kris likes writing

Harry Styles is a model and the currently most in-demand face in the fashion industry who might be just a little bit too full of himself and Janey Darling is the photographer that knocks him off his high horse… and subsequently off his feet.

this is the rewrite of my 2016 autumn exchange fic with added scenes. about 8.5k words. slightly nsfw towards the end and if you read this far you might as well…

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firstbreaths  asked:

literati au where they both go to the same school (either chilton or stars hollow high)

oh goddddd you know my weakness (for the sake of these headcanons, rory and dean stayed broken up after s1)

  • okay but it’s chilton, for sure. he has still moved to stars hollow, but she meets him at school beforehand and they immediately dislike each other; something about the way she talks to much in class and covets authors that make him want to gouge his eyes out and how he seemingly does absolutely nothing but still makes higher marks than her that drives her ~crazy~ and they do nothing but argue but there’s just something they can’t pinpoint
    • (but he can’t deny the way her tights fit to her legs and how her pouty bottom lip drives him wild and her eyes – oh her eyes; she’s a leggy blue eyed angel of death)
    • (and don’t even get her started on the picture he makes; pen placed behind his ear and a paperback stuffed in his back pocket and his sleeves rolled up his forearms and devil may care way he seems to go about everything that makes her want to jostle him but also makes her want to know if those stories that madeline and louise tell her about the goings on in the deserted hallway on the west side of campus really live up to her imagination)
  • she knows it’s him who pulls the anonymous pranks – stealing all the teachers chalk, pilfering the chilton bell in headmaster charleston’s office (shout out to kris on that one), and placing all the textbooks floor to ceiling in the teachers lounge – because he pulled the same shit in stars hollow; she remembers the chalk outline outside of doose’s and how he smirked until she cracked but at least she got through to him that he shouldn’t treat luke like shit or the video store ‘rory curtain’ debacle where she had a feeling of what he put in the g-rated movie cases
    • (and when he gets caught and is forced to leave campus, he still smirks eyes dark and intense as they focus on hers while he’s leaving; he winks and she blushes, fighting to stop smiling, and she opens her locker later that afternoon surprised to find the picture placed in the video store is rolled and locked up tight away from the prying eyes of taylor)
  • they serve detention together one day, him for stealing the bell or her for sneaking in with the god forsaken Puffs, and they’re the only one’s there; sitting several tables apart in the middle of the library. she tries to focus on her homework, and he’s nose deep in a book she’s certain not for any class taken here but she can’t concentrate. he starts humming ‘sheena is a punk rocker’ under his breath, flipping his pen between his fingers and she forgot her walkman at home today and it’s distracting as hell
    • (it doesn’t help that there’s no supervision; not even the librarian who stays late to put new books away; just them and their books and the clock ticking away)
    • (he’s no longer reading, she can feel his eyes on her hunched form; she’s shucked off her sweater and pulled up her a skirt a bit, her legs stretched out in front of her and all he sees is the edges of the pleats resting against the middle of her thighs and all he can picture is himself on his knees, head resting under her skirt and fingers digging into her smooth skin)
    • (could you stop staring at me please, it’s distracting passes from her lips as she throws her pen down, done with taking notes and focusing all her attention on him; her fingers wrap up in the hem of her skirt and once again, it’s him who’s distracted)
    • (i just can’t understand why on earth you want to bore yourself with writing a paper on poetry; just say it already we’re dying here he says, as he comes closer, resting his book – “a tree grows in brooklyn” – right next to hers as he sits two chairs over, head resting on his closed fist and bottom lip bit as he look at her and her heart beat quickens and he questions his distaste for poetry with come on you have to love at least something as her blue eyes shine up at him and her hair falls over her shoulder, her lips turned up at the corners)
    • (and when he smirks, his tongue running along his bottom lip, and shakes his head ‘no’ she takes his hand, the warmth spreading through her fast, and pulls him in the direction of the poetry section and places them directly in front of Neruda; she reads a couple lines – her favourite “i want to do with you what spring does to the cherry trees” – before he sticks his finger in the crease of the book, stopping her completely as he tilts her face up with a finger under her chin and his lips are on hers and a moan escapes her throat as his tongue tangles with hers and the words of love and lust and beauty make her taste like nothing he’s ever experienced)
    • (she ends up with her back pressed against the shelves, one of his hands sliding up her thigh and under her skirt and hers running along his collarbone and she lets out a breathless laugh as his mouth whispers the verses of “i crave, i want, i hunger” along the column of her neck and she just knew he had to know something)

Based on this request:  Could you write an imagine where at the farm Shane tries to kiss her, and don’t stop when she says “no” and Daryl *stops* them and comforts the shaking flinching reader

Word count - 2095

For some reason I just couldn’t write some parts and there isn’t a lot of Daryl in this and I did try to get more Daryl in it but it wouldn’t fit. So I hope you still  like this! - Kris

“Hey, what are you doing up?” Shane questioned me. He sat next to me on the wet grass and stared at me.

“I just couldn’t sleep. What are you doing up?” I asked him with no emotion in my voice. Shane was a weird guy, and not in a good way. He was creepy and stared at women like he was a wolf and they were his sheep. Like he could control everyone without getting into trouble. It bothered me how Rick couldn’t - or should I say wouldn’t - see how dangerous Shane really was.

