♥ ♦ mizzy mc mizzyface ♣ ♠

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

Original:

"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.

Fanfic:

"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.

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

Original:

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.

Fanfic:

"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.

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

Original:

"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.

Fanfic:

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.

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

Original:

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.

Fanfic:

"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: Mirrorkill
Artist: 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.  ♥

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

Original:

"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."


Fanfic:

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.

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

Original:

"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.

Fanfic:

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.

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

Original:

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.

Fanfic:

"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?"

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

Original:

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.

Fanfic:

"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.

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

Original

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."

Fanfic

"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.