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

lathori asked: Babe. THE smut fic. You know the one. E x R, what we've been talking about. /Please/ write it? /Please/ <3 E

Aaaaand here we go with the smut.  I don’t write smut much, mostly just on request.  So I dunno how this came out.  But it’s definitely smut.  NSFW. Possibly NSF-Anywhere.  Also it like…cold opens to sex, so.  There is no plot here.

Grantaire tugged at the long ends of the cord, tightening the coil winding about the outside.  It scraped along the taut length stretching to the headboard, a faint but audible sound, and he glanced down.

“Too tight?” he asked quietly, letting his fingers trail down to slip into the gap between Enjolras’ wrist and the five loops of white cotton binding him to the bed.  He could still fit two fingers comfortably beside Enjolras’ delicate wrist, and the touch made Enjolras’ eyes flicker open.  The usually bright honey color was a little hazy, distracted.  “Mon ange,” Grantaire prompted.

“You’re fine,” Enjolras said, blinking until his gaze was clearer.  Grantaire nodded and finished tucking the loose ends away until the knot was secure. He ducked, pressed a kiss to the long, deft fingers, and saw Enjolras close his eyes again.

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Anonymous asked: Prompt: les amis princess protection program au

*Aaron Burr voice*  Sure!  So it took me a long-ass time to write this because I saw PPP like once, like ten years ago, and I just now had the time to google it and brush up.  As payment for the delay, it’s SEVEN PAGES.  Also I wrote this at two in the morning and I haven’t looked over it since, so…  I wandered off from the movie plot.  Sorry.

• Prince Gabriel Alexandrè Enjolras Apollinaire—he usually opts out of the lengthy full name for just ‘Enjolras’, to the ongoing dismay of his entire staff—is literally getting crowned as king of the small country Rive Lune when Inquisiteur Javert, the right-hand man of the neighboring Rive Astre, comes crashing through the door.  Turns out being extremely determined to transform a hundred-year monarchy into a democracy makes the local dictators edgy.  Despite his best efforts to the contrary, Enjolras is (quite literally) hauled away by Monsieur Valjean, a member of the Prince Protection Program.  His mother and the queen of Rive Lune, Her Royal Majesty Juliette Ameliè Lamarque Apollinaire, is not so lucky.

• Enjolras puts up a very legitimate fight against being ‘packed off like so much spare luggage,’ as he puts it in his lengthy tirade. The PPP has never had to handle such an…opinionated prince—normally, they’re so shocky from an attempt on their life that they don’t question much.  Enjolras is something else.  He spins such a compelling speech about personal responsibility and care of the people and my country that, honestly?  They almost go for it.  And then Valjean clears his throat and politely reminds everyone of the situation, and Enjolras is packed off to America without further ado (and over his continuting protests) because Valjean has that effect on people.

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Anonymous asked: oooooh, i would love a exr shortie where e has to teach r how to dance and it's very frustrating and they feel thINGS, please?

*hides face* Oh my God, it’s been like a MONTH, I am so sorry, but HERE.  There is dancing and feelings and kissing and Enjolras actually having a social life because Courfeyrac forces him to.  Also, I seem to have a tendency to write ‘getting their shit together’ ficlets so if you want…not that, feel free to ask.  And if you want the reverse of this where Grantaire teaches Enjolras to dance, it is here.

Enjolras goes to clubs.  It’s not especially common knowledge, because he’s usually too busy, but whenever Courfeyrac feels like it’s necessary, he’ll drag Enjolras out to a nightclub, pour a few shots into him, and turn him loose for a few hours with instructions to not think too much.  This time, it’s a group outing, all of Les Amis laughing and tactile with alcohol, hands on arms and cheeks flushed with the triumph of their latest protest.  

Joly, giggly with his second rum and coke, is the one to start the dancing, pushing Musichetta and Bousset onto the dance floor ahead of him.  The three of them fit together like puzzle pieces, Musichetta’s petite body pressed back against Joly’s chest and Bousset’s broad shoulders behind the pair of them.  They’ve clearly done this before, because Bousset and Musichetta know just how to move so that Joly can dance without aggravating his limp.  It’s fluid and sensual, Musichetta’s head tipped back on Joly’s shoulder and her smile dazzling up at her boys, and Enjolras feels the brief pause around him, the rest of them caught up in the trio’s giddy joy.

