#1896 gives me life

[wordsinhaled]

some edwardian slang/turns of phrase from this dictionary that i imagine are still in edwin’s vocabulary, or his internal monologue, or private writing (some a bit more late victorian in the sense of years but since there was overlap in the eras in practice, could probably still in use in edwin’s time)

there are lots of other words and turns of phrase listed at the link above, but these are just some i thought were neat for edwin specifically! <3

top-hole - he does use this one on the show! for excellent, the very best (“top-hole job today, niko” <3)

wizard - excellent, as in “a wizard time” - please imagine edwin telling charles he had a wizard time after a date… so cute…

nasty jar - a bit of a sticky situation

grig - grasshopper or cricket. “merry as a grig” - ecstatic or jumping for joy

footle (nonsense) - talk nonsense or waste time

cropper - hard fall, as from a horse. usually used in “come a cropper” as in to come to ruin or fail miserably

balmy on the crumpet - insane

fast for extravagant or wild and flash for showy

poodle-faker - a man who spent too much time in the society of women, engaging in such activates as tea parties, balls, etc. - i imagine it would be the sort of thing edwin would hear said about people or implied about himself…

other words and phrases still being used today - “crack up” - to praise or laud (i assume this would be a “not all it’s cracked up to be” sort of usage); “nightie” for nightgown; “rooky” for a new recruit; “cushy” for easy (1915); and “down” - to be critical - i’m assuming this would be used as in “he was down on himself,” more or less the way it is now but not 100% sure; but to note, to be “screwed” was to be drunk or intoxicated, compared to say, if crystal were to say “we’re screwed!” during a case and mean it as hopeless. also, “feeling punk” was feeling ill (1896)

heart-whole (not in love) and repining for/that (longing/yearning for/thinking regretfully of), e. g. “His tendency… to repine for even the minutiæ of his old life” (1897, but close enough) or “bitterly repining” - these would absolutely show up in edwin’s journal…

see “repining” as “yearning” in this bit of “A Song of Eternity in Time” by Sidney Lanier (written 1867, revised 1879), which gives me such payneland feelings

Once, at night, in the manor wood

My Love and I long silent stood,

Amazed that any heavens could

Decree to part us, bitterly repining.

My Love, in aimless love and grief,

Reached forth and drew aside a leaf

That just above us played the thief

And stole our starlight that for us was shining.

[eliashirsch]

God Tier Top Gun Fanfictions. A Masterlist. (4/3)

More Top Gun fic recs:)) Different pairings ahead.

Winner Categories:

1. Best of the Best Authors (1/3)

2. Best of the Best Series (2/3)

3. Best of the Best Fics (3/3)

4. Honorary Mentions (4/3)

REMINDER! READ THE AUTHORS' TAGS AND WARNINGS!!!

Honorary Mentions

gold rush by gamerring @asimmutableasgravity

All his life, Jake Seresin has wanted to live his life as loud as possible. So that when he dies, people can place flowers on his casket. When the light hits him, sunbaked and smiling and grinning. He's whole and happy and everything he could ever want. He bites down on his teeth. Later, he hunches over the porcelain, petals falling out of his mouth, and is already one step in his grave. - Flowers, fighter pilots and the true fatality of your feelings spilling out.

Jake angst:)) And here’s another one from gamerring:

it's nice to have a friend by gamerring

"Will you marry me?" Ice is on his knees. His posture screams military, but his face is genuine. His eyebrows are furrowed in worry and a hesitant smile plays at his lips. The ring sits in a green velvet box. The band is gold and shiny, with a diamond inlaid in the middle. The rock seems to glow under the sunset, and Maverick's heart starts beating against his chest. This- it's spectacular. It's breathtaking. It's not for him. He bites his cheek for a microsecond, and then forces a smile."That's great. She can't say no to that." And a traitorous part of his soul hopes she does. - Three times Maverick should have said something, and the one time he did.

Just read the summary:) (This is canon.)

Lessons in pushing boundaries by will_thewisp

Maverick never needed lessons in pushing boundaries. Not if those boundaries are about going faster, further or screwing up on an ever increasing scale, because he'd run off the edge of the world before he'd let a thought that scared him shitless take root in his mind. It was enough that it was already in his heart. Or Maverick crashes the Darkstar and needs a very long time to learn that there's things that can and should be fixed. And that he's always had the tools to do it.

Don’t forget a tissue when reading this!

Amen by demiclar @demiclar

"What do you want done with your body when you die?" Pete Mitchell grieves his best friend.

Can you tell I love Mav angst?:)

Vanilla Milk by Specter_Ross

After the mission, Rooster is struggling to sleep so Maverick pulls some old methods out from when Bradley was a kid, in hopes of helping him.

I never get tired of reading MavDad and Bradley:)

A Perch Built for Two by chase_acow @cowsalot

Rooster is well known for keeping his own company, but between Maverick's reemergence and the suicide mission, Hangman manages to weasel his way into Bradley's attention. He's never let an alpha so close to him before, but Hangman might be the best choice - experienced and unlikely to ask for more than Bradley was willing to give. Unfortunately for him, it's Bradley who wants more, and he has no idea how to ask for it.

Another win for Hangster!

A Little Unconventional by McDanno50

Maverick didn’t know how he ended up here a month after the mission – on his back with his legs spread for not one, but two, hungry alphas. These alphas wanted Maverick so much that they no longer fought but worked together all in the name of mutual pleasure. It felt too good to be true, like a fevered dream conjured up by a broken mind. But even if he couldn’t believe his eyes, he had four other senses to rely on. A self-indulgent fic in which Omega!Maverick gets fucked by Alpha!Bradley and Alpha!Jake. That's literally it.

Mav/Bradley/Jake:)))))

Not Clamorous For Pardon by Arsenic @arsenicjade33

Okay, but what if the Navy didn't outlaw flogging as a punishment in 1896? Asking for a friend.

Another one of my favorite tropes: Mav being bullied by the Navy:(

still dangerous by cygnettine

Where was he? Jake was to his right, Bradley in front of him, the girls between their dads. Someone was missing. He was missing. Why was he missing? He was supposed to be there; that was a family dinner and he was family, he was his whole soul, why wasn’t he there? *** Maverick loses himself and wanders helplessly in his own mind until someone finally comes to his rescue.

Mav has Alzheimer's Disease:(

take a chance on the edge of life by Lacerta

It was a suicide mission. Of course they didn't succeed on their first try. - When Maverick dies, he loops back to the morning before.

An Edge of Tomorrow AU. Love this one. 

you've got the win in your bag by discosleaze @paulmezcal

“I’m going to go in and get something pierced, and if you’re a good boy, it’ll be my nipple. If you’re not, it’ll be my tongue.” Speaking of tongues, Bradley just about swallows his. “Why would that be a bad thing?” he croaks out, not enjoying how amused Jake is, mocking, even. “Well, Bradshaw, because I wouldn’t be able to blow you for weeks afterwards.” Jake contemplates a second piercing, Bradley contemplates nothing.

asdfghfghjkjhgfdsadfg. This one’s too hot for me.

How Big? by thenofutureshoe

"Most people would have had to give themselves a pep-talk, most people would have been nervous or unsure of the whole thing, Maverick Mitchell was not most people. He was a fucking power bottom and proud of it. This was not his first rodeo, pun intended. And he always got his man." Once Maverick hears the story behind Slider's callsign, it sounds more like a challenge than anything else.

This one… I never thought their difference in size could be this hot…

a dream of crashing by thefireplanet

Maverick buys a plane. Somehow, this becomes Iceman’s problem.

THIS ONE’S NOT COMPLETED! But it’s still so fun to read and the characterization is spot on!

and the bunny goes 𝒽𝑜𝓅, 𝒽𝑜𝓅, 𝒽𝑜𝓅 by Meadow_Wanderer

Contrary to expectation, he rarely measures time by the number of years he's lived without his father. Instead, he appraises in happenings. Every birthday, school graduation, and precious firsts; every milestone passing as the memory of his father becomes fainter and fainter until finally he reaches the last occasion where the end and the beginning meet, the son and the sire a breath's width apart, like reaching to touch one's reflection in the mirror. The very same one he'll face in just shy of a few hours.

Weird and fun!

you are not alone (i watch over you) by redwithlove

“Bradley, do you remember the time when you were eight and you wouldn't let me near your Pops for two days?” “What, really? Why?” “Yeah, for two whole days, can you believe it? And it all started over a can of Pringles.” Or—Bradley with Ice and Maverick over the years.

Mav and Ice and Bradley being family:) My favorite genre of topgun fics:))

PHEW! That's all the fics I've got! Thanks for reading until the end! Don't forget to leave a comment on these fics if you enjoyed them!

Here's my google doc for all four categories! >> God Tier Top Gun Fanfictions: A Masterlist

[lazorbeanz]

Late Night

Unbreakable Bond

Headcanons and indirect quotes :p #4

🔶 Tails: You ready for tomorrow’s history test?

Sonic: Yea

Tails: What ended in 1896?

