#embellished garment

[kellyaroman]

Finished embellishing the back of this jacket! Just need to do the front, then add some crystals for some extra shimmer 🧚🪷💎

#artists on tumblr #fashion #diy #art #painting #embellished garment #costume design #upcycle #fairycore #faeriecore #faerie #cottagecore #dark academia #dragonfly #dragonflies #moon and stars

[irish-dress-history]

Drawn after the Quick

(ie Drawn from Life)

Colored woodcut print by an unknown English artist, generally dated to 1540-1550, possibly depicting Irish kerns who fought for King Henry VIII at the siege of Boulogne in 1544.

All 6 of the men wear a léine (linen tunic) with an ionar (short jacket) over it, and the 4 on the left have a brat (wool mantle). The men have their léinte rucked up to knee length and secured at the waist with a belt or cord. The léinte have the wide hanging sleeves that are typical of 16th c. Gaelic fashion. They also have a deep center-front opening, a feature which matches Burgundian courtier Laurent Vital's description of clothing he saw during his 1518 visit to Kinsale, Co. Cork:

"Generally the men, women, and young girls wear their shirts open to the waist. Most young women and girls have their chests naked to the waist." (translation taken from a lecture by Katherine Bond)

The ionair in this print are very similar in cut to the ionar of the Kilcommon bog outfit. The hat worn by the man in the red ionar is also similar to the hat of the Kilcommon outfit.

The floral scroll design seen on some of the ionair was a popular embroidery motif in England during the 16th-early 17th centuries. It also shows up in 16th c. Irish art like St. Brigid's shoe shrine.

4 of the ionair and all of the visible scabbards have fringe on them. Fringe was a popular embellishment in 16th c. Ireland. The use of fringe is mentioned in several 16th and early 17th c. descriptions of Irish clothing. Fringes made of wool and fringes made of silk were imported into Ireland during the 16th c.

In spite the claim that it was drawn from life, this print includes some stylistic exaggeration. The sword blades are depicted as having a bulbous tip, which actual Irish ring-pommel swords are not. Compare the swords in the print to this extant 16th c. sword from Tully Lough, Co. Roscommon in the NMI:

The print is currently in the collection of the Ashmolean Museum. https://collections.ashmolean.org/object/737327

Bibliography:

Arnold, Janet, Tiramani, J., & Levey, S. (2008). Patterns of Fashion 4. Macmillan, London.

Dunlevy, Mairead (1989). Dress in Ireland. B. T. Batsford LTD, London.

Flavin, Susan (2011). Consumption and Material Culture in Sixteenth-Century Ireland. PhD thesis.

McClintock, H. F. (1943). Old Irish and Highland Dress. Dundalgan Press, Dundalk.

Irish Ring Pommel Sword: New Insight into Use

National Museum of Ireland talk on St. Brigid's shoe shrine

Depicting and Describing Dress in Early Modern Ireland: lecture by Dr. Katherine Bond

#irish dress #gaelic ireland #irish history #irish mantle #bratanna #leine #ionar #fringe #embellishment #historical men's fashion #headwear #art #16th century #anecdotes and observations #dress history #bog finds #extant garments

[3cosmicfrogs]

I wanted to go a bit more in-depth with this piece that I did for zukka week 2023 because i got inspired to do more insane clothing details. ID in ALT.

Ramble about the influences/inspirations below:

Design inspirations for Sokka's clothing are mainly Inuvialuit and Yup'ik, with Nenets, Tlingit, and Chukchi inspiration for the tassels, patterns, belt and beadwork. I mixed these with the ornaments canon shows us used by the Northern Water Tribe, and also in Legend of Korra. I got particularly excited about drawing from Inuvialuit sources since the tassels we see in canon look like they could be inspired by this. Going beyond canon's animation-friendly colour scheme, I drew from Nenets patterns/embroidery/sashes and Yup'ik beadwork for accent colours. I think in the future I'd like to find ways to incorporate more Tlingit-style patterns since I rarely see them in fanart (which is a shame - they're stunning), but since they tend to be very big I ultimately decided to only include them as a nod in order to keep the regalia recognisable as 'Water Tribe'. I wonder if I could start using Polynesian influences as well?

Zuko's headdress and particularly the shoulder garment and beaded embroidery draw heavily from women's clothing styles of Lê Dynasty Vietnam. The other main influence is men's royal clothing in Tang Dynasty China, and patterns worn by Mongolian Khatun. Since we have a bit more to go on in canon as to what fire nation regalia looks like, I blended that in as well. I got particularly excited about the embellishments on Lê Dynasty clothes because I could give a little nod to Zuko's dragon-fire by adding more colours to the embroidery. In the future I think I'd want to make the Mongolian influence a bit more obvious... perhaps even push the envelope by incorporating some Bashkir designs, though I'm not sure how well that will go.

#artfromthefrogs #zukka #sokka #zuko #avatar: the last airbender au #avatar: the last airbender #atla #atla fanart #avatar: the last airbender fanart #zukka fanart #zuko fanart #sokka fanart #water tribe #fire nation #older sokka #older zuko #older zukka #dilves zukkae #as i believe they are called #'i want to add more mongolian maybe even bashkir elements' <- man pushing the siberian agenda

[samyakk-clothing]

Taupe Ombre Sequins Embroidered Net Cocktail Gown

#Gown #Embroidered gown #online gown #samyakk gown #Indian designer wears are incomplete without these luxurious fascinating gowns. A gown is a garment consisting of a skirt with an attached #texture #silhouette #neckline #& embellishment. Our designer wear gowns are more often made of superior quality tested & assured fabrics which are sourced from all over t #cotton #linen #brocade #net #georgette #chiffon #velvet #raw silk #lycra #satin #organza #taffeta & lace fabrics. The embellishment includes intricate zari #dori #zardosi #bead #sequins #cutdana #mirror #crystal #reshams work #applique work

[mosshermit]

it’s incredible how much a person can change within a few months. a few months ago I wanted to move to nashville and do custom garments for musicians based in nashville- and now I don’t want to move to nashville at all and I’d be open to moving to brooklyn and now I want to do more experimental stuff with my art. 

#I still wanna do custom embellished garments they're fun #but I don't want it to be my bread and butter #I just wanna do everything artistic

[genderlessghoul]

I've been wanting to do this post for a while now so here is EVERYTHING I CAN TELL YOU ABOUT THE GHOULS' IMPERA COSTUMES.

Buckle up because I have a LOT to say about those, this is gonna be a very long one.

The costumes were designed by B Åkerlund, a Swedish costume designer who's worked with Ghost since at least Meliora (that's as far back as I was willing to scroll on her Instagram page lol). B Åkerlund has also worked for many other musical artists such as Lady Gaga, Beyoncé, Madonna, the Rolling Stones, Ozzy Osborne, Blink 182 and Hollywood Undead (information from her own website)

The masks were made by Bob Basset, a visual artists who works a lot with leather. I find his work fascinating, you can look him up on Instagram (nsfw warning, there's a few naked ladies).

Fun fact! The horns are real cow horns. That's the reason some of them have gold tips, to hide the imperfections that come with working with actual horns.

He does have a shop where he sells his items, there's a mask there very similar to the Impera ones. You can also buy Papa's batwings if you happen to have 2500$ lying around!

The jackets are made on the same model as one of Papa's. The back is decorated with a spine-like design made from leather and cording. It's adorned with a few of our classic Impera buttons. Some of the hems were left raw and some deliberate weathering was done to make it look old and worn.

Fun fact! The shoulder pieces are not sewn into the garment, I would assume for easier cleaning. I don't know if they're held by strong magnets or snap buttons.

The vest (my beloved 😩) is made from flocked velvet in a paisley pattern, the front hems embellished with satin piping. It closes in the front with custom metal clasps that are riveted into the garment. The D parts are attached with what seems to me like wide elastic, which would lessen the pression on the clasps when moving around a lot. The back is made from two different types of fabric, I'd have to touch it to be able to tell you what they are. I assume the panels closer to the sides have some mild stretch to them. The top of the shoulders are decorated with Impera grucifix patches.

The shirts were not custom made for the ghouls, altho they were altered. The original shirt in the vintage painter linen shirt from Punk Rave and it is still being sold. Some of the cuffs were altered, removing the ruffles for some of the ghouls, but not all. They were removed for Dew, Mountain and Phantom, Aether's didn't have them either. As far as I can tell, all the ghoulettes still have them.

