house. Wendy waved at Ford as they left.

              “No need to say you told me so,” Ford said softly.  “You were right.  I couldn’t handle being stuck to the residential rooms.”

              “Yeah, no shit,” Stan said under his breath.  He looked down at Ford.  “What’d ya think of Wendy?”

              “She’s nice.”

              “Yep.”  Stan nodded. “She’s a good kid.  Helps keep Dipper and Mabel outta trouble.”

              “She asked me if I was your grandson, and I couldn’t think of any other reason that wouldn’t involve her dragging me around looking for my parents, so I said I was.”

              “That’s fine by me.”

              “She also asked which of your children is my parent.”

              “Hmm.  That’s a good question.”  Stan rubbed his chin.  “Maybe we could say Daisy.”

              “I don’t want- why are you so blasé about this?” Ford demanded.  Stan shrugged.

              “After raising four kids in Gravity Falls, there’s not much that’ll surprise me anymore.”

              “…That’s how you knew I would get sick of staying hidden,” Ford said quietly. “You’ve raised four children.”

              “Yeah.  Kids your age have too much energy to stay put for extended periods of time.  You actually held out longer than I thought.”

              “Fantastic,” Ford mumbled.

              “Ford, I’ve been thinkin’.”  Stan scratched his cheek.  “Sure, you might not wanna talk to people outside the fam’ly.  But that shouldn’t stop you from doin’ stuff.  It’s not healthy, fer one thing.”

              “But if I run into someone-”

              “Bring Dipper or Mabel or Emily with you.  They’ll handle whoever you come across.  Hell, you can even bring Soos or Wendy.”  Stan glanced at Ford.  “By the way, I made Soos promise not to spill about you to anyone.  That’s why Wendy didn’t know who ya were.  Figured you’d wanna keep it a secret fer now.”

              “…Thank you,” Ford said softly.

              “No problem.”  Stan cleared his throat.  “Seriously, though.  Next time the kids decide to go do whatever it is they do in the woods, join ‘em. It’ll be good fer ya.”

              “I’ll take that into consideration,” Ford said after a moment. Stan nodded.

              “That’s good enough fer me.”  He checked his watch.  “Shoot, the tourists are gonna be here any second.  Think you can handle lunch on yer own?”

              “Yes.  I’m biologically ten, not two.”

              “Good.  I’ll see ya later.”  Stan adjusted his suit slightly and went back into the Gift Shop.  Ford watched the door swing a few times before making his way to the kitchen.

              And the web of lies begins. Ford let out a small sigh.  I certainly hope this doesn’t result in my attending public school.  I’ve been through that once already.  I don’t want to go through it again.

----- 

              Ford drummed his fingers idly on the arm of Stan’s chair, his attention split between the TV currently blaring National Geographic and the door, through which Stan and the rest of his family were supposed to enter any moment.  He hoped that they would arrive before Soos came to check in on him.

              I am not a fan of this system. Ford scowled.  But agreeing to allow Soos to stop by every day was the only way Stan would leave me here alone.  Even though part of him ached with the desire to reunite with Stan’s children, he cringed at the thought of showing up to the birthday party being thrown for Danny’s triplets.  Stan would have to either come up with a lie, forcing me to act the part of a child, or he’d tell the McGuckets who I really am, which would be humiliating.  He heard the unmistakable sound of tires crunching against gravel.  Voices carried from outside, along with the slamming of car doors.  Ford turned off the TV.  The front door opened.

              “Hey, Ford, we brought you some cake,” Stan said cheerfully, marching into the living room.  He handed Ford a piece of cake in a sealed plastic container.

              “…Thank you,” Ford mumbled.

              “Oh, uh, and Emmett and Lucy are here,” Stan said.  “Emmett decided to take a semester off.  The stress was gettin’ to him.”  Ford perked up.

              I can finally meet the last of Stan’s children.  A tall young man entered, holding the hand of a young girl.

              “Dad, I-” the young man started.  He caught sight of Ford and stopped.  “…What’s Benji doin’ here?”  Before Stan could respond, the man squeezed his eyes shut.  “No, I ‘member now.  The drive messed with my brain a bit.  Wow, they look exactly the same.”  The girl whose hand he was holding looked at Ford curiously.  “Lucy, why don’t ya go with Grandpa Stan and get your room set up?  We can do introductions later.”

              “Okay!” the girl – Lucy – chirped.  She ran upstairs.

              “Sweetie, don’t run so fast.  Your grandpa has bad knees,” Stan called after her.

              “So?” she shouted.  Ford chuckled.

              “She’s certainly your granddaughter.”

              “Yep,” Stan said.  He followed Lucy upstairs, leaving Ford alone with the young man he now recognized as his nephew, Emmett.  Emmett approached Ford.

              “Uh, hi,” Emmett said awkwardly.  He rubbed the back of his neck.  “Sorry ‘bout the confusion earlier.”

              “It’s fine.  Stan showed me a picture.  Benji does look eerily like me.”

              “Yeah.”  Emmett swallowed.  “So, uh, yer my Uncle Ford.”  Ford nodded. “Geez, this is weird.”

              “It’s weird for me as well,” Ford said gently.  Emmett smiled weakly at him.  “But I’m excited to have met you.”

              “Same here.  I mean…I don’t really like the whole Gravity Falls weirdness stuff, but I do like fam’ly. And my whole life, I’ve been told that we might share somethin’ in common.”  Emmett looked down at his feet.  “Don’t know how much I believe that.”

              “A healthy dose of skepticism is required for functioning properly, I’ve found,” Ford replied.  Emmett snorted.

              “Man, the illusion that yer a kid just goes poof the second ya open yer mouth.”

              “That’s a good thing.”

              “…I guess.”  An awkward silence fell.  Footsteps sounded loudly on the stairs.  Stan poked his head into the living room.

              “Emmett-” he started.  Emmett shook his head.  “Okay. Good.”

              “You were the one who wanted to tell ‘im, so…”

              “Tell who what?” Ford asked.  More footsteps scurried downstairs.  Lucy ran into the living room and stopped in front of Ford, staring at him intensely.

              “Lucy-Loo, let’s go help Auntie Emily,” Emmett said, putting his hands on his daughter’s shoulders.

              “But-” Lucy started.

              “C’mon, we better go before she hurts herself,” Emmett insisted.  Lucy’s eyes widened.

              “Oh gosh.  Yeah.” She darted back outside.

              “I’ll let ya know when I’m done talkin’ to Ford,” Stan said to Emmett. Emmett nodded.  He followed his daughter outside.  Ford looked at Stan oddly.

              “Stanley, what is going on?” he asked.  Stan ran a hand through his hair.

              “On the drive, we got to talkin’.  Since it seems like we can’t fix this, we gotta get ya some paperwork and identification and all that good stuff.  Luckily, Danny works in the government, so she knows a guy who’s gonna help us out.”

              “That’s good.”

              “I talked to the kids, and we realized that if we wanna pretend yer my grandkid, which will be the easiest way for us to get you papers, there’s only one kid who could really pull off actin’ like yer parent.”

              “Let me guess.  Emmett?”

              “Yeah.  Danny’s got her own family, Daisy hasn’t even kissed anyone as far as I know, and Emily’s…well…”  Stan swallowed.

              “She lives in town, so the locals would be surprised if she had a child without anyone realizing she was pregnant,” Ford said.  Stan nodded.

              “Sure.  Let’s go with that.”

              “So, my identification will list Emmett as my father?” Ford asked.  Stan nodded again.  “I’m assuming the story is that I am the product of a one-night-stand, and Emmett wasn’t aware of my existence.”

              “Basically.  It works out pretty well, actually, since Lucy happened from a one-night-stand.”

              “Emmett doesn’t seem the type to sleep around.”

              “Well, you did just meet him.  You haven’t gotten to know him that well.”

