#Jenny Lind chairs

[1lifeinspired]

Country Style Lake House in the Beautiful Northwoods of Minnesota

[criedhard]

Beach Style Living Room Living room - small coastal open concept and formal light wood floor living room idea with white walls, a tv stand and no fireplace

[moonlightkitties]

You are your father's daughter - Red Dead Redemption reader insert (Part One)

You are Dutch Van der Linde's eighteen year old daughter. Your mother was Annabelle but you don't remember her since she passed away when you were young. Dutch and the others took care of you and taught you to read, ride, fish, write and even hunt. Ever since the Blackwater ferry job you had a feeling like things were only going to get worse.

Part Two

A/N: This is mainly just a platonic story but you will be having a few romantic interactions with Sean and Kieran. But there will be some chapters where you, Arthur and John are bonding because y'all are basically siblings.

Chapter One - Colter

You rode behind one of the wagons on your chestnut blanket appaloosa mare, Whiskey. You longed to be in the wagon in the warmth instead of being out in the cold but your father insisted you ride outside since you were "old enough." You didn't argue, you were about to until Miss Grimshaw gave you one of her famous looks that screamed "Watch your attitude" so you complied.

You could hear Reverend Swanson and some of the others talk about how Davey wasn't doing well and that we should find somewhere to make camp. Your mind went back to the Blackwater job and you shivered when you saw your father and the rest of the men ride back into camp, covered in blood. It was awful, Mac and Sean got taken, Jenny died, and Davey was seriously wounded and about to die any second. The wagons stopped and Reverend Swanson hopped out of the wagon you were riding behind. He gave you a nod of acknowledgement and walked to where Hosea and Dutch were.

You pulled your coat closer to your body as you waited for the wagons to start moving again. You never knew it could get this cold in the middle of May.

You patted Whiskey as she stood, you made a mental note to give her some extra pampering since she carried you all the way since you and the gang left Blackwater. Finally, after a few moments of just standing idle, you heard Dutch yell "Come on!" and the wagons started moving again.

You could hear Arthur's voice as you rode alongside and your eyes caught the sight of a run down town. Once the wagons stopped you sighed in relief, dismounted Whiskey and made your way to the wagon to help everyone out.

The rest of the night went by fast and you were exhausted by the end. You were starting to get one of your "famous" headaches as Dutch called them and you let out a pained groan.

"You okay?" Arthur asked you, a concerned look on his face "Fine" you grumbled, standing in the corner of the cabin "My head's starting to hurt but that's it" you said, rubbing your temples. Arthur gave you a sympathetic look "Is it a migraine?" he asked and you shrugged "Maybe, I guess we'll see in the morning."

You didn't sleep that night, you tossed and turned until your head started pounding and the light from the fireplace was making it worse. You let out a pained groan and covered your head with your blanket. You tried to keep quiet but you couldn't, your head was killing you, like someone was stabbing it with a hunting knife but you couldn't see them to stop them.

You heard shifting and instantly felt bad. You must have woke someone up because you heard them walk over to you. The person gently shook you and you uncovered yourself from the blanket and was staring face to face with Tilly "You alright sweetie?" she asks you.

'Do I look alright?' you threatened to ask.

"No" you groaned instead, covering yourself back with your blanket.

"Is it a migraine?"

"Yeah" you groaned.

Tilly rubbed your back and pulled up a chair beside you "You don't have to sit next to me" you told her, your voice muffled by the blanket still being over your head.

"I know, but you shouldn't be alone when you're in pain" she told you "Just try to get some sleep"

You had no idea how you were going to fall asleep. When your migraines get this bad there's nothing you can do but groan and hope to something that it will go away soon. Nevertheless, you fell asleep, soothed by Tilly rubbing your back and the warmth of the blanket over you.

You awake with the sound of arguing. Either Grimshaw and Karen or Micah and Bill.

You groan and you can't even lift your head up, it felt heavy and every time you would try to get up it was if some other force was pulling you down.

"Well look who's awake" you open your eyes and face, ugh, Micah.

"What do you want?" you grumbled, not in the mood for Micah's teasing.

"You see, while you were sleeping, me and the rest of the gang well, we were working." he tells you "Micah, you know I can't work when I get migraines" you mumble. Sure you felt bad, but the last time you worked with a migraine you passed out in the middle of a shoot out.

Before Micah could reply you heard Charles step in "Leave her alone Micah, you know she doesn't feel good." You felt grateful for Charles, his voice was so quiet and calming, it was the only voice that wasn't making your head throb.

Micah scoffed but left you alone.

"Are you okay?" Charles asked, sitting beside you "Fine" you replied "You don't have to sit with me" you say "You have work to do." Charles gave you a smile "Why? You don't want me to sit next to you?" he asked, a tease in his tone but his face was serious.

"Well kind of, I-I mean, you can if you want" your face turned red, and another wave of pain went over you.

"Ugh, just don't talk" you groaned, clutching your head.

"Alright, I can do that" Charles said, a hint of a smile in his voice.

You fell asleep again and awoke, to the sound of commotion, again. The door swung open and you caught a glimpse of Bill and Lenny helping John inside. You were feeling a little better and you were starting to get thirsty so you sat up and caught yourself when you were about to fall.

"What happened to him?" you asked Arthur, who was standing next to you "Wolves" he simply responded "Wolves?" I ask "Who gets attacked by wolves?" Arthur chuckled "Apparently Marston does." He turned to you "You feeling better?" he asked and you shrugged "A little, can you get me some water?" Arthur nodded and left, leaving you to listen to Abigail fuse over John's state.

You pushed yourself off your cot and made your way to where John was "Wow" you exclaimed "That's one nasty wound" you said in a sarcastic tone "Ha, ha, very funny" John said, rolling his one good eye.

"How's our maiden in distress doin?" Arthur asked, handing me a canteen of water.

"He'll live" you said, not giving John a chance to respond for himself. John scoffed and just ignored you before talking to Abigail. You took small sips of water and groaned when another sharp sting hit your head "Migraine?" John asked and you nodded "I'll be fine, I got work to do anyways."

"Work?" Arthur asked, following you as you left the cabin. Your head was throbbing but you considered that you'll be fine.

"Yes, work" you repeated "What you need to do is rest" Arthur said, grabbing your shoulder and stopping you "I'll be fine" you rolled your eyes "Honestly, I'm not a kid anymore, you don't need to fuss over me." Arthur sighed "I just worry about you, that's all" you felt bad and playfully punched his shoulder "I know, that's why you're going with me" you smiled.

"Great" Arthur sarcastically replied. You walked over to Whiskey and stroked her nose "You love that horse, don't you?" Arthur asked, patting Whiskey's neck "Of course I do, I've had her since she was a foal, remember?"

"Oh yeah, you and Hosea found her" he replied "Yeah, she was all alone, her mother and herd were no where to be seen" you told him "I begged dad to keep her and he gave in of course" you smiled.

"Why'd you name her Whiskey anyways?" Arthur questioned as you grabbed her reins and the three of you walked to the stables. I shrugged "I don't really know, I guess I just liked the name." Arthur opened the stable doors and I led Whiskey inside. The rest of the gangs horses were inside and I gave The Count a pat on his neck.

"Remember when you tried riding him?" I asked, stifling a laugh. Arthur chuckled "Yeah, don't remind me, I was sore for weeks." Before you could say anything else the stable doors opened again and Dutch walked in "Oh, good, you're feeling better" he noticed and I nodded "A little."

"Well, I need you for a job if you're up for it."

A job? He never lets me go on jobs.

"A job?" Arthur asked "Yes, Arthur, a job" Dutch scoffed "She can handle it, she's old enough."

"You up for it kid?" Dutch asked and you nodded "Yeah, of course!"

Wow! My first job, it's either going to go super well or super terrible.

Yay!!! Chapter one is over! Chapter two might come out tomorrow or even tonight lol (I have too much time on my hands). Like I said up top, this is going to be more of a platonic fluffy fic but when a write Chapter Three that's where it will get more...emotional and more angst. Arthur does get TB in this fic (sorry 😔). I LOVEEE comments so please if you want to, comment (I love likes and reblogs too 😼)

[twola]

Devil's Backbone : Diablo Ridge V

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Diablo Ridge V: The Eve of Oblivion

As preparations for a large job begin, Ruth and Hosea spend time reminiscing. If there is one thing to learn here on Diablo Ridge, it is that all roads lead to Blackwater.

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“Come on now Ruth, he ain’t no reason to leave us.”

You stuff your clothing into the small leather bag that you came into this camp with, several weeks ago. The vigor with which the balled-up fabric is shoved into the bag is an outward display of your annoyance. You came down from the ridge this morning after the sun rose. There was a change in the camp, you could tell. Men gave you wide berths and some of the women stared at you as you returned from the trees.

You had hit a man, the second in command, no less, in front of these people yesterday. The awkwardness displayed by these people reignited the anger in your blood that boiled last night.

Looking up from your place on your knees, you scowl, “It ain’t just him, it's everything. I’d rather not get beaten trying to steal and I’d rather not be afraid of the men here in camp of all places.”

Jenny places her hands on her hips. “There isn’t any man here you need to be afraid of. Not even Micah. He may be a mangy dog but he ain’t going to do anything to you.”

Your bag is packed, and you stand up, facing the young woman.

“All the same, I just don’t think I belong here.”

“Ruth, Ruth -” Jenny chases after you as you start to head to where the horses are hitched across the way.

You stop abruptly, and Jenny bumps into your side, taken off guard by your halted gait.

“You’ve been awful kind to me, Miss Kirk. But really, I do think it would be better for everyone if I left.”

Jenny’s face falls, as she realizes your mind is made up. You turn away again, and your gaze lands on Hosea, who sits on a chair near the fireplace, nursing a cup of coffee. With purpose, you stride toward the older man, and set your bag down at your feet as you reach him.

“Good morning, de-”

You interrupt his greeting, “I’d like you to take me to Blackwater, Mister Matthews.”

Hosea looks up and frowns, then looks at the bag at your feet. He peers over to Jenny, who throws her hands up in the air in exasperation.

“Dear girl-”

You interrupt him, your voice firm. “Hosea. I am asking you to take me to Blackwater.”

Hosea presses up on his knees to stand up from his chair.  A long, tired breath escapes his lungs, and he coughs slightly. 

“Alright, Ruth. I’ll take you to Blackwater.”

He wasn’t an idiot. Most everyone saw the interaction between you and Arthur last night. Everyone saw the black eye you came back with after going robbing with Javier and Karen. You were probably just some little lost widow that Hosea had an eye for. That’s what most people probably thought of you here.

He grabs his hat, placing it on his head, and reaches down to pick up the bag at your feet, walking slowly toward the horses. You frown, pulling your shawl around you tighter, and follow. Jenny walks quickly past you, catching up with Hosea.

“Y’want me to grab Dutch?” She asks him, and the older man shakes his head in the negative.

“I’ll handle the talk. Don’t think we need to worry ‘bout that with her.”

Upon reaching his Turkoman, Hosea places the bag on the ground and helps you swing up to the horse’s rump. He gives you the bag to hold on your lap and then turns to untie the reins from the hitching post.

Jenny pats Silver Dollar’s mane gently as Hosea swings himself up. She frowns, continuing to pet the horse.

“Good luck, Missus Shaw.” 

She cannot bring herself to look up to meet your gaze.

“Thank you, Miss Kirk, for everything.”

At that, she does look up, and the disappointment in her eyes shoots at your heartstrings. Hosea clicks his tongue and his horse begins to walk toward the entrance of the camp. Jenny turns away, stalking back toward the wagon with angry steps.

You look back at her, and you almost feel sorry for a moment. Turning back toward where Silver Dollar is headed, you bite your lip as Hosea guides the horse out of the camp.

Before you’re able to clear the camp, however, you catch the gaze of one last outlaw - the gunslinger you rode in with so many weeks ago.

Arthur is walking back toward the center of camp with a sack of grain over his shoulder. Your gaze is hard meeting his - holding for but a moment before you turn your head away.

You leave camp much the same way you came in, atop Hosea’s horse, with no idea what the future would hold. 

-

“I haven’t told you much about my wife, have I, Ruth?”

Hosea peers over his shoulder from under his hat back at you, and you squint up against the bright sun as Silver Dollar crosses over a small stream.

“No, other than that she was a good woman.”  You reply.

“She was far too patient for me. Caring, too caring. Too good. Too many times she had to clean up after my mistakes or stitch up bullet holes.”

He continues, his voice almost seeming tired, as if he was holding up the weight of all the years he had lived.

“We never had any children. Never could. For the best, with the way we lived, but… I always wonder.”

You frown. That heavy feeling in your chest starts building again, the emptiness deep within you from months gone by. Before the silence gets overbearing, Hosea starts speaking again, looking over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of you out of the side of his vision.

“I look at you, dear girl, and it makes me think of her. I look at you and it makes me wonder had we had a girl, what she would grow up like.”

A shooting pang of sympathy catches in your chest, making your throat thick. The most you can do is tighten the arm you have slung around his waist.

“You look kind of like her, back in the day. I’m sorry if the ramblings of an old man have made you uncomfortable. Seems some days the memories are all I got left.”

“No,” you manage to croak, “Not at all. I understand.”

Silver Dollar’s hooves on the dirt trail, steady and unchanged, signify the passage of time as the conversation dies. As rugged trails and rocky hillsides give way to the open prairie, the town on the lake glints in the distance.  The white-painted church on the hill overlooking the town.

Life and people and civilization.

Hosea steers his horse into town, coming to a stop near a hitching post on Main Street. He looks back to you with a glimmer of mischief in his eye before sliding off of the saddle.

“Maybe it's a good thing we never had children. Raised Arthur and John from boys and now look at ‘em.” Hosea says with a smile. He reaches up, and you place your hands on his shoulders as he helps you down from the horse’s rump.

“Probably could have done worse.” You reply with a smile.

The older man dusts off his hands, and looks down the street for a moment, taking a deep breath in.

“I’m not going to badger you, Missus Shaw, but I will tell you I wish you weren’t leavin’. Say the word and I’ll bring you back to camp.”

“Hosea…”

He raises a hand, cutting you off. “Won’t bother you anymore about it, dear,” He picks up the leather bag at your feet and offers his other arm to you. 

“At the very least, Ruth, let me enjoy your company over lunch before you set on your way.”

“Of course, Hosea.” You take his outstretched arm and wind your own with it.

A wagon rolls by in the dusty street, kicking up a cloud of prairie dirt that you have to squeeze your eyes shut tightly, turning your head in toward Hosea’s shoulder. He stops, the dust sending him into a coughing fit that has him stooping to his knee. You rub his back as he hacks, taking your hand in his as you squeeze it in concern.

“Oh, Hosea, are you alright?” 

He nods, clearing his throat, “Will- heh-be. Damn dust in this town.”

Standing up again, he lends you his arm. You give him a look of trepidation before taking it, but you lean in closer to him than you had before, your arm pressed against his shoulder, lending him more of your strength as you continue toward the saloon.

You enter, and a rush of memory hits you like the stench of whiskey in the room. You follow Hosea as he takes you over to a table near the window.

“Here we are - let me order from the bar.” Hosea pulls back the stool for you and pushes it toward the table when you sit upon it.

You nod, and as he steps away, you smooth down any flyaway hairs from the bun you have your hair pulled into.

“…Milton is furious at him… there goes his chance at a promotion.”

“Angus wasn’t going to get that promotion anyway, but especially not now, with Leviticus Cornwall breathing down the agency’s neck.”

You stop, your hands freezing above the table as you recognize a word from the conversation of the men at the table behind you.

“Must be nice to have the director’s ear - I was working a case looking into Angelo Bronte back in town, but now we get dragged out here to find this little lost widow Shaw.”

“Well, we’re here now… how’s she supposed to be brought in?”

The cotton edging of your sleeve between your fingers wrinkles under the pressure exuding from your shaking hand.

“Alive, preferably. But evidently, Cornwall said he didn’t care what shape she was in when he got her.”

“Carmody did say she was a pretty little thing to look at…”

You jump in your seat as a metal bowl is placed in front of you with a clang on the table. Hosea places the other bowl he carries in front of his seat, holding out a spoon to you as he rounds the table.

Taking it from him, you try to shake the shock and fear from your features. The older man does not seem to notice. You take the spoon from him and utilize the opportunity to look back over your shoulder. As you do, you quickly whip back and set your stare at the bowl of stew placed in front of you.

The two men behind you wear bowler hats. Nice jackets. You caught a glimpse of them as they were moving to stand up, and hear their seat legs scrape along the floor. Mercifully, their footsteps and voices fade out in the other direction from your table.

“Better than Pearson’s cooking-” Hosea smiles as he sits down, “I feel for those men in the Navy he supposedly cooked for.”