An unfinished piece of linen serves as an ascot, that piece is decorated with a metal devil skull. The colour of the skull doesn't appear to be consistent between each ghoul, Dew's looks gold almost bronze while Phantom's is a silver-like colour.

Another modification is the buttons, a small portion of them were removed in favor of our Impera buttons. Some of the ghouls have more buttons replaced than others, which is still a mystery to me.

The pants are called Jodhpurs, they were invented in the 1800s as horse riding pants. The wide part at the hips and thighs allowing for better movement. The ones the ghouls wear don't reach all the way to their ankles, they stop a bit past the calf muscle, hidden by the boots. (Yes, the ghouls are effectively wearing capri pants)

The boots are motorcycle riding boots, decorated by a grucifix. Like the shirt, they can still be bought online through the All American Boots website, altho the price tag is... Headache inducing to say the least.

The cape is a piece of costume that was only briefly worn on stage by the ghouls, Aurora being the only one who still wears one. I would assume it gets in the way of playing very easily. The cape itself is made of two fabrics, a light blue satin and a dark grey suede. The two pieces are not sewn together at the bottom, they move freely from each other. The cape is attached on the left shoulder with a harness piece that has one strap across the chest, decorated with a metal buckle, and one under the armpit.

Aight that's it for me, have a nice day byyyyye!!

#the band ghost #ghost bc #nameless ghoul #nameless ghouls #swiss ghoul #phantom ghoul #swiss ghost #dewdrop ghost #rain ghost #mountain ghoul #mountain ghost #rain ghoul #phantom ghost #dewdrop ghoul #cirrus ghoulette #aurora ghoulette #cumulus ghost #aether ghost #aeon ghoul #impera ghoul #impera #meerkat talks about ghost costumes #IMPERA FIT MASTER POST LET'S GOOOO

[qwimchii]

𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 (pt. 3) — 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘺

playlist pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3 pt. 4 pt. 5 pt. 6 pt. 7 pt. 8 (10/24)

𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘹 𝘧!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺 — 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵'𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘢𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘸𝘤 — 21.3𝘬

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦 — 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩-𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵

𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴/𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 — 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵!𝘢𝘶, 141𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘨!𝘢𝘶, 𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘮!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘷𝘪𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘯!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 (10𝘺𝘳𝘴), 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘩𝘰𝘭, 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 & 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘴 & 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢, 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨

note: this chapter is literally insane but 😗 nothing like a bit of forced proximity 🤭

when you emerged from your room, it was already mid-morning. you had pulled your hair back and up from your face, ringlets of loose curls framing your head like a halo. you dressed in the best attire you could fish out of the armoire—a petal pink skirt with furls of embellishments like honey, and a pale beige blouse with tendrils of pastel blue carnations stitched into its chest and up the high collar, gathering tight at your shoulders and pooling into a loose sleeve then the tight cuff of your wrist.

the garments were delicate—as delicate as you felt you were, broken in and soft. from the makeup tray on a shelf in the armoire, you very lightly pressed just a tinge of french rogue powder to your lips and cheeks to smother the swollen puffiness of your face. taking a bit of dark eyeshadow on your pinkie, you smudged it meticulously across your eyelid, hoping you looked positively radiant on this awful, gloomy day, despite the strong sun shining through the windows of your room.

when you passed the porter, marching into the compartment littered with los vaqueros, one-four-one, and much to your chagrin, Ghost, you barely spared the porter a glance. he looked so much smaller, meager, in the sunlight, a chubby pudge to his face and teeth that slightly protruded over his bottom lip. 

still, you bowed your head with a graciousness as he just rudely stared into your face, his hands clenched into clammy fists by his sides.

when you stepped into the compartment, there was a diminishing of noise that coalesced into a steady silence. you ignored them all, sliding onto an abandoned couch where breakfast tea and coffee was laid out. you served yourself a cup, politely curling your legs to the side as you looked out the window.

it was the same scenery as the night before—a stretching half-desert with sparse vegetation and weedy trees, cast in a yellow glare from the sunlight.

Kate slid into the plush chair adjacent to you, the sight of another woman at her shoulder making you jump. she had a mahogany rich tone to her skin, intricate black coils braided tight to her head and trailing down the back of her neck. the almond curve of her eyes and full lips gleamed. 

your mouth parted quite rudely. she was absolutely radiant.

laxing back in her chair, she sat across from you with an easy-going look. she wore loose buckskin trousers with a fringe and a jacket of cowhide, a bandolier slung across her chest. she tipped her hat to you and you sorely missed your stetson at that moment.

“mornin’,” Kate said with a light slap on your knee, which you deemed mildly inappropriate, but at this point, you couldn’t bother to comment.

as if on queue, you eyed Ghost pad over to sit by the woman. he was rock still, face imperceptible and stoic behind the mask, though you noted the twitch of his hand on his holster. another one if his telling habits.

you sipped at your cup. “good morning, Kate.” 

pointedly ignoring Ghost, you gave a polite smile to the woman across from you, offering a hand. “pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“please. call me Maria.” she had the same soothing rhythmical accent as Alejandro and Rudolfo, her voice a smooth, grating honey.

your brows rose. before you could stop yourself, you remarked—

“i had no idea there were women in los vaqueros.”

Kate snorted, and you immediately felt your face flush. if Kate was in one-four-one, or led it alongside John, practically, it shouldn’t have been shocking that there were female gunslingers in los vaqueros.

stupid, you chided to yourself, not missing the way Ghost cocked his head at you curiously.

but Maria just smiled, reaching out to brush her knuckles over Kate’s shoulder, and Kate's fingers inched over to touch her knee in reply. “she’s funny,” she said, tone denoting something of approval.

Ghost cleared his throat, drawing your attention.

“we need to talk.”

not to you, you hoped with a bitterness, and found relief when he leaned instead towards the other two women.

Kate’s eyes narrowed.

“you didn’t tell her?” her tone was lashing and it startled you.

suspicious, you turned your gaze to take in Ghost fully. he was staring dead at Kate, unmoving and wordless, till he shifted, knees spreading wider as he settled back. she sighed, long and tired.

“when we get back to san francisco,” she said with a cocked brow, “you’ll be goin’ back to your folks.”

your blood slowed to a thick, icy stop. “what?”

she just shook her head. “we weren’t plannin’ on it but it’s best for you, missy. we won’t be able to protect you much once we’re in the city. there’ll be a full-blown out war. Turner isn’t hellbent on finding you.”

she clasped your knee. “he’s hellbent on killing us.”

you startled when you felt a hand on your shoulder. looking back, Soap was leaning over you, arm no longer in a sling and clasping at your shoulder with a solemn look.

“sorry, bonnie lass,” he said bitterly. “we should’ve never taken ye in the first place.” then his face brightened. “but yer gonna see yer family soon, even if we’ll miss ya.”

behind him, Gaz stood with crossed arms, face pinched with an ever stoic look. you expected that he would be happy about this as the most diametrically opposed to your presence out of all the members of one-four-one, but the despaired scrunch of his brow betrayed him.

your voice cracked. “who decided this?”

the whole room shifted with discomfort, and Kate’s eyes slid to Ghost. you bit back a scream, refusing to even look in his direction. 

his voice was a deep timbre in your head—those were the terms of our agreement.

i own you. body and soul.

if you did go back to your daddy and mama—when you did, Turner would be there, old and wrinkled up like a prune, his stale breath a sigh against your face during long, long nights.

Ghost knew that if he gave you back to your mama and daddy, you would be handed over to Turner instantaneously. and still, he’d rather win the battle over your body against Turner. for revenge.

it seemed that he had no use for you now that his revenge ploy was over with.

John was standing at Maria’s shoulder now, leaning his body weight against the back of Kate’s chair. he looked at you somberly, mouth an etched line beneath the scruff of his beard.

“you saved my life with that bloody good sharpshootin’, sweetheart.” his eyes twinkled. “how can i ever repay you?”

you’d hardly thought John guiding you through your first murder was considered saving his life but you’d take all that you could get.

your mind turning back to Turner, the rushing torrent of blinding rage that consumed you was scary. you hated him with your whole being. you wanted to hate everyone with your whole being. you wanted to hate everyone in the room for doing this to you—their vengeful kidnapping ploy had turned you into a sinful outlaw just like them. but you just couldn’t.