              “Will I have to move in with him?” Ford asked quietly.  Stan shook his head.  Ford let out a small, relieved sigh.

              “No,” Stan said.  “It’d be better for you, Emmett, and Lucy if ya stay here.  Since this is the first time you’ve met Emmett, it’ll be easy to make the case that you shouldn’t stay with him.  And I’d hate fer ya to have to act like a kid around Lucy.”

              “You won’t be telling her the truth.”

              “Not yet.  Maybe when she gets older.”  Stan looked into Ford’s eyes.  “That’s what we came up with, but if you don’t like it, we’ll scrap the whole thing.”

              “…No, it’s…”  Ford looked down at his lap.  “It’s the best option, given the circumstances.”

              “It still sucks,” Stan said.  Ford nodded.

              “I won’t deny that.”  He swallowed. “Okay.  I can be Emmett’s son.”  Stan’s shoulders slumped in relief.

              This was clearly the best idea they could come up with to make everyone as happy as possible.

              “In public,” Stan said.  Ford looked back up.  “You’ll be Emmett’s son in public.  In private, you’re still my brother.”  Ford managed a small smile.

              “Good.”  Ford sighed again.  “Maybe Lucy and I can form a familial relationship of some sort.  It might be nice to have a sister.”

              “Emmett claims it’s overrated,” Stan said with a shrug.  Ford chuckled.

              “It’ll be easier to bond with Lucy if I’m not living in the same household as her,” he continued.  “I’d imagine the jealousy over an older sibling not attending school would be difficult to get past.”  Stan was quiet.  “…I won’t be expected to attend school, correct?”

              “Um…”  Stan looked away.

              “Stanley.”

              “You won’t have to go to school this year.  Let’s leave it at that.”

              “Stanley-”

              “We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.”  Stan headed for the front door.  “Come outside and help us unload.”  Ford got out of the armchair.

              “That’s not how the saying goes, Stanley,” he grumbled.

              “Yeah, yeah,” Stan said breezily.  “Whatever.”

[hoodiehan]

Everyday - Bang Chan Imagine

Synopsis: Almost every day was spent with Chan, and almost everyday was the same. But you wouldn't have it any other way, no matter what.

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: ChanxReader (BUT THIS FIC HAS GENDER NEUTRAL TERMS SO YEET)

Word Count: 2.1k+

A/N: So like I’m coming off of my month long hiatus from writing so that I could write this for @hey-hey-chan because AHHHH IT’S HER BIRTHDAY AND I LOVE HER SO SO SO MUCH MY BBY BOO IS GROWING UP UWUUU. Anyways, happy birthday Kris, I hope you have an amazing day today yaaay 

Standing at the foot of the bed, I impatiently tapped my foot against the ground. Behind me, was nothing really. In front of me was the biggest baby in existence. And inside of me was the hungriest stomach ever known to mankind.

“Can you like get up or something, please? It’s nearing 12 pm and I’m getting quite hungry,” I stated quirking an eyebrow at the boy that laid in front of me. This was an occurrence that happened almost every day: Chan would get up at 8 am, get dressed and prepare for the day, but then he would crawl back into bed and claim that he can't get out of it.

“I want to hold on to yooooou,” Chan whined sticking his arms out and wiggling his legs back and forth as he stuffed his face into the pillow.

I groaned and rolled my eyes. He may be 20 years old, but he is actually the biggest baby I had ever met. “You’re so clingy and touchy-feely that I actually don’t want to hold onto you,” I replied back crossing my arms.

“Yes you do want to hold onto me,” Chan said sticking his face up to look at me.

“I really don’t.”

“You really do.”

“Don’t tell me how to live my life,” I said giving in and walking over to where Chan laid. Immediately, he encapsulated me into his arms and pulled me close. Tensing up, I awkwardly stroked his arm unsure of what to do.

“I’m uncomfortable,” I said after laying with him for a couple of minutes.

“I know you are,” Chan mumbled into my hair. “And now it’s making me uncomfortable. Come on, let’s go get some food or something,” Chan pulled away from me and got off the bed. Turning around, he grabbed my arms and lifted me out of the bed then gently set me on the ground.

“What do you want to eat?” He asked looking around the room for his wallet. I immediately broke into a large grin and was about to answer before he cut me off.

“Dim sum. You want dim sum even though we just ate it yesterday,” Chan said snapping his fingers. “I am correct. Let’s go,” Chan said leading me out the door and into his car.

Sometimes, it was really nice having a boyfriend who could drive. It was like having your own personal chauffeur.

—

Sitting at the table, I absentmindedly looked out the window while sucking on the ends of my chopsticks waiting for the food the come out.

All of a sudden, I heard the loud click of a camera, saw a flash out of the corner of my eye, then heard the whirring sound of a polaroid. Whipping my head around, I looked at Chan who cheekily grinned at me as he waved the polaroid film back and forth.

“Did you just take a picture of me?”

“Maybe,” He giggled.

“With the Polaroid?”

“Yah,” He grinned.

“In a restaurant?”

“You looked cute.”

“God, you’re embarrassing sometimes.”

“But you’re cute all the time!” Chan cooed as he watched me dig my face into my hands.

“You make me question a lot of things sometimes.”

“Like what?” Chan waved the Polaroid in the air a couple more times.

“Like why I’m still with such a big dork like you.”

“It’s because you loooove me,” Chan said sliding the Polaroid across the table for me to look at.

“That’s debatable,” I mumbled looking down at the picture. I had to admit, the picture looked really cute. Even though I my hair was an absolute mess, and my mouth was all over the chopsticks, the simple candidness of the picture was something to admire. Chan always did have a way with taking pretty pictures.

—

“Can you please pay attention to me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m in the middle of the climax of this book and you are. Distracting. Me.”

“The climax of a book you’ve already read twenty times before is more attention grabbing than me?” Chan feigned offense by dramatically pressing a hand against his chest and stumbling backwards as if he had been shot.

“Precisely,” I mumbled tucking the corner of the page between my fingers and flipping it.

“Hey babe you know I just learned how to read palms, ya know.”

“Did you now?” I said unamused.

“I did, can I practice on you?” Chan asked excitedly.

I sighed before flitting my eyes between my book and Chan. “If I say yes, then will you leave me alone?”

“Yes!” Chan agreed before quickly taking a seat on the couch beside me.

Grudgingly, I folded the corner of the page I was on to bookmark it then turned towards Chan with my palms facing upward.

Intently, Chan grabbed my right palm and started tracing the lines of my hands.

“Hmm,” Chan mumbled as he brought my palm closer to his face.

“What does it say?” I asked becoming intrigued by the way that Chan was looking at my palm.

“It says,” Chan trailed off looking at one more line on my hand before saying:

“It says you’re a big nerd.”

Frowning, I yanked my palms out of his hands and reached for the pillow behind me to whack Chan with it. Unfortunately, he had anticipated my actions and had stepped out of my reach causing me to whack the empty air in front of me and not Chan himself.

“I got yoooou,” Chan teased childishly, taking off to go to his music producing room while giggling the whole way there.

Sighing, I opened my book again and placed it back onto my lap.

“He’s the actual nerd,” I mumbled. Yet something couldn’t stop the smile that grew on my face. He was a nerd, yes, but he was my nerd. Or maybe I was his nerd.

—

“Babe!” Chan called out from his room. “Can you come here for a second?” He asked, his Australian accent sounding heavy.

Setting down the cookie recipe that I was attempting to make (I wanted to learn how to bake but... ultimately I just wasn’t good at it) I made my way over to the room that Chan was in.

He had the lights dimmed down a little with some mood lights on. That’s what he always did when he was producing music; he always wanted to set the tone or mood whenever he was producing a new song.

“What’s up?” I asked leaning against the doorway.

“Come listen to this!” Chan exclaimed, excitedly patting the seat next to him.

