#like ye olde 19th century doctors

[tanadrin]

on reflection, i think there's a symmetry to, say, doctors who are willing to refer patients to osteopaths or other ""holistic"" healthcare providers and the susceptibility of engineers to certain kinds of crankdom (of the "i-disproved-relativity-in-my-garage" type). both are forms of scientific training of a sort, but they're heavily outcome-focused and not theoretically focused. in large part, this is good! you do not as a doctor need to have a robust theoretical defense of every treatment you provide to patients, and it would be impossible to do so, because medicine is a huge and complicated subject. you do not, as an engineer, need to have a subtle grasp of theoretical physics to build a bridge; you just need to know what the latest developments in bridge-building are.

but it means in both cases you can have people who are skilled in their field, or who even excel, but who don't understand very well why certain techniques work. and in the case of alt medicine, where there has been considerable work to try to obfuscate or deceive people on how shaky the theoretical basis for their techniques are (stuff that literally if you remember your high-school physics and biology at all will make you go, "wait, there is no plausible mechanism for this, that's not how any of this works"), doctors who do not have time to read studies on RCT trials of every type of medicine they have ever heard of will blithely recommend stuff to patients that's actually complete horseshit, especially if the culture around them has been normalizing that woo as part of "holistic" therapy for the last hundred years, spurred on by alternative medicine practitioners and a public with a fear of needles and ~chemicals~ that medical practitioners have not done enough to allay.

it does not help that medicine only emerged very recently from being about 99% bullshit. like maybe at the end of the 19th century at best medicine was starting to be put on a broad-based empirical and theoretical footing--before that it's truly insane the stuff that wasn't just considered perfectly normal medical practice, but was considered serious Science. i mean, this is why we developed double-blind studies in the first place--because theoretical explanations of medical treatments are still necessarily often secondary to the process of finding ones that actually work, so we need really robust mechanisms to avoid confirmation bias or outright charlatanry. and while mainstream medicine is far from perfect in this respect, "alternative medicine" is all far, far worse.

[marzipanandminutiae]

i'd love to learn just how victorian rational dress reformists would react at contemporary feminine hairstyles!

...in a similar line of thought do we have any records about their opinions on the Practicality of little girls hair or even the 20's bob (if some lived to see it)?

I'm not sure!

One of their biggest beefs with hair in their own time was often with hairpieces: false buns, curls, bangs/fringes, etc. used to augment one's natural hair. I'm not sure if they felt it weighed the head down or the extra pins were uncomfortable or what, but they didn't like it. false hair still exists, but its popularity has vastly waned. so maybe they'd think we had solved some issues- though long hair worn loose all the time would probably be seen as Hampering to women's daily activity

You do see some advocacy for short hair as an easier and sometimes healthier (??) option, but more often I've seen artistic and/or Dress Reform-oriented women with short hair who said nothing about it. You also have men who are...clearly just into ladies with short hair writing long Ye Olde Thinkpieces about how great it is. I mean, no shame there, I guess- everyone has their Thing. And while short hair on women was unusual, the Victwardians didn't seem to regard it with the same massive distrust and hand-wringing as conservative commentators of the 1920s did. Perhaps because it was less widespread?

The idea that little girls not only could have short hair but should was fairly common throughout the 19th century, obviously with variations. Similar reasoning was in play to that you might expect nowadays: that it was easier to care for, and that an active child wouldn't be hindered by it. there was also an idea, similar to that which led some women's hair to be cut off during serious illness, that short hair kept the head cooler and prevented or lowered fevers. I've actually read an admonition to keep children's hair short for just that reason in a book from the 1830s- The Ladies' Medical Oracle, by Elizabeth Mott. obviously this wasn't universal- see also: the original Alice in Wonderland illustrations, although it's worth noting that the real Alice Liddell had a bob as a child

(yes, little girls were expected to be active to a degree- even more if you're reading a book by someone who has experience with Actual Human Children. some doctors fretted that the uterus would be damaged by too much physical activity, but it seems like in practice, parents' were...again, aware of how real children behave. Longfellow's 1860 poem The Children's Hour describes his daughters storming his office to shower him with affection, quite energetically, and it was a smash hit)

as for how they reacted to 1920s bobs...well, most of the adult adopters thereof had at least lived through part of the Long Hair As Default For Women Edwardian era, and their thoughts ranged greatly on the subject. In fact, essays by Irene Castle (believed to be the originator of the trend in her late 20s c. 1913 or 1914, long before it caught on properly) and Mary Pickford (a late adopter at age 36 c. 1928) on why they had vs. hadn't cut their hair are often paired together as a commentary on how the trend was seen, along with others. sometimes these essays are rather strange- one wonders why these women, who must have lived when adult women all wore their hair up every day, describe the alleged oppression of "long, trailing locks." I guess when what you like has some social unacceptability, you might be inclined to phrase things in black and white thus

Dress reformers of the 1920s were more concerned with the deleterious effects of high-heeled shoes and the general idea that young women were encouraged to be too frivolous- and too loose in their sexual morals, as represented by the "short skirts"- actually about calf-length -and low-backed evening gowns of the era. that sounds kind of weird today, in the era of sex positivity, but earlier dress reform had, with a few exceptions, disavowed ideas of sexual freedom as thoroughly as mainstream society did. and I kind of get it- the notion that they advocated "free love" was often used to discredit genuine women's rights groups. still they weren't totally immune to sexual mores of their time, and some likely genuinely believed what they were saying

and that's not even getting into the Coiffure a la Titus trend of the late 18th-early 19th century, which had advocates claiming it was the best thing ever and detractors insisting it would result in women catching colds all the time. it was ever thus

anyway that's a bit of a long-winded answer, but I hope it helps!

[ofstarsandvibranium]

My You-niverse: Laurent LeClaire

Fandom: Oscar Isaac

Pairing: Laurent LeClaire x F!Reader

Summary: You and America get stuck portal jumping until you reach your universe again. In the meantime, you meet various versions of your husband.

Series Masterlist

The man, face similar to your husband's, thick, brown wavy locks, looks at you with concerned brown eyes.

You look down to see yourself now downing some...really old looking clothing. 19th century, perhaps? Since when did America's powers now come with a wardrobe change?

"Mademoiselle, are you alright?" he lends out a hand towards you.

You reach for his hand and wince. You look down to see a dark red stain on your sleeve.

America rushed to your side, also wearing a 19th century dress. She presses a hand to your arm and you wince. She then looks up at your husband's doppleganger, "She needs help!"

The man immediately rushes to help you stand, an arm wrapping around you to hold you up, "We must move, quickly."

You nod, trying to keep up with his hurried pace, "What are your names?"

"America," your young friend answers, "and this is Y/N."

"A beautiful name for a beautiful woman."

You can't help but scoff, "Are you this charming to every woman?"

"Only the ones that come falling out of nowhere from a strange light," he peers at you with a smirk.

America hurries her pace, "Yeah, we'd appreciate it if you actually don't tell anyone about that?"

"Are you witches of some sort? Devil worshippers?" he gives a scrutinizing gaze to America.

You grunt an answer, "No. We don't know what happened. One moment, some men were chasing us, the next we're here. We're just as confused as you are." you give a look to America, letting her know that that's the story you two are going with.

She nods, "That's right."

The man appears a bit unconvinced, but says, "Alright."

"You know our names, what's yours?" you ask and the man leads you to a village.

"Laurent. Laurent LeClaire."

"And what do you do Laurent?"

"I'm a painter." You can't help but scoff at his answer and he cocks a brow at you, "Something amusing?"

You shake your head, "You just remind me of someone."

"Your husband?" Laurent asks. You open your mouth to question him but he gestures to your hand, "Your wedding ring."

You don't say anything else. The three of you remain in silence until you're led into a small hospital. They allow America to go with you, but Laurent stays behind.

"Thank you for your help, Laurent."

He gives a silent nod to you and then America before you're ushered back to get your arm looked at.

______________

After a nurse cleans and wraps up your arm, you're left alone with America.

She's awkwardly rocking in the bed beside yours, "Soooo...do you think we're just going to keep running into Marc's dopplegangers?"

You snort, "I'm not the one with portal powers. Also, since when did your powers come with wardrobe changes?"

The young Avenger held up her hands, "Hey, I'm just as surprised as you are. That's never happened before." then she gasped, "Do you think I'll eventually be able do those badass costume like Thor?!"

You snort, "Guess you'll have to keep training and see."

The doctor, an old man, approached you two, "Alright, mademoiselle," he says looking at you, "as long as you keep your wound clean and change the bandages every few hours, you should be well on your way to complete health."

"Thank you, doctor," you say to the old man, standing and giving him a grateful smile. You then nod to America to follow you and you two are exiting the building.

"Y/N!" you hear a call of your name and see Laurent walking towards you.

You look at him with surprise, "Laurent! You're still here?"

He softly smiles and you see the look your husband would give you when it was just the two of you, "Yes, I just wanted to make sure everything went well."

"She'll recover," America intrudes, "She's strong so.."

"That's good to hear." he responds. The two of you continue to look at each other, leaving your young companion feeling a bit awkward.

"Sooooo I think we should go now, Y/N."

You take a step back from Laurent, "Of course. We need to find our way back home." You go to turn, but a hand catches your arm.

"It's getting dark," Laurent says, pointing to the sky, "Two ladies such as yourselves shouldn't be wandering. Who knows, you might run into the men who attacked you again. You need rest."

You shake your head, "We don't-"

"You can stay the night at my home." Laurent offers a solution with a smile, "I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you two. The inns are dodgy and can be unsafe."

"I suppose we can rest for the night...?" you reply with also a questioning gaze to America. She gives you a look as if what you're saying is the most ridiculous thing in the world. The look you give back to her silently asks, 'What choice do we have?'. She sighs and then you look back to Laurent with a smile, "We'll take you up on that offer, Laurent, thank you."

"Wonderful," he holds out his arms to you and America, "Shall we?"

He leads you to his small home a short distance away from the main streets of the village.

At his home, Laurent treats you and America to a small meal. Nothing fancy, but just something to fill your bellies enough to be satisfied. He then led you and America to his bedroom where you two will be sharing a bed.

You look at him with concern, "Where will you sleep?"

"Don't worry about me. I will make do."

"Laurent-"

"Sssshhh," he presses a finger to your lips and your breathing stills. He's close. His skin touching yours. Your body suddenly feels on fire. You see your husband, your Marc. You see his eyes, the intensity and playfulness, the mischief, the...slimmer of darkness.

With a gulp, he steps back and nods to America and then you, "Goodnight, ladies." He promptly leaves the room and you don't take a breath until the door shuts.

America plops onto the mattress, "Not gonna lie, that was a little uncomfortable to watch."

You roll your eyes, "Let's just go to bed."

Eventually, you and America are laying beside each other. America is out like a light, but you...you're still awake. Your thoughts mull over the recent events. Marc, the whole Blue Jones thing, and now Laurent. You knew, from what America's told you, that various universes exist. This means there are different versions of you, America, and Marc.

As you and America try to get back home, would you be encountering a different version of Marc every time?

These thoughts plague you, the endless possibilities, the desire to see your husband, hoping to get back home soon.

You've become restless. You're tossing and turning in the bed that smells like Marc's doppleganger. His face, the way he looked at you, plagues your mind.

Eventually, you're out of bed and stepping out of the room with a sheet wrapped around you.

You make your way to the living room where you see Laurent is still up. He's standing by the fire, painting on an easel.

He looks up and sees you, "You're still awake."

"So are you," you point out, holding the sheet tight against you for warmth.

"What ails you?" he asks as he continues to paint.

"It's been a very eventful day and I can't seem to ease my mind."

"We share the same ailments I see." he's concentrated on his task at hand. So much so that his brows are furrowed and you're reminded of Marc again. You sigh and begin to fiddle with your ring.

"Tell me about him," Laurent speaks again. When you look up, he clarifies, "Your husband. Tell me about him."

You set yourself on a cushion beside the fireplace. You stare at the dancing orange and yellow hues, "His name is Marc. He's...stubborn, a little selfish, but also brave and caring. He's brash, but also gentle. He's funny and annoying. When he upsets me, he always goes out and comes home with my favorite flowers and sweets. He's the love of my life." You then turn to look up at Laurent, "Do you have someone?"

He shakes his head, "No. Many say I'm married to my paintbrush though. I spend so much time with it."

You smile up at him, "I'm sure you'll find that person you're meant to be with."

He hums in response and you don't necessarily know if it's in agreement or not.

You move off the cushion you were sitting on, now using it to rest your head on as you lay on your side. You continue watching the fireplace until your eyes flutter close.

...

"Wake up, sweetheart."

You groan and your eyes open. Your vision still blurry but you see a figure standing over you.

"Wake up, honey, come on."

"Marc?" you rasp out and rub the sleep away from your eyes.

As your vision clears, you see another version of Marc standing there. However, he's bald and is donning glasses and a thick beard.

He cocks a brow at you, "Who the fuck is Marc?"

You sit up and realize you're sitting at a desk. A paper sticks to your cheek and you pull it away. You skim through it and see "Nathan Bateman" and "Blue Book".

