He had his own blaster out and fired a cluster of tight shots above her head. Jyn could only guess one of the rebels had been aiming the explosive her way. Cassian had shot one of Saw’s rebels to save her life.
“Tell that to the one who killed our men.” Jyn looked to Cassian. In her mind’s eye, she saw him fire his blaster in the plaza, felt the grenade explode over her head. She remembered the cold, guiltless sensation that had passed over her then; shame found her now, gripped her heart, and she tore through it with anger.
Julia: I don’t think that you have ownership of horror of this crime.
Owen: Can I just say, I find this, I find this astonishing.
Julia: I’m not Jewish and I’m not gay, I’m not French, but I still am equally horrified by these crimes.
Owen: This was a – I’m being yelled at, which is incredible.
Julia: Stop talking so [we hadn’t do].
Mark: That’s the headline: ‘Isil wages war on gays in west’. Now you share that view, that basically this was deliberately targeted on one part of the community rather than the freedom to enjoy yourself no matter what your sexual orientation is.
Owen: What are you talking about?!?
Mark: I’m talking about the coverage in the newspapers.
Owen: It’s not some abstract, kind of, he just picked a random club out of nowhere. He picked a club because it was full of people he regarded as deviants. That’s why he attacked the club.
Julia: It’s a hate crime, this is an act of terrorism, it was an attack on gay people, absolutely, it was horrific. However, my mind guesses this man probably would be as horrified by me as a gobby woman as he would – genuinely, genuinely – this is the thing. We don’t know right now. We can speculate, but we don’t know how much of this is motivated by just his homophobia.
Owen: We heard from his own father about his revulsion – why are we trying to deflect? Why are you both pick-
Mark: We are not trying to deflect. We are trying to reflect what is being said by the authorities here and –
Owen: Can I ask, what argument are you trying to pick here?
Mark: I’m now going to quote from what The Telegraph is saying…’his father said…[he] may have targeted the gay community after becoming angry when he saw two men–’
Owen: ‘May have’? He did! Why are you saying this?
Julia: ‘After seeing two men kissing in Miami some months ago’ – he may have been angered by many other things since then!
Owen: I’m sorry. I just find this the most astonishing thing I’ve ever been involved with on television. If he’d walked into a synagogue, and massacred dozens of Jewish people, you wouldn’t be saying what you’re saying now.
Owen: This bizarre attempt to deflect from this –
Mark: We are trying to draw parallels in terrorist attacks on people who are being attacked whether they are enjoying rock music in Paris, whether they are gay people in Florida enjoying a night out.
Julia: I completely accept it, as [Mark] does, that it was a homophobic attack, but for me the issue is there are going to be homophobic people, there’ll be people who hate black people, or who hate gay people, or hate Jewish people. There are going to be people, who are lunatics, who are fanatics –
Owen: Who are “lunatics”! Stop using these words, Julia!
Julia: Is it possible for me to finish one sentence?
Owen: If you stop using words like “lunatic” to talk about homophobic terrorist attacks!
Julia: Well thank you. Whoever these people are, and whatever their motivations are, the key thing is we’re always going to have mad and bad people in the world.
Owen: Mad and bad people. Okay.
Julia: And the key issue is, that they can’t do too much or any harm. When you have free access to assault weapons in a country like America, then they’re able to put their hatred of other people –
Owen: Yes! Obviously!
Julia: – into effect, and do damage. That’s the issue for me.
(discussion between Mark and Julia on gun control and the U.S. …Julia: It is absolutely absurd, if America were not going to do something about gun control after Sandy Hook in 2012, if you’re going to watch six- and seven-year-olds being massacred and you don’t think you need to act, they are never going to act.)
Mark: There’s something else here in The Telegraph coverage, which I think we need to bring up, Owen, in relation to your point. And that is, I think that we’ve got at least a call from a spokesman for Stonewall saying that people would be feeling vulnerable, and basically indicating –
Owen: Oh, you’re going to have an LGBT voice talking about it. Interesting.
Owen: Nothing, carry on. Go on.
Julia: Owen, seriously.
Owen: I’ve had enough of this. I’m going home. Sorry. No way.
Julia: Owen, genuinely, we’re trying to have a civilized conversation.
Owen: I know you’re having it, I don’t want it!
Julia: I know you’re upset, you’re very upset –
Owen: Yeah, I am, I’m very upset. I’m very upset.