“Aw, they’re cute,” Cosette says, and Éponine smirks, finishes her scotch, and pinches Marius hard in the side.  He yelps and flails—not a graceful man at the best of times, and less so with alcohol—but gets the hint, shyly offering his hand to Cosette and letting her tug him onto the floor.  Éponine is still snickering when she darts out herself, bouncing and coiling like a ribbon in the dim club lights.

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Anonymous asked: ♫ Enjolras/Grantaire

RIGHT, so I got Third Eye by Florence + the Machine (also I super love this meme and more people should do it.)  I ain’t even a little sorry.  Canon era, motherfuckers, because I can.

Grantaire was arguing with him again.  Most of Enjolras’ mind was occupied with ripping down the other man’s case, almost enjoying the familiar pattern, but that quiet part at the base of his skull, the part that had been getting louder of late, was distracted.  It was discomfiting and foreign, as if he no longer quite knew himself.  It did little to inhibit his argument—they were second nature by now, he could spare that scrap of attention—but he was bothered by its persistence.  Just when Enjolras believed he had shaken off the strange abstraction, Grantaire would tip his head back and laugh at something Joly had said, his wild curls falling back from the line of his throat, and it would return with a vengeance.

He’s brilliant, the quiet voice noted now.  It was true, something Enjolras had noticed before. For all that he dulled its edge with wine and other, stronger spirits, Grantaire’s mind was as keen as the edge of broken glass, quick and incisive, and he soaked up information as effortlessly as he did liquor.  Grantaire claimed to know nothing—nothing but love and liberty, he had said—but he could hold his ground against Enjolras, and quote Greek and Roman writings without so much as a pause to recall. He spoke rapidly, as if the thoughts piled up behind his tongue and pressed to be first through his lips, and was prone to winding, tangential thinking, but his points were good and clear and glittering.

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youfightlikemysister asked: I am so in love with your Mutant!Les Amis, it's incredible. I didn't think I'd like any power Grantaire was giving and then you went and made it the most perfect power! I'm quite emotional right now. If you every chose to write more that would be a very cool thing!

Aw, I’m so glad you liked it, it was a lot of fun! Here, this is kind of ADHD and random but it’s KIND OF plot, right, so yeah.  Also OH MY GOD this got grim, Christ, this is just sads, I don’t…I don’t have a defense for this, except that I was kind of consumed by my feelings about Feuilly in this universe and things got away from me.

Okay so Mutant Registration, right?  And the rise of the Cure.  That’s what we’re dealing with here.  The Cure is in development, there’s discussion of forced administration to mutants who are a hazard to self or others, and the mutant population is terrified, angry, desperate, Les Amis as much as any of them.  They’ve been at least tangentially involved in at least one protest a week for months, and it’s gotten to the point where they’re recognized on the news.

They have moments of uncertainty, sure, like anyone who’s spent years being told how unnatural they are.  Even Enjolras, who is so aflame with his defense of his people that he burns like a white-hot star even in bright sunlight, has his moments where he wonders—just a little—if it would be better after all to be normal.  Those of them with obvious mutations, or mutations with nasty backlash, have worse moments, more moments, and they all objectively know that, but somehow it’s still a surprise when Feuilly, steady and smiling and gentle, wavers.

They’re all a bit drunk—it’s a Friday, they’re exhausted and safely ensconced in the back room of the Musain and Madame Huchloupe can read minds, so if there’s ever been a safe place for a rather motley crew of mutant activists to get drunk, this is probably it.  Musichetta is there, very solemnly drawing daisies up Jehan’s right arm in Sharpie while Grantaire sketches roses up his left and the honeysuckle braided into his hair twines itself into a crown—Jehan almost always has a few cuttings of his plants in his hair, living off his power.  Cosette is watching Eponine set off tiny crackling fireworks that dance over her fingers, delighted, and Marius is staring like Cosette’s glee is the most incredible thing he’s ever seen.  Even Enjolras and Grantaire are getting along (this is before they get together), having an entirely cordial conversation about the details of their last protest.

And Feuilly, who usually sweeps into rooms like a light going on, warm and friendly, slips in silently, staring at the floor, with Bahorel radiating fury on his heels.  

“Feuilly?” Courfeyrac says, turning immediately, his hands already out toward the dark blotch of Feuilly’s emotions.  Bahorel hovers behind Feuilly’s shoulder like he’s planning a murder, downright thunderous, and then Feuilly raises his head and the room goes very quiet indeed.  

