but the next day she had to scrub their blood from the pavement

Follower Count

“Hiya, babes! It’s Laura!”

“Hello! It’s Laura! We hit a thousand, babes! We did it!

Laura was just another small time girl trying to hit it big with YouTube. There was hundreds of Youtubers like her out there. They put on makeup. They play video games. They review movies. They vlog about their day. They try weird products and make comedy shorts.

I found Laura on a late night. She’d made a comedy short with Katherine Short, a YouTuber I had followed for a few years. Laura caught my attention with her low voice, sweet smile, and odd eyes- she had heterochromia. One eye was dark brown, like her hair. The other was like a husky dog’s. Piercing blue.

Laura was new, she barely had a hundred followers when I first clicked subscribe. After that collaboration with Katherine, you could see her confidence soar. I had fun with her wit and hey, if someone’s entertaining, I’m gonna hit that magic red button.

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Pomegranate Seeds


Based on the word “Dalliance”


Draco meets her in June. All cotton candy smiles and diamond eyes, a sundress brushing against her thighs. There’s a wand tucked behind her ear and water dripping, dripping from her fingertips as she smiles at him, knots her fingers behind her back and sways in the sweltering breeze.

Draco meets her in June and is spellbound/ entranced/ enchanted by her fluttering lashes, thin wrists, a laugh that settles like a butterfly in her throat and the butterflies trapped behind his ribs.

“Y/N,” she tells him, extends a hand. “My family’s renting the manor next door for the summer.”

And he knows who she is. Has heard his parents lament more than once about the sort that live next door, the blood traitors and mudbloods, the disgraces. He doesn’t quite care, though, not as he takes her hand and watches a smile – molasses slow and sugar sweet – blossom across her mouth.

He can feel her fate lines pressing against his. Can’t help but think that he never did believe in coincidences.


“Just for the summer,” they tell each other, legs tangled in his bedsheets and fingers laced together. Salt-slick sweat sliding down the notches of his back as he presses chapped lips to hers, presses warm hands against her thighs.

“Just for the summer,” they say, as he hides her from his mother/hides her from the truth.

Because there’s a mark on his arm and a task on his shoulders and loving her feels like he’s being robbed.

“I know something’s wrong,” she tells him. And Draco is two months past scribbling her name in the margins in his notebook, dreaming about how she tucks her tongue between her teeth, tucking a sun blurred photograph of her beneath his pillow. Only –

“It’s almost September,” he tells her, all bitter sweet and bitter sour. “Don’t you think it’s about time that we give this up?”

She doesn’t say anything. Lingers like a ghost on the bed beside him. Soft breath and tentative fingers as she brushes through his hair. And he would’ve thought, if he hadn’t known better, that her eyes swept over his forearm before she left.

“Just for the summer,” they said,

But Draco never has been good at keeping promises.



Draco sees her in September. All pink cheeks and scarf fluttering in the wind as she boards the Hogwarts express. Glances at him as she walks by. Brushes her fingers against his shoulder because she knows that the whorls of her fingerprint are embedded there like a tattoo.

He didn’t tell her that he had more than one.

And he watches her for three days, four, thinks he’s falling like autumn leaves against the pavement; rust red and copper yellow, bruised orange and scarlet brown. He’s falling and he can’t quite help himself, no, not when his constellation is already in the sky.

He catches her after class. Knots his fingers around her wrist and pulls her into a cupboard and kisses her. Kisses her with trembling knees, mouths and fingers and heartache. How they don’t say, “It’s only for the fall”. They’ve already fallen. And Draco’s fingers are shaking as he tucks her hair behind her ear.


The first snow falls in November,

And Draco tells her that he loves her beneath the frost bent boughs of the ash tree. Thinks how he’s a boy with a sharp tongue and wicked smile who shouldn’t be doing this, no, shouldn’t be playing with hearts.

There’s a gun in his mouth; he’s aching to tell her.

Only, there’s nothing better than a slender boy with a handgun and a dream.

He tells her he loves her and she smiles, laughs, wraps her hands around his neck and says that she loves him too.

“It’s only for the fall.” All the words they don’t say.

Draco wants to string up caution tape and scrub the evidence clean. Obliviate the witness and swallow the bullets and take it all back. Only –

He wraps his scarf around her neck, laces their fingers together in bed. Writes fucking odes to the brilliance of her eyes and the soft of her mouth and doesn’t realize that he’s Hades and she’s Persephone and there are pomegranate seeds stuck between her teeth.

