uhhh west sends rosetta flowers every time he's in town just because he can :3
omgggg and she would scoff and roll her eyes whenever she gets a new bouquet but then she’s putting them in the nicest vase they own and not letting anyone else touch them as well as caring for them more than caring for her own son
I too am doing this the second I see it or else my mind will dream up beautiful fantasies and forget anyone ever tagged me in anything. now posting it is a completely different story, but tyty for the tag @shapsara 💕
Last song: Dream Girl Evil by Florence + The Machine, dance fever has been on repeat lately to try and get my inspiration flowing again. I switch between florence albums all the time but dance fever just has me in a chokehold
Currently watching: Monk!!! Been on this rewatch for a while and currently on season 5, taking breaks to watch other shows with my family though since my older sister is here for a short blip (and then she leaves us again sighs) we just started watching season 50 of survivor
Current obsession: Chloe Price and Rachel Amber and how devastated I am over them UGH NO ONE LOOK AT ME I just finished before the storm💔 and rdr of course but that honestly comes and goes but there isn’t a day where I’m not thinking about some part of either game genuinely, OH as well as my ocs particularly Rosetta at the moment. Been thinking about how Simon would just stay with her even if he found out about her cheating like goddddd they’re so gross and pathetic he’d still crawl into bed beside her too after he begs her to leave but she just won’t SHE WONT BUDGE and he doesn’t have it in him to kick her out… they make me sick
Currently reading: Fried Green Tomatoes! Watched the movie per my mother’s recommendation and lovedddd it, especially the honey scene my little lesbian heart couldn’t take it, so I decided to check out the book. I’m liking it significantly less though, but only really cause the writing style just isn’t for me 🤷 and there was a particular part I found gross cause of racism. I also have way too many other books I’ve just started and abandoned so those are technically being read but um not exactly right at this moment, like Madwoman by Chelsea Bieker. I actually am really enjoying that one but my motivation ebbs and flows too quickly so I put it down one day and never picked it back up
Currently working on: Way too many things mannnnnn I wish I could just sit down and finish everything
Although I did do a poll with my family & best friend to see which fic I should finish first and chapter 3 of Compulsive Attraction won!!! So my answer to this is of course Compulsive Attraction chapter three! Been working on it on and off for the past month or so after a long hiatus
As well as:
Chapter Four of Past of Mine, Past of Yours
Landon Ricketts angst fic
& some other random fics I started months ago and abandoned like the deadbeat father I am
Currently wearing: my jammiessssssssss!!!!!!!!!
Last Google search: White Iris flower for compulsive attraction research hehe
Favorite flower: well a funny question to answer after that but im a very boring person so: Roses
Anddd I think most of my beloved mutuals have been tagged already but I’m still gonna tag: @mediocrecowboyhat @colterblues @morgansroan @vmprsqd
AAHHH I JUST NOTICED YOUR NEW THEME WHAT THE HECK i loooove the little stars & moon my little astronomer <33 miss karen looks beautifuuuuuul 🌙
HEHEHEHE TYTYTY 💝💝💝 ive been especially annoying lately with my astronomy facts after finishing class so it felt fitting to make my theme a little more me and of course i had to keep my beautiful gorgeous wife karen as my pfp
⊹₊⋆ There’s a thin line between jealousy and infatuation, and Karen doesn’t like that one bit. Faced with feelings she has forced down for years, her anger towards the newest member of the gang begins to morph into the very thing she was afraid of. Iris Abernathy, a naive but caring woman, has Karen’s full attention. Whether she likes it or not.
⟢Past of Mine, Past of Yours (ongoing) | Rosetta Facts!
Arthur Morgan & f!OC
⊹₊⋆ Boredom has crawled its way to Rosetta Devereux, a high-society lady who lost herself long ago. Desperate for an escape from motherhood and marriage, she spends her evenings sleeping with any man who will have her. A pendulum swinging back and forth over and over and over, snapping the second she meets Arthur Morgan. A man she’ll do anything to get alone. Certain he’s her answer to freedom. He has to be. Although she’s unaware of all he’s been going through: strange dreams, an old scar set to tear him open, run-ins with some abnormally large creature. The past looms low over them both like a sheet of storm clouds. With no shelter in sight.
2025 Kinktober/Flufftober Masterlist
⟢ Arthur Morgan
⊹₊⋆ I Want My Boyfriends to Kiss (18+) | modern!charthur x f!reader
⊹₊⋆ Three’s a Party (18+) | modern!marthur x f!reader
⊹₊⋆ A Sultry Surprise (18+) | f!arthur x f!reader
⊹₊⋆ Prying Eyes (18+) | arthur x f!reader
⊹₊⋆ Relief | arthur x gn!reader
⟢ Abigail Marston
⊹₊⋆ Five Years and Counting | johnigail
⟢ Charles Smith
⊹₊⋆ I Want My Boyfriends to Kiss (18+) | modern!charthur x f!reader
⊹₊⋆ Boyfriend Hoodie (18+) | charles x gn!reader
⟢ Javier Escuella
⊹₊⋆ One Last Time (18+) | javier x f!reader
⟢ John Marston
⊹₊⋆ Five Years and Counting | johnigail
⟢ Landon Ricketts
⊹₊⋆ Live (18+) | landon x f!reader
⟢ Molly O’Shea
⊹₊⋆ A Girl Until his Call (18+) | molly x gn!oc
⊹₊⋆ Quiet of the Night | molly x gn!reader
Miscellaneous (aka characters I’ll probably only write for once)
tags/warnings: sexual activity, power imbalance, dubcon (in a sense), caught in the act, lots of smoking, finger sucking, blowjob, oral fixation galore and idk if I should apologize for that or not, can be read as an age gap, also the cell is loosely based on the one in the game only because I realized too late that the descriptions I gave didn’t really resemble that one😭 this is what I get for writing things based off memory lmao
a/n: finally getting around to posting fics that have been molding in my drafts. I wrote this one per @mediocrecowboyhat’s request!!! It really means the world to know that you trust me to write about your fav older men, hat, so I hope this lives up to your expectations! also @glittergelpensherlock I thought you’d wanna read this too hehe
The slam of metal. The twist of keys. A lock secured. Iron bars obscuring your view. You scoff and turn away, arms crossed firmly.
