light fuse

Fuzzy Slippers of Doom

(Context: Same group as Poke Out His Eyes and Take Off His Leg. Our group has a split party because two of our members have jobs that make them unavailable during the month of January. As a result, I’ve been running the rest of the group through side stuff that doesn’t have any impact on the main story.

In this instance, the party has taken a contract to rid a cistern of its gelatinous inhabitants. Our Druid has cast Spider Climb on our Beastmaster Ranger, who has spent the entire battle creatively dropping explosives into the Cubes. She also has a homebrewed magic item called the Bag of Useful? Items.)

BM Ranger: I have a pair of fuzzy slippers from my bag of useful items. I would like to light a pop, wedge it into one slipper, flip the other slipper around and fit them together and drop them in the cube so that the fuse has enough air to finish once its in there.

DM (me): Okay. Roll a ranged attack.

BM Ranger: (success, rolls damage for the pop - 1d8 fire)

DM: Okay, you quickly light the fuse, wedge the slippers together and drop them. The slippers and their cargo are sucked into the Gelatinous Cube. A second later, the pop goes off. You see a flash of fire, and the Cube’s sides bow out with the force of the explosion. Congratulations, the Gelatinous cube was briefly on fire, and now sits below you, quivering like jell-o. Tiny bits of blue fluff litter its insides, remnants of the slippers.


Anders is sometimes accused of being a terrorist, which is interesting, since the game provides multiple examples of actual terrorists as a counterpoint. I don’t think the idea is entirely the fault of the audience, as Bioware is clearly aware of the current cultural association between exploding buildings and terrorism, and I know some of the writers made comments in that direction. But if that’s what they were going for, it’s one of those places where authorial intent failed utterly.


They seem to have forgotten that the defining feature of terrorism isn’t violence (although of course by its very nature it is often violent) but fear. It’s right there in the word, but even so.


When Anders blows up the Chantry in Act 3, it is not meant to inspire fear. It’s not a threat: ‘Let us go, or this is what we will do to you’. If it were, it would be a pretty bloody useless one. Though, of course, magic is used to light the fuse the primary weapon is gaatlok – gunpowder. He is incredibly secretive about the formula – even Hawke, helping him, doesn’t know he also needs charcoal – and has no expectation of surviving the act. Repeating it would be a pain in the arse. Anybody who wanted to would have to start from scratch.


Rather, it is a public demonstration of the helplessness of the mages. He commits a very public crime. And it immediately becomes clear that no authority figure is even slightly interested in dealing out justice. Hawke can kill him, if they are so inclined. But if they don’t, no one is going to force them to. You can be a completely pro-Templar Hawke and waltz into the Gallows with Anders in your party to participate in the Rite of Annulment, and the Templars do not call the whole thing to a halt – because, hang on, here is the actual perpetrator.


It is an excuse to do what they were planning to do anyway. They’d find an reason, one way or another, regardless of Anders’s actions. But this one is handy. Meredith claims that her hand is forced because the city would demand vengeance. Would it? Maybe. We never find out. It does, however, tell us how Meredith plans to spin the attack. The mages were always going to be victims of her fear and her power grab. This just makes it visible.


The people who really do deliberately inspire terror in Kirkwall are the Chantry. Meredith has been ruling the city through threats of violence for decades:


Meredith’s message was clear: remember who holds the power in Kirkwall. Remember what happened to Threnhold when he overreached. To drive home her point, she presented Marlowe with a small carven ivory box at his coronation. The box contained the Threnhold signet ring, misshapen, and crusted with blood. On the inside of the lid were written the words ‘His fate need not be yours’.

World of Thedas II


She’s also practising on the mages in the Gallows – three Starkhaven mages are made Tranquil at random, just to demonstrate to the prisoners in the Circle that it is within her power to do this. By Act 3, of course, she’ll have expanded her reach further, using her Templars to harass and assault Kirkwall’s citizens.


But, until Act 3, Meredith is something of a background figure. The ultimate villain lurking behind the scenes. The clearest foil for Anders is Petrice.


Here, then, is our actual terrorist. Petrice’s end goal is violence: she wants the people of Kirkwall to take on the Qunari. Of course it wouldn’t end there. There would be a war, and an Exalted March and (in her head – almost certainly not in reality) the crushing of the Qunari by the might of the righteous Chantry.


And her method is inspiring fear. Her assaults are relatively small, but calculated to make each side think of the other as violent, dangerous and evil. She’s arranged for the murder and mutilation of Qunari before: the bodies left for Arvaarad to find, so he would think Hawke and the Saarebas were responsible. She’s used poison gas on her own people (it would have been blackpowder, had she been able to get her hands on any) in an attempt to frame the Qunari. Here, she has arranged for the torture and murder of a Qunari delegation, to demonstrate to the Arishok how far the ‘faithful’ will go to be rid of the Qunari. Eventually, she will have a high-status Qunari convert murdered so she can use his death as propaganda.


Everything Petrice does is designed to frighten people. There’s a threat behind every strike: If we don’t fight the Qunari, look what they'll do. Each act of violence is aimed at inducing a panic response – in the full knowledge that, eventually, people will be frightened enough to make war.


The contrasts are numerous: Anders is a commoner, a Fereldan (in addition to the whole mage thing), and at present living in the sewers. Petrice is apparently of noble Orlesian stock (so says The World of Thedas), and belongs to the most powerful institution in Kirkwall. The first quest actually makes a point of this: while the people of Darktown rally around their healer and Anders is quite at home there, Petrice, a Chantry sister supposedly responsible for the wellbeing of Kirkwall, is painfully out of place even in Lowtown. Moreover, whereas the underground falls apart around Anders, Petrice is a rising star – a Sister when Hawke first meets her, a Mother by Act 2. Where Anders’s plan requires that he take the blame for his actions, Petrice does everything she can to shield herself – she always works through agents, and here she sells out her own accomplice.


The common ground is a fervent belief in a cause, and at some stage (right off the bat for Petrice; in the endgame for Anders) a belief that violence is the only way to move forward.


And in the cause lies the important contrast.


Anders’s plan is only of value if he’s right. He’s not trying to inspire fear. It’s knowing that the fear is already there that prompts him to act as he does. If he’s wrong and the Circle and Templars are not oppressive institutions designed to control and brutalise mages – then he gets hauled off to prison (and no doubt subsequent execution), and nothing happens to the other mages. Once the Chantry blows up, he can’t lose. It doesn’t matter whether he lives or dies. It doesn’t matter whether Hawke saves the Circle or helps destroy it. The Templars do hold innocent mages accountable for something they had nothing to do with. The word goes out that the Annulment of the Kirkwall Circle was unjust. The Templars impose harsh restrictions on mages of other nations, who had even less to do with all this than the Kirkwall mages – and Fiona seizes her chance.