“do me a favor.” you looked from each member of one-four-one, eyes passing over Ghost with a blind haze. “make sure you kill that Turner fucker slow and painful.”

that way you may never have to be owned by him.

Maria laughed aloud. “i like the way you talk, chica,” she said with a malicious glint to her grin, as one-four-one nodded in agreement with your words.

the rest of the morning was a slow haze. los vaqueros conjoined with one-four-one in the lounge compartment just before a brunch. you stuck with Kate and Maria the entire time, sorely avoiding Ghost and the other members of one-four-one, taking slow bites you could barely hold down.

an all-consuming grief pinched at your stomach. you would’ve gladly avoided the rest of them for the next day of travel on the train if Gaz didn’t barricade your way out the dining car. most of the men had filtered out, only a few stray los vaqueros lingering out of ear-shot.

Gaz crossed his arms in the doorway, looking down at you with a hooded face.

you cocked your brow. “yes?”

Gaz’s dislike for you had been obvious since day one. since the first moment you heard him speak, he had protested your stay at their base, which didn’t surprise you, but still left you feeling irked in an immature way.

he jerked his head to the hallway. “would you walk with me, ma’am?”

it didn’t sound like a question. turning on his heel sharply, you trailed after him bitterly. even with the pinched displeasure in his tone, he was still as polite as ever. biting down back your tongue, you wondered if the rest of one-four-one thought the same of your mama’s polite manner ingrained in you.

you followed him through several train compartments, a thick uneasiness settling on you from his silent and broad form in front of you, blocking half your sight, but relieved that porter was nowhere to be found. 

as you passed through another lounging car, the sparse spread of people across the plush interior eyed you curiously. one man peered above his newspaper at you, monocles glinting, and mouth skewing into a hard line, eyes shadowed.

you stepped to Gaz a bit closer.

when you reached the end of the first class compartments, he slid open the door that breached between the travel trains and a rusty red boxcar. the steel railway grinding against steel wheels was a louder rhythmic clatter than before.

for a brief moment, you were staggering through the rush of air on the gangway between compartments before Gaz offered you a forearm politely without even a glance. grasping it tightly, his strength was stabilizing, and he pulled you over the gangway and into the safety of the boxcar, your hair whipping in the wind.

several crates littered the space. you had a sneaking suspicion that the both of you weren’t supposed to be there.

Gaz drew the larger door of the boxcar open with a screeching, rumbling tug and dragged a crate an arms length from the edge. he took a seat on the floor, boot dangling just over the gravel tracks that passed below.

“ma’am?” he offered the place on the crate beside you with a gesture and you complied, taking a seat without much question, because there really was nothing else to do on this train.

this train ride bringing you right to your doom, you thought with a grimace.

in the long silence, you overlooked the landscape—there was a sharp dip from the railway into green plains, dotted with purplish vegetation that the sun spilled over with yellow delight

leaning forward to peer at the side of his face, you watched his dark eyes dart over the curve of the passing scenery.

“how did you know about this place?”

the swell of his throat bobbed. his voice sounded tight and airy. nervous. “i wander when i can’t sleep at night.”

you were no stranger to that. you thought back to your first night in the leather crafts shop, the itching anxiety to get out driving you to rummage through the kitchen where Ghost found you. 

pushing the memory from your mind, you tried not to let the apprehension drip into your voice.

“what’s this about, Gaz?”

he shrugged. “just wanted to enjoy the scenery of the land, ma’am.”

your brown quirked. “right. what is this really about?”

he sighed, shifting, his mouth in a sheepish, muddled twist.

“i’m not really sure how I’m supposed to say this ma’am—” your brown quirked again.

you put a hand to his shoulder lightly. “Gaz, for the love of everything good, please stop calling me ma’am.” he glanced at you from his peripheral. “you’re older than me.”

he leaned out of your touch. “right. sorry, miss.”

you bit back your tongue. even though you had just chided at him about his overly zealous formalities, you funnily felt as though you were talking to a nervous little boy with the way he fumbled with the seam of his jeans.

“Gaz, what is this about?” your voice was softened now, trying to coax him out of whatever hole he was digging himself into.

his voice was barely above a grumbling whisper. “Ghost came to me last night.”

you paused, jaw going numb.

sighing, you rubbed a hand over your forehead, smoothing back your hair with unease. “Gaz whatever he told you—”

his voice was soft with awe. “he asked me to marry you.”

the breath stopped dead in your throat, the world spinning at an angle. “what?”

he just nodded slowly, looking as shocked as you felt, his eyes glazed over and wide.

“i know this ain’t the proper way to propose, and when we’re off this train and over with this war, i’ll do it properly i swear, but—”

you held your temple, clutching at the wall of the boxcar. shakily, you pulled yourself to your feet. “stop Gaz. just stop.”

you backed away from the edge and he scrambled up to follow you.

“no, please, just listen—”

“no, you listen.” 

you knew it wasn’t fair to be angry at him. you knew it wasn’t fair, especially with the way he looked so crestfallen, brows pinched and shoulders slumped. 

“if i’m going to be married,” you said with a huff, indignant, “it’ll be on my terms and my terms only.”

he reached a tentative hand out to you, and you let him pick up your palm and press it to his chest.

“i was thirteen when i enlisted for the war.” 

you weren’t looking at him before but you were looking at him now.

he spoke fast and low. “i was an orphan. i didn’t look my age. no one wanted me in london, and the older boys in my orphanage were volunteering for the war. when i signed up, they snuck me in, pulled some strings with the army doctors.” his voice fell to a dead whisper. “i didn’t know what i was getting into.”

you felt stupid when tears welled up in your eyes. he looked so young, so broken in that moment. you wiped at your eyes quickly.

“oh Gaz—”

he let you pull him into a quick, indulgent hug. it was inappropriate and the way his arms hung loosely at his sides felt awkward, but you were grateful he let you do it anyway.

“i owe Ghost my life. i owe him everything. he took care of Soap and i when we were kids. John and Kate too, but they were preoccupied most of the time. Ghost—” he choked with emotion, “Simon was always there.”

it felt almost impossible to imagine a Ghost ten years younger in the militia, around the age you were now, keeping two gangly teens tucked closely to his side on a battlefield, maskless and freer without the malevolent reputation he bore. he wasn’t yet the gunslinging devilish outlaw you knew now. but the image only curled at the edges and soured in your mouth.

you didn’t want to hear this about Ghost.

“you don’t even like me,” you said, blunt, tilting your head up into Gaz’s face. he just looked down at you with an imperceptible face that you couldn’t even begin to pick apart.

then, he sighed, dropping your hand and stepping away.

“maybe not,” he said, voice soft, “but i’d like to try.”

you tried to digest that. “for yourself or for Ghost?”

the empty look he gave you was everything you needed to know. a dead silence followed before it was interrupted.

the boxcar’s far door—from where you had entered—was yanked open, and a member of los vaqueros stepped through.

the front of his jacket was tipped in an oozing red, and he clutched at the spot, shouting out something that you couldn’t understand before the unmistakable vibration of a gun was exploding forth in the air, echoing in the boxcar.

you screamed when his eyes went dark, a thick stream of blood flooding his mustache as he crashed to the floor with a deadly stiffness.

behind him, in the entrance of the doorway, was a man, his revolver raised high. he wore monocles and a twisted expression. you recognized him—the man reading the paper. and his revolver was aimed directly at you. 

Gaz moved fast. much faster than you, as he drew your body behind him, drawing his revolver. before he could even flick his thumb over the safety, a body clad in black whipped forward and reached around the monocled-man’s neck to grip at the collar of an expensive dress shirt. something glinted in the air and it drew over the man’s throat in a quick motion, a red mask gleaming by his cheek.

the monocled-man dropped by the fallen vaqueros.

Ghost straightened to his full height. you watched his eyes dart over Gaz quick—checking for injuries with pinched eyes. you had never noticed him do it before, and you jolted when his hardened gaze snapped to yours.

“we’ve been double-crossed—”

there was a loud, shattering racket from behind him and you saw glimpses of several bodies spill out into the gangway in a tangled fervor. you saw glimpses of Kate’s blonde hair struggling against a man with a disheveled cap and a fashionable black jacket. for a moment you caught his dark eyes, all-encompassing and evil.

the pullman porter.