Sonic: 1895

Tails: Yea you ready…

🔷 Tails: So, who did ya learn about today?

Sonic: Errr some guy called ‘Martha Luker King Jr.’

Tails: *tryna hold it together* u-uhm okay…and what did he do?

Sonic: *with all confidence* He died for our sins…

Tails: Wait no that’s- *wheeze*

🔶 Sonic singing along the Chorus of Speed Life (he doesn’t know French): 🎶“Something something speed life…SOMEBODY’S WATCHING MEEEEEE”🎶

🔷 Sonic and Tails have this challenge they do at karaoke nights where they attempt to sing a song that’s not in English, which really just ends up as a big laughing fest as they fail miserably. Sonic tries to make up for it by dancing to the music (cuz mind you, it’s catchy) but his legs turn into spaghetti from his fit, and faceplants onto the floor. Tails attempts to help him up but his knees do a funny and falls on top of him, leaving the brothers immobile and gasping for air.

🔶 Sonic: is the pink panther a lion?

Tails: say that again but slower

Sonic: I don’t get??

Tails: he’s the pink PANTHER

Sonic: okay?? But is he a lion?

Tails: 🤦..*grabs the landline phone* hello is this the brain replacement store-

🔷 The brothers have a war going on in their Snapchat stories, where they would steal awkward pics of each other…whether that’s Sonic eating a really messy chilidog or tails after an experiment gone horribly wrong, with the caption being like ‘look at this loser lol’ or something meme related…yes they turn each other into memes

🔶 Sonic would randomly decide to attach tails to a lead every now and then to see his reaction, which at first was pretty vicious, but now he’s just like “rlly bro? -_-” but either one would send Sonic in hysterics

🔷 Tails: hey Sonic, what word starts with “f” and ends with “u c k?”

Sonic: Fu- WAIT TAILS NO-

Tails: it’s firetruck! 😊 uhh sonic?

*cue sonic getting carted away in an ambulance…i think he stopped breathing*

🔶 Since Sonic doesn’t give a toss, tails would somewhat keep an eye out on his brother’s quill care (you could say Amy has talked to Tails about the matter) so after heaps of reasoning and the last resort - the cute fox eyes, Sonic reluctantly gives in to letting his younger brother brush his quills for the first time. It’d go down something like this…

Tails: one~

Sonic: ow-

Tails: two~

Sonic: OWWW…how many of these (brush strokes) do we have to do?!

Tails: like a thousand or something…thre-

Sonic: AAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEE!!!!🦅🦅🦅

ANOTHER LIFE IN THE DREAMHOUSE REFERENCE IM SORRY IM SORRY-

🔷 Tails was so sleep deprived that he almost mistook liquid petroleum for coffee one morning (somehow)

🔶 Tails loves planes…in all forms…and THAT INCLUDES the one used to be fed…

Sonic: Tails, you are 8 years old, with an IQ of about 300…and you still want me to do…this?

Tails: b-but…aeroplaneee 🥺

Happy wholesome Wednesday!

Whilst you’re here, we have an Unbreakable Bond Discord server out for all you folks who love the brothers just as much as us! 💙💛 It’s a totally chill place where we can chat, share art or fics, and most importantly, hyperfixate over that hog and fox duo we love so much! (There’s even a place for boops!)

Created by @suzienightsky ✨ If you’re keen on joining, flick her a DM and she’ll give you an invite.

Sorry for the ad lmao

[invisibleicewands]

‘Theatre changed my life,’ says Michael Sheen. ‘Now my passion is for helping others’

Theatre can change lives. And I should know. It’s changed my life more than I’d ever have imagined. Back in 2011, a play called The Passion took over the streets of my hometown of Port Talbot. And I haven’t been the same since.

Perhaps the perception of actors before a play is that we’ll learn a few lines, try on a few costumes... break a leg. But with The Passion, I went all in like never before.

I also met the people doing vital work in the community I grew up in, helping vulnerable people who need it the most, often at make-or-break moments. Being at this coalface of community opened my eyes.

This patchwork of people holding society together with the thinnest of threads, going over and above each and every day to help people in almost every aspect of their lives.

I saw then – and I continue to see – kind-hearted, warm, tolerant people helping out their fellow humans to bring communities together. These are the people who make our nation what it is.

The good deeds that these people did – from giving young carers a night off to go bowling, to setting up the only grief counselling service in the area – generally worked under fragile funding and often were under-appreciated by the wider community.

I knew then that I had to devote as much time and energy as I could to helping, however I could.

In the decade and a half since The Passion, I’ve started projects around homelessness, high-cost credit, care, and local journalism. And for the past 18 months, these have come under the banner of a movement known as Mab Gwalia.

Mab Gwalia believes that opportunity should not only be available to those who can afford it. The ambition is to build a movement that makes change.

We support people and projects which work in three ways: projects creating opportunity and fighting for fairness; projects rooted in communities, helping people directly; and projects that work in new and ambitious ways to deliver change.

My work on The Passion made me realise there’s so many people out there doing this. And Mab Gwalia has supported as many of them as we can.

This has included: Army veterans in Merthyr Tydfil. Autism support for children in Rhondda Cynon Taf. Food growing in Pembrokeshire. Opportunities for women in Swansea who’ve suffered knock-back after knock-back. Community skills hubs in Rhyl.

Theatre changed my life. Now I want the spark it set off in me to do the same for others.

My ancestor, Nanny Blower, the lion tamer

My great-great grandmother was called Mary Ann-North. Or Nanny Blower, as we know her.

She left Wales for New York in 1896 where she became, wait for it, an elephant and lion tamer for the Bostock and Wombwell Circus. Fast forward to today and young people in the Upper Neath Valleys don’t have to run away to join the circus. Organised Kaos comes to them.

Kaos stands for “keeping adolescents off the streets” and that’s what they do. I first met them on The Passion (riding BMXs through fire – them, not me) and now Mab Gwalia has helped fund their work.

Manics band drum up £15,000 for drama study

“Libraries gave us power” – the opening lyrics to Wales’ second national anthem, A Design For Life.

The Manic Street Preachers wrote a version of the song for The Passion, performing it at The Last Supper in the Seaside Social & Labour Club… before being arrested and hauled off stage for the show’s added drama.

The band is working with Mab Gwalia to fund a drama scholarship, providing financial support to students who need it. Since 2021, 11 students have received up to £15,000 each academic year.

We’ve just committed to another three years. The students tell us it gives them a chance to believe. The arts should be for everyone.

Mothers Matter, like my mum and partner Anna

My mum’s going through a tough time as my dad is living with Alzheimer’s. It’s a lot to take. I’m thankful every day for how my partner Anna is with our daughters.

It’s an understatement, but mothers matter. That’s the name of an organisation Mab Gwalia has supported. Mothers Matter helps mums suffering from loneliness and isolation through support, counselling, wellbeing hubs and workshops. Mothers in South Wales don’t have to do it alone.

We give a voice to working class writers

A summer reading recommendation: Only Here, Only Now by Tom Newlands. It’s Cora’s story – a teenage girl with ADHD finding her way through life in the early 90s in post-industrial Scotland. She’ll change the way you think about neurodivergence. It’s an unforgettable debut novel.

Tom was part of A Writing Chance, a project I developed alongside the Joseph Rowntree Foundation, New Writing North and Northumbria University. The Office for National Statistics says nearly half all authors are from the most privileged backgrounds.

So we’re trying to redress that balance. To turn up voices not always heard. Tom was one of the first group – 11 writers who received bursaries and mentoring with industry leaders including regular writer of this column, Ros Wynne-Jones.

You can hear their stories in the BBC Sounds podcast Margins to Mainstream with Michael Sheen. Now, 16 more writers are on board. Think of the stories to come.

My debut at the ‘brilliant Welsh party’

With origins dating from 1176, the National Eisteddfod is Europe’s largest cultural festival. A celebration of Welsh language culture with performances and competitions in everything from composition to cynghanedd (a type of Welsh poetry). And, last weekend, in Pontypridd, I made my debut on the maes (site or field).

My four-year-old daughter now refers to it as “that brilliant Welsh party” which neatly describes the atmosphere. On stage, the actress Sian Phillips said the sounds of words in Welsh “echoed with the language”.

I felt those echoes all day. Spoken in the park by families. Performed by young actors. Sung with emotion by choirs. It was a beautiful thing.

Homeless World Cup a beautiful game

Next month, the Homeless World Cup takes place in Seoul, South Korea. Bringing the tournament to Cardiff in 2019, seeing 500 players with experience of homelessness represent their nation on the football field, was something I’ll never forget.

If you can’t wait until then, watch The Beautiful Game on Netflix. Keep an eye on Callum Scott Howells, a brilliant young Welsh actor who I directed in BBC drama The Way (available on iPlayer).

Nye NHS vision seen on world stage

I’ve spent much of this year playing the man who had the vision and valour to create the National Health Service. Nye was theatre at its most far-reaching.

There were sold-out runs in the National Theatre in London, the Wales Millennium Centre in Cardiff. And cinema screenings were viewed by people all over the world.