"Nathan-"

"Listen, sweetheart, I don't pay you to sleep all day. You were supposed to transcribe these for me and because you fell asleep, it's setting me back by a day. Wake the fuck up."

You watch as Nathan waltzes out of the room and you're left shocked and jaw to the floor. This universe's version of your husband is a fucking dick!

[cromulentbookreview]

Fun with Fungi!

Huh, what's this? *cleans away dust* oh, yeah, this blog is still a thing. I probably should've written more reviews, but...

I mean, I could come up with an excuse, but I'm too lazy. Just as I am too lazy to continually update this book review blog that nobody reads. I mean, I just wrote a review *consults calendar* uh. In 2022. Dang, I have been lazy. Oh well.

I'm like a rug on valium, I'm talking lazy.

And by that, I mean: let's have a dual review of the Sworn Soldier series: What Moves the Dead and its sequel, What Feasts at Night by T. Kingfisher!

Those covers, man. They're awesome, but at the same time: poor bun bun. Poor horsie.

So technically, what I'm doing here is not one but two reviews. So I'm actually being really, really productive right now and not lazy in the slightest.

This is a legitimately true story, I swear. Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away...by which I mean, four or five years back or so, I'd never heard of T. Kingfisher / Ursula Vernon in my life until I got into a fight with her on Twitter* on whether or not the fruit of the hazel tree should be referred to as Filberts or Hazelnuts.

For the record, I am firmly team hazelnut. I mean, they're nuts from a hazel tree. Hazel+nuts = hazelnuts. Who in their right mind wants to eat something called a filbert? But, terminology varies as T. Kingfisher is firmly on team filbert. My parents also call them filberts on occasion which is weird to me as we live in an area lousy with hazelnut farms.

Mmmm, Hazelnuts...

Anyway! I had no idea who this person was but I got into a tongue-in-cheek gif fight on Twitter with them regarding hazelnut v. filbert. Feeling bad that I got into a fight with a random person online on their hazel tree fruit name preferences, I went to their profile, saw they were an author, looked up their books and bought the two books of the Clocktaur Wars series. I tore through them, and continued on, reading all of the World of the White Rat series (I just saw that we're getting a new one in January and I might have let out a bit of a fangirl screech), and the absolutely delightful A Wizard's Guide to Defensive Baking and Minor Mage. So far, every single one of T. Kingfisher's books that I've read has been awesome. Nettle & Bone? Amazing. Thornhedge? I'm a very slow reader, but I devoured it in an afternoon.

T. Kingfisher writes amazing fantasy novels and I absolutely love them. She also writes horror. Which is where I hit a brick wall because I'm a baby who doesn't handle horror well. I don't like horror movies. I don't often read horror books. Because the world is scary enough without ghosts and poltergeists and demons and jump scares. Also I watched The Ring when I was 12 and it scared the shit out of me. Anyway! Oddly enough, I've always found myself drawn to horror-type stories. I mean, horror fits so well in fantasy and sci-fi (looking at you, Doctor Who episodes that gave me nightmares). As an adult, I've found myself more and more willing to dip my toe into horror fiction. Season 1 of The Terror, one of my favorite-ever TV series is considered horror (maybe because it's not jump-scare scary, it's existentially scary. Also it's set in the past. Also it's got dudes-on-boats, my favorite genre). Part of me really, really likes horror stories set in the past - no horror like 18th/19th/Early 20th century horror, amirite?

Right?

Well, whatever, I just like horror to be ye olde timey horror, OK? Like Crimson Peak, The Witch, The Death of Jane Lawrence, Mexican Gothic, The Woman in Black, The Hacienda, Vampires of El Norte, The Hunger ... spooky-scary Gothic-y-Romantic-y-type stories that have a historical element to them. Those are awesome. I'm slowly - very slowly! - getting myself to read more contemporary horror stories. I understand that The Twisted Ones and A House With Good Bones are really, really good, but....what can I say, I'm a wuss. And contemporary stories aren't really my jam. I read to get away from the contemporary world, damn it!

(Me, too scared to read contemporary horror but not too scared to listen to 900,000 true crime podcasts).

Right, where were we?

Oh, yeah. The review(s). I'm starting to understand why no one ever read this blog and why I let myself be lazy.

-

In What Moves The Dead we meet Alex Easton, a Gallacian ex-soldier on their way to visit their old friends, the Ushers, at their delipidated estate in the rural countryside of Ruravia. Alex had word that Madeline Usher was dying, and they wanted to be there for Madeline and her brother, Roderick. Roderick had been a fellow soldier with Alex back in the day and -

Wait a minute, Roderick and Madeline Usher? Delipidated mansion? Unspecified 19th century middle of nowhere...

Yep, this story is, indeed, a retelling of Poe's The Fall of the House of Usher, and it does a much better job than certain series you might find on Netflix.

Moving on:

Alex, Roderick and Madeline were childhood friends, and Roderick and Alex even fought together back in the day. Alex is a "sworn soldier" - something unique to their home country of Gallacia, a small, backwater country located somewhere between Bulgaria, Hungaria and that other -Garia, a vaguely Central/Eastern European nation with a language somehow structurally worse than Finnish, Hungarian and Icelandic combined. The Gallacian language has seven sets of pronouns: there's one set used only when referring to God, a set used to refer to children before puberty, one set specifically for inanimate objects...and, as the Gallacians are a fierce warrior people (though they're not exactly great at it), there's a special pronoun set just for soldiers.

So, in Gallacia, anyone, regardless of gender, can waltz up to the nearest military recruitment post, declare themselves a soldier, and be given a sword and a new set of pronouns within the hour. Hence the term "sworn soldier."

Anyway!

Prior to arriving at the House of Usher, Alex encounters an Englishwoman, Miss Eugenia Potter, a mycologist studying the local mushrooms, and there are some gnarly-looking (and smelling!) mushrooms. In fact, the whole landscape around Usher House seems...off. Everything seems dead or dying. Random hares will stand up and just stare right at you.

And not in a cute way, either.

As if the landscape weren't bad enough, once Alex gets to the Usher House, Roderick himself barely resembles the soldier Alex once knew. His skin has gone bone-white and he's as thin as a skeleton. He seems terrified by something but can't quite articulate what. Madeline is still alive, but in bad shape. Not even Roderick's friend Denton, an American doctor, can say what is wrong with her and Roderick (Catalepsy? Anemia? Hysteria? Roomis Igloomis? Who knows?). Denton and Alex immediately figure it's something to do with their environment - the house is both rotting and falling apart around them - but Roderick insists that Madeline can't leave, and if she can't leave, he won't leave.

Determined to find out what's happening to their friends, Alex resolves to stay. But things in the House of Usher are starting to get weird. For one thing, Madeline sleepwalks far more than a dying woman should, speaking in a strange, child-like voice, there's a lake outside that seems to pulse and shine with odd lights, there's a legion of undead hares wandering around and, seriously, what is up with those mushrooms??? With the help of Denton, Miss Potter, and their trusty batman, Angus, Alex must figure out what the hell is going on with the House of Usher...before whatever it is starts to spread.

What Moves The Dead is short and sweet and the perfect book to read when it's cold and dreary outside - and definitely not one you want to read before eating a giant bowl of mushroom risotto. If you're looking for a fantastic, spooky-type read that reads like if Edgar Allan Poe and The Last of Us joined forces with an army of undead bunnies.

But!

Luckily for all of us, Alex Easton's adventures don't stop with the events at the House of Usher.

It's late in the autumn and poor Alex would much rather be in Paris. Unfortunately, Angus has successfully guilt-tripped them into a trip to Alex's family's old hunting lodge back in the Old Country, aka Gallacia. Nothing like good old Gallacia in the winter where everything is damp, cold, cold, and, you guessed it! Damp.

But the redoubtable British mycologist Miss Eugenia Potter wishes to study some Gallacian mushrooms, and Angus, who is absolutely sweet on her, pretty much voluntold Alex to come along to act as Miss Potter's translator and use their hunting lodge as a home base.

So instead of a beautiful late Autumn/Winter in Paris, Alex is stuck back home.

*Sigh* looks nice, doesn't it?

As much as Alex sulks at the thought of spending several weeks back home, it's not like they're going to say no to Angus and Miss Potter. Not after everything they went through with the Usher House *shudder*.

Unfortunately, when Angus and Alex arrive at the lodge to help get it ready for Miss Potter's arrival, the caretaker, Codrin, is nowhere to be found. A quick trip to the nearby village reveals that Codrin has been dead for the past two months. But the locals are being very cagey about what killed him - Codrin's daughter is very insistent that it was just a lung infection, nothing else, no further questions, goodbye.

Finding a replacement for Codrin proves difficult, as it seems none of the villagers want to go near the lodge because there's a rumor that Codrin wasn't killed by inflammation of the lungs, but by a creature called a Moroi - a woman who sits on your chest and quite literally steals your breath. And the rumor is, a Moroi has taken up residence at the Hunting Lodge.

Yikes.

After some effort, Alex manages to hire a new housekeeper: the ill-tempered Widow Botezatu, who brings her grandson Bors along with her. The Widow immediately hates Alex, thinking them a wastrel, but Bors is nice enough. Miss Potter arrives, complete with terrible Gallacian phrasebook, but it soon becomes clear things aren't quite right at the Lodge. Alex begins to experience strange dreams - dreams in which a woman is kneeling on their chest because, yep, the Moroi is very real, and it can get to you in your dreams, just like Groundskeeper Willie in Treehouse of Horror VI.

Which is to say like Freddie Kruger, but still.

When it becomes clear that the Moroi is after the residents of the lodge, it's up to Alex, Angus and Miss Potter to figure out how to defeat a creature that can infiltrate your dreams.

What Feasts at Night is just as creepy, eerie and atmospheric as What Moves the Dead - there is plenty of non-fungal body horror and, mercifully, no zombie bun buns. Kingfisher is fantastic at capturing the terror of having your ability to breathe taken from you, and of the dread of having to fight something you can't grasp while awake. How she manages to pack so much into two short novels, I have no idea.

RECOMMENDED FOR: Anyone in the mood for some short, sweet spooky horror.

NOT RECOMMENDED FOR: Anyone who gets easily queasy, someone in the middle of eating a nice mushroom risotto, someone who really, really, really loves bunnies being alive and living their best lives, anyone who might wake up in the middle of the night with their cat on their chest staring directly into their eyes...

RELEASE DATE FOR WHAT FEASTS AT NIGHT: February 13, 2024

RATING FOR BOTH: 5/5

ANTICIPATION LEVEL FOR SWORN SOLDIER BOOKS: Chigori

*

[squeakyfir]

I'm your huckleberry (Tombstone 1993) (Doc Holliday)

Description:

The joys of modern inventions and miracles are often taken for granted. Your hungry or thirsty? Get something from the fridge or make it. You need to go somewhere? Drive or call an uber. Your hurt? Go to the doctor.

Your bored? Watch a movie, play video games, watch videos on the internet, talk to people without ever leaving your house.

Some much time is in our hands... but back in the 19th century... you wouldn't last very long.

Diseases are rampant, gun violence is higher, no modern technology, barely any good medicine, almost all of your favorite food doesn't exist and most of the people are rude as hell. But... That doesn't mean all of them were so bad. Love was not something most people in this time really cared about. At least, in the town of Tombstone, Arizona.

After falling asleep with a nice looking stone you bought at a small stand at the carnival, your whole world becomes the opposite. Six people from the past discover you unconscious and alone in the blistering heat and offer help but it was their help that let you meet the most amazing man you've ever met.

John Henry "Doc" Holliday.

Chapter 1

Next

Time is not a thing, but it keeps things in balance, and it never stops. You learn new things every day. Like today, you bought a ticket to go to the local carnival and once you entered, you started to regret the decision. There was a lot of people, more than you can handle, and it was still a bit damp from the rain earlier. The sounds of people talking, the cliche carnival music and game sounds were definitely a sight to see.

The carnival also had small kiosks and shop stands. There was one doing face paints and another selling cheap jewelry. But there was one that caught your eye. It was definitely out of place for all of the bright and flashy colors of the carnival. It was illuminated with dark orange light and had a small sign that read, "Mrs. Hatches shop".

No one was there and from strictly looking at it, it looked like a witch shop. It was a bit odd for it to be here but you still went towards it. The strong smell of incense burners and herbs were very potent and made the little shop very eerie.

"Hello" you called out.

"Aah, a customer"! An old voice said. "Come in my dear".

"Who's there"? A shadow moved from the corner and as it stepped into the light, a very old lady with a wooden cane came forward. She was a bit shorter than you and her skin was very pale with veins appearing near the surface. Her gray hair was put up in a bun loosely with loose hairs being freed and she wore and black woven dress with what appeared to be an emerald ring. "I am" she said as gently as she could. "Who might you be"?

"Uhh... I'm (Y/n)".

The old woman quickly took your hand and examined it. "What are you doing"?

"Reading your palm".

"Ok, great" you said in a slight sarcastic tone, "But please don't touch me".

"Hold still now" she said like a mother scolding her child. "Hmmm... Oh yes, yes, yes! How wonderful"!

"What? What's so wonderful"?

"When I read people's palms, I can tell what their fortune is".

