Ahmed Mohamed, a 14-year-old Muslim student was arrested at his high school in Irving, Texas, after bringing a homemade clock to class, which school officials mistook for a bomb. Mohamed showed his engineering teacher first, but when the alarm went off later in the day, that’s when the trouble started.
So we all know Dean was desperate and determined to get in contact with Cas first when they broke out. I’ve seen some anti-destiel people argue ‘who else would he call?!’
For the sake of argument let’s assume Dean had other numbers memorized, which he could–I mean, broken phones have to be commonplace for hunters.
So if Dean’s racing against the clock to get Sam to safety before he Officially Dies at midnight then his best bet would be to call Crowley (isn’t his number just 666?) Dean would yell, 'We iced Lucifer as a team, you dick. You should have zapped us out of that motel room along with your mom. You got your throne back with our help, so how about you don’t leave us stranded!?' The King of Hell could apparate right to them and get them both to safety in moments.
Of course, Crowley won’t do something for nothing (even after their summer of love) so if yelling didn’t work, Dean would agree to 'owe him one.’ A nice, no-strings attached favor to be cashed in at a future date, because Dean doesn’t care–he’s dying before the day is through. Crowley doesn’t have to know about it.
But he doesn’t call Crowley. He calls Cas. Repeatedly.
He doesn’t leave a message and move on.
He doesn’t tell Cas to get the phone from his room and call other hunters who might be closer.
(Also, Cas misses two of Dean’s calls and one of Mary’s–which came up as an unknown number???–and this angel doesn’t even have to go to the bathroom. So either he was standing in the door of Dean’s room feeling miserable and looking at his weapons on display or he was crying into his pillows–because he certainly wasn’t in the library. He wasn’t in the bunker to research or he would’ve had some lights on. He was just depressed and sad and so much of the episode focused on showing us this. I don’t even want to think about how irritated Cas sounded when he answered the phone, like he was mad about being interrupted, but I am concerned about his mental health and wondering what he was doing off screen. I mean this scene with the phone ringing in the dark and Cas off-screen had me terrified for a moment.
I think we all can remember how in Hunter Heroici he blamed himself to the extent that he mentioned suicide and that was when he was hunting with Dean and Sam, not sitting alone for weeks in the dark and silence with the blame and guilt of failing his friends weighing on him. He even considered the deaths of his unsolved case to be his responsibility, my poor sweet Cas.)
Anyway, Dean sees the map and knows the country well enough to understand that Cas is hours away (at least seven according to Google maps and it’s a looong stretch of highway that Dean asks him to find them on). The whole ‘meet us’ thing is such a hail mary plan. If it was just about getting one of them to safety, then Dean would have been better off telling Sammy to head for the highway while he tried to mislead or slow up the men following them, especially once they got a gun.
It wasn’t about a rescue mission. Sam and Dean have been on the run from law enforcement so many times. They’d have found a way to get a car when they got to the highway.
No, it wasn’t about needing help in the form of wheels. Dean said, “The sooner the better. We’re kind of on the clock here,” when he was talking to Cas and he was specifically referencing the time he had left alive, hoping against the odds that he’d see Cas one last time.
When you’re in a long distance relationship
Everyday the two of you are together feels like you’re racing against the clock
Every minute, every second feels like it can’t be wasted
Even when all you want to do is waste time together
When you’re asexual and in a long distance relationship
Everyday the two of you are together feels like it’s you against a ticking time bomb
Because as the days pass you know the two of you will have to separate soon
And you haven’t done anything yet but you feel like you have to before time runs out
They’ve kissed you, but it always stops there
And you can’t help but to feel so guilty
Because when you go back home all you’ll be able to think about is how you didn’t do anything
How you didn’t touch them, didn’t ask them to touch you
How you felt like you should have
You’ll start to hate yourself because you love them but you don’t always want them
And you feel like you’ve wasted your chance to feel anything more than their lips on your cheek
And you feel like you’ve let them down
But here’s the thing:
You didn’t waste their time
You didn’t let them down
You didn’t do anything wrong
You didn’t do anything and it’s okay that you didn’t
When you’re in a long distance relationship
Time together is time together
It doesn’t matter what you do - or what you don’t do
It’s being together that matters more than whether you kiss their lips or kiss them between their legs
It’s being comfortable with them that matters more than you guilting yourself into being sexually intimate
It matters more to you than it does to them
Because they love you
They love you more than all the distance between you both
They love you regardless of what you do - or don’t do - with them
My girlfriend flew across three states to spend three days with me and couldn’t care less that all we did was cuddle
Being asexual should not (should never) hinder your relationship
And if it does that’s their problem
on being asexual in a long distance relationship
I'm creating my own tag for my newest initiative, anyone is welcome to join me
Bouncing off my last post about how the biggest plot twist of The Final Problem isn’t only TJLC and we’ve been willingly ignoring clues this whole time, I’m creating my own tag for those who want to attempt to predict The Final Problem. We really don’t have much to go on, considering these creators have kept this locked tight. Most of us only care about TFP in regards to TJLC, which is fine. But that’s not enough for me anymore. This is a race against the clock to see if we can decode The Final Problem without any real clues besides all the patterns we’ve seen laid out so far.
