Rise Up, Oh Heart, For There is Another Battle to Win

For the random title fic meme, from @littlestartopaz:  Sugar and spice. Miraculous! Fandom

This is obviously the fic where Alya is convinced that her best friend is cheating on her boyfriend who is…also cheating on her?  It’s all a little confusing, honestly, there are a lot of people to keep track of in this…love trapezoid, or so she tells Nino when she commandeers recruits him to help figure it out.

There are three problems with her mission to figure out what the hell is going on with Marinette and Adrien.  Little problems.  Tiny, really.  She can barely see them, they’re so small.

First of all, Marinette and Adrien are impossible to keep track of, which means she can’t even get a good picture of the guilty parties caught red-handed.  Alya can get around this, okay, she is a skilled journalist, she’ll figure it out even if she has to bug the little bastards.  (Nino thinks this is going a bit far, but she did not ask for his opinion, thank you very much.)

Second of all, neither Marinette nor Adrien will even entertain suspicion of each other, which under any other circumstances Alya would consider a good thing.  Really!  But how are they so dense, she wonders aloud on more than a few occasions to Nino.  Hell, they’re always running off without explanations, anyone would be suspicious.

Third of all, and this might be a slightly bigger problem, the other half of this set of guilty couples is pretty high profile.

But how do you just up and accuse the heroes of Paris of cheating with a couple of high school students?

twistedangelsays:

Real Talk Guys

I don’t know how many of you guys that (for some reason) follow me (please don’t leave me tho I love you) also follow @words-writ-in-starlight (if you don’t tho you SHOULD because she is my wife and posts writing and like reblogs content a million times better than mine. Like. Really. If you have stayed with me you should be following her.)

Let me tell you tho. She is EVIL. Her writing, especially her original writing, KILLS ME because wow it is both brilliantly written and she knows how to make you fall in love with a character just to torture them (both literally and figuratively). I just got to read everything she’s written for Polaris and GOD KILL ME I AM IN PAIN. I don’t really know what this post is about other than I’m suffering and you should all convince her to post some of Polaris or ANY more of her original writing so I have people to suffer with. Also, seriously, if you are already a fan of hers and want to have someone to suffer with about her writing HIT ME UP. Just send me a message or something jfc.

Also, my dear wife that I know is reading this, WRITE ME MORE YOU BASTARD I CAN’T BELIEVE WHERE YOU LEFT OFF.

Thank you to whoever got to the bottom of this post. This has been a psa: follow @words-writ-in-starlight, go read everything she has ever touched and posted, then message me so I have someone to suffer with.

(Source: lathori)

sroloc--elbisivni asked: For the fic titles prompt: the word that breathed the world (Librarians? Maybe?)

For the record, I have no idea if this is legitimate and/or refuted by an episode I haven’t seen (desperately, desperately behind), but S T I L L.  This fic would be the story of the Library’s favorites through the millennia (she is a library, after all–her favorites are wordsmiths and silver-tongued diplomats, world-changers and storytellers).

The Library is sentient.  This is not a commonly known fact–sometimes Librarians go their whole career without even realizing it.  She does not particularly mind this.

(Sometimes, in the netherspace where she has a shape that is more woman than building, she meets with others like herself.  A waif of a boy, the thirteenth of his kind, whose eyes crackle with purple lightning, tells wild stories of heroics and villany and…goo?  A slender willow-wand fae dressed in ragged white and trailing glittering dust in her wake complains of her lovesick king and the mortal girl who defeated him.  The boy is young, only centuries old.  The willow-wand is ancient, even older than the Library.  There are others, but these are the eldest and the youngest, the bookends of their kind.)

The vital thing about a sentient being is that sentient beings have favorites–it’s unavoidable.  The Library being rather fickle, not all of her favorites are Librarians.

Galahad is sheltered in her Annex on the merits of his old friends, more so than on his own.  Merlin asked, and she loved him, so she did as requested.  Merlin isn’t quite like her, but he’s not quite human either, and sometimes, very occasionally, she will sense the touch of a hand on one of her many doors as Merlin passes by.

Greek and Rome were riddled with poets and philosophers–the others like her had varying opinions on them.  She was fond of Catullus with his filthy sense of humor, and of Plato with his unusually good grasp of the netherworld, but, oh, Sappho she loved.

Sun Tzu was too warlike to be a Librarian, too much a tactician and not enough of a dreamer, but she would slip him secrets of long-dead armies in his dreams to bolster his writing.

