#or rather defibrillator one

[fly-sky-high-09]

Man today sure is something

[odinsblog]

Patrick Braxton became the first Black mayor of Newbern, Alabama, when he was elected in 2020, but since then he has fought with the previous administration to actually serve in office. (Aallyah Wright/Capital B)

NEWBERN, Ala. — There’s a power struggle in Newbern, Alabama, and the rural town’s first Black mayor is at war with the previous administration who he says locked him out of Town Hall.

After years of racist harassment and intimidation, Patrick Braxton is fed up, and in a federal civil rights lawsuit he is accusing town officials of conspiring to deny his civil rights and his position because of his race.

“When I first became mayor, [a white woman told me] the town was not ready for a Black mayor,” Braxton recalls.

The town is 85% Black, and 29% of Black people here live below the poverty line.

“What did she mean by the town wasn’t ready for a Black mayor? They, meaning white people?” Capital B asked.

“Yes. No change,” Braxton says.

Decades removed from a seemingly Jim Crow South, white people continue to thwart Black political progress by refusing to allow them to govern themselves or participate in the country’s democracy, several residents told Capital B. While litigation may take months or years to resolve, Braxton and community members are working to organize voter education, registration, and transportation ahead of the 2024 general election.

But the tension has been brewing for years.

Two years ago, Braxton says he was the only volunteer firefighter in his department to respond to a tree fire near a Black person’s home in the town of 275 people. As Braxton, 57, actively worked to put out the fire, he says, one of his white colleagues tried to take the keys to his fire truck to keep him from using it.

In another incident, Braxton, who was off duty at the time, overheard an emergency dispatch call for a Black woman experiencing a heart attack. He drove to the fire station to retrieve the automated external defibrillator, or AED machine, but the locks were changed, so he couldn’t get into the facility. He raced back to his house, grabbed his personal machine, and drove over to the house, but he didn’t make it in time to save her. Braxton wasn’t able to gain access to the building or equipment until the Hale County Emergency Management Agency director intervened, the lawsuit said.

“I have been on several house fires by myself,” Braxton says. “They hear the radio and wouldn’t come. I know they hear it because I called dispatch, and dispatch set the tone call three or four times for Newbern because we got a certain tone.”

This has become the new norm for Braxton ever since he became the first Black mayor of his hometown in 2020. For the past three years, he’s been fighting to serve and hold on to the title of mayor, first reported by Lee Hedgepeth, a freelance journalist based in Alabama.

Incorporated in 1854, Newbern, Alabama, today has a population of 275 people — 85% of whom are Black. (Aallyah Wright/Capital B)

Not only has he been locked out of the town hall and fought fires alone, but he’s been followed by a drone and unable to retrieve the town’s mail and financial accounts, he says. Rather than concede, Haywood “Woody” Stokes III, the former white mayor, along with his council members, reappointed themselves to their positions after ordering a special election that no one knew about.

Braxton is suing them, the People’s Bank of Greensboro, and the postmaster at the U.S. Post Office.

For at least 60 years, there’s never been an election in the town. Instead, the mantle has been treated as a “hand me down” by the small percentage of white residents, according to several residents Capital B interviewed. After being the only one to submit qualifying paperwork and statement of economic interests, Braxton became the mayor.

(continue reading)

[paradiseprincesss]

grave | jonathan crane

i wanted to write something a little more on the "romantic" smut side lol. anyway, i will start to post the song drabbles/requests tmr if i have time. ok that's all!

summary: you decide to show jonathan how much you love every part of him, including the parts of himself that he hates.

warnings: smut, p in v, oral (m!receiving), mentions of childhood trauma, mentions of depression (sort of?) MDNI 18+ ONLY

word count: 2.1k

masterlist

jonathan vowed that he’d never believe in a higher power so long as he lived — he could thank his childhood woven with religious trauma for that. 

but theoretically, if he was to believe in a celestial being, his first answer would be you. 

in his eyes, you were a goddess walking amongst the rest of the people on this earth. every detail about you had jonathan ready to sacrifice his sanity — he couldn’t wrap his head around how you of all people could possibly love him. 

you were like the glue that held his tattered heart together as a whole.

when you found out about scarecrow, he was certain you would run for the hills. abandon him and vanish without a trace — leave him with a broken heart, watch him drown as his feelings swallowed him whole, but you stayed.

he’d suffer in silence, paranoia eating him alive as he tried to keep the ugly part of him far, far away from you but it seemed you didn’t find the alterego of scarecrow ugly at all. in fact, you found it rather wonderful how passionate he was about fear.

fear is a fascinating thing, isn’t it?

even the ones who have an utmost control over their phobias have a fear of something deep down, and jonathan’s was losing you. he was well known to those around him as calculated, cold, and even cynical, but to you, he was an absolute angel. 

“tough day at work?” you asked softly, looking up from your phone as you heard him sigh, swinging the front door open. “i made dinner for you, honey.”

as jonathan tossed his suit jacket onto the couch, he stopped and looked at you — ethereal, that’s what you were. after a hard day of work, he was blessed to come home to you. someone who cared about him so deeply despite his flaws and rigid edges. 

someone who loved him despite how much he hated himself — not everyone is that lucky, he thought.

“yes — thank you, my darling.” he said softly, placing a fleeting kiss on your head as he made his way to the kitchen. 

later on in the evening, after dinner, you joined jonathan in bed after a long shower. he admired you as he looked up from his book, taking in the heavenly body getting snug into bed beside him. 

he sighed as he watched you run your manicured hand through your freshly dried hair, the strap of your silk nightie slipping off your shoulder slightly. you looked over at him, smiling sweetly as you crawled into his lap and put his book down on the bedside table. 

every time jonathan felt like he was hard to love, he reminded himself that if he was really as bad as they made him out to be — he wouldn’t have you. 

my, you made his life — he’d be just fine if his blood stopped flowing. at least he had the privilege of loving you and that was enough for him to die happy. 

“you’ve been working a lot.” you said softly, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. the small action made jonathan’s heart flutter — since when did he become so soft? “i’m proud of you and everything you do.” 

it almost felt like jonathan’s heart had been shocked with a defibrillator in that very moment — like he was alive again. every word you said, he hung onto. you were the one person who believed in him; who loved him for who he was. 

“you make me so happy.” jonathan confessed, trailing his hands on your skin as he looked at your hand — and the ring on your finger. a symbol of a forever commitment, a love that was everlasting. “my darling wife.” 

“you look tired,” you noticed as you placed a kiss on his cheek, “have you been sleeping enough lately?”

“no, i haven’t.” jonathan said with a deep exhale, his blue eyes piercing right through your soul. “work is exhausting me, and the shipments from falcone…”

“i know,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheek lovingly, “i love you.”

and though all things work and scarecrow related were slowly draining the light from jonathan, as long as he had your arms around him, he knew he’d come out unscathed. he'd never been this happy —  never felt so alive. 

his earliest childhood memories were filled with trauma, but it was almost like you made him forget what suffering felt like. jonathan would go through a lifetime of pain if it meant he could keep you here, in his arms, forever.

“i’m always going to be here, forever by your side, jonathan.” you reminded him softly, watching as his icy eyes started to water slightly. 

because without you, there was no jonathan. just “doctor crane” and “scarecrow” but no jonathan. if he didn’t have you, then just bury him — death would be easier. 

even though his dreams were violent, plaguing him nightly, and work made him feel like his mind was about to split — he clung onto his sanity because of you. every disgusting part of himself that he absolutely loathed, you adored. you saw to the depths of his soul.

perhaps if it wasn’t for you, he’d be in the grave by now. six feet under without someone to walk through the pains of growing with him.

“i love you, too.” jonathan said softly, his voice dripping in adornment and vulnerability. “i’d be so lost without you.” 

his hands reached up to the strap of your slip, already hanging off your shoulder, as he pushed it off completely. he did the same to the other side, delicately unwrapping you like a priceless gift. 

you put up no fight, letting him do as he pleased. it was like being in the presence of an angel everytime jonathan was near you, let alone touching you. you were his deep end, the part of him that kept him breathing. 

“wait,” you whispered, causing jonathan to pause as a look of confusion flashed over his features, “i want to try something different.” 

jonathan nodded, letting you take the reins. something was certainly in the air tonight. you crawled off his lap, and instead, got comfortable between his legs. you reached your delicate hand up to the waistband of his pyjama pants, looking up at him for silent approval. 

usually, jonathan was in charge when it came to the bedroom, but it felt right to let you lead. most of the time, the sex was leaning towards the rough side, but like i said, the atmosphere was a polar opposite of what it usually was tonight. 

“i need you,” jonathan urged, “just touch me, please—”

you tugged down his pyjama pants gently, and his hard cock sprung out. he was painfully hard from the moment you’d straddled his lap earlier — it was like everything you did had an effect on him, no matter how simple the action was. 

gently, you wrap your hand around his cock, stroking him gently before you place your lips on the tip. jonathan let out a choked moan as you took him into your warm, wet mouth, bobbing your head up and down his length as you stroked him. 

you swirled your tongue around the tip of his cock, effortlessly causing him to become weak as he let out a mixture of moans and quiet, held back whimpers. 

“darling,” he breathed out, “feels so good, fuck—”

you hummed around his length, playing with his balls gently as you continued to suck his cock. gently, you pushed your head down as far as you could, gagging around him as the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat. jonathan let out the loudest moan yet, bucking his hips up gently. 

“yes,” he groaned, “you’re so good at this, doll.” 

the praise kept you going, your eyes watering as you continued to take his cock down your throat like the good girl you were. as your lips stayed wrapped around him, his hands reached for your hair, tangled in it as he pulled it gently. 

as soon as you felt him tense up, you took his length out of your mouth with a pop. as much as you loved having him cum down your throat, you wanted to feel him fill your insides with it instead. once you looked back over at jonathan, his eyes were wide and he looked like he was in pure awe at you.

he was — how could you look so angelic doing the naughtiest of things? 

slowly, you took the nightie off of you, slipping it over your head as his pale blue eyes darted all over your body. every inch of you was designed for jonathan, handmade for him and his love. you kept your eyes focused on him, making sure he was watching you watching him. 

once you were clothesless, you crawled over onto his lap again, straddling him as you lined the tip of his leaking cock with your drooling cunt. the room was quiet, the only sounds to be heard was the rain hitting the windows outside. but alas, it was the most romantic, peaceful atmosphere you’d been in.

slowly, you sunk down onto his thick cock, throwing your head back as you felt fuller and fuller by the second. jonathan let out a breathy moan, and you whimpered as he stretched you out fully. once your ass was flush against his hips, you started to move.

“so good, jonathan.” you mewled out, the feeling of his cock ramming into your tight, wet hole making you dizzy. “y-your cock feels s-so fucking good!”

“so tight, baby, my god—” jonathan praised, his hands gripping onto your hips as he watched your tits bounce with every movement you made. “so good to me, darling. just look at you.”

you continued to bounce on his thick cock, his tip pounding into your cervix with each up and down movement you made. you could feel your slick leaking all over his cock, coating the base with your arousal. 

“a-ah— yes, yes!” you chant, your mind going blank as you start to tip over the edge. you leaned down to pepper his neck with kisses, and jonathan’s grip on you tightened as he started to buck his hips into you. 

the feeling of his fat cock drilling into your tight cunt had you at a loss for words, the only sounds coming out of your mouth being choked moans and unintelligible whimpers. you kept your face buried in his neck for a moment before kissing down his jaw, all the way down to his collarbones. 

jonathan’s breath hitched as he felt your lips touch his scars. they were littered all down his collarbones and shoulders. deliberately, you placed open mouthed kisses down each one, sending a silent message to jonathan — i love every part of you. 

he could barely focus on bucking his hips into your cunt, so tight and so warm, let alone the feeling of your lips trailing down his neck and collarbones. it felt sacred — the way you kissed every part of him that held a traumatic memory, the scars that he loathed to look at in the mirror.

yet here you were, appreciating every part of him, down to what he deemed the worst parts of himself. 

suddenly, he heard you gasping and felt you clawing at his biceps and shoulders, your dripping hole fluttering around his cock. 

“are you, fuck — about to cum, darling?” he asked through heavy breathes, feeling you bouncing on him as he bucked into you. 

“m-mhm.” you hummed, delirious as his cock turned you dumb. “r–ight there!”

“fuck, i’m close,” jonathan warned, “beg me to fill you, darling.”

“i-i need it!” you wailed, throwing your head back as you gave jonathan a little show, drenching his length. “fu-fuck! fill me, p-lease!”

your begging worked (of course it would) because as soon as the words left the tip of your tongue, he was holding your hips still with an iron grip as he spilled his warm, sticky seed into your tight, wet hole. 

the room went quiet as both of you tried to catch your breaths, clinging onto one another as if the other would somehow dissipate into mirage. you felt jonathan’s calloused, warm hands hold you tighter — closer — as you basked in the love that lingered in the air.

it feels good to be loved, doesn’t it?