He knows how this one ends.

Draco tells her the truth in December,

And it’s like watching the world unravel before his eyes.


Draco breaks her heart in December. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Because he rolls up his sleeve with quavering fingers and she grabs her clothes off the floor, says, “I can’t believe you,” before leaving.

He can’t quite blame her, no, not when he wants to run away, too.

He’s a robber without a getaway car, with an albatross around his neck and he’s drowning, drowning, drowning.


Draco tries to kill Dumbledore in December.

Only succeeds in cursing Katie Bell and it isn’t until later, when he’s lying on the bathroom floor and Potter’s standing over him, blood on his shirt and blood on his hands and blood pooling in the water leaking from one of the broken faucets, that he thinks about her.

About how she’d left and how her clothes are still in his dresser and her picture is still under his pillow and her name is still stitched onto the softer parts of his heart.

He thinks he sees her in the hospital wing, when he’s turning over and looking through a haze. Thinks he hears her murmur “It’s just for the winter”.

But when he wakes up the only thing that’s there is his scarf looped around the chair.



Draco sees her in April. All earnest smiles and soft laughter beneath the wilting mistletoe tree. Draco sees her, and she sees him, and he can’t quite help the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

She hesitates for a heartbeat of a second, melting snow and dulled edges, before she raises her hand and tips her mouth, allows her eyes to flicker to his forearm before she glances back up at him.

Draco kisses her beneath the cherry red boughs of the mistletoe tree, all locked knees and hands, fingers, heartbeats. “It’s only for the spring,” she murmurs and he should tell her, can’t tell her – not yet – that it’s never going to be enough.

anonymous asked:

Contest: Reader (R) and Kara attending an event, but suddenly Supergirl is needed to save the day at the event bc of a bomb/shooter/rando alien so Kara 'disappears'. R freaks the fuck out bc she is fearing for Kara's life (bc she does not know Kara=Supergirl) and stays at the venue to try and find her whilst everyone else has evacuated. R ends up getting hurt for being too stubborn to leave even with Supergirl imploring her to. Ultimately Kara realizes NOT telling R her secret can also hurt her.

Everything seemed to happen so quickly.  You had always heard that people who went through dramatic experiences remembered them in slow motion, but as soon as the shots started firing, your life felt like someone had hit the fast-forward button.


You weren’t sure how many times you screamed the blonde’s name into the panicking crowd.  Screams echoed throughout the huge venue as countless people charged past you.  You fought through the crowd desperately, scanning the sea of unfamiliar faces for your girlfriend’s.  She had seemed to disappear within moments of the first shot and your mind raced with countless horrible possibilities.  What if she had been hit or tripped and fell under the trampling crowds?  

With complete disregard for your own safety, you continued to search through the fleeing party-goers despite the sound of bullets ripping through the air around you.  Every so often, someone near you would drop to the freshly waxed floor; blood pooling around them. 


You need to leave!” 

The moment you broke out of the crowd, the figure you had only seen in news videos landed in front of you.  Something about the superhero’s gaze was familiar, but your mind was too jumbled to recognize who you were looking at.

“I need to find my girlfriend-”


As you fell to the floor, you swore you could hear Kara’s voice yelling the one-syllable word.  Finally, things seemed to slow down and you hit the ground with a deep thud, blood spilling from the fresh wound in your chest.  Your lungs heaved, struggling to take in as much oxygen as possible to replace what was being lost through the bullet hole.  Your vision blurred and darkened around the edges and despite the pain and the fear you felt as more shots rang out, Kara’s name still escaped your lips every few seconds.  It was still the last thing on your mind when the blood loss took its toll and you succumbed to unconsciousness.


Kara arrived at the hospital a mere 10 minutes after Supergirl dropped the knocked out shooter on the pavement outside the venue.  Images of you lying on the floor flashed through her head; bleeding and writhing in pain with her name on your paling lips.  She sat in the waiting room silently, aware that your ambulance probably wouldn’t arrive for at least 20 more minutes.  Alex was already on her way and as a former employee of the medical facility, Kara knew she would be granted privileges during the attack.  She didn’t trust anyone else to save you.

Kara had been debating on whether or not to tell you about her double life for several weeks now.  You had known each other for a long time before you had become romantically involved, and Kara knew that she could trust you with this.  But, she was also aware that her secret was a burden and would come with a lot of added anxiety on your end.  She wasn’t sure she was ready to put you through that.  She had never thought that something like tonight could happen.