Point pretty well made.


Petrice, though, is trying to control people’s actions through fear. She is trying to make the people of Kirkwall think the Qunari are a terrifying threat, while still making them think they can take them in a fight. She is using fear to manipulate people, without any regard for the truth. By the time the Qunari uprising begins, Petrice is either dead or disgraced, making her a personal failure. But the uprising itself demonstrates how painfully wrong she was. A small, depleted Qunari force takes control of the city in a matter of hours. No fight, no war, with the Qunari is ever going to be easy – and one that started in Kirkwall would almost certainly result in the loss of the city. It turns out that the Qunari were easy prey for her before this because they didn't want to fight.


And that shreds her other argument. She has been depicting them as unthinking savages. Terrifying in their brutality, yes, but so inherently less than Chantry folk (specifically humans), that they cannot help but lose. But the truth is that they have thought about this. The Arishok has been trying to avoid bloodshed. The Qunari troops have resisted provocation to a heroic degree. The Qun is what it is, and certainly no better than the Chantry. But the Qunari – the horned people who make up the majority of its adherents – are not monsters, just people like any other. Big, strong people who could have wreaked havoc a hell of a lot earlier, had they not been trying to keep the peace.


It’s easy to make people afraid, particularly if you’re willing to lie and kill to do it. But if that’s all you’ve got to work with, you’re pretty well screwed. And, well, there you go. Terrorism. Inspiring fear in order to achieve political ends. That’s Act 2′s story.

ronanlyncx  asked:

u want promps and im a slut for angst so... andreil arguing?

hoo boy ok this is on my phone so bear with me the keypad is small.


“Don’t you fucking dare walk out that door.”

Neil was livid and then he was mad on top of that because Neil didn’t get mad. A name that Neil had long left in the past got mad, and this anger, this outrage, was a cold reminder that Neil was a fase front. A ruse, no matter how legal, was still a ruse when it boiled down to it, and when it boiled down to it Neil was livid.

Because someone had to care, even if it was a negative emotion.

“Why? Because I told you I would stop running?” Neil asked, turning halfway to face Andrew, hand still gripped on the door.

Andrew stood, feet shoulder length apart; casual. His arms hung limply by his sides, they were not locked with tension. Neil didn’t expect him to lock him in an embrace, but he sort of expected him to put up more of a fight.

“You don’t leave when things get hard, Neil. That’s the whole point of life, it being hard. You don’t just get to run off to Matt when you need to be coddled.”

Like a light to a fuse, Neil lit up in the night.

“Don’t fucking bring Matthew into this. This is between you and me. It’s our problem. You want me to stay? Fine, I’ll fucking stay,” Neil said, slamming the door, “But don’t you dare tell me how to be when you’re doing the exact same thing.”

“I’m standing right here. I never left. And I sure as fuck didn’t slam the door at ass o'clock in the morning, waking half of the complex no doubt,” Andrew bit out.

“Don’t pretend you give a fuck about them and don’t deflect because it won’t get you out of this talk. You wanted me to stay, I’ll stay, but we’re doing this now.”

Andrew didn’t flinch, but to Neil it was like he had physically recoiled. Neil deflated.

“Andrew,” Neil started, much gentler than he was mere moments ago, “This is going to be hard okay? We’re a this as much as you want to ignore that and I respect that boundary and I respect you. I apparently haven’t gotten over my temper and I got carried away. I apologize for yelling at you and acting like I couldn’t have a rational conversation.” The ‘even though you’re being a stubborn ass’ was silent, but Andrew read it in his posture.

He refused to speak, so Neil continued, “I don’t get to yell at you when I’m frustrated; fact. You don’t get to leave me for my own good; fact. The Moriyamas upped the price of my debt to them and it’s a debt I’ll always owe. Now, it’s fair if you want to leave, but you’re not doing it for me.”

“Don’t be simple. We need to come up with a plan.”

“Plan?”

“This is where the knight in shining armor,” Andrew pointed to himself, “saves the damsel in distress by slaying the dragon.” He shot Neil finger guns indicating that Neil was the damsel.

“Is this where I say I’m a damsel. I’m in distress. Have a nice day?”

Andrew rolled his eyes and stalked toward the table where the letter was sitting, written on heavy parchment.

“You can tell me I’m cute.”

“You can work on your anger and learn to speak rationally even when you want to be mad,” Andrew said, barely paying Neil any attention.

“About that…” Neil trailed off causing Andrew to look up. “I was thinking, if we were going to do this for real–domestic partnership–I think I would like to start meeting with a therapist biweekly.”

“Who are you and where’s Neil? I’ve seen Neighborhood Watch, I know how to kill you.”

“There are things I remember about Nathan—no let me finish, there are things I remember and I don’t know how much of it’s nature and how much is nurture, you’re the one who took the psychology classes in college,I just quizzed you, but I want to be all in with you.”

“I’ll never marry you.”

Neil laughed. “I wasn’t aware I asked, you egotistical maniac. I love you.”

“Yeah well, someone has to.”

Everglow ~Jerome x Reader~

//Well here it is, how I went with what the request was. It ended up being longer than I anticipated, but I hope y’all like it.

Warnings: The beginning might be sad, but it has a fluffy+happy ending. Death, murder, mild swearing.

Need to know: This is insinuated, but not completely said in the story: Y/n was really close friends with Jerome, and a member of the Maniax. Also, it sort of starts right when Jerome is murdered?

Title: Everglow

Rating: Mid-Fluff. //

Oh they say people come, say people go
This particular diamond was extra special
And though you might be gone, and the world may not know
Still I see you, celestial


Y/n’s mouth drops open as an agony filled scream claws its way out of her throat, rising over everyone else’s. She pushes herself out from behind the curtain where Jerome had told her to stay and she crashes to the ground next to him. She places her hands on either side of his face as his eyes meet hers, a disturbing, gurgling laugh bubbling from the back of his throat. Blood pools out of his mouth, trickling down the side of his face. Jerome’s eyes glisten, wider than they had ever been. His mouth closes, and opens, his lips trying to form words that he can barely manage to make audible.

“Y…y/n.” She shakes her head quickly, tears filling her eyes. He had already wasted enough of his energy.

