The reincarnation fic every Les Mis author writes eventually. This has been chilling in a random document for, like, literally months. Completely finished, mind. So. Here. *offers to Internet*
Reblogging for the “why were you posting fanfic at one in the morning Moran” crowd.
The reincarnation fic every Les Mis author writes eventually. This has been chilling in a random document for, like, literally months. Completely finished, mind. So. Here. *offers to Internet*
I literally cannot believe I let someone talk me into writing this. Whatever. It’s written. Another chapter is forthcoming. Blame @twistedangelsays for everything.
Reblogging for the “goes to bed at reasonable hours” crowd.
I literally cannot believe I let someone talk me into writing this. Whatever. It’s written. Another chapter is forthcoming. Blame @twistedangelsays for everything.
So apparently I’m kinda-sorta writing an Avatar AU of Les Miserables.
By which I mean: Grantaire the Earth Kingdom Avatar is kinda-sorta on the run from the Fire Nation, and Enjolras the Crown Prince of the Fire Nation is kinda-sorta on the lam looking for the Avatar to back him up against the Fire Lord’s power-craze. This is where I’m at in my life.
If you are at all interested in that, please come talk to me about it and I’ll headcanon some stuff. Plot is time-consuming.
For @littlestartopaz: Rogue/anyone really, with AN (“Have I entered an alternate universe or did you just crack a smile for me?”) from this post
Remy LaBeau, it’s gonna be Remy La-Fucking-Beau, because I am shipper trash and Rogue/Gambit is my hill to die on, y’all. Also, since Rogue’s life sucks PRETTY BAD, I’m going to try to write actual fluff tonight. This could be almost any continuity—I’m kind of visualizing the potential future of the MacAvoy, Fassbender, et. al. movies, because I saw Apocalypse twice in a week and that’ll do stuff to you. I don’t really like writing out accents, so feel free to mentally sub them in—Rogue’s from Mississippi, Remy’s from New Orleans, in case you didn’t know.
“Oh m’God, who’s cooking, that is amazing,” Rogue called as she swept into the mansion and was hit by a wall of smoky-sweet warmth spilling from the kitchen. “Is that jambalaya? Am I gonna have to do extra Danger Room sessions or somethin’ for that?”
“That depends, ma chérie,” the man at the stove said, turning and shooting her a smirk. “What’re you prepared to do?”
For @littlestartopaz, Wanda/Vision, C (“Please, don’t leave”) and G (“I almost lost you”) from this, post CA:CW
Time for pain, children. Blame it on the fact that I found this gloriously accurate post full of thoughts about Wanda’s stint in the Raft. In which Wanda has some trauma from being wrongfully imprisoned by a bunch of dickheads, and doesn’t talk much anymore.
“Wanda,” Steve said quietly, wrapping his hand around hers—he had tried to steer her by an elbow at first, the old habits of the forties coming up under stress, but she had stumbled back so quickly she’d barely missed falling off a curb. “Come on, let’s go.” He gave a tug and she drifted after him, silent. He steered her toward the couch in their newest hideout and she let him push her down until she was sitting down, her hair pulled back into a tidy braid and her hands linked tightly together in her lap. A blanket settled over her shoulders—Sam—and she slowly pulled her legs up to her chest, binding her arms tightly around her knees.
“We’re just going to be in the next room, kid,” Sam said, resting one hand on her shoulder, and waited, as if to give her a space to reply. When she said nothing, he squeezed her shoulder and followed Steve out of the room. Wanda waited until they were gone and reached out with her fingers to catch the blanket and tug the corners over her hands.
An AU with Rey as part of the First Order, based on this photoset by the immensely talented @greyjoyss. In case you were curious, this is why I ask for short prompts, because this is SUPER LONG and got WILDLY OUT OF HAND. Crossposted to my AO3 here.
She isn’t a Skywalker—or maybe she is. She can’t remember, so does it matter? She is herself.
Her mothers scream when she’s born. Her human mother screams in effort and pain. The other screams in ecstasy, and somewhere in the galaxy the last Jedi’s flesh-and-blood hand shakes as the Force writhes with the birth of a new sun. To the eyes of the minimally Force-sensitive nurse, the baby girl is wreathed in starlight, her wide and tearless eyes wandering over things unseen.
I just saw X-Men: Apocalypse and I am on fucking CLOUD NINE, I am so giddy, it is so wonderful. My devoted geeky ass is so thrilled with that movie, I want to see it again IMMEDIATELY. Guys, the X-Men are everything to me, I love them so much.
This would be an EXCELLENT moment to send me prompts and/or come talk to me about the X-Men (or anything else!) because I am fucking bubbling with goodwill and delight and I want to share the love.
thesallowbeldam asked: If you're still doing prompts? Cry-lo Ren travels to Korriban (for whatever reason) and takes shelter in a Sith tomb. The spirits of the dead take this fantastic opportunity to rip this pathetic immitator a new. I'm talking Com. Plete. Savage. Bollocking. (that means a lecture btw)
My buddy, my pal, it’s safe to assume that I’m ALWAYS taking prompts. (I might get to the point where I’m busy enough that it might take me a while to fill them, but I’m always taking prompts.) Now, I’ll admit that I’m not super well versed in Sith history, and the Sith Lord I’m most familiar with is…well, Vader, who failed to die a Sith Lord and didn’t get entombed on Korriban. I’ve always kind of liked the mental image of Darth Sidious being disappointed in Kylo, though, so yeah. Also, I don’t know what happened to Palpatine’s ghost and it appears that neither does anyone else, so we’re going to handwave some stuff because Force.
Personal shuttle crashes are, generally speaking, remarkably easy to survive. Battlestars or cruisers are bulky and built to survive damage in the black, but a planet-side crash turns them into an avalanche of wreckage. Fighters, small and quick and light, shatter like glass more often than not, and even when they don’t, their mostly-engine structure doesn’t play well with the heat of a crash. A personal shuttle, though, is small and sturdy and designed to survive an emergency landing, even if the emergency in question is ‘falling out of the sky.’
“Engines do not just kriffing fail,” Kylo Ren hissed as he pulled himself out of his shuttle and trying to adjust to the heavier gravity. He snarled a string of curses in a handful of languages, giving a sharp kick to the hull and repressing a grimace of pain. Snoke would be furious if he missed his ordered arrival time, no matter how good his explanation was, and Kylo felt a shudder down his spine. He refused to admit that it might be fear. “There isn’t even anything wrong with this piece of bantha shit,” he shouted, thumping it with a fist. He raked a gloved hand through his hair—the helmet was still inside the shuttle somewhere—and stared around him at the valley he’d wrecked in.
Vodka Tia Moran