It wasn’t like you to get caught. Especially not like this. With your face smeared, lips swollen. Public indecency. Seriously? Since when was that public indecency? I mean yeah, yeah maybe your clothes were skewed across the dusted road outside of the Armadillo saloon. And well okay yeah you might’ve been on your knees with your mouth full right in the middle of town but, public indecency?
Puhlease.
That Marshal always had it out for you. He was probably waiting, watching with some weird infatuation swirling in his eyes as you helped that friend of yours get off. Who, by the way, just ran the other direction, pants tugged up in one swift hop, while you had to face the crushing embarrassment of being locked in cuffs while naked. Naked as the day you were born.
Huffing, you plop down on the old cot thats pressed against the wall. A wall covered in piss stains and god knows what else. You’d rather not find out.
The blanket one of the deputies tossed your way is barely hanging on, revealing your bare shoulders. You pull it up with a grunt. Regretting not snatching a piece of your stray clothing before they took you away.
Now you not only have to spend however many godforsaken days they choose to keep you in this place alone, but you have to spend them cold. Bone-chillingly cold.
The ceiling is a dull, muted color. You’re lying on your back with your hands crossed over your stomach, one leg propped up, the other dangling off the side. Blanket crumpled around your waist. As you lie there bits and pieces of the conversation you overheard, just minutes ago, come back to you. Something about a canyon. And some rustlers. Real tough stuff for Mr. Big Scary Marshal to deal with. He really acts like he’s something for a guy who just sits back all day with his feet kicked up waiting for the easiest of crimes to stumble his way. Man probably doesn’t even shoot properly.
You smile at this thought, feeling pleased with yourself before the door is kicked open, startling that sly little look right off your face. Bolting upright, you tug the blanket around your body, eyes darting over to find those deputies meandering on in, no Marshal in sight. They notice you the second they’re inside. Slow, antagonistic grins pulling up their faces as they share a glance and begin to stalk your way.
“Looks like someone is enjoyin’ their new home.” The skinnier, slightly taller fella says. Who, if you recall correctly, is named Jonah.
The other guy laughs, a real come from the depths type laugh. Like that was the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
“Oh-ho, I bet they are.” He slaps Jonah on the back. “Probably real comfortable in there.”
That draws a laugh from Jonah, and now they’re both squawking like a pair of birds. You roll your eyes, moving to lie back down but before you can, the door is swung open again.
“Jonah, Eli.” Comes Leigh Johnson’s booming voice before anything else, the blinding glow of the afternoon pouring in behind him, “Leave ‘em alone.”
You watch silently, blinking away the light, as he points at the two fools. That one command causing them to retreat with their heads lowered.
Leigh Johnson is already sauntering over to his desk, hips swaying, keys and spurs jangling with each step.
He lowers himself into his chair, letting out a weary sigh and kicking his feet up. Crossing one over the other, ankles pressed together. He pulls out a cigarette, your gaze fixed on the way he shoves it between his teeth, biting down to hold it there while he leans forward and tugs a drawer open. He digs around for a second before his eyes flick upwards, keenly aware of your staring. The two of you sit there, unblinking. And then ever so slightly, his lips twitch.
“What’s got you so interested?” He drawls, leaning back with a match in hand, a hint of a smirk on his bearded face.
Your gaze darts to the floor, rotted wood and dusty bootprints catching your attention. You swallow thickly, throat bobbing.
“No need to get all shy now,” He murmurs, “‘specially not after that show you put on earlier for me and my boys.”
Heat creeps up your cheeks, your lips part on a caught breath.
“Was a reaaal nice show.” He adds, digging his heels in deeper, bruising harder. “A shame your friend bolted.”
Glancing up, you find him taking a long drag of his cigarette, a brow raised at you as he blows the smoke out through his teeth. Before finally turning away. But not without one last smirk.
One last lingering smirk.
The next few days pass you by in a blur, the swirl of a beige ceiling, restless sleep, loud bickering from Jonah and Eli, a quick flash of red fabric that one of them tossed your way. You tugged it on quickly after that, not even caring where it had been. Because you finally had some warmth besides that tattered blanket. Then came the low drawl of the Marshal and that damn smirk, all of it ringing you into a new dawn.
Sunlight spills in jagged lines through the window near your temporary cot. A groan and a yawn and then you’re stretching out your coiled limbs. Blinking bleariness away. Pushing up, you get to your feet. It’s time for your daily pacing after all. And then next on the agenda is your afternoon gripping of the cell bars, staring out pathetically like that’ll grant you freedom. Oh and you can’t forget the pout. The pout is mandatory. Or the scowl. You’re feeling more like the scowl for today.
After a couple minutes of pacing and contemplating quite literally nothing, you pause, turn on your heel, and step up to the bars. Bar gripping just has to come early today. Reaching out, you wrap your hands around them, peeking out to find the Marshal sitting at his desk with his hat covering his face. His hands are behind his head and he’s in that same old position. Looking surprisingly peaceful for a man who should be watching over his citizens. This has you scowling without even thinking about it, finding his entire career a joke. He’s a hack. A real useless idiot who just locks up whoever he sees fit to toy with that day. What a nasty, nasty cruel game. Twisted and cruel…
A game.
Huh.
You’ve always liked games.
A grin curls up your lips.
Slowly, you lean forward, pressing your face against the cool iron, angling just right.
“Marshaaaaal” you call, drawing out the word to make it echo.
This causes him to stir, somewhat, mumbling something incoherent. And your grin grows.
“Yooohooo! Marshal.” Your voice bounces all around the dilapidated building.