"What is it" you asked curiously.

"Come, I will show you"! She quickly went over to a table that became visible when she lit an old oil lamp. On the table was a glass sphere sitting on a marble stand. "Let me guess" you said sarcastically, "A crystal ball"?

"I know people believe that these are not accurate but I assure you my child, this is what it seems to be". She motioned for you to come sit and you hesitantly did. "What's your name, anyways" you asked.

"Glinda Hatches"! As soon as she said her name she rubbed the glass sphere and smoke appeared inside the sphere and was illuminated with white light. "Wow".

"Now, you may ask one question".

"Why only one"?

"The first question is free but any other questions will cost $5".

"What"?

"That'll be $5 since you already asked two questions-"

"Alright alright alright"! You sighed and you did have cash on you but you were gonna save that for some funnel cakes but after seeing this, you were still very curious. You couldn't think of anything. "Would you like some suggestions"?

"Sure".

"You can ask things such about your family, your past life, your soulmate, you can see things that you can't remember-"

"Wait" you said interrupting her. "Did you just say soulmate"?

Glinda grinned. "Would you like to see you soul mate"?

"Sure".

Glinda rubbed the glass sphere and you muttered, "This should be interesting". The light inside the sphere turned bright white and revealed an image of a man with a black hat, a short-hair moustache and goatee. His skin looked really pale but he looked like a very capable man. "Ooh, he's cute".

"Oh my" Glinda said, "I have never seen this before".

"Seen what"?

"Your soulmate is already dead" Glinda said in disbelief.

"How is that possible? That doesn't make sense". You looked back at the image of the man. "Who is he anyways"?

"His name is John Henry Holliday. As in Doc Holliday. He was a famous gunslinger and poker player".

"Ooh, I like him already! But how is he my soul mate if he's already dead"?

"I'm not sure. But hold on, I have something that may help you". Glinda stood up and rushed over to small chest rummaging around inside. While she was doing that, you took in the features of your supposed "soulmate". He looked very serious and you could see his eyes, he looked so tired. It looked as if his eyes had dark circles around them. He was truly interesting and you decided to Google more information about him but Glinda came back before you could and handed you a small stone.

"This will help you".

The stone was white with black blotches on it and was smoothed out with a silver frame around it. "How does this help me"?

"When used correctly, it will bring your soulmate to you".

"Uh-huh. Sure" you said sarcastically.

"Do you want it or not" Glinda asked.

"Well" you examined the stone and decided that it was good enough for a necklace at least. "Ok. I'll take it".

"Great"! Glinda gave you the stone and said, "That'll be 35$".

"WHAT!? Why"!?

"Remember what I said, 5$ per question". You knew you only had 20$ cash but the rest would be paid with a card. You were about to deny the purchase but you saw a literal crystal ball and had a feeling that everything she has shared with you was factual. "Do you accept credit and debit"?

"Yes, here". She pulled out a chip reader and charged you the exact amount but then had the nerve to push a glass jar near your hand that read "Tip Jar".

"Are you serious"?

"This is how I make my living" she said honestly.

"Tell you what" you said, "If this really does work, I'll come straight back here and give you a 100$ tip".

"Will you" she asked doubtfully.

"I will, I promise". You took your card back and left. That was all your cash and some of your money from your card but you decided to just go home. You were very confused. Going through the large crowd of people to get back to your car felt like an eternity. You would just go home and sleep instead. When you got into your car, you examined the stone more closely, it really was a nice stone and you think you could actually make a necklace out of it. You just put it in the pocket on the dashboard and drove home.

It didn't take long to get home and you were greeted by your dog, Gracie, a golden retriever. Happy to see you as always. You didn't even bother to change into your pajamas and fell onto your bed with Gracie quickly joining you and plugging your phone into your solar panel phone charger. It was odd to have that but your original charger was broken and this solar panel charger had back up power on it to still keep itself powered. You examined the stone on your bed under the dimmed light from the moon and just fell asleep with it in your grasp.

Not knowing, it would literally change your life...

[winterbirb]

My daydreaming can't be put on hold until late 2025 so here's some of my PL:ZA!AU

Characters

Juliette [Sycamore] - the head doctor of the Blue Cross (an × shape instead of +). Doesn't like pokemon because she's dealt with so many pokemon-related injuries. Not a fan of the city's renovation for how it's causing more pokemon-human injuries. Juliette (July) like Augustine (August). Xerneas. Prof Sycamore's curly hair pulled back into a bun; streaks of grey at her temples. Has her descendant's typical flair when talking about medical innovation.

Liliane [Fleur-de-lis] - Kalosian royalty, a descendant of the ancient king. The main financial backer of Lumiose City's huge renovation—and thus, also the protagonist. Liliane because... lilies, and I couldn't find a great lion name that wasn't trying too hard. Yveltal doesn't tie in as neatly. Maybe death of the old ways, in with the new? Long red hair like the female version of that lion pokemon I forgot the name of. Not wearing Lys's Yveltal gijinka suit.

Governor Désiré. Diantha's ancestor. The political force behind the renovation... and yes, this does follow the PL:A template, thabks for noticing. He's the "twist" villain, seeking to build a version of the Ultimate Weapon in Lumiose Plaza that's powered by none other than... *drumroll* Diancie! He wants to build a beautiful city and then turn it all, people and pokemon included, into Diancie's pink diamond so it's "beautiful forever." The Governor's Mansion has pink diamond statues which he refers to as his "beloved pokemon." Masc version of Diantha's face structure with the same base hair color, but styled in a perfect Politician's Cut with perfect streaks of grey at his temples... almost like he dyes his hair. Maybe he doesn't even leave grey streaks. Dresses in white suits with pink accents, a white ruffle collar with a pink diamond gem.

Emmet <3. He's in The Tunnels, for some reason. What tunnels? Well. IDK if catacombs would fit Pokemon (but it would certainly fit the life/death theme). If not actual catacombs, then some sort of ancient Diancie-created tunnel structure. He remembers more about the past/future than Ingo—same with my Serena vs Lucas. Why? Because it's my story, and I want them both to suffer in new ways. Emmet is seen as a strange ghost-like figure who haunts the tunnels, looking for his brother (how to find a way home).

Serena - originally from Unova, from the same town as Rosa (B2W2 protag), but a year younger than her. Moved after the Kyurem thing. Loves fashion, looks up to Elesa.

Mechanics

Serena (as the MC) needs to change clothes to fit in different parts of the city (like Looker doing disguise stuff; my Lucas has Looker's detective skills)

Zygarde is the "sponsor" this time, much like Arceus in PL:A. Some sort of Zygarde-tablet-thingy. But also Serena needs to do the Find Zygarde's Cells quest, because of course she does.

I don't really have any other mechanics. This section was just made to include the fashion thing.

Oops, I forgot about Mega Evolution. It's there, I guess.

I just remembered Hoopa. It helps Serena travel around the city and get into places she shouldn't be in. Why, when its chaos is the opposite of Zygarde's order? IDK, Governor Désiré probably pissed it off.

Other

It's Paris in the late 19th century. It's gross. It's overpopulated. Greedy capitalists abound, and so do the horrors of poverty. There's also an overconsuming Royal Class. She has to hold onto her ideals despite all the signs pointing to the "easy out" of Lysandre's hardcore-Malthusian philosophy. She succeeds with flying colors, because "kill all the poors and unworthy so humanity has enough to survive" is a terrible philosophy.

Might be redundant because Zygarde, but a major theme is ecology and ecosystems.

Emmet and Ingo both disappeared and came back in 2011; BW happens in 2010, B2W2 happens in 2012, XY happens in 2013, and Serena disappears a few years after 2013. Emmet remembers being in the past, and is very alarmed when a younger Serena becomes the Kalosian champion. Elesa, who is troubled by how much the twins have changed and how little she knows, eventually gets in contact with Serena. When? IDK. I just want them to meet up eventually.

Lysandre isn't dead in the present time. Even in Y, in-game dialogue implies he's still alive. There was plenty of time to drag him out of the Ultimate Weapon.

Perhaps Zygarde traveled through an Ultra Wormhole to bring Serena back and prevent Désiré's dumbassery... but got scattered into Z Cells. Or maybe Hoopa brought it to the present, but on the way back to the past it had to use an UW and got scattered. IDK, I'm just trying to figure out a way for post-games Lucas and Serena to meet in Alola (to harass Looker and give Nanu a headache ofc).

[mybones537]

Time chapter 2

Moriarty the Patriot x fem reader

I have posted this on Wattpad under the same username mybones 537

                  London, England 1875

Drip drip

There is a pounding in my head 

Drip drip 

I can feel the beating of my heart 

Drip drip 

My whole body hurts 

Drip drip 

I slowly open my eyes 

Drip drip 

I squint my eyes because of the light 

Drip drip 

I slowly sit up

Drip drip

I lift my hand to the back of my head 

Drip drip

I feel something wet and sticky

Drip drip 

I pull my hand away

Drip drip 

I see it’s covered in a crimson liquid 

Drip drip 

“Blood?”

Drip drip

I scan my surroundings 

Drip drip 

I’m in an old apartment, it’s giving 19th century (1800) style 

Drip drip 

What’s making that noise? 

Drip drip 

I stand up and close the tap 

“Finally”

I see my first aid kit and a duffel bag with my things in.

“What is going on?… How did I get here?… Where am I?”

“The body is in here sir”, I hear muffled voices on the other side of the door.

“Shit.” I put my bags on my back and move to the window.

I see I’m on the second story.

“Here goes nothing” I climb out the window and slid down the pipe on the side of the building 

“Hey! Where did the body go?”someone shouted from the building.

I ran away. As I’m running I take some clothes off a washing line and grab a pair of boots. I eventually get to a river and wash off the blood. I splash my face trying to clear my head.

“What the hell is happening? This place doesn’t look anything like Pietermaritzburg.”

I’m trying to make sense of everything that’s happening,

 Where am I?

I change out of my bloodied uniform and stuff it in my duffel bag.

Calm down, I breathe in and out trying to calm down 

It’s not working! 

I slap myself to get myself out of my panicking state 

Okay that’s better 

Let’s go and take a look around maybe I can find something to indicate where I am

I walk into the street and I see something shiny on the floor. I squat down to pick it up .

A shilling? Didn’t England stop using these in the 90s? 

There’s no way I would find one of these in South Africa, they stopped using these in the 60s.

 How would I even get to England? It’s a 10 hour flight at least.

When was this coin made?

I turn the shilling over

1871!

How is that even possible?

You know what. I need more evidence, I doubt I could have travelled back in time. It’s scientifically impossible.

I get up and walk into the street . The buildings are old fashioned, the people are wearing suits and dresses 

Okay this is getting ridiculous. 

Why is everyone wearing old fashioned clothes?

“Newspapers! Come get the latest news! Freshly printed today! Only one shilling to get the latest news today!”

I walk to the paper boy and give him a shilling 

“Thank you ma’am. Have a good day “ he gives me the newspaper.

“You too” 

I leaned on the wall of a nearby building and took a look at the newspaper 

5 June 1875

What?

How … is that even possible?

Did I really travel back in time?

But how? 

The last thing I remember, I was on my way to a heart attack victim in Victoria street…

Then we were on the bridge but what happened after that?

How did I end up in the 18 hundreds? In England?

How did I travel to another continent and back in time?

I… I… I don’t know what to do 

How… how 

“Ahhhh! Someone help! Call a doctor!”

I run to where the scream came from and see a crowd around a man on the ground.

“I’m a doctor” I say and the crowd lets me through.

“What seems to be the problem sir?” I ask as I put my bags on the ground.

“You're a woman? How could you possibly be a doctor?” The man on the ground says.

“Yes I am. I don’t see what my gender has anything to do with it.” I say, l now sir if you want help I suggest you stop worrying about my gender and more about what is wrong. Now what is the matter sir?”

“He was fine a moment ago and then he suddenly stopped walking, turned pale and fell,” the woman next to him tells me as she takes his hand in hers.

“My chest… hurts and my shoulder is… painful” he says as battles to breathe.

I put my hand on his forehead, I noticed he has a cold sweat.

“Sir, can you describe the pain in your chest please?”

“It almost feels full but it is very tight and my heart is racing” he says. I take out my stethoscope and check his heart rate, he is right, his heart is beating at an unbelievable speed. I take out an aspirin.

“Sir I need you to chew on this and then focus on your breathing”

“What is that?” He asks slightly sceptical of the tablet.

“It’s an aspirin, it will help calm your heart down”

He chews on it as I take out the defibrillator.

“What is that contraption?’’ l his wife asks.

“It’s a defibrillator for in case his heart stops but I doubt it will”

 I say as his heart stops, “never mind”

I begin to perform CPR to keep the blood flowing as I wait for the defibrillator to charge up.

“What are you doing?” The wife asks as tears form in her eyes.

“I’m trying to keep his blood flowing” I answer as I push down on his chest, “ma’am I’m going to need you to let go of him please”

“Why is he dead!” She shouts as tears flow down her cheeks, her makeup smudging.

