mizzy: (tw: allison blue)
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.


"You know that bit in Little Women when Amy hurls Jo's manuscript into the fire in a fit of anger and jealousy?"
"I'm wrapping my mind around the idea that you've read Little Women," Albie says. "Give me a moment before you continue."
Dax rolls his eyes. "There's a book?" He winks at her when she shoots him a surprised look. "Relax, I'm not that much of a philistine."
Albie shoulder bumps him and regrets it, because apparently toting kegs up from the basement has made Dax into the solid kind of person that makes bumping into them painful. A fact he knows by the too-amused smirk her levels down at her.


"Nonsense," Talia says. "We have a spare room. Next to Euphy's room, though, so be aware that she—"

"—snores like a herd of cats?" Derek finishes, deliberately using his dad's favorite phrase to describe his sister-in-law's snoring. "Yeah, I didn't miss that after—" He swallows back after she dies. "When I moved out," Derek finishes, badly.

"Oh, god, at least one of my children's gonna move out," Talia says. "That's good news. Laura's talking like she's never gonna leave."

Derek thinks about New York and feels sick.
mizzy: (Default)
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.


"The notes," Dallan says, glimpsing down at the folder on her phone where she's taken pictures of them all. "Be mine. You're mine."

Price keeps folding up his clothes, studiously not looking in her direction.

"Clizyati already knows where you are, doesn't he?"

Price's jaw tenses visibly. "Seems like," he allows. Considering his usual loquacious word vomit, Price being quiet is blowing her mind more than the fact that the evil lord of the mirrorworld may not be trapped by the Yellow Emperor's spell anymore.

And if Clizyati is through, how long before the armies of the mirrorworld break through too?


"I could manage to eat it all, I'm pretty sure," Cora says, eyeballing the spread of food determinedly.

"You'd go pop," Aunt Kharis says, grabbing Cora around the middle and pressing a lipstick-smeared kiss against Cora's cheek. Cora immediately shrieks and pulls away, rubbing furiously at her cheek. She's never been as tactile as the rest of the wolves.

"Be sure to thank Miguel," Eric calls out, still buzzing around the kitchen like a mini tornado, "he's very handy with a knife."

Talia, leading up the rear of the group coming out of the basement, looks proudly across at Derek. "Runs in the family," she says.


Two fic links for Sterek fans on my flist:

I wrote Not If You Were the Last Fake Boyfriend on Earth (8k) - where Derek needs a boyfriend for reasons and decides to let the pack help

and the amazing [livejournal.com profile] seraphina_snape wrote Revenge Fake Dating Is Totally A Thing (30k) for me - and it's amazing, Stiles ends up fake dating Derek to cover up lying to his dad, and things escalate and it's super cute. ♥
mizzy: (Default)
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.


The elf and the boo stare at Ely like he's the answer to life, the universe and everything.

That sort of omnipotent power would certainly make Ely's job much easier. He rubs the bridge of his nose and resents his past-self for turning down the cushion Miranda offered him before the meeting began. The wooden seat that had seemed so delightful on first sight is now digging uncomfortably into Ely's thighs. My kingdom for a moment's reprieve, he thinks sadly, and slaps the negotiation table with both palms.

"You're both speaking utter rubbish," Ely says.


"I'm kinda picturing that right now," Stiles says, tilting his head. "Hi, sir, ma'am, we're here from your local animal clinic to spray liquid in your face."

"I don't think that would entirely help Deaton get more business."

"Couldn't hurt — it's totally Deaton's milkshake that brings all the bored forty-something housewives to your boss's clinic."

"My boss is hot," Scott deadpans. "Plus it's also the only animal clinic in town and the next nearest one is half an hour's drive the other side of Beacon City."

"That reason too," Stiles allows.
mizzy: (tw: allison blue)
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.