Poe and Shelley and Byron and Keats–she did love the Romantics.  They were her favored for years, brilliant comets that burned out so fast.  The willow-wand shook her head at the Library for it, remarking on the merits of immortal citizenry.

But William–William was her best beloved, her most cherished mortal favorite.  She would be hard-pressed to find someone to stand beside him and his golden words and dirty jokes and impossible wisdom.  Not even the willow-wand could hold that against her, her immortal faerie residents drawn to his starlight words like moths to a flame.

(When Prospero first stepped into her walls, she had a moment of blind hope that maybe, somehow, her dear Shakespeare had returned to her.)

Anonymous asked: for the random fic titles: "spring will be here soon"

Since you didn’t specify a fandom….this is the story of the girl Jaylah.

Her people are from a high tundra part of their world–even after she forgets the name of her planet, the name of her people, the name of her family, she will remember this.  The shimmer of the sun at midnight, the dance of stars at pitch-black noon, and the song of the wind over the snow-layered ground will stay in her dreams all her life, a tiny scrap of peace.  Winter on the high tundra is dangerous, even in the cities-and-starships age, and Jaylah’s people never quite managed to forget their heritage of cold nights and terror.  The promise of new life, of melted snow and living things, is the hope their people holds up to get through the days of unbroken night, the vow they make in the darkest moments of their life to fight on.  

As a little girl wondering if the sun will ever come back, Jaylah’s mother strokes her hair back from her face and whisper that spring would come soon, so soon that Jaylah wouldn’t even believe it.  

In Krall’s dungeons, as Jaylah sobs silently, hands pressed to her mouth so hard that her teeth draw blue bruises on the white skin, her father hugs her to his side.  “Spring will be here soon, you’ll see, precious girl,” he whispers–a lie, but the familiar words soothe her tears and make her mother, bleeding out slowly from a gash to the leg, and her mama, pressing her hands to her wife’s skin, smile faintly.  

When her mama is taken, still smudged blue with her mother’s blood, she kisses Jaylah forehead and her cheeks and promises, “Spring will be here soon, little snowflake, little darling.”  A lie, but a warm and gentle one, bittersweet.

When her father dies, and she runs until she can’t breathe for tears, she curls up in a mountain cave, far too close to the search parties scouring for her, and she lies to herself, “Spring will be here soon, Jaylah.  You just have to stand up.”  And she scrubs her face with her palms and pulls herself upright.  

She tells the lie a thousand times, a hundred thousand times, every time a new circuit breaks or she hasn’t eaten in twelve days or she is run off from a precious salvage or she can’t stand the loneliness any longer.  Spring will be here soon, Jaylah.  Get up and meet it on your feet.

Years from now, she’ll be an ensign sitting cross-legged on a chair in the Enterprise mess hall, surrounded by the bridge crew and Montgomery Scotty and Doctor Bones, her red Operations uniform a bright contrast to her white hair and a glass of scotch from Montgomery Scotty’s illicit still in her hand.  (She will know, by then, what a nickname is, but she will insist on her old names for them, at times like this, when they are together and laughing.)  Captain James T will smile at her, and Montgomery Scotty will clap her on the back as he tells them about how she repaired the replicators and stopped them from turning all the food purple, and she will think that perhaps she was not lying to herself all along after all.  

skymurdock asked: pssssst talk to me about Schuyler sisters in reincarnation AU. or more Alex/John whatever. rolls away.

The Schuyler sisters!  My queens!  The rest of the AU is here!

Alicia Laramie is seven years old when she remembers.  Her parents bring home a little girl, and she looks different from the olive-wood skin and tumbling black curls of Alicia and her parents and her little sister Maggie—this girl all gold-tinged ivory skin and silky dark hair framing solemn black eyes. She’s a year younger than Alicia and her parents haven’t even gotten out “This is Lisa Tian” before she’s rushing forward to enfold the girl in her arms.

“Eliza,” Angelica whispers into the girl’s long dark hair.  Bemused, the girl hugs her back, and Angelica says, “I’ll take care of you, Eliza.  You’re the best thing in my life, I’ll choose your happiness every time.”  The girl is confused when Angelica stands back, but she gives a smile, the same sweet smile Angelica remembers, and it’s good.

***

When the fifth grade class goes to the Grange for a field trip, Lisa spends three hours in semi-hysterical sobs, refusing to go through the front door, and the terrified tour guide calls the first emergency number on her phone.  Twenty minutes later, a sixth-grader spills out of a cab and swoops down on her like a hurricane in rose and gold, and Eliza clings to Angelica like the last lifeboat on a sinking ship.  