Almost three hours later, an exhausted Alex Danvers walked into the waiting room in blood stained surgery scrubs and sat down next to her sister.

“Just tell me,” Kara whispered.

“She’s okay,” Alex said.  Her younger sister released a trembling breath and lifted her glasses so that she could wipe at her eyes.  “She’ll be in the ICU for a few days.”

“This is my fault.  She stayed to find me.”

“Kara,” Alex sighed, “don’t do that to yourself.  No one could have seen this coming.”

“She could have died because of me.”

“She didn’t.  And you’re going to be the first thing she needs to see when she wakes up, so you need to get yourself together, okay?  Do you want to go sit with her?” Alex offered.  The younger Danvers sister nodded and allowed herself to be led out of the waiting room and towards the elevators.

anonymous asked:

linstead + hospital

Good grief. 

Anon, I hope you like how this turned out because these frakkers got super long. 3 and 4 have to be upwards of four hundred words. Apparently, I’m not cut out for writing angst in summary.


Not many cops appreciate the need to visit a hospital and the intelligence unit is no exception. Hospitals mean one of two things—a suspect/victim needs to be questioned, or one of their own has been admitted. It’s the latter that makes them balk. Erin’s most visceral memory of hospitals before Jay is from when she overdosed as a teenager, trying to escape the grief, and the only thing that kept her from succumbing to her own stupidity was Hank’s gravelly demands that she keeps fighting, because he’d lost Camille, he was not losing her too. For Jay, he will never erase the memory of slowly bleeding out in a rudimentary infirmary, trying to reach for his brother, for Keller, while the medics fight to save him and Gerwitz, because Keller was already lost. Their job just reinforces the belief that hospitals mean loss. The smell of antiseptic, the white walls, and the stark waiting rooms become the stuff of nightmares.


Someone catches Hank off-guard. Some man in a gray hoody and a scuffed 9mm steps out behind Hank and Antonio while the hunt a suspect, takes two shots, and then disappears before Antonio can return fire. The desperate call for back-up comes over the radio and Erin nearly gets herself and Jay into an accident in the process of changing their route to get to Hank. Her partner doesn’t try to offer words of comfort because they both know there are none that will make this better. Erin almost forgets to put the 300 into park when they arrive on the scene, throwing her door open and willing herself not to vomit as the shouts and sirens in the air hit her. Antonio trots over to meet them—there’s blood on his face, his hands, staining his clothes—and tells her that Hank’s been rushed to Chicago Med, but Jay’s the one to ask about the shooter, his hand fisted in the back of Erin’s coat to keep her attention centered. And later, Jay firms his jaw and gets between his partner and the surgical ward when she wants to storm through, weathering without a word when she pounds against his chest with her palms. “Move, Jay, move. I’ve gotta be there, I have to be with him, Jay. Camille’s already gone and I can’t lose him too.” It’s almost midnight before a nurse comes to take Erin back—everyone knows who Hank is and who she is to him—and Jay tells her to go when she looks back at him. (He waits in the hard chair the rest of the night and tries not to let himself think.)


Erin can’t hear anything but white noise. Her palms burn from where she had to catch herself on the asphalt, knees in a similar state, as she turns over, trying to grasp the situation. The car—she still doesn’t know where it came from—is gone and—where’s Jay? Her scrambled thoughts struggle to piece together what had happened and then Erin focus, sees his body sprawled across the concrete, leg at a wrong angle, and her heart stills in her chest. They hadn’t seen it coming, he’d noticed a moment before her and had given Erin a shove to get her out of harm’s way. “Jay. Jay.” Erin crawls across the pavement, too shaky to stand. (She doesn’t remember hitting her head, but she doesn’t remember the sound of the impact either.) All Erin can see for a moment is blood, dripping from his mouth, a wound to his forehead, his ear. Jay doesn’t respond when she tries to rouse him verbally, but Erin knows better than to move him. Secure the area, call 911, don’t move the victim in case of spinal trauma. It’s only the numbness that gets Erin through dialing, giving the address, saying they’re Chicago PD. If she thinks, she’ll stop. The minutes she spends sitting there on the ground next to her partner are unfathomable, innumerable. Jay’s chest rattles with his every breath, but he’s breathing. Keep breathing, baby, please. “He got hit by a car, I didn’t see it, no, I haven’t moved him.” Erin knows the looks on their faces—it isn’t good. The EMT’s try to separate them and she’s shaking her head. “No, he’s my partner, I’m coming too.” Will has to hand his brother off to Rhodes when they get there and Erin’s grateful because he’s there to grab her when her knees give out. Erin finds herself alone in a recovery wound, the wounds on her hands, knees, and temple cleaned and bandaged and the numbness collapses into the jarring reality that her partner got hit by a car. Hank is there later to take her to see Jay and he’s battered, bruised, and broken (five ribs, leg) but awake and grasping her hand. Rhodes explains that he’ll be fine and that’s all Erin needs to hear. She wants to say something smart but there aren’t words so she leans her forehead into his—bandage to bandage—and just breathes.


