#doc Holliday imagine

[ohtobemare]

When Hell Comes, part 1 • Doc Holliday x Reader

Series warnings: attempted rape, time travel AU, swears, smut

Word count: 6k+

Part 2

Do I know what this is? Not entirely. This idea has been racing through my head like a thoroughbred, so I decided to tackle it. Stupid long, I'm planning a Part 2 because Doc didn't creep in here nearly as much as I wanted him to, so, next time 'round, for sure. moodboard by the lovely @your-local-crzy-lady

When Hell Comes, Part 1

Arizona wilderness courses by in a blur of gold and blue, the line where the horizon meets the sky nothing but a wash of shimmering heat and speed. Hell has come to this desert it’s so hot, the devil himself a stone’s throw of a few yards behind you.

Dry, sinful heat licks at your face. Stings your eyes as the animal beneath you shoots through the sand like time itself is running out, the horizon beyond the only salvation. The bones in your chest rattle every time hooves thunder against the ground, and you hit the saddle hard every heartbeat or so, th-thunk th-thunk, th-thunk. 

Feels like you’ve been flying forever, outrunning the shadow of Tombstone that lurks behind you like a vision of death and despair. It’s maybe only been a few handful of minutes, but time is an illusion. Survival has spiked your blood with adrenaline, though the chill across your skin rattles your teeth, a wash of goosebumps the only evidence that you are, in fact, more alive than you feel.

Reins in your hand are slick. Either with the sweat of your palms, or the well-oiled love of attention, you’re not sure which. And your legs burn as if they’ve been simmering in venom. Muscles could, at any given moment, detach from your legs and hit the dust beneath Viper’s ground-moving hooves. 

The first shot explodes from a pistol, filling daylight between you and the Cowboys. Zips past you to what you assume is your left, but you wouldn’t know regardless. It rips a shriek of panic from the back of your throat that could cut glass—they are shooting at you.

Moments before, in the sands beyond this wilderness they’d been coming onto you—and now they were drawing iron. Unbelievable.

Terror spikes up into the back of your neck like a tomcat, claws bared against your flesh. 

You duck forward in the saddle, hoping it’s enough to make a smaller target. It’s difficult, being low over the horn that’s cutting up into your ribs every time Viper’s hooves find the earth. Your core is on fire with the effort to stay balanced. Stay in the saddle. White-knuckling the reins like they are a lifeline, you can feel Viper’s tense mouth—it ripples through the animal like water. 

What you wouldn’t give for a cell phone right now, any sign of life in this wilderness. But reality digs between your ribs like a starving wolf—you remember where you are. How’d you arrived here, two weeks ago, like something from Dickens or Verne or a Disney epic.

It still didn’t make sense, but nothing had since being thrown back in time nearly hundred and fifty years. Tended to throw a wrench in things, even though wrenches hadn’t been invented yet. 

Unappreciative of the added pressure in your hands, Viper snorts roughly; you feel it in the depths of his chest. Out of habit your hands relax, instead mix with the flow of his thick, sweat-slick mane for stability, the leathers now rubbing searing blisters in the webbing of your thumbs. Every ounce of upper body strength funnels into gripping the stallion’s thick locks, your shoulders burn with the hot buzz of muscular effort.

You haven’t ever ridden this hard, Viper has never carried you this hard. 

Viper isn’t conditioned for this. Arizona heat coupled with your body mass is not promising for the horse. He isn’t a horse of 1881 western America—he is a horse of the modern world. Grains and air conditioned trailers, not trail broke and tack-fed is the life Viper knows.

His breed shouldn’t be anywhere near the desert, something Wyatt had so aptly noticed when you’d stumbled into town after two days of barely surviving the shrub and desolace of the Arizona wilds. 

Another cruel joke in the twisted deck fate has dealt you. 

Getting home is the goal, getting out of Arizona is the reality. But there’s nothing to bet on, no bluffs to call. No moves to make. This is a game of another kind, entirely.

Nobody in the history of the known universe has seen what you’ve seen, felt the jolt of time passing through your blood. You, and Viper, are the only known bodies in the universe that have even been wretched through the wormhole. And you hope you’ll be last—you wouldn’t wish this on any one. 

Another shot pops off behind you, this time hitting the dirt to your right. Closer, too close and Viper knows it—he locks up, skidding to a stop through the thick, searing sands of the wilderness to throw back in a hard rear. You hear the party behind you, hooves of their animals barraging the earth like a volley of gunfire, their hoops and hollers ringing hollow off your ribs. 

“Th’r she is, boys—get up there and get ‘er off that sonuvabitch!” You don’t have to see him to know who it is.

Curly will haunt your dreams for the rest of your living days, if there are any after today. Ringo alongside him. Together their cold fingers spin through your fear, like bloodthirsty dogs lapping at whatever show of terror you’ll throw their way. Wolves that lay at the door, haunting Arizona lines.

And it isn’t just you—everyone respects the presence of the Cowboys. Well, rather everyone fears them. They’re unpredictable, like snakes. Jumping any which way they please, nearly without warning. 

They’d killed Frank, the sweet sheriff who’d opened his home to you. Word had it that one of them had offed Fabian, too. The beautiful actor who’d blown in with the winds of change that sweet soul Josephine Marcus had ushered in. They’d enraptured the entire living populace of Tombstone in their short time—they’d listened to you. In ways that only people of interest and compassion would. 

The red sash has been a thorn in your side since arriving in Tombstone—more interested in Viper, having never seen anything like him before. Less interested in you, until.

Well, that was it. Until.

Until he had made a show of you in front of the entire casino. An object, a trinket of fanciful display—Holliday’s sweet little nothing that made his eyes blaze and your face light up like the fourth of damn July. 

They’d seen. Ringo had seen, Curly had seen—the entire damn Cowboy posse had seen. And, like all men of this century, they lusted over what wasn’t theirs. One weak moment beneath Doc Holliday’s enchantment and you’d shown your entire hand, cards down and heart ripped wide open for anyone and everyone to study. Then it tasted sweet, like wine. Ended up a sour poison. 

Poison currently rotting a hole through your gut. 

Front legs cutting through the air as he launches back, Viper releases a shrill, blood-chilling cry that shakes his entire frame. You feel it into the fiber of every muscle as you white knuckle the horn, legs locked around his barrel in an effort to keep yourself up. Eyes pinched closed, every one of their horse’s hooves hitting the earth race up your spine, rattle off at the base of your neck as they get closer. 

Sour bile jumps up the back of your throat as Viper starts beneath you, ripped with nervous energy and on the hair trigger of flight. God he’s never been this skittish. Unpredictable. He rears again, and when his front legs find the earth, you kick at his sides. Attempt to launch him forward again. 

“C’mon, Vipe–we gotta move!” His head pulls down sharply. Down, back—stubborn thing, he won’t move. His protest is stronger than your will, he’s got nearly two thousand pounds on you, and he plants his hooves. Stumbles back into shrubbery that makes him huff. “No, no no we can’t do this right now—Viper!” The words are bitter, panicked on your tongue. Nearly cracking. 

He’s beyond argument. And for good reason—attempting to circle him, he paws at the ground. One check down his side and he’s complete foam, like someone has lathered fine suds over his chocolate coat. Feathered hair about his shine, nearly gleaming like he’s crossed the swift waters of the Colorado. Sweat ravines down his sides, carved muscle of his physique, like rivers. Fat drops rain to the earth around him, he’s hot. Lathered. 

There’s nowhere to go, no way you can get him to move. He is trembling with exhaustion as he gnaws at the bit rolling about his mouth, and you really can’t tell where the animal’s fear ends and yours begins as you watch the dry cloud of dust roll in with the approaching horses.

Eyes burning with the granules of dust, your hand slides down and back, to your saddlebags—but there are none.

Virgil had warned you, but you’d been stupid. So, so so dumb. 

Crescenting around you in a half moon, their animals fall into order, stepping forward to press a tight circle around Viper as your attention whips between them all, trying to keep track of the sun-leathered faces, dark eyes all bearing down like hawks.

Curly is the first to break the line, spurring his animal into a crisp trot up to you. Angling, his leg brushes yours as he comes up beside your animal, smirk twisting his sweat-slick, dripping mustache. 

“Well look what we have here,” he chuckles, head bobbing with the loose effort of effervescent arrogance he’s displayed since the moment you’d been so graced with his presence, “seems that stud finally caught up with you, darlin’—figg’rd you couldn’t keep a handle on ‘im, cock an’ all. Mighty big horse for a pretty thing like yourself.”

His hands fall over one other on the horn of his saddle as he sits deep and low, brows lifted knowingly. “Will give it to ya, though—made it a ways out here. I’m more impressed than I thought to be, pretty.” 

“Surprised you managed a thought at all, Curly,” you bite back, pulling back a little roughly on Viper’s mouth. Your glower is firmly planted at the man’s smirk, as if it will viscerally rip it right off his face, “Seems it didn’t last long though. What was your fine plan there, cowboy? Thought you wanted my horse—he isn’t much good shot dead in the middle of the damn desert.” 

Low calls and cackles around the circle snap Curly’s attention back to Johnny Ringo, who’s tongue skips through the seam of his mouth to skate his bottom lip. His gaze diverts down to the dust, tempest of dark eyes lost beneath the brim of his hat.

Curly quells the murmurings of the group with a hellish glare. 

Without warning whatsoever, his rough hand reaches across the space between his animal and yours, for the reins. You snap back and away, Viper sidestepping. Unbalanced for a brief moment, Bill catches himself in the saddle, his hard glare hitting you between the eyes with the force of a locomotive.

Not rattled for long, he gathers up his own animal at rein, comes about sharply, and before you know it the back of his hand cracks across your cheek. 

The smack of skin on skin is sharp. Echoes through the blood in your ears, white hot pain zinging through your face as your hand comes to cover the sure mark he’s left across skin. It stings triumphantly, your distraction enough for him to rip Viper’s reins from your hand. 

Youwatch the animal attempt to look back at you, then Curly—he’s confused by the transfer of power.

Curly’s strength and bitterness in his mouth is unfamiliar. Different. 

Pulling sharply, he brings Viper under collection. Only after a few heartbeats can you hear the group of them chuckling at you, ribbing and elbowing each other knowingly.

With a sharp pull, Viper is spurred into a brisk walk as he guides up beside Ringo, you little more than a bobbing trinket in the saddle, hands on thighs and probably looking as whipped, and raw, as you feel.

“Let’s get movin’,” Curly barks to the group, face pointed southwest, not even bothering to register his group of followers, “We’ll camp southwest’a here—move on tomorrow.” 

“Aint’ we gonna make tracks?” That’s Ike, though you can’t see him. His grating whine is enough to shatter the rest of your confidence as you all but feel his gaze slide down your form. “Earp and his boys’ll come lookin’ for her, Curly Bill, and I reckon—” 

“You reckon shit all, Ike,” Bill snaps over his shoulder, “If Holliday wants his pretty thing back, well the sonuvabitch can come get her.” Shifting in his saddle, dark eyes glint over you. Smirk twisted in a coy, wolfish way, “Or he can try. His sorry lunger ass couldn’t make it halfway out of town before needin’ a got’damn siesta.”

The mention of Holliday makes your chest fly with living color for all of lightspeed before the sensation crashes to your knees, Curly’s brows wagging lasciviously.   

Chin lifting as you rub at the mark on your face, your gaze is sharp enough to cut the pistol at his side.

“Doc is more of a man than any of you idiots put together,” you hiss at him, eyes narrowing against the sun threatening to blind you over his shoulder, “And you will rue the day you cross pistols with Holliday, Wyatt, or any of them boys. History remembers them as great men—you, well. Any of you morons—not so damn much.” 

Ringo snorts beside you, shaking his head as he adjusts whatever is rolling around his craw with the tip of his tongue, “That’s right,” he draws the consonant in that dark way of his, brow crooking up knowingly, “little miss time travel’rs got it all figured out, boys. Hear that? Nobody remembers us in the future.” He cuts his horse between Curly’s and Viper, and without any warning whatsoever, his thick hand lashes out to grab you fully by the jaw.

“Ain’t that right, desert flower? Nobody remembers us, huh. Well—books and shit may not ‘member me all that well, but let me just tell you, bitch—by the time I’m finished with ya, you won’t know a word other than John Ringo.”

His slow smile claws at your soul, cold as it rips the air out of your chest with all the force of dark, testing eyes behind it, “Sweetest name I reckon I ever heard, comin’ out the mouth of a sorceress whore like you.”

Fuming, you seethe at him and rip his hand off your jaw, pulling back sharply. Cackling catcalls and low whistles bristle down your spine as the group spurs their animals into a trot, the air shaken with the movement of horse flesh and muscle. Gaze shadowed by the brim of his hat, your jaw is nearly breaking as you set it firm, unwilling to draw his attention. 

You bob to a stop suddenly as he pulls up. His horse fidgets, his arm brushes against yours harder than you appreciate, the contact like an inferno on your skin.

Flinching, you consider your bare arm—it’s already pink, sure to be flaming tomorrow with a sunburn. In your fluster you hadn’t even bothered with any of the clothes Wyatt had passed to you—you’d just gone. Little more than a t-shirt and jeans, boots to carry you through the desert. How far you’d get without protection hadn’t even been a thought in the empty canoe of your brain.

Getting out of Dodge had been the only thought, Viper the answer to actually make it happen. 

Touching your fingers to it, the white of pressure vanishes immediately and your eyes flutter closed at the sharp zip of pain that flares across your skin. Biting the inside of your cheek, your hand rubs over the sensation. And Ringo does notice, his eyes moving to your bare arm, canting to consider your choice of modern clothing—clothing he’s likely to have never seen.

None of them have—you’d all but dropped jaws when you’d staggered into town, Viper at reign, two weeks ago. Nobody could make heads or tales. Twenty-twenties fashion is a far cry from the elaborate gowns of yesteryear. 

You notice his eyes fall to the cut of your hip, which is more than filled out in your favorite jeans. They do make you look sinful, that was the point of buying them. At least, in your world.

Now they were little more than an unwanted neon sign that called to attention the fact of your sex, your desirability. There’s one woman for every dozen men in the West, you remember hearing. And that’s never been more apparent than in the hollow, cold look of John Ringo’s face.

Shifting in the saddle, you can’t miss the rub of his fingers over his cock. 

Before you know what’s happening, Ringo is bent over in his saddle, rummaging through a saddle bag. Seconds, maybe, and he’s flung a threadbare ball of something at you—it brushes your arm, falls into the cradle of your legs. Not daring to touch it, your gaze drops to it.