“I’m going to shock his heart back into rhythm” I say in a monotone voice, “when I say clear, I need you to not be touching him at all”

The defibrillator beeps saying it’s charged up. I stop performing CPR and pick up the defibrillator pads and rub them together 

“1…2..3… clear’’ the shock doesn’t work.

“1…2…3… clear’’ the shock goes through, ‘’ come on work!’’

“1..2…3…clear’’ the electricity goes to his heart, he jolts awake breathing heavily.

“Thank you!’’ The woman shouts and hugs me. I freeze from the hug, I’m not used to physical contact.

“You saved my life. Thank you” he says. There is a flash of a camera and a reporter with a pen and notepad.

“What's your name miss?” the reporter asks as he gets his pen ready.

“Dr (name) (middle name) (last name)” I say. As I look up a camera flashes taking a picture of me. I see a street sign saying Victoria street.

Looks like I got to the heart attack victim after all.

[thenihilistofthevoid]

"Just let me get this straight. A thing that looks like a police box, standing in a junkyard, it can move anywhere in time and space?" "Yes." "Quite so." "But that's ridiculous." "Why won't they believe us?" "How can we?" "Now, now, don't get exasperated, Susan. Remember the Red Indian. When he saw the first steam train, his savage mind thought it an illusion, too." "You're treating us like children." "Am I? The children of my civilisation would be insulted." "Your civilisation?" "Yes, my civilisation. I tolerate this century, but I don't enjoy it. Have you ever thought what it's like to be wanderers in the fourth dimension? Have you? To be exiles? Susan and I are cut off from our own planet, without friends or protection. But one day we shall get back. Yes, one day. One day."

RIP William Russell 19th November 1924 - 3rd June 2024 Most well known to by me and many others as one of the Doctor's original companions in Doctor Who as Ian Chesterton. 99 years old is a grand old age and I'm so glad we got him back in Power of the Doctor. This appearance earned a Guinness World Record: “The longest gap between TV appearances is 57 years 120 days, and was achieved by William Russell (UK) as the Doctor Who character Ian Chesterton in The Power of the Doctor episode, which aired on 23rd October 2022.

[1800duckhotline]

chelsea: lemon, pretzel, fallen leaf | julia: ice cream, carrot, donut ^_^

Emoji themed OC Questions

For Chelsea

🍋 [LEMON] What is their kryptonite/ultimate weakness?

In a practical and physical sense, not drinking enough blood is basically a death sentence for Chelsea as she is in fact affected by vampirism! An acute and particularly odd variant of it, but vampirism nonetheless. She has all the hunger and risks of weaknesses that come with the standard fare, but her bites are actually not infectious as they normally should be. Still, she requires even more blood than the average person affected by vampirism, so if the P.A.U. were to run out on their supplies of it, she'd be in great danger. Her case requires constant blood transfusions, as draining people once in a while is not enough to sustain her lifestyle. Yes, 5 liters of blood is insufficient for her.

On an emotional and psychological level, she's a person who deflects a lot of her misery and angst by joking - her talent is being a nagger who never takes anything seriously. So, emotional honesty and openness with others is a giant weakness of hers. Unfortunately, she's only willing to be sincere with Juliya. Unfortunately, Juliya also has issues with being open about feelings and emotions. Unfortunately, once again, Chelsea's job as an assassin doesn't give her much time to linger on things like this.

🥨 [PRETZEL] How complicated is your OC's backstory? Who does it entwine with?

I would say it isn't overtly complex but it's hard to explain, because the lore Mondoverse is built on is kind of weird to go through with each step. I'm still reworking Chelsea's concept specifically as her being a "special" kind of anomalous vampire has always been a thing for her character, but with the way I edited my lore I'm trying to figure out a better way to make it work.

I can say though it entwines with my OCs Acacia and Helen MacLeod, who if you've seen on my Toyhouse, very clearly are from the late 19th century, many decades before Chelsea is even born (she lives in the late 2000s), so...

🍃 [FALLEN LEAF] What's the darkest period of time your OC has been through?

It's hard to say. Chelsea's life has been dark for as far as she can remember. She laughs it off as an adult but there's ittle light to be seen at the end of the tunnel for her, as she can only reminisce of times where she was employed as a young mercenary in an illegal group (alongside Juliya) and being there for years before eventually going rogue and escaping after the incident that left most of her body permanently burned.

It doesn't help that the group itself (the name I had given it was The Queen's Diamonds, it might be subject to change) and their boss (who acted as Chelsea's mother at the time) were aware of her vampirism condition and often threatened to turn that sickness into a deadly sentence for her if she ever so thought of running away. They basically used her as an attack dog most of the time.

Anyway, she escaped and survived, in spite of it all, and to spite them especially, so she considers it a win. Still, her partnership with the P.A.U. doesn't automatically mean she will not have any of her old 'partners' on her tail trying to steal her back...

For Juliya

🍨 [ICE CREAM] How does your OC compose themselves in stressful situations?

As a surgeon and doctor with a career long almost a decade now, Juliya has become an expert in handling stressful situations as her job itself deems such a skill a necessity. She's perfectly equipped to deal with circumstances in which someone might risk death: usually a deep breath and a good amount of caffeine in her body helps her get through it. Even when she isn't able to save someone, she is comforted by the thought she still did her damned best and that the worse case scenario sometimes is truly inevitable.

She's however completely inept at handling stressful situations that involve emotional and psychological stress, circumstances where the danger and source of distress aren't palpable and she can't put her hands on them to fix them.

She's just not good with Feelings in the slightest.

🥕 [CARROT] How tough is your OC against certain situations? How weak are they against others?

If you look at her you might get the feeling that fighting her will result in your ass getting beaten for good and you'd be right. She trains literally whenever she has a free moment in her schedule; Juliya is all about keeping that muscle mass strong and tough. She's survived many a vicious fistfights and having been involved in the same group Chelsea used to be in when younger, she also learned a good deal when it comes to firearms and melee weapons. As well as acquired knowledge as a combat medic.

Basically don't pick a fight with her because you will not be able to win. Her strenght seems also to near levels that shouldn't be possible for a regular human to achieve; some might speculate she takes steroids, or some other kind of drug, but who knows. It's 98% pure dedication.

🍩 [DONUT] What is your OC's biggest flaw? How do they deal with it? Do they deal with it?

Emotional Constipation and absolutely Not. She hasn't dealt with it AT ALL in years and who knows if she ever will! I have never determined specifically Juliya's origin (family, how it was like, her childhood) and I will eventually but what I know is that she struggles really bad whenever it comes to matters that require emotional sensibility and opening up to others [you might start gauging why she and Chelsea are so perfect but bad for each other].

She makes up for it by being a hardass with little to no humor in her body, a façade she built up as she got older in hopes it'll help her feel less affected by the emotional intricacies of life and interpersonal relationships. It mostly works because a lot of people are deterred by her rough exterior, and it's convenient to have because while she is a formal surgeon with no ties to illegal activities, technically, she also works as an informant for the P.A.U. and often hands cases to assassins in the area (as instructed by the higher ups of the Union).

The only one who can get through that brick wall of an attitude is Chelsea but it's ✨complicated✨

[gogandmagog]

thus further confirming my opinion of you as the person with the Most Correct TM Montgomery opinions, I saw your ff.net bio that the superior AoGG tv show is the PBS one and that you have everlasting beef with Kevin Sullivan---SAME. When he nails it, he really nails it (I think all of his stories have more charm than any of the new shows) but also some of the choices he made...sir....I simultaneously want to shake that man's hand and also make him answer for his crimes. On that note, if you could have a faithful adaptation of any of other Anne books like the PBS show, which would you choose? (we don't talk about the continuing story in this household)

Are you me????

KEVIN SULLIVAN is basically a full-on level-nine cuss word in this household. And I’m pretty sure it’s a cuss in Megan Follows’ household too. If Kevin Sullivan has a million haters, I’m one of them. If he has 1,000 haters, I’m still one of them. If he has 1 hater, it’s me. If he has 0 haters, it’s because I’m dead. ‘An iron has entered my heart.’ You surely never asked, but you have to let me tell you... when I say it’s on sight with this man!

Certainly, the first mini-series he did was a film masterpiece! Casting was on point (I used to google ‘Jonathan Crombie wife’ when I was eight, and get this rush of relief when it said he was unmarried and just be all like YES HE’S STILL SINGLE, and be all YEAH BUDDY I know why too, it’s so obviously because he hasn’t met me yet! Haaaa, fast forward to growing up, and catching on to all the musical theatre and then being like oooooh), the scenery was so lush and gorgeous, and there was hardly a single line that strayed from the books. 10/10, chef’s kiss, all the heart eye emojis imaginable.

The Sequel? Like... okay, we’re sliding downward, because we’re missing out on some wonderful, imaginative, sometimes hilarious Montgomery characters. Ginger the Parrot, Mr. Harrison overall, the AVIS, Paul Irving and Miss Lavendar. Charlotta the Fourth. We miss out on Phil Gordon, and Stella, and Pris! And maybe worse, now Gilbert is given actual Theodore Laurence lines. Literally word for word from the original Little Women film (Sullivan didn’t even try to change it), same proposal, and I could almost stomach it if I hadn’t been a book reader, knowing that the real, shining, sweet Gilbert only met with rejection with grace and kindness, instead of a cold “I hope he breaks your heart.” Those suit Laurie just fine, because Little Women readers know that Laurie is a spoilt trust-fund baby with some super not-cute anger issues (issues totally downplayed in every production, to make him more likeable). And the cherry on TOP, man, was this absent-father (tbh, it’s giving weird 19th century sugar daddy), one old enough to be Anne’s own father, being cast as a Roy Gardner replacement. But in the end, we get some beauty, too. I loved seeing John Blythe and Marilla’s interactions, I loved how Rollings Reliable was done, and even the matter of Dolly the jersey-cow, even I loved that Anne went to Gilbert in the height of his illness. So I could forgive much, on account of that! 8 out of 10.

UNTIL two things happened

First, of course, is the Continuing Story. I have never been so affronted by a movie in my liiiiife, lol. Total L. It quite sincerely achieved something that I did not think was possible in that it made me not like Anne. Utter character assassination. (I realize that by this point, LMM’s family was disinterested in working with Sullivan after the mess he made of the Sequel. Which was fair, for them. I get that, and support that for them.) Jack was a goofy, philandering dudebro, and his whole ‘international spy’ arch was so contrived and cheesy. It fell so flat. And the sheer notion that Sullivan sat there and thought, “Yeah, Anne could fall for this guy” is laughable, betraying instantly that he doesn’t understand her as a character. BUT OH WAIT, we can’t forget that Anne, whose kind doctor husband is out there risking his life while saving the lives of others in the middle of a world war... ACTUALLY engages in an emotional affair with this man. She slapped him when he published their book without her name. But what does Jack get, when he says, “Your husband is probably, most likely dead... but on the flip side, now WE can be together”? NOTHING. Anne hugs him. Pfft. PFFFFT. BE SO FASTIDIOUSLY FOR REAL. I get so mad when I think about it, lol. The whole movie just screams “male gaze” to me, because Kevin Sullivan is so incapable of seeing and realizing or transmuting the Montgomery magic. Best part of the whole thing was when Jack was shot. I felt nothing. I give this whole production .5 stars, because we did get a couple cute deleted scenes, lol.

The second thing that happened that took back all my Sullivan forgiveness was watching lengthy and/or recent (within the last five years) Megan Follows interviews. I learned so much! She doesn’t speak to Sullivan anymore, but she mentions the Continuing Story often enough, and that she had to fight Sullivan, because he wanted Anne to kiss Jack. THANK GOD she was successful. Megan’s also noted for saying that the reason the first series was such a success was because Sullivan had ‘help’ and basically nothing to do with the script. (Bonus reason to despise this man, in case we needed more: Megan mentioned that they filmed three separate endings to the first series, because Sullivan wanted Anne to hit Gilbert for giving up the Avonlea school for her. I… I can’t.) When Sullivan was approached about making a sequel, he said he read all the remaining books and thought, keep in mind this is REAL quote, “Gee, no thanks!” He goes further and says that the thought basically they were dull, and that he wanted to do his own version. Could you be more short sighted??? Again, to me, this just proves that this man places no value on quiet, lovely, non-noisy (if that makes sense) stories that are centered in the home, and around women. I think it’s that same interview where we learn also that Kevin based Morgan Harris on his own father, who was something like apparently 25 to 30 years senior to Sullivan’s mother. And that? Was the sound of my last Sullivan-tolerant--nerve breaking into a million pieces, lol. HOW DARE YOUUUU, Sir.

I AM SO SORRY THIS IS LONG. 😭

All this to say, lol, that Kevin Sullivan does not deserve your hand shake! You are too wonderful, and thoughtful, and so insightful, and that man doesn’t get up to your ankle! He deserves no less than a life sentence in literary jail.

BUT BUT BUT, to answer the question… I struggle. I would be happy with any, to be fully honest. But if I got to pick, and they said “you can only have one” I’d be flipping a three-sided coin between Anne of the Island, House of Dreams, and Rilla. 🥺 We could skip Windy Poplars easily (sorry Rebecca Dew, and Katherine-with-a-K), even though if I won the lottery, I’d personally pay for start-to-finish-by-the-book production. HOW ABOUT YOU?