“jonathan?” you whispered, still straddling him. “don’t go to work tomorrow — stay home. let me take care of you.”

“i already cancelled my day during dinner,” he said, his voice soft, “please, just let me hold you.” 

you sighed blissfully, letting your lover wrap his arms around you as you stayed on top of him for the moment being. “always,” you nod, “...are you okay?” 

“now that i’m with you — yes.” 

@girlinterrupted505 @ciriceimpera @jordyn-yeager @thevelvetvampyre @galactict3a

@xanaxiii @nocturnest @psylrd @bloodandglitter207 @humbuginmybones 

@oceanstem @futurefamousdeadmusician @jonathancraneslittlepet @dolleyednymphette @kpopgirlbtssvt 

@ll4n4 @ilovetoxicfictionalmen @the-buddy-things @ellebelleshelby @wiseyouthinfluencer 

@minedofmoria @strangeobsessed @5tud10-54r4h @franzine-xii 

@stsrfujid @psylrd @eyraaaaaae @nyxxie-pooh @momoewn

@fauxcongenialite @ceruleanrainblues @abprill

[sillysynopses]

The phrase ‘and they were roommates’ finally finds its origin as two men enacting scientific war crimes rather than fuck one another, encounter a pair of sisters who need therapy, a dog that really just needs to go to a better home, and the most innocent cyber criminal slash hired muscle you’ll ever encounter. Watch as this group of people burn through a city that might as well be New York but possibly isn’t for legal reasons, and murder a bunch of innocent people who probably had it coming anyway because they were possessed by the devil- or at least that’s what the traumatised religious man keeps telling himself- anyway, join in on the rom com of the century as these two crazy kids prove you need a lot more than good chemistry to make a relationship work- you also need a defibrillator!

[teejaystumbles]

Happy Halloween! It's the last day of October and the last bingo square for the Monsterfucktober Bingo finished - "science gone wrong"!! 👻🧟🥰

I couldn't help writing a little story for this - find it under the cut! Thanks to @valiantstarlights for the idea of Hob reacting to Dream's voice!

Morpheus looked at his new creation and frowned at the mismatched skin tones of the shoulder and leg. He had tried to keep most of the man’s body parts but the left knee had been so badly crushed that he had rather used a whole different limb than try and repair or exchange the joint. It would make for much smoother maintenance than having to deal with an inserted knee joint that was much more prone to infection or damage. The upper left arm had also been badly damaged in the accident that led to the man’s death - well, near-death. His brain waves had been declared too shallow to warrant any actual activity. The man had had no family, and no friends had come forward or visited. The man had carried a donor card, though, and so, with no one to protest, he had been quietly shuffled into Morpheus’ lab with little fanfare. Morpheus knew that what his employers did to obtain his materials wasn’t strictly legal but he tried not to think too much about it. He was being paid very handsomely to do his research, and not just in theory.

He was very satisfied with this new try. It was only his second finished work, having been commissioned after the Corinthian was a sounding success - well, mostly. He huffed and set about disinfecting the needle he had used to close up the throat of the man. His employers had had only one complaint about the Corinthian-

He talks too much, and he talks back. No need to include capacity for speech in the next one, Doctor.

Morpheus looked at the young man’s handsome face and sighed. “I would have liked to hear your voice. I’m sorry.”

He turned around and switched on the life support to see if everything ran smoothly. While he cleaned up the lab there was only the quiet whooshing sound of the respirator. He knew it took time for the subject to come back to life. He would probably have to use the defibrillator to really get it going-

A sudden loud beep from the heart monitor made him jump and turn around.

The man was sitting up and staring at him. He’d removed the respirator mask and slowly pulled off the ECG monitoring electrodes. His eyes were wide and milky, not yet able to see. It was a condition the Corinthian had never recovered from - in the end Morpheus had given him bionic eyes. With this new subject he had hope that the original eyes of the man whose body he had used would recover once a steady circulation had been achieved. (They had been the most gorgeous brown eyes Morpheus had ever seen after Calliope left him and he hadn’t been able to switch them for bionic ones straight from the start.)

“That was fast. Good- Good morning,” he said, stunned at the man’s fast return to waking. Morpheus grabbed his recorder and switched it on. “Subject 002, Working title “Hope”, Day 62 - subject has awoken after life support was activated. No respirator necessary, it seems. Subject is alert and- hey, hey, what are you doing? Take it easy!”

He dropped the recorder as the man suddenly stood up from the metal table and stepped towards him, only stumbling once on the unfamiliar leg. Before Morpheus could stop him the man had boxed him in against his lab desk. Morpheus felt several papers shuffled and bottles getting pushed over by his elbows as he tried to keep his distance but the man nearly crushed him against the edge of the table. He smiled down at Morpheus, unseeing eyes still focused on him, and hummed. Morpheus gasped, shocked at this unusual display of coordination and force so soon after waking up. He needed to keep up the subject’s emotional balance, he needed to give positive feedback to not induce a backlash or violent reaction to an unfamiliar situation. The Corinthian had taught him that.

“You’re, you’re doing really well. This- this is great. Very good,” he praised, heart hammering, trying his best to keep his voice low and soothing.

Subject 002, “Hope”, grinned happily.

[defiblover27]

Simulation

In the bustling corridors of the underfunded hospital, a faded flyer catches the eye of passersby, its corners curling with age. "Volunteers Needed for Trauma Training Exercise," it boldly proclaims, beckoning those with a sense of adventure or altruism to step forward and lend their aid.

Among those drawn to the call is a 24-year-old woman, her determination evident in the set of her jaw as she approaches the hospital's trauma director. They exchange a brief but earnest conversation, the young volunteer expressing her willingness to participate in the training exercise while voicing her concerns about her comfort level with certain procedures.

"I'm eager to help in any way I can," she explains, her voice tinged with a mix of nervousness and resolve. "But I'll admit, I'm a bit apprehensive about some of the more invasive procedures. I'm comfortable with basic first aid and CPR, but I'm not sure I'm ready for things like intubation or defibrillation."

The trauma director nods understandingly, his expression one of reassurance rather than judgment. "That's perfectly understandable," he replies, his tone gentle yet firm. "Your safety and comfort are our top priorities. We'll tailor the scenario to suit your preferences and ensure you're only asked to participate in tasks you feel comfortable with."

With a sense of relief washing over her, the young volunteer nods gratefully, grateful for the understanding and support offered by the trauma director. Together, they discuss her role in the upcoming training exercise, mapping out a scenario that challenges her skills without pushing her beyond her limits.

Preparing the volunteer for the trauma training exercise is a meticulous process, undertaken with care and attention to detail to ensure her safety and comfort throughout the simulation.

As she arrives at the hospital, the volunteer is greeted by a team of trained professionals who guide her through each step of the preparation process. They lead her to a private changing area, where a set of hospital scrubs awaits her. With gentle encouragement, they assist her in disrobing, providing her with disposable undergarments to wear beneath the scrubs for modesty and hygiene.

Once dressed, the volunteer takes a seat as a makeup artist meticulously applies special effects makeup to simulate the injuries she will portray during the exercise. With a steady hand and an artist's eye for detail, they create realistic bruises, lacerations, and abrasions, transforming the volunteer's appearance into that of a trauma patient in need of urgent medical attention.

As the makeup artist works their magic, other members of the preparation team gather the necessary equipment for the simulation. They retrieve a backboard from its storage location, laying it out on a nearby gurney in anticipation of the volunteer's arrival. Alongside the backboard, they arrange a cervical collar (C-collar) and an inflatable orange brace designed to stabilize her right leg.

With the makeup application complete, the volunteer is guided to the gurney, where she lies down with a sense of trepidation mingled with excitement. The preparation team surrounds her, their movements practiced and precise as they secure her to the backboard with straps, ensuring she remains stable and secure throughout the simulation.

Next, they carefully position the cervical collar around her neck, adjusting it to provide support without impeding her breathing or movement. With gentle yet firm hands, they slide the inflatable orange brace into place around her right leg, inflating it to the appropriate level to immobilize the limb and prevent further injury.

As the final touches are made, the volunteer takes a deep breath, steeling herself for the challenges that lie ahead. Though she may be nervous, she knows she is in capable hands, surrounded by a team of professionals dedicated to her well-being. With a nod of affirmation, she signals her readiness to begin, eager to play her part in the training exercise and contribute to the hospital's ongoing mission of saving lives.

The simulation begins with the trauma team gathered around the gurney, their expressions grave as they assess the condition of the patient lying before them. The young woman, named Emily, is 24 years old, her face drawn with pain as she struggles to maintain consciousness amidst the chaos of the emergency room.

Emily's injuries are extensive, the result of a harrowing car accident that left her trapped in the wreckage for hours before help arrived. She presents with multiple traumatic injuries, including a deep laceration on her forehead, contusions and bruising across her chest and abdomen, and a visibly deformed right leg.

As the medical team conducts their initial assessment, Emily groans softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she describes the events leading up to the accident. She recalls the screech of tires and the sickening crunch of metal as her car careened off the road, the world spinning in a dizzying blur before everything went dark.

Her breathing is shallow and labored, punctuated by gasps of pain as she struggles to draw air into her damaged lungs. A rapid pulse races beneath her clammy skin, a testament to the body's instinctive response to trauma as it fights to stay alive against overwhelming odds.

The trauma team works quickly and methodically, their movements a synchronized dance of urgency and precision as they address each of Emily's injuries in turn. They apply pressure to the gaping wound on her forehead, staunching the flow of blood with sterile dressings and medical tape.

Meanwhile, others attend to her chest and abdomen, palpating for signs of internal injury while monitoring her vital signs for any indication of deterioration. X-rays are ordered to assess the extent of her injuries, with the medical team bracing themselves for the possibility of life-threatening complications hidden beneath the surface.

Throughout the simulation, Emily remains conscious but disoriented, her grip on reality tenuous as she grapples with the enormity of what has happened. She reaches out for reassurance, her eyes searching the faces of the medical team for a glimmer of hope in the midst of her darkest hour.

As the simulation progresses, the trauma team springs into action with renewed determination, their focus unwavering as they fight to stabilize Emily's condition and save her life. Though the road ahead may be long and fraught with uncertainty, they refuse to give up hope, drawing strength from their collective commitment to excellence in the face of adversity.

As the simulation progresses, the trauma director approaches Emily with solemnity, his voice gentle yet firm as he explains the next phase of the exercise. "Emily," he begins, his tone tinged with empathy, "in just a moment, we'll be simulating a critical event. We'll need to simulate your heart stopping. We'll need to cut open your shirt to begin chest compressions, and we'll place an ambu bag over your mouth and nose. You should remain still and 'lifeless' during this process. You may choose to close your eyes or keep them open."

Emily nods in understanding, her heart pounding in her chest as she braces herself for what's to come. With a deep breath, she closes her eyes, surrendering herself to the immersive experience of the simulation.

The trauma team springs into action with practiced efficiency, their movements choreographed to perfection as they simulate the onset of cardiac arrest. With a swift motion, they cut open Emily's shirt, exposing her chest to the harsh glare of the overhead lights. A sense of vulnerability washes over her, but she remains steadfast in her commitment to the exercise.

Chest compressions begin in earnest, the rhythmic thud echoing through the trauma room as the medical team works tirelessly to restore circulation to Emily's failing heart. An ambu bag is placed over her mouth and nose, delivering precious oxygen to her struggling lungs with each squeeze of the bag.

Amidst the chaos, Emily lies perfectly still, her body limp and unresponsive as she embraces the role of a patient in cardiac arrest. Though her mind races with adrenaline-fueled anticipation, she remains focused on maintaining the illusion of lifelessness, drawing upon her training and instincts to convey the gravity of the situation.

As the simulation unfolds, Emily finds herself enveloped in a surreal sense of suspended animation, her senses heightened as she navigates the fine line between reality and simulation. With each passing moment, she grows more deeply immersed in the role, her commitment unwavering as she plays her part in the collective effort to save lives and improve patient outcomes.

In the tense silence of the trauma room, Emily waits with bated breath, her entire being poised on the precipice of uncertainty. Though the outcome remains uncertain, she knows she is surrounded by a team of dedicated professionals committed to her well-being, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice to ensure her safety and success in the simulation.

As the simulation progresses and Emily remains in her role, the trauma director approaches her once more, his demeanor compassionate yet resolute. "Emily," he says softly, "we need to simulate defibrillation and the removal of the rest of your clothing. Are you okay with that?"

Emily meets the trauma director's gaze with a steady nod, her determination shining through the mask of simulated injuries. "Yes," she replies, her voice steady despite the rising tide of nerves coursing through her veins. "I'm ready."

With Emily's consent secured, the trauma team prepares to take the simulation to the next level. The room hums with a sense of purpose as equipment is brought forth, including the defibrillator paddles and a privacy screen to shield Emily from prying eyes.