"Post for you," Albie calls, sing-song, hovering at the threshold of the door. As usual she's treated to the sight of her father's broad shoulders, hunched over the desk, tense with stress. His gaze seems to be fixated on the computer monitor, but Albie's eyesight is eternally poor, and she can only make out the vague outlines of what looks like a map. She waits a few beats before raising her voice, "Dad."
Joshua Yates had never been particularly fast at anything, but the speed he shuts down the window he's looking at is so fast that Albie would suspect he was watching porn if a) she hadn't caught the glimpse of the countour lines of a map, and no map Albie's seen has been NSFW material and b) if she ever liked to think of sex and her parents in the same sentence, which no, she did not. He doesn't even bother properly turning to face her, even though his chair is one of those wheeled, rotatable office variety chairs.


"You could have just said he was your boyfriend," Malia says. "I'm not that desperate."
Stiles isn't entirely to blame for the way the Jeep swerves a little bit. Lydia turns a snicker into a cough that she muffles into her hand.
"There's lots of other cute boys in Beacon Hills," Malia carries on. "Besides," she adds, eyeing Kira sideways, "I might be into girls now."
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.
mizzy: (Teen Wolf: Alison (yellow))
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.


"It's amazing what little power we have as teachers." Mr. Murphy sat down on the edge of his desk and looked at them all, a much more solemn expression on his face. "There's nothing I could do to stop those boys doing what they were doing -- their father owns half the town, I'd lose my job. But if it were other kids stopping him..."

"So you kept giving us DTs just to make sure we had uninterrupted planning time," Chase realised.

Mr. Murphy shrugged. "It's nothing you could ever prove."


Stiles instantly drags Scott out in the dark to try and find it first. They live in England, so of course it's raining. Scott trudges along the pavement, getting his trainers muddy before they've even left the estate.

"Bloody hate the rain," Scott whines. "Couldn't we have driven?"

Stiles gives him a sad, soggy look. "We're sixteen, moron - we can't drive."
mizzy: (teenwolf: stiles 3a finale)
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.


Belle loved jigsaws — she probably would have been hella amused at Alex practically becoming a walking jigsaw. That thought, out of nowhere and full formed, felt like a stab to the gut, and Alex hovered halfway between the torture device and her sister, completely unsure of which way to go.

Thankfully, Jess was kind of an awesome big sister, and had her back. Sort of. "Go shower, you reek," Jess declared, wrinkling her nose, curving her freckles into an alien constellation.

"Nice to see you too," Alex said, but she headed nimbly for the ensuite shower room, grabbing a towel from the heated rack and a change of clothes before slamming the door behind her.


"Everyone's a comedian."

"Yeah, well, you weren't around. I had to learn to fill the silences somehow."

Stiles lets out a huff. "Are you saying Boyd's natural talkativeness wasn't enough to compensate?"

"Boyd," Erica says, "has said exactly six words to me since he got here this morning."

"And they were?"

"Off to find the pool, babe," Erica says, mimicking Boyd's low drawl.


I've officially read everything on my kobo now (not that there was too much on there), so please throw any fic recs my way. \o/

I started to try and fill it up myself, and in cruising some of my favourite tags, discovered this lovely gem:

Not gonna lie, I feel super accomplished. I am the Queen of Dramatic Irony. How often does one person with two different identities get the top two results in a search for identity porn? NOT OFTEN ENOUGH, FLIST. NOT OFTEN ENOUGH.


Speaking of fic, I posted my newest big bang yesterday, so for the Teen Wolf/Sterek fans on my flist, here's the info. It's a bit long, longer than it was supposed to be, so maybe don't start it late at night if you do wanna read it. :D
Title: The Nightmare of my Choice
Author: faviconMirrorkill
Artist: [livejournal.com profile] puckboum
Type: Slash. Thriller.
Word Count: ~100k
Rating: Mature
Characters/Pairings: Stiles, Derek/Stiles
Warnings: M for violence, not sexytimes! Ghosts, canon-level violence, minor surgery reference, allusions to euthanasia and non-con (but not explicitly in-text), minor character death.

Fic Summary:

“... it was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice.”

Rogue werewolves and incubi and ghosts, oh my!: Life in Beacon Hills continues to be the epitome of weird.

Especially for emissary-in-training Stiles, who's being literally haunted by a parade of Beacon Hills' deceased, who are trying to compel him to embrace the darkness in his heart. His only source of comfort is when he's writing to an emotionally constipated Beta werewolf. When Derek Hale is your anchor to sanity? Yeah, weird might be an underestimation.