On the night we filmed the NT Live screening, NHS workers from around the country were invited to be in the audience. They knew that at that moment, a global audience was learning about our welfare state and the man who was behind it.

My dad came along one night. He was just a little kid when Bevan’s idea became reality. Soon there’ll be very few left who can remember what life was like before the NHS.

Let’s hope it stays that way. Can the new government come up with a progressive policy that inspires a story which packs them in 75 years on? We can but dream.

[spoonsand]

So I wanted to figure out around how long Hosea and Bessie had been married/a timeline of sorts and here’s what I got and my thinking process:

(Sources are from Wikipage, Reddit, good ol’ safari, and my headcannons)

Their photo is dated 1883, from how close they are sitting, I’d assume they’re already married.

Hosea said “Then I met two people that changed my life. My dear wife Bessie and good old Dutch. And for twenty years now, life has made sense.”

Hosea and Dutch became partners in (about) 1877 (probably before). The photo is dated ‘83, so that leaves a 6 year gap. Because I love Bessie and Hosea, and would want them to have as much time together as possible, I would give them 2 years before they got together.

Aurthor joined the gang in 1879, around 14, maybe at this time it’s when Hosea and Bessie left. Arthur said he doesn’t really remember, this could be because he wasn’t familiar with the Matthews yet.

Assume that they took a year off before Hosea drifted back and Bessie being the top G she is, stayed with him and became kick ass Bessie Matthews.

Sometime during 1883 Bessie and Hosea (maybe even on an anniversary) got the photo taken.

In the epilogue, there’s a photo of the gang with baby Jack, so the year should be between ‘95-‘96. Bessie isn’t seen in the photograph, so she probably already passed. The way Hosea talks makes me think it wasn’t 3 or 4 years, a more significant period. Maybe closer to the 10 year mark.

Again, with 1883 being our minimum year, and 1896 being the maximum year, factoring in the 10 years means that Bessie could have died in the year 1889.

That means Bessie and Hosea very well could have been married for 10 years.

Halfway through this process, I had a thought, what if during their gap year (1883) they got the photo taken? That would definitely shift everything. But I’m not getting into that rn

[foreverinthepagesofhistoryy]

Hello love your blog. How often did the otmaa children meet up with their cousin ella? were they close family members

Hello anon!!! I’m so glad you love my blog! Thank you so much for viewing it also as I try hard to make it a nice space!

Princess Elisabeth of Hesse was OTMA’s maternal first cousin (Ella’s father was siblings with OTMA’s mother Alix (Empress Alexandra Feodorovna)) and both the parents of the girls and the girls were very close. Imagine if you had a favorite cousin who lived in another country within somewhat close proximity, would you want to visit them as much as you could? Well that was the case for the girls.

They would meet up about once or twice a year, sometimes they wouldn’t meet up every year like in 1902, 1900, or 1898 and when they didn’t meet at all. Here are some photos of the girls with Ella to put into context how often they met.

1896 (family gathering at Ilinskoe, Ella and Olga were both about a year old)

1897 (Hessian Royal Family gathering, Olga and Ella were about 3 and Tatiana was a baby)

1899 (Family gathering at Darmstadt, Ella and Olga were about 4, Tatiana was 2, and Maria was a baby but she is not pictured in or with Ella on this trip)

1901 (Meeting at the Winter Palace, Ella and Olga were about 6, Tatiana and Maria were about 4 and 2, Anastasia was not born yet)

1903 (this would’ve been their last meeting as Ella died while on a trip to Skiernewice Poland with the Russian Imperial Family.)

Ella and OTMA were VERY close, they were each others favorite playmates and sometimes felt more like sisters than cousins, Margaretta Eagar (nanny to OTMA) has fond memories of the girls together in 1903:

“Where Princess Ella was, no angry disputes could exist. She was so sweet and just that the other children always gave in to her arbitration. Looking back on her short life I often wonder why we did not see that she was quite too good for this world, her fit companions were the angels. She was a regular little mother, and was never so happy as with the "tiny cousin," as she called Anastasie.”

“It was a pretty sight to see her riding with the two eldest cousins in the riding-school; she mounted on a great white horse and her cousins on little ponies. She rode wonderfully well, and would take either of the little ones before her on the saddle, and give them a ride round the school.”

“One day she and Tatiana were wonderfully busy and mysterious, running in and out of the rooms, and exploding into laughter every now and then. In the evening after they were in bed Tatiana took from under her pillow a little box which dear cousin Ella had prepared for her. This contained some little coloured stones which they had picked out of the gravel the day before, some bits of matches, luminous ends, of course, the sand-paper off a match-box and some tissue paper. This was a toy which they had prepared. After Tatiana was in bed, if she felt lonely she was to sit up in bed, light a match upon the sand-paper, set fire to the tissue paper, and by its light to play with the stones. Well, of course, that could not be allowed, and the poor little Princess was overwhelmed when I explained to her that they might all have been burned in their beds.”

“The little Princess was full of life and fun. I never remember to have seen her in higher spirits than she was on Saturday evening. She prepared and carried out an innocent little practical joke on her father and the Empress. She asked me to put her three eldest cousins in her bed, and leave little Anastasie alone in her bedroom. "When auntie Alix and papa come," said the child, "auntie Alix will be looking everywhere for her children, and papa will not know how he has got four." Accordingly it was done, and I stepped into the corridor to ask the Empress and the Grand Duke to be very much surprised. They were, of course, exceedingly surprised, and the Empress pretended to be much frightened, to the child's great delight. You could hear her laughter all through the house, as one by one the cousins were disclosed.”

Source

They (the elder girls on particular) also wrote to eachother and sent eachother gifts like photos of each other or books or small trinkets. Here is an example of one of the items:

(Photograph of Ella’s mother (Princess Victoria Melita, later Grand Duchess Viktoria Feodorovna) and three aunts (Princesses Beatrice, Alexandra and Marie, later Queen of Romania) Inscribed “My Love Olga Dear, Ella”

I hope this gives you a rough estimate on how close the group was and how much both Ella and OTMA meant to each other. Thank you for asking!

Also another great resource for all things Ella is @princesselisabethofhesse (who I got a lot of these photos from 🤍) where I learned a lot about Ella, please go check out her blog as it is a great resource and can answer a lot more in detail about anything Ella related!

[myhauntedsalem]

The Last Words of 30 Famous Serial Killers

Some killers have offered sincere apologies for the heinous offenses they committed. Others’ final words were filled with anger and resentment, while some seemed indifferent. A few of the most interesting final words are quizzically strange rantings.

What are the last words of some of the most famous serial slayers? The last words on this list come from the mouths of some of the most heinous, dangerous people in human history.

James French

“Hey, fellas! How about this for a headline for tomorrow’s paper? ‘French Fries.'” (August 10, 1966)

James French has the distinction of being the last person to be executed in Oklahoma, via electric chair

Carl Panzram

“Hurry up, you Hoosier bastard. I could kill 10 men while you’re fooling around.” (September 5, 1930)

Peter Kurten

“Tell me. After my head has been chopped off, will I still be able to hear, at least for a moment, the sound of my own blood gushing from the stump of my neck? That would be a pleasure to end all pleasures.” (July 2, 1931)

Peter Kurten, AKA “The Vampire of Dusseldorf,” drank the blood of at least one person.

John Wayne Gacy

Kiss My Ass (May 10, 1994)

Thomas J. Grasso

“I did not get my Spaghetti O’s. I got spaghetti. I want the press to know this.” (March 20, 1995)

Tom Ketchum

“I’ll be in Hell before you start breakfast, boys. Let her rip.” (April 26, 1901)

Jeffery Dahmer 

“I don’t care if I live or die. Go ahead and kill me.” (Novemer 28, 1994)

H.H. Holmes 

“Take your time. Don’t bungle it.” (May 7, 1896)

Dr. H.H. Holmes was one of the first American serial killers.

Albert Fish 

“I don’t even know why I’m here.” (January 16, 1936)

In the 1920s, Albert Fish claimed that he had slain at least 100 children.

Ted Bundy

“I’d like you to give my love to my family and friends.” (January 24, 1989)

The exact number of women Ted Bundy offed or hurt in the 1970s is unknown, but some say the number is somewhere in the 100s.

Marcel Petiot 

“Gentleman, I have one last piece of advice: Look away. This will not be pretty to see.” (May 25, 1946)

Petiot was a French doctor who was only found out when the remains of 23 people were found in his Parisian home during WW2.

Steven Timothy Judy 

“I don’t hold any grudges. This is my doing. Sorry it happened.” (March 9, 1981)

Steven Judy slayed a woman and her three children in 1979.

William Bonin 

“I would suggest that when a person has a thought of doing anything serious against the law, that before they did that they should go to a quiet place and think about it seriously.” (February 23, 1996)

William Bonin’s habit of dumping cadavers near freeways earned him the nickname Freeway Killer.

Amelia Dyer

“I have nothing to say.” (June 10, 1896)

Dyer is believed to have slain 400 children during a 20-year period in Victorian England.