When he came back from the school with the supplies to help Carl, he never came back with Otis. Of course, he made up this sob story and claimed that Otis sacrificed his life to help save Carl. I looked into Dale’s eyes that day and I could clearly see that he didn’t believe it either.

“Dale, what do you think about Shane’s story?” I whispered while we were both in the RV. I could rely on Dale and he relied on me. We weren’t as close as him and Andrea or anything, but we were good friends.

“What do you mean? Otis gave his life for the boy,” he recited Shane’s words.

“I saw the way you were looking at him, Dale. I know you don’t believe him,” I whispered a little more harshly.

Dale looked at me then and said nothing. He was thinking of the right thing to say, but it wasn’t coming to his mind. However, I knew what was already on his mind: Shane lied.

“You’re right,” Dale suddenly muttered. “I don’t believe him. He’s… not right. I saw him and Rick in the woods a while back. Rick walked ahead and Shane stayed behind. And Shane he,” Dale paused, thinking the story over, “he aimed his gun at Rick and nearly shot the guy, I swear. He tried playing it off but (Y/N), I really think Shane could have killed Rick.”

I was taken aback from Dale’s story. I, of course, believed it. Shane wasn’t the type of guy to let go of things easily. I had confided in Dale that him and Lori had a relationship until Rick came back. I gave Lori credit that she tried ditching Shane for her husband. Although, I still didn’t like her.

Now, as I looked at Shane with his newly shaved head, I was disgusted. I didn’t want to be near him. Currently, he was looking at my legs. I had to admit that my legs look amazing in this apocalypse, but that didn’t give Shane the right to stare.

“Like what you see?” I uttered.

Shane smirked and leaned back. “Sure do. Not many good looking girls around, anymore.”

I turned to him and folded my legs so they were against my chest. I wrapped my arms around them. “I’m sure Lori would love to hear that.” Shane’s face went slack. “And besides, I only like men who know me.”

“Well I know you.”

“Not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?” Shane picked at the grass. He picked up a nice, strong blade and stuck it in his mouth.

“I like guys who ask about me. If they’re interested and just a nice guy. I don’t think I’d go for a guy like you. Even now.”

Shane now glared at me. “You know, most girls are polite to men. They watch their mouths and respect men. Why can’t you do the same?”

I scoffed. “You’re joking, right? We are currently in a zombie apocalypse and you’re worried about me respecting men? Even if we weren’t living through the end of the world, it’s the twenty-first century. Women deserve as much respect as men. You want to know why women are polite to men? Because men are scary. They beat their wives and expect food and drinks from their partners and if they don’t receive, they beat. You’re unbelievable,” I stood and made my way to the farmhouse.

I was beyond angry. Even if it were another person, I would have explained to them nicely about feminism and all that stuff. But it had to be Shane. I wanted to find Dale and complain to him, but I knew he would be sleeping.

Before joining the group back in Atlanta, I had traveled by myself. I learned to be quiet. Shoes made to much noise so I went barefoot. My feet were calloused and hard as well as full of dirt. I rarely talked; there was no one to talk to. I ended up not hearing my voice for months at a time. Once in a while, when I was delusional from not having enough sleep, food, or water, I would talk to myself.

Rick, Daryl, and Shane found me in an abandoned building on a rainy day. I pillaged the area, but soon, I had to find a place to stay. The house I found had little food, but there was a surprising amount of water bottles. Turns out, it was the same house that had attracted the three men who found me.

I was in an upstairs bedroom, practicing aiming with my gun. At the time, it was new to me and I had no idea how to use one. I survived using silence and knives. I despised guns, anyway. After living in near complete silence for months at a time, the loud shots of the guns made me cringe. However, I would rather be experienced while using a gun rather than carrying one around and never know how to use it.

I heard the door open as the floorboards squeaked downstairs. I could hear the people traipsing their around and I immediately holstered my gun. I had a disadvantage: I was upstairs and they were downstairs. They would probably hear me walking around and it would be harder for mt to escape.

I decided to hide until necessary. One person was already making their way upstairs, so I had to find a place quickly. The closet was the only thing that would protect me in the room. I was as quiet as possible as I made my way to the closet. One door was ripped off, but I could still hide behind the other. There were little slits that I could see through, but I hoped no one would notice me.

There was a guy in khaki pants and a green looking shirt that scanned the room. He had black hair and strong muscles on his arms. He wouldn’t leave the room. That’s when I realized that I left my bag and water bottles on the floor. That was a clear sign that someone was here.

He examined the area again and was about ready to leave when he spotted the closet. I wasn’t religious by any means, but I prayed so hard that he wouldn’t come near me.

He opened the door a little and stopped, making eye contact with me. I heard his breathing quicken. He didn’t take his eyes off of me as he dragged me out and threw me to the ground.

“Have anybody else with you?” he angrily asked me as he aimed his gun at my head.

I quickly shook my head. I could hear the other two people running up the stairs.

“Shane, put down the gun. She looks harmless,” I heard a man calmly say. He had a slight beard coming in and next to him was another guy with a crossbow.

“You don’t know that, Rick. For all we know she could have a group around here waiting to kill us.”

“We scavenged the area, dumb ass. We checked every other house and the woods around them. If she had a group she wouldn’t be here right now,” the guy with the cross bow stated. His voice was rough and a little more high pitched than the other two.

“What’s your name?” the guy named Rick asked me.