Julia: Everyone’s upset and angry about this, but storming off a TV set –
Owen Jones, Mark Longhurst, and Julia Hartley-Brewer discuss the Pulse nightclub shootings, 12 June 2016
It [the audition process] lasted around five months with tons of waiting. After the initial meeting he [Gareth] asked me to put myself on tape, which I did in Mexico — I had to hire a crew and ask an actress friend of mine to help me, but I couldn’t tell them what it was about because we had to keep it all under wraps. A month passed and I heard nothing — I thought, “Oh, it’s over, this is gone.” Then one night I was asleep in Budapest, shooting another project, and my phone rang at 2am. I looked at the number and it was from the UK. Half my family is from Britain so I thought, “Fuck it. This must be a drunk cousin wanting me” and didn’t answer. Two seconds later I realised, “Fuck! No! It’s Gareth! Shit!” So I called him back and he said, “Welcome to the world of Star Wars.”
*slides you a glass of chocolate milk* so those voltron headcanons
i swear you guys make me feel like a drug dealer sometimes
allura: [wrecks someone] lance: “that was, cómo se dice… savage?”
hunk maintains that his brightass headband can be worn with any outfit
he’s well on his way to giving allura a stroke
“i don’t get it, why can’t i wear my headband to the party? the tuxedo’s black, orange and black totally match-”
lance: “do do do-” [shoots sentry] “-another one bites the dust”
shiro’s been wondering if he can get half off discounts on gloves now since he only needs one
*coran voice* “princess as your legal guardian i am obligated to say that violence is wrong. but lowkey? those bitches deserved it”
every time the team splits up shenanigans happen
but shenanigans happen all the time so no one really remembers who was with them when any particular shenanigan happened
“heh remember that time on planet yordek when lance-” “we agreed to never speak of that again keithiel”
“haha remember when we went to the mall and i became an indentured servant and took over a restaurant” “…what”
[something explodes in the distance] pidge, running into the room: “i want to preface this by saying that nothing happened, nothing is on fire. that is mere speculation. do we have a fire extinguisher?”
“i picked up your bag at the airport but i can’t find your number so i’m about to embark on the largest scavenger hunt of all time by using your strange belongings to track you down” au
“Honey, I’m home!” Stiles calls out as he wrestles his roll bag over their entry mat.
“That’s still not funny,” Scott says, without looking up from his textbook.
“Once again, we disagree.”
Scott snorts. “How was the trip?”
“Fine,” he says, plopping down right in the middle of the living room to start unpacking. “Typical conference. Some sessions were actually interesting, most were boring as shit.”
Scott hums, already absorbed again in his reading. Stiles reaches for the zipper on his suitcase but then freezes—this is definitely the same brand as his suitcase, but he doesn’t remember this extra zippered pocket on the top.
Stiles grimaces. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t my suitcase. Goddamn it.”
Scott finally looks up, frowning. “Shit, really? How’d you manage that?”
“It was a redeye,” Stiles says, running a hand through his hair. “I was exhausted, in fucking LaGuardia, and I was just trying to get out of there as fast as humanly possible.”
“Is there a name on it? Are you sure it’s not yours?”
“Pretty sure,” Stiles says, feeling around the sides for the pocket. He sighs when he pulls out the little card and sees that it’s blank. “Motherfucker. This is definitely not my suitcase because I’m actually smart enough to put my name on it.”
“Sorry, man,” Scott says sympathetically as Stiles falls back on the rug with an anguished groan.
“What the hell am I supposed to do now?”
“Open it,” Scott suggests. “Maybe there’s something with their name on it.”
Stiles fiddles with the zipper. He’s nosy as hell, in general, and normally he’d be jumping at the chance to rifle through someone else’s personal belongings. But…
“What if there’s like, dead bodies in there or something?” he asks, and Scott just stares at him for a second. Stiles rolls his eyes—that’s a perfectly valid concern. Or maybe he watches too many police procedurals, whatever. “Okay, fine.”
Stiles holds his breath as he slowly unzips the suitcase, but nothing happens when he lets the top part flop back onto their crappy, threadbare rug. There’s a Dodgers hat on top, and Stiles grimaces. “Well, they have shitty taste in baseball teams.”
He sets the hat carefully aside and keeps digging. The person is neat, whoever they are, because everything is folded, and all the dirty clothes are even all contained in their own zippered bag. At first glance, there’s nothing too out of the ordinary—phone charger, American Gods, Calvin Klein briefs. Fancy, he thinks. There’s a monogrammed leather toiletry bag (DSH, he commits those initials to memory), and he pokes through it.