You laugh shortly, forcing yourself to respond so as not to worry Hosea. Not to tip him off that these Pinkerton detectives were looking for you.

Lunch is a quick and quiet affair- a stew heavy on vegetables and light on meat, something that Hosea grumbles about under his breath. It’s not a half-hour that goes by before you’re finishing and exiting the saloon, blessedly, with much less fanfare than the last two times you were here.

“Well, the ferry should be comin’ in soon.” Hosea gazes down the street toward the pier as he places his hat on his head.

You wrap your arm around his once again, and slowly, the two of you walk eastward, much like you did weeks ago.

“My dear, I don’t think this will be a problem, but I have to say it.”

You look up at him, questioning with your eyes what he could be referring to.

“You know what we are. You know what we do. You also probably realize what would happen to us if you talked to any lawmen and told them where we were.”

Of course. You nod, understanding where the conversation was going. Flashes of suffering and death rush through your mind, nooses and weeping women and unmarked pauper’s graves. You know that is why the fact that you know where the camp is, you could sentence many people to death.

“Hosea, you provided for me when I had nothing and no one. I am in your- and the gang’s - debt. I would never forsake that.” You gently squeeze his arm tighter to underscore your commitment and sincerity.

“I know you wouldn’t. You aren’t that kinda person.”

Hosea’s voice fades out as your gaze moves past him, down to the covered porch of the Blackwater Sheriff’s Office.

Your stomach falls to your feet as the sun glints off a shining piece of silver pinned to a man’s chest.

Lawmen stand huddled under the awning, smoking cigars and guffawing in conversation. Sure, there were blue-jacketed policemen with gold badges and neat uniforms, but where your heart stops is when you see another man among the group.

He’s tall, wearing a fitted brown jacket and a bowler hat, but across the street, you can see his precisely trimmed mustache and silver badge. 

“…No ma’am. I’m Agent Carmody with the Pinkerton Detective Agency...”

Your heart thumps in your ears, blood pounding so loud you can’t hear anything else, not the bustling port, not the people, not the horses and carts, and all other sounds of a bustling city. You let Hosea guide you along, up the stairs onto the pier, where he stops near the benches and ticket counter as he did many weeks ago.

“Well, we’re back here, Missus Shaw. I reckon I can’t convince you with anything more than I’ve already said.”

You blink back to Hosea, and try to keep your bewilderment and racing heartbeat in check.

“What do you want to do?’

Three, four, five more men outfitted the same stream out of the Sheriff’s Office, joining the conversation with the police officer.

“I…-”

The ferry’s horn sounds, finishing its docking from across Flat Iron Lake. People stream off of it onto the pier behind you, and as you watch them go by behind Hosea, a cold sweat goes down your spine as four men wearing bowler hats walk from the ferryboat across the pier, heading toward the police station across the street.

“Ruth?”

You meet Hosea’s gaze again. If you got on that ferry, the likelihood of one of those men finding you was almost certain.

But you can’t tell Hosea that you have Pinkertons looking for you. As kind as he has been to you, he is still an outlaw. He could turn you in for some kind of reward and you’re at the mercy of these men and their benefactor. 

Christ, it could have been them who killed Frederick. They were employed by Cornwall - and the carnage in Limpany was more than enough evidence that the magnate was unafraid to have obstacles to his business dealings murdered.

Your heart is beating so fast it feels like it’s going to burst from your chest. Hosea is waiting for an answer.

It’s a terrible thing - a woman alone in this world. 

“I’ll stay with you.”

Hosea breaks into a smile and lifts his arm for you to take. “Alright then, my dear, let’s go home.”

You wind your arm through his and lean against his shoulder much like earlier, as if you and he were truly father and daughter. With all of the people disembarking from the ferry, you feel relatively safe enough that you weren’t seen. The few blocks walk back to where his horse is hitched is mercifully quicker than the way down to the docks.

“Here we go,” Hosea grunts a bit as he heaves you up to Silver Dollar’s rump, and taps your knee affectionately, “That’s me gettin’ old, dear, ain’t nothing about you.”

A soft chuckle leaves your throat that you cannot hide, and for a flash, the Pinkertons mulling about are forgotten. But as quickly as a heartbeat, that lodestone settles in your chest as you look around, watching for any sign of the sharply dressed men. 

“Let’s get back now, dear,” Hosea says with a smile over his shoulder. You wind your arm around his waist, as he pulls on his steed’s reins, clicking his tongue to urge the horse into a walk.

“Yes, let’s.”

-

It's several hours, again, back to Diablo Ridge. You’ve now realized that the trip’s length is all Hosea, who spends the time regaling you with stories of bank robberies and scams past, back in the days when it was just him and Dutch blazing through the west, nearly unstoppable. Dusk falls on the timber camp as you approach, and you know that the camp is not far away off of the main road. Through a smaller, freshly worn track, Hosea guides Silver Dollar back into the camp, bringing him to a stop in front of the hitching post. 

The older man swings himself down from the horse as you crane your upper body in the opposite direction from where you’re sitting side saddle. There seems to be a lot of movement around the campfire, in the darkening lull of the dusk, the men seem to be gathering items and fiddling with weapons.

You feel a pair of hands lightly grab your waist, and you whip back around, caught off guard, realizing you’ve probably kept Hosea waiting.

“Missus Shaw.”

It is not Hosea moving to help you down off of the horse. 

It’s Arthur. 

He looks at you expectantly. Normally there would be an air of annoyance about him, but now, his eyes show a pang of something different. Regret, possibly.

“Mister Morgan.”

You place your hands on his shoulders and his large ones tighten around your waist as you are lifted from the horse and gently set on the ground before he lets go.

“Decided to stay?”

“Yes.” You reply in a short tone. 

“I uh… I apologize fer-ah, making you feel unwelcome.” The outlaw’s hand moves to the back of his neck, scratching the skin there absentmindedly as he stares at the ground.

Your gaze moves from Arthur back to Hosea, who conveniently has turned his back from you in a poorly disguised attempt to look disengaged from the conversation.

You look back to Arthur, whose hand has floated down from his neck to rest on the large buckle of his gun belt. His gaze hasn’t lifted.

“Thank you, Mister Morgan.” 

Arthur nods, still looking at the ground, and takes his leave to spin on his heel and walk away.

Hosea, who wasn’t even hiding the fact he has been listening the entire time, steps back toward you, taking your bag in one hand, and lifting his hat off with the other. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand.

“I swear, he’s still a teenage boy in the body of a man sometimes.”

-

“Missed us so much there that ye couldn’t possibly think abou’ leavin.”

Good lord in heaven, maybe you should have left.

“See there, Lenny, the lass ain’t denyin’ it.” 

You scrub at the dirty shirt, one that you have unfortunately learned belongs to the young man who leans on the wagon beside you. The redheaded boy, thick with a Donegal accent, can’t bring himself to leave you alone as you clean his shirt, just about as obvious as the broad side of a barn.

“Sean, you leave Ruth alone. You’re gonna chase her off soon as she’s gettin’ back.”

Finally, after several minutes of entertaining Mister MacGuire, you are saved from the conversation, more like lack thereof, from Lenny, who had sidled up next to Sean

“Oh nah, the likes of me? I ain’t never been one to send the women runnin’.” Sean suggestively lifts his eyebrows. Lenny rubs his hand down his face in an exasperated manner.

You roll your eyes, but a smirk graces your face as you squeeze the water from the flannel shirt.

“See, girlie can’t help but smile. Have that effect on the ladies.”  Sean pushes Lenny’s shoulder, puffing out his chest proudly.

“Mister MacGuire,” You stand up, and Sean grins even wider, “You certainly have an effect on the ladies… those clothes you’re wearing are gonna make us all run for the hills. When was the last time you washed them pants? Could probably stand up on their own.” 

Sean’s smile falls immediately. Lenny cackles, slapping Sean’s shoulder as he turns away and grumbles, walking back toward the fire at the center of camp.

“Thank you kindly, Mister Summers.”

“I could see you were under duress there, Missus Shaw.” Lenny smiles, tipping his hat as you hang the shirt over the line.

“You going on this job everyone’s talkin’ about?” You ask over your shoulder before stooping down to the washbasin again, shoving your hand into the murky water to find any remaining laundry. You frown as you pull up an old sock, quickly running it over the washboard several times.

“No Ma’am. Bill and I have the watch while the rest of ‘em go on down to Blackwater…,” he trails off, looking over toward the women’s tent, “Do you mind telling Miss Kirk to meet me up on that ridge after she gets back from the job? I gotta go start my watch shift.”

“Sure thing.” You smile up at him from your place on the ground, squeezing the water out of the sock. You place your hand on your knee to press up to stand.

Lenny nods a thanks, shouldering his repeater as he walks away.

You smile to yourself as you hang the shirt over the drying line before wiping your wet hands on your apron to dry them. Sufficiently pleased that there was no more laundry for you to do, you unlace the apron from your waist and hang it over the wagon’s wheel.

People mull about the camp, polishing weapons, packing saddlebags, and dressing smartly. For as rough and tumble as the group was, if needed, they did seem to clean up well. 

Relatively well. Sean seemed to still be wearing the pants that you had admonished him earlier about.

With all of the movement and ruckus preparing for the job, you’re able to sneak to the side of the campsite without anyone noticing. The horses eat happily from a bale of hay set near the posts they are hitched to. You weave between the large beasts, American Paints and Hungarian Half Breds, and Appaloosas. Stately in their own right, even without fearsome-looking outlaws perched high on their saddles.

The blazing red chestnut coat of Arthur’s horse stands out, and slowly, curiously, you step toward the large mare, Boadicea. His earlier words come back to you - that she was a sweetheart, leavin’ being mean to him.

Your hand timidly reaches out to her side, and you brush down her neck gently, ready to pull back at a moment’s notice. The horse is quite unperturbed, as compared to you. Aethon would have never let you do this, you muse, stroking Boadicea’s side. She really was a beautiful horse, gleaming red coat and shiny black mane. Her head waves back and forth happily as you move your hand up to her mane, gently scratching along her neck, and she lowly whinnies in contentment.

“Arthur don’t like people touchin’ her.”

You jump back from Boadicea as if you’ve been burned, the raspy voice behind you taking you by surprise.

John Marston walks past you toward his own horse, a long rifle balanced on his shoulder. The man’s dark, stringy hair hides much of his face, but you can see the near-permanent scowl that seems to always grace his features.

“I’m sorry - I didn’t… I-” You sputter at being caught, a burning blush on your cheeks as you refuse to make eye contact with him.

John snorts as he tightens the saddle on his horse.

“Seen you a lot with Abigail.”

“...What of it?” You ask, suddenly unconcerned with his comment about Boadicea.

The man sneers and spits a glob of chewing tobacco on the ground. “Just don’t go puttin’ ideas in that head of hers. I gotta hear her bitchin’ enough already.”

“Ideas? What are you talkin’ about?” 

John swings himself up to his horse and deems the conversation to be over, ignoring your question as he nudges his spurs into the horse’s side. You’re left behind, confused, and a little angry. Maybe Hosea was right, that his ‘raising’ of Arthur and John left a little to be desired. 

Walking back toward the women’s tent, you find Jenny peering in the small mirror perched on the wagon.

“What are you up to?” You ask, watching Jenny clasp a brooch onto a fitted jacket.

“Headin’ to Blackwater for the job. Dutch has a whole bunch of us going.” 

You look around, at the others who seem to be preparing to leave as well. Dutch stands in his tent, loading bullets into his revolver. Sean, in front of the campfire, slides a knife into his gun belt. Javier heaves a satchel over his shoulder. The Callendar brothers sneer at each other, and Micah sits against a tree, dressed to leave, but fiddling with a large hunting knife between his hands. 

“I did give Arthur some hell after you left - ain’t no reason for him to be such an ass to you.” Jenny looks up at you, her voice low for only you to hear. You turn back to her quickly.

“You didn’t have to say anything - we’ve, well, we’ve come to some kind of understanding.”

“He really is a sweetheart underneath it all. You’re just catchin’ him at a bad time.”

You roll your eyes. Even though you’ve seen him interact with Jack in such a gentle way, calling him a sweetheart was just about the farthest away thing you would ever do. Changing the subject, you place your hands on your hips as Jenny continues to finish her outfit, “How come you’re going on this?”

“Aw, don’t be jealous, Ruth, I’m sure you’ll get to go out on the big jobs soon enough.” Jenny laughs.

You roll your eyes again, but chuckle this time. You had a feeling after the fiasco with Karen and Javier, you wouldn’t be out on a job for a long while. 

“Lenny said for you to meet him up on the ridge tonight after you get back.”

Jenny, usually quick with a retort, simply nods as she brushes the dust off of her bright skirt.

You raise your eyebrows, “Something going on there?”

“Maybe…” She mumbles, looking intently at the sleeves of her nice jacket.

The girl can’t keep a smile from peeking out on her face. You shake your head as a grin graces your own. 

“Aw, Jenny - that’s sweet. He seems like a nice boy.”

“Oh hush, Ruth. It ain’t… well, maybe it is like that.” Jenny trails off, still unable to keep the smile from leaving her face. She grabs a hairbrush from the pile of her clothing on the ground and begins to pull it through her dark hair.

“I don’t know - he doesn’t seem so desperate to get up my skirts. That’s… well that’s far kinder than a woman like me has been treated.”

Jenny looks at you for a moment, and holds out a ribbon, “Can ya-”

You take the ribbon and she turns to face away from you, and you begin to weave her hair into a braid as she places her hands on her hips.

“There aren’t many men who you can say that about.” You say, a snort at the end of your sentence.  

“Was your husband one of them?”

You pause for a moment, your fingers interspersed in Jenny’s hair, braid half done. At that moment, you realize how young Jenny is. Nineteen, twenty, maybe. You’re a good ten to twelve years older than her, but with as much of the world and life’s difficulties as she’s seen in her short life, she sometimes comes off as older than you.

“He certainly tried to chase my skirts at the beginning. He was studying law in Saint Denis and I was just a laundry maid.” 

“My my, Ruth,” Jenny giggles, “Catching yourself a lawyer, you must have really bewitched him for him to marry you.”

You snort, tying off the braid with the ribbon she handed you, “That’s a story for another time.”

Jenny turns and examines the braid in the dirty mirror propped on the wagon, smiles, and spins part way back to you, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“I’ll hold you to that, Missus Shaw.” 

The young woman does a quick once-over of her outfit, then steps away from the wagon that holds up the awning over the women’s sleeping area. You watch her approach Javier, who pats her shoulder affectionately before handing her a revolver, which she tucks into a pocket of her skirt. She heaves herself up to his horse’s saddle, and slides onto Boaz’s rump before Javier swings up as well.

Several of the men mount their horses, armed to the teeth. Watching them intently, you finally understand the true essence of what this group is.

Outlaws. Gunslingers. Thieves and robbers and killers. Running into any of these men on the road would give you a heart attack - and most likely end in death or worse.

Jenny waves from atop Boaz’s rump, as Javier urges the horse into a canter. The group of horses thunders out of the camp, following Dutch’s snow-white stallion down the ridge. As the dust settles, you see Hosea walking toward Silver Dollar, a rifle in his hand and his hat on his head. You move toward him, meeting him at the horse around the same time.

“I thought you weren’t going on the job?” You ask him as he swings himself up onto Silver Dollar with a groan. Hosea shakes his head as he coughs, a rasping, deep rattle from his lungs that makes you step closer to him, placing your hand on his knee in concern.

He shakes his hand at you as he clears his throat. “I’m fine, ‘m fine.”

Hosea places his hand over yours and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Arthur and I are just gonna swing by town to keep an eye on things.”

You notice Arthur out of the corner of your eye, fastening a rifle into Boadicea’s saddle. 

“We’ll be back before you know it.” Hosea smiles down at you, tapping your hand quickly before moving up and taking his mount’s reins. You step back as Silver Dollar whinnies.

Arthur climbs up into his saddle, rolling his shoulders as he settles himself in. With a soft clink of his spurs into the horse’s side, he urges her forward, past you, and toward the entrance to the camp. He nods to you under his worn black hat, and you return the greeting.

Hosea lifts his hat off his head quickly before placing it back, a smile wide on his face. He follows Arthur, his horse quickening to a trot to leave the camp.

You watch them off into the woods, and with that, the camp falls quiet, more than half of the members and horses gone. Leftover are mostly women, little Jack, and a handful of men. Reverend Swanson and Uncle, three sheets to the wind, even early enough this morning. Strauss, the money-lender. Bill and Lenny with shotguns slung over their shoulders on watch.

Sighing to yourself, you rub your upper arms to stave off the chill that has just fallen upon you. You take out your shawl from your bag, wrapping it over your shoulders.