He has a black eye starting and an ugly mess on his cheek, like someone ripped at the scales against the grain, pulling them out at the roots. The places where the skin on his arms—littered with bruises—blends into black snakeskin is raw and abraded.  His lip is cut and bleeding, his black-on-steel snake eyes damp, and his shirt is stained red at the nape of his neck, where his scales scraped against something rough, like stone.  He holds himself like his ribs hurt, like he might have broken bones, and stands crookedly, all his weight on one leg.

There’s a long beat, because no matter how many times one of their number appears bruised and hurting, it never becomes normal.  Feuilly and Grantaire always get the worst of it, because no matter how obvious pyrokinetics are no one wants to mess with them, but this is the most damage any of them have walked in with.

“Oh,” Jehan says, soft and grief-stricken, and he shrugs Grantaire and Musichetta away to walk forward.  He reaches out and rests his hand on Feuilly’s arm, seeking permission, and Feuilly blinks at him for a moment before he sighs and leans his head on Jehan’s shoulder, his ruined cheek turned away.  Jehan hugs him, cautious of his injuries, and Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre close behind him, is the next to reach them.  

“What happened?” Enjolras asks, unusually soft.  

Feuilly closes his eyes and doesn’t answer, and they can see his flinch when a tear streaks down to the mess on his cheek, salt water in the wound.

“They caught him on his way from work,” Bahorel half-snarls, because Bahorel is a buoyant and glad soul right up until his friends—or Feuilly, whose position is somewhat indeterminate even to the other Amis—are threatened.  “Seven guys—big guys, too.”  Enjolras nods, because Feuilly can take care of himself, but one on seven are nasty odds at the best of times.  “I don’t know what they used on his face,” Bahorel continues as Jehan steers Feuilly over to a chair and pushes him down.  “I got there and ran them off.”  He smiles grimly, all teeth, and says, “Remind me to pick up some more krav maga.”

“Feuilly, let me look at your chest,” Joly says, limping over—it’s due to rain tonight, his leg is troubling him, but he’s discarded his cane in his hurry.  Feuilly doesn’t say anything, lets Joly unbutton his shirt and doesn’t react to his hiss at the red and purple mottling that spans one side of his ribs.  “Someone get me some—thanks,” he says, taking the glass of water Bousset holds out and a napkin from the table.  Feuilly closes his eyes, as if he can’t stand to watch the others watching him—Feuilly’s proud, but right now he just looks tired, as if it’s too much to bear.  Joly starts to dab at the blood on Feuilly’s face and the room falls quiet again, except for the shuddering sound of shadows stirring over the floor and the quiet crackle of sparks showering through Eponine’s long hair.

Once Feuilly’s face is clean, the damage looks even worse, the beds of scales raw and seeping blood.  Joly cradles his cheek in one hand and closes his own eyes to focus, and the damage begins to vanish, new scales pushing through the skin and settling flat against each other.  The black eye sinks away, the bruises and scrapes evaporating like a dream.  Once it’s done, Joly brushes a thumb over the repaired scales on Feuilly’s cheek and they slide like water, black and sleek. Joly lets Bousset wrap an arm around his waist and support him as he retreats from Feuilly, and Bousset clasps a hand briefly around Feuilly’s wrist, fingers pressing against the sweep of scales over the pulse point.  There’s a faint crackle, as if of ozone, and Bousset pulls away.  Feuilly opens his eyes briefly and offers a wan smile, then closes them again and raises a hand, pressing the heel of it into the socket of one eye.

Grantaire is the one who sits down next to him and grips his arm firmly, and Feuilly leans to the side, like a strong tree toppling under a gale, to lean against him.  Grantaire’s all-black eyes half-lid, and he rests his hand between Feuilly’s shoulders instead, his shadows still for the moment so as not to disturb his friend.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Feuilly whispers into Grantaire’s shoulder, and it’s the first thing he’s said since he arrived.

“I know,” Grantaire says, heavy and tired, and Cosette and Eponine exchange a look, drifting over to the table themselves.  Cosette’s wings are pulled tight around her shoulders, as if she’s retreating into them, and Eponine’s flaming eyes are shaded by her lashes—freaks among freaks, the ones who can’t hide.

“I don’t want to be like this.”

“I know.”