Gaz rushed forward, revolver raised high, but Ghost only pushed back, driving you through the boxcar and yanking the door open to the next one, revealing another gangway with air spilling over it in dangerous whooshes.

you didn’t have time to think or to feel an ounce of fear, Gaz’s boots hot on your heels and Ghost behind him as they pushed you forward through to the next compartment.

you heard Ghost’s voice in a grit, tight with frustration. “i’m out of ammo,” he explained and Gaz didn’t slow for a second, spurring you further and further forward.

there was a ruminating clamor from behind you. something primal in you roared to life, fear coiling tight and real in your stomach. someone was chasing Ghost, Gaz and you. something primal in you told you it was the pullman porter hunting for you.

heaving the next boxcar’s door with a grit of your teeth, sweat pooled at your back. when you swung out onto the little platform, gripping the railing for purchase, panic rose in you at the sight of railway stretching on and fishing between rolling, green land.

you had reached the end of the train.

that didn’t stop Ghost. he pulled Gaz towards the ladder on the sheer outer wall of the last boxcar.

“up.” you had never seen him so panicked. “go up!”

Gaz immediately complied, spidering up the ladder and out of sight onto the roof of the moving train. when Ghost turned to you, you thought you may puke.

he must’ve seen the blaring alarm in your face because he hoisted you by the waist, yanking you towards the ladder easily. he steadied the trembles of your body with two gloved hands on your waist.

“one step at a time, princess.” there was a ferocity in his eyes. “i’ll catch you if you fall.”

a rush of something gold poured through you, and you steeled yourself, clambering up the rusty ladder rungs one at a time. the wind lashed at your clothes, threatening to steal you out into the open air, but Ghost’s hand was pushing you flush to the ladder against your back. when your boot slipped at the top rung, Ghost hissed, lurching forward, an iron grip at your waist.

at the top of the train, the world felt like it was moving too fast to comprehend. up ahead, a mountain loomed, casting a dark shadow over the train as the sun dipped behind its peak.

“don’t stop,” he commanded, and you scrambled forward, low to the train.

looking over your shoulder, you saw the porter’s head slide over the edge of the boxcar, pulling himself up onto the roof with an eerie ease. he was moving fast, almost full speed.

a revolver glinted in his hand.

Ghost shouted in frustration, hoisting you up by your arm and propelling you into a dead sprint over the train.

one slip, you realized, glancing over the edge of the roof, would send you toppling into the chasmic valley below.

the mountain ahead was approaching rapidly.

Gaz was a few bounds ahead of you, and he turned sharply to shoot at the porter just over your shoulder.

with a yelp, Ghost tugged you down and you flattened against the train. your eyes strained against the noon light and the mountain ahead split into a cave—not a cave, a tunnel.

“Gaz!” you choked out.

he dropped to the train roof with a clumsiness that sent his revolver skidding across the roof and off the edge. the train speared forward into the tunnel, shrouded your vision in a darkness that felt deafening.

Ghost’s hand was inching up your back.

“crawl forward,” he demanded, and you complied, creeping over the cold steel of the roof.

a blinding light ahead advanced, the end of the tunnel in sight.

there was a loud, ricocheting gunshot against the walls of the tunnel, a hot spark of friction against steel flickering in the darkness.

you screamed, Ghost’s hand on the collar of your blouse, as a glaring light enveloped you.

blinking rapidly against the sunlight, eyes burning, you scrambled to your feet with the help of Ghost’s strength.

when your eyes cleared, snapping into a focus, a panic flurried in you at the sight of the end of the train nearing.

you wanted to slow but Ghost kept pushing you forward wordlessly to the end of the train cars.

“where will we go?” you shouted against the violent wind.

a sob almost escaped you when he didn’t respond. Gaz stopped short at the edge of the last compartment, just before the train engine, jacket ruffling wildly in the wind. the look he gave you over his shoulder was one of pure dread.

you jolted when he straightened, barreling past you and Ghost right at the porter hot on your heels.

“Gaz!” Ghost shouted, his low baritone pitched and strained, hand lashing out to pull him back by his jacket but narrowly missing. you turned on your heel in horror.

the porter reeled back in surprise as Gaz tackled him full force to the floor of the train roof. they almost skittered off the edge if it wasn’t for Ghost lunging forward and gripping Gaz by the back of his jacket collar and hoisting him from the edge.

it may have been the weight of their two bodies combined, the rush of the wind, or the clumsiness in Ghost’s blundering, adrenaline drive that caught him off guard for just a moment that the porter took advantage of. he slammed the butt of his revolver into the side of Gaz’s face, and the boy’s entire body fell limp over the porter. 

he scrambled out from under Gaz’s body in a flash, and the scream that tore through your throat was carnal when he seized Ghost’s collar and sprung forward, pushing him right over the edge of the train roof.

Ghost fell with a sickening whoosh, and the speed of the train was already zipping away from his body crumpled against the ground, splayed unnaturally near the train tracks.

you scrambled back on hands and knees, not even sure when you collapsed, Ghost’s body already just a black dot in the distance.

the porter turned to you, the revolver still tight between his knuckles. his eyes were wild.

“who are you?” you screamed over the wind. his face was an ashy dark tone, looking extremely sickly and pale.

“i’m sorry,” he wailed, and you jolted further backwards when tears spilled from his eyes. your palm edged along the brim of the train roof, yelping when your hand almost slipped.

“he said he’d kill me and my family if i didn’t do it.” more tears spilled down his face. “i don’t want to kill anyone.”

his face was twisted up, whole body shaking as he raised the revolver. “but i can’t let my daughter die.”

there was a pop of a safety, and the darkness of his eyes swirling. an imperceptible feeling came crashing down on you—one you couldn’t even begin to describe, an endless downward whirl of dread, acceptance, dread, acceptance.

you thought of Ghost’s body sprawled out by the train tracks in the distance and closed your eyes.

acceptance.

the sound of a strangled cry startled you awake, and the sight of Kate’s arm clasped tight around his neck in his bind sent a whirling electricity down your spine. her blonde hair was wild, eyes even wilder, and she bared her teeth at you in a menacing look.

“for god’s sake, get your useless behind off the ground and help me!”

those familiar words screamed in the back room of the leather crafts shop had you scrambling to life, getting on your hands and knees and launching forward to wrestle the porter for his revolver.

he twisted back, and for a sick moment, you worried Kate would go reeling off the edge too as she dangerously neared it, but she released the porter, using his moment of unbalance as an advantage.

she slammed her hands into his chest and he slid, crashing to the train roof floor, gun clattering to the floor as she fell on top of him. 

you dove for the gun, hand just almost closing around the handle of the thing before the porter twisted over with a surprising strength, dislodging Kate from his body, and pulled it from your grasp.

he gripped it tight, leveling it right to your face, finger on the trigger.

the noise that tore through Kate’s throat was guttural. “no!”

she launched towards you, two strong hands on your arms and pushed you hard. harder than you thought she could, and you tumbled backwards, spirling without direction into free air, and thudding to the forest floor.

something cracked and a numbing pain spread like wildfire from somewhere—your shoulder, body, mind. you couldn’t discern the source of pain, the metrical chug of the train roaring in your ear as it continued on without you.

you woke with a start, breath hitched up in your throat. tears stained your cheeks.

you didn’t remember crying. your whole face felt numb. in fact, your whole body felt numb, save for the throbbing, searing ache in your shoulder. along the joint, there was a numbness at your fingertips and an unpleasant tingling that ran up and down your arm.

groaning, you strained, trying and failing with great effort to move. you tried again and felt a lace of panic when your stiff body wouldn’t move.

is this what it feels like to die?

desperately trying to move when your body wouldn’t budge?

that sent a burst of sparkling energy through you, and you managed to twist your good shoulder, fingertips digging into the ground to push yourself up. your muscles strained with effort, shaking, but they failed with a spasm, and your head fell back into the dirt.

your temples throbbed.

looking up, you noted the darkening dusk of the day. it had been just noon when you were on the train—how long had you been laying there?

there was a cool blue tinge to the air, the moon cresting over a cloudless sky. an unmistakable shiver went through you. the temperature was dropping by the second.

you had felt the same at home. the desert air lacked a single drop of humidity to maintain the sweltering heat of the day at night, and it was the same here in this california forest, though less pronounced. the result was a plummeting temperature.

the thought of home gave you comfort as you lay there in the dirt.

then, you heard a crunching nearby. of feet. boots, perhaps, and you craned your neck back.

a large, black form loomed in the distance. you wanted to be scared, wanted to be panicking in the moment, but a muffled layer of silence was laid over you like a blanket, a ringing in your ears.

at that moment, you just wanted to sleep.

eyes half-lidded, a masked face slid into your blurry vision overhead. his arms coiled around you, very, very gently lifting you from the ground.