Spying Susan Grimshaw bustling at the other side of the camp, you take the opportunity of her distraction to quickly make your way toward the entrance to the camp, the worn-down trail that the horses just trampled through.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Bill scowls at you as you pass him at his watch post.

“Just down the way - tryin’ to hide from Grimshaw.”

Bill flits his gaze toward the camp, then back to you. He grunts in agreement, spying Miss Grimshaw tutting around the mostly empty camp.

“Don’t go gettin’ yourself in any trouble,” Bill adds gruffly, as you step past him down the trail. He adjusts his old military hat on his head. You nod in return and continue on your way.

The outlaw camp is set off a bit from the main road, the noise and activity hidden by a large logging camp and busy railroad tracks. Whilst the top of the ridge provided solace in its stillness, the road and the Appleseed Timber Company down the way show that indeed, this rugged forest is connected to the outside world.

You reach the road in only a few minutes, but warily do not go nearer to the timber camp - men at work tend not to look at a woman on her own kindly. Instead, you creep along the roadside quietly, reaching a large outcropping of rock opposite the large train trestle, set back just behind the wood line.  You take the opportunity to climb up the rock, edging yourself along its flattened surface to sit on the overhang. You sigh as you make yourself as comfortable as you can, spreading your skirts out on the rock. 

The vantage you get from the rock is quite the view though, above the railroad and logging camp, timber men near like ants in the distance.

The wooden trestle shakes as a passenger train rumbles by overhead, heading north toward Ambarino. You absentmindedly kick your legs back and forth as you watch it pass - knowing that in many hours, maybe a day, the train would rumble into Saint Denis, hot and dirty and full of people.

You pull your knees up to your chest, looping your arms around them as you watch the train steam by, men slowly felling trees in the background.

After seeing what was laying in wait for you in Blackwater, you know now, there’s no place else you can go.

You’re in this, no matter how much you don’t want to be.

-

END CHAPTER II: DIABLO RIDGE

[grunge-mermaid]

grunge rewatches midsomer murders pt 2

full disclosure: I'm mostly knitting and kind of watching bc I'm still rotted only season 1 of Little Mosque on the Prairie is available on prime & if I want to watch the rest I have to sign up for Disney+

but anyway, here's pt 2 of That Corpse Is Breathing Pretty Deeply Fellas You Sure She's Dead?

2x01 Death's Shadow

opening with a flashback. always a good omen. Gerald/Liam started with a flashback and that episode was fucking wild man

Judy Parfitt...Judy Parfitt...

I know I could look her up but I want to be surprised by how I know her

no Joyce don't fall victim to the wedding industrial complex

OH

SISTER MONICA JOAN

OF COURSE IT'S SISTER MONICA JOAN

I FUCKING LOVE SISTER MONICA JOAN

ahh good old Badger's Drift

all the good murders happen in Badger's Drift

"the head bounced into the hall" yikes

I knew there was a beheading in Badger's Drift I just got the episodes mixed up

why are there so many abusive husbands in these villages

well that hymn definitely isn't shared with the UCC

and we're back in the One And Only Lawyer's Office Set

oh that's a good murder

so dramatic and intense

love it

that corpse definitely isn't breathing

no lungs left

side effect of being burned to a crisp

please tell me someone's going to get an arrow through the neck

Chekhov's quiver

fine I'll settle for an arrow in the back

a character called Fletcher getting killed by a bow & arrow. beautiful

*gets caught in bed with a 19yo man* "I am not a homosexual, it disgusts me" baby boy... let me introduce you to the concept of internalized homophobia

"we never meant to hurt him" YOU LYNCHED A CHILD

WHY WOULD YOU PUT A NOOSE AROUND A CHILD'S NECK AND MAKE HIM STAND ON A RICKETY CHAIR ON UNEVEN GROUND IF YOU NEVER MEANT TO HURT HIM

gotta love it when the corpses don't breathe. such a rarity on this show

2x02 Strangler's Wood

only rated 13+? that doesn't bode well

this is the episode that was on PBS the other day that made me want to rewatch the series

they censored the word "shit"

idk why you can't say "shit" after 9pm on American television

anyway...let the commentary commence

if I didn't know that was Phyllis Logan I wouldn't believe it

11yo boys in the woods before school is never good

grown ass man can't take care of himself

stop infantalizing your husbands challenge 1998

ahh there's some good old fashioned victim blaming

I do appreciate a good Obvious Red Herring

I think one of the writers has a choking fetish

that comment's gonna get me some bots isn't it

"help my son is gay" "get a life"

I know I only watched this the other day but I already forget if they address why Kate Merrill recognizes Troy's name

like obviously he's written to her agony column, at least that's how they're setting it up, but I don't remember if they actually address it

"she's being dying for about 6 years now. we're getting used to it"

hey it's a Jenny Lind bed! *proceeds to sing Heave Away on loop in my head*

Come get your duds in order cause we're bound to cross the water

Heave away me jollies heave away

Come get your duds in order cause we're bound to leave tomorrow

Heave away me jolly b'ys we're all bound away

it's just not the same without Connor Bedard

what is with the kids in these villages? is there something in the water that makes them all psychopaths?

the continuity in this show is *chef's kiss*

gotta reference every previous case always

...is this what straight men find attractive?

is that cigarette ad supposed to be sexy?

I love the Terrible American Accent that is specific to shows like this

got distracted by making a knitting pattern more complicated than it needs to be because intentionally stressing myself out over a lace wedding veil is more interesting than rewatching an episode I just saw like 2 days ago

I'll try to be more focused for the next ep but for now it's eurovision performances and then bed

2x03 Dead Man's Eleven

ah fuck it's cricket themed I'm gonna be completely out of my depth

full disclosure: it's nearly 40c (104f) and I don't have air conditioning so if my computer (or my brain) overheats, the commentary will be brief

like this

nearly 20mins in and I have no clue what's going on because my brain is soup

haunted museum? 350-year-old family feud? that's all I've got

something about smoked mackerel

good god the sound on my parents tv is fucking awful

the music and screaming are painfully loud but the dialogue is barely audible

I get that Sandra is traumatized and all but jesus everything she says is a piercing shriek

wait a minute

the episode description mentioned cricket

why is there no cricket yet?

I want to steal my cat's cooling mat

can I make it through the last 30 minutes before taking a nap?

why am I not intrigued by this episode? is it boring? is it the difficult-to-hear dialogue making the episode hard to follow even with captions? is it the heat making it impossible to focus? we may never know

hard to tell if the corpse is breathing when it's buried

good lord that was the longest 7 minutes of my life how is there still 23 minutes to go?

*makes impatient "wrap it up" gesture*

OH MARTYR WARREN. it's a place!

I thought they've been saying Marta since 1x01

I assumed they were talking about a person who lived in Midsomer

someone everyone knows, runs a cute little shop or something, pillar of the community, everyone's nan kind of person

one of those characters who's always referenced but never seen. like Villix'pran or Captain Boday on DS9

apparently this is actually 3x04 Beyond The Grave. the real 2x03 has a really great cast (Imelda Staunton, Annabelle Apsion, Robert Hardy, Toby Jones). can't tell you who any of these folks are though

3 minutes left...

of course they read daily mail

but at least they're critical of it

ok nap time. summer is the worst.

2x04 Blood Will Out

the heat broke and my parents have gone out so I get the good tv tonight. let's wrap up season 2

Martyr Warren. of course it's set in Martyr Warren

this ep is about Travellers, it's gonna be culturally insensitive isn't it?

who is this guy

OH

he's Gibbs from Pirates of the Carribean

Hector Bridges reminds me of Dr Bombay

ok so far this isn't as bad as I expected

there's still an hour and a half to prove me wrong though

like yeah there are townspeople who are being dicks but so far the police have just said "please don't litter and please leave when you said you would"

"I'm not kinky"

no shit Troy

you're so repressed vanilla is too spicy for you

and that's coming from me

Barnaby gets points for the casual use of the singular they

please tell me those are not morris dancers in blackface

I do appreciate that the rich bigots are the baddies here and not the travellers like you would expect from a nearly 30 year old show

also appreciate the widow not grieving her abusive husband

"the killer did us a favour"

Wife Swap: version 2.0

ah there we go

Troy being the asshole we know and hate

love me some gossipy bitches gossiping about murder over a game of scrabble

this is some spec ops shit isn't it

nope not spec ops just a corrupt commander

Troy may be as kinky as a slice of wonder bread, but the writers of this show are definitely into some shit

or has AO3 just completely ruined me and I see kink where there is none?

"I made the classic mistake of not believing you had been abused" a cop making a good and sincere apology? I'm shocked

murdering someone with a shotgun while dressed in all white is a bold move girl

well that's season 2 over and done with I guess. see you back here for season 3.

[johnhuffman01]

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[author-morgan]

Deliverance † Arthur Morgan

Two: Eastbound and Down Chapter Summary:  With renewed strength and the weather finally clearing, the gang ride down from the mountains, meaning to set up camp somewhere the weather is warmer.     Masterlist

     COLTER IS AN old mining town buried in the snow of the West Grizzlies and where the Van der Linde gang has made camp for now. It's freezing and Pearson, among others, isn't happy there's another mouth to worry about feeding. They'd lost Jennie and Davey but already replaced them with three new hungry bellies —Sadie Adler, Kieran Duffy, and now Lilian Cornwall.

    "Here" —Arthur holds out a tin cup of watery venison stew as he kneels next to the fireplace— "ain't much but can't have you witherin' away." Unable to hide the rumble of her stomach, Lilian takes the stew, gingerly nursing the bland broth and watching as Arthur stokes the fire 'fore adding another warped piece of lumber.

    Dry wood crackling in the hearth permeates the tense silence until the shrill howl of the cold wind starts back up, whipping at the door of the small cabin and under the tin roof. Lilian Cornwall glimpses the stern look on Arthur Morgan's rugged face as he stares into the dancing flames from under the brim of a worn gambler's hat. His lips set into a harsh line half-hidden behind the unkempt beginnings of a beard and blue-green eyes shining with flecks of gold from the fire and lanterns. Sitting aside the empty cup, Lilian brings her knees up to her chest, shrinking into the torn and stained fustian coat.

    The warmth is chased away by the cabin door swinging open —snow skitters across the uneven floor with a great gust of wind. "Dutch," Arthur greets, gaze tracking the gang's leader as he moves fireside, peeling off a pair of thick leather gloves and righting an upturned stool. He sits with a flourish, pushing back the hem of his thick, black winter coat and stretches his hands out toward the fire. With an audible sigh, Dutch Van der Linde turns his attention to Lilian Cornwall.

    Her pensive stare reminds him of the card in his pocket. Bill had been so kind as to offer it up after getting back to the camp. The portrait is already a few years old, three or four if memory serves her right —they curled her dark hair and placed a crown of white lilies upon her head. Rising Stars, a collection of young entrepreneurs and doe-eyed beauties sure to make it far. Lilian Cornwall made card number twelve. Dutch tosses the cigarette card down between her and Arthur, lips curving into a smile.

    "How is our Lily doing?" It's a saccharine question with no sincerity. She spares a glance but does not reply —silence is answer enough. "Don't worry, Miss Cornwall. We're jus' biding our time until the moment's right."

    Once the weather cleared, they'd pick up camp again —no one wanted to linger up here longer than needed, and it'd put more distance between them and Blackwater. She watches Arthur pick up the card, turning it over to see the list of names in the collection. "Then you'll let me go?" The question is meek. Lilian doesn't like feeling helpless or sounding so weak —she is a Cornwall. Her name alone commands respect and authority. She's the same woman who'd secured over six thousand dollars in new investors for Cornwall Kerosene and Tar within the past week, successful in her own right. But Dutch Van der Linde makes her feel uneasy, more so than the rest of his rabble of outlaws.

    "Of course," he grins with something lurking in that unsettling smile —the first cracks of madness shining through, unseen by those closest to him but clear to Lily. "Of course, my dear." It's meant as reassurance, but a knot forms in her stomach, a growing realization she might never leave. Dutch rises, stretching his back and slipping his black riding gloves back on. He stands by the fire for a moment longer, warming his aging bones before going back to his Irish rose. "See that she don't freeze, Mr. Morgan," he says from the door, flooding the small cabin with the frozen night air again.

    Lilian shivers, in part from the cold, but mostly because of Dutch Van der Linde. Arthur hangs his head with a nigh silent sigh. He's not one for words —never has been— and he knows Lilian Cornwall won't believe anything he says any more than she believes an outlaw will keep his word. When he glimpses her again, she's staring into the fire with a blank expression, tears sliding down her rosy cheeks.

    Arthur brings a patchwork quilt from one of the side rooms, draping it around her before sitting back near the fire. He knows they've messed up big this time —knows Hosea will agree with him on that�� but Dutch has a plan, and he doubts anyone will be able to talk him out of it. The Van der Linde gang's luck seems to be changing, but Arthur can't say now whether it's for better or worse. Lilian shifts, watching as he takes off his worn hat and rakes one of his hands through his hair —only a few shades lighter than her own. "Won't be too much longer 'fore we can get out of here," he says, voice a low rasp and laced with exhaustion —the last weeks were more than enough to make sleep hard to come by.

    HE HAS SILVER hair and a kind smile, introducing himself as Hosea Matthews in the early hours of the morning. The sun should be on the rise, but the snow clouds haven't broken yet, and a cold wind still whips down the main road of the abandoned mining town and at the tin roofs and windows. Hosea makes himself comfortable next to the fire, bringing up a chair. "Coffee?" He offers a cup to Lilian, and she takes it with a nod, glad to have the warmth in her hands if nothing else.

    She takes a sip, the bitterness catching her off guard —twisting her nose and lips when her face scrunches up. Hosea chuckles, though it turns to a fit of coughing. The cold air only made his lungs ache and cough worse. Arthur appears from one of the side rooms and claps him on the back, the fit subsides, and his smile returns. "Used to cream and sugar?" He asks, remembering how sweet and watered down some rich folk took their tea and coffee.

    "Two sugars and a splash of milk," Lilian answers —the same way her father took his coffee, just enough to dull the bitter taste, but not so much you forgot it was a cup of coffee. There's little to speak of, but Hosea is decent company, offering to play a game of cribbage or war if only to take her mind off the circumstances, especially given Arthur's absence.

    The next morning, there's a break in the snow and the first glimpse of blue skies anyone has seen in weeks. It's time to make a move and get out of Grizzlies, though instead of pushing west, the only way left to go is east, into New Hanover. Lilian wakes to a ruckus of creaking wagon wheels, shouts, and nickering horses. Arthur and Hosea mentioned heading out soon last night, but neither thought the weather would clear so quickly.

    Sitting up, she runs a hand over her face, lingering by the dying embers of the fire for a while longer. Folding the quilt, she drapes it around her shoulders, stepping out into the brisk air, watching as the Van der Linde gang work with practiced haste —breaking camp and packing it away into a line of wagons on the main road. For now, she's invisible, likely for the best.

    Arthur Morgan is standing off to the side of the wagon line, brushing the mane of a silver Turkoman. He doesn't notice Lilian until she stretches out a hand, stroking Silver Dollar's neck, up to his withers, admiring the fine beast. Arthur hides his surprise under the brim of his hat —most of the gang's horses didn't take kindly to others in the camp, let alone a stranger. "Where are we going?"

    Given her position, she doesn't expect a response, at least not an honest one, but his lips twitch upward, and his gaze darts to her. "Warmer weather, I hope," Arthur remarks —not quite remembering what Hosea called the place in New Hanover. He leads the Turkoman to one of the wagons, securing him to the tongue next to a bay roan Ardennes.

    Hosea lays a hand on Lilian's shoulder, gesturing to the last wagon of the caravan. It's time to clear out of Colter and leave the frozen hellscape of the West Grizzlies behind. "Why don't you ride with Arthur and I, Miss Cornwall?" He suggests, leading her to the rear of the wagon where Arthur is loading the last of the crates. "Think you'll find us to be better company than most of this lot."

    Arthur shakes his head to keep from laughing, he knows when Hosea is making jokes at his own chagrin. "Didn't know you thought so highly of me, Hosea." The old man laughs, patting Arthur on the shoulder —their smiles and mirth contagious. Lilian hides a fleeting smile behind the quilt's edge, noting something oddly endearing about these two outlaws. Hosea secures the last crate, circling the wagon to clamber up into the seat. Arthur offers his hand, helping Lilian up and over some of the crates and rolls of canvas to a space nestled behind the seat. "Good?" He asks, and she nods, knowing she'll at least be a little better once they're out of the mountains.

