Fanfic and original writing storage

(Name from Bobby’s whole ‘family don’t end in blood’ spiel, I don’t have atrocious grammar I promise.)

Read here on ao3

Stiles brothers Sam and Dean show up in town, an impromptu family reunion would have been uncomfortable even without the possibility of them hunting Stiles' boyfriend.

Stiles' cannot deal with sneaking around with his boyfriend, breaking the new house wards, and his brothers obliviousness to the angel in love with him. Dealing with the monster of the week was the last thing on his mind.

Read here on ao3

Simon wakes up in the institutes infirmary after a particularly grueling battle. As he talks with the lightwoods, Clary, and Jace, he starts to recount the battle, and what happened to him.

Not too much angst, a happy story with lot’s of Jimon moments in further chapters.

A merthur fanfic link here- Warlocks Gold

Summary

Merlin thought he could balance magic, servant duties, and destiny, but coming to terms with feelings for Arthur was never part of his deal.

Arthur could never go a day without Merlin, he knew that, but he never thought about why he couldn't. And he didn't plan on facing it any time soon.

Snippet

Merlin walked into Arthur's room noiselessly, distracted by his thoughts he forgot to make his footsteps loud. His magic making him nearly silent. This worked to his advantage, for when he rounded the corner to yell Arthur's name to wake him up, he saw Arthur throw a man off him, and land a kick on another.

"Arthur!" Merlin dropped the food tray and bolted, he saw hands moving quickly the flash of metal, the slash of skin and red blood. An assassin with a broken nose, another with a broken wrist, two fingers. He screamed for the guards.

Merlin made it to the fight and threw a punch, added in magic for maximum damage, the thug was knocked to the wall and went out cold. He turned to see Arthur battling the other assassin. He threw himself forward to help, seeing Arthur stumble he ducked in front of him.

He felt a punch land on his stomach, but when he breathed it felt tight. The guards rushed in, Arthur and them dragging the two assassins out of the room. But Arthur wasn't escorting the prisoners, he was staring at Merlin- at Merlin's stomach.

He looked down and saw a dagger, and blood staining his blue shirt, "Oh," was all he could say.

ao3 link here - The Memory of Sun

The Memory of Sun summary.

When James Bond disappeared he left a postcard and a tin of early grey in Q's mailbox. Even after he was pronounced dead Q knew he was alive. Now three years later he has a new responsible 007, another cat, and a hole he could never stop filling. Until James comes back.

snippet

More than two years ago M came to her desk. Q won't do it. He said, He's too loyal, too attached. It's weak. R looked up at him. It was the second time they had spoken, the first being when she advocated to Q's innocence. What are you asking of me, sir? She replied.

I want you to kill him. Fake the reports, show that his vitals dropped. Make it believable, this is 007 we're talking about.

R said nothing. She did not know the agent like Q did. She had met him a few times, even made conversation, she could describe him, what he was like. But she could never claim to know him. All spies were like that, they had a surface, hard as steel painted with the perfect portrait.

"Who is Julian?" pressed Geralt, confused, annoyed at the fact he was confused. A cycle of frustration.

"You know how people say you don't truly die until the last person who remembers you forgets?" Jaskier looked for understanding, he found it in the Witchers still face.

"What if no one remembers you when you are alive? Could that truly be considered life? Just how dead is that?" Jaskier's face was stoic, no smile, no rapid hand gestures. Just flat.

"That was Julian, he died. He died when I was seventeen," His face was marked with an artificial smile, "But that's not Jaskier! No, I will be remembered, forever immortalized as the bard who brought fame to a Witcher!"

Geralt knew he needed to speak, he wished for profound words, something to mark this new knowledge.

"Fame is not the only thing you brought," Jaskier glances at him, "the coin is plentiful as well."

Jaskier scoffs, looking away, "Yeah, the coin."

(If you haven’t seen some/most of season two, minor spoilers.)

\

Brakebills was a looming figure when Quentin had first stepped onto the grass. Chasing the papers he had lost hold of. Now it was the one place he could run to and not from. Even with Niffins pursuing the grounds, advanced students casting tormenting spells, and an occasional haunting, it was now the only  place he could call home. No, it was now the place he could call home. Even in the chaos of magic, Quentin felt for the first time that he wasn't running. he was living.

Alice would be stressing over exams she didn't need to study for. And Quentin had often wondered why she had stayed, after her brother was trapped in the Niffin box. She had always stated that was why she came, why she had to stay and not flunk, why she had tore herself apart just to pass. Just for her brother, who was gone. Dead, and she still felt responsible.

She had no reason to stay. She didn't need the lessons, the classes most likely slowed her down. She could have lived.

So now brakebills stood. Warm, and inviting. Initially he would have said it was from a story book. Like something from Fillory. When first stepping on the grounds, he had thought dreams became reality, that he truly had stepped right into Fillory. but now Fillory was Fillory and Brakebills was Brakebills. Walking over the grass to the front building, he remembers looking on this place confused, Eliot sitting on the stone structure, smoking.

He sits in Fillory now, usually alone. Quentin couldn't imagine why he didn't enjoy it, being in such a world. Beautiful forests, magic everywhere (even when in short supply), a kingdom supporting him. A whole new world, devoid of the struggles here, all new ideas, all new experiences.

He walked past the grounds. Down around to the physical cottage. Hopefully it would be void of tricks on the lower grades, or parties. Maybe a party would be nice, though without Margo and Eliot, he doubted it would be the usual fun.

Entering his room, Quentin saw the various Fillory books strewn across the entirety. Eliot had once said, "If gravity didn't have as much of an effect as it did, there would be books lining the walls and ceiling."