Pushing myself off the wall, I sat next to him waiting for Chan to play his new song.

“It’s not totally finished yet, but, I’m too excited. You have to listen to the song,” Chan moved his mouse across the screen adding a few touches here and there, then sat back and pressed the play button.

Immediately the room was filled with soft sounding melodies that could practically lull you to sleep. It was different than his usual sound, but it was different in a good way. The more I listened, the more I found myself bopping along to the beat. Closing my eyes, I focused on the way that Chan’s voice flowed along with the song. When it was all over, I opened them back up to see Chan smiling happily at his handiwork.

“What do you think?” He asked spinning around in his chair to face me while placing both of his arms behind his head.

“It sounds really good!”

“Is there anything you think that could be added, altered, or excluded?”

“Well, it all sounds amazing. I wouldn’t take any parts of the song out, but in this part,” I leaned forward and pointed at the screen. “But I think that here you could try using an A flat chord here? Because already it sounds so sharp. It’s just slightly off sounding. But with the A flat, then it’ll be softer. After that, then you can use the sharp chord and harmonize with the sounds.”

Chan sat and nodded, slowly taking in all the information. After I finished talking, he placed his hands on the piano keyboard in front of him and played out the chords, testing to see how it sounded.

“Oh yeah, that sounds a lot better,” Chan mused. “What other ideas do you have in that genius brain of yours?”

—

It was nearing 8 pm, yet here Chan and I sat in the corner of a cafe sipping on the hot cups in front of us. Around 7 pm, Chan claimed to have a large craving for coffee. Though I tried to talk him out of it saying that coffee at night wasn't good for him, he refused my objections by saying that coffee no longer had any effect on him. He had drank coffee too much to the point where it had the same effect as water for him. At this point, he simply liked the taste of it.

I, for one, was not a coffee drinker. But if Chan wanted to go out and get a cup of coffee at his favorite cafe, then I would follow him along and watch as he savored the taste of his caffeinated beverage while I savored the taste of my own hot chocolate.

Chan was looking out the window of the cafe, but he had one hand reaching over the table to hold my hand. Chan was like a big teddy bear that never wanted to be let go of, while I never wanted to be held. But for him, on some days, I'd make an exception where I'd be feeling a little more soft than usual.

Chan was humming the beat of the song he currently working on as he absentmindedly stroked the back of my hand with his thumb.

"How was your day today?" Chan turned his head to face me.

"I spent most of my day sitting next to you," I said returning his gummy smile with a little smile and a laugh.

"But was it fun though?" He asked cheekily, sticking his tongue in between his teeth, his smile widening even more.

"I mean, I spend almost every day by your side. How could I not have fun?"

"Aww, do I really make every day fun for you?" Chan winked at me, his smile turning into a smirk.

"If I didn't have fun with you, then I wouldn't be sitting here now, would I?" I inquired giving Chan a knowing look. Chan pursed his lips out and tapped a finger against his lips.

"You have a point," He admitted.

"Do you have fun with me though?" I asked giving him a large smile.

"Eh, sometimes," Chan shrugged looking away from me. My smile immediately fell from my face.

"What?"

"Come on, let's go make some more music!" Chan laughed standing up and pulling my hand along with him.

"You only have fun with me sometimes?" I asked feeling slightly offended.

"I have fun with you all the time!" Chan exclaimed still dragging me along.

"What? That's so confusing. You just said only sometimes though," I shook my head at Chan's annoyingness. But Chan stopped and abruptly turned around, causing me to almost crash into his chest.

"You worry too much," Chan wrapped his arms around my body and pulled me close to him. "I have fun with you everyday, all the time. Don't you worry your little head. Now let's go. Music awaits for us, and so do the terrible tasting cookies that you baked earlier!"

A/N: This is slightly unedited because I wrote this at 1 AM HAHAHAH Sorry for all the grammar and spelling mistakes

[authorscarlettstclair]

Anora & The Dead Girl

I lean forward in my seat and stare at my reflection in the car mirror, assessing my work. I took my time putting makeup on this morning, choosing a brown shadow that makes my eyes look more yellow than green, and black liner. My dark hair cascades over my shoulders. By the end of the day, it will be mostly straight, too heavy to sustain the curls it took an hour to fix. I practice a smile, checking to see if any lipstick transferred to my teeth, but also testing to see if I can manage to make it look real. This is my chance at a new beginning, and as long as I'm careful, the past won't bleed into the future.

I glance at Mom. Even now she keeps her gaze forward, hands tight on the steering wheel, navigating the rented Ford Focus around another bend in this hopeless road. Mom doesn't want the past to follow me, but I can't help feeling guilty. I'm the reason she has to start over, too.

You'll make so many friends, a voice rumbles in my head. If he were still here, it's the kind of encouragement my poppa would give. I smile at the thought and straighten in my seat, clasping the round coin at my neck—my poppa's coin. It will be easier to let go of the past if I make friends.

Another bend and Mom turns down a white concrete drive, flanked by a set of red brick pillars. A black plate with gold letters identifies this as Nacoma Knight Academy—my new school.

Sweat beads on my forehead, as if the sun has moved inches from my face, and I know something's not right.

Oh, no.

My stomach feels like it's full of wasps as I focus on the building ahead of me. Balconies outside the third and fourth floors are enclosed with black bars, making each one resemble a cage. A girl hangs by her neck at the center of the building, four stories up. I follow the rope with my eyes, finding it tied to one of several stone spindles jutting from the top of the roof.

My fingers dig into the leather seat, and there's a familiar prick in my palm as hysteria crawls up my windpipe, into the back of my throat. I swallow the scream, glancing at Mom, realizing the momentum of the car hasn't slowed.

She can't see the dead girl.

Of course she can't. My mouth tastes bitter at the thought—that's why we're in this mess. Mom can't see the dead, and from the one conversation we've had about it, she also believes anyone who claims to see the dead is a liar.

A bead of sweat trickles down my face, tickling my neck and I release my breath. I can do this, I remind myself. The dead are everywhere, and I took precautions as I was getting ready this morning. My perfume has a hint of rosemary, the evil eye dangles off a zipper on my backpack, and there's a bag of turmeric powder in my blazer pocket. Small things, but they should keep the souls at a distance. Soul, not ghost—I don't like that word. It implies transparency. The dead I deal with look as human as the day they died: solid, fleshy, and like the nearly decapitated girl hanging by her neck over the doors, they wear their deaths.

This is just a reminder of the rules I set for myself—and the reason I need them.

Rule number one: ignore the dead.

But as we approach, I can't take my eyes off her. How hard must she have fallen? She'd been a student at Nacoma Knight Academy. Her uniform is similar to mine, except instead of a blazer, she wears a knitted sweater—longer, with two pockets on the front—and a skirt that falls mid-calf. While I don't think she's one to cause me trouble, she's been here a while and her presence is a vortex, sucking my energy. It makes me jittery, like I've had too much caffeine.

Mom brings the car to a jerky halt. I stick my hands out to stop myself from colliding with the dashboard, only to realize the bell has rung. Students dressed like me and the dead girl race to buildings across campus. Several move in and out of the doors beneath her feet.

Suddenly I regret my choice of accessory—a pair of purple and blue nebula tights. Personally, my favorite pair of the hundreds I own, yet nothing screams geek like space tights. I could have waited a few months to introduce these to the student body.

I don't move to exit the car. Once I'm outside, I have to worry about screwing up again. I'm the new girl, and people will want to look at me, talk to me. I'll have to make sure they're actually alive. Sure, I want friends, but I also want to become transparent, blend in so well with the crowd I'm hardly noticed. I want to be normal. If I can't manage that, I'm not sure what is next for me: another school?

Probably not. Mom is done moving.

"Any more signs that you're seeing things," she threatened on the drive to Oklahoma, "And I'll commit you."