    The wagon lurches forward when Arthur snaps the reins to the two draft horses, and with a cautious pace, they clear Colter and turn southward, trudging through knee-deep snow down the mountain and past frozen lakes. Then the snow begins to clear down path, and the sun feels warmer than it had before. Hosea shifts in the wagon seat, looking back where a forlorn young lady sits, watching the trees pass with a distant, empty look in her eyes. He knows it's only a rouse —he'd seen the fear in her eyes and the tearstains on her cheeks. If Dutch had only listened, maybe they could be heading west. Instead, the Van der Linde gang is eastbound with only a handful of rail bonds and the daughter of one of the most powerful men in the country. "I'm sorry, my dear" —he reaches for her hand with a sad smile— "I really am."

[opera-ghosts]

Adelina Patti's voice was one of moderate power, but great range and of wonderful flexibility. Her production was faultless, and she was, and is, undoubtedly, one of the greatest mistresses of vocalization of the century. As an actress, she could not com- pare with many other singers, and her greatest successes were gained in such operas as made the least demand upon the histrionic capabilities of the performer. Her repertoire included about thirty operas, mostly of the Italian school, though she also sang in the operas of Meyerbeer and Gounod, and others. She was one of the many " Carmens ; " but while her interpretation vocally was excellent, she was by no means equal dramatically to Mile. Hauk, and much less so to Calv6, the latest and by far the greatest interpreter of that role. One of the most notable events of Madame Patti's career occurred when, in 1868, at the funeral of Rossini, the com- poser, she sang with Madame Alboni the beautiful duet, " Quis est Homo," from Ros- sini's " Stabat Mater." On that occasion such an assembly of noted musicians and singers was gathered together to honor the great composer as probably never before met under the same roof. To hear that beautiful music, rendered by two such artists over the grave of the composer, was to feel in the truest sense the genius of Rossini, and the part that he played in the music of the nineteenth century.

The name of Patti has always been asso- ciated with high prices, and not without cause ; for, although other singers have received larger sums for isolated engagements, none have ever succeeded in maintaining such a uniformly high rate.

When she returned to America in 1881, after an absence of some twenty years, Patti held mistaken notions about the American people, and her early concerts were a bitter disappointment. High prices and hackneyed songs did not suit the public, and in order to make a success of the tour Madame Patti was obliged to throw over her French manager, and employ an American (Henry E. Abbey) who knew the public, and who immediately cut the prices down to one-half. Eventually the season was suc- cessful, both artistically and financially, her voice showing but little sign of wear, and her execution being as brilliant as ever. At Brooklyn the people took the horses out of her carriage, and dragged her home, one facetious writer remarking that he saw no reason for taking away her horses, and sub- stituting asses. The following clever rhyme, at the expense of her manager, taken from " Puck,' r voices the opinion of the public very neatly, in regard to Patti's tour, in 1881-2: Patti cake, Patti cake, Franchi man ! " So I do, messieurs, comme vite as I can." " Roulez et tournez et marquez ' with care,' Et posez au publique a ten dollars a chair."

Farinelli is said to have made $30,000 per annum, a very large sum for the times in which he lived. Catalani's profits ran almost to $100,000 a season. Malibran re- ceived $95,000 for eighty-five performances at La Scala. Jenny Lind, for ninety-five concerts, under Barnum's management, re- ceived $208,675, all good figures. But Rubini is said to have made $11,500 at one concert, and Tamagno is the highest-priced tenor of the present day.

Patti at one time made a contract for a series of performances at $4,400 a night, and later on her fee was $5,000 a night, paid in advance, but when she came to Boston in 1882, and sang in three performances given in a week, her share of the receipts was $20,895. The attendance at the Saturday matinee was 9,142 people, and her share of the receipts for that performance alone was $8,395.

Madame Patti always had the advantage of excellent management. Until her mar- riage with the Marquis de Caux she was under the management of her brother-in-law, Mau- rice Strakosch, and so assiduous was he in his protection of his young star from unnec- essary wear and tear that he became the subject of many jokes. It is said that he occasionally took her place at rehearsals, that when visitors called on her they saw him instead, and some people, with vivid imagination, declared that Strakosch sat for Patti' s photograph, and that he once offered to receive a declaration of love for her.

One is apt to doubt the necessity of all this management, for Patti seems to have been admirably adapted for self-defence, and even for aggression in financial matters. An amusing anecdote is told of her by Max Maretzek, who, one day, when she was a small child, in a moment of generosity prom- ised her a doll, or, as some accounts have it, some bon-bons as a reward for singing in a concert. It was to be her very first appear- ance. Patti did not forget the promise, and when it was nearly time for her to sing she asked for her doll. Maretzek had forgotten it, and promised that she should have it after the concert, or the next day. But no, she must have it first, or she would not go on and sing. The poor man was in despair. It was late and stores were all closed, but by some means he succeeded in getting the bribe, whether dolls or bon-bons, and, rushing back in breathless haste, he handed it to her. Then she became cheerful at once, and giving it to her mother to be taken care of, she went on and performed her part in the concert.

One of the most amusing of these anec- dotes was told by Colonel Mapleson, the well-known impresario, who says that no one ever approached Madame Patti in the art of obtaining from a manager the great- est possible sum that he could contrive by any possibility to pay. In 1882, owing to the competition of Henry Abbey, the Ameri- can impresario, Mapleson was obliged to raise Patti's salary from $1,000 per night to $4,000, and, finally, to $5,000 per night, a sum previously unheard-of in the annals of opera. The price, moreover, was to be paid at two o'clock of the day on which Patti was to sing.

On the second night of the engagement at Boston, Madame Patti was billed to sing in "Traviata." Expenses had been heavy and the funds were low, so that when Signor Franchi, Patti's agent, called at the theatre promptly at two o'clock, only $4,000 could be scraped together. Signor Franchi was indignant, and declared that the contract was broken, and that Madame Patti would not sing. He refused to take the $4,000, and went off to report the matter to the prima donna. At four o'clock, Signer Franchi returned to the theatre, and con- gratulated Colonel Mapleson on his facility for managing Madame Patti, saying that she would do for the colonel that which she would do for no other impresario. In short, Patti would take the $4,000 and dress for her part, all except her shoes. She would arrive at the theatre at the reg- ular time, and when the remaining paltry $1,000 was forthcoming she would put on her shoes and be ready to go on the stage.

Everything happened as Patti had prom- ised. She arrived at the theatre costumed as Violetta, but minus her shoes. Franchi called at the box-office, but only $800 was on hand. The genial Signer took the money and returned to Patti' s room. He soon ap- peared again to say that Madame Patti was all ready except one shoe, which she could not put on until the remaining $200 was paid. It was already time for the perform- ance to begin, but people were still coming in, and after some slight delay Signor Franchi was able to go in triumph to Madame Patti with the balance of the amount. Patti put on her other shoe and proceeded to the stage. She made her entrance at the proper time, her face radiant with smiles, and no one in the audience had any idea of the stirring events which had just taken place.

In later years, when Madame Patti in- vested some of her fortune in the beautiful castle at Craig-y-Nos, in Wales, the people employed to put the place into repair, know- ing of her reputed wealth and extravagance, sent in enormous bills. But Madame Patti was not to be imposed upon, and the result was that the amounts melted down consider- ably under the gentle influence of the law. The unkindest cut of all was, however, when a Belgian gentleman, who had amused him- self at Craig-y-Nos, who had fished, shot, and been entertained, but who always managed to be present during discussions on business, sent in a bill of ,3,000 for his services as agent.

Under the management of Colonel Maple- son, Patti travelled in most luxurious style. She had a special car which is said to have cost $65,000, and a whole retinue of ser- vants. At Cheyenne, the legislature and assembly adjourned and chartered a special car to meet the operatic train. A military band was at the station, and nearly the whole population turned out to witness the arrival. Tickets to the opera were ten dollars each, and there was an audience of 3,000 people.

California seems to have been considered doubtful territory, for Patti left the question undecided as to whether she would go so far. When she did arrive it was merely as a vis- itor, but her delight with the "heavenly place " was so great that she declared she must sing there. The necessary delay in- curred by sending to Chicago for numerous trunks containing her wardrobe, gave suffi- cient time for the excitement in San Fran- cisco to work up to fever heat. Tickets sold at unheard-of prices, and more or less damage to property was done in the scramble.

Adelina Patti made her first matrimonial venture in 1868, when she was united to the Marquis de Caux, an event which did not interfere with her operatic career, for she filled an engagement of six weeks at Paris, and then went on to St. Petersburg, where the town opened a subscription which amounted to 100,000 rubles, and presented her with a diamond necklace.

In 1885 Madame Patti obtained a divorce from the Marquis de Caux, from whom she had separated in 1877, and the following year married Ernest Nicolini, the tenor singer. Nicolini was a man of fine stage presence, and, for a time, after the retire- ment of Mario, was considered the best tenor on the stage. His voice was of mod- erate power and of pleasing quality, but his tremolo was, to say the least, extensive. For some years Madame Patti declined every engagement in which Nicolini was not included, until the public indignation found vent in many protests. Signer Nicolini seems to have been a devoted and admiring husband, and to have entered heartily into the pleasures of the luxurious life of Craig-y-Nos. He died in January, 1898.

After some years of retirement from the operatic stage, during which she sang only in concerts, Patti made a reappearance at Covent Garden in 1895, and showed that her voice, notwithstanding nearly forty years of use, was wonderfully well preserved. Nev- ertheless it was a disappointment to those who had heard her in her prime. As a reason for its preservation she says that she never sings when she is tired, and never strains for high notes. Sir Morell Macken- zie, the great throat specialist, said that she had the most wonderful throat he ever saw. It was the only one in which the vocal cords were in absolutely perfect condition after many years of use. They were not strained, warped, or roughened in the slight- est degree, but absolutely perfect, and there was no reason why they should not remain so for ten or even twenty years longer. It was by her voice alone that she charmed and delighted her audiences, and she will doubt- less be recorded as the possessor of the most perfect voice of the nineteenth century. She witnessed the rise of many rivals, but none ever equalled her in popularity, though many excelled her in dramatic powers. Lucca, Sembrich, Nilsson, were all greater as ac- tresses, but of all the rivals of her prime only Sembrich and Albani remain, and sev- eral years must elapse before their careers will equal the length of Patti's.

Probably no other singer has succeeded in amassing so great a fortune as Madame Patti. Her earnings enabled her to purchase, in 1878, the beautiful estate in Wales, which she remodelled to suit her own ideas. Here she has lived in regal style and entertained lavishly many of the most noted people of the civilized world.

Her wealth is by no means confined to real estate, for she has a rare collection of jewels, said to be the largest and most bril- liant owned by any of the modern actresses and opera singers. One of her gowns, worn in the third act of " La Traviata," was cov- ered with precious stones to the value of $500,000.

Madame Patti's most popular r61es were Juliet and Aida, and though she created no new parts of importance, she has amply fulfilled the traditional role of prima donna in matters of caprice and exaction, and has even created some new precedents. In 1898 she was still before the public, singing in concerts in London and elsewhere.

via Famous singers of to-day and yesterday by Lahee, Henry Charles, 1856-1953.

[desertdollranch]

Crafts masterpost

This post is my gift to you all to thank you for doing your part in staying home and easing the current public health crisis. I encourage you to continue doing so, and while you are at home indoors, to keep your hands busy with making things. So I have here, under the cut, a full list of every craft of mine that I’ve featured on my blog. Each post features either full-length tutorial, or a description of how I made it, or pictures at the very least to help inspire. 

And since I also appreciate those of you who are fans of the stories or the history but don’t own any dolls, many of these don’t necessarily have to be made for a doll. Crafts like dyeing yarn with onion skins, or cross stitch, or loom weaving, are skills that can be used to make human-sized projects as well. I have marked all of these types of tutorials with two asterisks ** at the end of the line. For those of you that like kitchen crafts, I have also included recipes in the list; those are marked with a ^^ at the end of the line.

I will continue to update it as I make more craft-oriented posts. I will also add it to the header of my blog for easy access. Sections are organized by character name, with sections at the end for modern dolls or for any dolls.

Kaya:

foods & tule mat

twig horses

travois

Felicity:

Noah’s ark

quill pen & ink **

hornbook

queen cakes

fashion doll

rescue kit

bird bottle and whistle

summertime amusements

winter amusements

pomander ball **

marbled paper copybook **

undergarments

party games & crafts **

Felicity Just For Fun pages ** 

apple butter ^^

valentines

Shrewsbury cakes ^^

cross stitch sampler **

birthday treats & dishes

Caroline

embroidered map

chicken scratch embroidery **

travel basket

parlor

birthday treats & gifts

Josefina:

rancho room

lantern, chiles, & hen

reading & writing supplies

winter hat & purse

weave on a loom **

canteen

corn cobs

adobe oven

kitchen supplies

toy farm

hen pincushion **

appliqued treasure box **

cornhusk dolls **

lunch bag & foods

yarn dyed with black beans **

pet hen with eggs

pon game **

colcha embroidery **

bizcochito cookies ^^

pumpkin empanaditas ^^

prickly pear jelly ^^

Mexican hot chocolate ^^

Marie-Grace and Cecile:

printable Jenny Lind paper dolls

daguerreotypes **

cameo necklace **

Mardi Gras masks **

Kirsten:

cabin bedroom

Dala horses **

yarn doll **

fourth of July accessory set

printable paper dolls

printable rewards of merit

school supplies & lunch

thaumatrope toy **

onion skin dyed yarn **

spoon bag, bonnet, handkerchief etc.

recess set

Saint Lucia accessories

baby cradle, stenciled box, & washstand

party games & crafts **

Saint Lucia buns & pepparkakor ^^

pioneer potato soup ^^

rice porridge ^^

homemade butter ^^

Swedish pancakes ^^

Addy:

kite **

appliqued pillow **

hobby horse **

ice cream freezer

school supplies & lunch

winter fun

hooked rug **

birthday treats

bandbox

Mother Goose book

vegetable garden

party games & crafts **

sweet potato pone ^^

spool puppets **

mancala board & how to play **

corn pudding ^^

Samantha: 

printable paper dolls

party games & crafts **

Rebecca:

bedroom accessories

Sabbath set

school supplies & lunch

hat, shawl, & pin

phonograph

high-button boots

carnival games

Hanukkah set

Molly:

printable paper dolls

party games & crafts **

victory bread ^^

pin the tail on the donkey printable

Isabelle:

sewing room

dance bag

Kanani

Hawaiian souvenirs

beach bag

shave ice shack

body board

Saige

easel & paints

sketchbook & portfolio

horse training set

silver & turquoise bracelets

art show

hot air balloon & birthday lunch

Grace:

bistro set

pastry cart

Modern dolls: 

camp stove & chair

skis & snowshoes

denim backpack

telescope

nature explorer set

cookie boxes

hermit crab habitat **

reptile terrarium **

snow globe **

computers

engineering project

hats made from old socks

camera

iced coffee

donuts

Halloween candy

gingerbread houses

CDC-recommended face mask

hand sanitizer, soap, disinfectant spray, etc.

For any doll:

four recipes for homemade clay **

doll-sized books

chess set

necklaces

hearing aids

doll shirt from baby onesie

socks & tights

baby chickens

baby sleeper from an old teddy bear

[whirlybirbs]

    ✪ ------ 1. OF ROBBERY, KIDNAPPING & MURDER.

summary: the van der linde gang aims to beat the o’driscolls to the punch in kidnapping the bride-to-be of a railroad magnate named waylon robbins. for miss turner, this is quickly becoming the worst day of her life... cue a botched kidnapping and symbolism abound. arthur called it, really. word count: 3.4k pairing: high honor!arthur morgan x female!reader, turner as a placeholder last-name. listen to: “kicks” by barn courtney a/n: i told you my one goal was to make you all fall in love with with arthur, so uhhhhhhh buckle the fuck up folks

“Kidnapping...?”

It sounds so damn simple when said aloud.

... All of Dutch van der Linde’s plans usually do.

Arthur Morgan, though, a man built on loyalty and fiercely so, would never openly admit he hates how easily the aging leader of the Van Der Linde gang can string him and the others along with the promise of success and cash. Swindling -- it’s like second nature to Dutch; he’s slippery and well-spoken and charming and cunning more than anything else in this world.

He’ll be a snake in the next life, Hosea used to say with wisdom and wit, Just you see.

There’s something respectable about it, though -- Arthur is aware he himself is far too easy to read to be some gallivanting gang leader destined to bring his people promises of fortune and health and all things good. He’s always been like that. His intentions show on his face. In moments like these, Arthur needs not to say a thing. Instead, his hesitation shines through in a scowl, his disposition morphed into something unimpressed and skeptical.

Hosea can’t help but hide a smile into his cup of coffee. The boy he’d nearly nursed is a man now -- through and through -- but still holds a youthful sort of ruggedness to him at times. Arthur is pouting. Plainly put.