I’m using the tag “Crack the Final Case” to make it easier to find in my meta lists and watch theories unfold. TJLC will obviously come up, but it’s not the be-all end-all.
We’re the ones who can, the ones who can Crack the final case. So let’s do it.
Previous installment:Protocol(Jamie and Claire enjoy a last night out on their honeymoon )
I jolted awake and looked wildly for the alarm clock, heart racing. 12:43 AM. I’d agreed to do morning shifts for my first week back at the hospital, but even so, I didn’t need to be up for hours, yet. So, why…?
Jamie. The absence of him next to me on the pillow.
Several nights on the Cape, I had awoken to find him in the throes of some terror, or gone from the bed and clinging to the window frame, letting the cold air brace him. He’d barely spoken, in those times, either stayed away from me entirely, or letting me soothe him back into sleep. It was like Paris all over again, and thought of that made my heart seize. We hadn’t yet spoken of Culloden…but I knew that there were terrors from that day, and horrors that followed, from which Jamie was far from free.
A quick search of the house, though, revealed him sitting comfortably on the living room sofa. I instantly breathed a sigh of relief: he looked a bit pale and was staring off into space, but looked serene and peaceful…unmistakably happy…andin a very familiar way.
He raised a can of beer to me in salute. “Care to join me?”
I crossed to him eagerly. “In sitting, yes. I’ll pass on the drink, since I’ve got to be up for work in a few hours.”
“Suit yourself.” He shifted his legs to make room for me. Perhaps hoping to prevent future “bum Da” incidents, he was wearing the nightshirt I’d bought for him. In terms of construction and coverage, it wasn’t much different from the long shirts in which he’d habitually slept in the eighteenth century, but I had to suppress a giggle at sight of it. Just give him a sleeping cap and a scowl and he’d make the world’s most seductive Ebenezer Scrooge.
Suppressing the urge to reflect further on the absurd scenarios such a thought conjured, I kissed his cheek and said, “Trouble sleeping, love?”
“Indeed, though I dinna ken how, for I’m bone-weary. Achy and pealy-wally from the drive home, I suppose. Hoped a draught might help settle me.”
“Home,” I murmured as I snuggled against him, feeling a thrill run through me at the word. “I like the sound of that.”
“As do I, my Sassenach.”
His voice was warm, still sweet with his smile, though I didn’t think the prospect of living under the same roof was what he’d been thinking of when I’d walked in. “Were you thinking about Bree, just then, by any chance?”
He gave a small ha! of impressed surprise. “Either you’ve picked up a knack for divining thoughts, ma dame blanche, or I’ve lost mine for inscrutability!”
“The latter, I think,” I said feeling the happy glow of him spreading to my own body. “At least where Bree is concerned, anyway. You get this look about you when you think about her…or hold her…or look at her.”
That very look spread once again across his features: the sweetest smile of contented joy.
“Couldna help it even if I tried,” he said, squeezing my hand. “Though I never would. Just the fact that she exists–yours, and mine, a new person God created from our love…” He shook his head in wonderment. “It’s the simplest fact there is, that bairns typically result from coupling, but the miracle and gift of it hits me deep…and I still sometimes canna believe I have you both to care for…to love.” He set down his drink and pulled me closer with both arms, kissing my forehead. “I’m a verra blessed man, indeed.”