“Jerome, no.” When his gaze meets Theo’s, who stands above him, y/n’s heart breaks even more. In his eyes is pure pain and betrayal. His eyes become moist with unfallen tears as he coughs softly. Theo shakes his head.

I’m sorry Jerome,” he mouths.

“You…you said….” Jerome’s mouth closes as more blood falls out, and he swallows roughly, only to choke weakly on his blood. “…you said….I was going….to be a …s…t…ar…” It only takes a few seconds for his head to fall back, his mouth tilted up in a smile, his eyes open wide. His beautiful green-blue eyes glaze over as the life leaves his body, his last breath coming out in a soft, weak, wheezy laugh.

A single tear falls from y/n’s eyes as Barbara moves over quickly, pulling her up.

“You bastard!” Y/n shouts, pointing at Theo. “You sick bastard, you killed him!” Barbara drags her backwards as her gaze meets with Theo’s. “I’m going to kill you, I’m going to make you suffer, you piece of-” her shouts are silenced by the shouting of the crowd. Y/n’s gaze meets Bruce’s and she laughs. For the longest time as Barbara is pulling her out of the building, her loud, maniac laughter silences everyone. Everyone freezes as the unstable laughter echoes through the room.

Even after Barbara put’s y/n into the car that Tabitha had waiting, she still laughs. Yet her laughter is softer now, raspier. Tabitha glances in the rearview mirror to look at y/n.

“She okay?” She asks, glancing at Barbara. Barbara shakes her head.

“Theo killed Jerome…he killed him, Tabs.” Tabitha tilts her head, slamming her foot down on the gas.

Y/n’s laughter continues, but it slowly turns into sobs, which grow louder and louder. She covers her face with her hands, her whole body shaking as she cries.

“That…son of a…I’m going to kill him…he,” she hiccups, and inhales shakily. “He killed Jerome.”


Like a lion you ran, a goddess you rolled
Like an eagle you circled, in perfect purple
So how come things move on, how come cars don’t slow
When it feels like the end of my world
When I should but I can’t let you go?

Y/n shuts her eyes tightly while Barbara holds her gently, stroking her hair. She still shakes as she sobs, unable to control herself.

“He took him away,” she cries. “Theo betrayed him-he-he killed him, he killed Jerome.” Tabitha sits down next to her, not knowing what to do.

“You’re going to be okay,” she starts. “You’ll get over thi-” Before Tabitha can even finish her sentence, y/n’s head snaps over to her, her gaze meeting Tabitha’s quickly.

“How could you say that?” She shouts through her sobs. “You have no right to say that! You don’t know what it’s like! I’m not going to get over this! How am I supposed to? How am I just supposed to let him go!?” Both of them are stunned by y/n’s rage, and Barbara attempts to pull her back into a hug, glaring slightly at Tabitha. She gets off of the couch and turns to face them. “How can I just let him go!? I loved him, I loved him!” Tabitha and Barbara stare at her, their hearts breaking when they see the pain on her face.

“Did you just…” Barbara stops Tabitha before she can continue as Y/n’s expression morphs from pain to desperation and realization.

“I…I didn’t just say that!” She shouts helplessly, backing away from Barbara’s offer of a hug. “I didn’t love him-I didn’t say that…” Her voice trails off as she inhales deeply.

“Y/n, it’s okay if you-”

“I don’t! Okay? I don’t.” Y/n whispers, wrapping her arms around herself. “I didn’t and I don’t, and I won’t ever.” She covers her face and sighs, composing herself before letting her arms fall down to her side, plastering a wide smile over her pained expression.

“Y/n…” Barbara says, tilting her head in concern.

“I’m fine.” She says, turning around. “I’m just tired, I’m going to go to sleep.”

“Y/n, you can’t just ignore what you said-what happened.” Barbara says softly, causing y/n to freeze.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says coldly.

“You said you loved him.” Tabitha says.

“No, I didn’t,” y/n’s words are not only trying to convince them, but herself too.

“Why are you denying it? We can talk to you y/n. We can help y-”

“Because! Because as long as I never cared about him I can’t miss him! As long as he wasn’t important to me, I won’t cry over him! I won’t feel like this anymore! I can’t feel like this! I won’t let myself, I won’t let myself be like this! So, pathetic and so weak!” Y/n shouts, her eyes filling to the brim with tears. She inhales deeply. “Now I’m going to go to sleep.” She whispers, turning around. “And in the morning, we won’t mention this.” Y/n moves into the bedroom quickly, slamming the door shut and locking it behind her.


But when I’m cold, cold
Oh when I’m cold, cold
There’s a light that you give me when I’m in shadow
There’s a feeling you give me, an Everglow
Like brothers in blood, sisters who ride
And we swore on that night we’d be friends til we die
But the changing of winds, and the way waters flow

 

She lays down on her bed, grabbing her phone and opening the photos. She scrolls up until she comes across the picture of Jerome she’d taken when he wasn’t paying attention. A cold, heavy weight settles down on her chest as she stares at the picture. It doesn’t take long for her vision to be distorted by the tears filling her eyes and she swipes them away absent mindedly, a small, sad smile appearing on her face. Her breathing slows as she stares at his face, his hair wild as he had just come back from the rooftop. It had been the day they made their mark on Gotham, the Maniax. It all seemed so unreal, so wrong that he was dead. Y/n almost couldn’t believe it. A part of her was convinced that Theo would walk through these doors anytime, Jerome in tow, no one dead. She was convinced he would hug her, tell her it was all a joke, tell her it was a trick. That it wasn’t real, that he was fine.

That he loved her.

Y/n pushes the thought out of her head as she begins to scroll through her photos.

A small pang shoots through her heart as she comes across a picture that they’d taken together, only hours before his death.


Life as short as the falling of snow
And now I’m gonna miss you I know
But when I’m cold, cold
In water rolled, salt
I know that you’re with me and the way you will show
And you’re with me wherever I go
And you give me this feeling this Everglow


(Time skip to Jerome’s resurrection)

When Barbara and Tabitha finished telling y/n about the Cult’s plan of bringing Jerome back to life, her reaction was duller than they had expected. She simply cocked an eyebrow, a weariness appearing in her eyes at the mention of his name. Barbara had hoped for the light to return to y/n’s eyes when they had told her this. She frowns at y/n.

“Aren’t you excited? Jerome’s going to be back.” Barbara says, giving y/n a huge smile. Y/n stares up at her and replies with a small shrug.