“Ghost,” you gasped, a sharp stabbing in your shoulder that contended with the darkness that threatened to pull you into a slumber.

he just shushed you, the sway of his body rocking with each of his steps along the railroad track.

you didn’t have enough energy to say a thing, forehead throbbing, feeling like there was an invisible band contracting around your head with every movement.

“you’re freezin’,” he said in your ear, but it resonated somewhere very distant.

he curled you closer into his chest and that made you jolt back to life from the sharp sensation racing across your shoulder, biting down on your tongue hard enough to draw blood. 

your vision went hazy for a long moment, ears ringing with a muffled dizziness. the pressure in your head warped when you were being lowered down, to what you assumed, might’ve been the forest floor, leaning you back against something solid and hard and cold.

you gasped when you felt his bare fingertips skimming across the skin of your shoulder beneath your blouse.

he just tutted, muttering something in your ear. you tried to hone on it, but it was so distant and muffled and hazy.

then, he was turning your head from side to side and pressing a cool hand to your forehead. you winced when his hands came back to your shoulder, rubbing over it, one hand to the front and the other cradling your shoulder blade.

he twisted your shoulder with a sickening pop, and you were violently dragged back to your senses.

you bit back a loud scream, keeling over at the waist, everything pouring into your mind at once. the rushing and chitters of the forest, the prickly, dry pine needles beneath your legs, the icy rock at your back, and the acute shadows the moon was casting through the holes of the canopy.

it was too overwhelming. groaning, you screwed your eyes shut and slid down the rock to press your ear to it, your good arm to the other ear.

Ghost’s voice was still too loud through the makeshift covers. “dislocated shoulder,” was all he said, hand tapping against your knee lightly.

his hand stopped tapping. “you hit your head hard as well.”

he reached behind your head and pressed his fingers across your scalp. when he found a sensitive, swollen spot, you squirmed away.

“s’just bruised. no blood.”

you felt like there was blood pouring from your ears.

he pulled you toward him and carefully drew your hand from your ear, replacing it with his gloved ones.

“better?”

there was a pleasant, cool muffle over your ears—pleasant enough to open your eyes.

two earthy brown eyes stared back overshadowed by a strong blonde brow and pale skin—

you yelped, scrambling back onto the rock.

Ghost’s outer masked layer of red was vacant from his face, leaving behind the black fabric beneath it. torn rough, he pulled up the remains of it to reveal the skin of his neck, jaw, and lips.

it left little to imagine. the fabric sat on a high, curved bridge of his nose, and the deep-set of his dark eyes made them appear larger than you believed with the red shell of his mask—owlish almost. and then there were the handsome, strong brows furrowing at you.

he just blinked before inching forward in a crouch, covering your ears with his hands again.

your voice was swollen raw, sounding entirely unlike your own. “your mask…”

he was half-maskless.

“it broke,” he offered with a shrug and a very blank look.

Ghost was half-maskless.

his leather palm sneaked around your ankle.

“how’s your ankle?”

“fine.” you were lying. you couldn’t feel anything save for the painful pulse in your shoulder that throbbed in time with your head.

he nodded but the twitch of his lips made it look as though he wasn’t convinced. peeling back his trench coat, you watched as he easily tore through the sleeve of his dress shirt from his arm.

your breath hitched as he slid forward to wrap it around your shoulder.

“what are you doing?”

“returnin’ the favor.” 

you thought back to two nights ago, when you had clutched at the bullet wound in his stomach, ripping off your own sleeve to desperately stave off the red deluge rushing from it.

he had wanted you to leave him for dead that night.

you stared up into his profile, captivated by the plains and curves of it, a slithering heat running circles in your chest.

when he was finished with the bind, wrapping it around your bicep, up over your shoulder, and tugging it tight with a loop around your breast, he had sat back on his haunches, watching you with quiet eyes.

you watched the pink of his lips twitch, his hands curled into fists at his knees. there was a menacing cold circulating through you, and the softness of his eyes, his face, his lips radiated a warmth—

there were a thousand things running through your mind—

instead, you croaked, “what happened on the train?”

he sighed, turning his gaze from you to the dark forest. “we convened with los vaqueros in yuma before boardin’ the train Kate arranged. the owner of the railway company owed us a debt and we—” he cringed, “—we thought we could trust ‘em. turns out, Turner’s men were on the train with us the whole bloody damn time.”

you swallowed hard, feeling even colder. shivering, you drew your good arm around your body. “the porter?”

he nodded. “a fight broke out after brunch. thought it was just some stupid squabble but they drew guns and hell broke loose.”

he pitched forward, hand coming down to loosely clutch at your knee. “i couldn’t find you.”

you pulled back from his touch and his brows pinched together before falling impossibly blank.

“what were you doing with Gaz?”

you gave him a sidelong glance, fighting back the pout that spilled onto your face. “he proposed to me.”

Ghost stiffened, falling back to his haunches. you cocked your head, watching the stoney look on his face.

“and what did you say?”

you scoffed. “none of your business.”

that’s what you wanted to believe, but it seemed that Ghost had one foot in your business at all times, and you didn’t know if you liked it or not.

the absolute image of indifference in his face had a low, simmering anger crawl up your back.

“he doesn’t even like me,” you hissed, remembering the way Gaz would lean away from your touch in the boxcar, stepping back when he felt too close.

you lamented deeply, wondering, why would he want you to marry Gaz?

Ghost’s voice was even. too even. “he’ll marry you if i ask. he feels like he owes a large debt to me.”

your breath hitched, a hot, tight feeling choking your throat. “do you always exert yourself over others like that?”

his voice turned icy, eyes narrowed. “like what?”

you almost snarled. “you’re using Gaz to your advantage—”

“you don’t know Gaz,” he snapped, before adding in a low timbre, “or me.”

his words shouldn’t have hurt you as much as they did because you knew that he was right. you almost knew nothing about the man in front of you. he was an imperceptible enigma you’d only met five days ago, and yet you felt as though you knew him better than anyone in the world, all his tell-tale habits, the facade of his stoicism, the warmth beneath…

it was nothing like the cold, sour feeling curling in the air between you and Ghost right now.

with a humph, you clambered to your feet, an angry immaturity brewing above the grief that pinched at your nerves. he didn’t move from his position on the floor, eyes hard and staring.

you hiked up your skirt ungraciously and began to move in a random direction in the forest.

“what are you doing?” he called from behind you. there was a satisfaction hearing the annoyance lashing in his tone.

“i’m sorry, sir, but i don’t know you,” you gritted back loudly, not even looking over your shoulder. “i don’t talk to strangers.”

the forest was tipped deep into the night now, a murky dark surrounding you. it was hard to make out the stretching, slithering forms of the underbrush that swayed in the breeze. but you were too angry to feel scared.

after a long bout of silence, and several more bounds of your indignant act, your anger waned into worry.

what if Ghost did leave you in this forest? he was giving you up to Turner as soon as you reached san francisco—because you were useless to him now. so what was stopping him from just leaving you to the darkness of the woods?

to the coyotes?

you shivered, and allowed yourself a glance over your shoulder. you shrieked with a jolt at the sight of him looming just a couple steps behind you, looking impossibly large in the stretched shadows of the forest, and moving with an eerie silence.

he huffed. “what? did i scare you, princess?”

you whipped your head back in front of you, hiking up your skirt higher to step over a log. “sorry. i don’t know you.”

“so stubborn,” he mumbled, and you shrieked again when he wrapped an arm around your waist to hoist you over the log with ease. you swatted him away.

“i can do it myself,” you griped, turning sharp on your heel in another direction. he just sighed, trailing after you, steps noisy against the twigs and pine needles underfoot. 

when he knocked his boot against a tree, you could tell the noise was purposeful—making sure not to scare you. it didn’t quell your anger any less.

“do you even know where you’re going?”

that was a stupid question. no, you didn’t.

“yes,” you said instead.

he made a noise between a grumble and groan. “i didn't mean for Gaz to propose so soon.”

that made you stop dead in your tracks.