“Unless you wanna die’a heatstroke,” he gestures up to the sun with a nod, “no good to anybody if you're suncooked.” Snapping Viper back into compliance, his gaze pulls ahead.

Your abs are on fire the entirety of the ride southeast, low back burning as your legs buzz with hot ache from trying to keep yourself in seat.

The afternoon has been no less than torture—between the heat, the merciless ride, and the unforgiving gazes of the posse all but eye-fucking you in the saddle, you’re more than raw by the time Curly calls for dismount out in the middle of hell-all nowhere.

As if you haven’t been riding for hours, nearly starving and on a brutal pace, Curly and Ringo dismount to the ground on strong, unphased legs. Immediately setting to drop tack.

Hands numb from white-knuckling the Circle Y’s horn, you carefully release your grip. Fingers burning as you flex life back into them, Ringo drops the rein of his animal before gathering Viper’s into a short lead. The Clydesdale still hasn’t settled, foam all but cooked onto his flesh as Ringo’s hand smooths down his neck, whispering softly up into the animal’s ear. 

With a snap of the reins, Viper’s head jerks up at alert, Ringo’s hot eyes cutting up to you all too quickly.

“Off,” he barks, jerking his head in a poignant way that indicates compliance. For a bleeding second you hesitate, uncertain if you can dismount without crumbling into the dirt on the gelatinous, goo-ish noodles your legs have become. But he doesn't give you a choice—”I said off!” His voice rips through the hollow of your gut as he grabs at your shirt, sharply tugging you out of the saddle. 

You have no time to collect or swing off before he’s ripped you out of seat—your frame sinks off all 17 hands of Viper’s form, through the air, for all of a few seconds. Ground comes up hard, fast.

Head cracking against the dry earth, the air knocks out of you with a sharp whistle as your left side takes all of the weight of gravity—cheek roughly kissing the dirt, sand all but leaps up into your scalp as you slack into the ground. Ringo is amused, shaking his head at you as he clucks coquettishly. 

Moaning, pain rings up through your arm and collarbone, slices from  your hip to your ankle like a hypodermic needle through bone. Viper startles, huffing out a strong breath as he considers you, his trusted friend, in the dirt. Lifting your head to consider him, Ringo works at the latigo of your tack. Has Viper unsaddled and your thousand-plus dollar gear hitting the dirt in record time. 

Before you manage to push yourself up on an elbow, thick fingers wrap through your hair and pull sharply, igniting your entire head with fresh, shooting ache that makes you shriek. White hot pain cocktails with the fear in the pit of your gut, which threatens to send up through your throat. 

Clawing up at the hands tangled in your hair, spittle flies from your chapped lips as you attempt to writhe away from the effort hauling your ass through the said, “Let go of me, you disgusting cocksucker—let go of me!” Like a pig he is snorting at every attempt your body makes to snap out of his holds. 

“Cocksucker? Ha! Hear that, boys? That’s’a new one—oooheee, ain’t that just sound like somethin’?” He goads you, creeping fingers cutting into the curve of your sides, attempting to brush beneath your ribcage greedily, “Head’s up—Billy! Get yer ass over her and grab her legs, fore she kicks the will out of the devil!” 

Nails gouging at the hand buried in your hair, you realize it’s Ike that’s issuing orders, his comrade’s head snapping up to consider his proposition from his own animal. He drops you roughly into the dirt, your head kicking back into the crags of desert soil as Ike stares down at you, hands slung over his belt. 

He licks at the spit across his chapped lips, heavy eyes dragging over you like frostbite slowly eating away at your flesh. Even fully clothed, he looks at you like you’re naked as the day you were born. Cold fingers of realization claw at the back of your head, attempt  to throttle you as you can’t draw enough air into your chest beneath his gaze. Rung tight with adrenaline, fear chases through your blood, bringing new life and strength to exhausted muscle that’s flaming through every inch of you. 

He drops into a crouch, nails scratching through the unshaven, slick stubble across his jaw. Crooked, infectious teeth appear through a thin, steely smile that’s meant to take you apart. It does, in all the wrong ways, and you work yourself up to crawl backwards, away from him. Any and all daylight between you and Ike will never be enough, and his eyes flick to your tits, which rise and fall with the effort of shallow, shaking breaths. 

Every one of his movements are sharp and defined, like living color as Billy comes up beside him, hands lazily slung over his own belt as he stares down at you from beneath the brim of his own hat. Both of their intentions may as well be written as bright as Vegas neon across their faces, though Billy does a better job of containing himself. You swallow a thin breath when Ike palms over his cock, the quiet squeak that pops from the back of your mouth amusing them both to the point of chuckling. 

Standing slowly, Ike swipes that hat off his head, passing it to Billy easily, brows lifted in the air as he considers you down in the dirt. “Think it’s some kind of bad luck to fuck a sorc’ress, Clanton?” His eyes drag over to the other man, who’s head cants to the side as he considers you on the ground. 

He thinks about it for a minute, your eyes moving between the two of them. The rustle of leather and the clink of a buckle snap your gaze back to Ike, who’s already got his gunbelt, and chaps, well past still on. He wets his lips as you hustle back a few inches, fingers biting into the ground. 

“You even think of touching me, and so help me God—” 

“Shut yer fucking mouth!” Ike scrambles over you, stoops low, his stained fingers savagely taking you by the chin and squeezing hotly around the bone of your jaw, “You say one damn word other’n what I tell ya and I’ll cut that damn tongue right out yer damn mouth and shove it up your ass, fuckin’ whore.” 

He releases you roughly before swinging from over you, ripping the hem of his shirt up and out from where it’s been tucked into his pants. Cutting Billy a look, the other man’s face is riddled with amused surprise, before he shrugs. Ike swings his belt off, moving to drop it beside his hat. 

“Reckon it works the same way, sorc’ress or not,” Billy saunters up beside Ike, rubbing at his jaw before he squats and reaches for your booted foot, “And you ain’t one to worry over bad luck, Ike. Never met an unluckier sonofabitch than you.” His gaze breaks back over his shoulder to Ike, who’s glaring daggers at this cohort with enough weight that it may as well drag the sun from the sky. 

You see your chance—distracted, you kick your foot up and slam the toe of your boot beneath Billy’s chin, the man howling and dropping back to his ass under its force as you writhe beyond reach, twisting in the dirt to haul yourself out of the sand. Rock and shrub and sharp sands grinds beneath your nails to the point of blood, but you can’t feel a thing except the buzzing electricity of adrenaline kicking like a mule through your veins. 

Square-toed boots grinding through dust as you bolt for Viper, you barely make it to speed before someone attacks you from behind. Tackled nearly to the dirt, the arm that snags around your waist is like iron, clamping tight around your hips as the other swings home around your neck.

Tight, you can feel the constricting cut of muscle against your throat as the chuckle comes low over your ear, smelling like tobacco and whisky. You’re fairly sure your heart will launch out of your chest and to the ground beneath you at any second as you claw at the arm around your neck. 

“Goin’ somewhere, desert flower?” It’s Ringo. His other hand dances over the low of your stomach, fingers dipping beneath the band of your jeans as you attempt to arch forward, away from his chest pressed hot and flush against your back. 

“Anywhere that isn’t with you, you sonofa—” his hand clamps down around your mouth, and you attempt to kick your head back to break free of it. No such luck—his grip is like bronze, hard and warm, and his hand burns with the scent of gunpowder, sweat, and animal as it bites into your flesh. 

His chuckle rattles around his ribs and you feel it more than you want to against your spine before his arm drops away from your throat. His arm at your hips loosens only enough for his fingers to find your belt hoops and bring you about sharply, any and all daylight that’s separated the two of you gone as he crowds you up against the side of his horse, his face merely inches from yours. 

“I’ll give credit to Holliday,” he speaks in low, cold tones that feel like hot coals down the length of your spine as every fiber of your being attempts to reel back, against his horse, away from him, “good taste in women,” his tongue skates his bottom lip as his dark eyes flick down to consider your mouth, “tell me—you whore for that lunger? He tasted you with that poison mouth of his?” Face twisting with seething, dark anger, his hand shoots up from nowhere to grip your face again, his knuckles ghosting with the effort as his nails bite into the flesh of your face.

“Tell me, you cocksucker—you let Holliday part those pretty legs of yours? Fuck that tight little cunt of yours?”

That’s enough.

Wrenching out of his grip, you reel back far enough to land a sharp blow to his jaw—it isn’t enough to send Ringo reeling, but it's enough to turn his head. And within heartbeats the mark on his cheek matches the one that’s started to ache from Curly on your skin, and you offer him a sneer that curls your lips just enough to give you a flare of superior confidence.

Ringo isn’t rattled. Actually, he looks impressed as his hand smooths over the kiss of red lighting up the line of his jaw. 

From nowhere, light eyes and fevered sweat cut through your mind like a dagger, for a moment separating reality with fantasy.

It’s impossible for your body to disengage Holliday’s hands at either of your hips, anchored like they’ve always belonged there. The way his heat rushes through you like wind. Enchanted is only a mild way to put it—you’d been enamored with him since he’d pulled you out of your saddle the first day Viper had wandered into Tombstone. You all but delirious, half dead.

You'd thought he was an angel.

“My, my—fortune does spring eternal. Wherevah did you come from, dahlin’? Pretty thing, blowing in on a shallow wind and tangerine skies an' all,” his chuckle had melted over you, feet finding ground, “Must be nothin’ short of heaven bound—and you’ll be closer still, if we don’t get you looked ovah.”

Lusty eyes and his arrogant smile had swiftly changed your opinion of him—he was the devil, you nothing short of temptation. In the best way, of course. 

You can still feel his chest brushed up against yours, the th-thunk of his heart perfect between your ribs—the way he looks at you, crowded anywhere anyone else isn’t. Those inferno lips, sucking deep marks into your skin. Lewd, sinful. Unforgiving. With any and all strength God put into his soul he had kissed you and God, was it wildly magnificent, far more perfect than it had rights to be. 

Your eyes blow wide thinking about him, knowing he isn't here. Can’t be here, won’t be here. He could be, perhaps would move heaven and earth—-if you weren’t foolish. So quick to run the hell away. 

Holliday still on your tongue cracks a bolt of lightning down the length of your spine. 

“Who I let ride this tight little cunt is my business,” you seethe at him, a hot smirk pulling at the corner of your mouth as his eyes track yours, discerningly, “there, Ringo—look at that. We match.” Proud at the mark on his face, your tongue skates over the bottom of your teeth.

Movement over his shoulder tracks your attention, and your eyes move to watch Curly’s feet weave a careful path to the two of you. Looking amused and smug, he rubs the cut of his hip. Deliberately. 

His tongue clicks off his cheek, matter-of-factly. “Alright, Ringo boy, that’s enough,” a hand on John’s shoulder snaps him back a half step, opening up the air between the two of you. Only enough for Curly to angle in. “Had quite enough of your filthy little mouth, young lady. I suggest you play nice,” his index finger and thumb hooks your chin, tipping it up and back a little, “or I’ll feed what’s left you of you to my hogs, if anythin’.” 

And before you know what happens, he clips you at the shoulder and shoves you forward, away from Ringo’s horse. You’re forced to the ground in a sitting position, Curly snapping sharp orders for you to be left alone until he gives word.

Ringo dishes out orders for camp, the men muster to duties as you attempt to will the throb of a headache out from behind your eyes. 

You sit there, cross-legged and observed, trying to calm the heart kicking at your ribs. Watch as Viper is hobbled expertly into compliance, nose wriggling against whatever shrubs the desert has to offer as he investigates the night’s accommodations. Foam has all but melted off of him to the desert floor. He’s shining with sweat but has stopped heaving for air, at least. 

Blinking the sweat from your eyes, Ringo drops the blanket by your side. Hesitation stops your breathe for a minute. Eyes scraping up his form, he smirks at you, shrugging a shoulder. 

Dragging the back of your hand over your mouth, your fingers twist into the material. Draw it around your shoulders, bonelessly and complacent. It’s thin, tawdy, reeks to high heaven and back again. But it’s protection from the taskmaster sun hanging in the sky nonetheless. 

Fortressed within the folds of the material, you can’t really say how much time slips through your fingers as red sash’s move to and fro about the makeshift camp. Bedrolls snap open, saddles are arranged for sleeping. Hard tack is passed around, booze and smokes. Horses passed handfuls of whatever trail provisions any of them have managed to pack, and much to your relief, Curly does order for Viper to receive rations.

Barely able to grip the hem of the sheet, though it may be a courtesty to call it even that, it takes herculean effort to stay awake. Aware. Alert. Because soon, every one of these Cowboys will be piss drunk and passed out, hopefully—and if you can manage consciousness, even for a while, there’s a good chance in hell  you can swipe a pistol, mount up, and leave. 

Once the heat of the desert acquiesces to the cool of night, stars make their way out among the canvas of black desert. Breathless sky hangs overhead and you sit motionless, staring into the twisting, licking flames of fire jutting up from the rocks and brush these idiots have gathered. 

Your tongue rolls thickly through your mouth, over your bottom teeth as your toes curl and uncurl in your boots. Reminded that you’re alive, your skin is all but burning. Sweat has been chased even from beneath your clothes, but you’re slick with grime and the heat of the day as you sit, sunkissed and caked with dirt, on the desert floor.

You haven’t stopped studying Viper across the camp, who’s mingling innocently with the other horses. Standing like a behemoth among the paints and quarters of the herd.

Why Curly Bill wants him is no mystery–Viper stuns. Steals the breath from your lungs. Living color to a world that’s never seen his kind before. A glittering jewel. You’d mentioned how much he was worth to Wyatt that day in the stables and the entire town had nearly combusted—twenty eight thousand dollars was no small change, not in the 19th century. 

“All the more reason to get you back where you belong, sweetheart,” Wyatt had looked at you with sympathy, rough hand clapping on your shoulder, “Helluva stud, though. Never seen someone ride nothin’ that big. Especially not a thing like you,” he’d winked at you and you’d blushed.

He didn’t let it slide. “Don’t you ever lose that color, pretty girl. You know what it does to us men? Cuts us at the knees—can’t hardly breathe when a thing like you lights up so nice.” 

The corner of your mouth ticks up in an amused smirk. Wyatt is nothing short of character. Charming, enigmatic. Handsome in all the right ways, dangerous in many of the wrong ones. Walking antithesis of Doc Holliday, but they were a fine pair—a romance of opposites, apologetically friends but at distance, not much more than enemies.