She's already been researching psychiatric facilities in our new state—I found them saved as bookmarks in her phone. Bringing up seeing the dead was the biggest mistake I'd ever made, but I was warned and I didn't listen.

Mom must have noticed how pale I looked after her threat because she had reached over, patted my leg and said softly, "They helped your poppa."

If that were true, he wouldn't be dead, I think, rubbing the face of my poppa's coin.

"Anora, stop grinding your teeth!" I jerk, startled by Mom's sudden command. It's the first time she's met my gaze since we got in the car this morning—the first thing she said other than put on your seatbelt.

I let go of the coin, its heavy weight settles against my chest, and I relax my jaw, unaware I've been clenching it. Mom sighs, which seems to soften the flicker in her eyes. She reaches to brush a few strands of hair out of my face.

"Honey, I know this all happened so fast, but this...this will be good for you...for both of us."

She smiles so I smile back, only to make her feel better. It is damage control, something I put myself in charge of since our transplant to this windy state is my fault.

It is always my fault.

"Would you like me to walk you to the door?"

Mom isn't smiling now and she taps the steering wheel with her fingers. I'm probably making her late for her interview.

I lift my backpack from the floor, stifling my impulse to take another deep breath. I need to say something reassuring. Something like, That's alright, Mom. I'll be fine. Don't worry. I love you.

Instead, I say, "No, Mom. That's all I need on my first day."

"Fine." She answers in that clipped, short-tempered tone she's been using with me for the last two months. "I'll pick you up after three."

I get out of the car, close the door and she drives off.

Then it's just me, the school, and the dead girl.

Well, crap.

A sign to the left of the sidewalk identifies this building as Emerson Hall. I turn in a circle. Now that I'm outside the car, I feel like I've been transported to another dimension. All traces of the outside world—the street we drove up and the black fence and gate—are lost amid acres of land and trees. Even the wind is different here—quieter, like it is trapped under a glass dome, exiling street noise.

I drag my gaze back to the dead girl hanging at the center of the building like some sacrificial god. Even now, this spirit is draining my energy, making me dizzy, and the longer she hangs there, the worse it'll get. If I want to get through this day—and every one after that—I'm going to have to ignore her.

Easier said than done.

I give Poppa's coin one last squeeze, slip it under my shirt, and march into Emerson Hall, avoiding the girl swinging over my head. Right now, I have to find my new normal, and part of that is pretending I am normal.

Inside, several students stand in line at a counter waiting to speak to one of three women behind a glass panel. I hang back at the entrance for a moment, surveying my surroundings, mostly waiting to see if there's an energy suck—an indication that there are dead nearby. When I'm sure everyone in the lobby is alive, I choose a line and wait. A couple of students turn to stare, but I avert my eyes, looking at anything else—the plastic plant in the corner, wooden chairs pushed against a dirty white wall, black and white photos of buildings and long-dead or nearly-dead people.

A television behind the glass runs breaking news, the screen is splashed with photos of a deadly plane crash, deliberately taken down by its co-pilot. Officials make guesses as to the motive and the only thing I can think is that there are now one hundred and fifty more people bound here on Earth, murdered. My stomach clenches tight. Mom doesn't like when I watch the news. She thinks I take it all too personally.

What she really means is she thinks I become obsessed, and I guess she's kind of right. There are certain stories I invest in, and I'll follow every piece of news released on the subject.

This one is no different.

I watch the news until it's past time for my first class, and no one else is left in the lobby but me.

A woman with blond hair and a pink blazer smiles at me.

"Can I help you?" Her voice sounds robotic, filtered through the round metal intercom.

"I'm new. I don't have my schedule—"

"Oh! You must be Anora Silby!" She retrieves a folder from her desk and hands it to me via a small opening at the bottom of the glass barrier. "Inside you will find your schedule and your student handbook."

I open the folder and stare at the materials. My schedule sits on top. I have already zoned in on my first hour: trigonometry...a.k.a. Hell.

"Be sure you are aware of curfew."

"Oh, I don't live on campus."

"Curfew is countywide," she advises. "No one's to be outside after midnight."

"Why?"

It takes the lady a moment to realize I've asked her a question. She blinks.

"It's always been like that. Since the twenties. You know, after the murders."

"No, actually...I don't know," I wave my folder around to remind her I'm the new girl.

"It's nothing to be worried about," the lady assures me. "There haven't been any murders since then. The curfew's just in place as...a precaution. It's best if it's obeyed."

She says it like a warning, like she thinks I'm one to break the rules. I can understand curfew for campus, but why is it countywide?

"Would you like a guide to help you find your classes?" Her voice brightens, her smile intensifies. It looks fake, and I get the sense I'm not welcome anymore.

"Uh, sure."

It'll be nice to have a map of this place in case I get lost trying to avoid the dead. The lady disappears from view and I take a closer look at the pictures on the wall. I'm partly hopeful I'll see a picture of the girl outside in one of the photos, but I don't find her. The images are mostly of buildings on campus in their prime. Gold plates beneath the frames indicate the year they were built. My favorite is Rosewater—that sounds calming.

I run my fingers over the cold metal, tracing the name.

"You must be Anora Silby." The voice is energetic and warm, but it startles me. I tear my hand away from the plate as if I've been caught stealing and yelp, twisting to find a boy standing beside me. He has striking blue eyes and sharp features. My gaze drops to his lips, which are initially pulled into a smile until I face him, then it falters.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

I study him for a moment—lively eyes, faint color in his cheeks, and...warmth. He's definitely alive. I guess I stare too long because he clears his throat and says, "Can I help you find your classes?"

"Oh...um...the lady was getting me a map."

A smile stretches across his face again, brightening his expression. "I'm your map." He extends his hand to me, keeping the other in his pocket. "Shy."

I stare at his hand, confused—did he just call me shy?

"Excuse me?"

He chuckles under his breath. "It's my name—Shy Savior."

"Oh." My cheeks flame and I want to hide. I fumble as I cradle my folder in my arm and reach for his hand. "Anora Silby...er...I guess you knew that."

"Yeah," he breathes, and then quickly adds, "But that's okay. You have a nice name."

He doesn't move his gaze from mine as he shakes my hand firmly, and it is a little unnerving, especially since the pigment of his eyes is so concentrated—seriously, he has to be wearing contacts.

"Um, are you going to let go of my hand?"

"Sorry." He drops my hand and snakes his behind his neck. "It's just...have we met?"

I laugh. "No. I think I would remember you, Blue Eyes."

Shy smiles and turns the faintest shade of pink. "You just feel so familiar."

"I hope I'm familiar in a good way."

God. I'd have to say that, wouldn't I?

I'm breaking my second rule: Absolutely no boys.

"Yes." He narrows those gorgeous eyes and my resolve weakens. "Yes, only in a good way."

I inhale and hug myself, feeling self-conscious.

"Mr. Savior, I think it's about time Miss Silby made it to class," the lady in the pink blazer advises from the counter.

Shy turns and smiles at her. "Yes. Sorry, Mrs. Cole." He looks at me, clearing his throat. "So, what's your first class?"

I'm glad the distraction gives me a reason to look away from him because my cheeks are on fire. I open my folder to look at my schedule. I'd seen it a few minutes ago but now, I can't remember anything.

"Um, Mr. Val, trig ... in Walcourt?"

Shy laughs.

"What?" I lean away to get a good look at his face, but he just shakes his head, eyes focused on my schedule.

"Nothing—what's your locker number?"

Forty-four.

Shy directs me out of the lobby, down a hallway flanked with a large trophy case and a couple bulletin boards covered with flyers for homecoming.

"The lockers, dorms, and cafeteria are all located here in Emerson," he explains. "It's a little inconvenient, but you just have to make sure you have everything you need for your first four classes before lunch," he pauses and nods to my locker, then the one next to it. "That one's mine."