[mothereliza]

The Audacity of our Hope

Preached on Jan 15, 2023

Christ - The Light that Leads

Reading from: John 1:29-42;

Summary:  Sometimes, we can play a role in identifying and supporting the spark of godliness in another person, urging them to find their identity by nudging them, and God will do the rest.

    The gospel story today takes us to the beginning of Jesus' ministry. John the Baptist is talking to a crowd; he sees Jesus approaching and points Jesus out as "the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!" If you have studied these verses, you will stop and rewind that thinking because, if I recall, the mothers of John and Jesus are relatives, so they must have known each other before the baptism. This tells me John was playing his role as the 'forerunner.' He identifies Jesus and testifies to his divinity. He says in vs. 31…." For this reason, I came baptizing with water so that the Messiah might be revealed to Israel."

    Here's where this text speaks to us: Many of us can play a role like John's in identifying and supporting the spark of godliness in another person, urging them on to find their identity in terms of nudging them, as you would an artist, a musician or even a preacher. God takes control and nourishes the person's gift.

          Listen to this:  ….there was a young man who seemed destined for a solid, middle-class career. He had gone to the right schools; he gained excellent academic skills. Everyone expected that he would honor his grandfather's distinguished precedent. Not only that - he had also earned a doctorate at a prestigious university. The fact seemed to have been set in stone that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. would climb into the pulpit of a comfortable church and preach the gospel. So, when Dexter Avenue Baptist Church called, Martin was ready, and Pastor and people thought all would be well for a long time to come.

      But one day, everything changed. Mrs. Rosa Parks, whose feet were tired, refused to give up her seat on the bus just because a white person wanted it. Her arrest gave birth to a movement that needed a leader. Pastor King, Jr. was not looking for another task, but his colleagues saw something unique in him and urged him to lead the boycott. Martin followed his baptismal covenant – to strive for justice and peace among all people and respect the dignity of every human being. Surrounded by people moved by the same Spirit, he kept on knowing he was in danger. Isn't it true that, in the company of others with a like spirit, we become more spirit-filled and are empowered to glow and illuminate one another? That's called "CHURCH." Church encompasses those who have developed a diet for a common goal. Little did the church at Dexter Avenue know that Martin was more than they presumed. He was a forerunner! Here's a piece of history.

      Up in Concord, New Hampshire, a row of lovely old homes lined up in a ridge. In each home's backyard, there's a storage to store perishables. In the 19th Century, enslaved people who escaped the brutal system headed northward en route to Canada via what was known as the Underground Railroad. Concord became a key station. You see, the townspeople along that ridge connected their little storage cavities so that the escaped could find their way from one hole to another and ultimately to the exit leading to safety. The reporter filming the story put his light into one such spot and said, "Wouldn't the escaped slaves have been afraid to go down there?" The town historian had an answer: "Oh, yes, but they did not go alone. There was always a Conductor with a torch. He always went ahead with the light." Isn't it a good metaphor for John the Baptist as the Conductor? I can't help but apply that metaphor to Dr. King, who was a torch bearer in the dark years of the 1960s. The churchmen of Montgomery trusted Dr. King with the torch. He took it and led the oppressed through the dark tunnels of racial and civil injustice, hoping to come to freedom. His life was in danger, but he kept on; because he believed that though a man may die, the truth lives on. That is what we have before us, dear friends - to stand for the truth. This is the audacity of our hope.

       What is particularly touching to me about the gospel is Jesus's invitation to his new followers to "come and see." That invitation extends to us. But to see, we need the Light of Christ before us, and that's the only way we may shine and brighten the world around us. Amen!

The Collect  -  January 15, 2023 Almighty God, whose Son our Savior Jesus Christ is the light of the world: Grant that your people, illumined by your Word and Sacraments, may shine with the radiance of Christ's glory, that Christ may be known, worshipped, and obeyed to the ends of the earth; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who with you and the Holy Spirit lives and reigns, one God, now and forever. Amen.

[105nt]

Start the Week - Emma Donoghue

My thousandth post. I’ve got to get a life!

There’s a great interview with Emma Donoghue by Adam Rutherford in Start the Week this week. I liked it so much I started making a transcript of the main bits relating to The Wonder. I’ll post it in stages - this is the first of four. All typos and errors are mine.

About the fasting girl phenomenon:

AR: Emma, could you explain what a fasting girl is?

ED: Sure, it was a rare but oddly repeating phenomenon. You get them from about the sixteenth century right through to the twentieth, some of them explicitly religious - Catholic or Protestant, some apparently secular. But every now and then a girl or young woman would have it said of her - she would hit the headlines - for apparently being able to live without food. So it's a recurrent cultural fantasy, and the one in my novel and then film The Wonder is a fictional one set in Ireland after The Famine, because I thought that was a context that I was very familiar with and gave a very interesting political context to the story of one particular eleven year old refusing food. So, you know, it's going to remind people nowadays immediately of eating disorders and that, from the 1870's, was an interpretation that was offered, but equally many other interpretations were offered of these cases.

One thing that I found so interesting about them was that these girls were kind of like blank pages on which everyone projected their theories. The doctor in the film - played by Toby Jones - he's got these wacky interpretations about maybe she's living off magnetism or smell or maybe she's a reptilian constitution, and these are all plucked from the newspapers of the 19th century. I didn't have to make any of them up.

AR: Oh, that's fascinating to hear, because there is - again approaching as a scientist - there is a very funny moment where he suggests that she may be sustaining herself through photosynthesis and I did actually laugh out loud at that moment. You ... mention the media - you've mentioned the unholy alliance between the medical and media establishments: this is 19th century rural Ireland and yet part of the set up for the story is a writer from The Telegraph going out there to tell this story, but he's very sceptical, isn't he?

ED: Yes, indeed. To me it was crucial to blame everyone, you know, to blame the medical establishment, blame the media and blame all the other forms of power. In one of the cases that inspired me, Sarah Jacob in Wales, the newspapers actually funded this official watch, to high medical standards, meaning that the child was unable to get away with the trick she'd been using. So the girl in that case starved to death while everybody was watching. So I think - as with every scientist who's aware that by setting up the  experiment they may be affecting the behaviour of the mice, I'm sure all of us are aware that what we choose to write about and how we choose to study it, has an effect on the thing we study as well - our hands are not clean.

AR: That's exactly right - the observer effect is a huge phenomenon in science ...

[thespineanditstingle]

Tarrare, the real-life guy who probably inspired Renfield in Dracula

So. Stick with me here. I promise this one's worth it.

Tarrare was a "mangeur incomparable" (incomparable...eater) who lived in 18th-century France. By the time he was a teenager, he could eat a quarter of a cow (that amount of meat woud have weighed as much as he did) by himself in a single day. His family couldn't afford to feed him so he found himself out on his own by the time he was seventeen.

He subsists as a showman, swallowing flints, corks, and big-ass baskets of apples for money. At some point, he enlists to fight in the War of the First Coalition. This is where the records get more detailed, since the army doctors pretty quickly realize that he's something...special.

Due to his insatiable appetite, he is allocated fourfold rations. But still, he eats leftovers. He eats garbage. He eats sneks and dogs. And yes, he eats cats:

If that rings a bell, it's because Renfield begs for a cat to eat in Dr. Seward's July 19th diary entry:

Later, we see that Renfield has

"...eaten his birds, and that he just took and ate them raw!”

and, like Tarrare threw up all the cat fur, Renfield disgorges

"...a whole lot of feathers."

Tarrare later has a very unsuccessful stint as a spy. As a test run, he's asked/made to swallow a wooden box with an unimportant message in it and was supposed to pass it on (hehe) after crossing Prussian lines. Speaking no German at all, he's immediately caught, and lightly tortured and humiliated before being sent back to the French.

Tarrare, chastened by this adventure, volunteers for more medical experiments in exchange for not being sent to actually do war stuf again. One of the things his doctors give him for appetite suppression is

And what does Seward give Renfield after the bird incident?

Hrm.

Anyway, during Tarrare's time at the hospital, he wreaks complete fucking havoc. He drinks the blood of patients who are undergoing bloodletting. Renfield does a bit of this later too.

Oh, and Tarrare is caught eating corpses in the hospital morgue.

If you've noticed that last bit about the 14 month-old enfant....well, here's the full bit.

"A fourteen month-old child suddenly disappeared, and terrible suspicions are raised against him."

Tarrare dies of tuberculosis just four years after being kicked out of the hospital (and the army). Renfield...well, he comes to a real pain the neck. Just a heads-up.

[hamletteprinceofdenmark]

girllll you are NOT mansplaining an ableist character from a 100 year old novel 💀💀💀

You’re right nonny. I’m not. Good job on picking that up!

Firstly, I’m not “mansplaining” anything. Mansplaining is a word, in my opinion, that has become far too overused and the definition - which actually identified something really specific and important to call out! - has become far too muddied. Mansplaining is specifically when a man is speaking with someone else who is not a man and due to unexamined privilege and lack of self awareness, explains something to the other party in a way that is condescending or patronising without taking into account that the other party might be just as, if not more, educated on the subject than he is.

Stating your opinion, or presenting an argument clearly and explicitly, is not mansplaining. Especially not in an open forum like Tumblr. I will however admit to being pedantic, someone who likes to explain things, and - when the mood strikes - someone who can be condescending and a little snarky.

Secondly, and this is a nuanced take nonny so take care, Seward is not ableist by the standards of his time. I’m not about to argue that Victorian Asylum’s were good places. They weren’t. They were awful institutions that inflicted countless harms on people for years. But in a time and place where it was accepted and encouraged to starve, beat, waterboard, isolate, and otherwise torture patients in order to “heal” them, the fact the Seward’s standard practise is to carry out what we would recognise today as akin to a modern therapy session, i.e. asking questions, actively listening to the patient, considering them an equal, and basing treatment off the information gained in said session, his code of conduct is nigh revolutionary in it’s level of compassion and understanding.

In fact, ironically, contemporary audiences may have been put off by Seward for the exact opposite reason, because his actions and how he treats his patients would be considered too kindly and coddling, almost to the point of folly. There are times further on in the novel where Seward’s insistence on treating Renfield fairly and equally puts himself and his friends in real danger.

This is not to say that Seward is all primroses and rainbows. Again, as the book goes on we are going to see him struggle back and forth between the views on the mentally ill held by the English society he lives in (views that today, yes we would consider ableist) and what he has been taught by his mentor Van Helsing, a foreign and forward-thinking, open minded doctor with a key interest in the strange and the occult. Seward is not a perfect man. He’s not meant to be. None of the protagonists are.

This book deals explicitly with themes centred around the British Empire, and specifically the fear that the British Empire was under threat from dangerous and insidious foreign forces. Some of the primary avenues this larger theme is explored by is queerness, xenophobia, class, gender, and mental health. We’re going to get into some messy and heavy territory, and Seward and the rest of the Crew of Light are going to be doing a lot worse than carrying out a less than stellar therapy session (which I repeat, Seward acknowledged, regretted, and aimed to resolve in the future, hardly the acts of a careless doctor).

If you’re going to stumble at the first hurdle of understanding that this book was written in the 19th Century and therefore has some problematic and outdated ideas in it, I’m not sure Classical Literature is for you. This isn’t the latest bestseller being pushed at you by a marketing team, this is an old book, and judging it or reading it without taking that context into consideration is going to be, quite frankly, a difficult and miserable task.

There’s so much to get angry about in the world nonny, please don’t let your cause be cancelling long dead authors for writing characters that would actually have been considered progressive by contemporary audiences.

I’m an academic. I’m an Adult with a Degree. I have actually studied this book in particular twice in different units and under different teachers. I’ve also studied Victorian Gothic Literature as a genre in depth. This is the way I approach the novel, with that background. All of the metas that I’ve written so far for Dracula Daily have been in response to various confused or misled people I’ve seen in the tags. It’s actually been a really joy for me to be able to share this knowledge and find people who are equally excited to share and to learn.

And despite it all nonny, you’re welcome here too. That title isn’t just talk, all travellers are welcome here. But it’s my blog. It’s my house. You play by my rules.

You’re free to do whatever you want. Block me for all I care. Engage with Dracula however you like, it’s no skin off my nose. But next time you come into my house, check your attitude at the door.

We’re here to learn and analysis the text, not to cast blind and ignorant judgement.

I hope to see you around, but if not, happy travels! I wish you well.

[jackrrabbit]

Adversary /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You make a deal with the devil to save your life, but it turns out Overhaul’s not interested in your soul.

A/N: Remember when I said I was going to do a fantasy collab and then dipped for like 9 months? Hahaha…anyway…

@pleasantanathema @ present-mel @shadowworks—if it’s not too late, here’s my part for the Pleasant & Strider Fantasy AU Writing Collab from a million years ago. Go check out the masterlist and gorge yourself on these amazing pieces!!

Tags/Warnings: dubcon, demon fuckery & occult things, big heresy/sacrilege/perversion of religion, sex in a church ft. Catholic sex guilt, other than that it’s not that bad lol, inexperienced reader, mild degradation, shameless camp and demon-fucking clichés, Overhaul calls you “little girl” 👉👈

He doesn’t look like a demon.