Their friendship  was the stuff of legend—history remembered them both fondly, and to know them? To have witnessed their revolutions around the same sun that is Arizona history?

It’s gripping, soul-changing. You’ll never be the same. knowing you.

Your throat closes a little as you pull in a slow breath, bottom lip rolling beneath your teeth for you to gnaw. Curling tighter into the blanket, your eyes close for a minute, the cool darkness immediately chasing tension from the base of your neck. 

Ike and Billy’s game of cards is loud, but it fades beneath the kicking heartbeat between your ribs. Focusing on the blood in your ears, the tension rolls through muscle. Attempt to breathe—but it hurts. Locks up your chest, spins tightly through your lungs so much that the effort makes you cough.

Curling forward, your arms draw your knees as far forward as your body will allow. Head lolled to the side, your cheek rests against the muscle of your arm as you stare blearily into the serpent-like flames that bite up to the sky, smoke curling around them almost rhythmically. 

Tongue skating between your lips to wet at chapped skin, you rake a hand down the length of your face in an attempt to stir life back into your veins. It does little, only ignites the hot burn on your skin. Dropping your gaze to your lap, your eyes slip closed. 

And you wait. 

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[dragon-kazansky]

Save a horse

Gender neutral reader

Doc Holliday x Reader

Holliday likes what he sees, and he will let it be known.

Dedicated to @callsignscupcake​

They of course wouldn’t actually say this back then, but how can I resist?​

♡♡♡

Tombstone was a unique place. Therefore, it brought along some unique characters. One such person was a favourite of yours.

John Holliday, or Doc to literally everyone.

Doc didn’t know you at all. You had never dared approach the man, but you have seen him around a lot. Gambling, drinking, walking and talking with the Earp brothers. He always seemed to be around somewhere.

The man in question was up ahead talking to Wyatt Earp. You were doing some chores in town when you spotted him. You couldn’t help but admire him. The pair seemed to be in deep conversation, so you could admire them without concern of them catching you.

Doc was a dying man with a strange sense of humour, but you liked that about him. He was kind to those who gave kindness and stood up to those who tried to start a fight. Doc was also quick on the draw. You had been lucky enough to even witness his gunslinging skills.

A voice called out to the pair from behind you. The two men turned to see who was there. You had a split second to move and make it look like you hadn’t been standing there staring. You kept your head down as you walk, hoping they hadn’t noticed at all.

A pair of eyes follow you as you walk across the street and then disappear out of sight.

You don’t see Doc for a couple days after that. You’ve been busy getting on with things. Keeping to yourself. Business as usual. 

It wasn’t until one evening, while making your way home, that things changed. You were lost in your own mind as you made the walk through town. A walk you knew like the back of your hand. You hadn’t even noticed him step out of the shadows until his arm was around you, and you were then facing the other way. Your snapped back to find yourself tangled up with Doc Holliday himself.

Hs hand was settled on your hip as his arm crossed over your stomach, blocking you from moving. He was flush against your side, or more so, you were flush against his. His crystal eyes shone with mischief as his lips quirked upward into a cheeky grin.

The fox had the rabbit.

“A fine evening for two fine people to meet, wouldn’t you agree?” He says, coughing a little at the end.

“Pardon?”

“Not yet. I feel your eyes on me, but our gazes never quite meet. Always fleeing the scene before we ever get a chance to speak.”

You look around you, but only find that everyone else is just passing by and getting on with their day. You’re not quite sure what’s happening and find yourself at a slight loss.

“I don’t understand,” you say.

He chuckles slightly and lowers his arm from you. You find yourself turning rather chilly without his touch upon you.

“I see you often, but you always disappear before I can even make a move. Are we destined to be in this town together but never meet? Does a dying man not get a chance with pleasant company? Perhaps my reputation chases you away.”

You frown.

“Not at all. You’re one of the best gunslingers in this town.”

He perks up at that. Plush lips quirked into a cheeky grin.

“Is that so?”

“You know so,” you say. “If you don’t mind, I was on my way home.”

Holliday does not move. Instead, he offers you his arm. You stare at it with confusion. He couldn’t possibly be offering to walk you home. Surely, he has a game to win, a drink to have, Earps to keep company.

“May I?” He asks, seeing you not make a move to accept.

Well, you do after that.

Doc feels rather smug as you take his arm and allow him the honour of your company. You both walk casually through town, with you guiding him the way. 

Not once does he take his eyes off of you. You can feel his steely gaze on you as you walk.

“What is it that captured your gaze, darling?”

You avoid meeting his eyes as you look ahead.

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you think I don’t know? That I haven’t seen you? Always looking from afar, never stepping any closer. The beauty that’s forever out of reach. Never have I wanted something more,” he says, voice dropping low, lips drawing ever closer to your ear.

You swallow softly.

How can one man hold all the cards and show them to you before the game is over? Unless he’s bluffing, but what does he benefit from that? He doesn’t know you.

“Your pursuit signals are confusing me. Is this genuine?” You ask him.

“I have never been more honest in my life.”

“How could John Holliday possibly want to waste his time with me?” You ask.

“Waste? Not at all. People like you are rare in a town like this. I am lucky to even be given a moment of your time now.”

“You came up to me,” you remind him.

“Exactly. You were never going to come to me willingly. I had to take matters into my own hands and snare you into my trap.”

“Trap?”

“These arms, dear. A cage you may never wish to be freed from.”

He was smooth. Smoother than you thought possible. It was clear why people were either fond of him or despised him. He knew how to work the opinions of others.

You come to a stop, and he stops with you.

“This is me,” you say.

Doc turns to the house. It’s small and out of the way of the main city streets. Yes, it’s quite you, he thinks.

Reluctantly, he lets go of you. Yet, you don’t move from his side. You meet his eyes at last and he smiles.

“I feared you were repulsed at the sight of me.”

You’re shocked to hear that.

“How could anyone be repulsed at the sight of you? I’m sure handsome men like you get many gazes from others,” you say.

“Quite. Not all friendly.” 

You laugh softly. That seems to please him.

Holliday reaches for your hand and holds it within his. He keeps his eyes on yours as he stares at you. You have to turn away after a moment as his gaze becomes too much to hold.

“May our paths cross again.”

“Should you be so lucky,” you say, finding your boldness.

“Oh, I do not need luck.”

You find yourself smiling at him.

“Then I look forward to our next meeting, Doc.”

He grins.

“As do I, darling. As do I.”

He releases your hand from his and lets you move to your house. He stands there and watches you go. Before you are able to disappear into the house, he calls out to you.

“Perhaps next time you would like to ride with me, as opposed to away from me. Save the horse, ride the cowboy, dearest.”

He tips his hat before taking his leave.

You’re left staring at his back as he goes.

Something tells you you’re in for quite the adventure wherever he is concerned. It’s one adventure you find yourself eager to take part in. Doc Holliday was right. His arms are a cage you would willingly fly into.

Perhaps sooner than you think.

[doingthingsthewriteway]

Daisy

summary: doc and his the trials of his love with his daisy

Tombstone burnt under the fire of the afternoon sun. Sweat beaded out of every pore, clothes clung tightly to aching chests, and buzzards circled in anticipation. Death was inevitably close in this heat.

Y/N had experienced the wet heat of the south her whole life but this heat was new. It passed through her chest without so much as a cough, hardly any plant could survive for her to be allergic to. If she escape the allergies of home, then she reckoned the heat of Tombstone was worth it.

Town appeared to be busy despite the heat. No one paused here to sit on porches, fanning themselves and sipping sweet tea. People ran about, some literally in a scurry to get away from the echoing gunshots that caused her to jump.

Traveling by herself, Y/N felt relatively safe. Her benefactor sent her along in the nicest car on the most modern line. The train wasn’t robbed and all her things arrived safely. Bandits seemed to be nothing more than a myth to frighten little boys and girls into staying home back east. People simply weren’t like that, or at least they weren’t until Tombstone.

Dashing young men with matching red sashes lingered like the hyenas she read about in the library. Cackling smiles and shrill whistles greeted her was she stepped off the train. Some dirty, some disgusting, and some downright devilishly handsome all circled around her as she collected her luggage.

Keeping her eyes down, she pushed up the sleeves of her blouse and readied herself to carry the chest to the hotel.

“Need some help miss?” A gravely young voice called, boots crunching rocks to dust under each step.

“No thank you.” Quick, quiet responses. Only to the point.

“I insist.” A brown hat was tipped her way. She squinted through the blinding sun to meet brown eyes and tough skin. “Johnny Ringo.”

“Mr. Ringo, I sincerely appreciate your offer, but I can carry my belongings to the hotel.”

As Ringo opened his mouth, a second figured approached. Dressed all in black, cigar dangling from his lips, badge shining in the sun. “I think the lady declined your services, Johnny.”

“You can stay out of this, Earp.”

“Let’s not turn this into something.” Earp, who seemed decidedly safer, grabbed the luggage himself. “Wyatt Earp..”

“Y/N Y/L/N”.

“Well Miss Y/L/N, let’s get you checked in.”

The hotel was much more extravagant than she had imagined. A booming town did not mean all the glamour of home, but this hotel rivaled some that she used to pass by.

“Rare thing a woman traveling alone to Tombstone.” Wyatt said, settling the luggage inside the hotel door. “What brings you here?”

“Dry air is supposed to help you breathe better. I can’t hardly breathe back home.”

With an understanding nod, Wyatt tipped his hat and left. He had a faro table to run.

Unpacking was an easy affair. Hardly any of her belongings were packed with her. Her benefactor saw to it that only thing things she would need would make it with her. Anything else was simply sentimental junk of a decidedly unpleasant childhood that could be sold and split between the two.

Opening the window, she sat down on the chaise lounge next to it and took a deep inhale. Yes, this would do.

Yelling broke out in the streets below. Daring a peek outside, she saw Mr. Earp intervening with more of the red sashed men. Another figure strode across the street, black hat sat just askew. His southern drawl rattled in an echo across the street as he joined Mr. Earp.

A warning shot from the new gentleman broke up the ordeal. Earp and company glanced toward the hotel, finding a blushing Y/N staring out the balcony. “Busy town, Miss Y/L/N.” Mr. Earp called.

She nodded, blush still burning her cheeks. “Seems so.”

The other man tipped his hat with a wink and followed Mr. Earp into the saloon. Yes, Tombstone seemed quite busy.

Darkness fell before Y/N ventured out again. The heat of the day, the bittersweet realization that this was her life now all boiled over into an afternoon’s rest. She redressed, thankful that she didn’t have the finer silk dresses that would make the men notice her. Being noticed, especially by a red sash, was not something she was looking for.

Plain yet pretty, she left the security of the hotel and headed down the dusty streets of Tombstone. Dinner would be nice, though she supposed she could get it back in her room if all else failed.

The red embers of cigarettes glowed in the dusk, illuminating the men who leaned on porches waiting for something exciting to happen. As she passed a lively building, The Oriental according to the sign, one such figured called out for her.

“Pardon me, I believe I have not had the pleasure in making your acquaintance.” A deep southern drawl rolled.

Y/N paused briefly, determined to keep walking though manners made her at least stop for the man. “Oh?”

Slow footsteps creaked along the wooden porch and down onto the dirt. A dramatic wave of his hand, removed his hat. The stranger bowed, finger tips reaching out to brush against her hand. “I apologize for so rudely staring at your earlier, but I fear I was too distracted by both your beauty and the rapscallion nature of those cowboys to properly introduce myself.”

“You were with Mr. Earp?”

“Wyatt?” Oh how stretched the vowels were from his tongue. “Why yes, Wyatt Earp is my best friend. Though I would rather not spend my evening discussing him when I could be discussing you. John Henry Holliday, miss.”

She returned her name quietly, cheeks a flutter with pink as he took her hand and brought it to her lips. The hairs of his mustache tickling her skin just slightly. “Pleased to meet you Mr. Holliday.”

“Would you care to join me for a drink?” A devilishly glint flickered in his green eyes.

“You’ll have to forgive me, I’ve never drank.”

A boisterous laugh rattled into a cough. Mr. Holliday wiped at his lips with a handkerchief and quickly tucked it away. “Well darlin’, you’ll find Tombstone is a wonderful place to start.”

Dinner and a nightcap became common place between Y/N and Mr. Holliday. With some effort, she even got to the point of calling him Doc, a sound that when first said made Doc’s eyes roll back with lust. Yes, Doc was sure of it, he was smitten.

She would often talk around the concept of home while they ate and drank. Doc had not forgotten what life was like for a women in the south, though his dear cousin had some wealth to her name. Y/N appeared to have enough, but the scars and freckles that dotted her skin told him her life was far less leisurely than his youth.

Other times she would discuss literature and the little library she had worked at. These conversations especially aroused him. He’d bring novels and read to her as they strolled back to the hotel. Her eyes would shine at him as if he had written the prose himself.

Y/N reminded him of slow kisses under Spanish moss covered trees, of peach juice dribbling out of rosy lips, or warm milky skin he could sink his teeth into. She was a grand home with open windows and billowing curtains, piano music playing and a library of books to read. Yes, Doc was sure of it, he was falling in love. What a horrible thing.

Doc would walk her back to The Grand after a stiff drink (his darlin’ preferred bourbon) and then return to The Oriental to gamble and drink the night away. He never dared enter the hotel, always kissing her hand goodbye on the steps. For if the clerk saw, he knew he would be done for.

While hope and love lingered in his chest, squeezing him tightly, he never fully let himself indulge in that pleasure. After all, he was just a lunger waiting to die. He’d soil the the very name of any respecting woman with his desires and for once he didn’t have it in him.

Y/N finished up her bourbon, eyelashes fluttering up at him. “Will you let me pay tonight?”

“So stubborn for such an angelic face.” Doc grinned while paying her bill. “But no, darlin’. I am but a gentleman.”

The air was easier at night, cool and crisp against their skin. She was wrapped around his arm, head resting against his bicep. “Doc?” He let out a hum. “Do you…” she wasn’t sure what question longed to be asked. Do you like it here? Do you want to come up to my room? Do you like me?

“Nevermind. It’s silly.”

“Silly? From my little daisy? Nonsense.” Doc spun her around in his arms, holding her. The bustle teasing him through the fabric of her dress. Green eyes commanded attention. Calloused fingertips held her soft chin in his hands.

“Do you believe in love?”

Without missing a beat, he smiled his crooked smile. “Why yes, Y/N, yes I surely do.” Tenderly, his lips brushed her forehead. “Now, let’s get you to bed my dear.”