“Kidnapping,” Arthur says again, sounding it out and not liking the taste it leaves in his mouth, “I dunno, Dutch...”

“Mr. Morgan,” it’s Karen who speaks then, looming over Arthur’s shoulder and pointing out the skepticism in question, “All I’ve been hearin’ is chatter about the O’Driscolls --”

Her voice is eager. Ever an excitable woman.

“And wouldn’t it be nice to beat Colm to the punch?” cracks Micah, as if he’s some kind of puppet for Dutch.

Kiss ass.

The rickety wooden table in the center of van der Linde’s camp has gathered nearly everyone -- save for Abigail and little Jack -- and Arthur is suddenly very aware of the eyes glued to him.

The outlaw crosses his arms, pushing a hand along his jaw. A low rumble works itself from his throat.

“So, what? We kidnap some girl for money,” Arthur drawls on, sounding out the plan, “Ransom her off, expectin’ th’ law, who, mind you is still diggin’ through the hills of West Elizabeth lookin’ for us, to ignore it? We’re still getting our footing here an’ --”

“And cash would help,” says Dutch, “I understand your hesitation, my friend, but --”

“But, Arthur has a point,” Hosea, ever the voice of reason, musters, “This is going to garner attention.”

“Who is this lady anyway?”

It’s Mary-Beth who steps up, now, hands clasped tightly around her journal. “She’s the daughter of a lawyer from Point Pleasant, a town out West. Turner is the family name -- rumors been spreadin’ like wildfire that she’s due to marry some railroad magnate named Waylon Robbins.”

“Right,” Arthur scoffs with a bitterness everyone knows well, “A friend a’ Leviticus Cornwall, no doubt.”

“Brother-in-law, actually.”

“Yer kiddin’.”

“Not at all,” Mary-Beth insists, “Meaning there’s a lot of money here, Mr. Morgan, and that is why the O’Driscolls want to make the first move.”

“How’d y’ hear about this again?” Arthur leans back in his chair, knuckles drumming on the table before he waves and bites in with a questioning tone, “Can we confirm any of it?”

“Sure can,” John says, “Charles and I scouted out the area the girls heard them talkin’ about -- the O’Driscolls have set up camp there, no doubt ready to choke the carriages off when they hit the pass.”

Arthur spares Charles a look. He trusts him more than Morstan. Charles nods. Clapping Arthur’s shoulder.

“This could be good, Arthur.”

“... Seems like y’all have all made yer minds up, then.”

“We just need our best man, Arthur.”

That’s a plea if he’s ever heard one. Dutch is leaned forward now, hands on the table and eyes set on his left-hand man. Hosea, to the right, is quiet, watching as the blonde outlaw exhales.

Then, he sips his coffee.

After a moment of silence and weighing the odds, Arthur Morgan shrugs.

“Kidnapping, then.”

A chorus of woops circles the table.

The ride is miserable.

That’s really the only way you can describe it -- I mean, there you are, sweating bullets across from your bitter mother and bitter father and your less-than-amused younger sister. Jenny, though, spares you a single look and, from your left, nudges your elbow and offers you her fan.

You gratefully accept it. You feel like you could throw up.

Fwip, fwip, fwip.

You’re weighed down by the intricate gown your mother had insisted upon for this morning’s failure of a breakfast -- your hair had been done up an intricate plaits, pinned with pearls and the promise of marriage. The corset around your waist is awfully tight, maybe too tight, and your find yourself wishing you could just rip the plooms of fabric around your shoulders off. The high neckline might paint you all sorts of sophistication, but right now, it just makes you want to scream.

What you’d give to be back home, back at your desk. A good book would take the edge off.

Cue another miserable pass of more silence.

The carriage rocks and you hold your breath, trying desperately to stop the whole world from spinning. You’re tied between tunnel vision and hurling when your mother catches your eye.

Fwip, fwip, fwip, a bit more furiously now.

“ -- You surely can’t be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious,” you bite back with a woozy look, “I won’t --”

“Enough.”

You father doesn’t even look at you.

Miserable. Absolutely miserable.

And that’s when the yelling starts.

Overhead, a hawk cries.

The sand dances with mirages in the valley.

The carriage, a deep plum and with windows blocked by plush curtains, rocks along.

From his spot on the grassy overlook, Arthur drops his binoculars back into his sacel and pushes himself up into a squat. He taps Charles shoulder, beckoning to John. The both blink up at him, squinting into the sun.

Christ, it’s hot.

“Tha’s our lucky carriage,” he says, “Both of you, on me. We’re gunna run ‘em West of th’ gorge, Dutch an’ Micah an’ Hosea will choke ‘em off on th’ other side of th’ pass. Don’t wanna get the attention of the O’Driscolls now.”

The mid-day sun is beating on Arthur’s back when he beats into the stirrups and kicks his stead into a sprint -- the formation is lead by the blonde outlaw, quick to wind through the mountain pass. Bandanas and sleeves are pulled up, faces masked under the black material and brim of hats.

It’s something mighty terrible -- they are, all of them, outlaws and criminals and wanted men in this moment -- the sight of the them, holstered up and with fire in their eyes, might be enough to scare off even the most daring of lawmen. Arthur, in the heat of moments like these, is proud to be in thick with the thieves.

This feeling? It’s unstoppable.

And so, in a storm of dust and vicious jeers, the van der Linde gang descends upon the Turner family’s carriage.

“What in the fresh hell --”

A bullet tears through the middle of the carriage.

In one side, out the other. Straight between you and your father.

Symbolism is one hell of a thing, isn’t it?

You and your sister blink at it.

The furious fwip, fwip, fwip-ing of your fan stops and suddenly, the carriage kicks forward in a panicked sprint. You yelp, gripping Jenny tight as your mother flies into your lap with a screech. As if the jarring movements of the carriage hadn’t already been horrid, now it’s worse -- the yell of the driver rattles through the cabin.

“We’ve got a problem, Mr. Turner!”

You move, peeling aside the velvet curtains -- up along the ridge are three men on horses, pounding into the sand; the sight, if it wasn’t so real, could be considered awesome like something out of a story-book. Your jaw falls slack. Their faces are hidden beneath bandanas, guns gripped tight in one hand and reigns in the other.

Highwaymen.

Their whoops echo off the canyon walls.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

This is, officially, the worst day of your life.

Suddenly, your view is blocked by the dark side of a horse pulling up along the carriage -- you’re offered a single, humorous tip of a hat by the man in question, striking blue eyes pulled into a wildly devilish look. He spurs his horse on, moving to press himself up onto his saddle. His boots, polished jet-black with golden spurs, glint in the light.

And he jumps.

Arthur lands atop the carriage with a heavy thud, ribs screaming in protest. He’s sweatin’ like a pig now, gloved hand moving to grasp at his hat as he gets his footing. He pushes on, leaning as he digs his fists into the driver’s shoulders of his dress shirt.

“Sorry, pal.”

The carriage rocks and you blanch as the driver -- a kind man by the name of Thomas -- flies by your window with a horrible scream. You fly forward as the carriage is stopped dead in the middle of the canyon pass.

The carriage skids, tipping violently back and forth as it settle in the dirt. The dust kicked up around the carriage begins to settle as you realize you’re stopped in a standstill. 

There’s another cry of a hawk above.

This is an awfully well curated robbery, you think. The high, rocky walls of the gorge are blocking the carriage in and the circling of the highwaymen atop their horses becomes ever present.

Along with the laughter.

The outlaws are laughing.

Inside, the carriage is silent.

Jenny grips your hand.

“John,” it’s your mother, clinging to your father with a whisper, “What do we do?”

“We reason with them --”

You spare a look at your father, then, and his usual coolness is back -- his aging face is set with an angry sort of determination that is swiftly cut down when the door to the carriage is yanked open.

If this wasn’t life or death, maybe you would have gotten more satisfaction out of it.

“Hiya, folks.”

The gun pressed to the temple of your father riles a scream out of your mother. You and Jenny keep quiet, lips sealed tight, and you watch as the men seem to double in numbers -- suddenly, there’s three hauling your family from the carriage. You watch as Jenny is passed into a rough grip, one man helps her down and another trains his hands on her waist.

Stepping into the sun, you blink rather incredulously, at the act.

Irritation, born out of the heat and torture of the morning boils over.

When you emerge, struck square in the face by the heat of the summer sun, the gang falls into silence for a breaking moment, all eyes landing on you as you stand in the doorway of the carriage.

You’re certainly something -- a high-class girl poised in a dress worth more than him, he reasons. Your hair, swept into an intricate style, screams Paris couture and Arthur realizes that all the rumors the girls had overheard about you must be true. You look like you sleep on a mattress full of money.

Arthur shares a look of approval with Dutch.

This might actually work, this whole kidnapping thing.

“And you must be th’ Miss Turner we’ve all heard so much about.”

It’s a low drawl.

Arthur, sweeps his hat from his head, dropping into a rather mocking bow as you recognize him as the one who’d kindly chucked Thomas off the canyon five hundred feet back.

He’s something scary -- all muscle and broad shoulders and guns strapped to his hips and thigh. His eyes are wild with something you can’t pin down. You’re nearly sure you see a smirk behind his black bandana; the creeping tan along his arms calls to man who spends his afternoons running from lawmen. His hair is like gold, messed from the afternoon ride and lawless activities.

You decide, in that moment, you don’t like him.

From the bottom step of the carriage, he offers a hand.

You swat it away on instinct.

The look on your face is one of fire and determination.

You snap. “I can manage fine, thank you.”

That riles sudden laughter out of the gang. The one with the blue eyes gives a deep laugh then, his hat pressed to his abdomen as he does. He swipes at sweat along his brow, dropping a hand to his belt as he eyes you critically.

“And an attitude t’ boot!”

Anger flares in your chest, face twisted into a horribly mean look. You help yourself down on shaking knees. Your heels hit the hot dirt and you stumble; the summer heat of West Elizabeth is like a punch in the gut. Jenny is quick to glue herself to your side, fisting your dresses sleeves in a tight grip. You glance to the back of the carriage, watching as two other men begin to off load trunks of belongings onto their horses. You spot yours, a small black one, throw among their stash.

“Awfully kind a’ you folks t’ stop fer us,” says another highwayman now, “Now, if you’d --”

“If you’re smart,” bites your father, “You’ll let us go. I have money, I can write a check --”

“That,” the one with the blue eyes says as he raises a finger, “We know --”

“Then let us go!” cries your mother, “We’ll give you all we have and go on our way --”

“Betsy --”

“Shut up, John --!”

Suddenly, another gunshot. Everyone jumps as the sound ricochets around the red canyon.

It kicks dust between you and the blue-eyed outlaw.

Symbolism. What a thing.

Simple.

This was supposed to be simple.

This is not simple.

“O’Driscolls!”

The gang scatters on instinct, running like ants under a boot at the sudden appearance of at least ten O’Driscolls on the canyon’s ledge -- beneath the iron sights of their rifles, the gang is exposed and so is their damn loot; Arthur calls out to Charles and John quickly, fingers drawn between his lips as he whistles for his horse.

“Grab th’ girl!” he cries, “Grab ‘er an’ get outta here!”

He didn’t specify which girl.

Arthur, really, didn’t think he’d need to.

But, when the boys pull Jenny from you and throw her on the back of Charles’ horse, you’re left pinned to the back side of the carriage as bullets swiss in and out of the wood. Arthur’s eyes are pulled wide as he realizes you’re the one they needed -- he skids to the dirt at your feet, hand wrapping tight around your wrist as he pulls you towards his horse.

“Time t’ go, lady!”

“Let go of me!”

“Will you stop --!”

You land a good punch on his arm, kicking as he drags you up with a huff and pins you in-front of him on the saddle -- his horse bucks with an angry whinny and bucks. You pale, motion sickness roaring back up like a tide as you become a bit more passive.

Arthur calls out to Dutch and the others over his shoulder:

“Get the goods out of here -- we gotta go!”

Your eyes widen as horses begin to pour into the canyon behind you. You shriek as a bullet whizzes by your head and you swear you could feel the air on it. Your hands fist the saddle, voice pulling a startled yell from your throat as the outlaw kicks his golden spurs into the belly of the beast underneath you and sends you both flying into a sprint. Your back hits his chest, hair flying wildly.

Arthur sputters, spitting hair out of his mouth. He pulls a face before calling out.

“C’mon, boy! Hiya!”

The pace is grueling, fueled by the hot iron on their heels. Bullets are whizzing by left and right, the clobber of hooves filling your ears. You can feel him, the blue-eyed man, hunching over you, trying his best to protect you from the firefight. He snaps the reigns with a flick of his wrist, pulling his bandana down so he can breathe. He turns, looking back to check his six, losing his hat in the process.

The first time you ever get a good look at Arthur Morgan, he’s cursing like a sailor, sweating like a pig and running for his life.

As far as first impressions go, this is just about right.

The sudden change in sound of his horses hooves catches your attention and you blink down, noticing the change in terrain -- it’s a hollow sound.

You’re on railroad tracks.

You realize, suddenly, the outlaw is trying to make a pass, to hike up and around the bridge the other gang is trying to choke him off at -- but, when he hits the trail, Arthur tugs fast the other way. He can see O’Driscolls are lining the ridge to the South, towards camp, and the split decision in direction sends you both and his horse careening across a narrow bridge.

You blink down.

KAPLUNKKAPLUNKKAPLUNKKAPLUNK. The sound of the hooves on the bridge is panic inducing.

Twenty feet down, the Dakota river rushes by.

A bullet kicks wood splinter up ahead of you.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you scream in a rush over the wind, fingers gripping the saddle, “You’re going to kill us both!”

“Will you shut up?!”

Don’t remind me.

Down the valley, there’s at least fifteen men on horses following you, their rides splashing through a shallow end of the river as they cross fifty feet up the hill -- to your right, it’s the same; you’d be thankful if they were lawmen, but you have an inkling of a feeling these O’Driscoll boys are out to get the same thing as the man behind you on the saddle.

The bridge, though? Well, it’s a clear shot -- no winding trails and hills -- and as Arthur begins to pull ahead, begins to think this just might work...

The blaring horn of a train hits his ears as it exits the tunnel up ahead.

Your eyes widen.

His horse comes to a painfully sharp stop and you fly forward; the horse gives a horrible cry as it realizes the impending danger just as you both do.

“There’s -- oh no, no, no--”

“Yeah, I see it, damn it--”

“Train, train!”

Arthur turns back then, yanking the reigns in a panic and trying to speed his horse up, but -- there’s no way. Not with that 1,500 ton, coal swallowing, iron giant barreling towards them. Not with you and him both on the back of it. Arthur curses, eyes moving to the edge of the bridge as they ride at a breaking pace.

The river below is deep there. The water is dark blue, glittering in the high afternoon sun.

His eyes are wild, blinking back at the train over his shoulder.

“... Son of a bitch,” he grumbles, coming to the realization that this is going to have to happen.

Suddenly, he pulls back on the reigns, They stop. He swings his legs over the edge of his horse.

CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG! CHOOOOOOOOOOOO --

“What are you doing?!” you shriek again, kicking his hands away, clawing at the reigns.

“Nice day fer a swim, don’t you think --”

“What -- get off --!”

The horn blares, louder this time, and the chug of wheels rattle the bridge. You both turn to look, eyes pulled into panic. Arthur’s grip on your waist is tight, hauling you over his shoulder as he slaps the back of his horse, sending it off in a blink. You screech, clawing at his back as the train gets closer and closer and the bridge is shaking and the horn rattles your chest and it’s getting closer and closer and closer --

CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG --

And the last thing you see is the blue-eyed outlaw’s apologetic look as he hauls you and then himself off the bridge at Fool’s Pass.

-- CHOOOOoooooo!

SPLASH!

Kidnapping.

It’s always simpler said aloud.

[reddeadrevival]

Please check if the ask box is open AND read my “What I write” post before sending in an ask. Thank you.  

(A green heart means low/med. Angst)

Thank you for the love and support <3!

So turns out you submitted your ask as a… submission instead of an ask, lol. no big deal, I’m doing this and tagging you. @uwuttaja

This is kinda a deconstructed fic… it got long cause I just kept typing and typing and idk what happened.

This got long so ...

You hadn’t left on the best of terms with the gang

Some of them were sad to see you go

You shared hugs and “I’ll miss you”s

Others were angry that you’d abandon them like that

Were they not your family?

Didn’t you love them?

Were they not good enough for you anymore?

Those who were angry didn’t even see you off

...

They hadn’t seen you in years

There were some new faces you wouldn’t recognize

And a few missing faces that would make your heart ache

If you were to have a reunion with them it wasn’t meant to go like this

...