With practiced hands, the trauma team carefully removes the remainder of Emily's clothing, revealing her body in its entirety to the stark fluorescent lights of the trauma room. Emily feels a pang of vulnerability wash over her, but she remains steadfast in her commitment to the exercise, drawing strength from the knowledge that she is surrounded by a team of professionals dedicated to her well-being.

As the final pieces of clothing are set aside, the trauma director approaches Emily once more, his expression one of reassurance as he prepares her for the next phase of the simulation. "Emily," he says, his voice gentle yet authoritative, "we're going to simulate defibrillation now. You'll feel a brief shock, but it's perfectly safe. Are you ready?"

Emily nods, her heart racing with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. "I'm ready," she affirms, her voice a whisper in the stillness of the trauma room.

With a sense of purpose, the trauma team positions the defibrillator paddles against Emily's bare chest, their gloved hands steady as they prepare to deliver the simulated shock. A hush falls over the room as the trauma director counts down, his voice a steady cadence in the tense silence.

"Clear," he calls out, his command echoing through the trauma room.

In the next instant, Emily feels a jolt of electricity course through her body, sending a shiver down her spine as her muscles twitch in response to the simulated shock. Though the sensation is fleeting, it leaves her breathless with adrenaline, her senses heightened as she remains poised on the brink of uncertainty.

As the simulation continues, Emily finds herself drawn deeper into the immersive experience, her commitment unwavering as she navigates the challenges presented by the training exercise. Though the road ahead may be fraught with obstacles, she knows she is surrounded by a team of dedicated professionals ready to guide her every step of the way, ensuring her safety and success in the simulation.

As the simulation progresses, the trauma team continues their relentless efforts to resuscitate Emily, their movements a blur of urgency as they alternate between chest compressions, defibrillations, and the administration of resuscitation drugs.

With each compression, Emily feels the pressure against her chest, a rhythmic reminder of the tireless dedication of the medical team fighting to bring her back from the brink. The defibrillator paddles crackle with energy as they deliver simulated shocks, each one sending a jolt of electricity coursing through her body in a desperate bid to restart her faltering heart.

Amidst the chaos, the trauma director calls out the duration of Emily's cardiac arrest, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of uncertainty. "Five minutes," he intones, his words a stark reminder of the precious seconds slipping away with each passing moment.

The medical team works with practiced efficiency, their movements synchronized as they administer resuscitation drugs in a last-ditch effort to revive Emily's failing heart. The air is thick with tension as they watch for any signs of response, their collective gaze fixed on the monitor displaying Emily's vital signs.

Minutes stretch into eternity as the trauma team refuses to yield to despair, their determination unwavering in the face of overwhelming odds. With each passing moment, Emily feels herself drawn deeper into the immersive experience of the simulation, her senses attuned to the ebb and flow of life and death unfolding around her.

Though the outcome remains uncertain, Emily knows she is in capable hands, surrounded by a team of dedicated professionals committed to her well-being. As she lies in the midst of the simulated cardiac arrest, she draws upon her training and instincts to convey the gravity of the situation, embracing her role with a sense of purpose and determination that belies the simulated injuries adorning her body.

In the stillness of the trauma room, Emily waits with bated breath, her entire being poised on the razor's edge of uncertainty. Though the road ahead may be fraught with obstacles, she remains steadfast in her commitment to the simulation, ready to face whatever challenges lie in store with courage and resilience.

As the simulation intensifies, a sense of unease washes over Emily, a peculiar sensation prickling at the edges of her consciousness. Though she tries to push aside the feeling, dismissing it as a product of the immersive experience, a growing sense of dread gnaws at the pit of her stomach.

Unbeknownst to Emily or the trauma team, a medical student, eager to prove themselves in their new environment, has made a critical error. In their haste to assist with the simulation, they mistakenly administered a vial of real epinephrine instead of the simulated medication, a grave oversight that goes unnoticed amidst the chaos of the trauma room.

As the potent drug courses through Emily's veins, she feels a surge of adrenaline flood her system, her heart racing with an intensity that surpasses the bounds of the simulation. A sense of disorientation washes over her, her senses overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of physiological responses triggered by the real medication.

Despite the mounting alarm bells ringing in her mind, Emily says nothing, her voice lost amidst the cacophony of the trauma room as the medical team continues their efforts to resuscitate her. With each passing moment, her condition deteriorates, her heartbeat growing erratic as she teeters on the brink of true cardiac arrest.

In a cruel twist of fate, Emily's worst fears are realized as she plunges into the depths of a genuine cardiac arrest, her body succumbing to the deadly grip of arrhythmia. The trauma team, unaware of the unfolding crisis, presses on with their simulated interventions, their attention focused solely on the task at hand.

As Emily's consciousness fades into darkness, she realizes with a sinking heart that she is no longer a participant in a training exercise but a patient in desperate need of salvation. Though the realization comes too late to alter the course of events, she clings to a flicker of hope, praying for a miracle to save her from the abyss of death that looms ever closer with each passing second.

As the trauma director attempts to speak to Emily, a sense of urgency grips him as he notices her lack of response. His brow furrows with concern as he leans in closer, his voice tinged with desperation as he calls out her name. "Emily, can you hear me? Emily?"

There is no response, no flicker of recognition in Emily's glassy eyes as they stare blankly ahead. Panic begins to rise within the trauma director's chest as he realizes something is terribly wrong. With trembling hands, he reaches for Emily's wrist, his fingers searching for the reassuring throb of a pulse beneath her skin.

His heart sinks as he feels nothing but stillness, his worst fears confirmed in the absence of the vital sign he had hoped to find. In a state of shock, he checks for a pulse again, this time beneath the cervical collar, but the result remains the same—Emily is in cardiac arrest.

A sense of urgency washes over the trauma director as he springs into action, his training kicking in as he directs the medical team to shift their focus from simulation to reality. "She's in cardiac arrest!" he declares, his voice cutting through the chaos of the trauma room. "Start chest compressions, now!"

With practiced efficiency, the trauma team pivots to the new reality before them, their movements swift and sure as they initiate CPR in a desperate bid to revive Emily's failing heart. Each compression is a prayer whispered into the void, a plea for a miracle to breathe life back into the stillness that surrounds them.

As the trauma room buzzes with frenetic energy, the trauma director's mind races with a million questions, each one more pressing than the last. How could this have happened? What went wrong? But amidst the chaos, there is no time for answers, only action as they fight to save Emily's life against overwhelming odds.

In the midst of the turmoil, Emily lies motionless, her body a canvas for the frantic efforts of the medical team as they work tirelessly to bring her back from the brink. Though the road ahead may be fraught with uncertainty, they refuse to give up hope, drawing upon their training and expertise to navigate the stormy seas of cardiac arrest and guide Emily safely back to shore.

As the resuscitation attempts continue, the trauma room pulses with urgency, the rhythm of chest compressions driving the frantic tempo of the medical team's efforts to revive Emily. With each compression, her body sways from side to side, the force of the compressions causing her breasts to shake in a stark reminder of the gravity of the situation.

Amidst the chaos, the trauma team remains undeterred, their focus unwavering as they prepare to escalate their interventions in a desperate bid to save Emily's life. With a sense of grim determination, they gel the paddles and charge them with electricity, the anticipation hanging heavy in the air as they prepare to deliver a shock to Emily's bare chest.

In a moment fraught with tension, the paddles are placed on Emily's skin, their cold metal surface a stark contrast to the warmth of her flesh. With a silent prayer on their lips, the medical team braces themselves as they prepare to unleash the full force of the defibrillator in a last-ditch effort to restart Emily's faltering heart.

A heartbeat later, the trauma room is awash with blinding light and crackling energy as the paddles deliver their shock, coursing through Emily's body in a desperate bid to jolt her heart back into rhythm. The room holds its breath as the monitor displays the outcome, the fate of Emily's life hanging in the balance with each passing moment.

But despite their best efforts, the monitor remains stubbornly flatline, a grim testament to the stubbornness of death in the face of human intervention. With a heavy heart, the trauma team presses on, their resolve unshaken as they refuse to yield to despair.

In a final act of desperation, the medical team moves to intubate Emily, their hands steady as they guide the endotracheal tube into her airway, securing her breathing and allowing for the administration of life-saving medications

As the resuscitation efforts persist, the passage of time weighs heavily on the trauma room, each minute stretching into eternity as the medical team fights desperately to revive Emily. Over thirty agonizing minutes tick by, marked by the relentless rhythm of chest compressions and the mechanical whir of life-saving equipment.

Despite their tireless efforts, Emily's condition continues to deteriorate before their eyes. Her once rosy complexion fades to a pallid shade of gray, her skin growing cold to the touch as the chill of death creeps inexorably into the room. The gel from the defibrillator paddles glistens on her bare chest, a stark reminder of the futile battle being waged against the icy grip of mortality.

A bruise blossoms between Emily's breasts, a grim testament to the force of the chest compressions that have been administered in a desperate bid to restore her failing circulation. Her eyes remain wide open, staring blankly into the void as if searching for answers that will never come.

Sensing the gravity of the situation, the trauma team pauses momentarily, their hands hovering over Emily's motionless form as they perform a vital signs check. With a heavy heart, they prepare to confirm what they already fear to be true—that Emily is beyond saving, her journey on this mortal coil drawing to a tragic and untimely end.

A cardiac ultrasound reveals the harsh reality of Emily's condition, the images on the monitor painting a bleak portrait of irreversible cardiac damage. Her heart lies still within her chest, a silent sentinel to the finality of death's embrace.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

I don’t know if the prompts can be asking for more in stories you’ve already started, but I would love to see more of the Hero of Shadow and Wild Link interacting, or more on Abel’s heart attack in the HC AU, or more interactions with Zelda and Link after they had to get married (Golden Mercy? The Imprisoning War? Not sure what that one’s called). … Or basically anything involving hurt/comfort or Hyrule, honestly. 😂

I love your writing so much, thank you for sharing it with us! < 3

Hyrule snapped his fingers in front of his friend. “Wild!”

Wild blinked, flinching and taking a step back. “S-sorry—”

“You good? Was that another—I thought the meds—”

“No,” Wild shook his head. “I—it was—sorry, I just—he—”

Wild continued to stammer, at a loss for words. What was he supposed to say? He hadn't spaced out, he'd honed in, his mind had snapped with clarity, screaming at him and wanting nothing more than to run towards the stretcher.

That man—he was—

And he was having a—

"I-I just... need to sit down for a bit," Wild finally said, walking out of the ED.

Wild had yet to fully explain everything that had happened in his past. Everyone knew he had gaps in his memory, that he'd sustained a head injury, that it made him have absence seizures, but the cause of it... the people he'd left behind because of the aftermath...

How could Wild possibly ever explain? He'd failed in his mission, and it had gotten his entire team killed. He could never face anyone from his past, let alone his—

Castle Town had promised a new life, a new beginning, especially as memories had tried to piece themselves back together and make him want to run and hide all the more. If he told everyone... then there was no more running from it.

Wild buried his face in his hands, resting on an empty stretcher in the basement. His mind screamed with anxiety as his past caught up to the present, and his heart screamed with worry over his father.

This was a nightmare.

XXX

Fable looked over her room one more time. Ambu bag? Check. Suction? Check. Defibrillator? Check. She had her maintenance IV fluid set up, the plasmolyte liter set up, the wires for the cardiac monitoring system ready to go, chest tube suction at the ready, and her little trays had all the syringes, saline flushes, blunt tips, alcohol swabs, caps, lab tubes, and everything else she could think of prepared.

She'd chart stalked the patient while he was in the OR, and she'd already gotten report from the nurse. Forty-year-old male (oh he's young, Fable thought, used to seeing far older patients) presented to the ED via EMS with chest pain and shortness of breath, STEMI confirmed with EKG, and he was sent to the cath lab. There they found multiple severe occlusions and opted for an open heart bypass surgery rather than using stents, and off to the OR he'd gone.

The surgery had gone fairly straightforward from what she could see - he'd been on bypass for about an hour, and the surgery itself had been going on for about four. He'd gotten about 500 of cell saver, 2L crystalloid, and 1 RBC, and he'd only been defibrillated once.

Just as she looked over the chart again, roll call was sent out to the unit, and she gathered her thoughts as she went to the room, awaiting the patient. He arrived a minute or so later, and the room quickly filled with Fable, the charge nurse, the tech, another nurse, the anesthesiologist, the attending surgeon, the fellow surgeon, the respiratory therapist, the ICU attending, and the nurse practitioner.

Everyone slipped into different roles and tasks fairly easily and quickly. Anesthesia handed off to the RT, who attached the ET tube to his ventilator, the tech worked on putting chest tubes to suction and getting outputs, Fable assessed her patient and looked at what drips they were on (2 of epi, 4 of levo, 0.02 of vaso, 1.5 of Dex, 1.2 of insulin), charge took the admission note while the surgeons gave report and Fable listened vaguely, her other nurse was attaching the safe set to the arterial line to collect blood for labs and an ABG, and the ICU providers listened to the report.