So it continued over several weeks. Touches becoming longer, necklines becoming lower. Guilt gnawed at his chest, thorny vines of shame bubbling out his throat. Pushing that away, Doc focused on hustling, gambling, drinking, and hating Johnny Ringo.

Wyatt puffed on a cigar, frowning as Doc engaged with Ringo. As Doc boasted that he was, “In his prime.” Wyatt reached for a gun under the table. Doc’s favored lover, Kate, stood at his side.

“Yes.” Johnny Ringo nodded, tipping his head toward Kate. “I’m sure your daylight darlin’ would love to know that.”

Doc lunged at Ringo causing a series of tumbling until Ringo was tossed out of the bar. “Fine you lunger, I’ll tell her!”

Fear set in. A cold fear chilled Doc’s bones like when he watched his mother die of the consumption. Death would be a relief in comparison to the heartache of losing his Y/N. Doc spent more of his evenings in her company and less in Kate’s. Once he was sure Ringo was nothing more than a belligerent drunk, (not wholly unlike himself) Doc resumed his usual activities.

Perhaps there was a thrill or he was a glutton for punishment. Doc was never sure. He would swear that he would spend the money he won on Y/N and when she asked what he did for a living hiding behind the badge of Wyatt Earp was a wonderful response.

Still, Y/N longed for more of her Doc. Thoughts and desires consumed her soul so much so the priest at confession was blushing. She wanted Doc in all the ways possible on this earth and beyond. She wanted to care for him, carry his name and his child, be his for whatever time he had left.

She dreamt of him, even on the day that a splitting headache and painful reminder she did not bare his fruit it. Y/N cancelled their usual dinner plans in exchange for a bath. Though the longer she soaked in the lavender (that he bought, the scent almost close to the lilac bushes from his youth), the pain rolled into longing. Deciding on the nicest dress he bought her, she dressed and pinned up her hair.

It was later than usual for their time together, but she couldn’t wait to see his eyes twinkle and his plump lips turn up into a smile. Rushing down the stairs, she made her way to The Oriental.

And, just like it had months ago, the darkness illuminated a man outside. Not her long and lean hero, but his devilish foil. The red sash around Ringo’s waist swayed in the breeze.

“Why Miss Y/L/N, The Oriental at night is no place for a woman of your nature. Perhaps it best I escort you home.”

“I’ll be quite alright, Mr. Ringo. Thank you.”

If Johnny wasn’t weathered by sun and by time, he would have felt remorse. Or perhaps loyalty to Doc. They were not that different and neither man deserved the sweet settling nature of Y/N. So yes, he decided, he was going to break Y/N’s heart.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you darlin’.”

The Oriental bounced with life. Music blared from the piano , whiskey sloshed on the floor, and cards fell on tables. It was very different from the space she was used to with Doc. But the thought of Doc and breathing in his scent was enough to draw her in.

Pausing at the bar for a drink, she surveyed the saloon. Wyatt sat proudly in the dealers spot, smoking. His eyes caught Y/N’s with a wince.

Y/N trailed her eyes in the direction of Wyatt’s. Her chest tightened like the attacks she used to get back home. Doc sparkled with sweat, beads of it drenching his shirt. An empty bottle sat on the table, the only buffer between him and the woman.

Y/N didn’t know the woman, hadn’t really seen her around. Still, not knowing who she was didn’t really lessen the pain of what she was. She was Doc’s. The woman patted the sweat off his forehead and stroked through his hair. And worst of all, only one of Doc’s hands was visible.

A burning rose through Y/N’s throat with the heartache. Her eyes blurred with tears. She desperately wanted to scream at him, to even whisper his name would do. But all she could do was let out a cough to mask the sob and leave.

“I’m walking you home, Miss Y/L/N.” Ringo held out his arm but Y/N pushed by it.

“Jesus woman, don’t you understand that lunger doesn’t care?!” Ringo shouted grabbing her elbow. “He sees her every night.”

He pulled her tight to his chest. Rough hands reached under her skirt grabbing the virgin flesh underneath. “He does?” It sounded pathetic falling from her lips.

“He beds her in that same boarding house you’re in.”

The wail that left het lips was enough for a crowd to rush out. Wyatt, heroic as ever ran out with Doc trailing behind. Johnny released Y/N from his hold but not before letting Doc see the tearful girl covered in Johnny’s hands.

“Nothing to see here,lunger.” Johnny cackled. “Just a broken heart.”

Johnny disappeared into the night as Doc approached. “Darlin’?”

She turned away from him marching back to the boarding house. “Y/N!”

Picking up her skirts she began to run. Tears stinging her skin, she flew up the stairs to her room. The wind blew in from her opened window; tombstone smelled of death.

Doc stood in the dusty streets. Wyatt offered an assuring squeeze to his shoulder. “I fear I may have defiled myself.”

“A young women scorned is not easily fixed.” Wyatt offered a tight smile.

Doc chased her into the hotel, just missing her slam the door. He knocked on her door, “Y/N? Darlin’ please let me in.”

He rattled the doorknob with urgency. “Please.”

The door swung open revealing a teared stained face. A book hit him, followed by another, and then a third and a dress. “Take your shit Mr. Holliday.” She seethed.

The sound of his name brought his first tear. “Now listen to me, you don’t call me that.” A scolding finger pointed in her face.

Smacking it away, she spat at him. “We have no acquaintance. I was a fool to think I could mean anything to you.”

“Stop that.” He begged fear spiraling through his veins. This was it. He had done it. Ruined something good with evil like his family told him he always would.

“I hate you.”

Doc grabbed her wrists and pulled her to his chest. His arms feeling just like the snare of Ringo. Perhaps all men where just as vile.

“Please, Y/N, say whatever you must just never that.” His lips forced their way onto her skin. Kissing her neck and her lips as she struggled again him. “Damn me, curse me, hell shoot me just never say that.”

Wriggling out of his grasp, chest heaving, Y/N broke down to the floor. “What else is there to say?”

Doc sat with her between his knees, clinging tightly. “I can only apologize for weakness.”

“Every night you bed her down the hall. You’re no gentleman. I am but an object to amuse you. You neither respect nor love me and it’s horrifying that I wanted to bare everything you could give me.”

Everything? Had she shared in his lustful fantasies? Did she fully return his affection? “I sincerely want everything with you, daisy.”

“No.”

Doc stayed until she fell asleep in a pitiful puddle in his arms. He carried her to bed, earning a wheeze from his lungs.

The cough was worse the next day. His handkerchief blood soaked by midday. It was no surprise to Wyatt when he rushed Doc back to his room, the doctor in tow.

As blood bubbles from his lips, he begged for Y/N. She did not come nor respond when Wyatt pounded on the door. The second day of Doc’s fever, Y/N quietly pleaded at Wyatt to go away.

It was on the third day that the door opened to Wyatt. Dressed plain, no longer donning the silky dresses Doc had bought her, Y/N emerged. Eyes sunken in and skin marked with tracks of tears, she headed to Doc.

“How is he?”

Wyatt offered a sad smile. “Sorry.”

“That’s not what I asked, Mr. Earp.”

A frown crossed his lips as his stomach lurched. “Please, Miss Y/N, don’t shut me out. You’re my friend.” Wyatt sighed. “He’s a dying man unless someone can settle him down. His fever comes and goes.”

There was a stillness in the room that made her stomach churn. Windows were open, letting in better air. The room was filled with the things she’d thrown at him. The dress crumbled up next to him in bed, the books scattered around with pages marked or weighted down.

Y/N watched the slow nature of his chest rise and fall with breathe. Ignoring the sudden numbness in her throat, crossed the room to his bedside. Removing the cloth from his forehead, she wrung it out and refilled in the water basin.

Tenderly, she washed his face, neck, and bare chest. She fluffed up the pillows and pulled the sweat stained sheets down. “Ask for more sheets when you leave. I’ll stay with him today.”

Wyatt merely nodded, waiting to smile until he was out of sight. Doc might just be a lucky bastard yet again.

She cleaned up the room and refilled water while Doc slept. Lunch was delivered just before A coughing fit roused him from a fitful sleep. “Drink.” She held a cool glass to his lips.

Doc merely nodded, revealing in the relief of water on this throat. He opened his mouth to speak but her finger tapped his lips. “No. Even if I wanted to hear what you had to say, you need to rest your throat.”

She sat the glass down. “I’m going to change the the top sheet if that’s alright.” Glazed eyes focused on her and he nodded.

As she peeled back the sheets she did her best not to stare at him. His lean body shimmering with sweat. Muscles rippled beneath curls of hair that trailed down his chest to something she had only dreamed about.

Tucking him into the new sheets, her chest hurt with the thought that someone else had seen him and touched him. Someone who wasn’t here while he lay dying. Pleasure would not be here to give.

A clammy hand grabbed her wrist and led her hand over his stomach. Whines left his throat.her cool hands were a relief and he needed that in more ways that just one.

“No.” Things were different. Just three days before she would have slipped into the delirium of his touch. But now, bile crawled up her throat.

She left his side momentarily to grab soup and a spoon. “It’s cooled enough so it shouldn’t hurt. You must eat and rest.”

Doc might have been delirious with fever, but he was hopeful. None of his escapades had ever valued his life the way she seemed too. His very soul lay between gentle hands that fed him. Flashbacks of himself at his mothers side broke through bought of fever and he was certain that this was love.

It was late that night when Doc awoke with a start. Pain no longer resonated with each breath. Sweat did not fall over him.

Pushing himself up against the headboard, he rolled his shoulders. Adjusting to the candle lit room, he knew he was not alone. Linen pants and a cotton tie front shirt were folded at the foot of the bed. He grabbed them, they didn’t smell of sweat or liquor, they were new. Water was running in his bathroom.

Leaning on his cane, thighs trembling with each step. Nudging the door open, he finds Y/N on her knees filling the claw foot tub. A minty smell tickles his nose and swirls into his chest. He breathes without much pain.

The cotton of her slip is all she wears under a corset. Lace flowers and ivory fabric that he had not yet gotten to see taunt him. “Why I do believe this is heaven.”

If Doc squinted, he was sure he saw a crinkle of a smile. “Let me help you in.”

“Why yes I’m sure of it now, this is heaven. I fear have been wrongly placed I am a sinner of the worst kind.” A hum of acknowledgment told him enough.

Gentle hands held his as she trembled into the bath. Easing himself in, his lungs cleared momentarily. “I can breathe.”

“Eucalyptus. Group of travelers were selling it when I went to buy your clothes. Said it helped.”

“My modern woman.” A blissful sigh let his lips at another deep inhale. “How long did the doctors give me?”

A sharp glare chilled the steaming bathroom. “You could live if you changed.” Y/N snapped. “But you choose to drink and smoke and bed whores every night. Perhaps I wasted my time on a dead man.”

He’s convinced his heart breaks again then. Watching green eyes trail with tears, his own reflecting the same. “Please do not think of me as time ill spent.”

“I will not think of you at all.”

“Daisy, that is even worse.” He reached for her hand once more, finding nothing. “Please?”

Fingers brushed his. “I’m leaving.”

For the first time since his raising from the dead, Doc coughed. Eyelashes fluttering rapidly. “I beg your pardon?” Doc imagined a lot of things with Y/N and none of those were leaving Tombstone (or at least not without their family and Wyatt).

“I have no prospects here. My benefactor provided plenty of funds. I’ve heard Denver has nice mountain air.”

“No prospects? What ever do you mean? My intentions were not clear to you?” Calloused fingers stroked her jaw.

“I’m as good as used.” She forced her bruised wrists to him. Pulling up her shift, he saw purple finger tips scattered on precious skin. “He touched me Doc, like you touched her. No one will marry me now.”

Like you touched her. Envy, rage, regret, and list churned in his stomach. A Pitiful series of “No’s” left his lips as he pulled her towards him by her skirt. He tried to stand but she eased him back in. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” It was small, barely a whisper. Water splashed over the tub and onto her giving peeks of sweet skin underneath.

“I do not deserve the luxury of you.” His finger trailed over her collar bone and up her neck. “I have not felt happiness like this since I was a foolish young man. Still foolish now.” Tracing the rose of her lips, he tapped her plump bottom lip forcing his finger just between. “I’m deviant Y/N, I’m a vile sinner who thinks unspeakable things about you daily and wanted to ruin it. Why live when you could not possibly want me to tarnish you?”

“What about your intentions you just spoke of?”

“Well my daisy I am selfish as well. I want To keep you as my wife. I just have these vices I wish to shield you from. I love you more than life. I would die to keep you happy.”

“Oh doc please don’t say such things!” She flung herself around his shoulders hugging him close.

Slowly, due to his healing and uncertainty of their relationship, he peeled her into the tub. Still clothed in now sheer cotton, Y/N dared a peek out from the crook of his neck. “Doc?” Breathy, she hardly recognized her own voice.

“May I have the pleasure of loving you?” He trailed finger along her clavicle. “Of keeping you as mine?”

“Yes.”

“Forever Mrs. Holliday?”

Daring a kiss to his lips, she hummed. “Forever.”

[deadboyfriendd]

Cochise V: Fin

Summary: A dinner party turns into forever.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Outlaw/Doc Holliday!Eddie Munson x Reader, wild west/Tombstone!AU, drug use, drug overdose (apparent suicide), death of minor character by hanging, period-appropriate death and violence, angst, fluff, smut

My content is 18+ Minors DNI

Word Count: 869

“You figure we should get married?” He’d asked, turning his head to look at you. 

A gilded light streams steady through heavy canvas drapery and spills on to the floor in an abundant, golden puddle. The heat of the sun is already beginning to warm the floor in which it shines. A wide smile beams up at you, from the daguerreotype daughter of southwest Arkansas. She sits, hand and hand, still in a dance alongside Wilhelm. Tight-lipped smile wrapping itself around a wireframe structure– just the way you had left him. 

Your thumb traces the indent of twine over your ring finger, where the gold of your wedding band once sat. It rolls over itself, now worn and soft over your skin. You know that, later today, a string from the same expanse would be passed over the same way by chips and cards in a game of Faro. You recount the memory of moments past;

“No. Do you?” You’d replied, truthfully. 

“You don’t think about it?” He asked again, turning over onto his side. 

You flipped over in synchrony, eyes meeting his, “We’ve both done this before.” 

We both know how it ends.

“But not with each other.” 