There’s nothing else to say.

Anonymous asked: I saw that you were open to fic requests. Do you have any Amis Mutant!AU headcanons?

I HAVE ALL THE MUTANT!AU HEADCANONS.  Listen, children, Auntie Moran has been an X-Men devotee since she was very wee, I have mutant AU headcanons for basically everything I’ve ever seen.  I think we’ll just do headcanons for this rather than a fic, though, you can hit me up later if you want actual plot.

Okay so I’m thinking that the Mutant Registration Act is going to have to be the big issue Les Amis are protesting–they’ve got to have something to be against, it’s Les Amis for God’s sake.  And I’m thinking that a number of them are in a peculiar position because a lot of them are from wealthy upper-class families and have invisible mutations, so they could have just gone on with their lives without ever telling a lie.  This is probably vaguely modern–hell, maybe the X-Men are kicking around somewhere.  Aaaaanyway, here, it got long.

• Enjolras can glow.  Actually it’s called electromagnetic manipulation, and he can do more than glow, but that’s the most common manifestation–when he’s impassioned or excited or angry, it’s as if particles of sunlight coalesce around his skin, a harsh and brilliant golden-white halo.  He can control it, but it takes some concentration.  With some practice, he learned to do other things with light, like setting off bursts of light to catch the attention of a crowd or throwing lightning-bright flashes from his hands to baffle the police and hide their escape.  It’s beautiful, watching him speak at the Musain or at a protest, his whole body outlined in not-quite-blinding light so that there isn’t a single shadow on him, like an angel or an ancient god.  It’s why Grantaire started calling him Apollo–god of the sun, of rapture and beauty, of eloquence and elegance.  It drives Enjolras up the wall, but Grantaire persists and Enjolras’ light is all the brighter in the heat of his anger.

• Combeferre has a small psychic ability, although not in the sense of reading minds.  He can share senses, specifically vision–look through the eyes of another animal.  He likes moths and butterflies for this, because as calm and logical as he usually is, Combeferre is creative and loves art and moths and butterflies have five color receptors rather than three, they can see a whole spectrum humans can only dream of.  When he’s drunk enough or exhausted enough, Combeferre will sit with his head on Courfeyrac’s shoulder and try to describe the other colors he can see through their eyes.  (He has absolutely never started crying about it, and anything Courfeyrac says to the contrary is nothing but lies and slander.)

• Courfeyrac is an empath.  I think I’ve used that one before, but I am VERY committed to Courfeyrac being an empath, y’all can fight me at dawn on that.  He’s not much good at projecting, he can only manage it in a moment of strong emotion, although once he does manage it, he can swamp everyone around him and send them reeling into hysterical sobs or blind rage or, on one memorable occasion involving Combeferre, pure blazing lust.  (They don’t talk about that one much, it’s a bit of a Noodle Incident, but suffice it to say Enjolras reacted…poorly, when they came out of it and he realized he’d kissed Grantaire.  It was a messy week until he apologized for his reaction.)  Courfeyrac is much better at receptive empathy, at reading the people around him, and he’s a master at balancing it all, knowing which emotions are his and which aren’t.  It does make being around Enjolras a little exhausting, with all that fiery passion roaring through him all the time–Combeferre, much steadier in nature, is a good balance, though.  That’s part of the reason Courfeyrac likes Gavroche so much.  He’s not a complex kid, he’s very direct and up front with his thoughts and emotions.  It’s restful to be around, unless you’re on his hit list.

• Bousset’s mutation is probability manipulation.  Nothing so large-scale as the Scarlet Witch–he’s not going to be rewriting reality any time soon, nor eradicating mutant-kind–and instead of being able to shoot bolts, he can sort of attach it to people like a curse.  It’s relatively shortlived, but he can grab someone, skin-to-skin, and attach his power to them for a while, giving them ‘good luck’ or ‘bad luck’ depending on his preference.  Problem is, entropy demands a balance, so he deals with the backlash–if he makes someone lucky, he deals with correspondingly strong bad luck until his power falls away from them, and vice versa.  He’s always having runs of really terrible luck because he’ll tag (he calls it ‘tagging’ someone) his friends with little drips and dabs of good luck whenever they’re having a bad day or a rough week or he’s feeling particularly affectionate, and little drips and dabs add up really quick when you’re doling them out to almost a dozen people.  (He did very quietly make an arrangement with pretty much everyone except Joly and Musichetta, tagged all of Les Amis with bad luck, waited for his luck to turn up, and then went and asked the pair of them if they wanted to date him.  They haven’t let him forget it yet.  They said yes.)