This time, he rips his hat off his face and tosses it atop the desk, whipping his head around frantically. You snicker under your breath, pulling away so he won’t suspect a thing. When his eyes land on you, they drag, taking in every detail as if he already knows your behind this nonsense. He turns away with a shake of his head, leaning back.
“Don’t test me.” He mutters, eyelids drooping.
You’re pacing now, pretending not to know anything. And when you glance sidelong to find him asleep once more a laugh bubbles low in your chest. Hurrying forward, your palms wrap around the cell. Then you’re shouting something else, the first thing that comes to mind.
“Up and ready, Marshal!” Your voice wavers with another laugh as you watch him shoot upright, scrambling to get to his feet. Then he’s turning towards you, top lip twitching with barely suppressed anger.
“You think that’s funny?” He grits.
You blink and then shrug, “Thought we were playing a game.”
“A game?” He takes a step forward
“Mhm. A game.”
“You think this is a game?”
“I dunno, seemed like it with all that smirking and glancing my way.” You gesture toward him, referencing the past few days, “Thought maybe you were messing with me.”
His jaw twitches in response. You can’t help but grin further.
“Stop that.” He grunts, narrowing his eyes.
“Stop what?” You feign.
“Grinning like you won something.”
“Oh but I did.”
His feet move swiftly and before you know it he’s in front of you, fingers clawing into the collar of your shirt. Wiping that grin right off your face, eliciting a gasp. Then he tugs you forward, your body pressed harshly against those rough bars, rattling now with the force.
“You’re a worthless bastard.” He spits out, gaze tearing into yours, face inches away. Something flashes in his eyes and then he’s letting go, pulling back as if you burned him. “And I’m tired of you.” He adds, almost as an afterthought. Like that’ll get him out of this.
Blinking, you stand there dumbfounded, reeling and a bit wobbly from whatever just happened. You saw that look. That flick of a flame. The way his fingers dug into your shirt, the way your feet lifted off the ground just enough so you were at his height.
Is the marshal… smitten with you?
How could you have missed any of it?
Any of this
this exhilarating game.
As more days pass in a tension filled haze, it doesn’t get any less exhilarating. If anything, that flame you saw in the depths of his irises has started burning brighter the more you two exchange secret looks and silent conversations. If anything, it seems like he’s recalling what you looked like on your knees. And hating himself for it.
It’s weird. Being lusted after by a lawman. Weird but flattering. Flattering in a strange way. You still don’t like him. Whatsoever. But it’s nice to know that the old man hasn’t lost his spark and that you haven’t either.
You keep catching him when he thinks no one else is looking. Catching the way his gaze flicks over to you the second his deputies leave. The way it lingers on your barely covered skin. It makes you shudder. An abnormal feeling gurgling inside that always leaves you questioning your own thoughts. And your dietary choices.
You’re lying on your back again, hands behind your head, one leg propped up. The most comfortable position you could find on this godforsaken cot. Your eyes are shut and a quiet peace has fallen over the cramped space. The last you knew, Leigh Johnson sent those two bumbling idiots out to deal with some drunk fool causing a ruckus. Leaving him and you here. Alone. It seems he’s too busy scanning a newspaper to look your way. You know it’s coming soon though. That heavy stare. Lingering for days.
And right on time, you feel it. The burn of it seeping under your clothes, caressing your skin. Slowly, you peek one eye open, turning your head just enough to catch him observing you. He looks utterly lost in thought, just as you expected. Cigarette dangling haphazardly from his lips, newspaper forgotten. You watch as he sets it down and gets to his feet. Planning something.
Then he’s storming to the front of your cell, reaching towards his key loop. This has you sitting up abruptly, swinging your legs over the side of your cot. Keys jangle as he sifts through them. Finally, he’s shoving one into the lock and twisting it, pulling the door open with a loud creak.
Both of you pause, your breath catching, his fingers curling before neither of you can hold back. He’s surging forward first, grabbing you by your shirt and tugging you upwards, your hands bracing against his chest as his lips crash into yours. It’s messy. Beard scraping against skin, saliva colliding. Your nails dig into his vest, his arms wrap around you. Then he’s spinning you around and slamming you against the stained wall, pulling back with his chest heaving.
“You’ve fucked with me long enough.”
Quick to recover you narrow your eyes, letting out an incredulous, but albeit, breathy laugh, “oh have I now?”
All it takes is one little wiggle for you to slip away, flipping this on its head. You stand behind him, arms raised, sly grin on your face as he turns to look at you, upper lip twitching with something else entirely now. His hand darts out but you dodge it.
“Gonna have to try harder than that, Marshal.” You tease, taking a slow step backward. “I ain’t that easy to catch.”
This starts up an absolutely thrilling little game: you taking languorous steps backward, finally out of your cage, and him, stalking forward without much thought. Every time he thinks he’s close enough to finally win, you just duck away with a laugh. Leaving him fuming.
The second you make it to the desk you’re diving into his chair, plopping down and sitting there like you own the place. Kicking your feet up as he stops in his tracks, watching you. You grin before reaching out to tug a drawer open, trying to find something.
“Aha!” You exclaim once you finally do, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and flicking them open. Then you shove one in your mouth and bite down on it a bit awkwardly.
Grabbing a match, you keep your gaze focused on the Marshal as he stands there. Watching. Entirely enraptured by you. That elicits a shudder, the cigarette lit shakily before you lean back again, sucking on it and pulling it away to puff out the smoke.
Quickly, Leigh Johnson is moving toward you, stopping right in front of the desk, his palms slapping against it. He reaches forward, tugging the cigarette from your lips and pushing it past his own. You swallow, mouth now parted as you watch him smoke before he’s shoving it back to you abruptly.
With the cigarette back in your possession and a wicked idea stirring in your mind, your gaze doesn’t waver. You wrap your lips around the tip of it. Obscenely. Then let out a low hum, knowing just what that’ll do to him.
“Don’t do that.” He demands, fingers twitching.
“Do what?”