“You’d thought he would come back when Theo did. He didn’t. What makes you think it’s going to be different now? The cult is saying they’ll bring him back, but they can’t do shit. He’s not coming back, and I need to accept that.” Her voice is dull and scratchy, as if she had just recently been crying.

“Y/n, they are bringing him back. Trust me, I know it. They seemed very serious about this. Please, just trust me. Just have hope.”

 

Oh I
What I wouldn’t give for just a moment to hold
Yeah I live for this feeling this Everglow

 

“Barbara, turn on the news, hurry!” Tabitha shouts, running out from the next room. Barbara motions to the TV.

“See, that’s probably him rig-” Before she can finish her sentence, y/n turs the television on, a audible gasp escaping her lips when her gaze focuses on the screen.

Testing, testing……..am I alive? Am I on air? Can you hear me- ah, screw it let’s do it. Hi. Some of you may know, I died. Oh, take it from me. Death. Is. Dull.” Y/n jumps up, her heart racing.

“J-Jerome, it’s-”

“But coming back….that is something. Leave it to dying to give you a whooole new perspective on life. And I would like to share that with you. Ah, hello officer, you look terrible? Hey you got, huh-ah. Tonight, Gotham, in the darkness, there are no rules. So, tonight Gotham, do what you want, kill who you wan- ah, augh. And when morning comes, you too shall be…reborn.” Jerome’s demented, hoarse laughter fills y/n’s ears as he lights a fuse, walking over to the man he has tied to a chair. “Oh, and uh….”

“Dwight,” the man supplies him with his name.

“I don’t forgive you for my face.” His laughter fills the room, still being able to be heard as he walks out of the room. A slight pain fills y/n’s heart when he’s gone, but his face is burned into her memory. Staples lined his face, as if it had been put back on, which she can only assume the man tied to the chair had something to do with.

Before Barbara, Tabitha, or Y/n can say anything, the lights turn out. Not just there’s; all the lights.

And once again, y/n is left in complete darkness.


So if you love someone, you should let them know
Oh the light that you left me will Everglow

 

It didn’t take long for them to figure out where Jerome was. It was the only place lite up; a large, twisted circus. Y/n had gone alone, and even as she entered the circus she didn’t regret it. She ran head first, passing all the maniacs, all the murders that surrounded her. Apparently, he had more of a following then they thought.

Jerome!” She shouts his name as she runs, her tears obscuring her vision. “Jerome!” Y/n’s voice cracks as she chokes, trying to hold back her sobs. She doesn’t get far before something trips her, causing her to fall face first into the dirt. She tries to get up, but someone pins her down. “Let me go! Let me go you bastard!” She shouts, struggling to move forward, only making it a few inches before she’s forced onto her back, a blade touching her neck and just barely breaking skin. A warm drop of blood trickles down her neck, and she closes her eyes, flashes of Jerome’s death playing through her mind. “Please-” Whatever y/n was going to say is cut off by her attackers screams, and a loud thud. Her eyes open instantly, and she sees Jerome pinning the man down, staring at him with wide eyes, a dagger stuck in the man’s stomach.

“Look at me,” Jerome croaks, yanking the blade out only to shove it back in. “I want to see you die,” He hisses. “I want to see your eyes, you realizing what a mistake you made.” He leans in close, his gaze slipping over to you as his smile widens cruelly. “She’s mine, and no one hurts what’s mine.” With that, the man dies. Or maybe he was already dead. Y/n wasn’t paying attention to him, her gaze was laser-focused on Jerome. He stands up, brushing himself off with one hand and then pretending to smooth his hair down as he walks over to y/n, pulling her up to her feet and placing one of his gloved hands on her face. His eyes stare into hers as a look of wonder crosses his face. “I remember you, y/n. You were the first thing I remembered…” He leans in closer, placing his other hand firmly on her back and pulling her too him. “I remember not being able to say everything I wanted- I remember not trying…I’m never going to do that again,” he murmurs, his lips now only inches from hers. “I love you y/n. I’m never going to leave you again, and you’re not going to be leaving me anytime soon…right?”

“I-I won’t. I can’t believe you’re alive, Jerome-” His permanent smile widens.

“Shh, y/n. Not now. Right now, I just… I just want to,” his voice stops abruptly as he kisses y/n roughly, his eyes closing instantly. Jerome breaks the kiss quickly though, causing y/n to sigh softly. “I just wanna be with you.” He finishes. A blissful look crosses his face as he tilts his head. “And now, after a year…after a year of nothing but darkness and loneliness, I have you back.”

5

Some different angles of Baby2

All that is left to do before SeaCon is put little touch up paint on the body, attach the the seat belts in the back seat, replace the steering shift knob, fix the fuse to light up the instrument panel, and then win the lottery so I can have the rust removed, body damage repaired and get her completely painted!!! ;D lol TBA

But at least she is safe to drive and ready to go!

brenobac  asked:

Hey PQ! What's your interpretation of Jon's dream in the very begging of Jon XII in ADWD?

That night he dreamt of wildlings howling from the woods, advancing to the moan of warhorns and the roll of drums. Boom DOOM boom DOOM boom DOOM came the sound, a thousand hearts with a single beat. Some had spears and some had bows and some had axes. Others rode on chariots made of bones, drawn by teams of dogs as big as ponies. Giants lumbered amongst them, forty feet tall, with mauls the size of oak trees.

“Stand fast,” Jon Snow called. “Throw them back.” He stood atop the Wall, alone. “Flame,” he cried, “feed them flame,” but there was no one to pay heed.

They are all gone. They have abandoned me.

Burning shafts hissed upward, trailing tongues of fire. Scarecrow brothers tumbled down, black cloaks ablaze. “Snow,” an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall he sent them down to die again. He slew a greybeard and a beardless boy, a giant, a gaunt man with filed teeth, a girl with thick red hair. Too late he recognized Ygritte. She was gone as quick as she’d appeared.

The world dissolved into a red mist. Jon stabbed and slashed and cut. He hacked down Donal Noye and gutted Deaf Dick Follard. Qhorin Halfhand stumbled to his knees, trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood from his neck. “I am the Lord of Winterfell,” Jon screamed. It was Robb before him now, his hair wet with melting snow. Longclaw took his head off. Then a gnarled hand seized Jon roughly by the shoulder. He whirled…

… and woke with a raven pecking at his chest. “Snow,” the bird cried. Jon swatted at it. The raven shrieked its displeasure and flapped up to a bedpost to glare down balefully at him through the predawn gloom.