Being as I hadn’t spoken in quite a while, I didn’t say anything at first.

“He asked you a question,” Shane gritted.

“My name is (Y/N),” I finally said weakly. “Please don’t leave me here,” I begged. I didn’t want to be left alone again. I needed human interaction and companionship.

Rick licked his lips and shifted uncomfortably. “How many walkers have you killed?”

I looked away from his gaze. “Too many to count.”

“How many people have you killed?”

I nearly cringed at this one. “I’ve lost track. But it couldn’t have been more than ten,” I replied. My throat was starting to become dry and hoarse. I needed water, but I knew if I made any sudden movement Shane would put a bullet between my eyes.

“Why did you kill them?” Rick’s question took me off guard. I wasn’t expecting a question like that.

“Most were trying to hurt me,” I glared at Shane, “and some asked me to because they were bit.”

After a few minutes of conversation, Rick decided to let me join their group. He explained about his group at a little camp. They wanted to find a cure so they decided to head towards the CDC.

I stayed with the group and I was welcomed. I had little trouble joining and everyone except a few people tried to make me as comfortable as possible. Although, there was one factor that was one reason why I wanted to leave: Shane.

He was always on my nerves. He had an ego that could harm anyone and if you even gave him the wrong look, he would be sure to do something about it.

I made my way to the barn. Shane had been an idiot and opened the door. He clearly disobeyed Rick and Hershel by doing so. I looked around inside and was just about to turn around when a hand slapped over my mouth and an arm wrapped around my waist.

I tried yelling or biting the arm, but the person behind me was strong. “Shh, it’s going to be okay,” Shane’s voice whispered in my ear.

He started kissing my neck and I could feel him tugging down my pants. “Stop it, Shane,” I managed to mutter.

He continued and I knew I was helpless. I wasn’t as strong as Shane and this was just going to be a ‘sooner or later’ thing after, even if I did get away.

He was feeling me through my clothes, but after a few seconds of me crying, he stopped and back away instantly.

“What the hell is your problem, man?” Daryl’s voice echoed around the barn.

I held onto a stall door while Shane scratched at his neck. Daryl briskly walked forward and was inches from Shane’s face. “What the hell were you doin’ to her? Huh? You’re so disgusting, you ugly bastard!” With a yell, Daryl swung and punched Shane in the face.

By now, Rick and Hershel were in the barn and running towards us. Rick tried separating Daryl and Shane while Hershel went to me. He checked me over for any wounds as I tried to regain my emotions.

I glanced over to the other group; Rick was trying to hold Shane back while Daryl was watching me. I finally walked over to him. We stared at each other for a few minutes before I leaned forward and hugged him tightly. If it weren’t for Daryl, I would still be with Shane.

“Thank you, Daryl,” I said shakily.

Daryl eventually hugged me back. We separated and Daryl licked his lips. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you? I saw what he was doin’ and I knew it wasn’t right for 'im to be doin’ that.”

I nodded. “I’m fine. Really, thank you.”

Rick calmed Shane down. I could clearly see that Daryl had gotten in a few good punches. Rick was asking questions left and right that nobody took the time to answer. He looked at me and panted.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine,” I answered quickly.

“Let’s just settle this is the morning. It’s late, dark, for all we now we could’ve woken the whole house. Shane, come with me,” Rick huffed.

Even though I knew we wouldn’t settle it in the morning, I was glad Daryl rescued me. Not only now, but when they first found me. If it weren’t for Daryl, I would probably be dead. I was suddenly very thankful that I was currently alive and breathing.

I wrapped my arms around Daryl one more time. “Thanks again,” I said.

“That’s great and all, but no more hugging.”

lamentis-a  asked:

nani tf is kris even gonna dO when she learns kuma's true nature he played u good kid hjbJHBJHBRG i.kki voice relatable tho

well i mean i’m 99% sure kuma’s either going to murder her right off the bat once the apocalypse hits or heckin break all of her limbs and sew her mouth shut and keep her alive and chained up in his workshop kldaskldhskldha WHICH… LIMITS HER OPTIONS A BIT

funnily enough though this isn’t even the first time something like this will have happened with her!!!! YES THAT’S RIGHT, HER BEING COMPLETELY HOODWINKED BY TERRIBLE HORRIBLE NO GOOD VERY BAD HUMAN BEINGS IS ACTUALLY A RECURRING THEME, ghetsis actually completely butters her up and takes advantage of her SUPER OBVIOUS CRUSH ON HIM specifically to get her to capture a legendary pokemon for him and then turns around and immediately tries to off her so there’s That

AND SHE ALWAYS TRIES TO??? LIKE??? RATIONALIZE EVERYTHING IN HER HEAD BC SHE DOESN’T WANT ANYTHING TO BE WRONG she could walk in on kuma holding a knife over someone’s mutilated corpse and she’d immediately be like ‘holy smokes i can’t believe he stumbled upon this body and pulled the knife out to try and save them!!!! he’s so great’

if she had a choice in the matter she’d just hecking run she’d cut ties with everyone in their shared social circle and maybe show up again in like a year like ‘haha kuma who??? i don’t know a kuma’ EXCEPT SHE’D BE LEGIT BECAUSE KRIS HAS LITERALLY REPRESSED ENTIRE PEOPLE FROM HER PAST IN HER MEMORY SHE’S FULLY CAPABLE OF DOING IT AGAIN

but since she doesn’t really have the opportunity to do that she’s mostly just… y’know… hangin around… really really really humiliated because she’s such a heckin idiot and having to deal with the knowledge that kuma was p r o b a b l y just making fun of her the entire time

so, you know, she’s doing well : )

Of Cows & Crushes

Wishing a very happy birthday to the amazingly talented, absolutely wonderful Kris ( @anamelesstraveler )! I am so lucky to be able to call you my friend, and I hope you have had an amazing birthday!