“We’re blessed. All of us.” I kissed him softly on the neck. “That’s what you were thinking about, then?”
“Aye. That and…well, specifically, I was thinking of what Brianna must have been like when she was first born. I’ll wager she was a bonnie one, aye?”
“She was, indeed,” I said. “Bonnie and loud and perfect.”
“Tell me about her?” he asked quietly.
“Of course,” I said, rubbing his arm. “Would you like to see, as well?”
“See?” His eyebrows drew together for a moment, then raised in excitement, comprehension dawning. “You have PhotoGraphs?”
In answer, I leaned forward and plucked up the photo album from its niche under the coffee table. Jamie sat on the edge of the sofa, his greed apparent. I perched beside him and opened the book to lay across both our laps.
The first page held four pictures, all taken unbeknownst to me by a kindly, perceptive nurse. The winter sun was streaming through a window onto my face. I was in a white hospital gown, my hair unbelievably messy in a cloud around my head, but I was oblivious, beaming down at a swaddled bundle in my arms: my daughter, who I was holding for the first time.
I’d gotten to see her immediately after the cesarean, I explained to Jamie, but only for the barest moment, with scarcely enough time to kiss her forehead before she was whisked off to the intensive care unit. Her lungs were not functioning as they should. Her skin held a blue tinge, made even more alarming in appearance by the pasty vernix that still coated her face. With tufts of copper hair and her ears…those precious, wing-like ears, she was so like Faith, so small…and so still…I began screaming as soon as they took her away. They had to put me under full anesthesia to close the incision.
I awoke from medicated nightmares, alone in a bleak hospital room…with no child to be seen. I’d not screamed further, too weak for the task, but I had shaken and sobbed until my bones were sapped of all energy, my soul of any desire to move or speak. The doctors were kind and soothing, telling me that everything would be fine, but giving me no concrete, medical news of Brianna to reassure me. I hadn’t had anyone there with me at the hospital. Father Gentry had come by a day or two later, and would have come sooner if asked, but on the first night of Brianna’s life, I had been completely and truly alone in the world. In that darkness, I’d mourned for Brianna. For Faith. For Jamie. And I’d made contingency plans for how to end my life.
But then, I’d woken to a gentle shaking and a warm, red, squirming bundle being placed in my arms.
I couldn’t have said how long I held her. Laughing. Weeping. Kissing her. Nourishing her with my body. Making promises to her. Talking to her about Jamie. Talking to Jamie about her.
The real, breathing Jamie pulled me closer to him. “You were all alone, mo ghraidh.” He leaned his head against mine, voice thick with weeping. “It… truly breaks my heart….that I wasna there for ye either time. I’m so verra sorry for–” His voice broke.
“You couldn’t help it either time,” I said, though my voice was tight with pain. I reached a hand up to draw him in for a kiss.
The notion that had been growing in my heart this last week stirred once more. Was this the wrong time to voice it? Or…
“If someday there should…be a third time…?”
The transformations that came over his face were breathtaking, a coup of utter joy, immediately followed by terror. “But you said yourself that both of ye could have died. Surely you canna put yourself at risk again.” When I didn’t immediately respond, he shook his head, hard. “No. I willna lose you, Claire.”
It would be dangerous to conceive again, the doctors had said. At the time, I’d assured them the point was entirely moot. Now… “You won’t lose me, Jamie,” I said, with far more certainty than I felt. “I want another child with you. Not at once, perhaps, but…”
I trailed off, unable to express how strongly I felt this need– to bear a child of ours in happiness and peace. I could live without it, in the same way that I could live without….without ever going to medical school…but in just the same way, I wanted it. And it mattered.
Jamie could see something of this in my face. He was quiet for a moment, then took my hand and squeezed. “When the next bairn comes, then,” he said, and though there was still a quiver of fear in the sound, he was smiling, “whenever it comes, I’ll no’ leave your side. Not for a moment.”
I knew any hospital would do their best to dissuade him, to keep the father away from the operating room or delivery suite. I’d bloody like to see them try.
He bent his head and kissed me, very gently, cradling my head in his hands. He broke the kiss with a small laugh, beaming. “Another bairn…when my heart is already full to bursting… Jesus, will this embarrassment of riches never stop?”