I think that this dream reflects how multiple narratives, a range of hopes and fears, are merging in Jon’s head. On one level, this is a dream about Jon fighting the Others; hence the “foemen scuttl[ing] up the ice like spiders” and Jon wielding Lightbringer against them. On another level, this is a dream about Jon’s worries that his peace process (launched in the name of precisely that mutual defense against the Others) will fail; hence Jon’s brothers running away as the wildlings attack again. On yet another level, this is a dream about Jon’s inner conflicts over identity and guilt that run underneath the big-picture movements of war and peace; hence him killing Ygritte (before realizing it’s her), the Halfhand (again), and Robb (while declaring himself the Lord of Winterfell, tying this dream back into his flashback in ASOS when he was wrestling with Stannis’ offer). 

In other words, this dream is about the many identities of Jon Snow–Azor Ahai (potentially), Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Ygritte’s lover, and a son of Winterfell–and his difficulty in reconciling them. When the birds cry “Snow,” who is the man they’re talking to and about? And for me, what makes it work so well in the context of Jon’s story is what happens in his next chapter: 

Jon flexed the fingers of his sword hand. The Night’s Watch takes no part. He closed his fist and opened it again. What you propose is nothing less than treason. He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon’s breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell…I want my bride back…I want my bride back…I want my bride back…

“I think we had best change the plan,” Jon Snow said.

Same basic structure, right? All the different elements that make Jon who he is, put in conflict with one another. So Jon’s reaction to the Pink Letter (both extremely relatable and devastatingly foolish) can be seen as an externalization of the internal struggle reflected in his earlier dream. Jon XII shows you the dynamite, and Jon XIII lights the fuse. When people say that Jon is too tropey, I think (part of) what they’re missing is that his characterization actually takes several different tropes and makes them fight. IMO the resulting drama is some of the best character work in the series. 

anonymous asked:

Could we please get junkrat getting jealous of Mercy because reader keeps going to see her. Turns out reader is going for check ups as they are now pregnant by junkrat. Reader revels to him at the end its twins.

Thanks for the request!  I love writing for Junkrat, my trash son.


Word count: 2080


Twice now you had done it.  Two times in which you told your boyfriend that you couldn’t be with him because you had to go see Dr. Zeigler.  And those were just the times you had a planned appointment, and not including the five times you were sick and gone to see her.  At first he was worried something was gravely wrong with you–because why else would you be throwing up throughout the day without giving him a reason?  No, he knew you must have just wanted to spend time with the kind doctor.

“What’cha think she’s doin’ Roadie?” he asked.  He sat hunched over a table, chin resting on the metal as he poked at a bomb with one finger.  

“Her business,” came the rumbled reply.  He was reading a book beside the smaller Junker, mask on and turning pages quickly despite his narrow field of vision.

A whine escaped between Jamison’s teeth that turned into a loud groan.  In a quick motion he flicked a match up and lit the end of the bomb’s fuse.  He laughed as he watched it burn down until Roadhog reached over, never looking away from his book, and put the fuse out with his thumb and index finger.  Another whine came from Jamison.  

“What’s going on in here?” came your voice as you walked into the room.  You were a little paler than normal, but you smiled.  Jamison eyed you, knowing you had just been to see the doctor and questioning why you were smiling.  Normally you only smiled for him like that, but lately it had been after your visits.  He let his tongue slid over his teeth, arms crossed.  

Your eyes fell from his pouting lips to the small round bomb on the table.  “Jami, you know you can’t set things off in here.  Just go to the blasting range if you want; that’s what it’s there for.”  You came around the table and gave him a kiss on the cheek, thinking his pout was because of the bomb and nothing more.  “We can go now if you want?”

He jumped at the idea, grinning wide.  Grabbing your hand he practically dragged you to the blasting range outside, scarred with black marks and holes in every corner of the concrete.  The wide area had been added in especially for Jami, after he set a few too many fires inside and even Roadhog had trouble keeping him under control during the long periods without a mission.  You noticed someone had set up a few targets, most likely Roadhog, with omnic faces painted on them.

A box of frag grenades sat on a plastic table, along with a few other various explosives.    You each fell into your usual rhythm, where you would light the match and fuse, and then he would throw the bomb out–sometimes it hit the target, sometimes it would “accidentally” go closer to the buildings.  But with you there he normally behaved, and would watch you as much as he would watch the explosions.  Today though, he didn’t feel like doing either.  Today, he wanted to do something very different.

As you flicked the match and watched the yellow flame ignite, you held it out to Jami with a smile.  As much as he loved to see your smile he gave you a pout and held up the bomb from earlier, watching it light the fuse.  You waited for him to throw it at the first target, a large omnic head painted on, but he didn’t.

“Jami?” you asked, suddenly worried.  There wasn’t much time before the fuse ran out.

“I’m not sure I feel like usin’ the targets, darl,” he said.  “Why not blow something real up for once?”

“Jami you know–”

Before you could finish your thought, let alone your sentence, Jami tossed the bomb over his shoulder.  It bounced twice before landing in a potted plant nearby, too close for your comfort.  Your hand went to your stomach instinctively as the pot exploded, showering you both with dirt and the burning leaves of whatever was in there.

When Jami heard you shout though, he realized what he was doing.  He didn’t think much about others getting hurt, not until he met you.  And while there had been some mishaps, some minor scratches and bruises from you diving for cover, nothing he’d done had ever required you to scream or worse, require a doctor.  But when he heard you cry out, and saw you duck, and pieces of the pot flew in your direction he felt as if his heart had stopped.

Jami quickly pulled you to the ground and covered your body with his, wrapping all around you.  Sharp edges of the pot sunk into his skin, some small and some not so much.  They tore into muscle, drawing blood quickly.  He barely felt it at all, his body pumped full of adrenaline as he tried his best to protect you.  When he knew the shrapnel was finished, and the world was quiet with settled dirt, he lifted back slightly to look at you.

“Oh, I’m so sorry babe,” he stated, tears springing to his eyes, “I didn’t mean that.  I’m sorry, I just don’t think.  You know me, I just can’t think sometimes.”  He swatted his head with his metal hand twice before you grabbed it.

“Jami,” you breathed, “it’s fine.  I’m fine, are you?”

“No, no, no,” he mumbled, “not fine.  Ya keep leavin’ me, I don’t like it.  Can’t think straight without you.”

Jami stood, holding his hands out for you to help you up.  Your eyes fell on the blood on his shoulder, a thick piece of clay pot sticking out of it.  You said, “We can talk about that after you go see Angela.”