• Joly’s a healer, of course.  More specifically, he can alter physical functions on a molecular level through physical contact, which means that he can do anything from cure cancer to cause someone’s body to break down where they’re standing.  He’s a little wary about physical contact, consequently–it’s never happened, but he worries that if he’s touching someone when he’s angry or scared he might hurt them.  But he always kisses Bousset’s bumps and scrapes better–literally–and he aced the fuck out of his anatomy and physiology classes.  He loves medicine, really loves it, because yeah, he can make all this stuff happen at hyperspeed, but it’s so cool to learn how it works.  He can’t heal himself, though–he could, but there’s a mental block that he can’t get around, because when he first broke his leg and tried to heal it, it didn’t work, so he’s convinced himself it’s impossible.  The limp doesn’t bother him, most of the time, but every once in a while he sits there and chews on his lower lip and wonders what went wrong.

• Musichetta can draw the future.  She’s a talented artist, and she likes to work in paints when she has the money–some of her paintings were hung in a gallery and Bousset drenched her in good luck that first time, so she does pretty well for herself, and can work in oil paints more often now.  She and Grantaire have very different styles–he has a warm pre-Impressionistic style, real and living and firelit, where she paints with sharp contrasts and comic-book-esque figures and buildings–but they love to look at each others’ work, and they tease each other about the paint splotches left on their skin after a day in the studio.  She has a whole sketchbook full of pencil sketches of the future–waste of good paints, she says dryly–and it travels everywhere with her, always ready to be yanked out when she feels a flash of insight coming on.  She saves the lot of them from being arrested almost monthly, and there was one time where she saw a train wreck and called the company in a panic, and they found a loose bolt that would have come free and killed everyone on board.  It doesn’t always go that well, though–Joly lets her curl up in his lap when she can’t stop a vision, and she’ll put her head on his shoulder and cling to his shirt, Bousset’s hands gentle and soothing down her back, until she feels better.

• Feuilly is easily spotted as a mutant, because his skin is streaked in places with smooth, beautiful black scales.  They arch over one of his cheekbones, down the line of his spine and up the inside of one of his wrists.  It’s snakeskin, black mamba specifically, and he has a host of other tricks up his sleeve–he’s never felt the need to find out if he’s venomous, though.  Black mamba venom is one of the most lethal in the entire world, and he’s just as happy to never know.  But he can sense heat, taste/smell/something in between infinitesimally small particles and his skin is so sensitive that he can feel the print on a page or sense the change in vibration when an engine is low on oil.  He works as a mechanic, because he can turn on a car and put his hands on the hood and feel and smell and sense, and know what’s wrong in no time flat.  His coworkers are generally proud of his brilliance (he’s also working toward graduating summa cum laude with a Master’s in Engineering) but every so often they get a customer who’s an A-grade dick.

• Bahorel is a muscle-mimic–he can watch someone do something physical and replicate it perfectly.  He uses it for what he calls ‘cheap tricks’ more often than not, like the time he watched Feuilly fold a paper crane and settled down to folding a thousand of them.  (He gave them to Feuilly when the man came in with a bruise on his face, his scales raw as if someone had scraped them along the ground, and won a smile before Joly pounced on Feuilly to heal him.)  But it makes him unspeakably useful in a tight spot, because Bahorel’s spent so much time watching how the police fight in a riot that he can use it against them like it’s second nature.  He’d almost rather die than watch any of the others get banged up, and Joly spends almost as much time healing him as he does Bousset, just because Bahorel has no apparent self-preservation instincts to speak of.

• Jehan can talk to plants.  He’s like Layla from Sky High and I have no shame about that comparison.  He wears cuttings of flowers in his hair and they’ll grow through his braid and bloom happily and just kind of live off his energy until he puts them in dirt, and when he’s feeling particularly effusively affectionate tendrils of his plants will reach down his arms toward whoever’s closest to him.  Also, he’s normally very gentle and his plants are all pretty flowering vines and dandelions and things, but when shit gets serious during a protest or on the street, everyone is reminded very quickly that tree roots can crack open mountains.