You’re tugging the cigarette from your mouth just to do it again. Giving him a rather sensual show, tongue twirling around the tip, gaze never leaving his. The taste is awful but it’s worth it given how he’s reacting. Restraining himself from doing the very thing you know he’ll regret. Then one last time you pull it out. Breathing in too fast and choking on the excess of smoke.
Coughing, you lean forward, trying and failing to catch your breath. Gripping at the edge of the desk and wheezing for air. He is by your side before you know it, patting your back to help you breathe. And after a few life altering seconds, you take in a sputtering breath, slumping back.
“That.” He says, shaking his head.
You glance upward, giving him an awkward smile in return as your chest heaves. The moment having shifted into something else entirely. Something that has him clearing his throat and you looking away. Both too ashamed to face it.
You really can’t help the way your eyes wander to him after that whole. Situation. His natural swagger, that sway of his hips with each step. Fuck. It’s hypnotizing. The way he commands a room just by stepping into it. God. It’s absolutely thrilling.
Blinking, you grimace at these thoughts. This is the man you’re lusting after? Some puny Marshal in an even more puny town. Pfft, you never had great taste. But this is just sad. I guess the body wants what the body wants. Still it’s sad that your body wants Marshal Leigh Johnson. Wants him so bad it aches.
You cough, shifting into a sitting position and staring off through the slatted bars in front of you. The view into your neighbor cell. It hadn’t been occupied until yesterday. When Eli came barging in with some slouched over guy in his grasp. He shoved him and then slammed the door, swiping his hands together. Feeling proud of himself. Too proud.
Your neighbor gave you one look and decided you were enemy number one on his list. Sending a lethal glare your way as if you were the sole reason for his punishment. It was entertaining at least, seeing just how mad you could get him with nothing more than your presence.
Last night, after your oh-so friendly first meeting, he yet again gave you what you can only assume is his signature I fucking hate you and want you dead glare and you smiled. Smiled the brightest you’ve ever smiled. Which he took quite poorly, to say the least. Stomping over to his cot and tearing the blanket off like a wolf ripping flesh.
Quite. The. Animal. That man is. A real animal.
Now he’s asleep, snoring louder and louder as time ticks on. It’s driving you mad and so is everything else, really. Leigh Johnson barely stepping foot in here after that whole ordeal. Keeping himself busy with whatever it is he does with that authority of his. Jonah and Eli being as insufferable as ever. And you, still locked away in this godforsaken cell. Kept here like some useless pet. Only needed when the Marshal sees fit.
You groan, sliding your hands down your face and flopping onto your back, peeking up at the ceiling through your fingers. The ceiling that you’ve become more than acquainted with at this point.
A swirl of beige. Sandy, inviting. Nice upon first glance but boring soon after.
So.
Damn.
Boring.
The front door creaks open, boots thud against hardwood. Forcing your attention away from the same old ceiling and over to the person who just entered.
It’s the vest, clinging tightly to the soft skin underneath, that you notice first. Then your eyes drag upward, up to that face. Chin shrouded with grey facial hair, skin wrinkled taut around his nose and eyes.
You suck in a breath at the sight. He sneaks a glance your way, pausing.
The two of you stare, bodies freezing, lips parting. And then he’s making a detour to your cell, sifting for that key once again. It’s quicker this time. The door swinging open, his body looming over you in seconds. You keep your gaze locked on his as you sit up. Holding eye contact.
It’s intimate.
Too intimate.
He reaches out, fingers curling around your chin, tilting your head up.
“Damn you. You’re all I can think of.” He admits, voice gruff, “It’s torture.”
Oh that’s cute. Real cute. The edge of your lips twitch with the implication.
“Why?” You whisper, leaning forward.
“Cause I shouldn’t be thinking ‘bout you. Not like this.”
“Like what?”
This time your question isn’t to mock or annoy, but more to inquire. To get a real answer from him. To hear what it is he wants. Even if it’s clear.
He breathes in, eyes wandering down to the quirk of your lips.
It’s very clear what he wants.
“Like this.” He exhales, fingers tightening around your chin.
So. very. clear.
“Oh.” You squeak out through your grin, “like this?”
Your face is hovering in front of his crotch now, tongue sliding out to wet your lips. Slowly. Slow enough that he’ll notice. Because that’s exactly what he wants and you know it. You’ve known it from the start.
He doesn’t respond, just watches you while dragging his thumb up to your mouth, over that sliver of tongue. You catch on quickly, parting your lips enough so his finger can fit inside.
You hum the second it slides in, the taste a jolt to your senses. Salty and dirty and metallic. Blood and grime that hasn’t been washed away licked up slowly, teasingly. It’d be disgusting in any other context, but not now. Not with him looking at you in this way. Desperate for more. You let out a muffled little laugh, pulling away from his thumb with a wet pop, tongue hanging out.
He doesn’t waste any time. Hand already darting to his belt to get it undone, metal sliding through leather. Fabric drops from his thighs, pools around his ankles to reveal the exhilarating sight of his erect cock. You stare a moment, excitement palpable now that you get a good look at what he has to offer. Then you glance upward, an amused glint passing from you to him.
“You really have been thinking about me, Marshal.”
“I don’t lie.” He crosses his arms, hips jutting ever so slightly, “Now, pretend I’m that little friend of yours and make it quick. I don’t got much patience.”
A pause follows, your eyes widening at his boldness before you reach out, hand hovering over him.
“Oh, but you’re better.” You reply, dragging your gaze down to his erection. Uncut and thick. “Much better.”
You curl your fingers around him, the thickness pressed just right against your palm, your tongue lolling out. Prepared. He groans lowly. The first touch electric and the anticipation for what’s to come upping the ante.
“That’s good.” He grunts, chasing the friction with a small thrust into your hand. Revealing his glimmering tip, your eyes dart from it to his own watchful gaze. He smirks, waiting to see what you’ll do next.
You lean forward, enough for you to obscure that obnoxious smirk. Tongue slowly making contact with him, lapping up a bead of precum before it can drip to the floor. His response is a full body shudder, smirk erased in seconds, hand gripping at the side of your face as you finally. Finally, wrap your lips around him.