Stiles is well suited to the path of an emissary; in fact, something important about him has already been overlooked. Something that could have deadly consequences both for him, and for everyone else...

Link to fic master post: AO3
Link to art master post: LJ* (beware spoilers for the fic inside)

Totes check out the art - I had to embed the still versions in the main fic, for people who can't handle gifs, but it's ANIMATED. ♥ Puckboum is awesomepants.

I'm currently still drowning in fic deadlines. Once Sterek BB and Leverage RBB have passed, I might be able to breathe a little, but until then... Best not to try and persuade me to add anything else to my deadline list. I MIGHT CRY AT YOU. And considering I have a cold, that wouldn't be pretty.  ♥
mizzy: (teenwolf: stiles 3a finale)
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.


Some things on her quickly forming bucket list were more specific. Like teaching Anders how to drive a car without backing it into their bodyguard and breaking Randall's leg in two places. Learning how to make Mama's melt-in-the-mouth macaroons. Holding Beauregarde close as she cried over her first broken heart, because Bo was nearly fifteen, and a broken heart was as inevitable as death.

I'm so sorry, Bo, Astoria thought, shoving her Galindez-black long hair down the back of her shirt so her pursuer couldn't grab it. You'll have to survive a broken heart on your own now.


"You're just manipulating my undying affection for you," Stiles informs her. Lydia's grin doesn't lessen any. "Aiden's better for bag carrying."

"Yeah, well," Lydia says, "Aiden's—"

She trails off.

"C'mon, don't pause in the middle of some werewolf smack talk," Stiles says, "that's always the highlight of my day—"
mizzy: (Teen Wolf: stilinskis)
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.


"On the count of three," Mom says. "One, two—"

The car swerves a little, and Sarah has to put a hand out to grab at the dashboard to steady herself. She looks over at her father, trying to convey her disappointment at the almost car crash with just the power of her eyebrows, because she's too tired for much more than that.

Her head pulses a little, a headache edging in on her thoughts. Near accidents are definitely not her favourite way to be jolted out of a decent car nap.

"Sorry," Dad grunts, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "It turns out I can't drive one handed."


Stiles opens his mouth to try and persuade him, because he is the talker of the group, but Danny points a finger specifically at him. "I said no," Danny says, "and you can't even throw your hot cousin at me this time, Stilinski — I've already got all the eye candy in my life that I need."

Ethan looks sheepishly pleased, and rubs the back of Danny's neck a little; Danny leans unconsciously into the touch. Aiden just rolls his eyes; he's long since given up on Ethan's antics now their Alpha power is gone.

"Wait," Scott says, looking from Danny to Stiles, "cousin?"

Stiles freezes. Aw, shit.
mizzy: (Teen Wolf: sterek (blue))
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.


"Don't take my food," Hunter says, wondering what the protocol is for stabbing a mortal in the know.

"Please, what are you even going to do?" Ely asks, leaning further across the table.

Hunter looks slowly from his fork to the soft flesh of Ely's palm; Ely scowls, and pulls his hand back.

"Wow," Hunter says, earning himself a surly look from his tablemate, "you're kinda smart after all, who knew?"

"I want to rescind my official opinion that I have no idea why people are out to kill your family," Ely says. "Effective immediately."


"Do you even know how to be quiet?"

"Yup," Stiles says, and continues to tap his pen against the edge of the desk.


Stiles looks at Derek like he's looking at some new disturbing supernatural creature that he hasn't researched properly yet. "Just because I know how to do something doesn't mean I'm gonna do it," Stiles says, slowly. "Like you and your ability to use your words."
mizzy: (Teen Wolf: Sterek (close-up))
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.


"This school is a good opportunity for you, sweetheart," Mom says, omitting the don’t screw it up that they both hear regardless.
Quentin looks at her for a long moment, at the severely-cut black suit matching the kohl of her make-up, at the crimson slash of lipstick on her mouth. It’s like she’s wearing armour, like she’s closed herself off to him.
It would be a lie if he said he wasn’t expecting it.
"I’ll be good," he says. It feels like a hope more than a promise.