You wouldn’t meet his eye. Instead, you turned, willing back the tears that always came too late. Eddie had habituated the upstairs home in coexistence with the hollowness of Wilhelm’s presence. 

His boots sat in the same place by the front door, though, one sat toppled over in the remnant memory of a sloppy, chaste dance from the night before, chair at the table left out turned sideways from bearing the same sloppy weight moments after. 

You think back to that smile. The glimmer of it is drowned by the refraction of light off of the remnants of your wedding band– blinding. The silt of violence stirs within you at the thought of these things in their place, placating sadness and the same hollowness of a second dead husband– how the world was cruel in that nature, to rob you of this peace twice. 

You thought to distrust it, though, you would still marry Wilhelm again knowing the way it ended. 

There would be no white dress, no poppies in spring covering the vast expanse of the wildflower west. There would be no veil to cover a face gleaming with innocence. No, this land was too harsh for that. 

Your brain settles on a place far off in the dissonance. A table that resembled your own with four chairs. Christine is charming, you’d decided. She was funny in a way that was almost mean. She was hardened– but not as much as you. You imagined yourself as friends. 

Your brain etches in the details of Wilhelm’s face. Kind eyes that you would never forget, laugh lines that you filled in after the fact. You’d swore you’d never forget, though, as it seems, time had cast a vignette around him. He would clap Eddie on the shoulder, whisper things for men’s ears only to Eddie– in which Eddie would fill you in after dinner. Wilhelm would know this, as well. 

You think of bidding them farewell. Of a hug and a promise of more dinner plans to come. But for now, it was goodbye. They would retreat back to their home past where the sun set. You would stay alight in its blaze. 

“I’m not promising you forever.”

“Is this for better or for worse?”

“We’ve already lived through the worst. Just us. Don’t give me your covenants,” He’d bartered quietly. He hesitated to touch you, “Please, honey, just a promise.” 

“A promise?” You’d asked, finally, turning back over your shoulder to look at him. “I can make a promise.” 

He’d nodded, sifting through your sewing box until he settled upon it. A thin leather twine. No covenant. No superstition. 

The west would be won, but not by him. Not now. 

Eddie settles in that same place, though, it is after dinner. He waits beneath the softness of your sheets. They no longer smell foreign.

He watched the way your skin rippled at your lower back as your bare skin pressed against your vanity stool, and the way your skin stretched over your shoulder blades as you pulled your hair to the side, raking through it with the brush in front of you. Your lips fell into a supple pout in concentration, and your lashes kissed your cheeks as you looked down. He allowed himself to free-float into the stagnant desert air. 

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“What did Wilhelm say to you? After dinner?” 

He sat back at that table. You had been correct. Wilhelm was tall, much taller than him. He was intelligent and not as gruff. In the beginning, he’d wondered why you’d chosen to love him after someone like Wilhelm. Something in the orange told him that they would return home soon. Wilhelm knew this, too. 

His hand was a comfort, clasped against his shoulder, his voice a gilden song. 

“Tell her I said it’s okay.” He’d whispered to Eddie, and he was filled with a sense of knowing. 

His eyes met yours once more, the darkness of night prevailing casted a shadow over your features. 

“It’s okay, Nellie.” 

[kaletastrophes]

Western babes! Thanks to Indiewire, we now have directly from Pedro Almodovar the westerns he personally had in mind while making Strange Way of Life.

Part 1 of this list, mostly movies I personally believed would influence the film, is pinned to my page and I can report I got 2 right! Pedro listed The Wild Bunch and Red River as influences! I will be honest I have only seen a few of the westerns Pedro mentioned so maybe we can watch these together.

While my original list focused more on anti-westerns, Almodovar seems to have focused much more on traditional westerns. John Wayne stars in 4 of the 9 he listed for example. I find that fascinating honestly.

(once again tagging the ultimate western babe @the-ginger-hedge-witch if she wants to add these to her western studies)

But without further ado heres Part 2 of westerns that inspired Strange Way of Life:

The movie is strewn with references to Westerns that Almodovar has treasured for years. 

The Wild Bunch 

In Strange Way of Life a flashback between the two men, in which they fire at wine barrels and shrug off some prostitutes for their own plans, stems from Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch.

Babes!! Im so absolutely tickled that I spotted this and now it's confirmed. I wont go into details about the film because I listed it in part 1 but it was confirmed by Almodovar in the Indiewire interview so I've included it again here.

Almodovar says he envisioned Ethan Hawke’s character as an extension of archetypes in two John Sturges movies:

Last Train from Gun Hill

A marshal (Kirk Douglas) tries to bring the son of an old friend (Anthony Quinn), an autocratic cattle baron, to justice for his role in the rape and murder of the marshal's Native American wife.

Gunfight at the O.K. Corral

Lawman Wyatt Earp (Burt Lancaster) and outlaw Doc Holliday (Kirk Douglas) form an unlikely alliance which culminates in their participation in the legendary Gunfight at the O.K. Corral.

I haven't seen either of these Sturges films but just reading the plot summaries above and the plot summary of Strange Way it's pretty clear how they would tie together.

John Ford loomed large for the spectacular vistas, and Almodovar says he thought a lot about:

The Searchers

In this revered Western, Ethan Edwards (John Wayne) returns home to Texas after the Civil War. When members of his brother's family are killed or abducted by Comanches, he vows to track down his surviving relatives and bring them home. 

Cheyenne Autumn

The Cheyenne, tired of broken U.S. government promises, head for their ancestral lands but a sympathetic cavalry officer is tasked to bring them back to their reservation.

The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance

Questions arise when Senator Stoddard (James Stewart) attends the funeral of a local man named Tom Doniphon (John Wayne) in a small Western town. 

Wow. What an interesting list... I'm not sure I could have imagined the first two being included before reading the article honestly. The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance makes really perfect sense, two men hide the history they have together until it comes out years later just like they seem to do in Strange Way.

The Searchers I have seen and while it is regarded as one of the best films ever in American film history it's also regarded as one of the most racist films in American film history. The portrayal of Native American's is truly hard to stomach. Critic Roger Ebert went so far as to accuse director John Ford of trying to somehow "justify the Native American genocide." So I would warn perhaps be cautious when viewing. I will say Cheyenne Autumn is perhaps somewhat Ford's response to The Searchers, it's regarded as a pretty mediocre film but lauded in film history because the actors portraying the Cheyenne are actually Navajo and speak Navajo in the film. Because no one else on set spoke Navajo, during scenes when Navajo is spoken the actors made dirty jokes and openly mocked production.

Pascal wears a green jacket that serves as a callback to the one Jimmy Stewart wears in:

Bend of the River

When a town boss confiscates homesteader's supplies after gold is discovered nearby, a tough cowboy (Jimmy Stewart) risks his life to try and get it to them.

This is another fantastic western and whats interesting is that the film centers on constantly keeping you guessing on which character is going to turn out good and which character is going to turn out bad. I wonder if Almodovar will bring that same thing to Strange Way..

Also, "Julia Adams stars as the woman who made the mistake of loving two men!" No, thats never a mistake babe hahaha.

Finally, Almodovar give three more films that inspired costumes for Strange Way:

El Dorado

Cole Thornton (John Wayne), a gunfighter for hire, joins forces with an old friend, Sheriff J.P. Hara (Robert Mitchum). Together with an old Indian fighter and a gambler, they help a rancher and his family fight a rival rancher that is trying to steal their water.

Red River

Dunson (John Wayne) leads a cattle drive, the culmination of over 14 years of work, to its destination in Missouri. But his tyrannical behavior along the way causes a mutiny, led by his adopted son (Montgomery Clift).

Vera Cruz

During the Mexican Rebellion of 1866, an unsavory group of American adventurers are hired by the forces of Emporer Maximilian to escort a countess to Vera Cruz.

Well there you have it! Let me know your thoughts. I really find this list incredible curious and interesting.

[glacialisvenae]

------michiel huisman . cis male . he/his . wasn’t that eben anastase walking the palace grounds ? it’s nice to see the lord of danruba out and about on such a fine day as this. i’ve heard from the court spies that they are notoriously apathetic, whilst also managing to be quite charming. the thirty-seven year old is eager to find out who exactly is behind the killings from what’s being said at court. i heard that they themselves are vrajiit ( life-force absorption ). it’s funny, whenever i think of them, i think of well-fitted leather armor, the gleam of polished silver and emeralds, and the scent of petrichor on a thick-foggy morning. great to see the revenant around, isn’t it ?

small stats

name: eben visser anastase. age: 37. status: lord of danruba, soldier in the vrajiit army. sexuality: grey-heteromantic heterosexual. species: human - vrajiit. power: life-force absorption. hair color: dark brown. eye color: hazel, favoring greys and greens. height: 6′0″. build: athletic - lean muscle. character comparison: edward fairfax rochester (jane eyre), jaime lannister (game of thrones), doc holliday (wynonna earp), boromir (lord of the rings), rick blaine (casablanca), don draper (mad men), perry cox (scrubs), tony soprano (the sopranos), kirk lazarus (tropic thunder), man in black (westworld). && daario naharis (game of thrones), han solo (star wars), thancred waters (final fantasy xiv), dante sparda (devil may cry), rogue (x-men).

biography

     war was always in his blood, and blessed was his birth. though not the only child in the anastase noble line born a vrajiit, eben was often reminded of his place in the world growing up. destined for great things. to him it simply meant that people would always want him for something - and a young child imagined that could be nothing but GOOD. a young child knows very little.

     the winds in danruba are harsh and unforgiving, the clime caring little for life settling there, trying to flourish. eben learned how to survive in the tundra, though it was never imagined he would ACTUALLY require that knowledge ( better to know and never need it, than need it and never know ). hunting was for sport and survival, the feats of each kill brought back and served for meals, the hides tanned into leathers, furs made for blankets on well-stuffed mattresses. it was certainly a cushy life for a little lordling. he was spoiled in the sense that he was always watched ---his company was always desired, his attention always demanded here or there. he didn’t quite understand why. merely that something great would be expected of him.

     shortly after his sixteenth birthday, and when his mind was still full of boyish hope and folly, eben was sent to the vrajiit academy. he excelled at combat, though toyful of his capabilities ( the power to take a life with just a touch seemed limitless ) and for five years he served his country faithfully in the military. he was certain he did his lord father and lady mother proud, and certainly his sharpened prowess was what leant him to being sent into battle rather than being posted in danruba - rather than being returned home under conscription. IN HIS MIND, THESE WERE THE BEST YEARS OF HIS LIFE.

     at 21 he was released from his duties to the military. four years he lingered in danruba, living his life as a lord with a semblance of that boyish charm ever-present on his face. with the castle always open to the citizens of his home he saw many faces, learned many stories, met many men and women as they came and went. he fell in love. a glorious and terrifying emotion, one as tumultuous as the sea ‘neath stormy clouds ---he felt the same rush from spending time with the blacksmith’s daughter. she was kind to him, treated him not like he was a prize, a blessed child ---but like he was human.

     those same emotions betrayed him, ultimately. she passed beneath him amidst their passionate tryst, his touch and kiss-starved lips passing a death knell over her, life draining from her in a quick instant. HE FELT BETRAYED BY HIS OWN HEART. surely an emotion such as love was meant to be gleeful, it had only brought him happiness before this moment ---surely it was love that killed her. ( introspection would have shared it was the surge of emotion itself, that for all of the battle-wise training eben had learned throughout his life he’d never quite honed how to cease the flow of his power when his feelings crested like a breaking wave ). but introspection was beyond him. grieving, eben withdrew into himself.

     the shift from somewhat jovial young lord to apathetic and detached was like the phase of the moon changing. while he wasn’t asocial he seemed less engaged, some form of self-inflicted punishment for suffering to care for another person on such a level. at 25 he re-enlisted in the vrajiit military, the decision to do something more than suffer the company of others final. if his touch was meant to kill, he’d see it to purpose. and so it has served him for those past 12 years, a loyal warrior to the crown through choice, pleased to keep his solitude.

personality

     where once eben could be described as talkative, energetic, and impish now only remains an echo of that former self. a man, as it were ---hardened both by battle and personal trauma and lead by self-inflicted punishment. he’s quiet and apathetic, more keen to sit back and observe a situation rather than be the first to participate in it - as if playing a long and drawn-out match of chess. though he is not asocial, and he doesn’t scorn the touch of a woman in the slightest ---he merely chooses not to find emotional attachment in any of his interpersonal relationships.

     HOWEVER HE CAN BE QUITE CHARMING WHEN HE NEEDS TO BE, flashing a handsome smile or using silver-tongued wit ---the skills of nobility. eben is less likely to lean on his birth standing and more akin to see a problem to a quick end. he is the product of his own experiences. tactical in thought but ruthless in execution, eben isn’t one to dance around a topic or point - he will bluntly state it.

     though it is incredibly obvious that the emotional scars of his experience still linger. perhaps it’s the circumstance of where he was raised ( the infinitely colder climate of danruba ), or his station as a military man that finds him always wearing leathers over his hands and never quite exposing the flesh where one might be drawn to touch. physical intimacy is met with only the desire to feel that particular pleasure and nothing else ---though it’s worth noting that to be safe HE NEVER TOUCHES HIS FAMILY WITH HIS BARE HANDS. lest something happen to them that similarly befell his once romance.

[grnolan]

A Non-Exhaustive List of Stuff to Watch During the Strike

Everybody has a backlog of things to watch, but for everyone who is like me and routinely looks at that backlog and goes "but none of those hundred things sound interesting right now", here are some recommendations.

If You Have…

NETFLIX

Avatar The Last Airbender: Animated/Fantasy; 3 seasons; A teenage chosen one reawakens 100 years into the war he’s meant to stop. If you somehow are on Tumblr and haven’t seen this show, give it a try now.

Cunk on Earth: Documentary; 1 season; A very serious documentary that very seriously tells the story of the history of human progress.

Glow Up (2019): Competition; 4 seasons; Aspiring makeup artists compete for opportunities in the industry.

Nailed It! (2018): Competition; 7 seasons; Nicole Byer and Jacques Torres laugh with people who are not bakers as they try to bake extremely complicated desserts in less time than professionals could do it.

Wynonna Earp (2016): Western Horror; 4 seasons; The cursed descendant of famous lawman Wyatt Earp hunts demons in a small Canadian town alongside her (canonically bisexual) little sister, a US Marshall, an immortal Doc Holliday, and a (canonically lesbian) local cop.

HULU

Domino Masters (2022): Competition; 1 season; A competition show where teams build Rube Goldberg devices primarily focusing on dominos.