Eyes fluttering shut, you don’t think. Just move. Taking him in and out of your mouth becoming a much easier task the more your saliva slathers every. thick. inch. The sounds quickly morph into something obscene, loud and uncaring. And wet. Extremely wet. His groans reverberate off the walls, your slick mouth and muffled gasps around him create just as much of a symphony. He can’t help himself, hips surging forward, hand guiding your movements. Its dizzying. Exactly what the both of you need after all that “pining.” If you can really call it that.
“You’re good.” He grits out, head falling back. “So fucking good.”
You speed up your efforts to thank him for the praise, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat with each bob of your head. Causing you to gag in the best way possible. Pleasure bursting through you at the feeling. Bringing it all to new heights. Pushing him and yourself closer and closer and -
There’s a sound. A different kind of sound. A low stirring and a deeper groan that is loud enough to be heard over the two of you. Snapping everything back to reality.
In a flash, you’re pulling off him, chest heaving with shallow breaths, throat aching. He’s tugging his pants up, tucking himself back inside as you two cautiously glance through the slats beside you. Into the neighboring cell.
There you find your unfriendly neighbor rousing from sleep, narrowing his bleary gaze at the sight in front of him. Obviously trying to discern who’s there and what’s going on. When he can make out the Marshal, his eyebrows shoot up.
“What the hell is happening?!” He shouts.
Leigh Johnson moves, quick. Hands raised, giving you one last lingering look before turning away. Stepping out of the cell and locking it.
“I was checking on them,” he explains, back turned to you as his steps slow behind his desk, “Just making sure they kept their mouth shut.”
Your neighbor scoffs, shaking his head in pure disgust while turning to lie back down. You, on the other hand, sit there without much care, spit dribbling down your chin, lips parting into a grin. Because you know this isn’t the last the Marshal will be needing you. Nowhere near.
Dividers
second a/n: this really wasn’t supposed to be as long it is but I was having a blast dragging out the tension and I could not stop writing lmao also i haven’t written smut in a while so um I’m a bit rusty and ten times more shy than usual so no one look at me. but i do hope it was enjoyable
(leigh johnson was supposed to be in the header but the photos of him were pissing me off so I said bye bye leigh, the other poorly put together photos were taken by yours truly🙂↕️👍)
drop this sunflower🌻 into the inboxes of the blogs that make you happy! lets spread a little sunshine ☀️ (you don’t have to post this btw I just want to send!!)
HEHEHEHEH YAYAYAYAY JUMPS UP AND DOWN HAPPILY!!! tyty lyla you’re the absolute coolest
⚜ MASTERLIST | AO3 | PREV | NEXT
⚜ tags: Mature. Third-person Arthur POV. Canon-typical violence. Period-typical misogyny. Medium to High Honor Arthur. Original Character(s). Kidnapping. Sexual Themes.
⚜ word count: 3,130
⚜ summary: Sent to scout a lucrative mark, Arthur and Trelawny descend upon the Théâtre Râleur for a night of risk and reconnaissance. But once they slip behind the curtain, the real performance begins—and Arthur is forced to do what he dreads most: improvise.
⚜ author's note: endless love to my @fleurdelucienne for being a wonderful friend and beta-reader! this chapter was so fun to write and really put me out of my comfort zone. I hope you have fun reading, too! xo, coyote
⚜ song: The Sleeping Beauty, Op. 66 : Introduction
A crash of music like gunfire.
Brass and percussion collided in a skirmish for dominance. Patrons startled in their seats. Heads turned, voices hushed. And when the music climbed to its discordant peak, it crested; softened; gave way to fluttering woodwinds and a lilting oboe that soothed the ear like a lullaby.
The curtain rose.
Arthur chanced a look over at Trelawny, whose eyes twinkled with fascination as he leaned in, at once absorbed by the action onstage.
In Arthur's view, all was controlled chaos. Lavish costumes. Set pieces that rivaled the architecture. He scanned the spectacle, keeping count.
"Looks real expensive…" He murmured promisingly. Trelawny only hummed in reply.
The music turned processional as the company formed an arc upstage. Oddly, many of them sat, turning their focus to the empty space down center. Arthur was relieved for the stillness if only for the chance to study their faces, searching for the one to match the cigarette card in his satchel.
There.
A woman joined from the wings. Three dandified male dancers broke rank to meet her. Long legs carried her across the stage in tight, controlled steps on the tips of her toes. With arms held above her head in a gesture of elegant precision, the ballerina paused when she reached center. Drawing her back leg in a long, slow arc skyward, the other rooted itself to the boards in a pillar of strength.
And then she was still.
Whole measures of music passed like an afterthought. Elsie Rose remained suspended in time, with only the barest tremble of her tautly-muscled calf betraying the magnitude of effort behind her feat.
"Damn." Arthur grunted, reluctantly impressed. "Ain't her toes hurtin'?"
"Shh!"
In the seat directly ahead of his own, an older patron turned to glower at Arthur disapprovingly over the rim of his wiry spectacles. Arthur glowered back. The man sniffed and faced the proscenium.
Back onstage, the three suitors (or at least that's what they looked like to Arthur) took turns genuflecting, each with an offering of a single rose. Elsie accepted them, sustaining her impossible posture. Arthur shifted forward, squinting at the rafters, half-expecting to discover some hidden piece of stage magic—puppet strings, or something—but found only lights.
One by one, they took her hand, presenting her to the room in a promenade. The illusion was that they turned her—but it was she who spun herself—slowly and on the tips of her toes with tiny, precise shifts in the muscles of her foot. And all the while the line she held with her leg from stem to stern was as straight and unyielding as a divining rod.
Arthur leaned into Trelawny and whispered, "Look at these chumps. All they're doin' is twirlin' around in them funny-lookin' hats—she's the one doin' all the work."