Not that you really know what demons are supposed to look like. But…red skin, right? Fangs and claws and swirling masses of bad energy. Maybe cloven hooves for feet. Yes, that’s the Disney version—but even if you didn’t expect a cartoon personification of evil, you didn’t expect this.

He looks like a doctor, you think. Lab coat hanging open, surgery mask pushed down under his jaw, stethoscope draped over his shoulders. No, he’s a little young to really look like a doctor…an intern, you amend, shifting back in your hospital bed. He looks like he fits right in here, not a hair out of place. Except for, you know, the polished black horns curling out of the sides of his skull.

Overhaul. It was written in the book. That’s the only thing you have to call him in your head.

He’s standing in the center of the sigil you drew at the foot of your bed before midnight, surveying the room critically without meeting your gaze. He looks annoyed—that’s not a good sign, is it?—but then again, of course he’s annoyed. You’d be annoyed too if you got summoned out of your cozy hell dimension in the middle of the night. According to the book, you’re lucky he even showed up…although ‘lucky’ isn’t really how you’d describe yourself most days.

“So,” Overhaul says after a long moment of silence in which you question every choice you’ve made in your relatively short life. “You’re dying.”

You nod.

“And you don’t want to be.”

You nod again, wondering if you’re supposed to be contributing more to this conversation. It’s a bit difficult when your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve been eating dirt, but you suppose being in the presence of an unholy servant of Satan will do that to a person.

“Fine.” He sighs, frowns, and then finally lowers his gaze onto yours—and you shiver.

Those eyes. No human has eyes like that.

“Make me an offer,” Overhaul tells you, and through his open mouth you catch a flash of sharp white teeth.

Okay. Okay. The chirping of the heart monitor speeds up (as if it weren’t obvious enough that you’re terrified) and you fold your knees up to your chest and fidget with your ring and think. He’s giving you a chance to establish parameters. You’re supposed to start with his end of the deal, the thing you want from him. That’s what it said to do in the grimoire, aka the 19th century demonology volume your creepy cousin brought back from her pagan anthropology research trip in rural France. The one you keep hidden under your bed because your mother would burn it if she knew you were reading about summoning demons.

Offer nothing to a hell creature without first telling him your price. You know the words by heart, both the winding calligraphy of the original French from the grimoire and the rushed scrawl of the English translation your cousin left for you in sheets of lined paper layered between the pages of the book for you to read. Really, this is her fault. She was the one who slipped you the book, who told you that it worked, who snuck you the ingredients for the summoning. She was the one who left a bookmark at the chapter on this particular demon, one that specializes in ‘Contrat pour Remédier au Déséquilibre des Quatre Humeurs’, which she said meant a contract to cure any illness. Even his ‘name’ is translated in her hand, practically an afterthought in the margins of the page.

‘Le Malin qui Ravage et Rebâtit’— Overhaul?

You looked up the literal meaning of this phrase on your own. It did not reassure you.

“Girl.” His voice is cold, irate. Your eyes snap back up to his and it feels like that burning gaze is laser-beaming into your skull. “Do not test me. My time is limited…as is yours.”

You swallow. “How long do I have left?”

“Less than a single human year,” he tells you without a trace of sympathy. “Seven months, twelve days, three hours. Or so. You’ll be too exhausted to leave this bed in four months, and the pain will become intolerable in six… By the end, you’ll wish—“

“Stop,” you breathe out. The heart monitor is beeping wildly and you squeeze your knees into your chest, trying to calm down your breathing. “Stop, I—I want to live.”

“Of course you do.” Overhaul’s lip curls. “How very predictable.”

Be specific, you remind yourself, doing your best to ignore the stifling disapproval from the man—the demon—in front of you. Something about him (maybe how clean-cut he looks, maybe the indisputable authority in his demeanor) makes you want to impress him. But you didn’t turn your back on your religion—you didn’t draw pagan symbols on the floor in chalk, fill silver cups with various questionable substances (including your own virgin blood), and turn the crucifix your mother hung over your bed upside-down so you could let a demon make you feel guilty for wanting to survive. “I want to be cured. I’m okay with whatever natural death I have instead when I’m older, I just don’t want to die of this illness. I want you to make me healthy.”

“Simple enough. What else?”

‘Simple’? Your heart surges with something you’ve felt very little of since your initial diagnosis—hope. “T-That’s it. Just the cure.”

Overhaul glares at you. “Humans… Every vice in the world available to you, and you limit yourselves to the basest priority of survival.”

“But you can do it? You can cure me?” you persist.

Overhaul steps forward (quiet, so quiet you wonder if he really moved) and holds a hand out to you past the foot of your bed—you hesitate, and a second later you can see the muscles in his hand flex, stretching the latex of his plastic gloves tight over his knuckles.

Just do it. You give him your hand. Carefully. Like you’re scared the contact will burn you. It doesn’t (although his skin feels warmer than yours), but after a moment his grip tightens, sliding down past your hand to circle the fragile bones of your wrist and squeeze.

“Ow?” You wince.

The demon’s eyes flicker closed for a second, lips moving silently like he’s talking to himself—and then he drops your hand unceremoniously back onto your lap. “You could be cured before the sun rises this morning. I doubt your stay in the hospital will extend past the end of the week.”

He sounds bored, voice as flat and passionless as it was earlier, but your heart is soaring. Cured. You’ve lived with this illness for so many years, you can’t remember the last time someone told you you could be cured. And getting out of the hospital that soon? You can just imagine taking down all the decorations from the walls of your room here and setting them up in your old bedroom at home. You could see friends on the weekend and not take an oxygen bag, you could get a job or—or apply to college, you could have a life—

“That is…assuming you have something to offer me in exchange for the cure.”

Your stomach drops. You’d almost forgotten about the other half of the deal.

“Don’t tell me I came all this way for nothing.” Overhaul steps back, and the orange light of the candles you set sends strange shadows over his arrogant face. The fires look brighter now, and you find yourself tracing the lines of those shining black horns. In an odd way, they look natural—so organically framing his temples that you can’t imagine him without them.

“N-No, of course not. I have some money—I mean, my mom has some, and I can get it for you…” Which is half the truth. If you know anything, it’s that your mother’s spent most of her savings on your treatment and care. You probably have more debt than you have money in the bank right now—you’d try to get rid of that, too, if you hadn’t read in the book how important it is to keep your request as simple and straightforward as possible.

…Although it’s apparently not enough. Overhaul’s eyes narrow, molten gold irises carved into slits. “Even if I had a use for human money, do you really believe your life is worth so little?”

“No—no,” you say quickly. “I just thought—in case you were interested—”

The air crackles with energy, the candle flames spark bright blood-red, and the hair on your arms stands straight up. “I am not.”

“Okay! I get it.” You wave your hands back and forth, pulling your IV line from side to side with the motion. The book was very clear about staying calm and rational while you work out the terms of the deal, but that’s easier said than done when you have a real live (live?) hell creature in front of you. You always knew this was going to be the hard part—all the stories say there’s only one thing that a demon would be interested in, and no matter how inviting the prospect of living past this illness is, you know you’d rather die than sell your immortal soul to the devil. “I’ll give you anything except my soul! And—and don’t hurt anyone I care about, or— just don’t hurt anyone, okay? Other than that, if there’s anything I can give you, I will.”

Overhaul’s lip curls, baring a thin strip of those unnaturally sharp canines. “And is your soul really so valuable?”

This throws you for a loop. Isn’t that the standard deal? A soul for a wish? That’s how it’s supposed to work—at least in this twisted version of reality where you can summon a demon to perform unholy miracles for you. But if you think about it, it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why would your soul be valuable to him? You can’t form an argument, especially since you’re not willing to barter it away in the first place.

Your mouth is pursed open as you search for a response, but Overhaul doesn’t seem willing to wait. A gloved hand wraps its way around the railing at the side of your bed, and he leans in closer. “Little girl…what makes you think you possess anything I desire?”

Little girl. You’re not a little girl, you’re a grown woman—and yet there’s no untruth in the statement. In front of him you feel insignificant, immature, weak. You have nothing real to offer, and something tells you that you’re not going to get rid of the demon you summoned without a sacrifice you’re not willing to make.

You twist your ring around your finger—the nervous habit you haven’t bothered to break because you’ve always had more important things to worry about—and the glint of silver in the candlelight must catch Overhaul’s eye because before you even notice him moving, your delicate hand is trapped in his larger one to give him a better view of the tiny piece of jewelry. “What is this?”

“It’s—um, a ring. A purity ring.” Has he never seen one before? Well…actually, that makes sense.

Overhaul turns your hand over in his without touching the band of silver. He’s looking at it closely, inspecting the lovingly engraved cross in the design and the inscription on the other side. “Matthew 5:8,” he reads out.

“…Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” you recite cautiously. It feels wrong to speak the words in front of him, but somehow you can’t help yourself.

Overhaul’s hand doesn’t leave yours. “This ring is important to you.”

“It’s a symbol of a—a promise I made to God. To save myself for my future husband.”

“To ‘save yourself’? To save what?”

You can’t believe you’re explaining this to a literal demon. You close your eyes and inhale slowly and taste smoke. “My…virginity. It’s a promise that I won’t have sex until I enter into a biblical marriage.”

At this, Overhaul is quiet. You give him a moment to answer, half expecting him to question why you think God cares about your sexual status (honestly, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t wondered this yourself), but he stays quiet until you peek up at him to try and gauge the look on his coldly handsome face.

He’s still staring at the ring. He hasn’t touched it—maybe he can’t, because of the cross?—and through the latex, his skin feels hotter than a human’s is supposed to be.

“Is there…” you start, but you trail off when you realize you have nothing to ask. You give a little tug to try and take your hand away and you’re surprised when your wrist actually slides out of his grip to fall back on the nest of sheets in your lap. You didn’t think he’d let you go so easily.

Overhaul turns his head to the side, eyes drilling into you so you feel like you should lower your gaze. The candlelight flickers in strange shadows over his horns. “This will do,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“In exchange for your cure.” The demon taps his own left ring finger, the place where the purity ring sits on your hand, and your heart soars. He actually wants that? It’s just a simple silver band, not worth much, but you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it has some special significance because of the religious connotation. Your mother will be angry you’ve lost it, but you’re happy to cope with that if it means living to actually get married!

“Yes!” you blurt out before he has a chance to rethink his offer. Sure, you’ll miss the purity ring—you’ve had it since you were a kid, after all—but there’s no question you’re getting the better end of this deal. At least in your opinion.

Something flashes through his yellow eyes, something you don’t even want to try and identify. “The contract, then.”

You barely have time to notice that his voice has gentled, that it’s practically silken in comparison to before, when the candlelight flickers again and suddenly the contract is everywhere. Everywhere. Writing appears on every surface in the room, covering the walls, stretching over the ceiling, coiling around the sides of the hospital equipment and decorating your bedsheets until you and Overhaul are the only untouched surfaces in sight. The characters are inscribed in red, dark red like—don’t think about that, you tell yourself squeamishly. You can make out some of the letters, even a word here or there—French, you recognize, mixed with what looks like Latin and interspersed with what you can only guess are runes.

“I can’t read this,” you tell him, fidgeting with your ring for what you now realize will be the last time.

“I only need your name,” he purrs, and then you feel a fragile weight in your hand: a feather, pearl-black and glossy and too large to belong to any bird you can think of, its angled tip glistening with wet ink. There’s an empty space in the writing before you, and Overhaul’s gloved hand comes to yours again to guide you into place.

This feels wrong…then again, of course it does. Even if you’re getting off relatively easy and just losing your ring rather than your soul, you’re still making a deal with a demon. You sign your name, forcing yourself to think about the future you have ahead of you rather than a disapproving white-bearded caricature of The Man Upstairs wagging his finger at you for haggling with a literal servant of Satan. People have done worse things to survive, haven’t they? It’s just a ring.

You set the feather down and Overhaul sighs, thick black eyelashes obscuring his intense gaze for a moment—and then the contract is gone, leaving your hospital room as blank and sterile as it’s supposed to be (well, aside from the candles and all the other ritual stuff you threw together to summon a demon in the first place).

“Are you going to cure—heal me now?” you ask.

“…Patience, little girl.” He’s pulling his glove off, peeling it down his fingers to bare the pale skin of his hand. You catch your breath and wonder what this is going to feel like, and then the tips of his fingers meet your cheek and—

you stop breathing.

It doesn’t hurt.

Or if it does, you don’t remember the pain a second later when breath floods back into your lungs. What you do feel is energy. Strength in your muscles, blood pumping through your veins, every inhale and exhale as light as a bird and freer. You feel healthy. You’re surprised you even remember what health feels like but you do: it’s like you’ve only been half alive, and now life is surging into you and through you and around you, bubbling up in your core like a spring overflowing. You blink rapidly, thinking you might cry from the sheer pleasure of it, but when you open your mouth it’s laughter that comes out. You’re healthy. You’re alive. You barely notice the IV line literally falling off of your skin because the hole where it entered your vein is sealed shut and healed perfectly.

No more needles. No more hospitals. Even without all the monitors beeping out your heart rate and measuring your vitals, there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind that you’re cured.