Holey Moley (2019): Competition; 3 seasons; Increasingly ridiculous mini golf holes where the ball can go into a water hazard but the people go in much more frequently.

Lego Masters (2020): Competition; 3 seasons; Teams of two build complex Lego designs based on each week’s theme.

Primeval (2007): Sci-Fi; 5 seasons; British scientists and government officials discover fluctuating portals to various time periods, which release dinosaurs and other creatures into the modern day. You’ll watch the first season and go “idk why this is considered good” and then all the other seasons will happen.

DISNEY PLUS

DuckTales (2017): Animated/Adventure Comedy; 3 seasons; A reboot of the 80s show of the same name, but with better character development and better treatment of its female characters.

The Owl House (2020): Animated/Horror Comedy; 3 seasons; An Afro Latina human girl is on her way to summer camp to be taught “normalcy” when she goes through a portal and finds herself in the Demon Realm. She decides that it’s way better than camp and stays. Friendship, family, love, and PTSD ensue.

MAX

Baking Championships: The Baking Championships (Kids Baking Championship, Halloween Baking Championship, Holiday Baking Championship, Spring Baking Champion Championship) are all a nice heartwarming fun time.

The Great Pottery Throw Down (2015): Competition; 5 seasons; You know how chill and fun GBBO is? Imagine that but with pottery.

CRUNCHYROLL

RWBY (2013): Animated/Fantasy; 9 seasons; A group of girls join a school to train for hunting monsters and fighting crime with cool weapons that are usually some sort of melee weapon and also a gun. The animation gets better with every season.

NO STREAMING SERVICES

Board Game Club: An ongoing series on the No Rolls Barred YouTube page; a bunch of people get together and play board games. This probably sounds like it would be boring but it is absolutely fantastic.

Critical Role: YouTube; 2 completed campaigns, 1 ongoing; A group of voice actor friends get together to play Dungeons and Dragons. Increasingly well-produced over time.

The Lizzie Bennet Diaries: 100 episodes; An adaptation of Pride and Prejudice that takes place entirely over vlogs. Very funny, handles the confines of a vlog setting fairly well, and Ashley Clements (Lizzie) is fabulous.

Video Game YouTubers: Particularly Let’s Plays, speedruns, and challenges. I personally enjoy Pokemon challenges like by FlygonHG, and Super Mario Odyssey Hide and Seek by a bunch of different Mario streamers is great fun.

[elfie4306]

Supernatural S13E6 Happy Dean

This will be only be about Dean being happy.

I just like seeing Dean happy. I know I post a lot about the brothers being miserable, which I do love because I love their bond, and how they're always just keeping each other going whether it's only one that's a mess, or if they're both a mess and the only thing they can hold onto is each other. But I love when they're just happy and being themselves, getting to be normal brothers now and then. It's like when they watched wrestling together, it was the cutest thing and I need more.

Deciding to Go to Dodge City

When Jack tells them about the case in Dodge City, and he knows it's probably just a grave robbery, you can see in his face, that he recognizes that, but he wants to go. Obviously we know he wants to go, but I just want to point out the thought process seen in his face. "Oh, that's not a case. But... Dodge City. We're going." And just the little lines of him justifying going, and trying to sound logical, but then just admitting Dodge City is "kind of awesome." The "awesome" was so funny. He said it under his breath, not like he was embarrassed, but more like he was trying to come up with a better word and just said fuck it.

The Motel

The choice of motel, "splurging" on the best room there, bringing his hat in a fucking leather box thing. You can hear the excitement in his voice when he tells the group what this room is called. God, the laughter because he can't contain his excitement, the EYE CRINKLES. He just so happy you guys.

Not only does he know who everyone is on the walls, but he's info-dumping on all of them to the group. The way he gets their attention so he can basically show off that he knows everyone. He's naming all these people like he's about to begin a lecture on the great figures of the Wild West. "which, now now now, little fun fact here," I CAN'T. He's so thrilled. THE PURE GLEE on his face after sharing that little fun fact.

And the way he fucking shouts "Doc Holliday! HEY-OH" while Cas is looking at him like "how do I love this idiot?" Also, I didn't even notice at first, but when he goes off to unpack, he goes through saloon doors, and he swings them open so dramatically too.

I love the little moment they take to show Dean snoring, because he's so relaxed, and I feel like this moment shows that. It's so small but it's important to me.

When they're back at the motel talking about what they learned, Dean crosses his legs with his whole get up still on, so you see the hat, the bolo tie, those boots that are absurd, while he is looking over his shoulder into the distance, and swinging one leg over the other dramatically. Mans is getting into character.

Dean, once again info-dumping about Dave Mather with the biggest smile on his face. "I'm gonna get my boots on." I can't I can't, he's so happy, he's so cute.

Oh my god Dean's dumb little boots.

Confronting the Ghoul

Dean says "And you must like playing cowboy." He says that so judgingly as if he's not doing the exact same thing. As if you're not wearing dumb fucking boots right now. As if you weren't wearing a bolo tie and a cowboy hat an hour ago.

The ghoul talking about being Dave Mather, "It's my favorite suit." Dean's thinking, "makes sense it's a hot ass suit." Dean has a thing for cowboys, I'm 100% sure.

Headcannons

I'm just imagining Dean on the car ride sharing all of his knowledge about the Old West, about Tombstone.

Him being giddy as they pass through each state/town/landmark.

The way he probably automatically slipped into a southern accent while he was driving.

Sam smiling at how happy Dean is, relieved he has his brother back, but also mocking Dean for putting on country music and singing his heart out.

Jack being so fucking confused because a few days ago this man currently belting Johnny Cash wanted to kill him.

Cas looking relatively surprised/confused, but also absolutely DELIGHTED by this side of Dean.

[dragon-kazansky]

His Little Dragon

Doc Holliday x OC

Dedicated to @callsignscupcake

[Masterlist]

[Previous Chapter] - [Next Chapter]

Doctor John Holliday hasn't seen his darling Little Dragon for many years. Once as thick as thieves, they were quite the pair, but that long since ended when he left. Now, with opportunity blooming in Tombstone, it would seem they have a second chance at the love they lost. However, a threat looms over the town, and if he wants his Dragon back, he has to win the heart of little Baylie too. Nothing is ever easy.

Word count: 2.1k

Chapter Thirty - Empty chairs at empty tables

♡♡♡

It's all far too quiet. Rachael lies on the bed facing the window. Doc left barely 30 minutes ago. Never before has she felt this level of loneliness.

Alana had seen to it she got in bed, but when she realised Rachael wasn't going to respond to her, she let her be. Rachael was somewhat grateful for the peace.

Her heart was aching. Aching for her family to come back safe. She trusted John Holliday more than anyone she knew. He would bring Baylie back safe and sound. She believed he would.

She needed him to.

Rachael hides her face into her pillow. She felt so alone. She should be out there with him getting their daughter back.

Rachael isn't sure how much time passes, but Alana knocks on the door at some point. She pushes the door open delicately, peeking into the room.

"I made some stew. It's not much... but I thought maybe you would like some."

Alana receives no response. She sighs softly.

"I can't imagine what you're feeling. My husband is out there with that girl, so I only know a portion of your pain, but I can't imagine posing a daughter too. There isn't much I can offer you, but my house is your house for as long as you're here. If you need anything, just ask. I have faith they'll return soon," she says. Alana watches Rachael for a moment longer before stepping back. Before she can close the door, she hears the bed creak slightly. Rachael rises.

"Stew sounds lovely."

Alana smiles and let's Rachael follow her out into the dining room. While she sees to the stew, Rachael sits down at the table. The table is big enough for 8 people, but it looks so empty.

They are the only two people in this house.

She was sitting here not too long ago with her heart pouring out and Doc at her side. Now he was gone too. Rachael closes her eyes and tries to forget about it for now, but she can't.

"Damn it," she mutters.

Alana puts a bowl of stew down in front of Rachael. She takes the seat beside her and stares at the table. There is nothing she can say to make things better.

Rachael takes a mouthful of the stew and nods her head.

"It's good."

Alana lifts her gaze to the other woman.

"You don't have to eat it."

Rachael takes another mouthful.

"I want to. Thank you."

Alana smiles and plays with her hands. Rachael eats everything in her bowl and then goes to wash up, but Alana is quick to take the bowl from her. She smiles as she goes to the kitchen to clean up herself.

Rachael sighs and looks around the house.

It's very homely. A couple photos of Alana and a handsome young man are on display. The house looks well looked after and even the ranch outside had a lot of love and care out into it.

Rachael stood there looking at this home wondering if in the near future she could have something like this. Land to look after, a house to call home, a place for Baylie to grow. A place to share with John.

She wanted all of it.

"The best way to wait is to keep busy. Do you want to help me out?" Alana asks.

Rachael looks at her and nods softly.

Both women go outside. Alana starts to tell Rachael all about the land and how they came to own it. She points out the stable and the barn. There's a pretty looking well on the grounds. A little farm is thriving off to the left of the house.

Rachael is blown away with what she sees. She could imagine Baylie running up to the stable to go see Whiskey. John working on the land. Having her own garden to grow flowers and vegetables.

It feels like a far away dream.

Alana was right though. Working on the ranch together helped ease her worries for a while. They cared for the horses left on the ranch, fed the animals, tended to the farm. Rachael helped move things across the grounds.

The two then went inside to eat together once again. The sun was setting and the day was drawing to a close.

Yet, Doc and Baylie still remained absent from the house.

Rachael and Alana took to sitting out on the desk outside. They were wrapped up in blankets as they watched the hill. It was dark, but they would still be able to see if anyone came over the hilltop.

Rachael hoped she would see someone.

"Your gentleman friend seemed very brave," Alana said.

Rachael smiles softly. "He is. I owe him so much."

"That's how I feel about my Jake. He's the best damn thing to ever happen to be. None of this would have been possible without him."

"You have what I want. But I can only have it if my family come back safely to me."

Alana reaches out and takes her hand.

"They will. Have faith."

Rachael closes her eyes and leans her against Alana's shoulder. She gives Alana's hand a squeeze. She needs something to hold onto. Something to keep her grounded.

The two sit in silence listening to the night.

Rachael is almost dozing off when the faint sound of horses has her lifting her head. She looks up to see several people coming over the hill. Rachael stands to try and work out if they were good or bad news.

"Rachael!"

That's Wyatt's voice.

Rachael discards the blanket from around her shoulders and rushes off the desk. Alana leans against the bannister of her deck to watch Rachael.

"Wyatt!"

Wyatt jumps off his horse and catches Rachael, stopping her from falling over as she collides with him. She's happy to see a familiar face and then looks up amongst the horses to look for her love.

"Doc?"

Two men shuffle past the horses with Doc in their hold. John's head is bowed forward, but he's awake. He's just in a lot of pain.

"John!"

Wyatt stops Rachael from rushing over to him. She struggles against his hold.

"John! Oh my God, John!"

"Rachael, look at me," Wyatt says. "He was shot, but he'll be okay."

Alana ushers the two men to bring Doc into her home. Rachael fights with Wyatt to go over to him, but Wyatt's hold on her is unrelenting.

"John!!" She yells again.

Her knees give out and she sinks to the ground with Wyatt.

"What happened?" She asks.

"Some kid. We were getting answers out of him. We were going to look into the information he gave us, but as soon as we got back onto our horses he shot Doc."

"Is he... is he going to be okay?"

Wyatt doesn't answer.

Rachael can feel her heart breaking all the more. She's not sure how much more she can take of this.

"John..."

Alana guides them into the spare bedroom she has given to you. She has the two men lay him gently on top of it and then has them leave. She fetches her things. She's no doctor, but she is confident she can help this man.

Doc is sweating fiercely. There's no exit wound so the bullet is still embedded in his shoulder. He watches Alana through a fuzzy gaze.

Pain. He can only feel pain.

"Rachael... where is my Rachael...?" He hisses out.

Alana doesn't answer him.

"Rachael..."

Wyatt takes Rachael into the house. He takes her to the sofa to sit down, but she tries to get up. He pushes her back down.

"I need to see him," she says.

"He needs seeing to. Let our host see to him," Wyatt tells her.

"John, oh John."

Wyatt sits with her. She clings to him. Doc was hurt and she couldn't be with him.

"Rachael!"

She hears him call for her.

"Wyatt-"

"Go."

Wyatt released his hold on her. He thinks it would better if she stayed here, but hearing Holliday call for her, well, he couldn't deprive Doc of that. Rachael thanks Wyatt and hurries into the bedroom.

Doc has been undressed from the waist up. Alana is trying to get him to lie still so she can dig out the bullet.

Rachael enters the bedroom and rushes to his side. Doc looks relieved when he sees her. He reaches out with his good arm and she takes his hand. Rachael sits on the bed with his hand in her lap.

"I'm here, John. I'm here."

She runs her free hand through his damp hair. She leans over him a little, looking at his face.

"Keep him still. I have to get the bullet out," Alana says.

Rachael doesn't say anything. She just keeps a tight hold of his hand and continues to run her fingers through his hair.

"I'm here," she whispers.

"I love you," he hisses out softly.

"I know. I love you too, darlin'." Rachael smiles softly at him.

Alana doesn't waste another second and searches for the bullet. Doc hisses out in pain and squeezes Rachael's hand tightly. Rachael leans down and presses her lips to his forehead.

"You're going to be okay."

Alana can only be so gentle, and she knows it's hurting him, but something tells her that with Rachael present, Doc is going to get through this just fine.

A couple hours later, Doc is stitched up and Alana leaves the room with the bullet she had dug out of his shoulder. He's exhausted. Rachael stays in the room with him.

Alana had closed the bedroom door behind her as she left.

Rachael lays on her side, Doc's good side, and watches him. He's still awake, but fighting to be. His body clearly wants to sleep for the night.

Rachael brushes his hair back slowly. The motion of it soothing him.

"Sleep, John," she whispers.

"Not yet," he mutters.

She watches his face. He's staring up at the ceiling.

"I didn't find Baylie."

"No, but we will."

John turns his head toward her, gazing at her with glossy eyes. He blinks softly.

"Marry me?"

Rachael lifts her head up from his pillow.

"What?"

"Marry me."

She stares at him, wide eyed. He's delusional, totally out of it. He's not thinking straight.

"John..."

"My inside pocket. Go into my inside pocket," he tells her.

Rachael glances at his coat which had been stripped from him hours ago. He stares at her. She leans over and takes the coat, heart hammering in her chest. She takes her time to find his inside pocket and slide her hand into it.