“No,” I said, beaming back. “At least, I certainly hope not.”
Jamie turned the page of the album. “Oh, just look at her, then,” he said, lightly touching the paper that showed Bree, two or three weeks old, yawning hugely on my lap. “So tiny… and such a bonny, sweet face.”
Every photo, captioned only with a date, captured a moment in Brianna’s life.
(December, 1948). At six weeks, on her christening day, gawping skeptically up at Father Gentry.
(February, 1949). At three months, sleeping peacefully in her crib, curled up against her stuffed rabbit.
(September, 1949). At ten months, taking wobbly steps toward the camera.
(November 23, 1949). Covered with the icing of her first birthday cake.
(March, 1950). On my lap, the both of us careening down a hill on a sled toward Mrs. Byrd.
(June, 1950). Snuggled against my shoulder, half-asleep, one fist grasping my hair as I stroked hers.
Without warning, Jamie stood up and walked out of the room. I didn’t have to ask what he was doing.
Less than a minute later, he returned, holding a pajamaed Bree against his shoulder. She was still waking up, and was grumbling vague, fretful interrogatories, her curls a frenzied pouf around her face.
“Whisht,” Jamie shushed softly against her hair. “Go back to sleep, lass. Whisht, now.”
“Hab-beffist?” she asked croakily, rubbing her eyes.
“Nay, it’s no’ yet time to have breakfast, a chuisle,” Jamie said, his own voice rather hoarse as he sat, Bree on his belly, facing him. He tightened his arms under her, smiling, but blinking hard. “Da just…needed to hold his wee bairn, s’all.”
“Beebair?” she said, straightening and looking intently back at him.
“Aye, that’s right,” he said, as he kissed her tenderly and lightly cupped her face, “you, sweet one, are my own wee bairn.”
A look of glee suddenly stole over her sleepy features. She screwed up her brows fiercely, waved both hands, and growled out a tiny, “rrrrroahhhh!”
“Oh–OH MY–” I laughed, “there’s a scary, ‘weeBEAR’ in here, Jamie!”
Jamie shook with laughter too, but played along, rearing back in mock fear, “Stay ye BACK, foul beastie!”
Bree, triumphant, gave another roar which turned seamlessly into a mighty yawn, her would-be paws coming up to rub her eyes again.
Jamie stilled and brought his arms around her, voice low and soft with love. “Come lay your head, now, sleepy cub.” He turned to lay on his back. She resisted for a moment, trying to push up with her hands, but Jamie’s soft Gaelic and gentle touch brought her at last to settle against his chest. Jamie held out a hand to me, and while the sofa was scarcely wide enough, I curled against him, holding them both.
When I woke a few hours later, the dawn light as good as any alarm clock, I had a screaming spasm in my neck and my back was sore. But Jamie and Bree were still sleeping peacefully, she tucked protectively between him and the back cushions, her round cheek smushed against his shoulder. Jamie felt unusually warm to the touch, but I still pulled the afghan from the back of the sofa and tucked it around them. Turning to head for the shower, I paused at sight of the album on the coffee table.
I went to the hallway where my beach bag still sat, and rifled in it until I drew out the camera. The shutter made a satisfying flackk as I captured the scene.
Mediterranean Sea. Off the Libyan coast. October 3, 2016. A man is rescued by a member of Proactiva Open Arms NGO about 20 nautical miles north of Libya. Thousands of people were “racing against the clock” to make the perilous crossing from Libya to Europe before summer ended, with authorities in the war-torn country at a loss to stem the flow.
HEY!❤ Could u mayve make something where the reader and newt are togetter but suddenly hes come home from new york whit tina and reader get jealous on tina becores the reader think she more beatyful and shr had a bette work and thats kind of stof but newt dont see irt and the reader grt worst and worst and it ends up that she thinks newt love her more than the reader? Thank u if you do it❤❤❤
Waving your wand around, you made sure everything was in place for Newt’s return home. He was currently in the process of writing his book about magical creatures, something he’s always been passionate about since your days at Hogwarts.
The record player in the corner was softly playing Sidney Bechet as you added the finishing touch… lit candles and a pot of his favorite tea ready to go on the stove.
Glancing up at the clock, you felt your heart racing as the time grew closer to his return. Fixing your hair in the mirror, you applied some lipstick and spritzed on some of Newt’s favorite perfume.