“I’m gonna make an educated guess that it’s a guy.”
“Why’s that?” Scott says, finally looking somewhat interested in this mystery.
Stiles holds up an electric razor. “And that he’s maybe not totally straight,” he says, brandishing a little bottle of lube that’s about three-quarters full.
Scott rolls his eyes. “Lots of people use lube.”
“Yeah, but do you travel with it?” Stiles counters, and Scott sighs.
“No,” he admits. “Did you find anything with his actual name on it?”
“Not yet,” Stiles says absently. He continues to rifle through the bag until he’s pretty sure he has his plan of attack. “Okay. I’m gonna find out who it is,” he says with a determined nod, and Scott frowns.
“How? This is New York City! There are literally millions of dudes here.”
“It’ll be like a real-life scavenger hunt,” Stiles says dreamily, ignoring Scott as he carefully lays his three chosen items out on the coffee table. “This is awesome.”
A little under five years ago, my high school classroom was crouched behind a table with the lights off. We were rapidly checking twitter and the news, trying to understand what was going on.
Rumors were flying about a kid bringing a gun to Newtown high, and at first, no one was too worried. Until the truth started being reported. Until we found out that, about ten minutes away from our homes, 26 people, most of which were young children, were brutally murdered.
After a few hours of lockdown, we were let out early. There were people crying on the streets. There were more police cars than I had ever seen in our little town. The school bus was filled with whispers and wide eyes as our peers were dropped off. I got home, was embraced by my mother, and started sobbing. While I never felt personally unsafe, it was an insurmountable thing to grasp, that my local community had been devastated by something so atrocious.
That Sunday at church, I had never seen the worship hall so full. Strangers were hugging each other, we were all grasping hands, and there were sobs let out that couldn’t be suppressed. As a fourteen year old who had never experienced a tragedy like this - I often felt numb. I didn’t know how to process it.
I thought about it every single day for the next few years. My friend’s little sister was a third grader at Sandy Hook, and as I became closer to her, my sorrow deepened. Like many of the other survivors, she had nightmares often, she was terrified of loud noises - and she was one of the lucky ones.
Everywhere I went, there was evidence of what happened. Almost every car had a green ribbon on it. Whenever I drove past the firehouse where the parents collected the survivors - I thought about those who desperately searched for their kid through the crowd - only to realize that they were not there. A student teacher at my school took a leave of absence - her mother was one of those who was killed. While I was filled with a deeper love for my community, and the way we came together during this tragedy, I was also filled with so much anger.
Almost five years since Sandy Hook - another mass shooting has occurred. More than twice the amount of people were killed. More communities will be mourning. More families will be devastated. So many more people will never ever be the same. And what has our nation done? What have we done to prevent these tragedies from happening? If you haven’t been a part of a community affected by a mass shooting, I can understand why you might think that guns are not the problem. If you haven’t seen the people you grew up with sobbing with grief, you won’t get it. If you haven’t driven by the newly built elementary school and seen the intense security around it - you won’t get it. If you haven’t seen the 26 candles that everyone lights in their driveways every December, you won’t get it. If you haven’t seen the empty classroom seats of the kids whose siblings didn’t make it - you won’t get it.
Yet there is something we CAN do to help. We can push for gun control. We can resist gun culture. We can fight against terrorism (yes - white terrorism too). I don’t want to get too political here, but please. If you care more about your right to bear arms than the lives of your fellow Americans, then I suggest you reevaluate your priorities.
It can be hard to know what it’s like to experience a mass shooting so close to home. And I’m lucky - while I know of people who were murdered, no one close to me was. My loved ones are safe. The same can’t be said for everyone.
So please - give some long hard thought as to what you can do to help. And work to make change. Thank you.
Dean squeezes Cas’s hand a little as he points out a shooting star that zips by. They’re lying on their backs on top of the impala in the middle of a desert strip.
“Alright, Cas, you win,” Dean says, sighing deeper into a sense of comfort and calm. “This isn’t too bad.It was a good idea.”
He can see Cas smiling in that way that makes his eyes crinkle as he pulls Dean closer, kissing him on the forehead.
“What is it with angels and stars, anyway? You’d think you’ve had enough of the skies for a lifetime. Hell knows I’d be happy if I never got on a plane again.”