Peter Manuel

“Turn up the radio and I’ll go quietly.” (July 11, 1958)

Manuel was an American-born Scottish man who is believed to have slain from nine to 18 people during the 1950s.

Francis Crowley

“You sons of bitches. Give love to Mother.” (January 21, 1932)

Francis Crowley went on a three-month spree that ended when he was sent to the electric chair.

Angel Maturino Resendiz

“I want to ask if it is in your heart to forgive me. You don’t have to. I know I allowed the Devil to rule my life. I just ask you to forgive me and ask the Lord to forgive me for allowing the devil to deceive me. I thank God for having patience in me. I don’t deserve to cause you pain. You do not deserve this. I deserve what I am getting.” (June 27, 2006)

Reséndiz left people’s cadavers near railroad tracks.

Fritz Haarmann

“I repent, but I do not fear death.” (April 15, 1925)

Fritz Haarmann of Germany, active in the years following WWI, became known as the Vampire of Hanover because he would bite through people’s throats.

Ned Kelly

“Such is life.” (November 11, 1880)

Ned Kelly was often considered a folk hero in Australia.

Donald Henry Gaskins

“I’ll let my lawyers talk for me. I’m ready to go.” (September 6, 1991)

Donald Henry Gaskins was known as the Meanest Man in America for slaying at least 100 people, most of them hitchhikers, from the 1950s to the 1980s.

Israel Keyes

“Okay, talk is over, words are placid and weak. Back it with action or it all comes off cheap. Watch close while I work now, feel the electric shock of my touch, open your trembling flower, or your petals I’ll crush.” (December 2, 2012) 

Israel Keyes took his own life; the words are from his final note.

John George Haigh

In a letter to his girlfriend, Barbara: “It is difficult to say farewell under these circumstances, but you will understand that you will always be in my thoughts. You know I have been proud of our association: it has always been an honourable one. I shall remember your great kindness and devotion. Now I must leave you.” (August 10, 1949)

In the 1940s, John George Haigh dissolved six women’s cadavers in acid.

Kenneth McDuff

 “I am ready to be released. Release me.” (November 17, 1998)

After his sentence was commuted in 1989, Kenneth McDuff killed again before being detained in 1992.

Carroll Cole

“It’s all right.” (December 6, 1985)

Carroll Cole possibly committed acts of cannibalism

Raymond Fernandez and Martha Beck

“I wanna shout it out; I love Martha! What do the public know about love?” – Raymond Fernandez (March 8, 1951)

“My story is a love story. But only those tortured by love can know what I mean […] Imprisonment in the Death House has only strengthened my feeling for Raymond….” – Martha Beck (March 8, 1951)

In the 1940s, Fernandez and Beck would place personal ads in newspapers with the intent of taking money from the women who replied.

Aileen Wuornos

“I’d just like to say I’m sailing with the rock, and I’ll be back like Independence Day, with Jesus, June 6th. Like the movie, big mother ship and all. I’ll be back.” (October 9, 2002)

From 1989 to 1990, Aileen Wuornos terminated seven men, with the excuse that each of them tried to rape her.

James Allen Red Dog

“I’m going home, babe.” (October 9, 2002)

James Allen Red Dog had been connected to at least five murders

Myra Hindley

According to the Catholic priest who gave Hindley last rites, “The last conversation she had before she died concerned her mother. She just expressed concern for her mother – but I will not say exactly what she said.” (November 15, 2002)

Hindley, with her lover Ian Brady, shocked 1960s England when they killed five children.

Earle Nelson

“I am innocent. I stand innocent before God and man. I forgive those who have wronged me and ask forgiveness of those I have injured. God have mercy!” (January 13, 1928)

During a two-year period in the mid-1920s, Earle Nelson felled 22 women, most of whom were landladies he approached about rooms they wanted to rent.

Sean Flanagan

“I love you.”

Sean Flanagan terminated two gay men in Nevada, claiming he was doing “good for… society.” (June 23, 1989)

[no-side-us]

The Field Bazaar is an interesting little bit of Holmesian history. It's very short, doesn't give much in terms of warm or unique moments (in fact Holmes is kind of rude), and I'm pretty sure it's more well known for the context of its creation than the contents of the story.

The context being that Conan Doyle wrote this for Edinburgh University to raise a pavilion, i.e. the same thing Watson's doing, which I feel makes this story the most concrete Doyle = Watson comparison you could make.

It was also only published in Edinburgh University's student magazine and therefore only became known of decades after the fact, meaning some consider it more of a pastiche than a "canon" story. But for me, since it was written by Doyle and it's not egregiously out of character or anything, I don't see any reason why it can't be considered "canon."

What makes it more interesting is that this is technically the first Holmes story Conan Doyle wrote after he killed Holmes. The Field Bazaar came out in 1896, three years after The Final Problem in 1893 but five years before the next widely acknowledged canon story The Hounds of the Baskervilles in 1901, and seven years before Doyle begrudgingly brought Holmes back to life in The Empty House in 1903.

Other than that I don't have much else to say. Though I will mention that The Arthur Conan Doyle Encyclopedia website abbreviates this story as BAZA, which isn't right. It should be FIEL! "Field" is not mundane enough of a word in a title to ignore and immediately jump to "Bazaar." And there's no other story abbreviated as "FIEL" so what gives!

[zyalahmiscfandom]

An Unexpected Trip: Dhawan!Master x f!reader pt1

AN: This is total canon divergence. 13 didn’t regenerate and Yaz is still her companion (pls let me have this, I’m not ready to let go of them). Can be read as a stand alone story but goes better with my previous Master x Reader here.

MASTERLIST

You sat on the hexagonal steps of the TARDIS. The blues and reds of the lights mixing to create a beautiful purple hue. A light mist swept across your ankles, and a small smile spread across your lips as you watched the Master dance around the controls, even though you weren’t going anywhere exciting, he always piloted as if you were. It was one of the million reasons you loved him and the life he had gifted you.

“You don’t need to flatter me anymore dear,” The Master stopped and turned to you, “I’ve already agreed to your little trip idea.”

You blinked confused for a moment, before you remembered. He was bloody telepathic.

“Ugh Master, you promised not to do that.” You fake moaned, standing to join him at the centre console.

“Then don’t think so loud.” He booped the end of your nose, his tone only semi-chastising.

“Sorry, I can’t help it, I’m excited.” You started to buzz.

“Mmm I can tell pet.” He smirked turning back to the controls again. “All this for a silly little human play.”

“Opera.” You corrected. He stopped again, raising an eyebrow at your boldness. You knew that if anyone else had tried sass-back at him, they would be dead. With you however he found it adorably endearing.

“And besides it’s not just any opera,” You sauntered up to him, your eyes big,”It’s THE phantom of the Opera. The second longest running west end musical!”

“I know, you’ve told me before.” Annoyance started to creep into the Master’s voice. “Several times. In the past week alone. Hence why YOU’RE going.”

“And I am ssooooo, grateful for that,” You cuddled up to his arm, giving him your best puppy dog look. “Buuut, I thought it’d be nice if you came with me.”

You had tried for weeks to get the Master to agree to see Phantom with you. You’d gushed about the characters, the music, the set design, and how much you simply adored the show. When that didn’t work you’d talked about how the original book was inspired by true events, but that had just led to him suggesting you both go and drop the real chandelier at the Paris Opera house in 1896 instead. After a while you realised that asking the Master to sit silently in the exact same place for almost three hours was never going to fly, so you had acquiesced. Mostly.

“Pet…” The Master warned. “I told you,”

“I know, I know.” You sighed letting go of his dark blue tweed clothed arm in defeat. “I’m just playing. When the Master says no, he means it.” You turned to walk back to your seat on the steps but before you could the Master caught your face between one strong hand.

“Tsk, tsk.” He stared deep into your eyes. “Darling don’t you know it’s suicide to mock your Master.” Though his words sounded serious, the mischievous glint in his eyes told you there was no real maliciousness to them. One of the first things the Master had promised you was that he’d never intentionally hurt you, unless you asked him to.  

“No mocking,” You said through puckered cheeks, “Just wanted to have a normal trip with you for once.” You admitted.

He chuckled to himself, before letting you go, and pulling on the TARDIS break, jutting you both forward in the sudden stop.

“What about the beach on Doulcabis?” He countered.

“Oh yeah that was nice and normal, until the planetary army started bombarding us.”

“How was I supposed to know the Queen mother still held a grudge against me.”

“You stole her crown jewels and threw them into a black hole!” You laughed, amazed at his declaration that that trip still counted as a normal one.

“Hence why I’m letting you go to that silly little play of yours.” He motioned to the door. Clearly you were at your destination. “Now say thank you Master.”

You sighed, you knew it was foolish to try and trick the Master of all people into a real human date. Hell you weren't even sure you were dating.

“Thank you Master.” You smiled, giving his cheek a quick peck. Something you were only permitted to do in the TARDIS. “I’ll see you in three hours.”

“Try to have fun with out me.” He challenged.

