pleased but not pleased

i can’t imagine what she’s going through right now…..a fan did an interview with a news station just now and talked about how ariana’s mom literally pulled fans that were in the first few rows backstage along with security to get them to safety. her family and team saved fans lives tonight. absolutely nobody deserves this and i just know ariana’s taking it all to heart. she’s going to be traumatized by all of this. i feel so terrible for everybody involved i don’t even know how to begin to put it into words

multiple people- the majority seemingly to be under 18- have been reported missing- friends & family are still trying to find them all over twitter. if you find anyone that is reported missing, please contact someone immediately 

there are now maps that will help people be led directly to safer areas from the concert and free taxi services along with other safe places are still open

PLEASE STAY SAFE

anonymous asked:

prompt: andreil + emergency room visit

(this is a sequel to THIS ‘I think there’s someone in the house’ fic!)

The paramedics hammer on the door, and Neil looks up, teary-eyed, from where his face is pressed into Andrew’s damp hair. He’s feeling for his breath with the back of his hand, waiting moment to moment for Andrew to die in his arms, silently like he does everything else. Urgency keeps stunning Neil all over again, hysterical defibrillators. The EMT’s are calling out through the wall, muffled but calm.

It feels unthinkably wrong, their absolute evenness and ease outside his door when his life is an exposed neck and Andrew’s death is the whirring blade of a saw.

He realizes that he has to get up to let them in, and it seems as impossible as it would be for Andrew to spring up and answer the door himself. He feverishly wants them to crumple the door to splinters and be inside already. 

It’s a herculean effort to ease Andrew to the ground, like he’s gritting his teeth and cutting off his own leg. He touches Andrew’s clammy face briefly but he can’t bring himself to try and slap him awake. He props Andrew’s bare feet up on the rim of the bath so the blood will flood towards his head, at least.

He feels untethered to his body when he stands, a helium balloon with its usual weight passed out on the bathroom floor. He falls into the wall immediately, adrenaline neck and neck with exhaustion.

He finds his way to the front door without his mind’s help. His head is in the bathroom with Andrew, and he knows that no matter what happens it’ll be there for a long, long time.

The next time he blinks, a man in uniform is holding his biceps and peering down at him seriously.

“—sir? Sir, are you hurt at all?”

“No,” Neil says, lips numb. “Bathroom. He’s in the bathroom. He’s bleeding to death.”

He turns, easily slipping the paramedic’s grip. There’s a procession of them, hefting a gurney and a couple of kits, and they’ve brought all the cold from outside in on their heels. They’re such a foreign object in their warm, messy apartment — uniformed, official, and precise.

It’s deadly, walking in and seeing Andrew spread out in his boxers, blood oozing through his t-shirt from his loose stitches, pale enough to match the porcelain. Neil’s seen enough corpses to recognize what they look like. 

He falls heavily to his knees and puts his head directly to his chest, listening, tears slipping hotly over the bridge of his nose.

“Please,” he slurs. His heartbeat is a tentative thud, a knock from an unexpected guest. “Help him. Now, help him now.”

“We’re going to try our best Sir, but you’ve got to get out of the way,” someone says gently.

He topples backwards onto his hands. It’s a cramped space, and he knows it would be easier if he waited outside, but he also knows he’d rather die than leave them alone with him.

The first guy kneels down and takes Andrew’s pulse, and Neil shakes his head. They’re too slow, time is feeding directly into a wide open drain.

“He needs an IV. He’s two litres down, at least. You’ve got to—“ A petite woman puts a hand on his shoulder and he shrugs her off violently. “No! You have to listen to me.”

“We know what we’re doing,” she says. “Are you an MD?” She eyes him doubtfully, gaze flitting from his scars to where her colleagues are taking vitals and cutting through Andrew’s clothes.

“Yes,” Neil says wildly. “And he needs an IV. Possibly two. Large-bore, normal saline. He’s not getting any oxygen, and he’s been like this for as long as it took you to gather your meager response team.”

She purses her lips, but she’s a professional. He can see her repressing her anger and it infuriates him. He feels like he’s crashing, over and over again, and he’s watching someone daintily pump the breaks.

“He’s right,” one of the EMT’s says distractedly. “We’re gonna need to get some fluids started, he’s in hypovolemic shock, sats below 50.”

“You want to tell me what happened?” one of the men asks.

“No,” Neil says as evenly as he can manage, reaching out to graze Andrew’s cold fingers.

“Did you do these stitches?” the woman asks, pulling at Andrew’s skin to get a better look at them. He suddenly sees how they must look to them, sloppy and angry red. Neil bends her arm away without thinking about it.

“Don’t touch him,” he snaps. He could break her arm and it would make him feel better. He drops her, disoriented by his own violence.

“There’s no need to be antagonistic,” the first man says. “We don’t want to have to remove you.”

“You really don’t,” Neil agrees. “You won’t succeed.”

Keep reading

PLEASE DO NOT BASE ROLEPLAY STARTERS OFF OF THE EXPLOSIONS IN MANCHESTER.

often times, in this community, i see starters based off of horrible events not even HOURS after they happen. these, to me, always seem awfully distasteful & VERY disrespectful to those who have been affected, or know people who have been affected by these tragedies. now, i’m NOT saying keep information off of your dashboard. write a message about your condolences, reblog informative posts to reach those who may need them, & keep up to date on the latest news, but keep those OUT OF CHARACTER. thank you.

in light of the recent explosion at ariana grande’s concert in manchester, please keep in mind that the most important thing right now is not celebrities’ reactions on social media, or your personal opinions of those reactions. please, do not spread any more hate, and focus on what is actually important: keeping everybody safe and mourning for those who have been killed. this is a terrible thing to happen, do not undermine it with celebrity drama. 

anonymous asked:

Omg for the kissing fic meme, forehead kisses, nose kisses, tummy kisses or goofy kisses are my weakness. Any of or all of the above would be incredible for Jack and Bitty :)

Bittle’s laughter rings through the bedroom, and Jack grins, hides it against the soft skin of Bittle’s hip inches from where he blew his last raspberry. Bittle’s hands tug at his hair and he’s gasping Jack’s name and it’s so very like ten minutes ago and so very different Jack feels giddy with it.

“You!” Bittle laughs.

Jack noses at the skin low on Bittle’s stomach, breathes deep and smells sweat and sex. He blows a raspberry just south of Bittle’s navel.

“You are a cruel man, Jack Zimmermann,” Bittle gets out, breathless. His usual cadence trips and tumbles. He’s red-cheeked. He’s beautiful.

“Am I?” he asks. He presses a kiss back on Bittle’s hip, another on the crease of his thigh. He kisses Bittle’s stomach, feels Bittle shift beneath his mouth. He’s warm and solid and here in Jack’s bed laughing, smiling, petting Jack’s hair like there’s no place he’d rather be.

“Yes,” Bittle says, eyes dark, wide. “The cruelest,” and then he’s pulling Jack up, up, kissing him with hot intent.