“It’s okay, Lizzie,” Angelica soothes.

“Angelica, I—I–”

“I know,” Angelica sighs, stroking her hair.  “Take a couple deep breaths, ‘Liza, it’ll pass.”

“I miss him,” Eliza whispers into Angelica’s hip, and the stroking doesn’t pause.

“I know,” Angelica says.  She gives a small, rueful smile.  “That part won’t pass.”

Eliza laughs a little at that, muffled by Angelica’s jacket, and her grip tightens.

***

So…when Maggie Laramie is fourteen their house gets robbed.  She gets caught and held at gunpoint, and she barely manages to not say “My father has gone to raise the Minutemen.” Instead she steadily states that he’s called the police, and when the three guys in black scramble like their lives depend on it, she smiles at her sisters.

“Maggie, that was amazing,” Mrs. Laramie says breathlessly.

“Peggy,” she corrects, and Angelica and Eliza glow.

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Pure of Heart

“So it’s a necklace,” Ezekiel said, frowning.  “What’s it going to do for us again?”

“It’s not just a necklace,” Jake said, pushing Ezekiel out of the way.  “It’s the last relic of the Romanov family.  Story goes,” he added in a hushed tone, reaching out to touch the small ruby pendant with a reverent gloved finger, “that this was that saved Anastasia Romanova’s life.”

“It’s a ruby the size of a penny,” Eve observed, leaning against the desk with an eye on the door of the Annex.  “I don’t see that thing blocking any bullets any time soon.”

“Right, because logic matters so much here,” Ezekiel muttered, and Jake laughed.  Jenkins, at his desk poring over a text that appeared to be in a dialect of English that had passed out of use some time before the Renaissance, made an annoyed sound.

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Anonymous asked: Psst John and Alexander meeting in your Hamilton Reincarnation fic series?

WOO, I am literal Laurens/Hamilton garbage, tell your friends.  
All In One Spot AU

John has been at Columbia for a year and, honestly, he’s starting to think that he was wrong, that no one else is here.  He walks past the law center every chance he gets, and he doubles the time of the walk from his dorm to the natural sciences building every single day to pass Hamilton Hall.  The statue is…reassuring, somehow, Alexander’s fine-drawn face cast in bronze and a quill in his clever fingers.  When John’s tired, or he’s had a bad night, full of nightmares with bayonets jumbled in with cars, the cinch of a noose tangled with the static of a television, he’ll stop and look at the statue until he can breathe again.

It’s not all bad.  John is in New York City, and he finally gets where Alexander was coming from all those years ago, this might legitimately be the greatest city in the world.  It sure beats South Carolina, hell and gone.  He’s introduced himself to everyone as John, here, and even admitted to a handful of people that he was a soldier in the Revolution.  He doesn’t have any close friends, but he doesn’t have any enemies, either, and the handful of familiar faces who see him when he quietly attends a Pride parade don’t say a word.  He’s taken a handful of prerequisites for a biochem degree, in the pre-med track—he always wanted to be a physician last time, and his father is too distant to fight him this time.  

He spends a little money on a sketchbook or two, on a set of pencils, and draws old faces, tries to imagine them in the modern world.  Lafayette, eyes bright and smiling, dressed in a suit.  General Washington, hands folded behind his back—no matter how many times John tries to give him a modern military uniform, his long heavy coat takes shape.  Aides and friends and soldiers whose faces he half-recalls, in t-shirts and jeans and flannels.  And Alexander, a thousand times Alexander, Alexander in modern clothes, in his Continental Army uniform, in shirtsleeves, in the coat he wears in the statue.  A few times, in the safety of his locked single room, John carefully sketches Alexander stretched out in their cabin at Valley Forge, lit in candle-flame and all smooth planes of muscle and skin, smiling at John, soft and sated.  An entire sketchbook fills itself with Alexander, over John’s first year at Columbia.

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Anonymous asked: A little birdie told me you were taking prompts again AND learning a lot about the Rev War. Hamilton/Laurens reincarnation fic?