“Try not to commit any war crimes without me.” You laughed back.

“Spoil sport.”

You gave him one small wave before exiting through the TARDIS’s fake wooden doors.

“Keep him safe T.” You asked the time machine as you stoked the HA HA plaque on the front door. A quiet hum churned out of the wooden facade and for the first time since you met the Master you walked away from the machine alone.

The Master had dropped you off a short walk away from the theatre. The distance was nothing compared to how much you seemed to run on a daily basis, but without him by your side it seemed so much farther than it was, and so much more lonely.

“Three seconds without the Master and I’m a complete mess.” You bemoaned to yourself, grateful that the Master couldn’t hear you now, because he’d never let you hear the end of it.

“Y/N?” An old familiar voice called from behind you. Confused you turned to meet the gaze of an older gentleman. It took you a second before you remembered, he was with the Doctor on your failed trip to the SS.Fairfax. You hadn’t seen him or the Doctor since.

“Graham?” You asked unsure. “Or was it Ryan? I didn’t really catch your name.”

“Oh uh it’s Graham.” He smiled gently, the older woman next to him, in a pinstriped suit and combat boots however seemed cautious. “And this is Ace.”

“Hi.” You smiled politely. Unsure of where this was going. “Um, I don’t mean to sound rude, but I kind of have a thing I’m meant to be doing, soooo…”

“Did the Professor send you to do something?” Ace perked up.

“The who?”

“She means the Doctor.” Graham answered. “And no Ace she’s not here for the Doc, Y/N’s with someone else.” The older man gingerly danced around the truth of your Time Lord companion.

“Who else would she be with?” Ace awkwardly laughed, “Not a lot of Time Lords out there with companions.”

“Maybe some of them have changed.” You unintentionally sassed back. You didn’t mean to be rude it was just from the Master’s stories it seemed there were several former companions of the Doctor who had been on his kill list, and you figured they probably wouldn’t believe you if you said he’d changed for the better.

“Not bloody likely.” Ace scoffed. “So if you’re not with the Professor, who dropped you off?”

“Uhhhh.” You blanched. You did not want to get into it in the middle of a busy London street, but your brain seemed to have broken. “Sorry, I’ve really go to go. I’m going to be late.”

You started to back away, waving awkwardly as you did.

“It was nice to meet you Ace, and Graham, always a pleasure. Bye.” You practically sprinted down the street, faintly hearing Ace yell after you.

You turned the corner and into a small alleyway, stopping to catch your breath against a brick wall. Checking your phone you saw you had five minutes to reach the theatre and it was still a ten minute walk. Would the theatre let you in if you were five  minutes late? You had gotten so used to the Master demanding your entrance to places and getting in, even when you weren't invited. You really were spoiled by the Master weren’t you.

Sighing you composed yourself as best you could, you couldn’t deny that the encounter with former Doctor companions had knocked the wind out of your sails a bit. You loved the Master, you really did, but you sometimes wished his name didn’t evoke hatred and/or fear from everyone who heard it.  

A part of you wanted to call the Master, have him come pick you up and never suggest normal trips ever again, but after the stink you’d kicked up to go see this opera, you’d feel bad about cancelling.

“Urgh, big girl time Y/N” You hyped yourself up, “We are a grown ass adult, we are not co-dependant!” You announced to yourself, only believing it a little. Straighting up you turned to head back out to the street, however a less than impressed Ace blocked the narrow entrance.

“I know whose TARDIS that was.”

“I’m sorry Y/N,” Graham emerged from behind the older woman, “But this is for your own good.”

“Fuck.”

*****

The Master’s knee bounced impatiently as he sat in the uncomfortable chair the humans had installed in their opera box. He was losing patience with this whole farce and he’d been here for only two minutes.

“Height of luxury ha!” He laughed aloud, looking back at the TARDIS he’d landed in the far corner of the box he’d secured for his Y/N. The only reason he saw fit to degrade himself and wait in this theatre was the surprised look on his darling pets face when she walked in and saw him waiting for her.

He imagined her eyes glittering and her perfect smile bursting across her face. She would become putty in his very capable hands, and he would prove again how he was the better Time-Lord and companion.

‘The Doctor could never make her as happy as I do.’ He thought possessively to himself. Y/N had told him several times that there was no competition between himself and the Doctor. That he didn’t need to be so hard on himself. She didn’t want the Doctor she wanted to be with him, yada yada, and yes he believed her, she couldn’t lie to him, no-one could, but still there was that horrid tiny voice in the back of his mind that told him he wasn’t good enough. Not for the Doctor and definitely not for Y/N, and he never would be.  

“Where is she.” He growled, his jittering leg becoming more restless by the second. “She should be here by now, praising my kindness, shooing my dark thoughts away.” He scratched painfully into his palm, a terrible self soothing action he thought he’d outgrown.

Dark thoughts started swirling dangerously around his mind. What if she’d left? What if she’d run away? But she promised forever. She lied. She hated you. She was afraid of you and ran way the first chance she got. This whole playthinghadbeenAndExcusetoEscAPEYOU!!!

“Shut Up!” He slammed his fists against his head, if he couldn’t will the thoughts away he’d beat them out of himself.  

A deep sound rang out from the TARDIS, pulling the Master out of his self-hate spiral, curious he entered the machine.

“What?!” He yelled. Another deep sound was the reply, soon the monitor lit up, showing CCTV of a boring London street. “Get to the point.” He chastised. The video sped up, showing a panicked looking Y/N hurry down a alley way, before being followed by two others.

“Y/N.” His brown doe eyes widened in horror as the video sped up again. Showing armed men enter the alley, before exciting with a clearly unconscious Y/N, and the two who had initially followed his beloved human.

“Dorothy and Graham.” His voice was laced with venom as he watched the Doctors former companions. “What am I going to do with you?”

[evita-shelby]

Love's a state of mind

Robert Fischer x Eva Smith

Gif by @quelmarth

Cw: mentions of murder

Her totem is a gold Mexican peso from the year 1896 with a gunshot near the middle. For extra measure, she keeps her family dead as they are in real life to keep herself from attacking his subconscious.

If the peso is in perfect condition, she is dreaming.

If the peso is rusty as hell and with a 9 millimeter hole, she is awake.

Tonight, as she plays cat and mouse with Robert Fischer, it is as if it had come fresh from the mint.

“And what will you do now that you’ve caught me, Mr. Fischer?” she asks the billionaire beside her.

She’s managed to make it impossible for him to catch up to her until now, made the sidewalk just a hint longer, had her taxicab change when he tried to get into it and even changed the city they were in until they were in Los Angeles, where he runs his father’s empire from.

She created this dream and yet his subconscious pays her no notice and takes the changes she makes as if they had been made by him.

His projections do not attack as he has trained them to do ---and it won’t unless she tells it to.

Robert believed that because he knows he’s dreaming his subconscious hasn’t her killed twenty times over the moment he found himself chasing after her through twenty different cities.

Eva has a unique ability that allows her to create dreams and make you believe she is part of your subconscious. In fact, she has also been able to take over dreams created by others with it.

Not a single extraction has been successful on her, something Eames had said as he and Yusuf put her to the test in Morocco.

“I thought I’d never catch you, Miss. Smith.” Robert is winded and yet looking as perfect as he wants the world to think he is.

In this dream he is not under anyone’s shadow, his insecurities have been shoved aside as he plays her games and best of all, he believes he is the one in control.

Well, he was until Eva decides enough is enough.

It had been done as a whim, a couple of drinks, a few suggestions to break the monotony of his life and he had agreed to share a dream for a night.

When they woke up, they’d be in the same hotel room, wishing to make what they saw a reality and he is asking himself where Eva had been his entire life.

It was not a true inception, but it works the same without needing three levels of dreaming.

The witch heightened his desire in the real world by getting him to play her games in what he thinks is a field rigged in his favor.

You can do anything in a dream.

You could kill, fuck and live a life you want in it.

Fischer wastes no time in giving his all fantasies a try.

He has her on the elevator that is suddenly empty and full, on his desk, on the conference table and when he realizes he can do more, he grows bolder.

Places he’d been before, never been to and then suddenly, time slowed down.

Robert started with a perfect date, then a perfect relationship culminating with a family dinner hosted by his dead mother where his father loves him, and they adore her just as much as he does.

Eva panics when she sees herself in a designer wedding dress being walked down the aisle by her dead father. In the next second, she fashions a machine gun out of thin air and guns down her groom and their guests just as his snipers riddle her with holes.

“That was an experience.” she said as he looked embarrassed at how it went.

He looks at his wallet and she looks at her fucked up coin to remind themselves they are back in the real world.

His wallet doesn’t have five one-hundred-dollar bills – it is six hundred with the last hundred divided in twenties, a ten and a fifty---- nor the photograph of him and his father.

Robert has, aside from his own totem, an ultramodern militarized subconscious.

Eva has a similar defense, although hers is more about horror and the supernatural because she went through a goth phase as a teenager (and was still goth deep down)and now the macihuatli or horse-faced woman comes and drowns those who try to perform extractions or resurrect her dead family.