An almost desperate sound rends the air, and from the way Derek's throat burns, it might have come from him. He doesn't know. He also doesn't know who moves first, because it's like someone's swallowed a chunk of time. One moment he's standing there, staring at their joined hands, and the next his mouth has collided against Stiles and they're kissing, urgently. Stiles' mouth is wet heat against his, quiet desperation punctuated by fraught sounds, like this could disappear at any moment, and Derek's already addicted to those noises. He presses against Stiles, hauling him closer, Stiles' fingers scrabbling at the back of his neck for purchase as he makes a babble of sounds against Derek's mouth that shouldn't make sense but do: how long we've waited to do this again, the sounds say, and too long.
mizzy: (Teen Wolf : Sterek (yellow))
(I'm not normally beaten to this on my flist! I FEEL LIKE A SLACKER. :P)

Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.


"How was school, darling?"

The questions are always the same; Quentin could probably recite the whole awkward family dinner script in his sleep. He wonders if he does. It sounds like the kind of thing a boy with no imagination might do.

He doesn't normally have a decent answer, and he supposes he doesn't have one today, other than: "There's a boy at school with my dead best friend's face."

Yeah, it's probably not suitable dinner conversation.


It's Stiles. It's definitely Stiles. Standing there at the tills, smiling casually with the girl taking the orders. He's a little taller than Derek remembers, and definitely broader; his forest-green jacket hides little of the toned physique beneath. It's Stiles, and he's here.

Derek remembers Tadhg's website, RED ALERT: G. "Stiles" Stilinski: touch is poisonous to werewolves, VERIFIED [video evidence], last seen: Nevada; if seen, RETREAT and his fingers tremble into unwilling fists.
mizzy: (Default)
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.


Mr. Ahar runs through a refresher of last week's class, and then brings up today's topic.I have to smother an amused exhale. Graphs. Of course. Whoever thinks life doesn't have a sense of humour is severely kidding themselves. I must have made a small amount of sound because Mr. Ahar glances at me for a second. Two magpies flicker into life onto his shoulders, and his mouth stretches into a brief semi-smile. I am hit with the sensation that he thinks he knows me, somehow.


"That was…" Steve searches for the word. His voice is a little husky. "New."

Tony laughs against his cheek, the sound vibrating through Steve. "Told you it would help." He draws back and looks up at Steve through his eyelashes, his eyes narrowing a little, analyzing. "Buyer's remorse?"
mizzy: (dresden files: harry)
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.


"Guess we should have known," Carey says, hugging his knees. The grassy knoll they started from is colder now than earlier, probably because night's impending. "Marc didn't have a scar. Monsters always get one thing wrong."
"You have a facial scar you didn't used to," Jacan says from beside him, side-eyeing Carey.
"Yeah, 'cause I ran face first through a window," Carey admits.

[Does this mean I reached the end? I THINK IT DOES. OOOOH.]


"No," Stiles says, even though it's the last thing in all the realms that he wants to say. When Derek lifts his hands away and steps back, Stiles feels the loss keenly, like the moment when the war ended, and his powers were locked away. He buries down the voice that says he'll be giving his powers up again by ending all this; Stiles is okay with being human, he likes being human, and it's the gift his mom fought and died for, so it's what Stiles will fight for too.

He feels utterly miserable, and Derek looks wrecked too, uncertain and closing down, the way rejection makes Stiles feel inside. It's a miracle that Derek's even letting emotions show on his face, and Stiles hates everything; hates that it has to be like this, hates that he's given Derek emotional openness with one hand and he's taking it away with the other.

But he has to.

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


It stuns them for a moment but Carey doesn't stop, yanking up the first guy by the hair and ramming him face first into a seat, while kicking the next one again in the chest, winding him. The third one has a knife, but the second one is too much in the way. It doesn't stop him from trying to slice at Carey. Carey grabs his arm, spins, and uses his momentum to throw him over his shoulder, and the third one lands with a large cracking sound in the aisle behind Carey. The first one stirs, but Carey slams his heel down on his throat, using him as a launching pad to leap onto the second one, who'd extracted a plastic knife from his pocket and is readying to throw it over to where Helena is battling the stewardess, who's gotten loose and is now putting up quite a fight.