Her fingers meet with something small and cold. She bites the inside of her cheek gently as she pulls the item out and then drops it into her palm.

A ring.

The exact ring he had shown Baylie.

Rachael lifts her eyes from the ring and looks up at Doc. He's laying there, sweating and breathing gently. His eyes have softened.

"Marry me."

For the first time that day Rachael cries happy tears. She leans over and presses sher head against his chest. She laughs softly. Doc lifts his good arm and places his hand on the back of her head. The hand on his injured side seeks out the ring from her hand.

"Look at me, darlin'."

Rachael lifts her head and looks up at him. She can't hide her smile.

"Your hand, my darlin' little Dragon," he grins at her.

Rachael lifts her left hand to him. Doc takes the ring and puts it on her slowly. She watches it slide over her finger. Doc drops his hand onto his stomach when it's on. Rachael looks at her hand.

"Mrs Rachael Holliday. Now that sounds nice," he says, voice quiet.

Rachael looks up at him.

"Sleep," is all she says to him.

Holliday smiles and closes his eyes. He can't fight it any more, he needs to rest.

Rachael chuckles and wipes the tears from her eyes. She looks down at her hand again and laughs.

"You silly romantic fool," she mutters.

Rachael holds her hands close to her chest as she lays beside him again. If anyone could give her hope, it was John Holliday.

They'd be a real family.

All they needed was Baylie.

♡♡♡

@bayisdying - @callsignscupcake - @mrsjaderogers - @cycbaby - @gracespicybradshaw @altierirose - @askmarinaandothers - @themusingofagothicsoul - @gizmodear - @beaner-life-23 - @luckyladycreator2 - @scissorhandsgirl2000 - @mclintocksdaughter - @ice-doc-val -

[doingthingsthewriteway]

Moss

request: yes

summary: Daisy Pt. 2. More trials (and a lot of fluff) between doc and daisy

Doc Holliday was a lot of things and stupid was not on that list. Something that often got him in a heap of trouble was his education. Quick witted remarks in a variety of languages would swirl around his brain, ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. He was well versed in novels, theater, nocturnes, and even a dash of politics. His understanding of God and the universe was also impressive. 

So no, he certainly wasn’t stupid. Why then was his Daisy hiding things from him? Did she think his male nature made him inherently oblivious to the state of things? Clearly something was wrong. 

Smoke from a pipe- not a cigar nor cigarette but herbs his Y/N read about to ease his pain thank you very much- billowed around swirling with all of his doubts. Doc puffed away as he thought back on all of the recent nonsense. 

First was subtle. One fine evening, Doc’s family gathered in the Oriental. He felt himself glow with pride as the Earp’s and Y/N surrounded him each night. Sometimes he thought he was delirious with another fever as the sound of laughter and touches of affection enveloped him. 

That evening, however, as he waited patiently for Y/N return to his lap, a frown furrowed his handsome face. She balanced on his thighs, glass in hand. “Darlin’?” He tapped the glass with a hesitant finger. “You switch to gin?” 

Her laugh was enough to erase the frown. “No, huckleberry, I thought we could benefit from some water. I still don’t want you drinking, can’t live without you.”

“Oh hell, honey, you’re stuck with my nonsense for the rest of your life.” Her pretty eyelashes and bustle free legs were enough to make him forget. 

Then, all together, Y/N stopped their evening nightcap. Now, yes he needed to quit his drinking to excess, but a glass of bourbon with his baby every night surely was not a problem. Doc wondered if going to the Oriental every night reminded his bride of his affair, which seemed reasonable. Certainly not willing to be on the receiving end of her wrath anytime soon, he let that go. 

Next was more straight forward. Wyatt had received tickets for boxsets at the Birdcage. Y/N loved Faust so naturally Doc jumped at the chance for a family outing. His darling all but squealed with delight when Doc sauntered into suite, with a dress bag slung over his arm. 

“May I have the pleasure of escorting you to the depths of hell tonight, Mrs. Holliday?” Mustached lips tickled up her arm, over her collarbone, and down to her cleavage. 

“Oh absolutely, Mr. Holliday!” Taking the dress out of the brown wrapping, she gasped. “Oh, John!” It was her turn to sprinkle his gruff face with kisses. 

The maroon silk looked downright sinful on his bride (and she thought the exact same thing about his matching waist coat). The Hollidays were a sight to behold in Tombstone. With her on his arm, Doc felt all the southern gentry he was raised in. Nothing could make him feel unworthy of power or love. 

Settled in the dim theater, Y/N fanned herself, a rush of heat hitting her. A holler from the floor seats broke her trance and drew her eyes of the one she despised most. Johnny Ringo practically howled at her, tongue wagging like a rabid dog. 

“Pay no mind to Mr. Ringo.” A gentle hand grasped her chin and forced her attention back to Doc, where it belong he reasoned. “Only I may purchase your soul.” 

Y/N’s eyes fluttered and hummed in delight. “You already have, Doc.” That settled his swirling doubts. Yes, he liked to think he held her soul inside his own. His soul clutching to hers in order to survive. He owned her, not in an oppressive sense. Not like how his father view his mother, but in the way that she was his and his alone and he could proudly say the same. 

Yet, just shy of intermission his darling uttered a “oh fuck” under her breath. Doc chuckled, eyebrow quirked in amusement. Yet before he could comment on the lewd nature of his otherwise polite wife, she was grasping her skirts and rushing out of the box. 

Before he could even move, Allie Earp ran after his wife. Looking at the remaining Earps- excluding Wyatt who looked all too close to committing something dangerous- Doc glared. “Something I don’t know?” 

“Lady stuff?” Morgan suggested earning a grunt of support from Virgil. 

At intermission, Doc found his wife with Allie. Allie had the audacity to grin at Doc, blue eyes twinkling. “Doctor is in.” She giggled. 

And yes, normally Doc would have ate that up. Reveling in the limelight and delightful female attention. However, normally Doc was the unstable one and not his wife.  Still, he couldn’t help himself from saying a charming, “It seems my favorite patient is ill.” 

“I’m fine, Doc.” Y/N offered a grimace of a smile. Slowly standing, she took the fan from Allie. “Just got too hot all of a sudden.” 

Nodding, if only to avoid adding another public confrontation to the history of their relationship, Doc ordered a tonic water from the bar and escorted his wife back to their seats. Allie just chittering all the way. 

The final straw was down right offensive. Doc enjoyed few things more than waking up in the early hours of the morning when the sun was just beginning to think of rising and loving his wife. She was always so eager from a nights rest that she just folded into him. His lungs weren’t heavy from a full day allowing him to thrust and grunt for a glorious eternity. 

Yet, every morning that past week when he rolled over she was gone. He’d call out her name practically mewling with need only to be met with silence. Ignoring the hurt that struck his heart, he’d go back to bed. 

Finally, this morning was the last straw. He figured he’d stay awake, greet her entering their room. The longer he sat awake, pipe in hand, the wilder this thoughts went. Doc prided himself in a remarkably even temper but fear was ensnaring his rationality. 

A dose of opium sounded wonderful right about now. It would just calm his nerves, make it so he wouldn’t lash out. Last thing he wanted to do to his daisy was be mean. Lord knows he’s hurt her enough. He was sure he had a vial tucked away somewhere. 

By the time she entered their room, Doc was in tears. Red eyes narrowed into a glare at her. She gasped. “Doc, are you alright?” 

A rumbling cough worked its way out his lungs. “Daisy, I am rolling.” He hissed. Standing from his spot by the window, he grabbed his cane for balance. “Awful late night for you though.” 

“Are you high?” 

“I hardly see the need in answering that.” He snipped. “It’s quite obvious we both are up to things we shouldn’t be.” 

“Now, John, listen to me.”

“Is it to get back at me? Do you think my heart doesn’t hurt when you leave me?” 

“John, please just trust me.” her voice wobbled with tears. 

“I know I’ve not been the best husband to you-“

“You’ve been wonderful.” 

“Stop lying.” The opium only made his accent stronger. “Please just be honest with me, my soul can’t bare it any longer.” 

With a sad smile, Y/N crossed the floor to her husband. One hand tenderly held his cheek, wiping away at trailing tears. The other reached for his own, pressing a key into his palm. “Get dressed and follow me.” 

Confused, dazed, spellbound by his bride he dressed quickly. She held her arm out to him knowing his pride would much prefer her to stabilize him than his cane. “I’ve not been truthful and I am so very sorry for that Doc, but I hope you’ll forgive me.” 

They walked the dusty streets of Tombstone together. The early morning air left their lungs clear. Cactus clung to the early morning dew as the couple clung to each other. Near the edge of town, Y/N paused in front of a stately Greek Revival home. 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” She asked nuzzling into his neck. 

“Yes, though it is difficult to find anything that compares to you darlin’.” 

With warm cheeks, Y/N giggled. “Try the key Doc.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Doc sputtered pulling away in shock. 

“Try the key.” 

A burst of speed had him rushing to the door. Rocking chairs lined the porch, tucked safely behind columns. The key slide in perfectly. Her name was all he could sigh, tears welling in his eyes again. 

Joining him, she nudged him forward. “I’ll give you the tour.” 

While still barren of furniture, the grand home had billowing curtains with long windows that ached of home. As Y/N rattled on about something to do with paint colors Doc waved a hand of dismissal not really caring how she wanted to paint. 

“How?” He managed to grunt,masking his emotion with a forced cough. 

“I was left an impressive about of money in a will.” A small smile tugged on her lips. “A great aunt everyone else hated. The only stipulation was to use it for my family.” 

A tug on his hand led up him the stately staircase. “I was thinking our bedroom could be here if-“ 

“I can handle them darlin’. Don’t you worry about me.” 

The next door was shut, Y/N’s eyes glittering with mischief. “This is your second surprise.” 

“Oh if this is one of those sinful European things-“Doc paused as the door opened revealing the only painted room in the house. 

gentle moss green walls greeted him. A canopy hung from the ceiling, the netting protecting a crib. “Daisy? Are you in a delicate way?” His green eyes flickered from her face to the perky bodice of her dress  to her tummy. 

A nod of her head confirmed. his heart nearly burst out his chest. A joyful laugh tickled out his throat. He didn’t give a damn what would be said about him now, his wife was carrying his baby. His. 

Nudging her nose against his, she leaned in to capture his lips pulling softly on the plump skin. Words weren’t needed as they removed each layer of clothing from each other. Fingers interlocked as they lay together on the soft mossy green rug below them. 

[annarellix]

Mysteries and cozy mysteries: some reviews

Tropical Issue by Dorothy Dunnett (A Dolly Mystery  #1)

Rita, a small, tough Scottish make-up artist is on Madeira trying to find out who killed Kim-Jim, an American make-up supremo. Also anchored off the island is Dolly, the yacht of Johnson Johnson with whom Rita teams up to get to the bottom of this foul deed. Rita’s fighting spirits are aroused despite her danger. She is not one for quitting, even when she learns she is caught up in an international drug-smuggling ring. But she also discovers that dealing with the maddeningly enigmatic Johnson Johnson is, by no stretch of the imagination, plain sailing.

My Review: I used to think of Dorothy Dunnet as a writer of historical fiction and this book was a surprise because it’s a humorous, compelling, and well plotted mystery. We would call it a cozy mystery now but it was a mystery tout court in 1983. As it was  the first mystery I read by this author I cannot compare it to other novel but I can say I thoroughly enjoyed it. Rita is a well plotted characters, a quirky and strong woman. The setting is wonderful, I’ve been in love with Madeira since forever, and loved the description I recommend it. Many thanks to Farrago for this arc, all opinions are mine.

Book page: https://farragobooks.com/book/tropical-issue/ Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/64277922-tropical-issue

Six Ostriches by Philipp Schott (Dr. Bannerman Vet Mystery #2)

It’s springtime in rural Manitoba, and the snow has finally left the exotic animal farm when an ostrich finds and swallows a shiny object. (Because this is what ostriches do.) Cue veterinarian and amateur sleuth Dr. Peter Bannerman, who surgically removes the object, which looks like an ancient Viking artifact. Soon after, people around are horrified by a series of animal mutilations. This sets Peter, and his talented sniffer dog, Pippin, on the hunt for answers. Peter begins to suspect a link between the Viking artifact, the mutilations, and a shadowy group of white supremacists on the internet. Before long Peter and Pippin are in over their heads, and the only way for them to get out alive will be to unmask the mastermind before they end up among their victims.

My Review: I always love Philipp Schott's books, both non fiction and mysteries featuring Peter Bannerman, an intriguing and well written amateur sleuth and vet. This story is darker than the first and there's some gore and graphic scene that I found a bit disturbing. That said it's another well plotted and enjoyable mystery and I hope there will be more mysteries in this series. Many thanks to ECW Press for this arc, all opinions are mine

https://ecwpress.com/products/six-ostriches-a-dr-bannerman-vet-mystery https://www.philippschott.com/ https://twitter.com/philippwschott https://www.instagram.com/philippschott/

Death on the Stella Mae By Jan Durham (Kipper Cottage Mystery #5)

Who can unlock the deepest secrets of the sea? Spring has finally sprung in the picturesque North Yorkshire town of Whitby, but high tides and easterly winds bring stormy weather. When trawlerman Daniel ‘Doc’ Holliday goes missing from his boat the Stella Mae, it looks like he was washed overboard. Widow Liz McLuckie soon has reason to believe otherwise. Someone wanted Daniel dead. But who? And how far will they go to hide what really happened that stormy night? Liz is determined to uncover the truth, with help from her motley collection of friends and Nelson the bull terrier – the ugliest (and bravest) dog in Yorkshire.

My Review: This is one of the best cozy mystery series I discovered in the last years: well plotted, light but featuring a cast of well plotted and clever characters. It always makes me wish I could travel to Whitby and I always enjoyed Nelson’s antics, he’s a sweet boy. This is another solid mystery that mixes well the different elements, keeps you reading and guessing. There’s plenty of surprising twists and a satisfying solution. Can’t wait to read the next story. Many thanks to Inkubator for this arc, all opinions are mine.

https://www.kippercottagemysteries.co.uk/ https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/123128486-death-on-the-stella-mae

Ukulele of Death  by E. J. Copperman (A Fran and Ken Stein Mystery #1)

Meet Fran and Ken Stein - a private investigator duo who refuse to let a little thing like being not entirely human stop them from doing their jobs.

