Apr. 6th, 2014

mizzy: (Teen Wolf: Alison (yellow))
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.


"I kind of want to eat it with my hands," Flip said, eyeballing the spoon in his hands like it will somehow magically stab him if he puts it down.

Mal froze in the middle of reaching for a fork. She turned and contemplated the dessert, and contemplated Flip, and then she looked around at all the frozen courtiers and dancers and servants, and then she pointedly looked back at Flip. The message was vaguely unclear: it was either who was going to know? or Who is going to stop you?

Flip understood, his slow smile shy and brilliant like the sun, and Mal's chest quivered oddly when he put the cutlery down and reached his hand into the bowl of cream, fruit and meringue. It felt so odd that she had to look away for a moment and count her breaths, and when she managed to turn back, Flip had cream all over his face and was looking mournfully at his messy hand.


Well, Derek did trip on the trail of troll slime, which might have made him stumble forwards, but he's fifty-three percent sure that it's Stiles' fault. Maybe fifty-two. He could concede that fifty-one was an acceptable number.

Stiles makes an ungainly sound as Derek sucks a vicious kiss into Stiles' jawline, before Derek lifts his head to chase that sound. Stiles kisses him back helplessly, clinging onto Derek's back like he'll fall over if he doesn't.

Well, it is Stiles. It's not impossible.

September 2015

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