After that he had made some comment on the fun of having no gravity during various Eliot-like activities. Laughter pushed through Quentins mouth before he was prepared, spilling out as an obnoxious noise and causing his eyes to scrunch.

Eliot had looked at him, confused as to why I had reacted as such, in awe of the pure joy, before he smiled and laughed as well.

His laugh was so refined. No not refined, it was always joyous, he laughed calmly. A smile gracing his face just before a sound broke out, gradually building up, all the while smooth and beautiful. Though usually his laughter was brought about by Quentins stupid actions.

Attempting to copy Alice's notes with a transfer spell, ruining her notes and burning them into a coffee table. And another time when Kady cast a tattoo onto his arm that projected his current thoughts, he went to Eliot for help, calling it a bad idea would be an understatement.

he landed on the bed, face down on the pillows before shifting his face sideways. He could hear the creak of the bed shifting, and the distant bass thump of loud music. Breathing in deeply, the pillow case covering his nose, strangling his breath.

Still laying on his stomach, he wiggled his messenger bag off his shoulders and kicked off his shoes. He struggled with the last task, the shoe scrunching and bending his foot uncomfortably before popping off the other shoe, thumping to the ground. The second shoe was even harder, digging his toes into the material before giving up and unlacing it.

I thought causing myself to be angry by writing angry characters was a good idea, I was wrong

--------

Dean looked over at Cas, calmly pouring over a book. He had a slight frown, and a crinkle in his brow, focusing. Dean was marvelled at how he had changed. He was so different than the man who had first burst through the doors of the shed, all big words and impassive attitudes.

He had been with humanity so little, yet he himself had gained so much of it. He cared now. But he didn't care about dean. Dean had shut him out, and yelled, had told him off too many times. And now he had lost Cas too.

Dean could feel his teeth pushing on each other and his legs getting jittery, he was making himself angry. He shifted in his seat and immediately regretted it. If Cas looked at him, Dean would bark out an insult, or glare, or look anywhere but at Cas. He couldn't stand himself, all this shit had slowly built to the point that nothing felt genuine.

He was only capable of that metalic anger, that snapped before entirely draining everything in sight.

He liked to hit things, a wall, a punching bag, a monster. Dean had always fought, but now it took on meaning, he could shake off that rage. shoving it out with every punch. Words were too malleable and fluid, they built up in the air, making it stuffy.

So Dean didn't speak, he looked at the bookshelf, making sure Cas was just in his peripheral vision. He couldn't stand the thought of Cas looking at him without knowing. He couldn't be analyzed by someone, it was like being disected.

Sam was gone too. Even though just a few rooms away, it was like he was a shell. Nothing was threatening humanity, nothing needed to be saved, and the duct tape of adrenaline and priority that had usually kept them together had crumbled. They were falling apart, and watching the pieces tumble down.

Sam had looked at a dog in a shelter window and smiled. The smile dropped and a face of confusion replaced it, he couldn't remember why dogs made him so happy, his time with domestic lives that included dogs and homes and stable jobs was long since past. This time he had truly given up.

Cas had seen a bee pollinating a flower, no recollection passed over him, no remembrance in his eyes. Dean had wanted to yell, 'Look! It's a bee, you liked them, you followed them, you weren't always like this!' but no amount of senseless yelling could show him what Dean thought was right.

Dean just hit things, there was no giving up like the others, this was him giving in. He hit things when he wanted to, he drank when he wanted to, and he didn't talk. No words could undo what had happened to all of them. Or what they had done to each other.

Hearing Dean shift for the severalth time, Cas looked up, wanting to see what was so severely bothering Dean. Could he not stay still? Could he not just say something? He looked up and saw Dean staring at a bookshelf, he went back to reading.

will it become an actual story? Possibly. Will I ever finish writing anything? No.

Derek fucking Hale was sitting in Stiles jeep, again. Bleeding out, again. It had become a trend and not a welcome one.

"Injured? Call Stiles, he knows what he's doing, basic medical training, perfect bedside manner."

Derek looked confused at Stiles outburst, still huffing from running to the car. He looked out the windshield, not having lost enough blood yet to find Stiles funny.

"You have terrible bedside manner." he puffed out between slightly pained breaths. After catching a little breathe he managed to speak. "Where are we going?"

It was a simple question, and Stiles should have answered. He should have answered right away in fact, as he was the one driving. But he didn't.

He squinted, focusing, willing his brain to come up with a useful answer.

"How about Scott's, they've got supplies, his mom's at work, and he's dealing with the..." Stiles had no clue how it was pronounced, it was dark? Big? Pretty much everything was dark and big. "Thing." he finished.

"Fine." Derek barked. adrenaline wearing off and pain kicking in. Even Stiles could smell blood, it was starting to make him nervous.

Maybe Derek wasn't alright, maybe it was healing extra slow, maybe the bleeding is internal enough that even if Stiles bandages him up he'll need to get his arm amputated, maybe the ct will get infected he could die.

He started to voice his concerns, they didn't seem to be taken seriously.

"I'll just waltz into the ER stating that I took a walk out at night, somehow ended up in the car of the SHERIFF'S SON bleeding out on his seats, at ONE IN THE MORNING, after being who knows where and ending up with the sheriff's son, solid plan."

Stiles could tell Derek was being affected by adrenaline or shock or blood loss or something, that had been the longest phrase Derek has ever spoken to Stiles without taking time to stop and glare or brood.

Stiles thought about what he was going to say, most things could end up with him being thrown through the windshield. This phrase could be the deciding moment between life and death, the phrase that bring them closer as people.

Stiles looked at Derek, and said, "You could say you protected me?"

"Protected you?"

"Yes, from an angry grandma."

"An angry grandma?"

"An angry grandma with a bowie knife."