I smile at him and it feels like I'm falling into a trap. "I guess I'll see more of you, then?"

"Yeah." He grins, showing his teeth, and runs a hand through his blond hair. I like the way his eyes crinkle at the sides when he smiles, all things I shouldn't notice about him, considering my rules. "Yeah, you will."

The sunlight blinds me as we exit Emerson and I blink several times to adjust my vision before turning to watch the girl overhead. She sways ever-so-slightly, propelled by nothing but the memory of the day of her death. Shy has stopped, too, and watches me, following my gaze to the bars.

"It was to keep people—"

"From jumping," I finish quickly. "I know."

He doesn't smile back, and he studies me. The intensity of his eyes makes me feel like he can see every layer of me.

"Why don't they take them down?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Aesthetics, history, a precaution. The windows in the dorms don't open, either."

"History?"

"This place used to be an asylum before it was a school. Back in the twenties."

Oh, that isn't good.

I look back up at the bars and then around. So far so good, I haven't encountered any other dead, but that doesn't mean they aren't here.

"Do you live on campus?"

He shakes his head. "No, thank God."

"That bad, huh?"

He sort of laughs but it sounds more like a snicker. "I already spend more time here than I like."

As we cross campus, I conduct another sweep of the grounds and notice a thin layer of decay has settled upon the landscape in the form of weathered brick, buckled sidewalks, and rusted pipe rails. These are flaws in its beauty—cracks the past has slipped through. The dead are a part of that past, and I want to fix it. The urge tugs at my heart, twines with my veins and bursts from my palm. The sharpness is startling, and I squeeze my fingers into a fist, knowing no good can come of it, no matter my intentions.

Worse, I'll leave my mark on everything.

It's like fixing a china doll after her face has shattered—you might find a rosy cheek and an eye, but nothing prepares you for the chips in the already-broken pieces or the glue that never stops oozing from those cracks.

"Are you a senior this year?" Shy asks. His voice startles me, and though the question grounds me, I want to tell him he doesn't have to keep up conversation just to be polite. Still, I answer.

"No, a junior."

"Good. At least you don't have to start your last year of school in a new place. Where are you from?"

"Chicago."

"Why did you move here?"

The question makes my stomach churn.

"Things...got complicated." A weak response, but an answer. I'm relieved when Shy nods and doesn't ask me to elaborate. "What about you?" I ask quickly. "Have you always lived here?"

"My whole life."

Surprising. Somehow, I can't see this being the only place he's ever lived. His smile seems sad, too, and I wonder if he feels trapped like I feel trapped.

We approach Walcourt, which is shaped like a rectangle with large square columns running the length of a cement overhang, and ugly white pipe rails zigzag to the doors. Inside, the place smells like must and mold. The white floor looks yellow under fluorescent lights.

We walk midway down the hall and Shy's eyes capture mine before he nods to a door on my right.

"That's Mr. Val's class. Just to warn you...he's a bit of a prick."

So that's why he laughed earlier. Great. Shy steps back and then twists toward the door. He knocks and doesn't wait for a response. I hear a deep, stern voice.

"Mr. Savior. What can I do for you?"

"I apologize, Mr. Val. I'm showing a new student around campus."

Shy opens the door a little more and now Mr. Val is visible. He has a thick, brown mustache, brown hair, and wears a brown suit. He stands behind his desk, a piece of chalk in his hand, mid-lesson. I meet his gaze last and find him staring at me, eyes as black as a night without stars. I can already feel his disappointment in me, like he's set the Earth on my shoulders and watched it roll off into space.

The only thing that makes me feel any better is that he looks at Shy the same way.

"This is Anora Silby."

"Ah." He places his chalk in the metal holder, dusts off his hands, and reaches for a clipboard on his desk. "Yes, Miss Silby. Come in."

Shy takes up half the doorway, but I brush past him. Heat rushes to my face, and I can't figure out if it is from being on display in front of twenty students or from the slightest bit of physical contact with Shy.

"You're excused, Mr. Savior. I'm sure if Miss Silby needs your services, she will find you."

The class snickers. I glance at Shy as he mouths the word "prick" before closing the door. I nod—a grin growing on my face.

"Miss Silby." My smile quickly fades, and I snap my head toward Mr. Val who clears his throat. The students behind me laugh again. "It's a good thing Mr. Savior isn't in this class. It already seems he is proving too much of a distraction."

Mr. Val hands me something that looks more like a work manual than a syllabus, and a massive trigonometry book, then directs me to one of the only seats left in the classroom—front and center. As I take it, I notice a girl with long dark hair staring daggers at me. Our eyes meet, but her expression doesn't change. The only reason I'm okay with it is because she's actually alive. I can deal with living bitches—but not dead bitches. There's a difference.

I pull out my notebook and try to catch up on what I missed in Mr. Val's instruction, and look through the syllabus. As if I need any more confirmation that my time at Nacoma Knight will be trying, I find that we have quizzes every day.

Sighing, I glance up to find the dead girl from Emerson Hall outside the window peering in. Her head dangles to the side, partially decapitated. Blood covers the collar of her sweater, drips from her nose and the corners of her eyes. My whole body suddenly feels prickly, like I've been wrapped in a blanket of spiders, their tiny legs skittering across my skin.

As if she senses my gaze, her sideways eyes snap to mine and her colorless lips pull away from her teeth in a crooked, black-blood smile, and I know that she's come to search for me.

I look away and focus on my desk, but the dead girl's gaze heats my skin like the sun.

Please let her lose interest in me.

If she doesn't, I have a one-way ticket to the psych ward.

[maribricklove]

Trapped Under Ice - Part 6

Pairing: Sam x Reader, Dean x Platonic!Reader, John Winchester (mentioned),

Summary: Imagine being an old hunting friend of Sam’s (and something more) from before he went to college that he thought was dead, and while coincidentally working on the same case you were, you run into each other again. Astonished to see you after almost twenty years, Sam tries to figure out how you survived, but you don’t want to relive the pain and terror of how you were separated.

Word Count: 1935

Warnings: Implied PTSD (No disrespect to people with PTSD. Just something for the character), extra fluffy (basically Sam being a huge sweetheart), angst, terror, eventual blood, gore, death, mild swearing.

Prompt: None

Disclaimers: I do not own anything from CW,  Warner Brother’s, any of the photos in this collage, or you. Pictures were found on google.  This is a work of pure fiction -obviously.

Series Masterlist 

Reader’s POV

I walked into the cabin, gun in hand, and Sam behind me. The dark hallway from the front door to the back of the house was very small, cobwebs covering the entire length of the corridor. There were three doorways in the hallway. One to a bedroom, one to what looks like a living room, and the other to a dining room. All three of them were empty. No sign of life anywhere, just a thick layer of dust covering everything.

We walked down the rest of the dim hallway, the lights in the ceiling were flickering. We entered the kitchen, and there were all these bottles and books that seemed to be brand new. The witch had made herself very comfortable in that small kitchen, because there was a small pile of blankets in the corner. The books on the table were filled bookmarks, the bottles of potions were varied in size. Some were tall and labeled with paper, some were round and wrapped with metal décor.

Sam called me over to the other side of the table, where he found an empty bottle and maybe a few drops of purple potion outside it. I noticed some scratch marks on it, and on the label, it read ‘Lupus,’ which I immediately recognized as ‘wolf.’ We gave each other a look of terror. Out of the corner of my eye, I could have sworn that the pile of blankets moved. I told Sam, but he brushed it off as me being nervous.

Suddenly, there were gunshots outside, which we knew were from Dean, John, and my Dad. We ran outside directly into the woods. I ran for a what seemed a few seconds, but I knew it wasn’t because I turned, and I couldn’t see the cabin anymore. I was completely surrounded by trees, and I was all alone. Sam was nowhere to be seen.