Here’s some Pidgance for rare pair week. This is my first time writing about them, so feedback is welcome. Hope you enjoy !
New Year’s Eve was usually a boring time for Pidge, with the only exciting thing is being able to catch up on sleep. Studying for tests daily at the Garrison prevented her from ever having a second to rest. So to say she was excited for tonight was an understatement. However, that little tradition of hers was dramatically shifted in her schedule when somebody knocked on her door a few hours before midnight.
A part of her wasn’t surprised to see Lance once she turned the knob. From what she heard earlier that day, normally he would’ve celebrated this festive time with Hunk. However, he was out of town.
He needed a backup.
And Pidge’s self conscious wouldn’t let her say no.
Summary: Draco works as a consultant for the Auror Department,
much to Harry’s continued consternation. The idea that Malfoy’s got an
ulterior motive and hiding something rankles Harry enough to follow him
home, discovering that Draco lives a decidedly Muggle lifestyle. Harry,
sure that he’s Up To Something™, stalks Draco all over Muggle London.
Draco, all too aware of Harry’s latest obsession with him, decides to
take him on an adventure. Meanwhile, they both need to work
together in a race against the clock to get a deadly illegal potion off
the streets of wizarding London. Draco has ulterior motives when it
comes to the case at hand, and Harry’s suspicions get the best of him
when the pressure is on to arrest a suspect.
Comment: The summary alone looked very promising, and I’m so glad I decided to read this fic in the first place, because it didn’t disappoint! The story is centered around an interesting take on the whole Harry-stalking-Draco trope, and it works. The alternating POVs make for a fascinating read in the sense that you get to hear and see both sides of the story; you get to witness the evolution of Harry’s complete obsession to the point where he makes really, really bad decisions and you get to understand Draco better at the same time, with glimpses of his work towards redemption and his life post-war. I love that @carpemermaid didn’t shy away from their canon antagonism and used it to create such a brilliant fic, which made me both cry in frustration and smile with tears in my eyes. The investigation itself with the potion was truly amazing to read and I loved loved loved! Pansy and Neville as Ministry workers and Harry and Draco’s colleagues. And of course, this comment wouldn’t be complete if I failed to mention the sheer joy I felt when I read about Draco navigating through Muggle London, wearing Muggle clothes and interacting with Muggles—in more ways than one, if you catch my drift [winks]. All in all, this fic made me fall in love with them and their relationship all over again.
Playing a vanguard in the first game basically amounts to being the loud, shotgun-wielding tank of the group. This means that husks, thorian creepers, and other such mobs pretty much exist solely to waste my time.
Inevitably, one or two of them will get past my beefy ass and latch onto Kaidan while I’m distracted, at which point the fight becomes a race against the clock to chew through the horde before that lone husk gets through my dear lieutenant’s shields.
McHanzo Au where Hanzo and Jesse are neighbors as kids and they basically grow up together. They go to all the same schools growing up, are very close and nigh inseparable. One starts to pine for the other in their senior year of highschool.
SO!!!! They both apply for college and they were accepted into different universities. Hanzo was accepted into Princeton University’s Mathematics program. Jesse got accepted into MIT (because let’s be honest, McCree isn’t stupid). So now it’s a race against the clock to tell the other how they feel before they head off to college.
a patient told me that i needed to be whipped because i didn’t know which leg he was being treated for at the clinic …… i’ve been at this job for a year and a half and been dealing with racial microagressions , sexual advances, the owner of the company and patients using coded words to talk about black people in my presence. Being the only black person at the clinic with 10 other white people i am fully aware that i’m representing my entire race while on the clock. I’ve tolerated a lot but i don’t know if i can continue to compromise my self respect and dignity for money. i’ve brought up past incidents to my manager in which she said it’s due to a lack of “understanding ”. She wasn’t present when this happened and i feel conflicted about mentioning it. her knowing would do nothing to alleviate the situation. I’m human and can only handle so much. I’ve been trying to find new job lined up so i can leave and not abandon my finances… so right now i’m crying in my car on break because of how emotionally drained i am acting like these events don’t hurt my feelings and disappointed at myself for tolerating it this far… i hate feeling like i’m not strong enough to deal with racism