“i wanted…” he trailed off. you didn’t want to look at him for fear that he may see the tears welling in your eyes. there was nothing but the rustling woosh of leaves streaming through the canopy.

you jolted when you felt the tip of his nose press into the back of your head, voice impossibly deep. “he’s younger. he’s polite. he doesn’t care about purity.”

you heard him swallow. “he’s a good man to marry.”

you screwed your eyes shut, feeling a bothersome wetness come down your cheeks. “that’s not your decision to make.”

his voice was gruff, raw. “i know.”

sighing out, you turned to him slowly, finding a morose and withdrawn scowl twisting his face. he swiped a thumb over your tears.

“how would i have even married him anyway?” you asked in a low tone, surprised by the ice of it. “you would’ve handed me over to Turner the second we landed in san francisco.”

speaking it aloud yourself made the reality of it so much more crushing than hearing Kate say it that morning.

“to keep you safe,” Ghost hissed, eyes flashing with a clenched jaw. after your train escapade, you recognized the expression as something bordering on panic.

“safe?” you scoffed, “with Turner?”

he just shook his head. “Turner’s men outnumber us. with your parents, you’d at least be protected—”

you lurched forward, grabbing the collar of his dress shirt, shoulder aching in protest.

“with Turner!” you articulated, voice rung through with frustration. “i would be his mistress. he could… we would…”

the suggested words went unsaid and Ghost’s flashed—this time with something dark and imperceptible.

“i would kill him before it even got to that,” he said, mouth drawn into a hard life, deadly serious as he grasped your hands on his collar.

“and then what? after the war is over, i leave my parents again and Gaz sweeps me off my feet?” you pressed, trying and failing over and over to pick apart the expression on Ghost’s face.

your anger deflated, words falling flat and soft. “where would you go? back to southern california?”

he just stared at you, and you felt your heart drop. “Ghost? where would you go?”

he looked away from you, fixing on a distant point, and pried your hands from his collar. “i don’t plan on making it that far.”

oh. you gazed at the vacancy of his eyes, the clench of his jaw. he wasn’t planning on making it out the war alive.

your skin felt hot all over, and you lurched forward to jab a finger in his chest and make him look at you. 

“to hell with that.”

but he wouldn’t meet your eyes. “it doesn’t matter now. you won’t be going anywhere near Turner.”

now, he pinned you down with a hard look, and you reeled back a bit. “what?”

“the porter,” he chewed out, brow furrowing, “he was trying to kill you.”

your mind whirled. that’s right—you remembered what he said, tears in his eyes when he cornered you at the end of the train.

he said he’d kill me and my family if i didn’t do it.

he had obviously been Turner. you swallowed, remembering the next slew of his words.

but i can’t let my daughter die.

he, a pullman porter with an inadequate paycheck, had risked everything, including his life, for his daughter. you couldn’t say the same for your own father.

you held your forehead, feeling the throbbing pulse of it through your fingertips. “why would Turner want to kill me?”

desperately, you trained every fiber of your mind to run through the notion, coming up with absolutely nothing in the end. you balked. that almost never happened.

Ghost’s thoughtful silence seemed to mirror yours.

but he just huffed, brushing a knuckle to your cheek briefly. “you’re a smart girl. i’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

rolling your eyes, you pushed his hand away, a tugging ire in your stomach. “so what now?”

he turned on his heel, giving you a lax look over his shoulder. “we walk to san francisco.”

it turned out that Ghost was a lot more hurt than he made you believe. you had walked a mile through the dark, led by his broad shadowed form and, with the practiced strike of a match, a torch he coaxed to life until you returned to the divide in the forest where the railway drove a split through the plains.

its pathway was ignited with moonlight, and you walked in silence, nothing but crunching gravel underfoot, till you reached a freshwater lake embedded in a softly swaying field that lingered a couple hundred feet from the railway.

Ghost had stripped the bushes of gooseberries and currants along the way, giving you a brief grumbling explanation—we used to eat ‘em during the spanish-american war.

you could imagine Soap and Gaz popping them in their mouths as gawky teenage boys, laughing along the way and a quiet, stoic Simon in their tow. 

you ate them slowly, watching Ghost set up a fire with an ease to the task but with strange shuffling movements whenever he turned. you cocked your head. he wouldn’t twist his body.

“Ghost,” you called, and he didn’t even look at you. “why are you moving like that?”

in your stupor through the forest, or maybe the low lighting of the night, you hadn’t noticed it before. using another one of the matches stowed in the breast pocket of his trench coat, he bent down and blew on the small flame, blooming it to life over a nest of tinder. when it crackled and popped, and he added bigger branches to the fire, you moved closer, shivering in the dark, and spread the collected berries over an unsoiled rock.

your jaw clenched. “Ghost.”

he ignored you again, instead stepping back from the fire and turning so all you saw was the shadow of his back as he discarded his trench coat. then unbuttoning his vest and shirt, he shucked them off, tossing them to the ground by his other clothes. you gasped at the mottled, purple swell of his bare back.

from the bottom of his shoulder blades to his lower back, he was covered in bruises.

“is it bad?”  he looked over his shoulder at you. you couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

your mouth fell open and then closed. “yes. very.”

then he turned, and the fire illuminated yellow and green bruises littered across his ribs and the angry red, puckered stiches across his lower abdomen. your stomach dropped. they looked worse than the last you had seen them—on the bed in the train.

he brushed a knuckle over his ribs and winced. “i think they’re broken.”

you looked up at him with a pinched expression and he raised his brows, mouth twitching with a huff. you hated that he looked amused.

“worried about me?”

you turned to the fire again. “no.”

there was more rustling from behind you and an unmistakable clink of a belt. you screwed your eyes shut and willed yourself not to look back. there was a thud against the grass by your hand, and you looked down to see his boots discarded by the fire. you saw his foot just behind it and a bare calf that turned and padded down the slope to the small lake.

you wanted to scream. “what are you doing?”

he called out, “care for a swim, princess?”

you narrowed your eyes. no, you didn’t.

“it’s improper for men and women to bathe together.”

you just barely looked over your shoulder, watching him in your peripheral. his naked back shone in the moonlight, a white glow cast over the bruises and scars of his back before it slowly descended into the water. he reclined against some rocks, arms spread wide and head lolled back.

“lots of things between men and women are improper to you, princess.”

a strangled noise of frustration left your throat. “what if your stitches get infected?”

he shrugged. at this point, a sliver of the darkness in you hoped they did get infected for not heeding your warning.

standing to your full height, you turned to him, looking over the expanse of the lake, and then the darkness of his lazy eyes trained on you.

you watched him swallow, blonde lashes illuminated by the firelight, he spoke considerably softer, “you looked lovely this morning.”

that morning, when you had dolled yourself up, a pretty, airy skirt and flowery blouse and makeup and all, telling yourself that you wanted to look like the sun after such an awful night. maybe it was for yourself, or maybe it was for Ghost. the latter you would never admit.

but now, you realized, more than anything, the act was for your own bout of revenge. to watch Ghost’s face twist at the sight of you—someone he couldn’t have.

you, who would never let him have you again.

at that thought, you gave him a pretty smile like you were bashful, and the way his eyes widened in surprise was a crush of satisfaction.

but you kept up the act, intent on playing with him. if Ghost had taken so much from you for revenge, you didn’t see why you couldn’t do the same. the idea had a twinge of displeasure curling under your skin. but thinking back to last night had you angry all over again.

“i’m still angry at you,” you said instead, crossing your arms and turning like you were mad. in all technicality you were. 

very.

his voice was low. “you’ve got something on your face.”

what?

“what?” you voiced, head whipping to him.

he cocked his head. “your hair too…” he squinted like he was trying to see you better. “it’s a mess.”

you scoffed. this was not going according to your plans.

“well i’m sorry i don’t look my best after falling off a train—”

“and your clothes too.” his dark eyes raked over your body. “all ruined.”

you looked down at the state of your clothes, torn in places and stained in others. the hem of your skirt was a very discolored smear of brown.