No extractor has been able to get past her yet, nor forger can replicate her, and she’s broken about every dreamcade she’s ever taken part in thanks to her secret weapon.

Had she not murdered her lover, he would’ve discovered a Mexican folk monster behind him about to drown him in a puddle.

“Sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me.” He apologized thinking it was his fault, and she dismissed it because it was hers.

Still Fischer looks like he’s ready to run, but she needs him to stay.

Eva hates herself for this, but the only way to stop Fischer Morrow from absorbing Riley International's energy companies was through him.

She needs him to want her and make her Mrs. Eva Fischer. Hence why she suggested dream sharing when they hit it off at a boring conference in New York.

“Don’t be sorry, besides, I enjoyed it.” The woman gave him a reassuring smile while removing the monitors that attached them to the dream sharing device. Somehow, she never breaks her own PASIV device.

His eyes are even more striking up close, so expressive, so clear and so blue. Eva isn’t even sure a paint that color exists.

Adds to the beauty of him, she thinks.

So insecure, so desperate for his father’s approval, and oh so beautiful even in his most pathetically vulnerable state. “And I have to say, your defenses are the best I have ever seen. I can’t even control mine as well as you do with yours, Bobby.”

You couldn’t even tell by looking at him that he had a subconscious military so efficient that it could conquer a mid-sized country in days. In the second she fired the machine gun; his snipers had given her more holes than a wheel of swiss cheese.

Eva had been more turned on by his militarized mind defenses than his delicious appearance.

And because her praise is genuine, he hesitates as he makes up an excuse to leave and return to his suite.

Robert Fischer is halfway to the elevator when he turns on his heel and returns to her room. “Last person who called me Bobby was my mother.”

“Nice woman, made me feel so welcome I almost thought it was real.” Eva comments as she offers him a chance to make those fantasies real in many ways.

“Is that why you killed me, Evita? It became too real for you.” He asks using the nickname her father had used.

“If it starts to feel like a better reality, neither of us would ever want to wake up. You’ve heard about what happened to that woman the Frenchmen told us about, went batshit insane after her husband woke her up.” she answered, returning his vulnerability with hers.

And it works, Robert stays, and Eva shoves her guilt for using him by making some of those fantasies a reality.

By morning, Eva’s checking out of the hotel on the arm of Maurice Fischer’s heir, by the end of the year, she is Mrs. Fischer.

The guilt never leaves, even when she builds a real life with him and comes to love him more than anyone else in the world.

“If you want me to go with you all you have to do is ask.” She says as they parted ways at the private airport.

“No, he said I must go alone. Uncle Peter said it’s best if I do as he says just this once.” Rob shook his head and she wished he had a bit more of a backbone.

Those two could tell him to jump and he’d ask how high. A wonder they didn’t get him to break up with her after he introduced her as his girlfriend and future wife.

“Gonna dream of you every night I’m away, baby.” Rob assured her with an almost pained smile.

“Call me when you get to Sydney, if you need me there, all you need to do is ask, Bobby.” Eva reminded her husband before grabbing him from his suspenders and kissing him goodbye.

[didasgomas]

Don't call me that

Day 29 of @augusnippets

Prompts: Singing/First words/Inside jokes

Trigger warnings : Heavily implied child neglect, religious abuse

Semi-important part of "In Mortality", an au of Cut Down The Altar (creator will be in the tags)

June 14th, 1896 - Messiah's Grove, Gold County, Iowa

The child was trying to speak, evident by the repeated noises it was making, attempting to form one clear word.

Brigid ignored the girl, like she tried to do every day, wanting to make sure God once more listened to her devoted prayers and oaths as a Bride of His Son, Jesus Christ. She wouldn't abandon the child, for that would make her unworthy of being a follower of the Virgin Mary, but in the virtue of honesty she admitted, that unlike the Queen of Heaven, in all of her divine grace, she simply could not bring herself to love the girl as a guardian.

Maybe if their father hadn't died so soon, Clarice wouldn't have done the mistake she had. Brigid might have been the second born, but she had taken after her father rather than her mother, and thus he placed in her with all his trust and confidence that she'd be the one to keep the family's honor afloat.

Brigid might have only been the younger daughter, but she felt that if she had insisted more, then her sister wouldn't have married a criminal. Their mother had been far too lenient about everything, so before joining St. Abigail's and vowing to follow always Jesus' word, she had desperately tried to convince Clarice that a man like Lawrence Delevan was a bad choice, and that she should wait for a better man to come into her life.

But evil was always tempting, alluring with a charm away from God, and in the end, Brigid could only take the Evangelical Counsels with a heavy weight in her consciousness that she hadn't tried hard enough to pull her older sister away from the path of sin.

And what had that brought? The girl behind her.

Born six years after Clarice's death, fathered by Lawrence and, from what she could understand her nephew Arthur had said, his hidden mistress that died giving birth to her changeling child.

Lawrence had died shortly after too, and not even having been married for an entire year, and with a business and a reputation to upkeep, Arthur had asked that she, his aunt, take the girl in and care for her in his and his wife's place.

She had wanted to refuse, but she knew from her sister's letters and from the few times she had spoken to him, that Arthur was a good man that tried his best, and in her everlasting commitment to family, Brigid accepted to raise the secret child.

"Ma- Mama!"

Both of these girl's parents were some of the worst kind of sinners, and Brigid merely kept her alive for God had commanded that one must always honor their family, but even if they weren't connected by blood, this child could never honor her legacy.

She was not this changeling's mother and she would not stand to be called that!

"Don't call me that, Serenity."

"Mama!"

"I said don't call me that!"

She would apologize to The Lord for her sudden burst of anger, but at least it had kept the girl from speaking that word again.

[count-lero]

Grandpa’s gift

There is an incredibly fascinating artistic detail that haunts me after some person posted their astute observations on the Internet and I would love to share it with you!

So, we have this illustration from a book “Life of Napoleon Bonaparte” by William Milligan Sloane (1896). Here we can see Napoleon visiting his son in a timeframe close to spring of 1813, when it became obvious that his larger political allies proved to be good for nothing and were probably going to leave him soon. Napoleon is shown deep in his thoughts holding a hand of his beloved son and looking at something far beyond our reach…

Or is he?

Speculations can be made that he actually has his attention on the toy soldiers present in a foreground of the picture.

While a cannon can be more than rightfully considered Napoleon’s own symbol, these toy soldiers do not represent any French troops. It’s possible to discern their tall hats but those are not bear hats of the Old guard, for sure.

They probably are the hats of Imperial (Austrian) grenadiers from the period of the Revolutionary wars. You can even notice red lining and cuffs being parts of their snowy-white coats.

Even if it was somewhat of a tradition to gift toy soldiers representing military units of relatively “old times”, an air of symbolism may also surround such a choice of troops. You know, that symbolism straight from those times when Imperial forces hadn’t yet suffered critical blows from the renewed French army and thought of themselves as fighters for truth and Habsburg’s justice.

So yeah. What a meaningful gift from a caring grandfather to his grandson it could be~ 🤭

(I’m also able to imagine how prince Schwarzenberg himself could have delivered this exact gift to Marie Louise, when he came to Paris as a diplomat once more and it literally gives me goose bumps. I love such small but significant imaginary plots with all my heart. ❤️)

[thethirdromana]

Just how bad were 1890s bestsellers?

Inspired by this post, I was curious to know exactly what the competition looked like for Dracula and The Beetle. Bestselling doesn't always mean good (4 of the 5 bestselling adult fiction books in the UK from 2000 to 2010 were by Dan Brown) so I was wondering... just how not good?

Here are some bestselling books, mostly taken from 'Nineteenth-Century English Best-Sellers: A Further List' by Richard D Altick.

King Solomon's Mines by H Rider Haggard Published 1885, sold 100,000 copies by 1895 and 650,000 by 1925.

It is a curious thing that at my age—fifty-five last birthday—I should find myself taking up a pen to try to write a history. I wonder what sort of a history it will be when I have finished it, if ever I come to the end of the trip! I have done a good many things in my life, which seems a long one to me, owing to my having begun work so young, perhaps. At an age when other boys are at school I was earning my living as a trader in the old Colony. I have been trading, hunting, fighting, or mining ever since. And yet it is only eight months ago that I made my pile. It is a big pile now that I have got it—I don’t yet know how big—but I do not think I would go through the last fifteen or sixteen months again for it; no, not if I knew that I should come out safe at the end, pile and all. But then I am a timid man, and dislike violence; moreover, I am almost sick of adventure. I wonder why I am going to write this book: it is not in my line. I am not a literary man, though very devoted to the Old Testament and also to the “Ingoldsby Legends.” Let me try to set down my reasons, just to see if I have any.

This is the opening. King Solomon's Mines is lively and readable, but also profoundly misogynistic and racist from start to finish.

The Mystery of a Hansom Cab by Fergus Hume Published 1887, sold 377,000 copies by 1898.