After losing their parents when they were just babies, private investigators Fran and Ken Stein now specialize in helping adoptees find their birth parents. So when a client asks them for help finding her father, with her only clue a rare ukulele, the case is a little weird, sure, but it's nothing they can't handle. But soon Fran and her brother are plunged into a world where nothing makes sense - and not just the fact that a very short (but very cute) NYPD detective keeps trying to take eternal singleton Fran out on dates. All Fran wants to do is find the ukulele and collect their fee, but it's hard to keep your focus when you're stumbling over corpses and receiving messages that suggest your (dead) parents are very much alive. Ukuleles aside, it's becoming clear that someone knows something they shouldn't - that Fran and Ken Stein weren't so much born, as built . My Review: E. J. Copperman’s mysteries are never banal or predictable. When you start reading you know that the characters will be well developed and the mystery solid. And the plot will feature something very original that will make you love the story. This is the weirdest of all and one of the funniest I read this year. There’s a lot of humour and it could be called a cozy speculative mystery or a sci-fi cozy mystery. The definition it’s up to you, I thoroughly enjoyed the story and there were some details that made me laugh loud. There’s always a more serious side about the origin of Fran and Ken even if it’s packed in humour. A solid mystery with some weird twists and a lot of surprises. I loved the solution and hope to read soon other stories featuring these characters. Highly recommended. Many thanks to Severn House for this arc, all opinions are mine.

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3297526.E_J_Copperman https://severnhouse.com/books/ukulele-of-death/

All That Glitters by Mike Martin (The Sgt. Windflower Mystery Series #13)

Sergeant Winston Windflower is moving on to a new chapter of his life, no longer an RCMP officer but now a Community Safety Officer in the small community of Grand Bank, Newfoundland. But when a body is found in the bed and breakfast he co-owns, diamonds are found in the body’s digestive system, and then Windflower’s friend Dr. Sanjay, who was given the diamonds for safe keeping, is kidnapped, it’s clear that crime has returned once more to Grand Bank. Windflower finds himself back in the thick of it, helping his newly promoted friend, RCMP Corporal Eddie Tizzard, track down a ruthless diamond smuggler who will stop at nothing — kidnapping, even murder — to pull off his dirty business.

My Review: . This is an excellent mystery series and I hope a lot of people will read it because it's compelling and well plotted. Sgt Windflower is an interesting character, clever and strong. I fell in love with the descriptions of Newfoundland and it's on my bucket list of places to visit. This is another well plotted mystery, on the cozy mystery side. The pace is even, the plot is tightly knitted and it kept me guessing. A highly recommended series. Many thanks to Mike Martin for this arc, all opinions are mine

https://sgtwindflowermysteries.com/ https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/136278862-all-that-glitters

Rehearsed to Death By Frank Anthony Polito (Domestic Partners in Crime #2)

Hart to Hart via HGTV, this fabulous new quozy (queer cozy) mystery series by award-winning author and playwright Frank Anthony Polito’s features a gay couple who solve crimes while renovating houses in suburban Detroit as part of their hit reality show Domestic Partners . Now, their foray into community theater proves a major risk thanks to some deadly improvisation . . .

Peter’s first play is having its world premiere at Pleasant Woods’s community theater. His handsome one and only, JP, has the lead. Rehearsals have begun. And New York City’s award-winning, hotshot helmer, Xander Sherwood Deva, is directing. Unfortunately the controlling, arrogant, poison-barbed, egomaniacal diva has everyone on edge. No wonder he finally pushes someone over it . . . Xander is found strangled to death in the same extra-long, imported cashmere scarf he’s been brandishing like a boa ever since he arrived. In the name of making art he’s burned a lot of bridges and made a lot of enemies but which one wanted to bring down the curtain on him? As they say in the the show must go on. But not before amateur sleuths Peter and JP become Domestic Partners in Crime and try to solve this deadly real-life drama ahead of opening night.

My Review: Peter and JP are becoming a favorite couple of amateur sleuth as I love their humour and their personality. They remind me some friend of mine and I like how this novels describe how a gay couple life is exactly like any other couple and how the LGBTQ+ community is just people regardless of the gender or sexual orientation. This means that this a good story and there’s a solid mystery. I didn’t like the victim even if he made me think of Oscar Wilde in the XXI century. There’s a lot of twists, there’s a dog, and there’s an entertaining and compelling plot that kept me guessing. There’s humour, a lot of witty dialogues, and a cast of fleshed out characters. I can’t wait to read the next story. Many thanks to Kensington Cozies for this ARC, all opinions are mine

https://www.kensingtonbooks.com/9781496735607/rehearsed-to-death/ https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1272874.Frank_Anthony_Polito http://www.frankanthonypolito.com Twitter: fapolito

[one-boring-person]

Could I possibly ask for a Doc Holliday x reader where Reader is friends with both Doc and the Earp's and has been in love with Doc but afraid to confront the feelings she has until an incident happens that causes her feelings to come out into the open and Doc feels the same. Can include some nsfw theme but not full smut.

PS-Just discovered your page the other night and I love your Iceman posts...Val Kilmer is my favorite actor and I just love it when he gets love and praise from people

I hope you like this! Thank you for reading my stuff!😊💛

Loved By You, Loving You.

Doc Holliday (Tombstone) x reader

Warnings: violence, gun use, alcohol consumption, mention of death

Masterlist

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“Does he ever stop drinking?” Wyatt’s voice is laced with amusement as he approaches me, placing a glass on the table in front of me. 

Taking a seat beside Virgil, the ex-lawman retains his usally straight posture as he glances over to where Doc is playing the piano, watching as his friend’s fingers deftly glide over the keys, head swaying, reddening complexion a marked change from his usual consumptive pallidity. Following Wyatt’s line of sight, I chuckle and shake my head.

“It would appear not.” I look back at him, “You of all people should know that.”

Wyatt waves me off, laughing.

“You’re closer to him than I ever will be.” He points out, Virgil and Morgan lifting their drinks in agreement.

Blushing a little, I shake my head.

“We’re not that close.” I reply hurriedly, knowing full well they have a point, though I’ll never admit to it, lest I start to believe the fantastical wishes brewing in my head. 

“I’ve never seen him take a liking to someone as much as he has to you.” Morgan grins, sipping his drink, the four of us now watching our friend as he plays. 

A brief gust of cool night air blows into the saloon as a group of dusty newcomers enter, an air of false authority exuding from them. We turn to look at them, giving them the same dismissive glance everyone else affords them as they saunter inside, the group of men leering around at us. Instantly, they give me a bad feeling, particularly as their leader, some burly man with greasy black hair and filthy slacks, lays his eyes on Doc as he plays, the consumptive the only person in the saloon who has not turned to look at the newcomers. An expression of irritation flashes across the man’s face, before it turns into an easy sneer of disdain. 

“Hey, barman, get that loon off the keys, would you?” He slurs, spitting by the bar once he’s reached it, his cronies coming to stand beside him, staring out at the rest of us whilst he faces the man standing behind the counter, “And get me somethin’ to drink whilst your there.”

Hesitantly, the barman glances over at Doc.

“Holliday, could you stop that a minute?” He calls over, hastening to pull out a glass for whatever drink the newcomer wants. 

Slowly, Doc tilts his head to the side, giving the impression of acknowledging him before he begins to play louder, pressing his fingers harder against the keys. The Earps and I watch with held breaths as the men at the bar stiffen, frowning at the man sitting at the piano. 

“Didn’t you hear the man? Stop that racket.” One of them spits at Doc, scowling at him.

Unsurprisingly, his playing only gets louder, until one of the men goes to get up, at which point, he suddenly stops. Deathly silence falls on the room, eyes fixed on the man at the piano, though they flick between him and the leader of the gang, who has turned to face the source of his irritation. Every muscle in my body is tense with worry, unsure of what is going to happen. 

"A man with no ear for music has an eager trigger finger." Doc's voice is soft, almost inaudible, "He's deafened himself with report so much he can no longer appreciate the finer sounds."

Deliberately, he stands and turns to face the men at the bar, lips quirked into a misleading smile. I bite my lip at the sight: he means trouble with a look like that.

"It would seem you have that condition." He continues, gesturing with a slow nod to the leader.

The man only sneers.

"I don't need to appreciate "finer" sounds." He barks out a laugh as his men join in. 

"Of course not. The wiser man does...and you do not strike me as such a character." Doc tilts his chin up, challenging the man.

The man colours visibly, eyes narrowing as his hand strays to his belt, where aan ugly pistol is holstered.

"I'm not thick, neither. Wanna see proof?" He growls, scowling.

Doc glances only briefly at the weapon, seemingly dismissing it. 

"No. You're not worth my time, as limited as it is." He turns him down, going to walk over to us, clearly bored with the charade now.

Bristling, the leader glares at Doc, teeth bared into an ugly grimace of anger. Instantly, two of his cronies step forward, guns drawn, ready to aim at the gunslinger's back, grins cruel. Another of them inches forwards with a knife held in one hand, goaded on by the quiet laughter of his comrades. 

My heart leaps in my chest - Doc has no idea what's about to happen, apparently clueless as he approaches us. I glance at Wyatt, hoping he's seen what I've seen, finding the lawman already standing in his chair.

It's from this point that chaos ensues. 

It's hard to tell what happens; shots are fired and glasses smash, but there's no blood or screams of pain, rather the odd grunt and groan, and the fleshy thunk of fists connecting with bodies. Virgil, Morgan and Wyatt are all amongst it, whilst I remain frozen in my seat, somewhat in shock as my four friends somehow take on the hostile gang, somehow managing to secure their triumph. Cursing and spitting, the men are driven from the saloon, many of the remnants following after, shouting abuse at them. Doc moves to sit beside me, watching as the bar empties, the men and women enjoying the spectacle too much to let it pass. 

I turn my head to face him, watching silently as he lifts Wyatt's glass to his lips and takes a long drink. His eyes flick to mine.

"What is it, dear friend? You look awful." He grins wearily, tilting his head.

I shake my own head, somewhat annoyed.

"You need to stop getting in trouble." 

His brow furrows a little.

"Pardon?"

"I said," I look up at him, "You need to stop getting into trouble."

"And why is that?" 

"Because…" 

"Do tell, (Y/n). You have piqued my curiosity." 

"Because it'll get you killed!" I snap at him, glaring at his feigned innocence. 

Annoyingly, he only laughs, his drawling voice highly amused.

"Well, it doesn't make much difference, now, does it?" He points out, gesturing to his pallid complexion.

The words bring some tears to my eyes, the sharp knowledge of that still fresh in my mind.

"It does make a difference." I murmur, looking down at my feet.

"And how is that?"

The silence between us quickly mounts, my thoughts battling with each other as I try to figure out how to reply.

"It's different because I...I don't want you to die...not yet." I continue with a quieter voice, "Not ever."

He lowers his own voice now, leaning over to look me in the eye.

"It's inevitable, (Y/n). I must make use of the time I have left." 

"Then make use of it in a better way! Spend it-" I cut myself off sharply, blushing.

"Spend it how?" He's curious now.

Sighing, I allow my eyes to meet his.

"Spend it with me." My real intentions are unspoken, but from the look on his face, he's understood me perfectly. 

"Spend it loving you." He muses, "Spend it loved by you."

Silence falls on us again, my heart in my mouth now, nerves racing through me. After a long moment, I find my voice again.

"Yes."

The quiet drags on again, before suddenly there's a pair of fingers under my chin, tilting my face up to his. Lips crush against mine, chapped and clammy as they coax me into movement. Surprised but pleasantly so, I feel my eyes widen, before falling shut as his hand moves to cup my cheek, kissing me deeply. 

"I would be honoured to spend my life loving and loved by you, (Y/n)." Doc smiles as he pulls back again, stroking my cheek lovingly.

[myriadimagines]

[x] // requester: anonymous // request here

“It ain’t that hard. Look,” Doc spread his legs apart, holding out his revolver as he aimed at one of the various tin cans the both of you had lined up on a wooden gate as shooting practice. You studied him, mimicking his stance as Doc continued, “Shootin’ a gun is pretty easy. Just aim and pull the trigger.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, letting Doc adjust your fingers slightly over your gun before he stepped back, gesturing for you to fire. Pressing your lips together and narrowing your eyes in concentration, you fired, and let out an excited cheer as one of the cans bounced off the gate.

“Look at you, you’re a natural!” Doc complimented, and you spun around to him to give him an enthusiastic hug. Doc’s eyes widened as he quickly ducked away your embrace, jumping away from you as you waved your gun around, yelling, “Woah, woah! Put the damn gun down before huggin’ someone, y/n!” 

“Oh, right,” you sheepishly smiled at him, carefully lowering your gun. “Sorry about that.” 

[doingthingsthewriteway]

upcoming works

I’ve got a part 2 for daisy x doc (very fluffy relationship stuff, might make you barf) 

and I’m working on a Madmartigan fic. 

I would love some ideas for Iceman so feel free to send in asks. 

Also, if you also share in my affinity for val, feel free to reach out. 

[anotherimaginescollection]

‘I’m never going to get this!’ you said, exasperated as once again the knife bounced off the side of the target and clattered loudly to the floor. Doc made it look so easy, he spoke about it as if the whole thing was as simple as throwing a ball from hand to hand. And yet, when you tried to follow suit, you simply couldn’t fathom how he’d done it.

‘OK,’ he said softly, moving in front of you, hand reaching to stop you from grabbing another knife. ‘Start slow. Figure out the elbow movement.’

He demonstrated the motion that you needed, spoke you though how to rectify it at times, and even helped you with the movement itself before moving onto the wrist. Once he was done he finally handed you another knife.

‘Now try.’

You heaved a deep breath, ran the previous instructions through your head, and tried again. This time the knife sailed through the air and hit the target, burying itself close the edge but not falling out.

‘I did it!’ you exclaimed, pulling Doc in for a hug, who chuckled softly.

‘Yes you did, (Y/n), yes you did,’ he said, and you didn’t need to be looking at him to know that he was smiling at you.

A/N: Gif credit goes to the respective owners; I just found them on Google (added the links here and here).

[iheartintelligence]

I still call that the Dark Angel is Waverly (possibly Eve!Waverly or something to do with Bulshar returning)

Also...if major character death occurs I call it’s Doc. The man has spent the entire series obsessed with (to the point of complete selfishness) staying alive forever. If there needs to be sacrifices to save any of the Earps (including Alice and Nicole) it would be Doc stepping up to the plate. Wynonna’s love, Alice’s father and big brother to Wayhaught all rolled in to one, I believe he would finally let that selfish trait go, to make sure the rest of the family remained safe, happy and together.