Arthur was the first one you saw

As he entered the train car you pointed your gun, as he pointed his

Thankfully the two of you paused long enough to see each other before either of you fired

He and the others had thought the train stopped because they fired their weapons in warning

In reality it was your gang that was there first

Your gang took out the driver and stopped the train

They heard gunshots and you went to confront whoever it was

You weren’t expecting him

He looked hurt and relieved at the same time

Hurt to see you again

Relieved to see you alive

You wanted to hug him

You’d missed them all so much

“What are you doin’ here?” he asks.

“We were here first.”

“We?” 

He frowns. You’d replaced them.

“We got less people than you. We’ll split it. For old times sake,” you offer

You hear footsteps and next see Javier and Sean

They stop dead in their tracks

Sean looks overjoyed

Javier looks angry

“Well, look at you!” Sean exclaimed. “Bet ya never though’ you’d hav’ ta deal wit’ me again!”

Sean was ready to hug you

Javier looked ready to shoot you

“They got here first” Arthur says “But they offered to split with us.”

“Robbin’ a train all by yerself, there?” Sean sounded proud and amused.

It’s then one of your men enter the car

“Boss, ya okay-?”

They pull out their gun but you hold up a hand and they lower it.

“Boss?” Arthur asks with a proud smile he’s trying and failing to hide

“Yeah,” you nod. “Didn’t want the title,” you add with a shrug.

“Didn’t give ‘em much choice,” your man says. “Rounded everything up this way.” He motions behind him.

You nod.

“We’ll take our leave then. They get the rest.” You motion to the three.

The four men look shocked for different reasons

“Yer not even gonna pop by an’ say hi?” Sean asks with a disappointed frown

“Boss, we only cleared two cars,” your man protests. 

There were about five more cars filled with supplies and such.

“They have more mouths to feed,” you tell him. “We have enough,”

“You sure?” Arthur asks

Javier is silent. 

He missed you

He can’t tell you that though

You left them

You betrayed them

You had replaced them

You were family 

and you just went and got a new one like they didn’t even matter

“Get the others, we’re leaving,” you tell your man.

Sean starts to whine but Javier smacks his arm

You turn and walk past your guy, leaving the car before hopping off the train

You whistle for your horse

Then you see them

Dutch, Lenny, Bill and a few unfamiliar faces.

The three look shocked while the others look confused.

Arthur exits the other side of the car and hops down

He walks up to Dutch to explain

You’re leaving everything in the last five cars to them

Dutch calls out to you and you stop as your horse reaches you

You make eye contact and he nods

You return the nod before mounting your horse

Three other horses approach upon the whistles of their owners

Then the four of you are off

Never to see the Van Der Linde Gang again

Or so you thought

…

It was as if fate was playing a sick joke on you

You saw them all again

Over the next week you had bumped into more and more of them

Mary-Beth and Tilly at the store

You almost started crying when they hugged you

Arthur again and Charles (Who you didn’t know) while out hunting

Arthur had to explain who you were

The three of you had been hunting two deer who ended up in the same area

You offered them the rabbits you had already gotten but they both refused

Bill, Micah (who you didn’t know), Javier and Lenny at a saloon one night

Lenny gave you a small wave and a sad smile

while Bill and Javier gave you the cold shoulder

Micah just sat there in confusion until someone explained

...

When Arthur bumped into you for the third time, 

You were sitting at a table at the saloon, your boys at the bar having a good time

Arthur saw you and you saw him at about the same time

He finally decided to do what the world seemed to want him to do 

he sat down across from you and let out a sigh

“How are they?” you asked. “Everyone.”

You couldn’t stop the words from leaving your lips. You had to know.

“Good...kinda.”

“How’s Jack? And Abigail?”

“Good. Boy’s four now. John came back.”

You smiled at that.

“Lost a few...Jenny, Mac and Davey.”

Your smile fell.

Jenny had cried the most when you left

You missed her and were hoping to see her again

“I’m...sorry,”

You didn’t know if you were speaking to Arthur or to Jenny

“Picked up a few new ones though,” He leaned back in the chair. “Even got us an O’Driscoll.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

He chuckled at the expression on your face

“Ex-O’Driscoll. Saved my life actually.” He seemed reluctant to admit it

“Hosea?”

“Alive. Still has that nasty cough.”

“The girls? I saw Mary-Beth and Tilly but… Molly and Karen?”

“All there, Miss Grimshaw keeps ‘em busy.” This made both of you smile.

“Is he mad?” you finally ask. 

“You mean Dutch?” You nod.

“He knows you had your reasons...” he hesitates on his next words. “If you wanted to come see every-”

“I can’t,” you cut him off. “I’m sorry Arthur. I am, but I just can’t.”

He nods silently. 

“I miss them all more than you ever believe but I can’t see them all. Just seeing Tilly and- I’ll want to stay and-”

“He’d let you,” he says.

“What?”

“He’d let you come back. I could talk to him-”

“Don’t. I left for a reason… I can’t go back.” You put a hand on his and he stared down at the table.

His hand moved to hold yours and he nodded.

“Just don’t get yourself killed out there,” his voice was soft. 

“I’ll try not to,” you feel tears welling up in your eyes

As he stood up to leave, they fell

“Arthur!”

He stops and looks to you

“You too. Don’t get killed out there.”

He smiles.

“I’ll try not to,”

I... don’t know what I just wrote... was that angst? was that good? probably not... I hope you like it anyways. I did try.

(Master List)

[scarfacemarston]

RDR Thanksgiving Modern AU Part 2: The Arrival

As before, most people are either with popular ships, paired with gender-neutral readers, or single. I’ll link the rest later. Part 1 is Here <  Basically all together it could be a fanfic.   Part 3 is  Dinner!! Part 3 here. Final part here.

During Hosea’s Impromptu Phone Call:

*Tilly confirmed that she and her husband were still bringing the cranberry sauce and scalloped potatoes. She offered to arrive early to keep watch on Miss Grimshaw, Mr. Pearson, and Sadie. No one fucked with Tilly. No one. Especially a pregnant Tilly.

* Karen and Sean answered sleeping as they had accidentally fallen asleep. Their son had kept them up last night as he “accidentally” broke into the candy stash. Sean rolled his eyes saying that he was NOT going to bring potatoes because that’s a stereotype. Instead, the family made bread rolls. 

*Poor Mary-Beth couldn’t make it back in time as she and Kieran were on tour celebrating the release of Marybeth’s new book. Instead, she wanted to facetime the gang while she and Kieran ate room service. 

*Hosea tapped Arthur and Charles on the shoulders asking them to hunt a new turkey. The two ran to Arthur’s pick up truck before Hosea could finish his sentence. John just crossed his arm annoyed.

That’s when time seemed to whirl.

*Bill and Javier arrived. Bill came in with a box of sparklers, beer, and a few pumpkins. He said he wasn’t really the type to cook, but he tried to entertain the gang with “creative” activities. Jack’s eyes lit up as he saw the opportunity to cause chaos. 

* You didn’t know what Bill had planned, but you knew you had to check in every once in a while. You checked on Abi, Miss Grimshaw and Mr. Pearson. Abigail waved you away as she relieved Sadie of babysitting duty. Saide nodded that you should follower her as you both plopped down on the couch catching up with everyone while John fiddled with the TV.  *Javier came with his spouse who held homemade cider, (Spiked and nonspiked), sauteed veggies, and his guitar. Sean and Karen arrived with their food and their son who ran outside to give Amelia a hug. *Lenny arrived with his girlfriend Jenny who brought squash soup and corn casserole.

* Tilly arrived with her husband carrying the dishes. Karen and Abigail greeted Tilly and her husband with open arms. Tilly greeted them and rubbed her hands together, pulled up a chair and started giving advice.

*Reverend Swanson surprised everyone with a visit, carrying board games and Christmas movies. Lenny rolled his eyes,

*“It’s not even Christmas yet!” while Jenny gently slapped his hand. 

*Finally, Dutch Van Der Linde and his paramour Molly O’Shea arrived. Molly brought poinsettias while Dutch brought champagne. 

*Javier snorted, “Guess they didn’t hear you say it wasn’t Christmas yet.” he said with his arm around his spouse. 

*Charles and Arthur ducked behind them with a prepped turkey. Miss Grimshaw sighed in relief. Charles washed off his hands and joined John in finding “The Game”. 

*Javier snorted, “Guess they didn’t hear you say it wasn’t Christmas yet.” he said with his arm around his spouse.

*Reverend Swanson scowled before saying “It’s always time for Chr…

*Dutch patted Swanson on the shorter, “Later, Orville.”

*Leopold Strauss arrived carrying his homemade gravy while Michah entered through the back door bringing after-dinner mints.  Everyone gave them “The Nod”

* Abigail sighed as she brought Uncle in with marshmallows in his beard.

* It was for you not to burst into laughter. You gasped as you felt Arthur’s hands wrap around your waist. You sighed content as you watched Jack, Amelia and Sean’s son, Ronan play hide and seek. Arthur seemed far more relaxed since he went out with Charles.  He gave you a peck on the cheek before he grabbed Amelia and Ronan in his arms and ushered Jack inside. * He’d make a great father someday. It was times like this where you thought about expanding your family. Then again, you liked things the way they were. You knew that either way, you’d be happy together. * You put an arm around Jack and brought him over to the couch.

*  Abigail was the beaming host, especially with her changed outfit and today’s mishaps seemingly behind her.  Susan and Mr. Pearson trailed behind her looking tired but pleased.   Everyone greeted each other with hugs and for those not as close, handshakes. 

* Mary Beth and Kieran called to facetime everyone.

John and Charles high fived as they finally found “The Game:” and Hosea settled into a recliner to “rest his eye.” Amelia crawled onto John’s lap while Sean picked up Ronan. Jack decided to stay with you and Arthur. Everyone was behaving themselves and busy with their conversations.  After a half-hour, Mr. Pearson finally shouted,  “Alright everyone, Dinner is ready!” * Before them, everyone’s dishes were displayed buffet style with Dutch carving the turkey and Hosea waking up to carve the ham. When everyone was served, they took their seats, looking for Hosea and Dutch to make their speeches...... 

[bluehorsegirl]

100+ year old Jenny Lind chair reloved with proper Swiss Army blanket for the Swedish Nightingale. SOLD

[victoodles]

Cruel World I’m Gone (Chapter 5)

follow the series on AO3 and make sure you read part 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

The water’s crisp chill envelops you wholly; it feels good against your bare skin - invigorating. You’re weightless, swimming among the stray bluegills that happen your way. Worldly burdens don't follow you beyond the lake’s edge.

Like water off a duck’s back.  

You reemerge to the surface, wet hair clinging to your back and you push the remaining strays off your forehead. The evening air nips at exposed skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. 

It doesn’t bother you none. It instead acts as a reminder that you’re still capable of feeling such sensations. 

And helps to assuage the guilt.

It’s a crushing weight on your chest, one that seems to get heavier the more that time keeps slowly inching forward. 

You’re still here. 

And others aren’t.

You pray the mountain waters can cleanse you of a stain that has plagued you since the fall of Beaver Hollow. 

No.

Even weeks before that. Since Blackwater, starting with a nameless girl on a boat and ending with Hellfire. Fate pushed one domino and the ensuing fall condemned the Van der Linde’s to a pattern of bloodshed, destruction, and death. 

So much death. 

You’re still here.

Why are you still here?

You shouldn’t be here.  

You stifle a cry, biting your lip until it withers and dies in your throat. These types ideations are incessant, rapid thoughts that show you no mercy. And it doesn’t seem like that will change anytime soon. You float on your back and look at the stars above in an attempt to calm them. 

The irony is almost as painful as the losses you’ve endured. 

You’re a hunter, a survivor: self taught through books, trial and error, and pure tenacity. What once was worn as a badge of honor now casts an ugly scar across your heart. 

Jenny, Davey, Sean, Kieran, Hosea, Lenny, Molly, Susan.

You lived.

And they died.

It seemed a higher power has deemed you worthier than other members of your family. 

Was it really that simple? 

Or could it be broken down to survival of the fittest? A complicated game of statistics and chances that predetermined everyone's worth.

What put you above others on this unknown hierarchy?  

Failure.

Useless.

You couldn’t do anything to save them.

Just sit there and look pretty.

Tears silently roll down your cheeks and you ask aloud, why?

The moon has no answer. It just envelops you in its pearly glow as it continues to rock you against the gentle lake waves. 

~

Arthur rouses with a drowsy call of your name, reaching over to find your side of the bed (unfortunately) empty. He calls for you again, a little more urgency in his voice as he wipes the sleep from his eyes.

Again he is met with silence and he promptly rises from bed to investigate. There’s no threat or sense of danger but he can’t quell the twenty years of fear that came with his old lifestyle. 

His jacket is gone from its usual perch on a chair; he instead spies it from the front window, crumpled on the shore.  

Worry fuels him as he hurriedly heads outside, clad in only his union suit. Stray rocks and twigs poke at the bottoms of his bare feet but he can’t bring himself to notice or care. 

Arthur’s anxiety bleeds into confusion when he notices your chemise laying just beside his jacket. He finally finds you, laying still and on your back a few meters into the water. 

Rationality blows away in the evening breeze and Arthur dashes into the water. He calls out to you as he struggles to cut through the waves as fast as possible. Despite his size and strength, Arthur is no match for the tides.

Arthur garners your attention, and you’re quite calm in contrast to how frantic he feels and looks. Strangely enough it puts him a little more at ease but does nothing to alleviate his concern. You’re standing when he finally reaches you, your nudity barely concealed by the water’s edge. 

Despite years of intimacy between you, Arthur still finds himself averting his gaze with a dust of red gracing his cheeks. Your chivalrous cowboy would still never dare to look upon you in any state of undress unless he knew you wanted him to. A fond smile finds its way to your lips as you cup his cheek, turning his face back towards you. 

The poor dear is soaked in his union suit, not sparing a second to remove it at the chance you could've been hurt. Distress is still heavily apparent in his eyes and you feel just dreadful for worrying him so.

I’m okay.

It’s a blur between truth and lie; it calms him to know there’s no harm caused. But he is still bewildered, brow furrowed as he continues to look you over. 

Yes there’s nothing physically wrong, but he knows you so much better than that. Arthur has learned how to conquer the battles that don’t require punches to be thrown or guns to be shot.  

“What’s goin’ on?” It’s poised so simply, but the question runs much deeper. His gaze is intense - he wants to know everything. There's no reasonable explanation for dashing off in the middle of the night for a midnight swim.  

“I,” you start but any semblance of an explanation gets stuck painfully in your throat. How do you begin to tell him the surge of emotions that scourge you? 

Such ugly things…

Arthur patiently awaits your response. He doesn’t push or pull, demand answers before you’re ready to give them. Tears cascade down your cheek and he’s there to sweep them away with a calloused thumb. 

“I,” you try again. “I don’t understand.” You’re shivering but it isn’t from the cold. “I don’t understand, Arthur.”

Arthur cups your cheek with a reserved tenderness. “Understand what, darlin’?” He genuinely wants to comprehend your anguish, if you’ll let him. 

“Why I’m here. Why I was deemed more deserving to draw another breath when,” the grief claws its way to the surface. “When others died.”

Say their names.

“Sean, Lenny, H-“ the one that hurts the most is the hardest to speak. “H-Hosea. They’re all gone and I couldn’t do anything to save them.”

Your tears are incessant, falling harder, faster, and Arthur’s hold on you shifts to your shoulders. It’s grounding, and you wish you could thank him for that right now. 

“It wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t have-”

“Couldn’t have known?” You interject. “Of course I could’ve! Dutch was on a downward spiral, it was painfully apparent how flawed his supposed ‘plans’ were!” Tears burn in the corners of your eyes and your breathing becomes labored as your anguish wraps its gnarled hands around your throat. 

“If I just spoke up, if I fought him even a little bit-“ Now it’s Arthur’s turn to interrupt as he takes your face carefully in his hands.

“Look at me,” he instructs and you hesitate to comply. He asks again, so sweetly this time it practically hurts to ignore. There’s nothing but adoration in his eyes, not an ounce of blame or scrutiny. 

“There was nothing you could’ve done. Dutch,” Arthur’s own pain comes out at the mention of his ex mentor’s name but he is quick to compose himself. “Dutch had us all fooled. Pretty words and speeches that were nothin’ more than hot air.” 

“All our losses, all our failures, that’s a burden for his shoulders,” Arthur leans in closer, the tip of his nose brushing against your own. “Not yours.” 

You press your forehead to his and revel in the feeling of his fingers against your skin. Sobs transition into sighs when he begins to kiss the tears away from your cheeks reverently. 

“I’m here because of you.” It’s a reminder that steals the breath from your lungs. Arthur is alive, here in this world to live another day by your side. 