Jay stands at the sink and pumps soap into his palm with unnatural precision. The water is burning hot but he doesn’t turn it cooler, shoving his hands into the stream and watching the basin turn red as the blood washes away. He scrubs at his hands, his forearms, and wants to pull the shirt off his back except he doesn’t have a spare. Erin’s blood is cooling against his skin and Jay takes a deep breath to stave off nausea, because he has to go back out to where the team is waiting—for news, for him—but he just wants to slide down in a corner and ride out the anger, the grief, the helplessness. It’s one thing to know that this was likely to happen, because this is their job, but it’s another thing when he has to spend twenty minutes keeping his partner from bleeding out while making sure they aren’t overrun by gang members with nothing to lose. Jay finally looks at himself in the mirror, not wanting to meet his own gaze, and seeing the blood also smeared across his face. It’s another fifteen minutes until he emerges to face the unit, skin scrubbed raw. Antonio is outside, settling a hand on his shoulder, wordless, and walking back to the waiting room with Jay. Hank looks like he’s aged another five years, Atwater and Ruzek converse in undertones and Burgess and Roman are just arriving with Platt in tow. Jay finds a chair in the far corner and sits down in silence, eyes closed, to suffocate until he knows that she’s going to make it, that she’ll be okay. Three bullets—he can still hear each one’s impact—two in her stomach, one through her left lung, and he’ll never forget how it sounded to listen to her try not to scream. Then, Erin’s finally out of surgery, so much time later, and the doctor asks for her family, looking at Voight (who doesn’t know about Sergeant Hank Voight and the woman who may as well be his daughter, in this city) but his sergeant looks across the room at Jay and says, “Take him back to her.” And Erin’s so pale that she’s gray, with an IV and a morphine drip, but Jay just cares that the heart rate monitor blips steadily and that she twitches when he presses a kiss to her forehead.


And there are too many other times, gripping cold, limp hands between shaking palms, begging without words for a glimpse of familiar eyes, a hint of a smile. Sometimes it’s hours before they make it to the hospital, making makeshift bandages and splints to keep the other alive. Jay carrying Erin down dozens of flights of stairs because she’s not breathing, stopping to force her heart to beat, push air into her lungs. Erin having to drag Jay out by his hands, gasping because of the bullet in her thigh but having to keep going because she can’t defuse the bomb and she’ll never leave him behind—never again. All end in days or weeks at the hospital and when they finally go home, it’s enough of a relief to close their throats with emotion.

khaleesikate88-blog  asked:

I just started watching season 9 of red vs blue again and I just realized how much I enjoy the freelancer pilot. You or somebody should write something about her interacting with any of the freelancers.

[AO3 | FFN]

Look, sometimes you’re just a glorified cab driver, trying to catch up on your reading between fares. Sometimes you’re dropping into a hot zone, trying not to get exploded into tiny pieces. There’s not a lot in between.

Early in the Project, Pilot 479er swoops in to save the day.

“Sixteen chapters,” she mutters over the warning klaxons, reaching a hand out to stab a finger blindly at some of the flashing lights on her control panel. “Sixteen fuckin’ chapters I’m slogging through, I just get to the good part, and these assholes decide they need extraction now?”

"Are you addressing me?” FILSS says.

She snorts, twisting in her seat to deactivate the alarms. “Sure, why not? FILSS, log my frustration and disappointment at being unable to find out whodunit until after this mission. Which I might very well die in, actually. Huh.” The final alarm finishes sounding around the time she’s plotted her approach vector, and she breathes easy in the new stillness. “FILSS, if I die, log my eternal irritation and determination to come back as a ghost to haunt this terminal and read the rest of the book.”

“Logged,” FILSS says, blandly.

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