I wrote you some McHaleinski, because I was thinking about a scenario where Scott, Stiles and Derek would all need to be riding in the front seat of a truck, and then I started thinking about Large Animal Vet!Scott, and then @authorkurikuri wrote me an amazing fic yesterday with Vet!Scott and I knew it needed to happen. So, while this sadly does not have any McHaleinski riding in the front seat of a truck, it does have Dairy Farmer!Derek, Vet!Scott, and Librarian!Stiles (who is not doing anything related to his job whatsoever in this fic). 

Tags: Farm/Ranch AU, needles mention (Scott gives some cows vaccinations), brief mention of injuries on a horse

Derek’s walking the fence line when he hears the unmistakable sound of a diesel engine, probably half a mile away. It’s most likely Deaton, he’s supposed to be coming today to check on a couple of pregnant cows, vaccinate some calves, and inspect the injuries on his quarter horse Ollie’s hind legs from some old barbed wire he got tangled in last week. With his dog Bud on his heels he cuts across the pasture, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the bottom of his tank top. The July sun seems hotter than it’s ever been, the heat bugs buzzing obnoxiously beneath his feet. As much as he likes Deaton, along with the vet comes a hefty bill, and milking cows doesn’t exactly a millionaire make. Not that there’s any place else on earth he’d rather be than on his farm with his cows, horses, chickens and dogs, but a money tree wouldn’t hurt. He can hear Laura’s voice in the back of his head telling him that she doesn’t have a problem spending her part of the insurance money, and that he’s absolutely ridiculous for only using a small portion of his third of it to rebuild the family’s farm house. He can’t seem to find the words to explain to her that he feels responsible for what happened to their family, for the fire that burned up his life. It just feels wrong to use the money that came from it. Of course, Laura would counter that by saying it’s wrong for him to continue living in exile for ten years after the fact.


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The Old Switch-er-oo

Pairing: Kenny/Kyle
Chapters: ½
Additional: D/S relationship, ‘Switching’

Summary: It always seemed pretty textbook: Kenny was the dom on top, Kyle was the sub bottoming. But Kyle started thinking, what if the seemingly concrete sets of their relationship was depriving Kenny of something he really enjoyed? Maybe now it’s time for the old switcheroo.

Archive | Fanfiction

Jo fixed up a motorbike at Bobby’s garage, one to replace Charlie’s recently broken scooter. It’s not typically her type of ride, and Dean made a couple of light ‘dykes and bikes’ jokes, but hey, it’s always nice to throw something new in there. Something wild and spicy.

They dress up in leather jackets, digging out old Aviator’s from Ash’s collection of vintage thingamabobs. They could be little girls again, playing dress up, only instead of queens of a palace they’re queens of the pavement, Charlie steering their noisy 'bicycle for two’ up the road, Jo’s arms hooked tightly round her waist, clinging so tightly, using Charlie as an anchor so the wind doesn’t sweep her away.

There’s a nice dip in the road, one that leads to a little park, one with flowers and fences. They can’t drive around with the bugs in their teeth all day; Charlie thinks they need some kind of old fashioned romantic stuff or something. It might be an apology for having Jo watch all of Battlestar Galactica with her against her will.

“And what’s this supposed to be?” Jo asks with a laugh, tearing off her helmet as Charlie dismounts. She licks her glossed cherry lips and grins, watching the long, flowing hair of flame fall down Charlie’s shoulders, blowing softly in the winds. 

“Romantic?” Charlie answers with a shrug, trying her hardest not to smile, but the grin bleeding through anyway. Her bottom lip folds in as Jo gets up, sauntering over to her.

Jo leans in close, blowing up to Charlie with the breeze, the air carrying her scent of motor oil and babydoll perfume, a sort of contradictory combination that drives Charlie just plain wild. Charlie’s reflection gets larger in the tinted lenses of Jo’s glasses, her face nearing Charlie’s, breath soon brushing her lips, strands of blonde ticking her cheek.

Jo stops right there, just before their lips meet, tilting her head so the Aviator’s inch down the bridge of her noise, glinting before letting Charlie see through to her warm mocha eyes.

“You didn’t haveta,” She says simply, still hesitating, not kissing her just yet. 

Charlie’s lips twitch, tempted–oh so tempted–to claim Jo’s lips, but the hesitating trepidation restraining her. Instead, she lets out a hoarse chuckle, “Says the girl who gave me a motorcycle.”

“Well I sure as hell wasn’t gonna use my mom’s car to drive to your house and stay the night." 

"Stay the night?” Her brows rise.

Jo smirks, “If you’ll let me.”

When her lips meet Charlie’s, she knows that her invitation’s accepted. 

“Aww ain’t he a little angel,” Dean says to Sam, watching the kitten version of his angelic best friend slumbering away.