All right, I’m HOPING that the birdie in question was the tags on this post: so if you wanted hamilton fic now would be EXACTLY the time to request it i was considering doing one of those ongoing tumblr au things where people could ask for specific scenes because i want to write a reincarnation au for hamilton (probably one of those universes where reincarnation is a little peculiar but not out of the ordinary) and i also wanted to write a college au and i figured i could do both at once but also i don’t know if anyone would be interested in that. Regardless, that is WHAT YOU ARE GETTING.  The way this is basically going to work is that if there’s a scene you particularly want to see or a character you particularly want to have me include, just send me an ask and I’ll write more, I guess.  Because this is something I very much want to write, and it’s also something I very much don’t have the time/motivation to do on my own.  So y’all can do me a solid by sending requests.

Circumstances tend to be the same, in each lifetime—relationships between parents, number of siblings, sometimes even place of birth.  No one’s sure why.  A pretty woman fallen from lofty social status, a wandered-off man, an older brother. If that’s the lot you drew at your first birth, it’s likely to be the one you land the second-third-fourth time around.

The illness hits Christiansted earlier, this time.  Andre Westen is seven, his brother and father already gone.  Last time, his mother got the worst of it—this time, it’s Andre who’s shaking and sick for two weeks, his gaunt and recovering mother clinging to his hand.  He lives, though, and when he opens his eyes after the fever breaks, the first thing out of his mouth is, “I’m going to need to change my name.”  There are conditions in place, laws and qualifiers that allow people to claim their past selves if they prefer and can prove it.  And Andre does prefer, and can prove it.  He’s young for such a powerful revelation—he can recite the names of teachers and colleagues, list details down to the minute, and with so little under his belt of this life, that one seems just as immediate—and it unnerves people to hear him wander from speaking like a child to speaking like a grown man when he’s distracted, but they give him his name.  

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flvffs asked: please, tell us more about your horsemen of the apocalypse.

*maniacal laughter* 

You have made a BAD MISTAKE, my buddy, my guy, because now here are 1600 words about this novel.  More stuff is here in the tag.

Right, so, remember how I write novels when I’m pissed off about stuff?  Like…I got pissed off about the lack of happy F/F ships with superpowers and wrote a novel about that.  And I was pissed off about misuse of all-powerful sorcerers (Merlin, I am cranky about the show Merlin), and I wrote a novel about that.  And I was pissed off about use of psychic powers and Antichrists and Apocalypses (*glowers at SPN*) and I wrote Falls the Shadow, this novel.  Kind of by accident.  Like.  I meant to write a fifteen, maybe twenty, page thing playing with the idea of a character who had visions of the Apocalypse.  Smash cut to eighteen months and 250K words later…

So yeah.  The basic premise of this novel is that Sam Lightworth and her older brother Oz have been the best hunters in the country since they were kids, until it came to light during a hunt when she was fifteen that Sam has precognitive dreams.  Since most hunters don’t really have a concept of grey areas (such as a human girl with visions of the future) Oz takes the logical solution of getting his baby sister the fuck out of the life before someone can kill her.  Cut forward a year and a half, Sam’s been in hiding at a boarding school and, for the first time in her life, she has something like a normal life, with a normal friend (Kit), and normal demands on her life.  She hates it.  When her brother turns up, bloody and battered and bearing news of their dad’s death, it’s the best thing that’s happened to her all year.  So she and Oz leave, with Kit in tow.  They also pick up Michael, an old…friend who met Sam exactly once when they were both kids.  She broke his arm and he cracked four of her ribs.  Naturally that…happens.  The majority of the plot rotates around Sam, Michael, Oz, and Kit learning about their places as the Four Horsemen.

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Right, so I wrote this a while back for @twistedangelsays‘ birthday in May, and then she asked me today to post some F/F smut after I posted this ExR smut earlier today.  Max is the main character from this novel and Lessa is her girlfriend, details are included in the tag.

Lessa laughed giddily as Mercury squad spilled through the door, all of us bursting with the adrenaline rush.  The mission had been declared a wash while we were in the field, but we’d still had a closer brush with gunfire than I liked.

“All right, everyone,” I said.  “Debrief with the marshal or Beck at some point in the next couple of hours.  Sorry to have dragged you out for nothing.”

“Ah, don’t worry so much, piti bòs, it was fun,” Elijah said, eyes dancing as he hooked an arm around Miles’ shoulders and cuffed him cheerily up the back of the head.  Miles looked offended, one hand still pressed to a sluggishly bleeding graze to his bicep. “C’mon, Four, let’s go get that arm looked at.  Maybe Janey will meet us there.” Miles allowed himself to be dragged away without much of a fuss and Zara grinned fondly after them.

“Mm,” she said.  “I’m going to go eat something, do a quick debrief, and then see if I can round up my boys and fuck them through the floor.  Y’all have a nice night.”

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