“Thank you!” you laugh, looking up at Overhaul and for the first time, not caring that he’s evil incarnate. “I feel—I’m okay! It worked!”

“Of course it did.” His expression is inscrutable, but he lets you have a few moments to enjoy your newfound health.

You roll your shoulders back, flex each muscle you can isolate one by one to test, make fists with your fingers and then run them over your hair, which is already thicker and shinier than it was a moment ago. Your body thrums with energy—you want to run, to feel the ground against your bare feet and the cold night air on your face, and you think you could do it! Your legs are already swinging over the side of your cot, ready to run barefoot out of the hospital if that’s what it takes, but before you can stand up Overhaul’s pushing you back down onto the bed.

“Have you forgotten your end of the bargain already?”

Honestly you did forget, but only for a second, only because you were so excited to just be outside again. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Your hand goes to your left ring finger, ready to slip the ring off and hand it over, but Overhaul shakes his head.

“Not here.”

“What—?”

You’re falling. Your hospital room is disappearing, the image of your walls and your window and your bed disintegrating into yawning black, and you’re falling through it into nothing, into emptiness, and Overhaul’s still-bare hand in yours is the only anchor you have so you clutch onto it and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to scream—that’s the sane thing to do when you’re falling through miles and miles of empty space, right?—but when you open your throat the sound is swallowed up just like the light was…

Overhaul’s hand burns into yours, an improbable lifeline that you pull closer more out of terror than conscious thought. The slick, empty air rushes around you and you think I am going to die like this and then, incredibly, as soon as you’ve accepted your imminent demise, you feel your back mold onto a chilled, flat surface, vertebra by vertebra up to the back of your head, as if you’ve been lain down onto it.

Your heart thuds in your ears and you brace for an impact because your body hasn’t quite accepted yet that it’s not falling anymore—but at the same time, you know you’re lying down on something. You pry your fingers away from their vice-grip on Overhaul’s arm and feel around blindly for what’s underneath you, and when it seems reasonably tangible you let yourself open your eyes.

Way above, vaulted dozens of feet over your head, is a ceiling studded with gilt-edged frescoes and stained glass. It’s raining (even though it wasn’t in the hospital, you think) but through the massive panes of colored glass there’s enough oily blue light to make out that you’re in a church.

You’re in a church, with a demon. Isn’t that against the rules?

You sit up stiffly and look over at Overhaul, who’s standing at your side and looking down at you…which is how you realize the soft, cold surface you’ve been deposited onto is the blanket on top of the altar in the sanctuary. “Where...did you take me?”

“You should know this place.”

And you do, when you look around. It’s empty now and you’ve never been here at night, but this is a church your mother would bring you to when you were little, back before the disease got so bad you couldn’t risk traveling to it anymore. This is where you took your purity vow…the ring feels heavy on your hand. “Why—why—“

“I can’t stand human hospitals. Filthy places… How that reek of illness and death doesn’t bother your kind, I’ll never understand.” Overhaul pulls his latex glove back on. He’s dressed differently now, no longer impersonating a doctor—black shirt, black pants, and a…bird mask in red leather and gold. So are you, as a matter of fact. Instead of your hospital gown, you’re in a gauzy white dress that’s already been pushed up to pool around the tops of your thighs.

The slip is too thin for the cold, and you can feel your nipples standing up under the cloth so you fold your arms over your chest and hug yourself. “Why did you take me here?” The sound of your voice echoes off the walls eerily and you wish you hadn’t spoken so loudly. The reflection of your words sounds girlish, nervous.

“I told you. Your side of our contract.” Even in this dark, the angular features of his face are clearly concentrating—on you. “Are you already having second thoughts? Such a fickle little thing…”

“You mean the ring?” You reach for it again, ready to tear it off and throw it at him if that’s what it takes to see your deal through, but Overhaul snatches your hand away, pinning it above you.

“Not the ring,” he says. “The promise.”

The…promise?

A chill makes its way down your spine despite the heat radiating off the demon’s body and onto yours. “I don’t understand.”

“The promise,” Overhaul repeats—and you hear a sound almost like wings flapping and then he’s on the altar with you, knees straddling your hips as a single hand holds both your wrists above your head. “To remain a virgin until marriage. Your promise to God.”

A streak of lightning cracks down on the other side of the stained glass window behind the altar, illuminating the room briefly in spectacular pits of red and orange and yellow…and then it’s dark again, and the only color you can make out is the gold in Overhaul’s eyes.

“I’m going to break it,” he murmurs, lowering his head toward your ear right as the answering thunder rolls through the sanctuary, up through the altar, up into you.

///

Méfiez-vous de son piège, the grimoire said. Beware of the catch.

Of course it wasn’t just a ring.

Overhaul’s fingers are in—inside you, his middle and ring finger pumping through the length of your cunt like they belong there, like you were made to be touched this way. A mixture of your juices and your own spit cling to the latex because he made you suck his fingers before he put them in you and he hasn’t bothered to take his gloves off—not that you asked. You’ve been too busy biting your lip to try and muffle the moans that he keeps forcing out of you. He’s bracing himself on top of you with one hand and fingering you with the other, so your own hands are free to push into your eyes and hide your face…until he yanks your arm back and stops.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes are screwed shut and you shake your head back and forth, the movement shuddering your whole body right down to your pussy wrapped around Overhaul’s fingers. He slows the movement and kneels back, pushing one of your thighs up into your chest as he does it.

“Look at me.”

And you’re not sure whether it’s some unearthly power he has over you or the plain old deterioration of your willpower, but you can’t refuse him. You crack your eyes open and he’s glaring down at you, skin pale as ice in the blue light. Once he’s satisfied that you’re watching, the demon leans back in to fuck your cunt with his fingers, slowly at first and then quicker when he hits something inside of you—a spot, a place on the inner wall of your pussy that makes you feel like you’ve been shocked— heat blooms through you like blood in water and you gasp and he curls his fingers up to pet over that spot again.

“Wait—wait, that’s—it feels—weird!” You’ve never felt like this before. You’re not supposed to feel like this, it’s wrong.

“I understand you’ve never touched yourself, but don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Overhaul says, voice as indifferent and calm as ever even though your cunt is dripping clear sticky liquid over the plastic of his glove.

He pushes back in and grinds his palm over the little button on the top of your pussy—your clit?—and you want to scream. “No, I—I don’t—nnhh...”

Do you like it? The demon’s body is so hot next to yours, like he’s running a fever except you’re the one going out of your mind… You’ve heard metaphors for sexual pleasure before (that it’s like having something to drink when you’re dying of thirst; or that it’s the ultimate act of intimacy, love in physical form) but all of that’s a fucking lie. There’s nothing to compare it to, no reference that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—you don’t even want him to keep going, do you? You’re only doing this because you signed your name on a devil’s contract, because you don’t want to die and there’s no alternative…but that doesn’t explain why you feel so warm from the inside out, why you’re squirming and your hips are rocking involuntarily no matter how much you try to keep still. This isn’t right. You feel like you’ve been lied to.

A good girl wouldn’t like this.

Overhaul isn’t going to let you close your eyes, so you don’t—but the sounds coming out of your mouth are so…indecent (and how can you think these things about yourself? the word feels like someone else is saying it when you hear it in your head) that your hand is drifting up to your mouth before you can stop yourself, trying to stifle all of it…

“Let your voice out. I want you to hear yourself moan.”

Long fingers slide their way out of your pussy and then move up to rub quick little circles around your clit and you moan, like a whore, like a girl getting her cunt rubbed by a demon— “Oh, uhhhn—something, it’s—coming—“ There’s something building up in your core—a peak, a climax, something that makes you fist your hands in the nightgown he put you in (so tight you’re surprised the thin fabric hasn’t torn) and tilt your hips up into him, begging without words because you don’t have any to express what your body is asking for…

But he doesn’t give it to you. Overhaul takes his hand away from your pussy and the shock of the cool air after his too-hot touch is almost enough to send you over that edge—almost. Not quite. And without it, you’re left shivering and quaking, thighs twitching as your baser instincts beg you to just put your hand between your legs for once and hump your fingers to completion if the demon won’t do it.

You’re not going to risk that, though. Not when Overhaul’s dragging your body closer, bunching up the blanket on the altar under your spine, so your pelvis is angled to his… He’s already shirtless and you hear him unzipping his pants but you can’t bring yourself to actually look at him, even when you feel something hard and hot nudging up against your inner thigh and then aligning to your sticky wet slit.

“This will hurt a bit, but I want you to look,” he says, and you don’t even understand at first until you make yourself feel it—his cock, pushing up against your tight cunt to finish this, this perversion of what your first time was supposed to be…

And what was it supposed to be? Roses and candles and soft kisses? A nameless, faceless husband unzipping your wedding dress and making love to you with the lights off? The way the demon touches you should be cruel in comparison but it isn’t, it’s lighting fires under your skin and turning your brains to mush, so how is your body supposed to tell the difference?

It’ll hurt, you know that, you’ve heard enough about sex to know that it always hurts the first time for girls…women. It was already a stretch to fit his fingers in your virgin pussy, so of course his cock is going to hurt. You turn your head toward the window at your side and try on look out at the rain drawing rivulets like veins over the glass, something to focus on instead of him.

“I said look,” the demon hisses, and his hips push forward a bit and you bite off a whimper of pain. “Watch me take your virginity…look at your tight little cunt swallowing me up just like it was made to.”

“N-No—“ you whine, even though it’s not like you can ignore it. “Don’t make me, don’t make me look, I can’t—“

“Then look at me.”

It’s what he wants, some kind of wicked satisfaction he gets off on, but you’re lucky enough to even get an option so you choose that one, shifting your gaze up into his face instead of the place where his cock is pressing deeper and deeper inside you. Overhaul’s eyes are half-lidded and it’s hard to tell from behind the mask but the look on his face is…pleasure? No, that would be too human. Restraint, at least. He could just thrust up into your body in one stroke, but he wants you to feel it for some reason.

Maybe because it’s a worse betrayal of your chastity if you want to get fucked.

Lucky for you, though, you can barely feel anything aside from the pain. The heat you felt building earlier is draining out of you even as Overhaul tilts deeper, layering his chest over yours. You’re almost grateful for the modest barrier the dress provides between your torso and the solid muscle of his abdomen. His cock in your pussy feels like it’s too big too deep too much and it’s the first time you’ve felt like your body wasn’t created specifically for this purpose so you hold it tight.

“Does it hurt?”

A second of clarity makes you want to snarl (of course it fucking hurts, I’m losing my virginity to a demon I summoned from hell) and you dig your fingernails into your palms to stop yourself from saying it out loud. Overhaul pulls out a fraction of an inch and then pushes back in and you feel like the breath’s being pushed out of your lungs. “Yes! Yes, it—it hurts—“

“I can make you enjoy it…for a price,” he sighs, settling into a slow rocking motion of his hips pushing into yours.

And you want to, every sore muscle in your cunt is telling you to give in and give up, give him what he wants so you can enjoy it like he says—but you’d rather hate every second of this than make another deal. You shake your head quickly and because you’re still too afraid to look away from him, you don’t miss the look of surprise that flits across his face before he tamps it down. “I don’t—I don’t want to—like it,” you gasp out between thrusts. “It’s better if—if it h-hurts…”

This time it’s obvious—his eyes really do widen, and you feel some petty triumph at having caught him off guard like this. Who’s predictable now? you think—and then he’s lifting one hand off the altar at the side of your head and tugging his glove off with his teeth, and you don’t even have time to be afraid of what he’s going to do to you because it’s too late, his bare fingers are already stroking over your mound and onto your core, massaging into the flesh of your stomach so he can feel his own cock sliding in and out of you—

and it doesn’t hurt anymore?

You only have a second to try and understand—he cured you, he healed the pain from your first time just like he healed your illness?—before he hooks his grip under your thigh and folds your legs into your chest so he can fuck into you harder than before. His cock slaps into your pussy and you can hear it, hear how wet your filthy little cunt is, smeared through with your juices. It’s sick—the sound of skin against skin, and the moaning you can’t hold back, you sound like a woman in a porno and you wish the pain would come back just so you could keep hating what he’s doing to you. “What—what did you do—“

The demon ignores you. “It feels good, doesn’t it.”

“Nn—“ It’s deeper like this…deeper and rougher and you can feel it. Now that the pain’s been reduced to the dull ache of a stretched muscle, you can feel everything—his cock sliding against that same spot in your cunt that makes you want to squeal, the friction of his body moving against your clit, all of it, everything you wanted to block out— he pumps into you and you hear your breath sobbing out a moan a second out of rhythm, the sounds of you bouncing on demon cock echoing over the walls. “Please—ah, ahhh…”

“‘Please?’ Are you begging—me, little girl?” Overhaul pushes your thigh up and drags his cock through you, excruciatingly slow, forcing you to feel the thick head slide over every gummy wall in your slick pussy.

You shake your head, mewl, try to force your hips to stop rocking back into his and grinding your clit against him. But you can’t. You’re a—you were a virgin, for fuck’s sake! Overhaul’s immortal. Probably thousands of years of experience on how to make you feel like you want this, like you’re only alive in the places he touches you… You’re at his mercy, if he has any. You never stood a chance.