Mr. Gorby was shaving, and, as was his usual custom, conversed with his reflection. Being a detective, and of an extremely reticent disposition, he never talked outside about his business, or made a confidant of anyone. When he did want to unbosom himself, he retired to his bedroom and talked to his reflection in the mirror. This method of procedure he found to work capitally, for it relieved his sometimes overburdened mind with absolute security to himself. Did not the barber of Midas when he found out what was under the royal crown of his master, fret and chafe over his secret, until one morning he stole to the reeds by the river, and whispered, "Midas, has ass's ears?" In the like manner Mr. Gorby felt a longing at times to give speech to his innermost secrets; and having no fancy for chattering to the air, he made his mirror his confidant. So far it had never betrayed him, while for the rest it joyed him to see his own jolly red face nodding gravely at him from out the shining surface, like a mandarin. This morning the detective was unusually animated in his confidences to his mirror. At times, too, a puzzled expression would pass over his face. The hansom cab murder had been placed in his hands for solution, and he was trying to think how he should make a beginning.

I've never read this but it seems great. Might need to download the whole thing from Project Gutenberg.

The Murder of Delicia by Marie Corelli Published 1896, sold 43,000 copies in its first year and another 52,000 when a cheaper edition was released in 1899.

As a writer, she stood quite apart from the rank and file of modern fictionists. Something of the spirit of the Immortals was in her blood—the spirit that moved Shakespeare, Shelley and Byron to proclaim truths in the face of a world of lies—some sense of the responsibility and worth of Literature—and with these emotions existed also the passionate desire to rouse and exalt her readers to the perception of the things she herself knew and instinctively felt to be right and just for all time. The public responded to her voice and clamoured for her work, and, as a natural result of this, all ambitious and aspiring publishers were her very humble suppliants. Whatsoever munificent and glittering 'terms' are dreamed of by authors in their wildest conceptions of a literary El Dorado, were hers to command; and yet she was neither vain nor greedy. She was, strange to say, though an author and a 'celebrity,' still an unspoilt, womanly woman.

Hi my name is Marie Delicia and I am an unspoilt womanly woman and a lot of people tell me I write like Byron (AN: if u don’t know who he is get da hell out of here!).

Beside the Bonnie Briar Bush by Ian Maclaren Published 1894, sold 256,000 copies by 1907.

... my thoughts drift to the auld schule-house and Domsie. Some one with the love of God in his heart had built it long ago, and chose a site for the bairns in the sweet pine-woods at the foot of the cart road to Whinnie Knowe and the upland farms. It stood in a clearing with the tall Scotch firs round three sides, and on the fourth a brake of gorse and bramble bushes, through which there was an opening to the road. The clearing was the playground, and in summer the bairns annexed as much wood as they liked, playing tig among the trees, or sitting down at dinner-time on the soft, dry spines that made an elastic carpet everywhere.

Some proper twee Victorian twaddle, now with added Scottishness!

-

I wish I could find out how many copies Dracula or The Beetle sold; all I can find is the same stat repeated that The Beetle sold more in the first 30 years of publication.

For the Jekyll and Hyde Weekly folks, that was a bestseller, selling 40,000 copies in the first six months.

[flowerandblood]

For now, due to the break that @black-dread took, I also decided not to publish new chapters for now, but I have something different and quite interesting for you, because it actually sounds like a story taken from a fanfic from the 19th century and this is about my great-great-grandmother, Rozalia.

I devoted my master's thesis to her (I illustrated a book about her life story) and I have been dealing with her story for many years because… I still have no idea who the father of her children, and at the same time, my great-great-grandfather, was.

Rozalia was born in 1876 in Masovia, at that time under the Russian partition, into a family of agricultural workers (people hired by farmers or heirs to work in their fields).

In 1886, her father died, and in 1894 her mother married Jakub, who was 40 years her senior, probably to provide any living conditions for her children (Rozalia had two other siblings).

In 1896, Rozalia gave birth to her first child - daughter Stanisława. She is unmarried, in the documents there is no information about the child's father.

Usually, in such a situation, such a girl was immediately married off, but not Rozalia.

Rozalia gives birth to six more children: 1899 (Jacek), 1901 (Walenty), 1904 (Katarzyna), 1908 (Józef), 1913-1916 (Wacław), 1918 (Bolesław - my great-grandfather).

Rozalia dies in 1944 as an unmarried woman.

None of them had a father listed in the documents.

There were various rumors about who the father of her children was. My grandmother claimed that she overheard the adults talking about how this man was some kind of aristocrat.

But who?

For years I read parish and archive books, I found documents regarding the owners of the estate where Rozalia was born and the one where she later worked.

And nothing.

Everyone knew that Rozalia traveled to Prussia for work and that my great-grandfather was born in Bellshwitz.

However, no one from there matched the dates either, there were too many unknowns in the places where she was.

Me and my cousin took DNA tests and it turned out that we had a huge section of DNA in common with a German with whom I tried to link all of this with Bellshwitz, without success.

On Christmas, my grandmother and I called her cousin, Ignacy, son of Katarzyna, daughter of Rozalia, to wish him well. Even though I asked him many times to tell me about Rozalia, he maintained that he didn't remember anything.

During this conversation, when I spoke about her and this man again, and the fact that he was probably German, Ignacy said:

Yes, yes. We knew he had left and disappeared suddenly, but we didn't know where. When I joined the army, communist officers asked me: Why didn't you tell us that your grandfather emigrated to America? I replied: I had no idea about it myself.

I remember once, when I was still a little child, a handsome, elegantly dressed man came to our house, he didn't go inside, he noticed me playing with other children. He came up to us and asked which of us was named exactly like me. I told him it was me, and he held out his hand to me and said, "Greet your grandfather."

When I wanted to shake his hand, he put his hand under my mouth so that I could kiss it. I didn't want to do it and ran away. I never saw him again after that.

The situation he was talking about took place around 1936, probably whoever this man was, he left for America after the outbreak of World War II - the German aristocracy in these areas did not love Hitler.

I still don't know who this man is, but I hope that one day I will find out.

There are no photos of Rozalia, but there are photos of her daughter, Katarzyna, whom my grandmother said looked very much like her mother. Based on her descriptions, I took photos of myself as my great-great-grandmother, which I later used in the book as her portraits, which you can see at the top of this post.

[midnight0stars]

Angels in Flight Ch 21 - Xigbar x Fem!Reader

NSFW

Words: 1896

--------------------------------

You rested your head against your arms, gazing out the tower’s window to the fireflies dancing below in the moonlight. Their golden glow reflected off the babbling brook and colored the flowers scattered along the water’s edge. It was an ethereal sight, one that helped calm the restlessness inside you. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Xigbar asked from behind you. 

You gasped softly, looking over your shoulder to see the moonlight casting over his shirtless silhouette. The surprise melted into a soft smile as he sat down beside you. “I didn’t even hear you get up,” you said softly. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Nah, well sort of.” He shrugged, yawning. You stifled a giggle at his adorable sleepy state. It was such a rare thing to see. “Went to feel you up and all I got was a fist full of blanket.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” you replied with a quiet chuckle, your face warming. 

He chuckled along with you, smirking as his gaze danced over you. “So…what’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

It did your heart good to hear him use that phrase again—just like before. Despite it, your smile fell slightly, your brows knitting together. Fingers brushed across your cheek, pushing back your hair. You leaned into his touch, your eyes sliding shut. 

“It’s a lot to get used to,” you whispered. “Having a heart.”

Xigbar hummed, his thumb grazing your cheek. It was different having him be so quiet and tender, something you only ever really got to see in the quiet moments on sleepless nights like tonight. 

You slid your hand over his and kissed his palm, before confessing, “I wish you were able to have yours.”

You said it so quietly, you wondered if he heard you as he didn’t reply right away. Your eyes fluttered open and you saw him looking out the window. A weariness weighed heavily across his features. His usual confident stature was slumped and the scars across his skin appeared more prominent under the moonlight.

Was this the man he was always hiding?

Endless layers of secrets concealed behind a cocky smirk and enticing words. You ran your hand along his forearm, giving him a subtle squeeze. The affection caused the slightest smile to tip his mouth and he drifted his gaze downwards. 

“I don’t know, Hot Stuff,” he muttered. “Sometimes it’s easier without one.”

You swallowed, a mixture of emotions swelling from his words. Sliding your hand back up to his, you gently grabbed his wrist and led it towards your chest. He watched with a quirked up brow, a snarky comment seemingly on the tip of his tongue, but he remained quiet. You pressed his palm above your breasts, against your heart. Even through his hand, you could feel it beating. Xigbar looked at his hand, then up at you. 

“If you wanted me to touch your tits—”

“I want you to feel my heart,” you interrupted him in a rush, your entire body warming. “Though, maybe later you can touch my…um, my tits.”

Xigbar’s smirk cracked into a grin and you averted your gaze. “Alright, alright,” he chuckled, rubbing his thumb against your chest. “I’m all ears.”

You opened your mouth to talk, then crumbled into a breathy laugh, your head hanging forward. 

“Did I ruin it?” he asked, making your laugh fuller. 