Jami couldn’t stop the groan crawl out of the back of his throat.  When his nose crinkled you didn’t give him time to try and stop.  So you kept hold of him and walked him to see Angela, your legs still shaky after the explosion.  When you arrived she didn’t seem shocked to see you again.  

“Was the medicine not enough, Y/N?  Still nauseous?” she asked.

All you had to do was turn Jami around for her to understand.  He’d gone to see her plenty of times for stitches and various remedies, but he never had such a scowl on his face.  When you mentioned that you were there when it happened she immediately handed Jami off to a nurse to be patched up and attended to you.  The perks of being friends with the doctor.

Jami wanted you to stay with him, if only to keep you away from Angela.  You almost went with him until Angela insisted on a quick checkup after the scare.  

Only when the debris was taken out of his back and shoulders did he get to see you again.  But when the nurse pulled the curtain around your bed back, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

You lay on the bed, shirt up and tapping your fingers along the bed rail, staring at a photo in your other hand.  You appeared nervous, he thought, and your stomach shone with some kind of gel on it.

“What’s this?” he asked.  Had he really hurt you?  He felt his eyes water at the very idea of it.  Before he could start to pull at his hair and whine Angela turned to him and said, “She is fine.  Just wanted to be safe since…”  Her eyes fell on you.

“Since?” Jami prodded.  His heart nearly stopped again with those words.

“Jami,” you said slowly, “I wanted to wait a bit to tell you this…just to…make sure everything was okay.”

He moved closer to you, quickly grabbing onto your hand with his human one, and holding your arm with his other.  “You’re killin’ me here, darl.  What is it, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I just wanted to do something with you.”  You nodded at Angela, who then placed the ultrasound probe on your belly.  Jami watched, eyes wide and eager as he tried to understand what was happening.

Soon an image flicked onto the nearby screen that Dr. Zeigler was staring at with a smile, recognizing something there.  You smiled too, but you kept your eyes on Jami.  Eventually you could both hear tiny beats, the steady pumping of a little heart.

“Ya…” he said.  His eyes focused on the black and white shape on the screen, the blurry image hard to make out.  But Jami was a smart man, and while you hadn’t thought he’d ever seen an ultrasound before you knew he would find this out on his own.  “Ya pregnant?”  He looked at you, mouth agape.  “With mine?”

You laughed and pushed the photo at him.  “Yes, with yours!”  Releasing you from his grip he stared down at the photo Angela had given you earlier that day, and then back at the screen.  The heartbeats could still be heard, and Jami seemed to stall.

“Sounds like he’s got a fast heart,” he finally said.  He kept looking between the screen and the photo.

“They’re perfectly healthy,” you replied, “both of them.”

Jami blinked at you.  “Both?”

You smiled, tears coming to your eyes partly because you weren’t sure if Jami’s reaction was a happy one, and partly because you were hearing your baby’s heartbeats for the first time.  “Yeah, twins.  I wanted to wait until you knew to hear them for the first time.”

Expression still shocked, you couldn’t read him.  Angela remained quiet.  A tear began to slide down your cheek, thinking he wasn’t happy.

“Imma be a father,” he whispered.  “Imma be someone’s daddy?”  Neither you nor Angela had anytime to say a word as he shouted, “Imma be someone’s daddy!”  He laughed loudly, nearly crushing the photo in his hands.

You let out a breath, seeing the huge smile on his face.  You added, “Two someone’s.”

“Two,” he breathed.  When he noticed the tears falling down your cheeks he leaned over and kissed you, wiping at your cheeks with his thumbs.  The kiss was long, somewhat breathtaking as you tried not to cry any more.  It must have lasted longer than you thought because you two only stopped when Angela cleared her throat.  Jami was slower to pull away.

“How far along are ya?”

“About three months,” you answered.

He looked to your stomach.  “Can’t tell at all, love.”

Dr. Zeigler handed you a cloth to wipe away the gel on your belly, and once it was gone you were about to pull your shirt down when Jami’s hand touched you gently.  His hand was hot, and a little sweaty, but he touched you as if you were glass.  You weren’t sure he had ever been so gentle with you.  His thumb stroked over your skin as he lowered himself down to eye level with your stomach.

“Two,” he whispered, “two little babies in there.”

“No more blasting range for you,” Angela said, giving you a frown.  “You will need as much rest and calm as you can get.  Twins can be complicated, you know.”  She turned her attention to Jami when you nodded.  “You need to take care of her, Jamison.”

“Absolutely, doc,” Jami replied, his hand still on your stomach.  He looked up at you.  “Whatever ya need, I got it.”  He let out a fit of giggles.  “Roadie’s gonna be so excited!”

You and Angela exchange a glance.  You said, “I’m sure he’ll be…something.”

You weren’t sure how Roadhog would feel having two little Jami’s running around, but you didn’t care; all that mattered was Jami’s own excitement.

BONUS (because it popped into my head)

“Roadie, buddy!” Jami said as you and he walked hand in hand into their workspace.  “We got news.  We’re having kids!  Two!  There are two little babies growing in Y/N!”

Roadhog looked up from his book, his expression nearly blank with the mask on but you could see his eyes widen.

“You’re having two kids?” he questioned.  The longest sentence you’d ever heard him say.  

“Yeah, twins!  Inn’it great?”

Slowly, Roadhog shut his book and set it on the table.  He stood and walked towards you both before saying, “I quit.”

Happy Easter: Happy Hunting

* Hamilsquad x Reader
* Modern
* Easter Fic

    A/N: Happy Easter! Here’s a short little Easter fic, a bit early. (at least for me) So, here’s this. I can’t promise what’s next or when but I have started on the Jefferson time travel fic…

    Word Count: 2,385

    ~~

    It wasn’t that you hated Easter, you just never had a good Easter memory. Nothing that stood out. All the boys could recount some funny story they had. Alexander didn’t understand why his first foster family insisted he walk around the house searching for plastic eggs. The year John’s sister hid an egg that he didn’t find until dark even though it was in a really obvious place. Lafayette’s first Easter with the Washington’s as a child when he wanted to hide the eggs but hid raw, unboiled eggs. The year Hercules failed to find an egg…until late summer.

    You had hunted eggs, had Easter dinner, been dragged to church, had a lunch with all your family, and gotten chocolate bunnies. You had a few fun memories with the guys but they fell under the same batch of average memories. Still, you planned to have a good time this Easter. You went shopping and ended up in the Easter section. You studied the plastic eggs and decided to buy a dozen for each of the guys and hide them on Easter.