“Then are you begging your god?” His body lowers directly onto yours and like you’re being controlled by puppet strings your arms fold around him and rake your fingernails uselessly into the smooth skin of his back. You can feel the vibration of his mirthless laughter through his chest. “It must hurt terribly…to know he isn’t listening.”

“Don’t—stop, please,” you sob. “Don’t say—don’t stop—please!”

“Listen to yourself, girl—“ Overhaul’s breath is faster now, but you don’t have time to question it because you feel your peak coming again, the tension rising up through your cunt and your abdomen, harsher and crueler than when his fingers were in you but you want it just as much. More. “Has he ever answered your prayers? Has he...ahh, fuck—who’s the one giving you what you need?”

“No— please, please just let me let me, please—“ You’re talking nonsense now, begging for the release—at least then it’ll be over, and you need it, you need it so badly you feel your muscles locking up, cramping, your ankles crossing each other behind Overhaul’s back.

“Good girl,” the demon breathes, and then he lifts off you so he’s kneeling upright with the two of you still connected, his thick, heavy cock still speared in your pussy, and his fingers come down again to rub at your clit. Everything’s so wet you can hear the motion of his fingers slicking themselves through your juices, sliding up and down the little button over and over and it feels so good that a tiny part of you almost wants to drag it out, to savor it, but the rest of your body is going to die, is going to go crazy if the demon doesn’t let you cum right now, right now, right now!

And he does. Praise the Lord. The pads of Overhaul’s fingers pass over your clit one last time and your head rolls back, your throat moves but you can’t even make a sound, your legs shake and you cum.

You didn’t know it was like this.

Your cunt squeezes down on his cock, throbbing and pulsing and your toes literally curl (you didn’t think that was a real thing!) and your vision goes black for a moment and—oh fuck oh fuck i want this i want more how is it possible that i’ve never felt like this—you understand, more intimately than ever, why sex is wrong:

because nothing that makes you feel this good could possibly come without a cost, could it?

///

It must take longer than you thought for you to come back to your senses, because when you regain awareness of your body you’re in your hospital bed. You’re clean, too, and you wonder for a second if Overhaul bothered to clean you up? Or no…he probably just snapped his fingers and transported you back to your room. You’re not really sure how it works.

What you are sure of, however, is that you just got fucked by a demon. You’re sore in places that you didn’t know it was possible to be sore, and there are already bruises forming on the flesh of your thighs from how tight he was holding you. You don’t really have time to inspect these, though, because apparently your…ordeal (if you can call it that) isn’t over.

Overhaul’s still here.

He’s facing the hints of sunrise through the east window, dressed again in the immaculate lab coat and surgeon’s mask. “You’re awake,” he says without looking at you.

You nod hesitantly. You’re not really sure what the protocol is in this situation, but at least you’ve finally held up your side of the contract, right? And so has he. Despite having been up all night doing sinful things, you’re still itching to get out of this bed and test the limits of your healthy body. “You’re…going to leave, right?”

“Yes—”

At that, you sigh in relief and settle back into your starched bedsheets.

“But there’s one more thing you owe me.”

“Goddamnit,” you swear for the very first time in your life. After what you just did, taking the Lord’s name in vain seems like a relatively minor sin.

Overhaul’s mildly irritated expression doesn’t change, but he holds his hand out to you, palm up, the way you imagine someone would if they were helping you out of a car or requesting a dance at an old-fashioned ball. And really, you want all of this to be over—you want to get out of this hospital, you want to taste what the air outside is like, you want to distract yourself from what you just gave up in exchange for a future. At this point you’re just going to have to hope God isn’t as picky about the whole premarital sex thing as you grew up believing.

So you put your hand in Overhaul’s.

Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid it’ll burn him, he slides your purity ring down your finger and balances it in the palm of his bare hand. It sizzles when he touches it, glowing orange until it eventually burns down into a ash-black circle in the center of his palm. Once he’s satisfied that your pretty little ring has been reduced to nothing more than a scorch mark, he closes his hand around yours and you feel something sharp, painfully hot, etching onto your finger.

It’s over in a second, but you still yelp and yank your hand away from him as soon as he lets you. “Ah—ow, what was that?”

He burned you, he literally burned you! He’s already healed it, but there’s still a thin, pale scar, an intentional one left wrapping around the skin at the base of your left ring finger. Like a wedding ring.

When you look close, you can make out a symbol on the back of your finger where the cross used to sit—and even though your conscious mind doesn’t recognize it, the sight of it rings out something inside your ribcage, deeper and truer than flesh and blood. It’s the devil’s mark, you think. It’s his.

“…A promise,” Overhaul says softly, and even though it’s a chilly morning, you can feel the heat of his hands on yours a long time after he vanishes back into the dark.

[squeakyfir]

I'm your huckleberry (Tombstone 1993) (Doc Holliday)

Description:

The joys of modern inventions and miracles are often taken for granted. Your hungry or thirsty? Get something from the fridge or make it. You need to go somewhere? Drive or call an uber. Your hurt? Go to the doctor.

Your bored? Watch a movie, play video games, watch videos on the internet, talk to people without ever leaving your house.

Some much time is in our hands... but back in the 19th century... you wouldn't last very long.

Diseases are rampant, gun violence is higher, no modern technology, barely any good medicine, almost all of your favorite food doesn't exist and most of the people are rude as hell. But... That doesn't mean all of them were so bad. Love was not something most people in this time really cared about. At least, in the town of Tombstone, Arizona.

After falling asleep with a nice looking stone you bought at a small stand at the carnival, your whole world becomes the opposite. Six people from the past discover you unconscious and alone in the blistering heat and offer help but it was their help that let you meet the most amazing man you've ever met.

John Henry "Doc" Holliday.

Chapter 14

Previous ~ Next

It had been months at this point. It was a new year and you were definitely losing so much innocence. Whenever you would get the chance, you would look through your old photos of your dog, your family and other things as well. But you would also look at the photos and videos that were taken while you were here. If there was any hope for your return to the future, you hoped these photos and videos and even your friends would come with you.

For now, a big thunderstorm had come to Tombstone for a visit and it was sure getting uneasy. You had taken some time to spend with Allie, Mattie and Louisa at Allie and Virgils cottage for awhile since you thought it would be a good idea to have some girl time. Right now, Allie was looking at fortune cards. "Tower of Babel. Death. And the devil? Oh dear-"

"Oh, Allie" Louisa said as she poured some tea, "I wish you'd learn to play a real card game".

"How 'bout Go Fish" you asked.

"How do you play"?

"Well, we'll need some poker cards. Mattie, you wanna join in on the fun"!

"Mm-mmm".

"More tea, Mattie" Louisa asked.

"Mm-mmm".

"Are you alright, Mattie" Allie asked.

"Yes".

"Are you expecting someone" Louisa asked as she stood up. There were footsteps approaching the door. "Only Virg" Allie replied. Louisa looked through the curtains and Allie stood up to answer the door. Louisa sighed in annoyance and when Allie opened the door, it was Josephine. "Please" Josephine said as Allie shut the door. "I know it's awful to come here, but listen. I think something's gonna happen tonight". As the thunder flashed in the sky, a shadow was seen coming to the door and you all noticed. "It's Virg" Allie said.

As Allie opened the door, Josephine quickly pushed Allie away from the door as a cloaked man appeared with a shotgun and fired. All of the other women screamed and you quickly took out your pistol and fired at the unknown assailant. He quickly took off after two shotgun blasts and you firing three times. "WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED" you yelled. The other women were in shock as they slowly rose up to their feet. "Is everyone ok"!? They all said yes but were all shaking from the incident. "I'm gonna go find Wyatt"!

"No! Please, (y/n)! Don't leave us alone-" Louisa said but the door suddenly swung open to reveal Wyatt and Morgan carrying Virgil and the doctor following as well. "Quickly! Get me some water and cloths! Now" the doctor ordered. "You heard him! Get it, now" Wyatt yelled. Wyatt and Morgan layed Virgil on the couch and it revealed Virgil's left arm. Covered in blood and looking like it had been blasted. You weren't sure what to think and just started to silently freak out. "Will you hurry with that water, please" the doctor said. Louisa quickly brought a bowl of water over as Allie was comforting Virgil and Morgan was making sure you were alright and called Wyatt over.

"Wyatt! Wyatt"! Wyatt came over to you and Morgan as the doctor continued his examination. "They hit Claude's house too, and shot up his wife. His wife! Whoever heard of that"? Wyatt looked back over and saw that the doctor was still trying to save Virgils arm. "They're bugs, Wyatt" Morgan said, having directing Wyatt's attention back to Morgan and you. "All that smart talk about live and let live. There ain't no live and let live with bugs".

"All right, you both listen to me now. We all gotta get out of here".

"Get out of here" Morgan questioned, "Listen to yourself, Wyatt. Lie down and crawl or you might get hurt? What kind of talk is that"?

"Do you see what's happening here"?

"What" Allie asked frightfully. "What do you mean!? What are you saying!? No. Please, no".

"I'm afraid your husband's going to lose the use of his arm" the doctor said as he was wrapping up. "Oh, God. No" Allie cried. Virgil groaned in pain and sat up to embrace Allie with his other good arm. "Don't worry, Allie girl. I still got one good arm to hold you with". You were being as brave as you could by holding back a lot of tears. "Goddamn--" Morgan said as he backed up and sprinted out the door. "Goddamn sons-of-bitches"!

"Morgan, wait a minute" Wyatt called after Morgan but he was already going down the street. Wyatt turned back around and gently pushed you aside to see Virgil. "Virg--".

"You had to be so damned smart" Allie remarked to Wyatt.

"I'm sorry, Allie. I told you, Virg".

"Not now, Wyatt" Virgil said in pain.

"All right, what do you want me to do"?

"Just leave me alone, for God's sake".

"Virg--"

"He doesn't want to talk now, Wyatt" Allie yelled. Knowing there was nothing more that Wyatt could do, he took his hat and coat and left the cottage but you followed with him. He was about to say something to you but three men came riding up to you both. It was Creek Johnson and Texas Jack along with a cowboy which made you place a hand on your gun. "I heard about what they did to your women. That was wrong. I'm here to let you know that it wasn't me. I had no part of it" said the cowboy.

"No? Brothers to the bone, right, McMasters" Wyatt asked.

"No. Not anymore. Not after this night". McMasters took his old red sash and threw it on the ground. "He's right, Wyatt" Creek Johnson said. "You want us for anything, were with you".

"And so am I" you said. Wyatt turned to face you. "All of the things you've done to help me, I couldn't be any more grateful. I'm with you, no matter what"! Wyatt gave you a small nod and the three men on horseback left. Wyatt picked up the sash and examined it. You both stood in silence for a moment but the sound of a loud gunshot made you both perk up. You two looked at each other and you had a gut wrenching feeling and rushed towards the gunshot sound with Wyatt following close behind.

It came from the Oriental Saloon and it was so loud that the whole town came out. Once you both got there, you felt like you were about to faint. Morgan had been shot in the back and was laying on the ground in severe pain. Wyatt ran to get the doctor which had Louisa and Mattie follow along as well. The doctor had to hurry and he quickly had Wyatt and you put Morgan on the billiards table. You were incredibly scared and had tears streaming down your face as you had to watch the doctor try and pull the bullet out of his back.

Mattie was holding Louisa back as she was screaming in fear and Morgan was biting a cloth and shaking his whole body in pain. Wyatt was trying to hold him down but the tragic news came ahead when the doctor said, "It's too deep. I can't get it out". Wyatt turned Morgan over. "The way it's lodged in there-- I'm sorry".

"NO" you screamed and rushed over to the table. "Easy, Morg. Is that better" Wyatt asked and held his hand and rubbed his head. "Yeah" Morgan said quietly. "You were right, Wyatt. They got me good. Don't let 'em get you brother. You're the one".

"Easy, Morg" you said as you placed your hand in his other hand. He looked at you and carefully reached up to place his hand on your cheek. "(Y/n)? Remember what you said about seeing a light? If I die and see you, I go to hell-"

"I was kidding, Morgan! I was" you were sobbing, "I was kidding"! Morgan shushed you. "I know you were. I know what it was... If I see you, I'll go to heaven. I know, cause I'm looking at an angel". You continued sobbing. "Your my bestie", he said softly as his life was slipping away, "I always will be". His hand slipped from your cheek and he took a breathe as his whole body went cold. "Morg? Morg"!?

Wyatt backed up in shock, his brothers blood all over his hands and white shirt and Louisa rushed over to you and Morgans corpse. You and Louisa were sobbing so hard as Wyatt left the saloon into the pouring rain and thunderstorm. "WHY" Wyatt yelled in the middle of the street, "WHY HIM"?

"WYATT" Josephine yelled and started running into the street to get to him but he stopped her. "NO! NO, GET AWAY FROM ME"! Josephine got close to him but he still shouted at her. "CANT YOU SEE!? GET AWAY FROM ME"!? Josephine looked shocked at that and rushed off the street, leaving Wyatt to wipe his hands on his shirt and still cry out in shock.

"MORGAN"!!!