“You say you didn’t fight hard enough? If you had listened to me, I would be dead and rotting on Roanoke Ridge.” The mere thought is more excruciating than any bullet to the chest and you can’t contain the sob that wracks you. Arthur shushes you softly with another well placed kiss. 

“You did everything you could, darlin’.” You’ve done so much, and the gratitude Arthur has for your efforts is insurmountable. The crosses you’re bearing aren’t meant to be carried by you.

Give him your pain. 

Give him everything.

“What can I do?” Another question that goes beyond mere simplicity. His lips are a whisper away from your own, awaiting your answer. Arthur would likely never shake the habit of willingly following orders. But if you were the one making the demands, he would fall to his knees and obey time and time again.

“Arthur,” his name sounds honeyed sweet as it falls from your lips. He graces you with a small smile while you think. You take his hand in yours, tracing it down your body and stopping just above your breast. Another endearing blush is cast across his face.

“Help me forget,” and you finally close the gap between the two of you, kissing him feverishly. Arthur responds in kind; he will gladly be a vessel for your desires if that’s what you need. 

The moon continues to shine above, and it will continue to do so. Many had come and gone but Arthur was still here. 

You’re still here. 

And that is enough for now.

[mtraki]

((A couple TWs for this one: allusions to child prostitution, semi-graphic descriptions of a dead child))

“Wake up.”  Catherine had a problem.  Startling at the touch on her shoulder as well as the words, gasping quietly into the cold afternoon, newspaper rustling where it was folded in her lap-- where it had fallen when she dozed off, the lady realized she couldn’t ignore it much longer.  Not when others were noticing.

 “Oh, forgive me…” She replied, turning her head to give Jenny and Karen a sheepish smile.

 Karen shrugged and made a show of looking down at her mending, “Must be nice to just doze off whenever you like without a witch screaming curses down on you…”

 “Miss Grimshaw?” The lady asked, shaking out the paper to look over the train schedule, “Oh, I’m sure she’s thinking them.”

 “You’re still the favorite, Catherine.” Jenny told her, “But maybe not if she catches you sleeping while the rest of us are workin’.”

 “I do sincerely apologize.”

 She ignored their lingering looks as best as she could, blinking exhaustion from her eyes.  It’d been a full week since Arthur first joined her in her tent for the night, and while he hadn’t found the gumption to ask again the night after, he confessed necessity bade him intrude upon her every night since.

 She didn’t mind, but it was so different than with Dutch-- or in fact, every other man in her memory-- as Arthur was so unaccustomed to the presence of another person so near whilst he slept that any movement she made, no matter how slow and gentle would wake him into asking after her.  But he still came every night, and spent the entire night, snuggled up with her. That was all he really seemed to want (Well, except for a few nights ago where he out and asked her, face aflame, if she’d oblige him to suffer his fumbling again so he might go about learning how to be a better lover-- how was she supposed to say no?) and so she found it difficult to find a reason to turn him away.  He got better sleep when he was with her, he’d said.

 Which was sweet, in a way, and certainly kept her warm on icy nights…

 But now she had a problem.

 Any moment now, one of the keen-eyed women would ask a pointed question her sleep-deprived mind might mishandle, so she climbed to her feet, gathering up the paper.  “I’ll just go return this to Dutch. Then I’ll be back to help you with that. Excuse me…”

 “Mhm…” Karen didn’t sound convinced she’d be back.  Jenny didn’t make any reply, which worried Catherine more.

 It was a gray day, the clouds hanging low, gliding along swiftly with the wind.  She hoped that didn’t mean bad weather…

 “Can I help you, Miss Schofield?” Dutch almost sounded surprised, but there was something too smug in his tone for that to be the full truth.  He didn’t bother getting up from where he was sitting under the canvas, reading his book, but he had raised his eyes, and it made her wonder how long he’d watched her.

 With a smile, she laid the paper down on the table, moving the lantern to hold it down from the wind, “Just returning your paper, Mister van der Linde.  I didn’t intend to disturb.”

 “Why, my dear, I don’t remember lending it to you…”

 Catherine didn’t let the smile flicker in the slightest, “Mister Summers let me borrow it when I chanced to see him finishing up with it.  I apologize if you’ve been expecting it back sooner…”

 He closed the book and stood, stepping nearer the entrance and her, “No, that’s quite alright.”

 Something in his dark eyes whispered a warning, so the lady dipped a hurried curtsy and turned to go, but the outlaw leader spoke up again, halting her and forcing her to turn back.

 “It’s just… Well, you don’t look well at all, Miss Schofield.  I hope you don’t mind my saying so.”

 She didn’t like it.  There was some threat or challenge here.   But her mind only spun uselessly, so she just continued to smile, and give a bit of a shrug before she turned and walked quickly away, desperate to get out from under those dark eyes.

 Did it mean anything?  Or was he just taunting her?  Did he know? Was he going to do something--?

 “Careful!” Pearson snapped at her when she almost rushed right into where he was carrying the full pot of stew for the fire.

 “Oh!  I--”

 “--Don’t mind her, Mister Pearson,” Hosea said cheerfully, taking firm hold of her elbow and pulling her away, “she just needs something to occupy her.”

 “I was… I was going to help Karen--” Catherine started to protest.  Hosea indicated a bench seat.

 “Well, now you’re going to sit down and get your head straight.”

 Heated shame chased from her belly straight to her face, and with it the lady’s temper sparked.  But she bit her tongue and sat-- perhaps a bit less gracefully than might be expected of her.

 Mister Matthews was watching her, a patient and observant expression on his face.  It only made her more frustrated. She wanted to shout at him, to tell him to leave her alone.

 “What’s going on?”

 “Nothing is going on, Mister Matthews.”

 “Catherine…” The conman sighed and then moved to sit beside her, folding his hands, “... Are you sick?”

 “No.”

 “... Are you pregnant?”

 “God forbid…” She spat, shaking her head vehemently, “No.  I’m just… I’m tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

 “That’s funny…” He mused wryly, “Because Arthur’s apparently been getting the best sleep of his life…”

 She opened her mouth to reply that that was good for Mister Morgan, but had little to do with her, but then she saw the keen look in the old man’s eye.  So he’d told him. It’d only been a matter of time, Catherine supposed.

 “How silly of me…” She muttered bitterly.

 “I told you already: I know that boy.  I raised him for twenty years. You think he can keep secrets from me?” Smiled the conman, “Especially with him all afire with the torch he’s carrying for you?   Don’t be daft.”

 Catherine said nothing, and the older man sobered.

 “My dear... It’s clear you’re not well.  Maybe you should get some rest.”

 Lurching to her feet, Catherine smiled, feeling how false it was, but unwilling to draw up the energy to correct it, “No, Mister Matthews.  Thank you. I’ll be sure to stay out of everyone’s way, though, don’t you worry.”

 She saw he meant to reply, but she turned and walked away swiftly, lifting the hem of her skirt to hurry back to the womens’ tent.  There, she sat in a rush, beckoning for one of the two to hand her something to work on.

 “Everything okay?”

 “I’ll be fine.” She asserted.

 She had to be.

 Catherine was plaiting her hair when Arthur stopped by her tent, only a few hours after sunset.  Much of the rest of the camp was still awake, finishing supper and their evening routines and socializations.   The lady had turned down the offer of food and withdrew back here to her own space. Arthur watched her a few moments, even after she looked up to acknowledge him there, he didn’t say anything.  Catherine could feel that seawater gaze examine her face, and it had her ill at ease.

 “Can I help you, Mister Morgan?” She asked at the same time he finally spoke up.

 “--May I sit here?” He indicated a spot on the ground near the entrance of the tent where she herself sat.

 “Oh… Of course, you can sit wherever you like.  I’m sorry, I don’t have anything for your comfort…”

 “Ain’t any trouble.” He grunted, squatting and then sitting, extending one leg out in front of him while the other remained bent, “If I really wanted a chair, could’ve brought one over I s’pose…”

 The lady was certain he was going to ask, but she would have rather he didn’t.  The outlaw knew she was going to delay him in asking, but he didn’t much mind.

 “I trust things went well in town?” She asked with interest she had difficulty feeling while he dug out his rolling tin.

 “Well ‘nough,” Was his easy reply, pinching out the tobacco with his thick fingers, “General goods gettin’ scarce though.  Might have to start thinking about movin’ closer to Blackwater…”

 “... Are you alright with that?” Catherine wouldn’t mind in the least.

 Arthur shrugged, “It’s bigger ‘n’ noisier than I like, but should be quieter now for the winter.  Dutch’ll make the call.”

 “Right.”

 Holding out the freshly rolled cigarette to her, he hesitated, then said, “... Oh, y’know, I don’ think I’ve seen you smoke…”

 “I don’t really.  Only socially. Rarely even then.  Some men like their women to smoke, many find it vulgar.”

 “...Oh,” Watching him withdraw his hand and the cigarette, Catherine regretted her answer.  He was thinking about it. Too much, “... You mind if I smoke?”

 “No, Arthur.  Go ahead.” She was almost finished with her hair.  The outlaw lit his cigarette with a match, watching her again.

 “--Do--”

 “--You didn’t eat.” Was his quiet statement, “Heard you wasn’t doin’ so well today, either.”

 “Who said that?”

 “Don’ matter.  I can see for myself you ain’t.” There was an interesting quality in his tone-- not accusatory, but neither was it so gentle as to allow her leave him without an accounting.  His eyes, too, seemed to pierce through her.

 The lady bristled, and to Arthur, it seemed she either didn’t notice, or didn’t care that it was obvious, “I’m fine.”

 Sighing out the drag he’d taken, gesturing with his other hand, he said, “No, darlin’, you ain’t--”

 She straightened, and everything inside her coiled tight, her eyes turning cold and steely, and her expression cinching even more closed.  Arthur supposed if pushed, graceful, poised Miss Schofield could turn into a hellcat just as assuredly as Miss Kirk, Miss Grimshaw, or Miss Jones.

 He didn’t want that.

 “--Now hold on,” He said firmly, “Look... This thing… this thing between us only works if we trust each other, alright?  I ain’t here to pick at you, an’ I don’t want a fight. Just… tell me what’s goin’ on. Please.”

 That Catherine wanted nothing more than to viciously demand how he could so arrogantly expect trust from her when he and Hosea, and most likely Dutch as well, were all whispering about her behind her back, only served to convince her that he was right.  She wasn’t doing well. She hardly felt herself.

 She was so tired.

 But what business did she have troubling him with that?  There wasn’t a way she could broach the issue without it sounding like an accusation or a complaint.  Especially not now.

 Better to say nothing.  Men so infrequently wished to consider the trials of the fairer sex...

 Arthur took another drag of his cigarette, “... You rather we take a ride back out to Tall Trees again?  Set up a tent in the midday an’ wait for rain? Though, it’d be snow ‘round this time…”

 His efforts were rewarded by the smallest of smiles, “... Is this you reminding me of my hypocrisy, Mister Morgan?”

 “Is this you bein’ a hypocrite, Miss Schofield?  You ain’t eating, are you not sleepin’ either?” It concerned him that she might not be-- especially since he was there with her all night.  He would’ve noticed, wouldn’t he have?

 “... I’ve never been able to sleep comfortably with other people.” Her voice came quiet, and terribly reluctantly, “... Not at all with men.”

 Arthur stared at her for a long moment, then, in as measured a voice as he could manage, said, “...You can’t sleep with men?”

 “No.”

 “But you let me stay with you anyhow?”

 “Of course.”

 Frowning, Arthur said, “You didn’t reckon it might be wiser to tell me to stay in my own tent so you could get some sleep?”

 The look she gave him was strange, and immediately chased a queer shiver down his spine.  Quite suddenly he remembered she’d claimed to be twelve when her father pushed her into a man’s bed for the first time.  She’d claimed she’d only known obedience, then…

 Could it be… that she just never considered that she had the choice?  That if he wanted in her pallet, she couldn’t tell him ‘no’?

 “Shit…” He was going to be sick.

 She flinched, “What?”

 “Nothing,” He gestured, “Forget it.  Get some rest. I won’t bother you tonight--”

 “--It’s not a--”

 “--Knew it was a bad idea--”

 She grabbed his wrist, “Arthur.”

 But she wasn’t entirely sure she knew why she was stopping him. He was offering her the ideal result-- to retire to her bed alone so she might sleep-- but instead of being focused on that, all her thoughts were screaming with something too close to panic for comfort.  He was upset-- upset with what she’d told him? Or something he surmised from what she’d told him? Was he disgusted with her-- with the reminder that she very much was soiled, damaged goods?  And why would that upset her?

 Or had it little to do with him at all, and more to do with the dread of consequences for being less than exemplary for the man who wanted her time and attention?

 Like before, in Tumbleweed…

 What was she doing?  Why was his displeasure always so uncomfortable-- so unbearable, in fact, that she was always quick to tailor herself to better suit his desires?

 … Why did it seem like she was trying to stuff herself back into a cage she’d spent so much time and energy escaping?

 Exhaling, Arthur snuffed out the cigarette and looked at her, at her fine-boned hand around his wrist, and how her fingers couldn’t make a closed circle around it.  But his hand could almost close around her bicep. And so could Dutch’s. He remembered seeing it with his own eyes. Hadn’t she been sleeping in Dutch’s bed?

 … But more importantly, hadn’t she left his bed?  That meant something, didn’t it?

 Sighing, he brought up his hand to gently stroke the side of her face, “...I’d rather you get some rest is all.”

 “This isn’t your fault.”

 “That don’ much matter, do it?”

 Gently, Catherine pressed her face into his hand, lowering her eyes demurely, “You said you don’t sleep well anymore unless you’re with me…”

 “Yeah, well, apparently you ain’t sleepin’ at all with me…” He replied with a shrug, “I’ll be alright.”

 He was waiting for her to let go of his hand, but she didn’t.   She looked him in the face again, and it seemed to Arthur that she wasn’t seeing him at all.

 Finally she said, “... Maybe we can work out a compromise?”

 “How do you mean?”

 “... Before… at my father’s house, I would be in the guest rooms, and I would lie awake until the… guest… fell asleep.  Then I would go to my own room. Couldn’t we do… something like that?”

 “... We ain’t got a ‘guest tent’, darlin’... Do you mean--”

 “--Instead of you coming to my tent, I’ll go to yours.  After you’ve fallen asleep, I’ll slip away back here.” When he frowned at what an awful lot of trouble that seemed to make for her, she added, “... At least until I… well, maybe I’ll get used to lying with you enough to be able to sleep.  I don’t know, Arthur…”

 “Ain’t a lot of privacy ‘round my tent, Catherine…” He reminded her.

 “Well… couldn’t you put up more canvas if you wanted?”

 Withdrawing his hand, Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, “Well, I guesso… but that’s gonna raise questions, don’t you think?  Even if it don’t, I ain’t gonna be able to do it tonight. It’ll have to wait for tomorrow…”

 He must have seen the frustration boiling over in her expression, just like she felt it seething in her guts and climbing up her throat to burn on her tongue.  Quickly, he held up his other hand defensively, “I ain’t sayin’ it’s a bad idea… just… lemme think about it…”

 “You don’t want me in your tent?” Was her accusation, framed in a question.

 “That ain’t it, Catherine.  I just ain’t sure it’s worth the trouble for you to get up in the middle of the night every night.  You sleep only by yerself. I’ve been sleeping by myself for as long as I can remember, I can keep doin’ it.”

 She didn’t reply, and though her eyes were fixed on his face, as if searching it for something, Arthur also got the sense that she once again wasn’t really seeing him.  She really did look unwell: her pallor was bad, and her eyes looked bruised and red…

 With a quiet grunt, he leaned over, pressing a kiss to her forehead while withdrawing his arm from her slackening grip, “Go on and get some sleep, honey.  I’ll think about it, but like I said: ain’t nothin’ for it tonight.”

 Still she didn’t answer, nor did she move, so Arthur climbed to his feet, “Goodnight, Miss Schofield.”

 He glanced back over his shoulder on his return to the campfire just the once in time to see her tent flap pull closed.  The lady had her pride, that was for sure.

 Exhausted though she was, Catherine took a long time to fall asleep.  She was gripped by an old and familiar anxious dread. It wasn’t guilt that twisted in her belly, because she hadn’t done anything wrong…

 But even so, she had the horrible expectation that someone might come give her a good whipping or caning before sunup.

 “Catherine… what’re you… Stop!”

 But she didn’t stop.  She kept scraping the soil away with her hands, reaching down into the hole she’d made in front of the rough wooden cross.

 Arthur had closed half the distance before realizing it was a dream.  Funny how in dreams moving fast never seemed possible. Like the air was made out of thick mud.  Or maybe just his legs were.

 Funny, too, how the realization that this was a dream didn’t make any of it feel less horrible and real.  It didn’t change how desperately he wanted her to stop.