Vasoplegia, not too much bleeding but enough to merit product, chest tube output was a little high but not alarming, and he was cold at 35.8. Fable asked her tech to get a bear hugger, and x-ray arrived to check ET placement as the surgeons finished report. Fable stripped the chest tubes alongside the surgical fellow before they all stepped out for x-ray. ABG resulted pH 7.33, pO2 107, CO2 38, bicarb 24, and lactate 3.1. Fable opened the extra plasmolyte fluid bolus up to try and help with the lactate, which was likely indicative that the patient was dry.

The surgery team left, and Fable remained to stabilize the patient. She and her charge nurse worked on detangling the lines while the tech covered him in a warm blanket. His blood pressure was within parameters, with a mean arterial pressure greater than 65, though his systolics were in the 120s, which was right at his upper limit, so she tried weaning the levo a little, going to 3 to see what would happen, before continuing to detangle lines, get a blood sugar for the glucommander that was determining the insulin levels to give him, and obtaining cardiac output indeces. His cardiac index was 2.8, and his systemic vascular resistance indexed for his body weight was around 2600. Good CI, a little higher on the SVRI end. Perhaps she should wean the epi too, assuming his MAP tolerated it.

After about an hour, Fable felt a little less overwhelmed, and she called her charge nurse, who had left the room a good while ago alongside the rest of the team. "Have we heard anything about family?"

"He has a wife and daughter," she replied. "But they're a fair distance from here, out in Hateno. I think last we heard they were making arrangements to get here, but it wouldn't be until tomorrow morning."

Fable glanced at the clock. It was almost shift change, so night shift would have to be the ones to wake the man up, get a neuro assessment, and then hopefully extubate him.

Nodding, she went back to work. She wasn't going to wean sedation until he was warm enough, so all she had to focus on right now was stabilizing him. His labs came back and his hemoglobin was a little low, and his two mediastinal and one pleural chest tubes collectively put out about 280mL of blood. It was still a fairly high amount, mostly evenly distributed (the meds were bleeding more, but neither exceeded 100mL for the hour), but not enough to think there was an active bleed that needed surgical intervention. Not yet, at least.

Overall, he looked pretty decent.

After another hour, one blood product later, Fable finally felt like she was starting to get everything settled. Her patient's temperature was normalizing, but she was twenty minutes from shift change, so she figured it was safer to let him sleep through report and then night shift could try to figure out weaning and bathing. His lactic on his repeat ABG was improving at 2.4, so they were likely addressing all the problems.

When a transporter walked by, IV pumps in hand, she noticed him pause in front of her room. She walked over to him. "Hey. Can I help you?"

The transporter, a young man with long blonde hair tied out of his face, jumped, a little startled. "Uh, hi. Yeah. Sorry. I just..."

"What room are you looking for?" she asked helpfully. "I don't need extra channels."

"Uh, these are for 4301."

"You passed it, it's back that way."

"Right," the man nodded, looking back in the room. "Right."

Fable waited a moment, and then asked, "Can I help you with anything else?"

"Is he doing okay?" the man immediately asked.

Fable smiled. "Yeah, he's looking pretty good, I think."

"Can..." the transporter swallowed, shifting anxiously. "Can I talk to him?"

"He's pretty sedated right now," Fable answered cautiously. "Why do you want to talk to him?"

The transporter sighed in defeat. "I... he's my dad. I... haven't seen him in a long time."

His dad? Her charge nurse had said he had a daughter, not a son. Though... looking between her patient and the transporter in front of her, the family resemblance was striking.

Well, she hadn't heard of any visitor restrictions for him. "Yeah. You're not on his chart, though - can I get your name?"

The transporter sighed, putting the supplies he'd been carrying on the counter of the nurse's station. "I wouldn't be on it. My family thinks I'm dead. It's complicated."

He—uh... what?

"My name's Link," he answered her nonetheless before entering her patient's room.

Link? Huh. That was...

Wait a second.

"Hey, are you one of my brother's friends?" Fable asked as she followed him into the room.

"Your brother?"

"Link. Likes to call himself Legend to differentiate," she replied with an amused roll of her eyes.

Link gawked at her. "You're Legend's sister? He never even said he had a sister!"

"You two are alike," Fable huffed. "He doesn't particularly want a bunch of people to know he's related to me. But never mind that. Go talk to your dad."

Link stood there a moment, processing the words, before he exhaled shakily and nodded. Fable moved to the computer, working on catching up on charting to give him some privacy but also keep an eye on things. This patient's safety was her responsibility, after all.

Link seemed almost timid to approach the patient, even though he knew he was sedated. He slowly slid his hand into the older man's, shakily and quietly saying, "Hey, Papa. I... I, uh... I-I..."

Fable glanced out of the corner of her eye, seeing the young man getting tearful, and she tried to focus on her work once more.

"I missed you," Link whispered. "I'm s-sorry... about... about everything."

She heard a sniffle, and then the transporter moved quickly out of the room, offering her a brief but quick thanks before disappearing.

Fable turned towards the doorway, and then looked at her patient uncertainly. That was... odd.

Sighing, she walked up to the man, brushing hair out of his face. "Buddy, your family drama sounds almost as crazy as mine."

[reasoningdaily]

NEWBERN, Ala. — There’s a power struggle in Newbern, Alabama, and the rural town’s first Black mayor is at war with the previous administration who he says locked him out of Town Hall.

After years of racist harassment and intimidation, Patrick Braxton is fed up, and in a federal civil rights lawsuit he is accusing town officials of conspiring to deny his civil rights and his position because of his race.

“When I first became mayor, [a white woman told me] the town was not ready for a Black mayor,” Braxton recalls.

The town is 85% Black, and 29% of Black people here live below the poverty line. 

“What did she mean by the town wasn’t ready for a Black mayor? They, meaning white people?” Capital B asked.

“Yes. No change,” Braxton says.

Decades removed from a seemingly Jim Crow South, white people continue to thwart Black political progress by refusing to allow them to govern themselves or participate in the country’s democracy, several residents told Capital B. While litigation may take months or years to resolve, Braxton and community members are working to organize voter education, registration, and transportation ahead of the 2024 general election.

But the tension has been brewing for years. 

Two years ago, Braxton says he was the only volunteer firefighter in his department to respond to a tree fire near a Black person’s home in the town of 275 people. As Braxton, 57, actively worked to put out the fire, he says, one of his white colleagues tried to take the keys to his fire truck to keep him from using it.

In another incident, Braxton, who was off duty at the time, overheard an emergency dispatch call for a Black woman experiencing a heart attack. He drove to the fire station to retrieve the automated external defibrillator, or AED machine, but the locks were changed, so he couldn’t get into the facility. He raced back to his house, grabbed his personal machine, and drove over to the house, but he didn’t make it in time to save her. Braxton wasn’t able to gain access to the building or equipment until the Hale County Emergency Management Agency director intervened, the lawsuit said. 

“I have been on several house fires by myself,” Braxton says. “They hear the radio and wouldn’t come. I know they hear it because I called dispatch, and dispatch set the tone call three or four times for Newbern because we got a certain tone.”

Not only has he been locked out of the town hall and fought fires alone, but he’s been followed by a drone and unable to retrieve the town’s mail and financial accounts, he says. Rather than concede, Haywood “Woody” Stokes III, the former white mayor, along with his council members, reappointed themselves to their positions after ordering a special election that no one knew about. 

Braxton is suing them, the People’s Bank of Greensboro, and the postmaster at the U.S. Post Office. 

For at least 60 years, there’s never been an election in the town. Instead, the mantle has been treated as a “hand me down” by the small percentage of white residents, according to several residents Capital B interviewed. After being the only one to submit qualifying paperwork and statement of economic interests, Braxton became the mayor.

Stokes and his council — which consists of three white people (Gary Broussard, Jesse Leverett, Willie Tucker) and one Black person (Voncille Brown Thomas) — deny any wrongdoing in their response to the amended complaint filed on April 17. They also claim qualified immunity, which protects state and local officials from individual liability from civil lawsuits.

The attorneys for all parties, including the previous town council, the bank, and Lynn Thiebe, the postmaster at the post office, did not respond to requests for comment.

The town where voting never was

Over the past 50 years, Newbern has held a majority Black population. The town was incorporated in 1854 and became known as a farm town. The Great Depression and the mechanization of the cotton industry contributed to Newbern’s economic and population decline, according to the Encyclopedia of Alabama.

Today, across Newbern’s 1.2 square miles sits the town hall and volunteer fire department constructed by Auburn’s students, an aging library, U.S. Post Office, and Mercantile, the only store there, which Black people seldom frequent because of high prices and a lack of variety of products, Braxton says.

“They want to know why Black [people] don’t shop with them. You don’t have nothin’ the Black [people] want or need,” he says. “No gasoline. … They used to sell country-time bacon and cheese and souse meat. They stopped selling that because they say they didn’t like how it feel on their hands when they cuttin’ the meat.”

To help unify the town, Braxton began hosting annual Halloween parties for the children, and game day for the senior citizens. But his efforts haven’t been enough to stop some people from moving for better jobs, industry, and quality of life. 

Residents say the white town leaders have done little to help the predominantly Black area thrive over the years. They question how the town has spent its finances, as Black residents continue to struggle. Under the American Rescue Plan Act, Newbern received $30,000, according to an estimated funding sheet by Alabama Democratic U.S. Rep. Terri Sewell, but residents say they can’t see where it has gone. 

At the First Baptist Church of Newbern, Braxton, three of his selected council members — Janice Quarles, 72, Barbara Patrick, 78, and James Ballard, 76 — and the Rev. James Williams, 77, could only remember two former mayors: Robert Walthall, who served as mayor for 44 years, and Paul Owens, who served on the council for 33 years and mayor for 11.

“At one point, we didn’t even know who the mayor was,” Ballard recalls.  “If you knew somebody and you was white, and your grandfather was in office when he died or got sick, he passed it on down to the grandson or son, and it’s been that way throughout the history of Newbern.”

Quarles agreed, adding: “It took me a while to know that Mr. Owens was the mayor. I just thought he was just a little man cleaning up on the side of the road, sometimes picking up paper. I didn’t know until I was told that ‘Well, he’s the mayor now.’” 

Braxton mentioned he heard of a Black man named Mr. Hicks who previously sought office years ago.

“This was before my time, but I heard Mr. Hicks had won the mayor seat and they took it from him the next day [or] the next night,” Braxton said. “It was another Black guy, had won years ago, and they took it from.”

“I hadn’t heard that one,” Ballard chimes in, sitting a few seats away from Braxton.

“How does someone take the seat from him, if he won?” Capital B asked.

“The same way they’re trying to do now with Mayor Braxton,” Quarles chuckled. “Maybe at that time — I know if it was Mr. Hicks — he really had nobody else to stand up with him.”

Despite the rumor, what they did know for sure: There was never an election, and Stokes had been in office since 2008.

The costs to challenging the white power structure

After years of disinvestment, Braxton’s frustrations mounted at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, when he says Stokes refused to commemorate state holidays or hang up American flags. When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, the majority-white council failed to provide supplies such as disinfectant, masks, and humidifiers to residents to mitigate the risks of contracting the virus.

Instead of waiting, Braxton made several trips to neighboring Greensboro, about 10 miles away, to get food and other items to distribute to Black and white residents. He also placed signs around town about vaccination. He later found his signs had been destroyed and put in “a burn pile,” he said.

After years of unmet needs of the community, Braxton decided to qualify for mayor. Only one Black person — Brown Thomas, who served with Stokes —has ever been named to the council. After Braxton told Stokes, the acting mayor, his intention to run, the conspiracy began, the lawsuit states. 

According to the lawsuit, Stokes gave Braxton the wrong information on how to qualify for mayor. Braxton then consulted with the Alabama Conference of Black Mayors, and the organization told him to file his statement of candidacy and statement of the economic interests with the circuit clerk of Hale County and online with the state, the lawsuit states. Vickie Moore, the organization’s executive director, said it also guided Braxton on how to prepare for his first meeting and other mayoral duties. 

Moore, an Alabama native and former mayor of Slocomb, said she has never heard of other cases across the state where elected officials who have never been elected are able to serve. This case with Braxton is “racism,” she said.

“The true value of a person can’t be judged by the color of their skin, and that’s what’s happening in this case here, and it’s the worst racism I’ve ever seen,” Moore said. “We have fought so hard for simple rights. It’s one of the most discouraging but encouraging things because it encourages us to continue to move forward … and continue to fight.”

Political and legal experts say what’s happening in Newbern is rare, but the tactics to suppress Black power aren’t, especially across the South. From tampering with ballot boxes to restricting reading material, “the South has been resistant to all types of changes” said Emmitt Riley III, associate professor of political science and Africana Studies at The University of the South.

“This is a clear case of white [people] attempting to seize and maintain political power in the face of someone who went through the appropriate steps to qualify and to run for office and by default wins because no one else qualified,” Riley added. “This raises a number of questions about democracy and a free and fair system of governance.”