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    anonymous asked:

    Autistic people are often framed as having only a singular, heavily involved "special interest", or perhaps 2 or 3, to the absolute exclusion of anything else. While I know this is likely true for some, I can't imagine that every autistic person ever doesn't have multiple hobbies or interests pursued with varying degrees of engagement. The sense I get from the NT-written things I've encountered make autistic folk seem very one-dimensional. I'd like some help clearing this up, please!

    This is one of those topics that hasn’t really been researched, as far as I can tell, so I’ll be sticking to my usual method of speaking for myself and inviting autistic followers to add their thoughts. I can in no way claim to speak for everyone, but am happy to share my perspective.

    First off, let me explain how a special interest works for me with a simple metaphor: falling in love. When I first come across a new special interest, its eyes sparkle at me from across the room. I get a tiny taste of it, a fragment of information or a glimpse of a picture, and a spark flies, and a fuse lights, and a bomb of euphoria goes off in my head. This thing, this thing right here, is quite clearly the most amazing, important thing I’ve ever come across. This thing is frigging incredible, the best thing that’s ever happened, and the world needs to know.

    I become obsessed. I gobble up information wherever I can find it. I learn everything there is to know as quickly as I possibly can. I become an expert on this thing in a remarkably short amount of time. This is LOVE, man. Well, more accurately, this is infatuation. Puppy love. That drug-like rush of chemicals in your brain when you feel you’ve found THE ONE. I talk about it constantly, much to the annoyance of those around me who just don’t quite understand why this thing, this one thing, is so amazingly great that I need to rant about it to the exclusion of everything else in the world. (Especially since they’ve heard it all before.) Just talking about it gives me a rush of euphoria. Sometimes I can see that those around me aren’t interested, but I just can’t stop. The words pour out of me, the excitement radiates off of me, I can’t be ignored, can’t be interrupted. This is like nothing that has ever happened before! Surely, if I can explain it well enough, everyone else will see, too, right? Right?

    If you’ve never been in this kind of love, you might not have learned this lesson yet, but here it comes, folks: that kind of love doesn’t last. That euphoric high that results when your brain decides to take a bath in happy chemicals - it’s just physically impossible to sustain it. Eventually, the high, the firey passion, wears off. For me, this usually takes about a year. I’ve read and watched and learned everything I can about this thing. It’s been the center point of my life for a long time, the thing that gets me out of bed in the morning. And one day, suddenly, it just… doesn’t hold the same appeal. It’s not that I don’t love it anymore! I will always love it. But the love changes. It becomes the old, familiar love that comes with time. You don’t get that high from being together anymore, but that doesn’t mean you don’t enjoy each other’s company. You no longer try to persuade the world that this one is the one, is the best thing ever. You no longer need to. This love just settles into the back of your mind, always there, always a comfort, always ready to give you a hug when you need it.

    The expertise I’ve gained from all my intensive research, that stays. I will always know just about all there is to know about that thing (at least, all there was to know when I was researching it). I’ll always be able to call that knowledge to mind later on, when it’s useful. And I’ve developed quite the reputation for being a “know-it-all”. I always seem to have some random, obscure fact right on the tip of my tongue, and it’s usually debunking some common misconception that my friends would just as soon keep on having rather than feeling like they’re constantly under attack by that one girl who just HAS to know EVERYTHING.

    But it doesn’t feel that way for me. A key difference I’ve noted in communication between autistic and allistic people, and the source of a large percentage of our miscommunications in life, is this: allistic people communicate to bond emotionally and to establish and display power and dominance or submission. Autistic people communicate to share information. When I correct someone, it’s because I know that if I was wrong, I would want to be given the correct information, so I could stop being wrong. But when an allistic person is corrected like that, they take it as an attack on their status, a display of power, and a denial of their feelings. The “golden rule” doesn’t always work. It’s a constant problem.

    In any case, I have always been described as someone obsessive. Someone who finds one thing (although it’s often two, three, even four things at a time) and just obsessively learns everything about it and won’t shut up about it for months and months on end. And that really does seem to be true, in a sense. I have very extreme levels of interest. Either something is amazing and I need to know everything about it, or it just doesn’t catch my interest at all. There isn’t much in between.

    On the other hand, due to all the many special interests I’ve had over my more than three decades of life, I have built up quite a broad range of interests. I never lost any of them. All of those things still interest me now, and when someone brings one of them up in conversation, I still get a spark of the old obsessiveness deep inside. As a result, I now seem to have a wide range of interests, some of which I’m overtly obsessive about, and others which I keep on file, ready to pull out whenever they’re needed. When I was young, that probably wasn’t the case. It’s likely that I may have been viewed as somewhat one-dimensional as a child, obsessed with just a few things and completely uncaring about everything else. (And when my parents, trying to make me act “normal”, tried separating me from my special interests, the pain was as crushing as being forced to leave your True Love because the rest of the world doesn’t want you to be together - and only made my obsession stronger.)

    What I want you to understand is that I don’t see that as a negative thing in any way. An allistic person might see that narrow range of interests and think “oh the poor thing, it’s like she lives in a tiny world and is missing so much of life!” But from my perspective, it’s allistic people who are missing out. Allistic people never seem particularly interested in anything, not by my standards. From where I’m standing, it looks like allistics just drift through life, dabbling in a little of everything but never mastering anything, never finding any real interest, never getting any real, intense joy out of any of their hobbies. An allistic person might say to me, “Yeah, I do a little crocheting, but I’m not really that into it.” And in my mind, I’ll think… then why do it at all? How horribly unsatisfying must it be to go through your entire life, never falling in love with anything you do? Never feeling that euphoria that I get to experience over and over again every time I find a new interest?

    Autistic and allistic brains are specialized differently. Allistic brains are best at navigating social rules and structures and internalizing broad strokes and large categories. They look at a table for the first time and think: “That’s a table.” And that’s pretty much as far as they go. They might spend a few seconds to note the material or color or overall condition of the table, but that’s it. 

    Autistic brains are specialized in details. It means we have more information to process, all those details without any mechanism for discarding the ones that aren’t important, but it also means we get to see everything about something. I see that new table and I can get lost in tracing the patterns of the grain for hours on end. Sure, it takes me longer, but I get a lot more out of it, and I get a joy from that which allistic people just don’t seem to get.