“Sam!” I called out, but there was no answer. I yelled again, “Sam!” Complete silence followed the echo of my voice. Suddenly, a low, rumbling growl came from behind me; I turned but saw nothing. I heard it again, but it sounded more like an evil laugh this time. I continued scanning the brush for what made such a spine chilling noise, but to no avail.

I heard the noise one more time, but it sounded like it was coming from above me.

I look up, and I see two bright red eyes surrounded by a wolf’s head, and the fangs, they were crimson covered in blood and red drool dripping from them. Blood clumping the fur around its snout, some old, some freshly spilled.

It roared in my face, and I let out a scream that could have deafened it. I turned on my heels and ran, and I ran. I ran as fast as I could, but every time I looked back it was closer and closer. I could feel its hot breath on the nape of my neck; I knew it was close. I find a clearing, but suddenly, I’m cut off by a short and very steep cliff leading to the half frozen river below. I look behind me once more, and I see the wolf creature right on my heels, so I decide to run along the edge in hopes to find Sam, or my Dad.

I kept screaming for Sam, but he never heard me. The creature’s roars and fiery breath still behind me, I kept on running. Suddenly, I look back, and it’s not there. No growling, no dog smell, just empty. I didn’t want to wait for it to come back, so I kept running.

I ran up to a somewhat taller part of the cliff and stopped to catch my breath. Suddenly, Sam and my Dad came out into the clearing, and in relief, I flew towards them and gave them a tight hug and never wanted to let go.

“It’s okay, baby girl,” my dad reassured me as he laid a hand on my back. “It’s gone. Dean and John killed it.”

“I was so scared, Sam. It was right on top of me,” I said.

“It’s alright. The witch is dead, so is the monster. We’re okay,” Sam whispered in my ear softly.

Our reunion was abruptly interrupted by a twig snapping behind us. Thinking it was Dean and John, we started walking towards the woods again to go head back to the motel, when suddenly, the wolf jumped right out at us, bloodied teeth bared, claws reaching forward, in a hungry attempt to grab us. It reached me and my dad and pushed us back off of our feet to where we fell of the cliff. For what seemed like an eternity, the thirty, maybe forty feet we fell into the frozen river was excruciating.

I landed back first onto a plate of ice which cracked instantaneously underneath me, sending me to the depths of the icy water. I tried to reach up to get my head above water, but I kept grabbing ice and kept slipping back under the water. The water seemed to soak into my skin making my bones freeze. My skin was so tight that my arms and legs couldn’t move, almost not at all.

Finally, I reached the side of the cliff, and in an attempt to get a hold on it to catch my breath, a huge piece of ice rammed into my face and arm, knocking me back in the water.

Now, with my head above water, I could see Sam backing away from the wolf as it walked towards him. It towered over him as it crept closer. Sam started shooting it, but it kept walking. My dad was nowhere to be found, maybe further downstream or on the opposite bank of the river.

I tried again to grab onto something to stay above water, but that last piece of ice that crashed into me probably broke my arm, making it almost impossible. Suddenly, a huge hand grabbed my ankle and dragged me down into the depths of the cold river. As the water surrounded me, I felt the grip on my ankle get painfully tighter. I look gown to see what was holding me, and two bright red eyes start quickly moving towards mine. I try to get away, but to no avail. It started growling my name, “Y/N… Y/N…” It start’s getting louder and louder. “Y/N! Y/N!!” I suddenly start swallowing water, and my voice can’t reach out to Sam, no matter how hard I scream. Then, my vision fades, but I still hear my name being called from somewhere.

“Y/N! Y/N!”

“Y/N!” the voice calls out clearer. I feel two big hands, shaking my body. “Y/N wake up,” it says. It sounds like Sam.

I open my eyes to see Sam standing over me. My heart still racing, and my mind still on the creature, I startle and try to break free of his grasp, but he still tries to hold me. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s me, Sam,” he reassured me. It took me a moment to process his words, but when I do finally calm down, I can now see that it was all a nightmare.

“Sam,” I say breathless.

“Yeah, it’s me, Sam,” he said calmly. “You were having a bad dream.”

I swallowed hard and let out a breathy “Yeah.” Still trying to catch my breath. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about it. I was just worried that I wouldn’t be able to wake you. You were dug in like a tick.”

“Yeah, it was uhh… pretty deep.”

“Are you okay? Do you a glass of water?”

My throat was a little parched. That usually happened. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Okay.” He stood up and walked into the kitchen. As I sat there, I could still feel my broken arm, my frozen bones, the pain in my throat as the water filled my lungs, and the huge hand was still on my ankle. The claws still digging deep into my skin and tendons, the blood as it rushed out of the wounds all over my body. The pain seems all too familiar for my taste.

Sam came back with my water and placed it into my hands. “Here you go,” he said softly. He then wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and sat next to me. “Are you okay? Do you need anything else?” he asked as he rubbed circles on my back with his big, strong hand.

I quickly pulled away and answered, “I’m okay. I just need to shake it off.”

“Oh… o-okay. Whatever you need,” he replied, and he just sat there next to me. It wasn’t until then, that I noticed he was just in his boxers. The shirt and slacks he was wearing earlier were neatly placed on the foot of the bed. Sam Winchester was sitting next to me on the couch, in nothing but his boxers. Boy, does this feel a little awkward. Well, better awkwardness that fear at the moment.

“Do you- if you want to- want to share the bed with me? You know, to make you feel more comfortable?”

I slowly turned my head towards him with a cocked eyebrow. “Sam, are you hitting on me, right after I had a nightmare?” I teased.

“Uhh… N-no. No. I would never do that,” he stuttered in defense. “I just thought that maybe it would help you calm down and fall back asleep faster.”

“Uh-huh. Sure,” I quipped back at him

“I’m serious. I promise, I’m not trying to get you into bed.”

I started to chuckle now at his boyish attempts to defend himself. “It’s okay, Sam. I know you’re not.” He let out a small sigh of relief. “I think that it might be a good idea,” I responded. “I just want to fall back asleep.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“I’m sure, Sam. It’ll be like old times when we would share a bed together. Just as friends now, though. Right?”

“Yeah.” He let his head down, but then looked back at me. “As friends,” he repeated.

After a few more minutes of awkward silence, I got up of the couch and put my now empty glass in the sink, and then walked straight to the bed on the opposite side of where Sam had laid down earlier in the night. I lifted the covers and just laid down there on the bed as Sam turned all the lights off again, and then returned to bed himself.

I tried to forget the horrible dream I just had, but how could I when it’s the same dream I’ve had almost every night for the past twenty years. So, I laid on my back and tried to focus on something else. The sound of the clock on the wall, the faucet dripping in the bathtub, but then I tried to focus on Sam’s breathing. It was so slow, and he took long breaths, but it was so steady. I mirrored his breathing, in and out. In… and out.

I found myself relaxing, and eventually I fell asleep again, but the next time, I woke up, it was to the sun in my eyes, and one strong arm wrapped around me. It was so peaceful, I didn’t even realize at that time that I actually slept without any nightmares. Maybe this is the twist of fate where I finally find some kind of freedom and healing from the monsters that are outside that motel door.

Wassup, guys? Did you like this chapter? I wanted to finally bring in some more back story for our main character, but I wanted it to be first-person experience, so I wrote it out like this. If you guys want to see more, follow my blog, leave a like, and if you guys want to see some other cool, maybe personalized stuff just for you, send me a drabble or one-shot request. I try to post every week, so keep a look out for new postings. Stay cool, my friends.