The spell caught them all of guard, hitting the nearly-fallen angel hard, too powerless to deflect it and suffering the damage. Well, that’s what Dean called it initially, but he’s been warming up to his little furball with wings.

Sam just sort of smiles, still a bit unnerved by the situation, busy focusing on restoring Castiel to his human form, “Yeah, Dean. He’s cute.”

Dean only half hears Sam, leaning over the kitten, watching his body rise and fall with each soundless breath. He strokes the smooth fur with a rough hand, gentle in his touch, not wanting to disturb Castiel too much. A sparkle glows in his warm olive eyes when he hears the softest purr from the kitten’s throat, the biggest grin spreading on his face.

Sam smiles too, reading Dean’s face and knowing just what he’s thinking but will never say. Yeah, Castiel’s adorable

She is made of the blackest of fires, while he was born of light

She flickered freely across a scorched plain, as he remained at bay

She sought to free this gleam of light, and he yearned for such liberty

She devoted herself to a cause, and he desired destruction of her breed

She met his arrival all too happily, and he even felt a spark of joy

Because the demon needed a partner, and the devil could dance once more

“I’m crying.”


“Dean,” Castiel whispers, touching his cheek. Streams of moisture trail down from his eyes, warm tears gently rolling down.

He thought tears would release the sadness and help, but it appears that only works in the long-run. Angels’ suffering is prolonged without anything other than a veil of sadness, whilst humans shed it away in an intense burst of tears.

Dean stops, looking back at Castiel, meeting the watery blue eyes. His own eyes widen as Castiel’s hand trembles, fingers trying to wipe away a few of the tears as his entire body swells with the pain, with the sorrow, the feeling. He rushes back, embracing Castiel in his arms, fighting to keep him steady, “Hey, hey….”

“Dean, I’m crying,” Castiel sniffles, “I’m finally crying.”

He burrows his head in Dean’s shoulder, shattering into sobs, with Dean gently holding his head the whole time. 

Mermaids were myths, old wives tales that were a constant murmur in the Shorehouse, silly tales old fisherman rambled about as they guzzled Ellen’s quality ale and spoke of the many days spent at sea. Dean always rolled his eyes at their mention, letting the drunks ramble about them before he commented how a man could only have so much fun with just a girl’s upper half. The idea of someone with the bottom of a fish sounded so silly, something extracted right from a fairytale, nothing Dean Winchester should think about.

But right now he’s second guessing. Right now as he sits on the old rock, sea breeze spraying his face with a mist of salty air, eyes gawking down at the most peculiar sight he’s ever seen. Most peculiar because it shouldn’t exist.

The scales are a dazzling blue, sparkling in the light of the golden sun, natural glister only emphasised by the gloss of seawater. Even when the thin fins slap the soaked sand with a hearty slap, they don’t tarnish, the sand not daring stick on the fins and sully its beatific brilliance. And as Dean’s eyes scan over his form, scales switching to skin, soft and glistening. He’s lithe and lean, with effeminate hips and an arched back, two black wings on the back of his shoulders, further displaying his allegiance with the legion of the ethereal. 

A wave sweeps the shore, wetting the sand. Bony fingers dig into the shore, and Dean wonders if it’s out of frustration or what. He cannot see the face of the odd man–half man, mer-man–only his messy dark hair, droplets of water embedded in the locks. And now, now Dean can’t think, all his thoughts washing away like shells dragged back in the ocean, likely lost to the waves.

If I could be….Out of the sea…” He hears, low and gravelly, flowing in the air so fluidly, so smoothly, so angelically. Dean stays silent as the mer-man hangs his head, eyes shut as he turns his head, letting Dean see his square stubbly jaw, chapped lips letting a soft sigh escape before he says–sings, “Oh I can dream…”

Dean doesn’t notice him leaning over the rock, leaning in as the siren’s song fills his head, only realising when his fingers slip around the stone’s damp edges. He falls from the ledge of the rock, tumbling onto the sound, the disturbing the thinnest fan of the wave, splashing and splatting onto the shore.

“Fuck!” He shouts, slowly raising himself up from the ground, hands sinking in the sand. When he turns his head to look out, he sees the mer-man looking at him, obviously startled by his not-so graceful entrance, his eyes wide. They’re blue, an intense and beautiful blue, deep as the oceans themselves, yet bright as the clearest morning skies, even more stunning than his fins. From there, Dean’s jaw drops, croaking out a flat, “I…”

The mer-man shifts, ready to roll back into the sea with the coming tide, but stops just as he flips over, frozen with awe. Not fear, awe. A fascinated awe accented with a childish wonder, something pure and potent, overwhelming in those pools of blue. His lips twitch, tempted to utter a word, but failing to find them, all scattering like a disrupted school of fish. 

Dean blinks, watching the mer-man tilt his head and squint, realising that he’s just as interested in Dean as Dean is in him. He inches forward cautiously, carefully, gently muttering, “Hey…”

But as he reaches out, a hand extending to meet his, the mer-man leaves, turning away and diving into the water, the ice of stupor melting at the warmth of Dean’s hand, thawing the mer-man out and giving him a chance to break free. Free to return to the sea, even when his song says he wishes otherwise. 