"Do you mind?" The bespectacled patron hissed over his shoulder. To his neighbor, he complained, "No tact, no culture."
Arthur's fists curled in his lap. "Oh, I'll culture you, alright…"
A gloved hand found his shoulder—Trelawny's. A silent point made. Sighing grumpily, Arthur sat back in his seat.
The lobby thrummed with enlivened conversation as the audience emptied the theater. Arthur and Trelawny sifted through the throng, with Arthur rolling his stiffened shoulder in the little space permitted.
"You have an uncanny ability to make friends everywhere you go, dear boy." Trelawny remarked, speaking above the din.
“Would’a gotten even friendlier, if you hadn’t been here to stop me.” The other darkly replied.
“I've no doubt…"
Slipping through to the left, they found solace in the much quieter lounge. The bar was unmanned and Arthur was half-tempted to help himself as he surreptitiously peered at their whiskey selection.
"So—what say you?" Trelawny prompted, planting his cane.
"Looks like there was about…thirty of 'em. More, if y'count the orchestra…" Arthur mused, thumbing the scar on his chin in thought. "Reckon that train'll be packed. Unless you was talkin' about the show?" He added, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Trelawny smirked beneath his wax-curled mustache. "Best saved for later, perhaps—once we've found ourselves moored safely at the Bastille." He lowered his voice as if divulging a salacious secret. "A terrible faux pas, dear boy, to voice one's thoughts on a performance while still in the venue."
"Where are my manners," said Arthur dryly. He propped his weight back against the bar. Mapping the place in his mind, he tried to surmise where the numerous doors and staircases lining these halls might lead. "Where d'you reckon we should start lookin'?"
"I suppose that depends…" Trelawny pretended to adjust his cuff links as a small cluster of well-dressed men filtered past. "If it were merely one night's meager sales we were after, I imagine a brutish negotiation with the box office would suffice."
Arthur chuckled. "Then you'd be speakin' my language. But you know Dutch—he ain't exactly the meager type."
"Indeed. In that case…" Trelawny's keen gaze hovered near the men as they disappeared behind a door at the end of the hall. "If there's a fortune to be found, my guess is it would be close to our leading lady."
Arthur grunted in affirmation. "Should we split up?"
"I think not." Said Trelawny, all innocence as he made to follow them. "Certainly, there's no crime in two gentlemen finding themselves hopelessly lost in their wayward search for the facilities?"
Arthur smiled crookedly. "Ain't no crime at all."
Deeper into the theater they drew, the fading echo of lobby chatter lost to the encroaching silence. Neither of them spoke; Arthur on the alert, his narrowed gaze tracking for potential threats; and Trelawny, adopting the veneer of a witless tourist.
They didn't make it far. Guarding a gold-embossed entryway was a uniformed doorman, no older than twenty, with a hat worn slightly askew.
"Good evening, sirs." The kid bowed briefly at the waist. "Are you looking for the foyer de la danse?"
Trelawny inclined his head, seizing his cue. "Indeed, we most certainly are."
"This way, please." He stepped aside, gesturing them onward.
How big is this goddamn place? Arthur thought, prickling with unease. Steeling himself, he followed Trelawny's tailcoats inside.
Dancers stretched work-weary bodies before high, floor-length mirrors. Others socialized with wealthy-looking patrons by a refreshments table topped with wine, olives, and platters of cured meats. Nearby on an upholstered bench, a dancing girl sat wincing as she tended to a swath of angry blisters. Beside her sat a pale, satin shoe stained with blood.
Arthur spotted the men they'd followed, this time with cigars and crystals of brandy. They were crowding a pair of pretty dancers who laughed at their jokes through forced smiles. An older gentleman's hand assumed the small of a girl's back, too low to be polite, too lingering to be tolerable. In the low lamplight, his wedding ring gleamed.
A muscle flexed in Arthur's jaw. "What're we doin', Trelawny?"
"Patience, my friend." The other sang lightly in reply. "We've only just arrived."
Cane in hand, Trelawny ambled along the wall with the casual confidence of one who belonged. He tipped his top hat politely to someone in the crowd unseen. "We are…patrons of substance…come to sample the ripened fruits on offer…grim, but true."
"I'd rather be shootin'."
Off the foyer, a large archway split into two corridors, warmly lit with wall sconces. A lively traffic of dancers to the right seemed to gesture towards the dressing rooms; but the path to the left was remarkably quiet in comparison. Neither area was decorated with the same decadence as the rest of the theater—as if the deeper they wormed themselves, layer by layer, the uglier were its unvarnished truths.
Arthur watched the same, hapless doorman who invited them into the foyer patrol the party, head down, keeping to the edges. He shuffled self-consciously past before a short, sharp whistle rang out from the left-sided corridor.
The doorman froze, eyes snapping to attention.
"You, boy." A disembodied voice, weighted with authority, called from down the hall. "Come here."
He nearly tripped over himself in his eagerness to comply.
The voice spoke again, its owner hidden inside what Arthur presumed to be some kind of administrator's office. "Has Mr. Hall's liaison confirmed the arrangements?"
"Yes, sir. Simply waiting for the ink to dry, sir." The doorman quickly replied. He stood just outside with shined shoes clamped together, as if not daring to fully enter the space without explicit invitation.
"Good. Let's hope it doesn't dally in doing so. Before you go—"
Arthur heard movement—the scrape of a chair's wooden legs across the floor—and subtly craned his neck around the archway to get a visual. A small, leather portmanteau with a heavy lock was handed off to the doorman, who gathered it clumsily with both arms.
"See to it this is safely returned where it belongs." Ordered the faceless man. "And be quick about it—you'll remember what happened last time…"
Arthur read the initials emblazoned on the side of the bag: E. R.
Jackpot.
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
The kid doubled back, passing behind them without so much as a sideways glance.
Arthur nodded. "Let's go."
"Just a moment, my eager friend." Trelawny murmured, dark blue eyes trained down the hall. "Three…two…one…go."