• Grantaire can animate shadows.  He’s one of the unlucky ones–anyone can take a look at him and know he’s a mutant, his eyes glassy black and his curls shifting as if in a low wind as the shadows shift on his skin.  He’s been told all his life that it’s ugly, that the way the shadows curl lively along his jaw and under his curls and beneath his brows.  It’s useful sometimes, being able to summon a shadow army to get between the police and the fleeing Amis, or being able to animate a sparring partner out of his own shadow, but Grantaire is always the first one to call Enjolras out on being naive.  Easy to talk about how humans will trust you when you look like an angel–less so when you deal in darkness.  Enjolras is perpetually furious with Grantaire’s cynicism, but he’s more furious with the world that created him, that convinced him that his mutation is something ugly and irredeemable.  He thinks (but never says) that Grantaire’s shadows are beautiful, like ink spilled over his skin, and once they finally work their shit out (Gavroche is the one who makes it happen, probably, because he’s a sneaky little shit), he discovers that Grantaire can let his shadows spill on Enjolras’ skin, leaving dark pools against the golden radiance.

• Gavroche and Eponine (and Azelma, wherever she is) have a modification of the same mutation, which is, according to Thenardier, the only reason he knows they’re all his children.  They’re all pyrokinetics, although at different levels–Gavroche is a manipulator, able to shape heat and fire into any shape as long as he has something to work with, and Azelma is a firestarter, but Eponine is the only one of them who can do both, just like their father.  They’re all easy to spot as mutants, too, with eyes that flicker red with flames when they catch the lights and core body temperatures well north of 200 F.  She’s terrified that somehow her power’s going to corrupt her, turn her into Thenardier, and Marius is the first person who shows nothing but pure delight at the sparks that crackle out of her hair and the flames that lick her fingers.  She can’t help but love him a little for that.

• As long as we’re on the subject, Patron-Minette.  Montparnasse’s mutation is 100% out of his control, he can’t turn it off or strengthen it at all.  When asked, he tells everyone his mutation is being beautiful.  In reality, he doesn’t really understand it, but it’s something to do with pheromones–just about everyone who sees him, who draws close enough to talk, is clobbered with a metaphorical two by four of attraction.  It’s very useful in the killer-for-hire business, and he’d never admit how uncomfortable it makes him sometimes.  Eponine, her skin always just this side of burning, is one of the only people unaffected, and he’d kill to keep her around.  Claquesous is a teleporter, and Babet is a metamorph, able to look like anyone he wants, and Gueulemer has superstrength.

• Marius isn’t a mutant.  He did get booted out of his grandfather’s home and disinherited for starting a fight in polite society about mutant rights, though, so Bahorel and Courfeyrac take to him immediately.  But he also had the misfortune to walk into a conversation about the concept of a mutant ‘cure’ and open with “Well, some mutants might need it” and that went over a treat.  He managed to redeem himself, though, although Enjolras eyed him with suspicion for a while.

• Cosette!  My sweet girl!  Has wings!  They’re not the crisp white wings of an angel or a dove, either–they’re broad and angled and bronze fletched with dark red, the wings of a hawk.  She normally hides them by binding them down under her clothes–her mother had wings too, she remembers vaguely, wide and soft and wheat-pale as a songbird’s, and it was Mama who taught her to bind them down, hide them, before she went away.  Marius saw her for the first time with shed feathers braided into her hair until she looked like a spirit from another world, and she’s strong enough to take him flying (bridal style, of course).

• Valjean’s not a mutant, but Javert is.  He’s also neck-deep in denial.

sinfullvibes:

half of me is a hopeless romantic and the other half of me is, well, an asshole

(via ailleee)

nakedbrownie:

Combeferre, a professional chess player, organized a small tournament at Musain that no one showed up to except one very hungover guy who wordlessly sat across Combeferre and checkmated him in under ten minutes and that’s how Les Amis met Grantaire.

(via enjolrarses)

Anonymous asked: Omg for that cannon thing can you please do Grantaire from Les mis and rey from Star wars??

Mmmm YEAH.  From this thing.

Grantaire

• Canon: Grantaire is a boxer, fencer, and dancer.  I know these are common knowledge, but I feel like there are some really glorious opportunities afforded there.  He’s also evidently well-studied, just…in really random stuff, which speaks to me.
  