“No,” you assured him, wiping at the corner of your eyes. You leaned forward and met your lips together. “I didn’t have anything worth saying anyway.”

“I seriously doubt that,” he mumbled before sliding his hand behind your neck and kissing you deeper. 

You sighed into his mouth, your heart bursting with life at the feel of his lips moving against yours. That’s what you wanted him to feel. What you only felt a fraction of as a Nobody. The thing you desperately wanted to never end. 

Your lips parted and breathless gasps filled the air between you. 

“I love you,” you breathed out and Xigbar grinned, kissing you again with a lingering kiss that made you softly whine with need. 

“I think I do too, Hot Stuff,” he replied with a low voice just loud enough for you to hear. 

You expected that sentiment to make your heart nearly explode, but instead a warmth enveloped you and in that moment, you could only describe it as being finally home. 

“Let’s get you back to bed.” Xigbar mumbled, kissing along your jaw. 

You let out a soft sigh, nodding as your eyes fluttered shut. “Y-yes, please.”

You didn’t even have to get up as Xigbar swept you up off the ground and carried you across the room. The cold sheets of the bed greeted you, grateful for your warmth on the cold night. Xigbar climbed over you, his lips trailing your neck as he laid you down completely. 

“You know what?” he murmured into your ear and you could only whine in question. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you on my last mission.”

“Y-Yeah?” you asked, your back arching and hands trailing up his back, feeling his scars beneath your fingertips. 

“Kept hearing your little moans in the back of my mind,” he replied, his hand trailing up your side to your breast. He squeezed it in his hand, making you moan. He hummed approvingly, his voice rumbling through you. “That’s the one.”

“I-I’ve thought—” you gasped, rolling your hips but you couldn’t reach his, “—about y-you touching me. Almost… almost every night.”

He groaned in your ear, lowering his body to be completely on top of you. His cock rubbed against your thigh and even through the fabric of his pants, you could feel how hard and wet it was. 

“And what would fantasy me do?” he asked, pulling back just enough for you to see his smirk. 

Your breath left you, despite the way your body warmed and tingled from your fingertips down to your thighs. “A-Anything he wanted,” you stammered out breathlessly. 

His smirk grew into a grin. “Anything, huh?”

You barely had the chance to nod before Xigbar’s hand pressed between your legs. A gasping moan broke out of you and Xigbar chuckled. He lifted off of you and you immediately missed his warmth. His fingers hooked the sides of your pants and you lifted your hips without question, lost in a trance. The fabric tugged off and Xigbar tossed it away before pushing apart your legs. The cool night air rushed against your wet folds, making you shiver. You looked up at Xigbar, seeing the glint of his golden eye as it danced over you. His hands slid along your legs, taking his time and savoring the moment. 

Blush burned through you. There was something exhilarating about being so exposed for him to see. Anyone else and you would be mortified. Xigbar though. The mere thought of it got you wet on lonely nights. 

He shook his head, breathily laughing. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to a sight like this.”

You giggled, leaning up on your elbows. He met you halfway and leaned forward, kissing you for a lingering moment before pulling away and trailing his lips along your legs. Your head slung back, feeling his breath get closer and closer to your clit. His hot tongue slid along your folds in a long drawn out lick and your entire body shuddered with a wave of deep pleasure. You fell limply onto your back, whining and toes curling as Xigbar continued with slow, deliberate flicks. 

A finger pressed past your entrance, your nerves igniting with a resounding throb that so dearly missed his touch. 

“Fuck, Xigbar,��� you groaned, your back arching and hands gripping the comforter. 

His laugh rumbled through you, making you shiver. He quickened his pace, the sounds of his lips smacking and his fingers sliding in and out of you mixed with your moans and whimpers. Your legs wrapped around his back, desperately pulling him closer. He took you in greedily, his free hand gripping your hip, holding you in place as the rest of your body convulsed and twitched with every flick of his tongue. 

It didn’t take long until you cried out, every muscle in your body spasming with euphoria. Xigbar groaned, suckling your clit as you came against his tongue. Just as your voice dissipated into gasping breaths, he lifted from between your legs and climbed back over you. He kissed along your neck, his finger sliding out of your pussy and idly circling your folds. You whined, still lost in a trance even after your orgasm. 

“Was it something like that, Hot Stuff?” he asked, his voice low and breathy. 

You swallowed hard, nodding. “E-Even better.”

He hummed, licking your ear. “You think you’ll think about that next time?”

“Y-Yeah,” you admitted and he chuckled. 

“Good.”

Your hips jerked against his hand and you bit your lip. Xigbar smirked against your neck and he pulled back and rested his head against yours. His finger teasingly circled your clit, then your entrance. 

“You going to cum for me again?” he asked. 

You whined, your hips rolling. 

“Yeah, that’s right Babe,” he murmured, his own hips rolling against your side, his cock rubbing against your thigh. “Cum for me.”

“Xigbar,” you sighed, your head rolling back. Your hand gripped his shoulder, your nails digging into him, but that only spurred him further. 

Even with just his fingers, your body was so alight, every little movement sent you reeling. The rush washed over you in a wave and you gasped, your back arching entirely off the bed. Xigbar’s heavy breaths matched yours as he watched you cum, his cock leaving precum against your thigh. Just as the wave settled, his slicked fingers left your clit and he rolled you onto your side. 

“X-Xig—” you started to ask in a near delirious slur, before his cock slid inside you. “Ooooh fuck…”

Xigbar’s hot breath panted against your back. One arm wrapped tightly around your waist, pressing you against him as he slid in and out of you. His other hand slid up your body, squeezing your tits, then wrapping around your neck. You slung back your head, completely lost in him. Your hands grabbed him anywhere they could, desperate to bring him closer. He groaned against your skin, his cock deep inside of you over and over again. 

“Y/N,” you heard him mutter your name amidst a slew of curses and words you couldn’t fully understand between the sound of your bodies meeting together and your own gasping moans. 

His hand slid down from his neck, and pressed hard against your chest where your heart pounded strongly. Xigbar bit down on the back of your shoulder and you cried out from a mixture of pain and ecstasy. His hips jerked forward, his body tightening. You could feel his cum spilling inside of you and you whined with subdued throbs of pleasure.

Both of your heavy breaths filled the suddenly quiet air. Beaded sweat covered both of your bodies, only now allowing the night’s chill to affect it. Xigbar’s grip on you loosened and he silently prompted you to turn around to face him. You breathlessly smiled, meeting his grin before you kissed him for a lingering moment. 

“I wish it could always be like this,” you whispered. 

Xigbar smirked. “Who knows, Hot Stuff? Maybe someday it will be.”

[ericdeggans]

Joining the Indiana Journalism Hall of Fame: Fulfillment from a life of helping a community understand itself

Journalism always seemed like a realistic career goal for me, thanks to my dad, Chuck Deggans.

He had a regular column in several newspapers around my Gary, Indiana hometown when I was growing up, writing for Black-centered newspapers like Gary INFO and The Crusader, in addition to the dominant local daily, The Post-Tribune. His column was like a local version of Jet magazine’s happenings pages, with tidbits on all the stuff going on in Gary’s Black social scenes, complete with a few photos of beautiful women in bikinis or local notables.

That’s why I spent time talking about him and my mother, Carolyn Williams, when I was inducted into the Indiana Journalism Hall of Fame. The honor, which has surprised and gratified me, was a direct reflection of both their influences.

My mom scrimped and saved to send me to private schools we could barely afford, giving me an education and experiences that broadened my horizons invaluably. And my dad showed me a career in journalism could bring a steady paycheck, community influence and great pride – knowing you were helping a community understand itself by telling its story, again and again, every day. Which was no small lesson for a Black kid raised in a tough neighborhood with few similar role models.

The Hall of Fame class this year includes some impressive names: Max Jones, editor of the Tribune-Star in Terre Haute; Bill Benner, a former sports reporter, writer and columnist at the Indianapolis Star; Sandra Chapman, reporter/investigative journalist formerly with WISH-TV and later WTHR-TV in Indianapolis; Francisco Figueroa (1896-1951), the printer, publisher and editorial contributor to Indiana's first Spanish language newspaper, El Amigo del Hogar; Wallace Terry, 1938-2003, journalist, documentarian and author who covered war and civil rights for a variety of national newspapers and magazines and Kathy Tretter, owner and publisher of the Spencer County Leader and the Ferdinand News.

Joining this group was a distinct honor – a major highlight in a journalism life which has included everything from hosting shows on NPR and CNN to interviewing Oprah Winfrey and Prince, writing a book that predicted a lot of the modern shape of media and forcing the TV industry to face much of its hypocrisies regarding race and equity.

These days, it’s easy to despair over the waning impact of journalism, as audiences increasingly align with outlets telling them what they want to hear and those in power find more insidious ways to undermine a truly independent press.

But the Hall of Fame ceremony was poignant reminder of value in the ceaseless, constant work of journalists from my home state and around the world – a lifetime-long challenge which could not be more rewarding or necessary in the current moment.