“looks like you’ll have to take them off,” he said with a casual shrug.

your jaw dropped open. “you…”

you searched for the words you couldn’t find. “you’re awful.”

with a nod he said, “just as bad as the devil.”

narrowing your eyes, you gave him a sidelong look. was this another one of his revenge ploys? another way to get you undressed and take another sliver of your innocence?

he shifted on the rocks, arms spread along the wide berth of the bank, and beneath the water you saw his knees tip wide. he cocked his head at you.

an invitation.

of which you could easily say no to, if you liked, but just as much as he tried to trick you, the devil wasn't foolproof. you could weasel your way into one of those cracks and trick him instead if you wanted to. and in that moment, you decided you did.

with the calmest look you could muster, you took off the makeshift sling of your shoulder, and unclipped the back of your blouse, sliding it from your torso with ease and letting it fall to the ground. between the laxness of your face, you glanced at Ghost who, you noticed with disappointment, looked absolutely undisturbed until your gaze trailed down his exposed arm and to the clutch of his hand in a tight fist.

suppressing a smirk, you dropped your holster, then the delicate pink skirt and moved to unlace the back of your corset. you undid it as fast as your aching shoulder could let you, watching the way the warm glow of the fire danced in his black eyes.

the corset fell to the ground, and his head was perked up now, eyes going impossibly dark, as you pulled down the last of your undergarments—completely bare in the moonlight.

but his eyes never left yours, didn’t even look down to your body, as you stepped carefully forward over the pebbled lake bank, heart thundering in your throat. you kept your hands in fists to keep yourself from covering your body, shivering when a gust danced over the field.

as you sank into the water, you were surprised to find it not so unbearably cold, avoiding Ghost’s gaze entirely as you neared him, close enough so that you could feel his foot brush against your calf under the water.

he looked up with hooded eyes, chin close to his chest, breath shallow and wanting—

but you waded right past him to a spot on the rocks a good distance away. you were close enough to see his eyes narrow in your peripheral. 

“what are you planning, princess?”

you shot him a glare. “i’m still mad at you.”

he cocked his head. “are you trying to tease me?”

you sucked in a breath entirely by accident, and you knew it was the most telling answer in the way he shifted over the rocks with an infuriating smirk.

feeling bitter, you asked with a sourness, “are you still trying to bed me for revenge?”

he went completely still at that and you turned your head away from him, looking over the field into the forest. in the distance, those mountains loomed on the horizon, looking like a large void that spearheaded the sky. you tipped your head back, clutching onto yourself, and looked up to the stars that splattered like bright, white paint over the sky.

like the white paint you had splattered over the pale blue wallpaper of your room when you were child, and your mama had lost half of her mind at the sight.

that thought only soured your mood more. there were tears in your eyes now.

biting back a string of unholy curses, you tucked your head away, really hoping Ghost wasn’t looking at you, but you knew he was when there was a moving rush of water as he stood

you could hear him near you, till he was standing over your crumpled form, his hand brushing along your neck.

“can i?”

you should’ve said no. absolutely not.

your plans to fool the devil had gone absolutely wrong. you glanced up at him, the softness of his face, his big hand moving to brush over your injured shoulder. 

you should say no.

with your curt nod, he sank down into the water beside you, and pulled you flush against the warmth of his body, and you just melted into him, your arms curled against his chest, shoulder aching in reply.

you pressed your forehead to his shoulder, embarrassed when wet, warm tears slid from your cheeks, the tip of your nose, and jaw to his skin.

“your ribs…” you sniffled, trying not to lean so hard against his torso when he was practically crushing you to him. but he only wound around you tighter, pressing some of your hair to his face.

your heart ached at the familiar gesture.

“so you are worried about me then?” his eyes glinted but the sullen look on his face quelled any humor in them.

you closed your eyes, basking in the warmth. “i’m always worried about you.”

when there was a long silence, you felt him tap your nose lightly.

“what are you thinking about in that pretty head of yours?”

your mind flashed with more images of your mama. “my mama.”

he hummed, digging his nose in your hair. “tell me.”

you sucked in your lower lip between your teeth, draping yourself over him with an ease. “my mama used to get so mad at me all the time.”

you couldn’t help the smile on your lips. “i used to paint on the walls in my bedroom when my nanny wasn’t there and my mama was busy. it drove her crazy.”

“yeah?” he smoothed his thumb over your cheek, and you opened your eyes, finding yourself cradled in his arms and the tip of his nose inches from yours, dark gaze lapping over you in warm waves.

you wanted to drown in them.

“you have pretty eyes,” you told him, feeling your eyelids droop. “kind of angelic.”

he huffed a laugh. “i thought i was the devil?”

“you only want me to think that,” you said dreamily, losing a whole reign of control over your tongue, “satan was an angel once too.”

he pressed his lips to your ear.

“so what’ll it be? devil or angel?”

“s’up to you,” you whispered, clutching at the wet planes of his muscled chest, “are you going to use me for revenge?”

“no,” he said immediately, though his voice was calm. “not again.”

you weren’t exactly sure if that made it any better. 

you could hear his bated breath—the way it was shallow, and sharp. he turned his head away from yours. you caught a glimpse of his blonde lashes curling from the shadow of his black mask.

“what are you hiding from me?”

it was a question you knew he wouldn’t answer as he helped you up from the cold water, wrapping an arm around your bare waist and leading you back to the fire. he just stretched out, completely bare, over a big flat rock embedded in the bank, and orange glow over his skin, and pulled you down to nestle into his side, letting the waves of heat emanating from the fire settle over the both of you like a heavy blanket.

his hand came down in featherlight touches over the curves of your body, trailing up the back of your thighs, to your back, to your neck where he pressed his lips. then his fingertips spidered across your wounded shoulder.

his voice sounded fragile. “i’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”

even you? you wanted to ask, tracing the pleasing curves of his face with your gaze.

you brushed your knuckle along the strength of his jaw, the curve of his nose, his lips…

he just peered at you with dark eyes, blinking gently, pressing the most gentle kiss to the corner of your lips that had you falling into another slumber.

Ghost watched your eyes flutter close, waiting till your breath went deep and even, before he even tried to pry himself away from you.

it was hard to not stay. the inviting warmth of your body warmed his cold heart.

he watched the swell of your chest rise and fall, brushing a hand over the softness of your abdomen. the fire light danced across your peaceful face, the plushness of your parted lips, your hair…

god he loved your hair.

but he pulled away, carefully shifting you in a comfortable position over the rock, where you curled up in his absence. he sat up, wincing from the slide and crunch of his ribs beneath his skin, the sore thrum of the bruises up his back, and listened to make sure the lull of your breath was still even and calm.

then, he tore off his mask and balled it up in his fist.

what the hell was he doing?

he inched further away from you, putting a marginal difference between your bare body and his. but you shivered and something inside him jolted with a stupid, muddled flurry.

quickly, he reached for his trench coat near the fire and laid it over you, feeling a full, fuzzy feeling when you stopped shaking. it was strange. he couldn’t put a single word to the feeling but he knew it was something foreign, something dangerous…

something he couldn’t afford.

but your soft voice was always running circles in his head, and it echoed back out to him.

are you going to use me for revenge?

he sighed out long and hard, tapping his balled up first to his forehead. more of your voices clambered into his weak mind.

do you always exert yourself over others like that?

liar.

i hate you.

liar, liar, liar.

liar, liar, liar, liar—

and you were right. you were almost always right with that brilliant mind of yours, he thought with a twinge of wonder.

Ghost was a liar. he was lying to you, and he was lying to himself most of all. and he knew it too.

“liar.” the word was becoming melded into your tongue. “you want to use me for revenge. is that all i’m useful for, then?” your throat cracked open, wide and full of emotion. “i’m just for your revenge? did you bed me for revenge?”

his gaze was half-lidded, tired. “yes.”

why had he lied like that?

he watched the side of your peaceful, youthful profile. he allowed himself to reach over and wrap his trench coat around you snugger, content when you exhaled deep, and stroked slowly at your hair. you looked so young. too young.

why had he lied like that?

he knew why. but he didn’t want to admit to that either.

instead, he picked himself up, muffling a groan as his stiff body worked itself to move, and kicked his clothes into a pile over the dirt. then, he reached for your own and folded them neatly into a pile by the fire to warm them by the time you woke.

maybe, he thought to himself, trying to be a sliver of an honest man, if he told you that you were right and that he was a liar, you would forgive him. 

or maybe he would have to beg on his knees for your sweet forgiveness until the day he died.

he wouldn’t mind.

he jolted at his own thoughts, beating them down till they were a silent pulp in his mind.

he knew he wasn’t going to make it out of this war. that knowledge only soured the feeling unfurling in his chest, every thump of his dead heart aching with effort. 