• Headcanon: Even supposing he’d lived through June 6th, Grantaire wouldn’t have survived long without his friends.  He’d have faded away, been found dead in the street within a month.
• Heartcanon: This is, what, what I think should have happened?  I don’t know, might’ve been nice if someone lived?
• Soulcanon: I might have liked a little more description of the death scene, Vic!  Would’ve been nice!  But my firm belief is that Enjolras probably died pretty much on impact, whereas Grantaire took a minute or two to bleed out.  He didn’t mind, because he fell looking at Enjolras’ face, angled so that the other man looked alive and merely pensive, and he’d say there are worst last sights.  He kept his grip on Enjolras’ hand until he was finally too weak to force his muscles to cooperate.
• Crotchcanon: Sooooo the night before the barricades rose Enjolras probably decided…well, eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die.  ‘Be merry’ here accompanied by an intense eyebrow wriggle.  Fight me.  Grantaire figured that at least this way he would know that Enjolras’ skin tasted like before they died.  If I ever wrote fic for this ‘and then there was wildly improbable sex’ incident, it would be intense angst.

Rey, my own sunshine daughter

• Canon: Rey is flawless.  Rey built her speeder and taught herself quarterstaff fighting.  I hear she refused to trade a droid even though she was offered sixty portions.  I hear she managed to fly the Millennium Falcon through an old star destroyer on her first try.  She met Han Solo and he offered her a job.  One time she lightsabered Kylo Ren in the face.  It was awesome.
  
• Headcanon: Rey has definitely…done what needed to be done.  By which I mean she’s definitely killed a dude, and possibly eaten them, depending on how strapped she was for sustenance at the time.
• Heartcanon: I appreciate why Rey didn’t kill Kylo at the end of the movie.  Nonetheless, that hunting-wolf prowl with her teeth bared and the light of a dying star on her skin really did it for me, and I might have liked to see them deal with the fact that even Jedi kill, sometimes.  And Rey’s NOT a Jedi, is the thing, so–yeah.  Basically the summary here is that I want to see Rey kill a dude with a lightsaber.  Kylo would be ideal, but not at all mandatory.  I also really want to see her talk to a Force ghost, and I really, really want that Force ghost to be Anakin Skywalker.  I am only interested in the Rey Skywalker thing insofar as it makes her Anakin’s granddaughter, not Luke’s kid (I’d love it if she was Leia’s kid, Rey Organa is also a plot I’m into, but that seems a little less likely), although I feel like Rey as the savior of the Force Mark III is really excellent.
• Soulcanon: Okay but as long as we’re playing defiance-of-all-reason, what I really want is for Rey to be a midichlorian pregnancy.  The Force decides that the last go-round of a Chosen One went horribly awry (although I have some thoughts on whether that…is strictly speaking true, in the Force’s eyes), so this time, the Force is like “I’m gonna do it again, and it’s going to be another angry sand orphan, but instead of an ex-slave who immediately gets indoctrinated into a powerfully repressive and increasingly rickety ancient Order, it’s going to be a scavenger with a moral backbone like soldered titanium and a quarterstaff, and she’s just gonna fucking wreck people with both.”  And the Force drags Rey kicking and screaming into her destiny and drops her in Luke’s lap like “Be nice to your auntie, bye-bye now” and Luke is like “Um…I don’t deserve this.”  Luke, you fucked off into exile for fifteen years and left your sister to run another rebellion, this time against her son.  You deserve to have your Force-auntie fucking wreck you with her stick and her moral backbone.
• Crotchcanon: Um…the OT3 is a thing and y’all can fight me.  The Damerons.  Poe struggles for a little while with the fact that he seems to have two (young) heroes trying to actively seduce him, in their awkward ways.  Rey’s version of ‘seduction’ is just to press various foodstuffs into his hands and watch with an eager smile as he eats them, Finn’s is a little more like actual flirting, but not a lot.  Finally he just comes back to his quarters (he has a private room by virtue of being a squad leader) and finds Rey literally sitting naked on his bed, legs crossed and calm as when she’s polishing BB-8′s optical sensor.  Finn apologizes, hovering anxiously near the wall, and says that they’ve been trying to convince him to date them but he doesn’t seem to get the message, so Rey got impatient.  Poe gives in to the inevitable.  And then there’s sex.  Lots of sex.  Poe gets the shock of the decade when ever-so-serious General Organa reaches up to clap him on the shoulder in approval, once the others let him out of his quarters again.