Briskly, they went. Flashes of painted faces in mirrors—bruised legs—half-dressed dancers arguing in French. Arthur pulled Trelawny out of the way of an incoming stagehand, burdened with unwashed linens.
They reached the end of the corridor.
Trelawny motioned for Arthur to peer around the corner.
Midway down the secluded, connecting passage was the doorman, standing before a closed room. Shifting the portmanteau to one hand, he tentatively knocked with the other. Only when no reply came, did he enter.
"Where're you goin', kid?" Arthur breathed, forehead creased with focus.
A moment later he emerged, empty-handed. Arthur tensed, prepared to double back—but the doorman hurried on and out of sight.
Arthur and Trelawny shared a look.
"We doin' this?"
"Swiftly, now."
Once inside, Arthur quickly surveyed the room. Racks of costumes lined the richly-patterned walls. Pushed beneath a gilded portrait was an armchair with a gown strewn across it, as though abandoned mid-change.
His eyes fell on the portmanteau. It sat beneath a light-rimmed vanity covered in cosmetics, spotlighted amidst the backstage clutter.
"Why not? S'just sittin' there. Maybe we ain't even have to hit the train—"
Trelawny hissed, "This is not. The time. To improvise."
Footsteps.
Arthur stiffened. A look of shared panic.
They turned to find a woman framed in the doorway.
Though she'd traded her leotard for a turquoise dressing gown, she still wore her inky hair in a ballerina's bun. She'd seemed taller onstage—the top of her head barely level with the middle of Arthur's chest—yet she stood with such unflinching poise, all else felt diminished by contrast.
Elsie Rose was startlingly calm as she said, "Excuse me, gentlemen. I believe you're in my dressing room."
Trelawny removed his top hat and offered a guileless smile. "Aha! Just the wonder we were looking for. An honor to meet your acquaintance, Miss Rose. Please pardon our impropriety—we simply hoped to have a word with you for an article, and, well…this place is quite the labyrinth, isn't it?"
Elsie stared. "Who are you?"
“Giuseppe Muldoon,” He lied with a flourish, bowing so deeply Arthur was surprised his nose didn’t scrape the carpet. “Arts columnist for the Saint Denis Cultural Chronicle.”
“Charmed.” Elsie offered a slender hand, which Trelawny squeezed. She tilted her head, regarding him with curiosity. “You must forgive me; I’m afraid I haven’t heard of you or your…esteemed publication.”
There was something funny about her voice and it took Arthur longer than he’d care to admit to realize it was on account of her being English. She spoke quickly, musically, in a tone warmed by modest indulgences in cigarettes and brandy.
“You wouldn't, my dear lady.” Trelawny folded his gloved hands behind his waistcoat. “Our fledgling paper should only hope to earn its credibility by courting comment from talents such as yourself.”
Christ, Trelawny was laying it on thick, even by his standards. Arthur remained stoic, wondering how much of this routine was bullshit and how much of it was Trelawny, for once sincerely starstruck.
Elsie lifted her brow. "Then you must know Hector."
Arthur watched Trelawny from the corner of his eye.
"I'd wager there isn't a circle in Saint Denis that Mr. Fellowes doesn't intersect." He evaded with an indulgent chuckle. "Though you'll find he and I have…differing journalistic priorities."
Elsie hummed. Her eyes, framed with winged lashes, lingered probingly before they darted to Arthur—pinning him to the spot. “And who might this be?”
Trelawny straightened. "How tactless of me. This strapping individual would be my associate, a Mister—"
"Callahan." Arthur answered gruffly. "Arthur Callahan."
"Are you a lover of the ballet, Mr. Callahan?"
Arthur shifted. "Well, I—"
"I'm sorry to say my associate is something of a cultural neanderthal, my dear lady." Trelawny swooped in magnanimously. "One of his many shortcomings."
Elsie's eyes never strayed from Arthur's face, polite yet unreadable. She awaited his answer.
"No, I—I'm afraid I ain't too familiar with, uh—all of this." He admitted, somewhat awkward as he made a vague gesture around the dressing room. "But…I reckon what you were doin' up there looked like tough work, miss."
She blinked, gently surprised. "It is. Thank you."
Trelawny procured from his pocket a tin of premium cigarettes. He flicked it open, presenting her with one in a way that almost reminded Arthur of those fancy-footed fools with the roses.
"Do you smoke, madam?"
Elsie stilled, deliberating. She accepted, posing the cigarette between two fingers.
Trelawny looked to Arthur expectantly.
"Oh—" He patted his pockets for a light. As he struck the match, Elsie's eyes met his over the flame as she leaned in, torching the end of her cigarette, pulling sharp in a way Arthur had to respect. Ribbons of smoke danced around her head as she exhaled through her nose, slow and steady.
"I'm afraid I only have a few minutes before I must retire." She allowed, crossing to the vanity and sinking, straight-backed, onto the stool before it. Arthur refrained himself from glancing down at the portmanteau by her feet. "But, yes—I suppose a few questions will do."
The game was afoot.
"Plainly, you are a well-traveled woman." Trelawny began, a hint of rakishness about him. "Is this your first time in Saint Denis, or have you graced us before?"
"Oh, yes. Many times."
Trelawny hummed politely, scribbling in a tiny notebook he'd pulled from his jacket. "How does it compare?"
"Not without its growing pains. But Saint Denis and I have come to an amicable truce." Elsie leaned over the coffee table to ash her cigarette. "Despite my work, the city insists on pleasure."
Trelawny's eyes crinkled. "That it does."
Partly tucked beneath the ash tray, a folded piece of parchment caught Arthur's eye. The letterhead looked almost familiar—as if he'd seen the design in passing once and never bothered to commit it to memory.
"A tour of this ambitious size must incur significant expenses." Trelawny went on, face drawn in a facsimile of journalistic interest. "Does the company hope to recoup its costs?"
Something in Elsie sharpened.
Arthur squinted, studying the insignia, wracking his memory for where he'd seen it before. Then it came to him—a painted logo on a speeding train car—Trelawny's voice as they rode into the city.