Chapter seven

[0225pm]

something random part 1

so i was trying to be less lazy and started deleting unwanted photos and videos in my camera roll and i stumbled upon a 100 questions tag i screenshot some time in dec 2016 and i never got round to doing it and since i’ve got some time now i’m gonna do them all here just for the fun of it and also to “train” my typing and visual skills :-) 

are you ready? here we goooooo~

////////

1. when you have cereal, do you have more milk than cereal or more cereal than milk? - more cereal than milk

2. do you like the feeling of cold air on your cheeks on a wintery day? - singapore doesn’t have the 4 seasons, it’s constantly summer here with the occasional monsoon/rainy days but yes i do like the feeling of just air/wind in general on my cheeks and everywhere else really

3. what random objects do you use to bookmark your books? - scrap pieces of paper, receipts

4. how do you take your coffee/tea? - i like semi-sweet black coffee for something hot/warm but i love cold drinks best

5. are you self-conscious of your smile? - currently, a little bit after i noticed how crooked one of my front tooth is and how there’s like this stain which as told by my dentist was probably caused by a medicine i wasn’t supposed to take when i was younger because it’s an irremovable stain even if i bleach my whole set of teeth white :-)

6. do you keep plants? - i don’t but the family has them, given by my uncle. my dad takes care of them every morning

7. do you name your plants? - um no

8. what artistic medium do you use to express your feelings? - it’s not very artistic but sometimes when i’m angry i’ll cry :-) LOL 

9. do you like singing/humming to yourself? - sometimes i do hum without realising it and who doesn’t like singing to themselves!! i do even though i know my voice is fucking gross and i have no singing talent, it’s a good way to destress 

10. do you sleep on your back, side or stomach? - i used to sleep on my stomach but after the surgery i got used to sleeping on my side and it’s been that way ever since then

11. what’s an inner joke you have with your friends? - if i tell you, then it’s not an inner joke anymore ;)

12. what’s your favorite planet? - i want to be cliche and say earth but i really like saturn 

13. what’s something that made you smile today? - a voice message han sent me asking if i’m ok or if i’m unwell just because i decided to sleep early yesterday night and then i went on his twitter and saw a tweet saying i should tell him if i’m sick and not keep it from him hahaha idk why but it made me smile because it was something so small but i guess it was quite out of the norm for me to want to sleep early which was why he was worried hahaha

14. if you were to live with your best friend in an old flat in a big city, what would it look like? - a huge mess because we’re both lazy bitches loool but i guess something we have in common is, the lesser the furniture the better! 

15. go google a weird space fact and tell us what it is! - venus has super powerful winds

16. what’s your favorite pasta dish? - seafood tom yum fusilli from 18chefs

17. what colour do you really want to dye your hair? - omg i really want to go back to silver/grey again :( 18. tell us something dumb/funny you did that has since gone down in history between you and your friends and is always brought up. - it isn’t always brought up but lmao when i was younger, my mom enrolled me into a childcare and we have this nap times in the schedule. i always volunteered to lay down the mattresses (we have our own mattresses to sleep on with our names on it) so i can lay down and nap beside this boy i was crushing on

19. do you keep a journal? what do you write/draw in it? - i used to but i can never get into the habit of writing daily as you can see, the same goes for blogs too lol but i had this scrapbook i bought and wrote down lame things like a mini biodata, and then i think in sec 2 i asked the whole class to sign their names in it 

20. what’s your favorite eye color? - brown like farhan’s ;) ayyyy HAHAHAHA i’ve always like green eyes that sometimes changes into dusty gray under different lights

21. talk about your favorite bag, the one that’s been to hell and back with you and that you love to pieces. - i would say my kanken bc it really has been with me to hell and back since i always had to carry my mac around but i’ve been really digging this black backpack my mom got me the other time and have since carried it every fucking where i go

22. are you a morning person? - i can be if i want to

23. what’s your favorite thing to do on lazy days where you have 0 obligations? - sleep? but too much sleep isn’t good either. i guess most time i’m on the internet just lurking

24. is there someone out there you would trust with every single one of your secrets? - yes

25. what’s the weirdest place you’ve ever broken into? - um i wouldn’t really say broken into but i went in the men’s toilet to pee before because it was so urgent

26. what are the shoes you’ve had for forever and wear with every single outfit? - used to be my white nikes but now it’s just my trusty pair of the classic high cut chucks

27. what’s your favorite bubblegum flavor? - watermelon

28. sunrise or sunset? - sunrise mainly because i don’t see it often

29. what’s something really cute that one of your friends does and is totally endearing? - gushing over her boyfriend

30. think of it: have you ever been truly scared? - yeah a whole traumatic experience that gave me social anxiety

31. what’s your opinion of socks? do you like wearing weird socks? do you sleep with socks? do you confine yourself to white sock hell? really just talk about socks. - lol i think it’s something necessary with shoes ofc there are still a lot of people who probably don’t wear socks with their shoes. yes i like wearing weird socks and no i don’t sleep with socks on unless it’s super cold and instead of confining myself to white sock hell, it’s black sock hell.

32. tell us a story of something that happened to you after 3am when you were with friends. - i’m actually usually with farhan after 3am but um no story for the public because nsfw content HAHAHAHHAHA

33. what’s your fave pastry? - I REALLY LOVE A GOOD CROISSANT OR A BAGUETTE OMFG I REALLY 34. tell us about the stuffed animal you kept as a kid. what is it called? what does it look like? do you still keep it? - i keep a bantal busuk my late grandma made for me instead of a stuffed animal. it’s called bantal busuk and just looks like a bantal la duh hahaha it’s rectangular and has bear prints all over it, base color navy. yes i do HAAHHAHAHA it hasn’t been washed my whole life i love ittttt

35. do you like stationary and pretty pens and so on? do you use them often? - yes wtf i have a small thing for stationaries but i don’t use them often now. i used to spend my pocket money on a bunch of this rainbow pens that when you use to write has this really cool pearly rainbow tint i’m not sure if it’s even available in stores anymore

36. which bands sound would fit your mood right now? - i’m actually listening to dpr live - jasmine right now

37. do you like keeping your room messy or clean? - clean la obviously but it’ll always get messy so ya damn lazy to clean up hahah half clean half messy

38. tell us your pet peeves! - people littering like wtf stop it please, etc 

39. what color do you wear the most? - black isn’t a color but yeah black

40. think of a piece of jewelry you own: what’s it’s story? does it have any meaning to you? - a pair of mini hoop earrings farhan got me for my birthday! the most personal thing of/from him i have on me all the time hehe

[fantastica-daily]

Los Angeles Overnight – Interview with Screenwriter Guy J. Jackson

by Staci Layne Wilson

 Even though I’m born and bred in L.A., I still see the city as a magical place and its history absolutely fascinating. That’s why I was so interested in chatting with screenwriter and actor Guy J. Jackson about his new independent film LOS ANGELES OVERNIGHT, a neo-noir directed by Michael Chrisoulakis, and filmed on location. The movie stars Arielle Brachfeld, and features icons such s Lin Shaye, Sally Kirkland, and Peter Bogdanovich.

 “Arielle's apartment complex in LAO was once lived in by Leslie Howard of GONE WITH THE WIND,” Guy told me, when I asked him about some of the more under-the-radar locations of the film. “One of the noir movies I studied heavily for dialogue-style was THE PETRIFIED FOREST and then voila, there we were at poor ol' Leslie Howard's bungalow complex.”

 He also said that one of the locations has an especially dark past. “Aaron Kai's scene and a lot of audition scenes and the basement scene and the bar scene were all filmed at Harold Examiner Building, which has now been closed down for filming.” (The filmmakers consider themselves very lucky to be among the last allowed to shoot there.) “Anyway, I don't know all the details, but according to one of the building managers, William Hearst's pregnant mistress was last seen in the top floor office of that building, the room right next door to where we did the scene with Arielle in the acting class. Then she vanished because Hearst was married.

 “And the bar in the last scene where Arielle meets Junebug is of course in the basement of the American Legion on Highland, and its where Kubrick did pick up shots for The Shining. The stories from the American Legion are also legion, including the gross one about the theater where they showed girls to studio execs in the 20s, and if you go visit the building the enthusiastic veteran manager there is more than happy to show you around and give you the blow-by-blow of the history.”