Dean gets to his feet, bolting into the rolling waves, wading ankle deep in the water, but it’s no use; he’s gone. Lost in the ocean, in the depths of the myth, back with the fish and seaweeds. But while Dean cannot see him, his song replays and echo’s in his mind, sparking a certain determination. He will find that mer-man someday. He’ll find him and he’ll…he’ll…

Oh, he can dream…

Castiel sits up next to Dean, his blue eyes open wide as he refrains from sleeping, mentally fighting off the tantalising urges to curl his tail round his paws and let his head droop. He won’t let himself rest, not while he’s watching out for Dean.

He leans against the slumbering kitten, Dean’s entire body rising and falling with each gentle breath. He’s exhausted after a busy day of hunting, taking advantage of the soft blanket left on the couch, settling in the folds. He leaves himself open for Castiel to lie next to him, hoping that his friend will decide to abandon his vigil and sleep by his side.

But Castiel, unaware of Dean’s intentions, stays awake, content with watching. And for now, Dean’s just happy feeling black fur pressed to his leg, his tail wrapping around the other kitten’s back. And with each exhale, he purrs, a lazy little snore that shows that he’s happy too. 

There’s always that one group. That one group of people who, while they say they’re righteous, are entirely close-minded, violent against those who disagree, threatening awful measures and using slurs and terms supposedly in the name of God.

Even though they entirely misinterpret God’s word–which is understandable; He meant to be a bit vague–it’s okay for them to hold their personal beliefs. God still loves them, just like the Son said. However, what he doesn’t love is how hateful people can get, how they can assault others and defy his teachings to force things onto other people. 

God hates that a lot more than He hates fags

The sign confuses Castiel at first, seeing a group of disgruntled people holding up pickets. It’s hard for him to understand how, while most Christians are nice people, good people, or at least try to be, there are always a few fundamentalists who take things too far and makes things look bad for everyone. But that happens in every religion; it’s a part of human flaw.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Dean’s expression harden, olive eyes rolling as he pulls Castiel a little closer to his side, tightening his grip. Dean just wonders why these people don’t have lives and make it their business focusing on things they hate so much. 

“Dean…” Castiel says, soft so only Dean can hear, the couple approaching the already glowering crowd. 

“Hmm?” Dean turns his head, seeing some sort of hesitation, some kind of tepid trepidation in Castiel’s eyes, “Wanna go another way?”

Castiel opens his mouth, eyes wandering over to the protesters, all of them with hellish red in their eyes. Some of the passion people have can be frightening, but after going to Hell and back–literally–they’re not all that scary.

He barely shakes his head when he stops short, wrapping his arms around Dean and pulling him in, a hand reaching up to hold the back of his head. Like that their mouths fuse together, interlocking in a long, long, long kiss, one that lasts long enough for them to start holding their breath, the seconds slipping by quicker than hummingbird’s wings. 

Go to Hell, queers!” A woman screams.

Only then do Dean and Castiel stop, still tight in an embrace when Dean smirks and, as he laughs, yells, “Been there already, sweetheart!

Castiel figures they yell a few more things at them, but all he can hear is Dean’s throaty whisper: ”Wanna raise me from perdition?

Under The Water
The Pretty Reckless

Claire Novak still remembers the day her father left. She still remembers the day the demons came for her and her mother. She still remembers the day she invited an angel inside of her. It’s all clear as crystal in her memory, something she’ll never forget, the always sparkling diamond encased within a cube of glass, typically forgotten when wandering through the corridors of her mind, but sometimes marvelled upon when she dares amble down those darkened hallways. 

Since then she’s been quite observant, scrawling note after note in a leather-bound book, an old journal of Jimmy’s, pages thick and coloured with coffee. It’s a queer little trinket, but it’s one of the things she decided to take as hers, take with her as she travels her aimless way, forever on the run. The angels promised safety, but Amelia still fretted, still worried, and feared losing her daughter just as she’d lost her husband. In fact, it was Claire who lost her, not the other way around, father forever serving Heaven, and mother moving in there.

She wanders and roams, carrying little with her, knowledgeable enough to get by. And although her life now is not as comfortable as her younger years, and though she has no true home anymore and no family to go to, she does have faith. Every night she does pray, only they sound more like reports to any angels with open ears, more than likely talking to no one but the bits of dust floating in the air, but choosing to think that someone can hear her, that someone is listening. 

It has been a number of years since the angel Castiel dwelt beneath her flesh, the girl now a young woman. She realised one day that she had a new mission in store for her, and that is what brings her to Battle Creek, Michigan, to the doorstep of the house of estranged friends who know not of her existence.

She knocks thrice, each definite and precise. Claire waits, fiddling with her golden hair when the door sweeps open, a boy three years her junior standing before her, complete with a tousled dark bedhead and a too large Led Zeppelin shirt. 

“Hello…?” He raises a brow, completely confused. This is a girl he’s never seen before in his life–a pretty one at that–and although he does like ogling girls, this reeks of weirdness. It’s a familiar weirdness, too, the same stench that coated his pseudo-father’s clothes, that followed him around even when he tried to wash it off with the soap or normalcy. It’s a scent that always stays, one his nose is used to by now, and one that allures him to that life he and his mother no longer recall. 

“You’re Ben Braeden?” Claire asks, a slight smile curving on her lips.

Slowly, albeit reluctantly, Ben nods, “Who’s asking?”

“My name is Claire Novak,” She holds out a hand, “And I have reason to see you.”

“What kind of reason?" 

"Please, let’s just shake hands, and then you’ll know everything.”