Man, words cannot express how much Carey hates evil air stewardesses who know Kung Fu.


"Demons," Allison repeats, slowly and steadily. She's always taken the supernatural world in her stride. She's calmer than she knows she is.

"Pissy things that make speeches and preen and think too much of themselves," a voice says, from behind them.

Allison, bless her soul, whirls around crossbow first – and keeps it aimed high even when they see who it is.

"Dad," Stiles says, weakly.
mizzy: (Leverage: Parker)
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.


"I seriously have to tell you to stop thinking too much?" Jacan says in his ears, pretending to sound scandalised, but the joking tone is betrayed by the soothing hand that smooths across Carey's back for a moment, the same gesture they used growing up to calm each other down.

"Uh, not that I want to interrupt brotherly bonding," Victor says, "or that I'm eyeballing this hug in rampant jealousy because I want brotherly cuddles—"

"We'll get you later, dorkface," Jacan says.

Victor flips him the bird. "But we need to make a plan. Do we really want to let Monsters dictate our next move?"


Stiles kissed him, kissed him like they were both drowning and Derek was air, kissed him like it was a claim. And Derek had wanted him to. Had tugged him in closer. Had covered Stiles' mouth with his own and tasted him eagerly, his wide hands spanning Stiles' waist in two spread-wide stars, Stiles' long fingers indenting the back of Derek's neck, like he had to cling on to stay upright.

They kissed until Stiles remembered they were both still covered in Alpha pack blood, and that it was maybe ten degrees outside if you rounded up, and Stiles was trembling too much to keep going. And even then, Stiles kissed him a little longer, quietly desperate, eyes shining at Derek in the murky twilight.
mizzy: (pgsm: mars)
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.


Erica hid her smirk: Agents rarely had the best social skills, at least amongst their peers.

"Huw," Price said, ignoring her and turning to the other seer of the group, "where are you from, then?"

Erica held in the burst of noise she wanted to make, but from Huw's expression, she wasn't holding it in particularly well.

"Swansea," Huw said, petulance ramping his melodic accent into a crescendo, "you racist bastard."

Price's cheeks went a little pink, and he started to stammer an apology, but Huw took pity on him, much too quickly for Erica's liking.

"My parents are from South Korea," Huw said, "I was born and raised in Wales - but I suppose it's an easy enough assumption to make a tit of yourself over."


"What else are you forbidden from saying?" other Steve prompts, still in a light tone, while Tony thinks over those phrases (and as more unnecessary proof that Tony is the same basic person as his mirrorverse doppelganger, suggesting sex would be Tony's first impulse, even if just for comedy reasons. He's not up to serious suggestions because Commander Stark is still blowing his brain a little – Steve has his surname in this alternate reality, and it's never not going to be amusing as hell.)

"I'm also not allowed to say," other Tony says, petulance drenching his tone, "that it is practically masturbation."

Oh, Tony thinks, and automatically grins. He turns to his Steve, and says, "You know, it is," and he ignores how interesting it is that Steve blushes when he figures it out.

He also ignores the slightly giddy feeling in the pit of his stomach, because Tony is not allowed nice things.
mizzy: (izumi rika (up))
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.


"Like you don't know." My face must have registered cleanly enough even for crazy-pants Mr. Richmond to read. "Maybe you don't know. Well, why would they tell you, it's just my brain they're messing with." He stopped pacing and levelled the gun more steadily. "Tell me what they told you."


“Sing to him,” Eliot suggests.

Sterling stares as if Eliot’s grown an extra head - and then his stare becomes accusing.

“I can’t sing and read lips from eight hundred feet,” Eliot says.

There’s a long, long pause and then this sound comes out of Sterling’s mouth.

Eliot doesn’t tear his gaze from their Marks, but he is appallingly distracted. “Is that- are you singing Metallica as a lullaby?”

September 2015

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