Riley mentioned a different, but similar case in rural Greenwood, Mississippi. Sheriel Perkins, a longtime City Council member, became the first Black female mayor in 2006, serving for only two years. She ran again in 2013 and lost by 206 votes to incumbent Carolyn McAdams, who is white. Perkins contested the results, alleging voter fraud. White people allegedly paid other white people to live in the city in order to participate in the election and cast a legal vote, Riley said. In that case, the state Supreme Court dismissed the case and “found Perkins presented no evidence” that anyone voted illegally in a precinct, but rather it was the election materials that ended up in the wrong precincts.

“It was also on record that one white woman got on the witness stand and said, ‘I came back to vote because I was contacted to vote by X person.’ I think you see these tactics happening all across the South in local elections, in particular,” Riley said. “It becomes really difficult for people to really litigate these cases because in many cases it goes before the state courts, and state courts have not been really welcoming to overturning elections and ordering new elections.” 

Another example: Camilla, Georgia. 

In 2015, Rufus Davis was elected as the first Black male mayor of rural, predominantly Black Camilla. In 2017, the six-person City Council — half Black and half white — voted to deny him a set of keys to City Hall, which includes his office. Davis claimed the white city manager, Bennett Adams, had been keeping him from carrying out his mayoral duties. 

The next year, Davis, along with Black City Council member Venterra Pollard, boycotted the city’s meetings because of “discrimination within the city government,” he told a local news outlet. Some of the claims included the absence of Black officers in the police department, and the city’s segregated cemetery, where Black people cannot be buried next to white people. (The wire fence that divided the cemetery was taken down in 2018). In 2018, some citizens of the small town of about 5,000 people wanted to remove Davis from office and circulated a petition that garnered about 200 signatures. In 2019, he did not seek re-election for office.

“You’re not the mayor” 

After being the only person to qualify and submit proper paperwork for any municipal office, Braxton became mayor-elect and the first Black mayor in Newbern’s history on July 22, 2020.

Following the announcement, Braxton appointed members to join his council, consistent with the practice of previous leadership. He asked both white and Black people to serve, he said, but the white people told him they didn’t want to get involved.

The next month, Stokes and the former council members, Broussard, Leverett, Brown Thomas, and Tucker, called a secret meeting to adopt an ordinance to conduct a special election on Oct. 6 because they “allegedly forgot to qualify as candidates,” according to the lawsuit, which also alleges the meeting was not publicized. The defendants deny this claim, but admit to filing statements of candidacy to be elected at the special election, according to their response to an amended complaint filed on their behalf.

Because Stokes and his council were the only ones to qualify for the Oct. 6 election, they reappointed themselves as the town council. On Nov. 2, 2020, Braxton and his council members were sworn into office and filed an oath of office with the county probate judge’s office. Ten days later, the city attorney’s office executed an oath of office for Stokes and his council. 

After Braxton held his first town meeting in November, Stokes changed the locks to Town Hall to keep him and his council from accessing the building. For months, the two went back and forth on changing the locks until Braxton could no longer gain access. At some point, Braxton says he discovered all official town records had been removed or destroyed, except for a few boxes containing meeting minutes and other documents.

Braxton also was prevented from accessing the town’s financial records with the People’s Bank of Greensboro and the city clerk, and obtaining mail from the town’s post office. At every turn, he was met with a familiar answer: “You’re not the mayor.” Separately, he’s had drones following him to his home and mother’s home and had a white guy almost run him off the road, he says. 

Braxton asserts he’s experienced these levels of harassment and intimidation to keep him from being the mayor, he said. 

“Not having the Lord on your side, you woulda’ gave up,” he told Capital B.

‘Ready to fire away’ 

In the midst of the obstacles, Braxton kept pushing. He partnered with LaQuenna Lewis, founder of Love Is What Love Does, a Selma-based nonprofit focused on enriching the lives of disadvantaged people in Dallas, Perry, and Hale counties through such means as food distribution, youth programming, and help with utility bills. While meeting with Braxton, Lewis learned more about his case and became an investigator with her friend Leslie Sebastian, a former advocacy attorney based in California. 

The three began reviewing thousands of documents from the few boxes Braxton found in Town Hall, reaching out to several lawyers and state lawmakers such as Sen. Bobby Singleton and organizations such as the Southern Poverty Law Center. No one wanted to help.

When the white residents learned Lewis was helping Braxton, she, too, began receiving threats early last year. She received handwritten notes in the mail with swastikas and derogatory names such as the n-word and b-word. One of theletters had a drawing of her and Braxton being lynched. 

Another letter said they had been watching her at the food distribution site and hoped she and Braxton died. They also made reference to her children, she said. Lewis provided photos of the letters, but Capital B will not publish them. In October, Lewis and her children found their house burned to the ground. The cause was undetermined, but she thinks it may have been connected.

Lewis, Sebastian, and Braxton continued to look for attorneys that would take the case. Braxton filed a complaint in Alabama’s circuit court last November, but his attorney at the time stopped answering his calls. In January, they found a new attorney, Richard Rouco, who filed an amended complaint in federal court.

“He went through a total of five attorneys prior to me meeting them last year, and they pretty much took his money. We ran into some big law firms who were supposed to help and they kind of misled him,” Lewis says. 

Right now, the lawsuit is in the early stages, Rouco says, and the two central issues of the case center on whether the previous council with Stokes were elected as they claim and if they gave proper notice.

Braxton and his team say they are committed to still doing the work in light of the lawsuit. Despite the obstacles, Braxton is running for mayor again in 2025. Through AlabamaLove.org, the group is raising money to provide voter education and registration, and address food security and youth programming. Additionally, they all hope they can finally bring their vision of a new Newbern to life.

For Braxton, it’s bringing grocery and convenience stores to the town. Quarles wants an educational and recreational center for children. Williams, the First Baptist Church minister, wants to build partnerships to secure grants in hopes of getting internet and more stores.

“I believe we done put a spark to the rocket, and it’s going [to get ready] to fire away,” Williams says at his church. “This rocket ready to fire away, and it’s been hovering too long.”

Correction: In Newbern, Alabama, 29% of the Black population lives below the poverty line. An earlier version of this story misstated the percentage

[tornado1992]

I know it’s wholesome Sonic and Tails Wednesday eve and I shouldn’t be posting anything angsty BUT

Now that we’re exploring the potential of Tails being directly linked to the Chaos Emeralds…

Team Sonic and the restoration are fighting Eggman’s forces, it’s rough, they’re outnumbered and are getting close to being out powered, Silver and Team Dark’s assistance be dammed, Eggman did plan how to keep them occupied.

A foreign place, no citizens around, no remaining functioning facilities nearby, not any city, town or population, nothing close to them, everything has been rather evacuated or demolished by Badniks.

They’re scattered around the battlefield, everyone way too far from one another, but they have to cover more terrain, and no one’s better than Sonic to do that.

He’s going from edge to edge, dodging, punching, wrecking, they’ve been at this for hours but he can keep on for days, no doubt.

There’s yelling and shouting until there isn’t, a harsh sudden silence taking its place, weird. Sonic turns to the vibration in his arm.

His communicator illuminates in bright angry red, an alarm. Tails vitals.

Tails flatlines.

Way to sudden, no rising on vitals, no yelling from his side of the battlefield, it had to be a mistake, he needed it to be a mistake.

But the screen shows Tails’ communicator’s still attached to his wrist, and there’s no longer any silence when the shouts and cries of the fox’s name fill the place, It wasn’t a mistake.

He nearly trips on his own feet at how quickly he moved, his legs suddenly so weak to support him, but he had no time to freeze, he had no time to doubt he had no time-

He gets beside him in less than a second.

He’s on the ground, no badniks near him, the ground around him almost steaming, surrounding him in infernal smoke, he can feel the ground trembling, trembling, almost like how his body felt when a much younger Tails was purring while hugging him. Hell, why does he look so small all of the sudden?

His baby brother’s bright pretty yellow fur tainted if not bathed in a sick red. His chest fluff has no white left to show, a deep wound right over his heart. No.

He craddles him close, he knows he shouldn’t move him but he shouldn’t be so still, he wasn’t supposed to be this still, no, he was supposed to at least be crying he was supposed to hug Sonic back he was supposed to open his eyes-

There are no functioning hospitals in miles. The medic team is not equipped for this after hours of treating the wounded and preventing casualties. There’s no longer any medic team around, just wrecked badniks and his friends approaching.

Tails isn’t breathing. He doesn’t react to the speedster’s hand on his cheek. He doesn’t purr when his brother’s fingers run through his bangs. He doesn’t wake up when Sonic shouts his name begging him to please open his eyes.

Tails flatlined, but Sonic could tell his own heart threatening to stop.

He can’t hear anything. He can’t think. He can’t see anything but how still his little brother’s chest is.

He doesn’t think. He just knows he will not lose his little brother. Not now. Not ever. Not like this.

His body moves on his own when he practically rips a chaos emerald from Shadow’s hand, returning to his brother’s side not a second after, he doesn’t think even once about what doing next.

Sonic puts the chaos emerald over his kid’s small chest, right over his heart. Most would call what he made an “overpowered defibrillator”, but he knows he was just reaching for a miracle.

The miracle mercilessly shocks his kid.

One time, it doesn’t work. Two times, he can feel how the kit’s body can barely handle that much energy. Three times, his own hands are trembling, why is Tails face wet? It’s not even raining. Four times, someone’s yelling at him to stop, he’s only hurting Tails even more, he’s only damaging his body, but he can’t hear anything, Five times, he uses even more power, all his rage, desperation and… fear? Into that last shock.

Tails wakes up with a gasp. It worked.

It worked, Tails opened his eyes and started coughing loudly. Rough and harsh, but it meant he was alive, no wound visible anymore over his chest.

It worked, and that’s all that matters now.

Not how the skin in his hands got burned even through his gloves, not how his little brother’s eyes are no longer baby blue but an emerald green so much like his, not how long it took for Tails to actually look at him and answer when he asked if he was okay, not how he seemed more scared than confused about the fact that he was alive, not how even while Tails was fully awake and conscious Knuckles couldn’t find a pulse.

Tails is alive, and that’s all that matters.

[catgirlscout]

I am working on a 50s Diner/Greaser AU one shot fanfic with Medic / Scout / Engineer. (I don't know if they have a official shipping name but I shall call it Defibrillator, I won't explain why) I drew these a while ago for Appeypie's DTIYS and based the visual inspiration on it. Greaser Medic has my heart. There's gonna be NSFW so be warned. Here is an excerpt from what I wrote. I will post the full fanfic on Ao3 when it's finished. The title will be: Milkshakes n' Motorbikes (Alternate title: Fries n' Fucks) Blurb: Usually all Henry cares about is his hair, his grooves and pretty ladies, but when he falls head over heels for a handsome waiter at his regular diner, his world turns upside down. It doesn’t take long before he tries to hook-up with him. If only his roommate wasn’t such a fucking moodkill. Guess, he has to make up for it somehow.

Medic - Henry

Scout - Jamie

Engineer - Jon

All in all, working as a carhop at a drive-thru diner definitely had it’s perks. On a Saturday like this, Jamie made good money simply by having a pretty face. It was fun, gliding around on his roller skates with a tray in each hand, and being able to show off. Sometimes people handed him five dollar bills to do a spin or a flip. Many girls left him large tips to flirt with him, while men usually whistled at his rather skimpy uniform and honked their horns as they passed him. He knew it was meant as a joke most of the time, but admittedly he liked the attention.

There was one particular guy, a regular, who stopped by almost daily. Jamie knew his order by heart. Large fries, an American burger and a chocolate shake with a cherry on top. His name was Henry and he was your typical leatherjacket wearing, cigarette smoking greaser. A total bad boy. Normally, Jamie tried to stay away from guys like that but he seemed genuinely interested. Whenever he came to his window, he slipped a note into his pocket. Little messages scribbled on napkins, asking for his phone number and if he wanted to go on a date. It was cute and romantic and undeniably gave him butterflies. That’s why he had agreed to meet up with him several times over the past few weeks or so. Of course, it didn’t take long before they started going out. During his break they made-out behind the dumpsters, before Jamie had to get back to work. It always left him hungry for more. Just thinking about how he would shove his hands under his apron and pull his pants down, made him blush. Today, Henry would pick him up with his car - a baby blue Volkswagen with red padding and a convertible sunroof. He seriously couldn’t wait for his shift to end. Henry had invited him over to his house to watch a movie. They would cuddle up under a big blanket and kiss and afterwards, who knows. Perhaps it was time for the next step.

Fifteen minutes later, he heard a roaring engine on the parking lot in front of the diner. That was his sign to come out. He grabbed his things and pulled up to the car window with a cheeky smile.

“Welcome to Fried Batter. Can I take your order?”, he said in his best waiter-voice.

Henry played along. “I would like your hottest chick, please.”, he winked.

“Coming right up.”