Cryptic, Ben thinks, but he does so, gripping her frail hand tightly. And like that, just like that, his memories return, memories of guns and monsters, of changelings and demons, of Dean Winchester and his brother Sam, of everything the angel Castiel erased. Claire undoes his trick with just a touch, and when Ben wildly blinks at her, her smile widens.

“I need you to help me,” She says, letting go. Ben stumbles back a couple steps, eyes bulging. 

“Help you do what?” Distress strains his voice, “And what was that? And–”

“Ben,” Claire’s voice silences him, her tone too serious to dispute, “I need you to help me find Jesse Turner.”


“The Antichrist.”

One Little Slip
Barenaked Ladies

“I told you that plan wouldn’t work,” Sam huffs. He slouches in the plastic chair, arms tightly crossed over his chest. He uses his bangs to hide his shame, looking at his bright red converse, pretending that he wasn’t sitting in front of the principal’s office. He’s a straight A student, part of the honours society, captain of the Academic Olympics team; and yet here he is awaiting punishment. He knew this was a bad idea.

“To be fair,” Gabriel rolls his head to the side, casually looking over at his partner in crime, “It almost worked." 

Almost wasn’t good enough. Because though they almost managed to paint nearly every seat in the lunchroom. They almost went down in history for the school’s best prank. And they almost escaped. But all those almosts added up to a trip to the principal’s. Because Sam almost said no to Gabriel, because he almost forgot about his crush, and he almost had enough will power not to get talked into a bad, bad idea. Almost wasn’t good enough.

Sam glowers over at Gabriel, putting on his signature Sam Winchester bitchface. He’s just a freshman anyway, so why the hell did Gabriel need him specifically to help with the prank? Why him when Balthazar or Kali or any of his other friends could’ve easily taken his place? It’s not like Sam’s a painting master or has any particularly meritable skills that applied. He’s just a credulous kid with a colossal crush. 

Gabriel smirks, shrugging. Over his high school career, Gabriel’s been in this office more times than he can count. His pranks are infamous, forever toting the title of The Trickster and terrorising teachers and faculty with his devious schemes. So another mark really doesn’t matter to him. All in good prankster spirit, after all.

"Come on, ya gotta admit it was a good idea,” A work of friggin mischievous genius, but whatever, he’s no boaster. Sometimes.

“It was a terrible idea,” Sam snarls. He can see it now. Sam Winchester, youngest captain of the Academic Olympics team, resigns today after robbing the art room of all paint supplies and attempting to paint every chair in the cafeteria. He also had to relinquish his seat in the Honours Society out of shame, hanging his head in dishonour as he walked out of the school for a week’s suspension. Because he’s a sap with a boner for the senior class’ biggest trick dick. Best selling edition of the Lawrence High Bugle ever. 

Gabriel frowns, pout rivalling a toddler’s, “You just don’t appreciate my mastermind.”

“Psh,” Sam rolls his eyes. Honestly, Sam does like Gabriel’s skills at planning. He’s a smart guy with a lot of potential he only really uses on his gags. And that’s one of the many reasons Sam wound up in this situation. 

“Well you know, you didn’t have to help,” Gabriel huffs, speaking very as-a-matter-of-factly. He raises his nose, looking like one of those snooty upper-crust people.

“I didn’t know what I was signing up for,” The lie tastes bitter on Sam’s tongue, “I mean I thought you’d need me for like…some tech thing.” Sam’s good with technology. If anything, he thought Gabriel would use him to screw with the school’s electric and make all the activeboards start broadcasting some stupid podcast of gay porn or something. That would be a good prank.

“Nah, I’m an old-fashioned prankster,” Gabriel says with pride, like there’s something just so beautiful about whoopie-cushions and super-glueing lockers, “I mean, like, I’ve tried employing a dweebs before but most of them wuss out.”

“Well if you call us dweebs we might just tell you to screw off no matter what,”

“I thought dweeb was the term you liked.”

“Dweeb offensive. Geek isn’t.”

“Wait, what about nerd?”

“Depends on the geek. Normally no.”

“Well do you care?”

“Not really.”

“So you’re okay if I call you my nerd?”

Your nerd?” He really hopes Gabriel doesn’t notice his voice crack.

“I’m hiring you for all my high-profile pranking business,” Gabriel grins, “You know, I’m gonna need to kick it up a notch for the big senior prank business. ‘Specially since I need all the razzmatazz before leaving this place. So you in?”

“I don’t know…” Sam bites back a smile, “You did sorta just ruin my reputation.”

“Then you’ve got nothing to lose!” Gabriel beams, throwing up his arms, “Plus you know you’ll agree one way or another.”

“And why do you say that?”

“Because boyfriends can’t say no to each other.”

Sam gapes, turning as red as his shoes. That only makes Gabriel’s smile widen even more as the door to the principal’s office swung open, Principal Crowley’s hand motioning Gabriel in. He winks, then slips into the office for another lecture and punishment. 

And Sam just sits there, shocked and flabbergasted. Maybe their plan crashed and burned, but maybe that one slip wasn’t such a bad thing. In that moment, he smiles.

Dean thinks Castiel is dead. Dean thinks that his best friend, after forcing himself to assume a form of sanity, to stitch himself back together from broken, mangled parts, is gone from him forever. Dean thinks it’s all his fault.