Dean smirks. “Literally. Hell knows.”
Cas rolls his eyes. “I knew what you meant, Dean.”
Another star pummels through the sky in a curved arc, appearing and disappearing in a flash.
“Really, though,” he continues. “Why?”
Cas sighs, looking as if he’s struggling to accept the fact that Dean is unwilling to let it go.
“It’s…” Cas starts, uncomfortably, “kind of personal.”
Slowly, Dean nods. Cas can have his secrets if he needs to.
“Ok. No biggie,” he shrugs while trying to avoid the curious itch in his brain.
But Cas looks torn, anyway. Even if Dean isn’t going to push it, suddenly it seems like he’s contemplating it.
“I want to tell you, but it’s going to sound kind of strange.”
Dean, cocking an eyebrow:
Cas bites his lip.
“When I pulled you from hell…” Cas starts reluctantly, “I put you back together again.”
Dean waits for Cas to continue. He knows this, but somehow it’s still strange to hear it out loud. Strange to think about. He nods.
But, Cas has a half smile and his hand is getting slightly tighter in Dean’s as he talks.
“Well,” he says. “Humans are made of atoms and matter. Cells. Water. Dust.”
Dean squints, looking down at his own skin, feeling goosbumps prickling.
Cas sits up on the Car, glancing down at Dean as if he were a fond memory.
“You’re made of comets and stardust,” he says proudly with a smile. “I put bits of the stars inside you. So, the sky doesn’t really make me think of heaven. It makes me think of you.”
Dean sits up, too, squinting.
“Cas,” he says. “That’s… kind of a weird thought.” He smirks, “and a little bit sappy…”
Letting go of Dean’s hand, Cas turns away, looking frustrated.
Dean glances again at his arm, wondering suddenly about the patch of freckles near the elbow that reminds him of a constellation.
With his thumb, Dean reaches out, running it along Cas’s jaw, pulling his boyfriend’s annoyed gaze back to him.
“You make me think of heaven, too,” Dean finally whispers. “Not the real, nightmare one. But the one where it’s you and me under the stars and the cold metal of the impala underneath us. And I get to hold your hand for as long as I want.”
Cas squints. “You’re talking about right now,” he says.
“I’m talking about right now,” Dean confirms.
Cas’s smile is shy and perfect, and there’s another shooting star over the tip of his left shoulder.
“I can live with that,” Cas says.
Dean pulls Cas in for a deep, long kiss, his thumb still perched under Cas’s chin.
“Mia piccola stella,” Cas says with a smile when they pull apart.
Dean makes a face.
“My little star,” Cas says, proudly.
Dean smirks, and doesn’t even call his boyfriend a sap again as they tangle themselves back into each other’s arms to watch the meteor shower. Instead, Dean returns the forehead kiss grabbing Cas’s hand again..
“This was a good idea,” he says, and Cas squeezes his hand back.
Summary: That Spider-Man kiss video was definitely cliché
and cheesy, which is exactly the reason that Spidey and Y/N have to do it.
Word Count: 2235
Warnings: Heights and Swearing.
A/N: casually drops this after almost a year without writing like okay!! okay!! please enjoy this (it has good format!!) :0 and thank you to @buckys-fossil for actually tolerating me and proofreading this, i love you!!! also this is a gender neutral fic!!!! if you followed me when i was strictly an aesthetic blog well then, hello i write fics too
Summer weather was the worst.
Summer holiday wasn’t that much better, what with having cabin fever and all. It had been a week since you had left the comfort of your apartment and three hours since you flopped onto the couch and lay there. All of your friends had been busy, Michelle doing her protesting, Liz with college preparation. It left you with nothing much to do other than lounge around your home.
The fan placed on the coffee table was set on revolve and hit your body with cool breezes. Laying on your side and absentmindedly watching season three of Phineas and Ferb, you felt jealous that those children were creative enough to make the most of your summer. It was a big contrast to you, as you hadn’t done anything the entire few weeks of summer there had been.
A thought suddenly came to mind and you decided to act on it. Shutting off the TV and fan, you put on actual clothes and took care of your hygiene before fixing your hair and pulling on your sneakers. Making sure to had some money and the house key, you texted your mom.
to: mom hey i’m leaving the apartment for the first time in days are you proud of me
It didn’t take her long to reply.
from: mom Fine with me, I was about to kick you out and make you do something.
You laughed at her text before tucking your phone away and leaving the apartment and locking the door.