With a click the door opened and Jamie climbed onto his seat, giggling. As soon as he was buckled in, Henry revved the engine once more and cut the corner with spinning tires. On the way home he rolled down the windows and blasted loud rock music through the radio. They sang along and laughed and when they finally backed into the small open space of a workshop Jamie could barely contain his excitement. Henry stopped to look at him and put a hand on his inner thigh, brushing against his soft, exposed skin with the tips of his fingers.

“Here we are.”

[cyberrose2001]

Can I request bayverse ratchet with a fem! human who confesses her feelings to him?

Bayverse Ratchet x fem!human!reader

here's a short scenario for you anon :)

Warnings: None, SFW

Word count: 638

“Ratchet, can we uh… talk.”

It wasn’t something that had occurred to you quickly. Instead, it was something that had been brewing inside you for over a year whilst being employed to conduct cover-up work for NEST. A whole bunch of emotions you had no intention of unravelling until now.

He’s noticed you, and you’ve noticed him. The sideway glances of his optics never failed to catch your eye as you manoeuvre yourself around the base, holding yourself in a professional regard you are most proud of. But this is in no way professional, not in the slightest. Ratchet is a Cybertronian, a species whose life spans are longer than the time it took for your ancestors to crawl out of the ocean. You’re just a human, an insect to them—a bunch of backstabbin’ weasels.

Despite whether or not he shares the same affections for you, you need to get it off your chest so you can at least move on.

“Certainly. What do you need to discuss with me?” Ratchet says, unbothered by your presence like he usually is with other members of your species. He had told you once that you were the only human he could barely tolerate, and that’s one tick for yes on your checklist of ‘Does Ratchet like me, or would he rather saw me in half?’.

You stand before him, brushing your works pants awkwardly. You’re thankful you caught him alone in his designated med bay, fiddling with equipment entirely alien to you. You really didn’t want to be made fun of by Hound. You clear your throat, “What are you, uh, working on?”

“I’m calibrating the electromagnetic spark conductor, ESC for short. I believe the proper term for your species is a ‘defibrillator’.” The green mech places a tool back on the bench and looks at you, “But according to your elevated heart rate, you’re not here just to make small talk, are you?”

Fuck. He’s got you there. Curse your involuntary bodily functions.

“No, not really.” You finger the hem of your blouse, “I’ve noticed you, uh, staring a lot.”

Ratchets’ shoulders tense before a small smile graces his metallic lips, “Quite observant you are. It’s no wonder that they hired you.”

You nearly choke on your breath, “Well, heh, I’ve got to be good at something, right?”

“Indeed,” Ratchet crouches down to your height, allowing you to take in every little crevasse of his face. Bright blue optics roaming across your own flushed face, “But I’ll have to say, you’re not very talented in hiding your emotions very well.”

Now or never, Y/n. You exhale shaky, “It’s hard to hide emotions like these, Ratchet. I like you.”

“Well, that’s rather obvious, isn’t it?” He scoffs playfully, not in his usual rude way as you had expected, “But it seems that I have harbored the same… feelings for you as well.”

Now you actually choke on your breath. Your chest swells with happiness and disbelief, “You… you mean it?”

Ratchet tilts his helm, “I would not lie to you,” He reaches a curled digit to brush against your cheek, “You’ve certainly caught my attention for a little squishy like you.”

You smile and lean into his touch, relief washing over you in waves, “I… don’t know what to say.”

A small smile also graces his face, “You need not. Your actions speak louder.”

Cautiously, you gently move a hand out in front of you and push it against his face. It’s cold and metallic but fits just right against the palm of your hand, “What will we tell the others?”

“Nothing, they don’t need to know,” He hums, feeling the vibrations run down your arm, “Let’s keep it professional around them for now, hm? That’s something you’re good at.”

You chuckle, cheeks warming up, “For sure, Ratchet. For sure…”

[simplysedusa]

General Rowdyruff Boy Headcanons I Plan to Incorporate Into My Fic(s)

Both Butch and Boomer are musically inclined (Boomer preferring the guitar, while Butch sticks to the drums) and are pretty good singers. Brick, on the other hand, is completely tone deaf and has yet to realize it (thus crushing Butch's secret fantasy of becoming a rock band called "The Rowdyrock Boys").

Brick's guilty pleasures are boy groups ever since the events of IDW #10 Comic.

Both Butch and Boomer are also athletes in school; Boomer focuses more on team sports (football, basketball, soccer) while Butch plays more individualized sports (swimming, wrestling, gymnastics). Brick thinks he's too cool to play for a school or organization (and if he can't lead, then what's the point).

Everyone assumes Boomer's the nicest, but he's not, he's just the more outgoing, charming extrovert brother out of the three.

The actual nicest brother is Butch, he's the least likely to hurt/harass/threaten a random bystander without provocation, and is surprisingly (and somewhat eerily) chill when not in the company of his brothers.

Butch had the most codependent tendencies, and was often a reluctant yes man to his brothers (mostly Brick).

Brick is dyslexic, it took Ms. Keane a week to realize while home-schooling him.

With the boys being adopted by Ms. Keane, Brick takes the longest to warm up to her. He's very wary of and cold towards authoritative figures, ESPECIALLY parental figures.

After Boomer's done antagonizing her, he becomes the first to open up to Ms. Keane.

Valentino warmed up to Brick first, however. Butch became rather jealous at the fact.

After many instances of hair pulling, and an incident involving Butch, Boomer, and a whole pack of chewed chewing gum, Brick decides to keep his hair shorter.

Brick's the best and most experienced cook out of the three.

A part of Mojo truly does care for the Rowdyruff Boys, but it's not healthy. He's much too obsessive, as if they were his property or weapons of mass destruction.

Boomer has the power of electrokinesis. He's able to "charge up" with nearly any electrical device or lightning itself, and also charge/power down electrical devices. Too much electricity in his system causes him to shock others unprovoked or "short-circuit". This came in handy with their ankle monitors during their house arrest, and at school where he caused power outages that resulted in early dismissals. The most he's ever absorbed (so far) had caused an entire blackout in the city of Townsville (Butch was beating him at an arcade game).

Boomer later discovers (with the help of Blossom) that he can act as a defibrillator to the Powerpuffs and Rowdyruffs in a pinch (I originally got the idea from @faeerrie).

Butch's ability to generate force fields has progressed to the point that he can generate force fields around other people/items not including himself. He discovered this during one of Brick's training regimens when he threatened to destroy Butch's possessions until Butch was able to pull it off.

Butch's force fields though require a lot of focus on Butch's end, especially if he's protecting something other than himself.

Butch can also move items/people while in his force field.

Despite no longer aiming to kill the Powerpuff Girls, Brick still held secret training sessions at night. They couldn't afford to get sloppy in case they had to protect themselves against the girls (or Mojo and/or HIM, which was his main concern).

Brick doesn't have a unique power, just like Buttercup. Since their Chemical X cells aren't working harder to produce new powers, this allows for these two (and spoiler alert: Brat) to be just a little bit faster, a little bit stronger, and a little more endurable than their siblings.

However, like the Powerpuff Girls, the boys have shared telepathy. They're able to communicate with themselves internally, but only if all three are within a certain distance and if all three are "willing".

Boomer was often the neglected kid of the trio while under Mojo's and/or HIM's "care".

Boomer managed to hide a Beebo in the house for years. He named them "Bob".

Initially, the Rowdyruff Boys and the Gangreen Gang had a frenemy type relationship. The gang felt like the boys were too similar to the Powerpuffs, and attempted to manipulate them into their bidding. Meanwhile, the boys thought the gang was kinda cool, but also a little lame.

They later bond with the Gangreen Gang post- Gorillaz era when they learn that Grubber and Billy are illegally taking care of a Beebo themselves, and that they're cool with Mitch.

[localcoffeeshop]

my list of murders committed & deaths inadvertently caused by the three main characters in fionna & cake

notes:

if the scarab explicitly kills someone, i do not count it as a causal murder because to me the scarab has to take responsibility for his own crimes. that's one reason why farmworld finn isn't counted and also because i refuse to even accept it as a possibility that he might be dead. and why those homeless hamsters don't count either.

however, ash counts because she just fell into the cracks in the world rather than being directly murdered.

vampworld huntress, PB, and marcy aren't counted as causal because nothing fionna cake or simon did would've made their deaths reasonably more or less likely. we can't say if it would have gone better had martin been there instead

the pillow child & sentient cup of tea aren't explicitly dead but i think we could reasonably argue that there's no coming back from the situations they're in and they died because of what cake and fi did to them

despite having only 1 (twice) murder to his name, Simon is by far the most fucked up murderer for having contemplated the crime beforehand, kept his murder victim prisoner in a cage in his home, killed him once, revived him via defibrillator, and then killed him again, with full awareness that choose goose was a sentient(-ish) being existing in a shared reality to his own

[sirowsky-stories]

The Old Prince

Part 11

Author's Note: All I'm gonna say is, I'm so so sorry.

Description: The war begins.

Rating: Mature 18+ONLY Warnings: Monster Oberyn Martell x Female Reader, AU fic, obviously Halloween themed, reader cusses. Angst. Word Count: 5053 Author's Masterlist

   Thirty-six minutes. That is how long you were dead.    More than half an hour in which all Oberyn could do was try and not give in to the despair. If he had, he would have drowned all of Scandinavia in fire, darkening himself so absolutely that Simon would not have had to make any effort to corrupt him. He would have happily destroyed the world for not allowing you to exist.

   His call to the emergency services had been panicked and largely incomprehensible, so how they had managed to arrive and begin to work on you in less than five minutes, was a right miracle.    They had asked him so many questions he could not hope to answer. Not because he did not know, but because so much about you is not knowable. You are an orphan, which of course makes your medical history impossible to determine, but at the same time, your human body is not merely human, so there is no way to fully understand it.    But how could he explain any of this?

   All your readings had come back flat. Your ECG, pulse and blood pressure no more than lines upon their machines. Your temperature dropping by the minutes. But the four paramedics had been so professional and skillful, not giving up even as their efforts had yielded no results, one of them coming to his side and offering comfort when they had noticed how he had begun to spiral into fits of agony.  

   But your heart had never even responded enough for them to try and shock it with the defibrillator, and they had just decided to give up when you had suddenly returned.    Waking up as though you had simply taken a nap, the machines had all come to life at once, not with blaring alarms or dramatic flashes, just the steady beeps indicating your heartbeats and normal readings of blood pressure, oxygenation, pulse and temperature. All had appeared at once, as if having been there all along.

   He did not dare believe it at first, waiting for his heart to start beating again and his lungs to stop contracting before he could accept that the shock which he was seeing in the medical staff was all real.    Equally stunned at the sudden appearance of several strangers around your naked body, in what must have been mere seconds to you, you had tried to ease the tension as best you could, while likely letting your mind catch up to what must have happened in your absence.

   So controlled, even under such strange and unusual circumstances, while Oberyn had nearly lost his mind.    Still, the relief of having you back had soon taken over, allowing him to rejoice in the moment, even as you had then demonstrated the power of your new understanding.    And now, less than an hour later, you sit upon his back as alive as you have ever been.

   More than that, you are happy. Despite the dire state of the world, whatever you have learned in your spiritual endeavor, it has left your soul harmonious. He can feel it in the energy you give off. The light you spread by simply existing. And he envies you, for his own heart is muddled by fear, both the lingering dread of a world without you, but also a terrible worry this new plan of yours will fail.    Not due to any lack of faith in your abilities, but rather in the stark absence of any plan whatsoever.

   You told him first to fly south, to the capitol of Norway, and he did. But once there, you had climbed down, walked among the frightened and fleeing people, somehow stopping them without a word, before you had touched the shoulders of a select few and then returned to him. Climbing back on without a word of explanation, you had merely asked him to head for Stockholm next. So, he did. And then Finland, from where you had directed him to Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania and now Poland is your next stop.

   But you say nothing more. You have not even attempted to help him understand what is actually being done, somehow under the impression that your demonstration in the hotel room should be enough for him to grasp the concept.    Alas, he does not.

   “Valya?”

   “Yeah?”

   “What is this? What exactly are you doing in the capitols for only a few minutes, to leave you with such confidence it will turn the tides of this war?”

   “I can try to explain, but it probably won’t help much, because I don’t understand most of it myself. Not consciously, anyway. I just know in my heart that this is what I need to do.”

   “Please, try,” he beckons as gently as he can manage, and feels your soothing hands stroke his neck while you oblige him, clearly sensing his frustration.

   “All life on this planet is connected, and that’s what makes our side of this war so unfathomably powerful,” you begin, and you sound so animated. “Because when I touch these people, I feel what weighs on them. Their pains and everyday torments. The existing darkness within all of us which Simon uses to manipulate us. And once I know what it is, I can take it away.”

   “But how? People can’t just be freed of fear, can they?”

   “Not freed, no. What I do is take away the power that fear has over them. I put so much hope in their souls that even if the sky should come crashing down, they wouldn’t panic. And when I do that, each person I’ve touched then spreads their light to every other person they meet, and once enough positive energy has been created, nature becomes affected as well, carrying it further and further out into the countryside.”