He checks if he’s a monster, because he doesn’t think what he did is human. It can’t be human. There’s no way. No way, no way, no way.

And his allegiance with Benny may have set him free, but it could not do the same for Castiel, Castiel who stood by him through the longest year, his only companion.

Castiel let go when he found out, all the clockwork within him shattering, shreds of glass turning an already damaged angel into something sickening, something twisted, something so sorrowful and sad human emotion can’t even register the full impact at once.

He saw enough of what was going to happen, enough to know it was all his fault. Dean thinks he’s to blame. Dean thinks Castiel’s assumed blood is on his hands, even if he never saw the charred wings for himself. Dean thinks there’s no chance for survival. 

Castiel is dead and according to Dean, it’s all his fault.

All his fault.

All his fault.

Kris' Ultimate Fic Masterpost

Compiling all the things in my writing tag in a single place! There might be a couple things I just posted on my AO3, LiveJournal, or Fanfiction; but for the most part it’s all here too. Most is Supernatural, but other fandoms are on bottom.

This is all what is found in my writing tag, and certain headers link to series tags or collection tags. All descriptions can be seen by hovering over the hyperlink of your liking, though untitled ones have the descriptions already. The series are all clumped at the bottom under their tags, otherwise they all under situational categories. Under each situational category are what pairing it pertains to. Some areas are too big, and are split into two sub-categories of things that will leave you feeling happier or sadder if the subject is too broad.

Keep reading

Little Prince Charmings

“We’re gonna live in a castle just like this one day!” Dean says, adding another block tower to he and castle’s castle. The two little boys used all the blocks Chuck had to offer, and in the time between snack and naptime, the duo made epic progress.

“Hmmm,” Castiel nods, carefully adding another tower as well, keeping the wooden structure symmetrical. Dean likes adding things and Castiel’s in charge of keeping the architecture even. He looks over at Dean, biting his lip to avoid putting on a sheepish smile as the other boy goes on about their future life.

“And there’ll be a place for Sammy,” Dean points to all the places he thinks rooms will go, “And your brothers and sisters can have rooms around here, and Bobby can stay there, and Mr. Chuck can go here and…”

“And where do we go?” Castiel asks, tilting his head.

“Uh,” Dean pauses, olive eyes flickering between the castle and the other boy. Castiel just keeps staring at him with those big blue eyes, something little Dean always thought was pretty weird, “We can go… Here!” He points to the middle tower, putting the two of them right in the centre of it all.

“Oh,” Castiel stares at the tower, then back at Dean, “Are we going to share a room?”

“Course we are, Cass,” Dean snorts, like it’s obvious that they’re going to live together, “The rulers of the palace have to share rooms. I think.”

“So we’re like princes?” Princes have castles. It’s perfectly logical.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, “Like princes.”

“But don’t we need a princess?” Those are in the stories too, don’t they need them?

“Nah, princesses have cooties,” Dean shudders, terrified of that horrible girl-virus, “We’re fine just the two of us being princes.”

Castiel purses his lips, letting Dean go back to work before meekly asking, “Are we allowed to?”
Dean stops, looking back over in confusion, “Allowed to what?”

“Be each other’s prince charming?”

Dean stays quiet, staring into the wide blue eyes that stare back at him. He wasn’t thinking about it like that, but he isn’t sure if he wants to say no. Actually, he kinda likes it.

Castiel grows nervous, feeling stupid for saying something so silly. He tells himself he should’ve kept his mouth shut! Now it’ll be just like what happened when kids found out that Jo like liked Dean! But Dean surprises him with a smile, the younger boy moving a little closer instead of getting up and running away.

“Cass,” He gets all serious, lowering his voice to sound more assertive, “We’re princes. We can do whatever we want.”

Slowly, Castiel smiles, heart lifted by Dean’s words. It’ll be just like a fairytale, and they’ll live happily ever after.

“Anyway, over there would be where Miss Pamela can stay, and over there can be Andy’s room, and over there can be Miss Jodie…” Dean goes on, but this time Castiel only half listens. The rest of his mind is preoccupied with counting Dean’s freckles.

“Mirror, Mirror on the wall. Who’s the fairest of them all?” The Queen Lilith asks with a dainty grin, closing her eyes as she waits for the answer. Obviously she–with her girlish disposition and adorable demeanour–will be dubbed the fairest. She has all the qualities from the looks to the charm; who else in the land could possibly rival her?

She opens her eyes, the smoke in the glass forming a face. However, much to her horror and outrage, she sees not a face of blue eyes and golden hair, the face of a young girl; but instead olive green eyes, short burnt honey hair, chiselled lips and a well-angled jaw. It’s the face of a man, a man she knows as one walking amongst the common people after the burning of his true kingdom (of which, though he does not recall, his family stood as the royalty), a man by the name of Dean Winchester.

Damned Dean Winchester is the fairest of them all.

Lilith’s face warps into a scowl, nose scrunching as her lips sharply turn into a frown. From her hair, she pulls a pin, and on impulse she flings it at the obviously broken mirror, the magic clearly tampered with if it shows that face and not hers. 

The glass shatters, Lilith deeply breathing her attendant Crowley rushes into the chamber. When she hears his footsteps, she turns her head back, anger ablaze in her blue eyes. Then, she hisses, “Get the horses. We have a mission.”

A mission to eliminate Lilith’s competition, get rid of Dean Winchester.