 = = =

 Q: Neo-noir contains the stock elements of its’ predecessor; the femme fatale, the morally ambiguous hero, complex plots, the double-cross, hard boiled dialogue, and so on. But there is room to play within the genre – and you did that. How would you describe LAO to film buffs?

 ​A: Let's say it's a sun-drenched, crazy-from-the-heat thriller by way of a David Lynch vibe with dashes of early Tarantino (though by no means is this one of those PULP FICTION knockoffs from the '90s, we totally totally totally promise) gently souped with Hitchcock odes. But also we managed to tap the hyper-surreal side of L.A., and so in some weird ways I'd geekily-film-buff-ly reference Steve Martin's L.A. STORY.

 That's all just touchstones though, even as we call it "noir" or an "L.A. movie" or whatever else. I think and hope it's just something unto itself. I hope anyone can jam with this movie. Director Michael Chrisoulakis, in his calm, workmanlike way, unified the whole cast and crew and movie around a "we are all dreamers" campfire. Sure, dreams most often unfold in darkness, especially in this movie's case, but isn't it still kinda nice and charming that all of humanity dreams?

 So could we call LOS ANGELES OVERNIGHT "a dream about dreamers made by dreamers in one of the world's nexuses of dreams"? Would that sell a film buff, and everyone else?

 Yeeesh, I'm such a Logline Can Of Wormser.

= = =

Q: Have you always been a fan of noir? If so, what are some of the first ones you remember seeing and how did they affect you? If not, then what was the prompt to write a screenplay like this?

 ​A: I really always loved Film Noir without actually knowing what it was for quite some time, not knowing it was defined by The Great Depression and all that stuff, and I especially liked any movie written by Ben Hecht or featuring ​Edward G. Robinson. But then Michael Chrisoulakis kindly came along and was like: "You just write me this neo-noir about an actress who steals big, just do that and we can make it, you'll see." and I was like: "Um, well, I'm not Hitchcock or nuthin', sure you got the right writer...?" and he was like: "No, it'll be fine, you write good emails." and away it all went.

 So from there I dug into the lore of what Film Noir was and where it came from and Michael and me went to the Film Noir Festival and so on and this whole universe opened up. My very favorite Film Noirs became THE PETRIFIED FOREST and HEAT LIGHTNING. I especially dig how they go showy with dialogue from the days of being a theatre major. Lots of dense dialogue always turns my crank. And man oh man the Noirs were sharp about it when they were first invented. They were reacting to a specific melancholy in society, for really the first time that film got to do as much, and they were reacting sharply. And I guess SWEET SMELL OF SUCCESS would be one of the bestest examples for anyone who wants to hear just how sharp the dialogue could get. But then maybe I was the only Noir Neophyte out there and everyone already knows this stuff.

 And finally I had the words of one of these screenwriting gurus, John Truby, ringing in my head, when weirdly, because it was years before I met Michael, I went up and asked Truby some dumb Noir-neophyte question at his seminar and he said (paraphrasing): "In Film Noir no one really changes. There is no "change" character. Life is rocky but somehow that's still an elegant thing. The best and most innocent people in the story might meet unfair ends...but somehow that's okay. The world is balanced by injustice in Noir. That's why it's a shadow facet of the human story." So yeah, I could dig that.

 = = =

Q: Since you read scripts for a living, how did you find that basis of knowledge helpful in writing yours? (It seems it could go either way; ignorance can be bliss, after all!)

 ​A: Yeah, that's my day job and I read for a couple contests. Generally, out of every 10 scripts, one will be awful, one will be great, and the other 8 will be in need of more drafts. Whereas Hollywood Cynicism would demand that 9 screenplays out of 10 are awful. But no, people are becoming better and better at telling their stories, and so from those 8 out of 10 almost-but-not-quite scripts you can still observe patterns of failure and success and learn and be better. It's always fascinating when perfectly decent scripts suddenly drop the ball on page 70 and can't stick the landing of their Act 3s. We've all been there as screenwriters, eh? So you'd think that "failed" screenplays (which are really only screenplays that haven't seen an insane amount of drafts) would drive you to "chameleon" them and you, too, would become a terrible writer. But no, if you read 500, or 1000 screenplays a year, the good, bad, and ugly, you get a sense of where blunders and pitfalls are, and you then start to avoid such missteps in your own work. A couple producers I read for have brilliant-yet-unmade scripts on hand, so of course I get my doses of others' perfections, too, but even when the occasion arrives to read complete garbage you still learn things. I reckon reading scripts by the ton can actually can make anyone, by teensy tiny increments, a better writer. All grist for the mill.

 = = =

Q: Los Angeles has such an incredibly and unparalleled film history, especially in regard to locations. You had so many wonderful ones at your fingertips – were they written into the script, or, as indie filmmakers, were you guys pretty fluid in your approach?

 ​A: Mostly fluid. We filmed over 9 months, dribs and drabs, here and there, scrabbling together shoots whenever we could. There were some locations that were picked in advance, like the diner, which is a stock location for movies (Lin Shaye, while on set there, said: "Oh, this is about the 8th time I've filmed a movie here.") Or there were some locations Michael was obsessed with getting from the get go. He was always after the 1st Avenue Bridge (the scene with the train) and palm trees (I guess they don't have them in Australia cuz Michael really really really really was into those palm trees), and he definitely had a Herzog-ian obsession with setting a scene in an oil field.

 ​But just as often Michael or me would say "Dude, I saw this great spot for filming such and such..." and away we went. We picked the beach location, the midnight bike path location, the "rabbit hole" location all like that.

 It worked because Michael had these wide open Australian eyes for seeing everything as stuff from a different country from the one he was from, of course. And I don't have a car and I bike or walk or public transport around everywhere so I was already deeply exploring L.A. in that fashion.

 I'm glad we were completely crazy and blind with ambition and seized by the movie gods because looking back I can't believe I was so innocent as to write a script with an impossible amount of locations and filming to do on our shoestring budget. But I'm glad for that innocence, it led to a great adventure. And for some reason the movie just kept getting made and getting made until it was made and distilled. A small miracle, considering its journey across the whole of the city.

 = = =

Q: The shady lady at the center of the story is always key in these mysteries; can you talk a bit about how Arielle Brachfeld, who is really anything but hardboiled (both in life and on camera, she has an innate sweetness), was cast and what she brought to the table?

 ​A: We so completely totally lucked out entirely to meet Arielle, and not just because we would call her randomly over a period of almost a year and be like: "Uh, oh, hey, can you film such-and-such this weekend?" and she kept showing up with a smile and remembering the placement of her bookmark in whatever part of the performance.

 But anyway Arielle's "inherent sweetness" is perfect in being so disarming to the purposes of the movie. Great ghoulish fun to watch this innocent person become arch and destructive and not mind giving away her conscience. But the question of whether her character is that way from the get-go, and the question of whether its cravenness or misguided hypnotherapy or plain boredom that drives her to wrecking everything around to get what she wants is a fun question (or so we hope) for the audience to chew over after the show.

  = = =

 Q: When you wrote the script, did you already plan on playing Smalls?

 ​A: Yeah, Smalls actually began as a cameo because I kinda sideline half-assedly in Acting. But then as the movie kept getting made and getting made and getting made Smalls accidentally became a larger character, because his thru-line of "fuck it, go for it" matched and paralleled Priscilla's (the anti-hero, Arielle's part) thru-line. But my primary motivation was to play a character who didn't have any lines to memorize. Because I'd just come off two years of doing one man shows and I was sick to death of memorization. But what was so gratifying with Smalls was when the character seemed to demand I go deeper than just avoiding memorization. I love it when art forces you to work with profundity in ways you didn't expect.

 = = =

  Los Angeles Overnight will be out soon. For now, check out the trailer here.