   “This all sounds most wonderful, but I still fail to grasp how it helps us combat the darkness which still spreads to the west.”

   “I’m flooding the world with light, Oberyn. So much of it, within all living things, that no matter how hard he tries, Simon won’t be able to infect anything more. His army won’t be able to grow any further which means his power will stop growing as well.    In the meantime, I’m also increasing our power, yours and mine, because with every life we add to the whole, their strength becomes our strength.    Can’t you feel it? How much lighter you already fly. How much easier each stroke of your wings is becoming.    The world is already carrying you, my love. All you need to do is trust it.”

   He knows the feeling of which you speak. The lightness with which he glides through the air now, as though the winds themselves have become his allies. It is part of the reason for his concern.    Perhaps simply because he has never felt accepted or wanted by this world, but the thought that all living things could ever willfully lend their power to him, is precisely what makes him doubt this endeavor.

   However, his trust in you is absolute. He will not challenge your authority or attempt to dissuade you from this course.    But the other reason for his concern is the fact you had to die to learn of this ability to spread hope. The spirit within you is not only the most powerful of all, but also the most mysterious, hiding from all worlds and all realms since the dawn of time.    And having seen you lifeless, he is no longer convinced that trusting it blindly will end well for all parties involved.

   Oberyn has a growing fear within his chest which whispers in his ear of your fragility in this mere human form, trying to convince him that no matter how well prepared you might be… the final battle will inevitably claim your life.    Of course, this is quite possibly only his own mind attempting to prepare for a worst-case scenario which, it cannot be denied, is not at all improbable. But he must not allow these thoughts to color his perception, or he himself might be the cause of your demise.    So, he keeps his deepest worries concealed, hoping they will not fester within the depths of his soul.

-=<>=-=<>=-=<>=-

   All your life you’ve thought about how travelling around the world would be your treat to yourself after a long life of hard work and scraping together the money. And now, you’re jumping from country to country, making lightning fast visits to every capitol of the world, zig-zagging down the European continent, over to Africa, before turning back up and moving over the eastern European region, making four stops in Russia because of it’s size, and then taking on the Asian continent.

   Because of the frequent stops, the dragon remains low to the ground, letting you see the impressive landscape of the Alps, the African savannah, active volcanoes in Iceland, Italy and Ethiopia. Then the Himalayas, which quite literally take your breath away as he takes a slightly longer route, winding his way between the largest peaks and the deepest valleys to let you truly see the might of these age-old formations which he helped create.

   However, it’s also so much more than just the impressions from your senses. You can feel the world around you now, from the growing light within the human population, to the awakening power of the billions of trees who are so integral to the ecosystem, to the countless vibrations generated by the array of buzzing insects just going about their day.    But more than anything, you feel the mountains.

   There is so much energy locked within their mass, so much more lifeforce than you could ever have imagined could be found within cold, hard stone.    It’s as if the gravitational and magnetic forces of the Earth are in constant conflict with the unyielding material, creating a completely separate energy in the process, stored within each crack and cavity of the bedrock.    You wonder if Simon can sense it too, and whether, if he can, he might also be able to use it to feed and strengthen his darkness.

   In any case, you’re confident of your chances when it comes to the survival of life and light. With each passing hour more countries are joining the force for good, until all that’s left is Antarctica and then South America.    From the southernmost point of New Zealand, Oberyn gets you to the icy continent in record time, and it’s a strange thing to come to such an isolated place as an unexpected visitor. And not just because you’re arriving on the back of a dragon.

   In every other country the cities you’ve visited have been large, to varying degrees, filled with human, animal, and plant-life, whereas here, some of the towns or research facilities consist of five structures, of which most are tents.    There are no plants and while you can feel the presence of birds and penguins further away, there’s no connection between them and the human settlements.    It is more heavily populated than you would’ve imagined, though. Some four thousand people in total are working on the continent, which is in its summer season.

   You ask Oberyn to land at McMurdo Station, where there are a lot of people out and about in the mild and clear weather, enjoying the sun while they can.    But unlike all the other places you’ve landed today, these people seem completely unafraid of the dragon. Perhaps because they’ve chosen to live in one of the harshest environments on earth, making them highly resilient to stress, but it is impressive all the same.

   “Hello,” you greet with a smile and a small wave as a crowd quickly begins to gather around main street, where the massive Tyrannus stands tall after helping you step down. “We’re not here to hurt anyone, I hope you can believe that.”

   A younger woman steps forward then, while more people continue adding to the curious onlookers further along the street. She’s likely in her mid-twenties and Hispanic, with short and wavy black hair, wearing the kinds of overalls that keeps a person warm while cutting across land on a snowmobile, although the sleeves are pushed down and tied around her waist, revealing a black wool polo-neck jumper underneath.

   “I hope you mean it,” she says loud and clear. “Just like I hope I’m not seeing things, because if this is a dream, I’m gonna be so disappointed.”

   “It’s not a dream, I promise. We’re here to ask for help.”

   “And what could a bunch of scientists at the bottom of the world do for a dragon?”

   You step closer to her before you answer, so you can reach her shoulder, but when you raise your hand towards her, she shies away. She stands her ground but pulls her shoulder back sharply.    It’s hard to tell if she’s just unsure of your intentions or if there’s a deeper issue underneath. Normally, you can sense the gist of whatever people are hiding from one another, but this woman seems uncannily skilled at concealing her feelings.

   “There’s a terrible evil spreading across the American continent right now, and you can help us stop it,” you explain, keeping your hand raised but still in front of her. “All you need to do is let me touch you.”

   Her expression darkens somewhat, hearing that, but when you slowly lower your hand towards the outer curve of her shoulder again, she doesn’t move even though her entire body turns tense and rigid. And when your fingers connect to her, you’re overwhelmed for a moment by the darkness which floods through you.    You can see the hurricane of pain this poor woman has lived with her entire life, from an abusive single mother to the many cruel and downright sadistic men she’d encountered in her eight years as a working girl, getting snared at the age of just thirteen.

   She got lucky eventually, taking the opportunity to get out when it happened to appear, and then worked hard for a long time to give herself a real chance at a good life.    But the scars have never healed. She came here to escape the world, not to help it.

   “Let your mother go, Daniela,” you whisper, meeting her eyes as they widen at the mere mention of her terrible upbringing. “She may have given you life, but she was never your mother. There’s nothing wrong with hating someone who only ever hurts you, what’s wrong is hating yourself for it.”

   A shaking breath escapes her, and with it, the hurricane starts to lose strength.    You place your other hand on her cheek, and the bare contact between your skin and hers amplifies your light as it pours into the empty slots left behind by the fleeing darkness from within her being.

   “Let her go.”

   She inhales sharply and you can feel her spirit soar with the sudden freedom. She smiles at you in a way you’re certain she’s never smiled before, so genuinely filled with happiness now that her demons have been driven out.    You know it won��t last forever, because nothing and no one is ever just light or dark, but there’s something truly precious about being able to give someone their own heart back.    She turns to the crowd, scanning it until she finds someone she knows, then runs over to them and hugs them, and you can feel how the light fills them too, immediately growing and spreading, needing nothing but an invitation to take root.

   Satisfied that your work here is done, you return to Oberyn, but he doesn’t look nearly as happy as the people around him.    His gaze is drawn to the north, and he seems very concerned.

   “What is it?” you ask, and he answers without taking his eyes off the horizon.

   “We need to go.”

   “That’s fine, I don’t need to see anyone else here.”

   “No, Valya…” he grumbles before finally turning to look at you, and you can see that he’s not just concerned, he’s afraid. “We need to take this fight back to Simon. Now.”

   “But South America-…”

   “Is already lost,” he cuts you off, and suddenly you realize what it is he sees on the horizon.

   “Oh, god. But… it’s only been a day. How could he overtake two continents that fast?”

   “I do not know. He is the most perfected Darkling to have ever lived, I’m afraid we must assume that history will be of little aid to us in this battle.”

   He picks you up and lifts you to your seat at the base of his neck, and from up there, you can already see the ashes in the air to the north.

   “Wait!” someone calls from down on the ground, and when you peer down the dragon’s side, you see Daniela come to a stop beside him, having apparently run over from her friend. “You’re leaving already?”

   She still looks so happy.

   “We have to. It’s time to fight,” you tell her, and her smile fades.

   “Oh… Did I help? It doesn’t seem like I did.”

   “You still are. Every time you smile or laugh, every happy thought or bright feeling within you will help us win this war.”

   With that, Oberyn spreads his wings and leaps out over the bay before taking his first stroke, to avoid knocking everyone to the ground. He follows the Antarctic coast all the way to Alexander Island before he turns north, then he sets his sights on the southernmost tip of Chile, reaching it in what feels like mere seconds.    But seeing it makes your heart drop. It looks exactly like the North American coast did when you first flew over it.

   “Do not lose faith, my dear. I don’t pretend to understand how, but it is your belief in the light which will end this darkness, so do not let Simon’s evil rob you of it.”

   “It’s not my belief, Oberyn, it’s everyone’s. Haven’t you figured that out yet?” you counter, but he doesn’t respond, which sends a sliver of doubt through you. “Do you not believe in my plan?”

   “I believe in you,” he replies without hesitation, but it’s not really an answer to the question.

   He can feel your disappointment, and sighs heavily before he speaks again.

   “There is a great fear within me… one that will not be silenced by any measure of hope. This fear is not of failure or death, precisely, but about Lux herself. The essence of her being.”

   “How do you mean?”

   “You said it yourself, Val. Her purpose is to protect the spirits. And I cannot shake the fear that in doing so, she will annihilate herself, and therefor you as well, should such a thing become required to accomplish her task.    This is the problem with purpose, you see. When your entire existence is bound to the fates of others, there is not always a choice.”

   “But that’s what all this was about. Spreading the light so that I’ll be strong enough-…”

   “To defeat Simon?” he cuts you off, and his tone clearly implies you couldn’t do that even if you had all the power in the world.

   “Freeing the spirits is the only way to do that, I thought we agreed on this,” you argue, and feel him nod once in confirmation.

   “We do. But did you not see them? You cannot possibly think that anything but giving it everything you have is going to be enough to free them all.”

   “With your help I can do it.”

   “I don’t doubt whether you are able, my love. I fear your purpose will command you to sacrifice yourself in the effort.”

   “Where is this coming from?” you ask, starting to feel a kind of desperation you can’t really name. “You’ve never doubted my strength before.”

   “And I still don’t. But… you were dead…”

   His voice breaks at the memory, and you can feel how truly enormous his pain was in that moment, how relentlessly seared that image is inside his brain. Your dead body on the bed.

   “All she did was show you something, and it killed you.    How am I supposed to believe that you can wield her power unscathed after witnessing such a thing?”

   “Maybe I can’t. Maybe that’s the price we’ll have to pay to protect this world,” you ponder sadly. “But even if it is… how could I ever walk away? And what difference would that make? I’d still die, just for Simon’s pleasure instead.”

   He’s quiet for a moment then, but you can feel his discomfort. Something so deeply engraved into his heart that the mere thought of it agonizes him.

   “If you die…… it will not matter if you do manage to save this world. I will burn every inch of it into dust if I must live in it for one day without you.”

   Somewhere deep inside you, there’s a twinge as you hear him say that. You don’t know what it means, but it leaves an ominous sensation in its wake. Something lightly queasy.    Then Oberyn dives through a thick black cloud and when he emerges underneath it, you’re looking at the Mexican Gulf, except it’s not an ocean anymore.    In what looks like thick, gloopy mud, and even thicker pools of tar, there are former ocean giants, now unrecognizable blobs with too many mouths and strange appendages seeming to serve no purpose at all, flopping and wriggling about. No longer able to swim and too heavy to move using the poor excuses for limbs their mutated form provides.

   You look to the east and the connecting Atlantic Ocean, confirming that it’s already spread beyond what used to be Florida. The Atlantic is too vast and deep to be infected as quickly as the gulf has clearly been, but you’re guessing no more than three days before the darkness reaches Europe. And a quick glance to the west confirms the same thing about the Pacific.    There’s no real way to know if your efforts of spreading light will truly be able to stop its advance if, or when, push comes to shove, so all you can do is hope.

   And fight.

   There’s no mistaking Simon’s new home, having built himself a castle in the time you’ve been away. One made of the bones of the dead, surrounded by mutated bushes covered in poisonous thorns.    You can’t see the spirits anywhere, but you’re sure they’re close by. He wouldn’t dare let them wander off, he knows that they’re the only ones who can kill him.

   “How are we doing this?” you ask when Oberyn starts to circle above the castle, dropping a little lower with each turn.

   “I will try to keep the vines and beasts away from you, but this means you must fight the spirits yourself. Are you ready for that?”

   “I guess we’ll find out.”

   He turns his head then, and you see his left eye peer back at you, somehow giving you the feeling that he’s holding back a goodbye. And as you look back into that blue sphere, you realize you’re doing the same.    There’s a rumble from below which draws both of your attention, and you see an army of monsters start to emerge out of the ground.    Simon knows you’re here.