 “Catherine--” He grabbed her arm, but by then she’d already dug up enough that they could see…

 “... It’s a little boy.” She said.  Arthur was frozen with horror. There wasn’t even a box.  He’d just been put straight in the dirt...

 “It’s Isaac.” Her voice was firmer.  Colder.  Accusing.  “Your son.”

 It’d been years, but the cadaver looked fresh.  The child looked just the way he remembered him, the last time he saw him… just bloodless in death.  With maggots in his open mouth, frozen in a tableau of suffering and fear. Cruelly, his little head was turned their direction.  His worm -infested eyes may as well have been fixed right on Arthur.

 “Yes.” Said a familiar voice.

 Arthur didn’t dare look up.  It could only be one of two women, and he didn’t want to see either one.  But Catherine did look up.

 “She don’t belong with you.” The man hung from the noose said, despite his broken neck, Arthur’s hat laying at his feet in the dust, “You know that.”

 “She belongs with us.” Isaac whispered, another maggot falling out of his mouth.

 The morning saw Arthur Morgan putting up the necessary canvas to make his tent an enclosed space on the side of the wagon.  It only took one look at his face to convince any inquiries on the topic to find something else to do.

[nemesisbinxartifactseries]

Artifact Series J

J. Allen Hynek's Telescope

J. Edgar Hoover's Tie

J. McCullough's Golf Ball

J. Templer's Wind-Up Tin Rooster *

J. C. Agajanian’s Stetson

J.T. Saylors's Overalls

J.M. Barrie’s Swiss Trychels

J.M.W. Turner's Rain, Steam and Speed-The Great Western Railway *

J.R.R. Tolken's Ring

Jack-in-the-Box

Jack's Magic Beanstalk

Jack Daniel's Original Whisky Bottle

Jack Dawson's Art Kit

Jack Duncan's Spur *

Jack Frost's Staff

Jack Kerouac's Typewriter

Jack Ketch's Axe

Jack LaLanne's Stationary Bike *

Jack London's Dog Collar

Jack Parson's Rocket Engine

Jack Sheppard's Hammer

Jack Sparrow's Compass

Jack Torrance's Croquet Mallet

Jack the Ripper's Lantern *

Jackie Robinson's Baseball

Jackson Pollock's "No. 5, 1948"

Jackson Pollock's Pack of Cigarettes

Jackson Pollock's Paint Cans

Jack's Regisword

Jack Vettriano's "The Singing Butler"

Jack's Wrench

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm's Kinder- und Hausmarchen

Jacob "Jack" Kevorkian's Otoscope

Jacob Kurtzberg's Belt *

Jacqueline Cochran's Brooch

Jacques Aymar-Vernay’s Dowsing Rod

Jacques Cousteau's Goggles

Jacques Cousteau's Diving Suit

Jacques-Louis David's Napoleon Crossing the Alps *

Jade Butterfly

Jadeite Cabbage

Jalal-ud-Din Muhammad Akbar's Smoke Pipe

Jamaica Ginger Bottle

Jaleel White's Hosting Chair

James Abbot McNeill Whistler's Whistler's Mother *

James Allen's Memoir

James Bartley's Britches

James Ben Ali Haggin's Leaky Fountain Pen

James Bert Garner’s Gas Mask

James Bett's Cupboard Handle

James Braid's Chair *

James Brown's Shoes

James Bulger's Sweater

James Buzzanell's Painting "Grief and Pain"

James Buzzanell’s Survey Books

James C. McReynolds’ Judicial Robe

James Chadwick's Nobel Prize

James Clerk Maxwell's Camera Lens

James Colnett's Otter Pelt

James Condliff's Skeleton Clock

James Cook's Mahiole and Feather Cloak

James Craik's Spring Lancet

James Dean's 1955 Prosche 550 Spyder, aka "Little Bastard"

James Dean's UCLA Varsity Jacket

James Dinsmoor's Dinner Bell

James Eads How’s Bindle

James Earl Ray's Rifle

James Fenimore Cooper's Arrow Heads

James Gandolfini's Jukebox

James Hadfield’s Glass Bottle of Water

James Hall III’s Shopping Bags

James Henry Atkinson's Mouse Trap

James Henry Pullen’s Mannequin

James Hoban's Drawing Utensils

James Holman’s Cane

James Hutton's Overcoat

James Joyce’s Eyepatch

James M. Barrie's Grandfather Clock

James M. Barrie's Suitcase

James Murrell's Witch Bottle

James Philip’s Riata

James Prescott Joule's Thermodynamic Generator

James Smithson's Money

James Tilly Matthews’ Air Loom

James Warren and Willoughby Monzani's Piece of Wood

James Watt's Steam Condenser

James Watt's Weather Vane

James W. Marshall’s Jar

Jan Baalsrud’s Stretcher

Jan Baptist van Helmont's Willow Tree

Jane Austen's Carriage

Jane Austen's Gloves

Jane Austen's Quill

Jane Bartholomew's "Lady Columbia" Torch

Jane Pierce's Veil

Janet Leigh's Shower Curtain

Janine Charrat's Ballet Slippers

Jan Janzoon's Boomerang *

Janis Joplin's Backstage Pass from Woodstock *

Jan Karski's Passport

Janus Coin *

Jan van Eyck’s Chaperon

Jan van Speyk's Flag of the Netherlands

Jan Wnęk's Angel Figurine

Jan Žižka's Wagenburg Wagons

The Japanese Nightingale

Jar of Dust from the Mount Asama Eruption

Jar of Greek Funeral Beans

Jar of Marbles

Jar of Molasses from The Boston Molasses Disaster

Jar of Sand

Jar of Semper Augustus Bulbs

Jar of Shiva

Jar of Sugar Plums

Jascha Heifetz's Violin Bow

Jason Voorhese's Machete

Javed Iqbal's Barrel of Acid

Jay Maynard's Tron Suit

Jean II Le Maingre's Gauntlets

Jean Baptiste Charbonneau’s Cradleboard

Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin's Bubble Pipe

Jean Chastel's Silver Gun

Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin's Pocket Watch

Jean Fleury's Aztec Gold Coins

Jean-François Champollion’s Ideographic Dictionary

Jean Froissart's Mirror *

Jean-Frédéric Peugeot's Pepper Mill

Jean Hilliard’s Earmuffs

Jean Parisot de Valette’s Sword Sheath

Jean-Paul Marat's Bathtub

Jean Paul-Satre’s Paper Cutter

Jean-Pierre Christin's Thermometer

Jean Senebier's Bundle of Swiss Alpine Flowers

Jean Valnet's Aromatherapy Statue

Jean Vrolicq’s Scrimshaw

Jeanne Baret's Hat

Jeanne de Clisson's Black Fleet

Jeanne Villepreux-Power's Aquarium

Jeannette Piccard's Sandbag

Jeff Dunham's First Ventriloquist Box

Jefferson Davis' Boots

Jefferson Randolph Smith's Soap Bar

Jeffrey Dahmer's Handkerchief

Jeffrey Dahmer's Pick-Up Sticks

Jemmy Hirst's Carriage Wheel

Jenny Lind's Stage Makeup

Jeopardy! Contestant Podiums

Jerome Monroe Smucker's Canning Jars

Jerry Andrus’ Organ

Jerry Garcia's Blackbulb *

Jerry Siegel's Sketchbook

Jesse James' Saddle

Jesse James' Pistol

Jesse Owens' Hitler Oak

Jesse Owens' Running Shoes

Jesse Pomeroy's Ribbon and Spool

Jester's Mask

Jesus of Nazareth's Whip

Jesús García's Brake Wheel

Jet Engine from the Gimli Glider

Jet Glass Cicada Button

Jethro Tull's Hoe

Jeweled Scabbard of Sforza

Jiang Shunfu’s Mandarin Square

Jim Davis' Pet Carrier

Jim Fixx's Shorts

Jim Henson's Talking Food Muppets

Jim Jones' Sunglasses

Jim Londos' Overalls

Jim Robinson's Army Bag

Jim Thorpe's Shoulder Pads

Jim Ward's Piercing Samples

Jimi Hendrix's Bandana

Jimi Hendrix's Bong

Jimi Hendrix's Guitars *

Jimmie Rodgers Rail Brake

Jimmy Durante's Cigar

Jimmy Gibb Jr's Stock Car

Jimmy Hoffa's Comb

Jin Dynasty Chainwhip

Jingle Harness

Joan II, Duchess of Berry's Dress

Joan of Arc's Chain Mail

Joan of Arc's Helmet (canon)

Joan Feynman's Ski Pole

Joanna of Castile's Vase

Joan Rivers' Carpet Steamer

Joan Rivers' Red Carpet

Joe Ades's Potato Peeler

Joe Girard’s Keys

Joe Rosenthal's Camera Lens

Joel Brand's Playing Cards

Joséphine de Beauharnais' Engagement Ring

Johan Alfred Ander’s Piece of Porcelain

Johann Baptist Isenring’s Acacia Tree

Johann Bartholomaeus Adam Beringer's Lying Stones

Johann Blumhardt's Rosary

Johann Dzierzon’s Beehive Frame

Johann Georg Elser's Postcard

Johann Maelzel's Metronome *

Johann Rall's Poker Cards

Johann Tetzel's Indulgence

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe's Prism

Johannes Brahms' Coffee Creamer

Johannes Diderik van der Waals' Gloves

Johannes Fabricius' Camera Obscura

Johannes Gutenburg's Memory Paper *

Johannes Gutenburg's Printing Press *

Johannes Gutenberg's Printing Press Keys

Johannes Kepler's Planetary Model

Johannes Kepler's Telescope Lense

Johannes Kjarval’s Landscape Painting

John A. Macready's Ray-Bans *

John A. Roebling's Steel Cable

John A.F. Maitland's Musical Brainnumber *

John André’s Stocking

John Anthony Walker's Minox

John Axon's Footplate

John Babbacombe Lee’s Trapdoor

John Bardeen's Radio

John Bodkin Adams’ Stethoscope

John Brown's Body *

John Brown's Machete

John C. Koss SP3 Stereophones

John C. Lilly's Isolation Tank Valve

John Cabot's Map

John Carl Wilcke's Rug *

John Crawley's Painting

John Croghan's Limestone Brick

John Dalton's Weather Vane

John Dee's Golden Talisman

John Dee's Obsidian Crystal Ball

John Dee’s Seal of God

John DeLorean's Drawing Table

John Dickson Carr's Driving Gloves

John Dillinger's Pistol *

John D. Grady’s Satchel

John D. Rockefeller's Bible

John D. Rockefeller, Sr. and Jr.'s Top Hats

John Dwight's Hammer

John F. Kennedy's Coconut

John F. Kennedy's Presidental Limousine

John F. Kennedy's Tie Clip *

John Flaxman's Casting Molds

Sir John Franklin's Scarf

John Gay's Shilling

John Gillespie Magee, Jr.'s Pen

John H. Kellogg's Bowl

John H. Kellogg's Corn Flakes

John H. Lawrence's Pacifier

John Hancock's Quill

John Harrison’s Longcase Clock

John Hawkwood’s Lance

John Hendrix's Bible

John Henry Moore's White Banner

John Henry's Sledge Hammer

John Hetherington's Top Hat

John Holland, 2nd Duke of Exeter's Torture Rack

John Holmes Pump *

John Hopoate's Cleats

John Howard Griffin's Bus Fare

John Hunter's Stitching Wire

John Hunter's Surgical Sutures

John J. Pershing's Boots

John Jacob Astor's Beaver Pelt

John Jervis’ Ship

John Joshua Webb’s Rock Chippings

John Kay's Needle

John Keat's Grecian Urn *

John, King of England's Throne

John L. Sullivan's Boots

John Langdon Down's Stencils

John Lawson's Mannequin Legs

John Lennon's Glasses

John "Liver-Eating" Johnson's Axe

John Logie Baird's Scanning Disk *

John M. Allegro's Fly Amanita

John Macpherson's Ladle

John Malcolm's Chunk of Skin

John Malcolm's Skin Wallet

John McEnroe's Tennis Racket *

John Milner's Yellow '32 Ford Deuce Coupe

John Moore-Brabazon’s Waste Basket

John Morales' McGruff Suit

John Mytton’s Carriage

John Pasche's Rolling Stones Poster Design

John Paul Jones's Sword

John Pemberton's Tasting Spoon

John Philip Sousa's Sousaphone

John Rambo's Composite Bow

John Rykener's Ring

John Shore's Tuning Fork

John Simon's Mouthwash

John Simon Ritchie's Padlock Necklace

John Smith of Jamestown's Sword

John Snow's Dot Map

John Snow’s Pump Handle

John Stapp’s Rocket Sled

John Steinbeck's Luger

John Sutcliffe's Camera

John Sutter's Pickaxe

John Tunstall's Horse Saddle

John Trumbull's "Painting of George Washington"

John von Neumann's Abacus

John Walker's Walking Stick

John Wayne Gacy's Clown Painting *

John Wayne Gacy's Facepaint

John Wesley Hardin's Rosewood Grip Pistol

John Wesley Powell's Canoe

John Wesley Powell’s Canteen

John Wilkes Booth's Boot *

John Wilkes Booth Wanted Poster

John William Polidori's Bookcase

Johnny Ace's Gun

Johnny Appleseed's Tin Pot *

Johnny Campbell's University of Minnesota Sweater

Johnny Depp's Scissor Gloves

Johnny Smith's Steering Wheel

Johnny Weismuller's Loincloth *

Joker's BANG! Revolver

Jon Stewart's Tie

Jonathan Coulton's Guitar

Jonathan R. Davis' Bowie Knife

Jonathan Shay's Copy of Iliad/Odyssey

Jonestown Water Cooler

Jorge Luis Borges' Scrapbook

José Abad Santos' Pebble

José Delgado’s Transmitter

Jose Enrique de la Pena's Chest Piece

Jōsei Toda’s Gohonzon Butsudan

Josef Frings’ Ferraiolo

Josef Mengele's Scalpel

Josef Stefan's Light Bulbs

Joseph of Arimathea's Tomb Rock

Joseph of Cupertino's Medallion *

Joseph Day's Sickle

Joseph Ducreux's Cane

Joseph Dunninger's Pocket Watch

Joseph Dunningers’ Props

Joseph E. Johnston Confederate Flag

Joseph Force Crater's Briefcases

Joseph Fourier's Pocket Knife

Joseph Glidden’s Barbed Wire

Joseph Goebbels' Radio *

Joseph Jacquard's Analytical Loom

Joseph Bolitho Johns’ Axe

Joseph Kittinger's Parachute

Joseph Lister's Padding

Joseph McCarthy's List of Communists

Joseph Merrick's Hood

Joseph-Michel Montgolfier's Wicker Basket

Joseph Moir’s Token

Joseph Pilate's Resistance Bands *

Joseph Polchinski’s Billiard Ball

Joseph Stalin's Gold Star Medal *

Joseph Stalin's Sleep Mask *

Joseph Swan's Electric Light

Joseph Vacher's Accordion

Joseph Vacher's Dog Skull

Joseph Valachi's '58 Chevrolet Impala

Josephus' Papyrus

Joseph Wolpe's Glasses

Josephine Cochrane's Dishwasher

Joshua's Trumpet *

Josiah S. Carberry's Cracked Pot

Joshua Vicks' Original Batch of Vicks Vapor Rub

Josiah Wedgewood's Medallion

Jost Burgi's Armillary Sphere *

Jovan Vladimir's Cross

Juana the Mad of Castiles' Crown

Juan Luis Vives' Quill Set

Juan Moreira’s Facón

Juan Pounce de Leon's Chalice

Juan Ponce de León's Helmet

Juan Seguin's Bandolier

Jubilee Grand Poker Chip *

Judah Loew ben Belazel's Amulet *

Judas Iscariot’s Thirty Silver Coins

Judson Laipply's Shoes

Jules Baillarger's Decanter

Jules Leotard's Trapeze Net

Jules Verne's Original Manuscripts

Julia Agrippa's Chalice

Julia Child's Apron *

Julia Child's Whisk

Julian Assange’s Flash Drive

Julie d’Aubigny's Sabre

Julius and Ethel Rosenberg's Wedding Rings

Julius Asclepiodotus’ Shield Boss

Julius Caesar's Wreath

Julius Wilbrand's Lab Coat Buttons *

Jumanji

Jumper Cables

Junji Koyama’s Vegetables

Jure Sterk's Ballpoint Pen

Jürgen Wattenberg's Leather Provision Bag

Justa Grata Honoria’s Engagement Ring

Justin Bieber's Guitar

Justinian I's Chariot Wheel

Justin O. Schmidt's Wasp Mask

Justus von Liebig's Fertilizer Sack

Justus von Liebig's Mirror