The Pacific Union Railroad.
Elsie fluttered her lashes with calculated innocence. "Oh, I'm afraid that's better asked of the box office. But if you ask me, the true value of a performance lies not in its profits, but in its audience." She turned to Arthur coolly. "What would be your assessment, Mister Callahan?"
Arthur's eyes darted up from the parchment. They locked with Elsie's, blue-green on brown.
Trelawny's gaze was a brand. He swallowed against the rising resentment that always dogged him in these moments, when failure and success balanced not on how well he could fight, but on how much shit from rich folks he could stand to eat with a smile.
"To be honest wit'cha, miss…" He drawled. "I ain't understand a damn thing about it."
The apples of Elsie's cheeks rose in a genuine, disarming smile.
Feverish from their narrow getaway, the uncharacteristically cool Lemoyne air was a balm on their skin. With the theater at their backs and the moon as their spotlight, even Trelawny elected not to speak until they'd seen themselves halfway down Hestia Street.
"You played your role well, dear boy. For the most part." Trelawny croaked, dabbing the back of his neck with a handkerchief. "All in all, I'd say that was quite the successful dress rehearsal."
Arthur chuckled and shook his head, casting a parting glance at the marquee as they crossed the cobblestoned street. Hitched on iron posts side by side, their horses nickered in recognition as they came into view. "That's the difference between you'n me. All you do is pretend—reckon with me, it's do or die."
"Be that as it may…for all of our sakes, please refrain from the latter."
"Y'know, we might actually be onto somethin' here." Arthur interjected, the spark of adrenaline simmering now with real interest. "There was some letter in there, 'bout that railroad company you mentioned. And you seen how they was actin' around that bag. I ain't sure what, but I bet'chu there's somethin' in there." He scoffed under his breath. "Maybe Bill weren't such a fool after all."
"A broken clock is drunk twice a day—or however the saying goes."
They laughed.
Sighing, Trelawny wryly went on, "I suppose tomorrow you'll find out for yourself. For once, dear boy, I'm envious."
"'Bout what, the job?" Arthur scoffed at him sideways, popping a hard-earned cigarette between his teeth. "Bullshit. You never wanna get your hands dirty—might ruin them fancy gloves."
The end of Trelawny's mustache twitched in a lopsided smirk. "For Elsie Rose? Oh, I'm sure I'd find a way to endure…"
Arthur bristled. He took a drag. “Folk like her don’t make you sick?”
“Lithe and luxurious socialites with legs as long as the Lannahechee? Nausea is not what comes to mind, no.” Trelawny tutted with a sigh. “Then again, I am a married man; I suppose the state of such is one of abject longing for what one cannot have...” His eyes slid in Arthur’s direction as a carriage rattled noisily past. “She seemed to take an interest in you, though, dear boy.”
Arthur turned and spit in the street. "Shut up, 'Giuseppe'. Let's go get us that drink."
I’m just gonna jump straight into my thoughts because my excitement for this is overwhelming
once again the atmosphere is so perfectly described especially the descriptors used for both the song and the ballet moves, and I also like the clear difference in class between Trelawny and Arthur here with them both being intrigued for completely different reasons
also Arthur being impressed by Elsie from the starttttt I love this set up
The dialogue between Arthur and Trelawny will never fail to either make me giggle or smile fondly into the distance, oh how I adore them
I really can’t say enough just how impressive your way of setting a scene is, every little detail we need is pointed out immediately drawing us in and plopping us right into the moment
“Trelawny procured from his pocket a tin of premium cigarettes. He flicked it open, presenting her with one in a way that almost reminded Arthur of those fancy-footed fools with the roses.” <- I truly do love how you characterize Trelawny. This performance he loves to put on never stops and you capture it wonderfully
Also I was so invested in the conversation that went down in the dressing room that I completely forgot to write out any of my thoughts 😭 just know you had me completely immersed to the point that I tuned out everything else around me which is an extremely impressive feat
and is it okay for me to admit that the description of Elsie smoking made me kinda sort of fall for her even more and and her personality has me captivated….. I love her oh And the set up between Arthur and her has me hooked, loving how subtle the interest they have in each other is
‘"That's the difference between you'n me. All you do is pretend—reckon with me, it's do or die."’ <- oooo Arthur pointing it out, I’ve always enjoyed when things like this are just stated especially when it’s coming from Arthur cause he can easily acknowledge these things about himself but is he gonna make the effort to do something about it or just point out its existence, yknow? Also I swear this is an actual line in the game but I might be mistaken, I’ve picked up on how you utilize lines from different parts of the game throughout this fic 👀 I love love how you incorporate them and use them to your advantage to craft this story exactly how you want it!
“The end of Trelawny's mustache twitched in a lopsided smirk. "For Elsie Rose? Oh, I'm sure I'd find a way to endure…"’ ‘Lithe and luxurious socialites with legs as long as the Lannahechee? Nausea is not what comes to mind, no.” Trelawny tutted with a sigh. “Then again, I am a married man; I suppose the state of such is one of abject longing for what one cannot have...” His eyes slid in Arthur’s direction as a carriage rattled noisily past. “She seemed to take an interest in you, though, dear boy.”’ <- trelawnyyyyyyy he knows what he likes and I totally get it lmaoooo and him pointing out the interest she had in Arthur hehehehehe also that reminded me that Trelawny and Elsie are married in your tomodachi life save PLEASE TELL ME THEYRE STILL HAPPILY TOGETHER
Okay but everything seriously feels so rich and full of life in this fic, the way you have set it all up has me on the edge of my seat more than eager for what comes next! You really have put so much work into this little story that no matter where it goes from here I’m still going to be impressed and very very much invested. I have to say as well that the visuals provided, the titles of each, the way it’s all laid out adds another layer of immersion for me. Just incredible!!!👏💕
turnnoffyourmind
2087
romaincrisis
andulkaphoto
snowghoul
tangentwithtanner