   Oberyn waits until the entire ground is littered with these unnatural beings before he swoops down over them, unleashing his fierce weapon, melting and electrocuting them by the millions in just one breath. Then he turns and does another pass, burying the castle under tons of lava.    And while your enemy is blinded as he’s forced to encapsulate himself within a cocoon of continuously dying black vegetation, the dragon lands and drops you off, taking to the skies again the moment he’s sure you’re not immediately overrun by surviving vines.

   It takes you a second to adjust, though. The air is thick and hard to breathe down here, and the ground doesn’t feel right when you walk. It’s like there’s no bedrock underneath the surface of it anymore. As though the darkness has corrupted the very crust of the Earth, turning it spongy and unstable. It feels like it’s gonna buckle under your weight at each step, while simultaneously seeming strangely elastic.

   A second is about as much as you get before there’s movement in your periphery and you duck on pure instinct, narrowly avoiding being cut in half by some kind of weaponized leaf.    Reminding yourself that movement is your ally, you get up and sprint about thirty yards before stopping to listen and gauge your surroundings. And sure enough, it only takes moments before there are beasts approaching you on two sides.

   One is eliminated when Oberyn makes another pass, keeping his flame just far enough from you to keep from harming you, so you refocus on the other one.    You’ve never tested your light in a combat situation before, never consciously attempted to use it as a weapon, but as the creature reaches you, stretching its tentacular arms towards you, it comes to you as easily as if you’d been practicing all your life.    Like a white laser, it beams out of your left hand, cutting through the air for hundreds of yards before it fades, and everything dark it touches is turned to glowing dust.

-=<>=-=<>=-=<>=-

   The beam cuts through the dusky atmosphere as if it were the entire sun concentrated into just one narrow ray. It shines so brightly that even the ground it merely passes over is scorched with it, leaving a glowing yellow trail behind which seems to seep into the corrupted soil and intensify.    With each burst of light sprung from your hands in your continued battle, these streaks of embers are multiplied, until there is an entire grid of them around you.

   And once they have all spread their secondary effects far enough to reach one another, the whole grid becomes its own weapon, firing additional beams under the surface of the earth, which seem to infect the darkness at its roots.    Oberyn’s faith has been tested in these past few days, but as he watches you channel these powers, he finally begins to believe that this war will be won. He may have lost none of his faith in you on this journey, but his hope for a favorable outcome of this war has never been high.    And by favorable, he means of course that both of you will live to see the world reborn.

   On his next pass, he sees Simon emerging from the still melting remnants of his castle, and since he must keep the Darkling’s focus away from you while you hunt for the spirits, he sets down right in front of the former man.

   “Ah, yes. Of course. The great viper, Oberyn Nymeros Martell,” he smiles, looking up at the dragon with pure amusement, as if he were a child at a theme-park.

   But Oberyn is not amused, he is shocked. He has never been able to recall his full name, and now that he does, it drags up thousands of hidden memories within his mind, flooding his senses with them, overwhelming him to the point where he struggles to remain standing.

   “You didn’t think anyone alive today could possibly know anything about your history, did you? But there are ways to look into the past, if you know which energies to tap into.    Man, you were such a brat. Gave your brother Dorian the worst headaches trying to keep you in line so your father wouldn’t beat your ass to kingdom come.”

   Dorian… that was his name. The father of the tortured child he had so desperately tried to aid. And Mellario, his wife. They had bickered endlessly of what to name the boy, finally settling on Quentyn the day before the massacre.

   “How’s your head, Obe? Splitting I’d imagine, the way you’re trembling like a leaf. But then, you always were a coward.    Do you remember it yet? The battlefields of Dorne? The way you fled from them, from the limbs you’d severed and the blood you’d sent pouring into the sands. There was no pride in you then, and there still isn’t.”

   He does recall these things now. But it was not fear which had driven him from the fields of victory. It was sorrow. Because as a young man he had struggled to grasp the purpose of such slaughters. The reek of death had put a darkness within his heart that had ceaselessly made him question the validity of such actions. The supposed honor they garnered.

   “Look at you. Even with the great Tyrannus within you you’re still just as weak. I won’t even break a sweat defeating you.”

   “You think… knowing a few things about me gives you power over me?” he challenges the dark one, finally regaining his composure after the worst of the overload has faded. “I may not have been a viper before I became the dragon, but it was not due to any weakness.    I mourned the dead for the uselessness of their passing.”

   “No, you idiot. You mourned them because of your guilt, and that’s where I’ve already gotten past your defenses,” Simon gloats, and suddenly Oberyn feels something terrifyingly obvious become clear to him.

   Whether caused by fear, guilt or sorrow, there is darkness within his soul.    For all your efforts, your light has never reached him. Never flooded the cavities of doubts and insecurities he harbors, so deeply concealed.    A pain unlike anything he has ever experienced begins to spread through him when the tentacles which have ensnared his legs without his notice, begin to pump their venom into his blood.

   He tries to fight it. Tries with all his might to keep the darkness from corrupting his heart, but it is no use. The change has already begun. He can feel it spread, burning his insides like acid as it mutates him from within, until black spikes burst out of his armored scales, spewing oil over his white form in such thick layers that it buries the brightness.    And then it hits his brain, and everything he once was, all the memories he has just reclaimed, are swept away. Erased. And Oberyn Nymeros Martell is no more.

Part 12

The Ten Spirits of the World Air - Forest - Water - Stone - Night - Autumn - Winter - Spring - Summer.

Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed it! If you wish to be notified when this story is updated, follow @sirowsky-stories and turn on notifications, or just ask nicely, and I'll tag you.

@harriedandharassed @kittenlittle24 @joelswritingmistress @pedrostories

[tangocardiaca]

Haru Okumura and Makoto Niijima resus roleplay [reupload]

I once posted it before removing my profile here, but I decided to post it again. Both characters are from Persona 5 and are above 18 years old in this fanfic.

                Haru was walking up the stairs to Makoto’s room. She was invited by Makoto, so she can show her something interesting. “I wonder, what that might be.” Haru thought to herself. Suddenly she stood in front of the door and opened it. “Hello? Makoto?” Haru asked and took a look around the room. She noticed, that slim woman was standing near the window. That was Makoto, but she was wearing something, no one would think about. Makoto was wearing blue wool bra or crop top, black shorts with blue side skirts attached to those shorts. She also had blue arm warmer and wore brown high boots. With that composition she looked like princess.

                “Is that a Dion Rogers design of Rinoa Heartilly?” Haru asked. “Yeah, it’s not something you’d see me wearing, but at least once I wanted to feel like a princess in need of rescue.” Said Makoto as she placed her hands on Haru’s hips. “Princess? What are you talking about?” Haru was confused and she did not know, what was going on. Makoto asked “Have you ever done CPR? Have you ever done defibrillation with AED? See, it’s weird, but at least once I want to act like I am in need of saving, or rather my heart is in need of saving.” Saying that, Makoto laid on bed and started breathing heavily. “My heart is racing, I think it’s tachycardia. Please Haru, put ECG leads on my chest and read the rhythm. Quickly!” Haru understood, that it’s a roleplay and she giggled. “Ok, I see, that I need to save your heart.” She placed ECG leads on Makoto’s chest the way it was shown on manual. “Oh no, it’s ventricular tachycardia. I can barely feel pulse. I need to defibrillate you.” And Haru placed AED pads on Makoto’s chest. “I’m sorry Makoto, this might hurt a lot. Charging! Clear!” And Haru pushed the button. Makoto’s chest made an arc and jumped. She still breathed heavily. “Still in V-Tach. Charging once again. Clear!” Haru pushed the shock button again. The same chest jump happened and Makoto kept breath as if she wasn’t breathing.

“Ventricular fibrillation!” Said Haru and she pitched Makoto’s nose while tilting her chin. She gave two breaths to Makoto and started doing chest compressions. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30” Haru stopped chest compressions and she gave two additional breaths to Makoto. And once again she compressed Makoto’s chest 30 times. “Time to analyze. She’s still in V-Fib. Charging. Clear!” And she once again pushed the shock button. Makoto’s chest jumped and made an arc. After the shock, Haru said, that it was sinus rhythm. “What happened?” Said Makoto, still acting like cardiac patient. “You had cardiac arrest. You were lucky, that I was here.” Haru giggled with a smile. “How did you like being resuscitated?” Makoto smiled and said “It was something interesting. Like giving my heart a shock of love. I really felt like a princess in need of a rescue. And you were my shining knight. Maybe we should do this more often?” Haru gently grabbed Makoto’s hand. She said “With pleasure.”, and she placed gentle kiss on Makoto’s hand. Side note: I'd really like to see this one turned into comic, so if anyone wants to make comic pages, go ahead.

[weissaddams]

Date With Death

Chapter 6

Her conversation with Ajax was as short as she’d predicted, but more reassuring that she thought it would be.

Enid would have her happy ending. With or without.

An unwelcome heaviness fills her body when she realizes that the remaining hours of her life will be her last hours with Enid Sinclair. She can only hope she does nothing to anger the blonde in those last hours. Though seeing her canines come out would certainly be a treat.

Wednesday was proud of her Addams heritage. It was both revered and feared. Loved and hated. Envied and yearned for.

The only price for being an Addams was the curse placed upon one at birth.

It seemed the curse took someone from each generation. Once someone born into the Addams family fails to win over the affections of their one and only love, the curse would set in. What constituted as failure and the timing of the curse seemed to vary, but not materially.

Most were taken the moment a legal and binding document meant they had lost the fight to win the affections of the one they loved. Essentially, once the marriage contract is signed, defeat was official. Sadly, the curse which had been placed on their family centuries ago had no knowledge of proceedings such as divorces which could technically give them a way to nullify a contract. 

She could die the moment Enid said I do or the moment Enid and Ajax sign their marriage contract or any moment in between. It varied, due to different marriage customs any Addams found themselves in, but it seemed that one could fight off the curse's effects for a short period of time out of sheer will.  

A myocardial infraction would take them instantly or within the span of a few minutes. Just enough time to call for an ambulance? Hardly. There was no point in trying. Defibrillation would not beat a century-old curse.

It should, however, be just enough time for Wednesday to walk herself back to the family hearse. She’d rather not be a burden that had to be carried around even after her demise.

Now, as she exited the boys’ suite and made her way back to the girls, her last adventure would be to make Enid happy. Devote all her remaining hours to the love of her short-lived but begrudgingly colorful life.

She read that it was almost tradition, if not expected, for the groom to cry the moment he first sees his bride walk down the aisle. Dressed in white.

Wednesday was no groom, but the tear she felt run down her cheek the moment Enid smiled and waved her over certainly made her wonder if this was how she would feel had they been the ones to get married today.

“Willa? Are you okay?” The werewolf bunched up her dress and walked hurriedly over to a wide-eyed Wednesday Addams, hands hovering close enough to wipe off the tear but not daring to. Was it her color allergy again? Did they have too many colorful items in the room?

Wednesday takes a breath and lets herself be selfish. Just one more time. She will allow herself the greed of wanting Enid. She was essentially dying, after all. 

“Tu es magnifique, mon loup.” Wednesday took Enid’s hand as she bowed her head slightly and placed a light kiss on the werewolf’s knuckles. 

The blush on the Enid’s cheeks was delicious as Wednesday finally stood up straight to look at her, a slight smirk replacing the awe on her face. She could hear the other girls sniggering and squealing behind her but she could not care less. She was enjoying this moment with Enid. She was breathtaking.

“Translation please?” Enid asked with a nervous laugh, not taking away her hand because she would never dare to deny Wednesday touch when she initiated it herself.. She wasn't sure if she should be worried that Wednesday was acting a bit weird today, but she was Wednesday and Wednesday Addams never did anything normally.

The raven sighed amusedly before finally, finally smiling at Enid. Her heart clenched at the respect the werewolf continuously gave her. She could have easily learned French. Morticia and Gomez were more than willing to teach her but she’d opted not to in order to give Wednesday her space. Her space in the form of language in case there were things she had to process out loud without Enid understanding.

Not unlike how Wednesday chose not to learn Greek for the sake of giving Enid her own space to process things Wednesday didn’t need to know right away.

What a pair they would have made. Alas, the glint of the engagement ring on the hand she had not kissed reminded her of a certain impossibility.

“Words could not express how magnificent you are, Enid.”

Could magnificent encompass all the awe that was trying to burst out of Wednesday’s 5′2″ body? It could try, but it would surely fail.

From the off shoulder design to the intricately weaved patters of her white dress. From the tiara that sat atop the blonde’s head to the strands of blonde hair perfectly framing her face while the rest were braided in a crown.

From the pink of her lips to the blue skies in her eyes.

How could a singular word ever encompass the ethereal being that was Enid Sinclair?

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Date With Death master post

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I was in the mood to write so here you go.  Another short chapter, though.

Can you tell that I’m winging the flow of the story? Lol. 

If anyone has any idea how I can get this fic out to more readers, please let me know. :)