    It’s similar with our interests. Allistics have broad interests, dipping their toe into the shallow ends of a thousand different pools but never really diving in. Autistics have narrow but intense interests. We absorb every detail, and in doing so experience an intense and wonderful euphoria. Honestly, sometimes I feel sorry for all the allistic people in the world who never get to experience that. The poor things… ;)

    -Mod Aira

    For me, I can have both special interests and normal-level interests. Just because I have stuff that I really really love and am passionate about doesn’t mean I can’t also have other interests, that I’m not quite as passionate about but that I like to dabble in from times to times or as a part of my routine. I do not feel however the urge or will to research them in more depth. There is joy that I can derive from it, but there is not the same “drive” to pursue it. I’d say that’s the main difference between a regular interest and what we call a special interest: a drive to learn about it, talk about it, read about it, build projects about it, engage with it, that is much stronger. So one person can have one or a few special interests, but I’d say it’s not always to the exclusion of everything else.

    I think the intensity of special interests, their “obsessiveness” and whether or not the person likes to engage with other subjects that their special interests depends a lot from one person to the next. My special interests sound less intense than what Aira is describing, and I may have more varied non-special interests. So really I’d say this is something that depends a lot from one person to the next.

    I also want to add that just because someone has a narrow range of interests doesn’t mean they’re one-dimensional: I’ve seen a special interest described as a lense through which you understand the world. The world is large, and even if you have only one such “lense”, that’s a lot of things to discover with that unique point of view.

    -Mod Cat

    Agustina de Aragón (1786-1857) was a heroine of the Spanish War of Independence, sometimes dubbed as the ‘Joan of Arc of Spain’. She was first a civilian, then became an officer in the Spanish Army.

    In 1808, during the First Siege of Zaragoza, she arrived on the ramparts to bring food to the soldiers, but ended up lighting the fuse to a cannon and annihilating a wave of attackers. She then became an officer, being promoted up to the rank of Captain. She is still a popular figure in Spanish art, culture, and mythology.

    Painting above by Juan Galvez.

    This Is How It Starts, Our Life Together | Act 1 | Various x MC

    Week 1 

    Thursday:  Act 1

    i.

    The trouble is Lord Mitsuhide doesn’t feel sensible around you. Not when you’re pouring his tea and leaning over him, the smell of fresh green leaves in spring tickling his nose. Why Lord Nobunaga would think this a good idea, he’ll never know, only that he’s now stuck between a rock and a hard place working in close proximity with you. A thrill courses through him, but that’s to be expected after five consecutive days together.

    “Milord, may I start collating these files?”

    When you both look up he feels himself slipping. His gaze sinks to the papers in his hands. He can’t let you know. He’s a gentleman. The perfect gentleman.

    “Of course. Thank you.”

    But he’s not privy to your thoughts, and if he could comprehend the state you’re in, he would drop those files and run out the door. Or drop those files and run to you. A buzzing under your skin races along your nerves, slithering and swirling through your system, to make an odd, tingling warmth in your stomach. Watching him melts your brain to soup.

    You want to slip your sandal off and trail your socked toes up and down his thigh, where his hands perch lazily atop, drumming absentmindedly. You want to slide your fingers under the crisp fabric of his kimono and run your fingers across the muscle and veins and feel the beating pulse under your thumb. But most of all, you want to drag his mouth down and kiss that soft, dissolute mouth senseless.

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    The two of you could not be more different. He paints himself benevolent as you watch cruelly through crosshairs and he shines with all the light you trap under a purple hoodie. You think you might love him, think he might love you back but you don’t know. You’ll burn that bridge when you find it.

    You follow him like a fallen angel, watch him cause he’s something gory but glorious and the only halo in sight is the sights of your sniper locked around a spray of blood. You think you love him something awful, a vicious love that can’t be sated. It’s quiet on the rooftops anyways, and he smiles upward, like your intervention was divine.

    He sits with you on other jobs, like everything is fine despite the torrential downpour smudging lines between the two of you, not quite touching but closer than ever. You think you love him, carve roses on your targets with your trigger finger, and when it’s done he presses kisses to your palms, to your filthy bloody hands, like he loves you back but you don’t say anything, cause quick is the fuse that lights itself on fire to go off, to self-immolate, to destroy.

    You imbed him into your chest like shrapnel, every word and smile and then you show him, like you’re telling a secret. You close your eyes as he reaches out to almost touch the fragments above your heart, scraping your lungs. He holds your hands, guides them to his chest where there’s a rose above his heart, where he’s pained crosshairs across his stomach, you blink open and he presses a kiss to you like postage. Pleading with no guarantee of response. The two of you tangle like fuses, like you could take down the city at will. Like the city could crumble and you wouldn’t care.

    You love this boy. He loves you back

    —  Benevolence-Halo-Downpour-Shrapnel
    {{ for @p-ercolating }}
    Firecracker

    Characters: Sam x Reader

    Words: 1455 (1129 without lyrics)

    Summary: Sam and the reader get stuck in the middle of no where as their car breaks down.

    This is my entry for @impalaimagining‘s 1K Follower’s Celebration! :) I got the song Firecrack by Josh Turner! Enjoy the fuff!

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    SIMPLE ELABORATE PLANS
    • England: China gave you a pill. Where is it?
    • America: I have the pill in the till.
    • England: Where is the wine for Germany?
    • America: It is here in this jug.
    • England: The pill contains a drug.
    • America: The pill in the till?
    • England: Take it and put it in there.
    • America: Put the drug in the jug?
    • France: *Comes in with some Gateau* We nearly forgot the most important thing.
    • America: Oh, my God! The Gateau from the Chateau!
    • England: What about the Gateau from the Chateau?
    • America: It contains a bomb!!!
    • England: A bomb in the Gateau from the Chateau???
    • America: It's to blow up Germany! You mustn't let anyone light that fuse.
    • England: But where is the fuse?
    • America: It is the candle with the handle.
    • England: You do not need to kill Germany, we have already arranged to kill Germany... Do you not see? That if we kill him with the pill from the till by making with it the drug in the jug, you need not light the candle with the handle on the Gateau from the Chateau!
    • America: Simple plots are always the best.
    "Opening" - RebelCaptain Prompt No 4 (One Bed)

    Read it on AO3 - http://archiveofourown.org/works/10082552

    It was hard for Jyn to not hear Saw Guerrera’s voice in her head as she peeled back the tightly tucked sheets of her latest assigned bunk in one of the Alliance’s more obscure outposts. Sliding her bare legs beneath the cool fabric, knowing that she could sleep for hours without fear and no need for a knife under her pillow, felt absolutely decadent. The little room had one decent bed, a tiny ‘fresher, and a door that locked, and for Jyn that screamed luxury.

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