Turner was gunning for him and only him at this point—he was the brand mark of one-four-one. the mask was a tell-tale sign of who he was. even if, in the beginning, it had only been to preserve his anonymity, it ended up becoming an infamous emblem that became an endlessly useful tool of intimidation wherever he went—for business or more violent affairs.

he took a knife sheathed in the outer pocket of his trench coat, making sure not to wake you, and pressed his mask to the rock, cutting out the lower torn portion of it so that it was only half the piece of fabric it was previously.

maybe when he had lied to you about his true intentions one night ago, even if he wasn’t thinking, he knew it’d be easier to break your heart if you hated him. 

because he knew if you didn’t hate him, you’d never leave his side, and he wouldn’t be able to protect you like he wanted to when Turner killed him, and you’d be left…where?

hopefully as Gaz’s bride, he thought morosely.

he couldn’t forget what you said last night—i would’ve been married.

even if he knew that was your own lie, if that was what you wanted, he would give that to you as best as a dead man could.

because the truth was—

you were precious. like porcelain glass. all those nights ago, when you first laid together, he was never planning on touching you. even when he first took you, he was never planning on touching you. least of all for revenge.

not even when he first saw your pretty eyes go wide at the sight of him walking into your daddy’s saloon, in that beautiful blue skirt of yours and the loose clutch of your blouse exposing an indecent amount of your dewy skin when you leaned down. not even when your hands trembled, body just shivering in his proximity. you told him you weren’t scared. he didn’t believe you until you gave him everything that first time.

now, he chided himself for taking anything at all. hated himself for it even. he wanted to be…

dead.

he ruffled at his matted hair, screwing his eyes shut before pulling back on the mask. everything in him quieted—the confusion, the thoughts, the circling endless regret having him bite at his own tail.

it wasn’t one-four-one’s plan to get you personally involved in their lives. when you showed up at the base, it was like you had single-handedly wedged the knife of your innocence into the bottled up lot of them, and pried the can wide open. John, Kate, and Soap adored you. and Ghost had seen the way Gaz looks at you.

or at least he thought that he had. maybe it was his own jealousy contorting his thoughts.

jealousy, he cringed, flipping the knife in his hands, why would he be jealous?

the rustling in the woods answered him, and he twisted around on his haunches, ignoring the stabbing pain blooming into his lungs, and watched something prowl out onto the far clearing of the field. a long snout furrowed deeply at him, and the coyote drew back its upper lip, fangs glinting in the moonlight with a growl.

Ghost only stared back, gripping at the knife tightly, leaning forward onto his fingertips to cover your sleeping form with his body, muscles bunched to spring forward at any moment.

the coyote only crept forward a bit more, lapping at the very edge of the water at the lake, before retreating backwards, ears flattened to its head as it disappeared into the shrouded darkness of the treeline. its tail was tucked in between its legs.

maybe even coyotes were afraid of the devil.

the next morning you woke, Ghost was up, dressed, and fiddling with a knife in his hands. he was perched on the rock beside you, staring off into the horizon and looking pensive which was… uncharacteristic of him.

the fire was put out, embers still burning as a trail of smoke wafted up into the thin morning light.

your stomach growled.

Ghost’s head turned down to look at you and he pushed back the hair from your face with just his glove fingertips. “hungry?”

you nodded, feeling a bit embarrassed, and shifted to sit up beneath his trench coat with a shiver. the rock beneath you still felt a tad warm from the fire last night, but it had cooled, leaving your bare backside feeling numb.

“here,” Ghost offered, shifting in that awkward movement of his to keep the pressure of his wounds, you noticed with a twinge in your heart. he gestured to an array of things spread out over the far rock by the far littered with the berries he collected last night, now coupled with pale looking tubers.

you rubbed at your eyes with a yawn. “you cooked last night?”

he nodded. “wild parsnips.”

they were peeled and cut carefully off the top. he gave you an expectant look, and you supposed he thought you would take them, but instead you shifted over the rock again, shivering with the breeze at your back.

“can i change?” you asked meekly, and he blinked.

“‘course.” he handed you the pile of your clothes folded neatly by the fire, and with a blush, you noticed they were warm.

had he done that on purpose?

“thank you,” you said, looking up at him with a smile, but he just looked away with an indifferent huff, poking at the parsnips with his knife.

he turned his back as you redressed in your ruined clothes, rebounded your shoulder in the sleeve of his dress shirt to the best of your ability, and joined him for breakfast. you split the berries and parsnips into groups—trying and failing to give him a larger portion to compensate for his muscled stature and severe wounds, but he pointedly refused without so much as a bat of his eye and a deep scowl, and when you pressed, he ignored you entirely.

when you both finished a portion of the food, he kicked over the fire and made sure the embers were doused, before you set off across the plains back in the direction of the railway. Ghost told you, from the last time he checked with the conductor, that the train was fifteen miles from san francisco.

you’d be walking the whole day, sure, but it was better than you could’ve hoped for. testing your shoulder with a swing, there was still a sharp ache to it, and you winced, ignoring the side glance Ghost gave you.

you were worried more for his wounds anyway.

about two hours into the trek, you could hear the rasp of his breath and the shallow nature of it. his hands clenched and unclenched by his sides.

“Ghost,” you called, “i think you should take a rest.”

you weren’t even surprised when he chose to ignore you. 

“Ghost,” you repeated, rephrasing your words in a careful deadpan, “i’m tired. i want to rest.”

at that, he stopped with a curt nod, and you both moved to sit in the grassy bank by the railway. he sat with a stiffness and slowly stretched back out over the incline of the slope, hands behind his head and eyes closed. you sat with your chin tucked between your knees beside him. you knew him too well to see that he was playing pretend.

“Simon.” he jolted at the word. “let me see your ribs.”

he opened his eyes and looked at you, lips in a stale line. “they’re fine, princess.”

you rolled your eyes, moving to do it yourself. he hissed with protest when you began to unbutton his vest and you shushed him with a harshness that had him falling silent. you undid his dress shirt next and pushed the fabric aside, gasping at the sight of them.

it was worse. much worse. the strange patches of yellow and green bruises stretched over his rubs had become darker, more pronounced, and a swollen, madly red purple. looking down to his bullet wound, you almost wanted to faint.

it was bright red—angry and puffy with a crust of yellow goop around it. you gasped again.

“Simon this looks—”

infected.

he just stared up at you. the absolute indifference on his face had you balling up your hand in a fist and smacking him lightly over the head with it.

he flinched, reeling away from you with a scowl. “what was that for?”

“your lack of desire for self-preservation irks me,” you shot back, and settled over his hips with your thighs in a bind around him. you could feel him stiffen beneath you.

“i told you it’d get infected if you swam in that lake water.”

very gently, you traced your hands up his torso, and with a twisting impulsiveness, you leaned down to kiss the swell of chest, pressing down into its brawn. then you kissed up his neck, his jaw, his cheek.

maybe each kiss would make him better like in those books you used to read as a child.

he huffed out, and you looked up to meet his half-lidded gaze, swirling and dark and tinged with a lazy hunger. “are you teasing me again?”

you blinked up at him, and he reached down to press a thumb to your lower lip.

“i’m distracting you. is it working?”

he smirked. “too well, ” he hummed, before sighing out, “you’re too good to me, lovely.”

you nodded. “i know.”

pitching forward, you gently pecked that silvery scar on his upper lip and he jolted, breath going more shallow than before. when you leaned back, watching his expression with a fit of anxiety rolling around in your stomach, you watched him lick over his upper lip like he was tasting you.

the jittery feeling in your stomach turned into something else entirely.

“quit bloody teasin’,” he chided, pulling you back down to him and pressing his nose to your ear, face smushed against your hair.

you bit back a snicker and rubbed at the back of his neck. typical Simon.

so easy to please, so easy to make him surrender. 

usually, an ill-tempered voice in you said, flashes of the coldness of his tone, face, body on your bed in the train seeping into your mind. 

remembering yourself, you pulled away and stood again. he watched you with an owlish blink—a look of confusion and question that you chose to ignore as he pushed off the ground to trail after you and back down the railway.

for the next couple of hours of aimless walking, nothing eventful happened, save for Ghost randomly brushing along the edge of the forest, poking around amongst the foliage. you shared few glances and even fewer words, but that didn’t make it uncomfortable. 

in fact, as you eyed the side of his handsome profile, black trench coat fluttering softly in the wind, you wanted this to last forever.

right now, you were just two people in the woods. no war. no gangs. no guns. no violence.

even if he had hurt you.

you stepped closer to him, catching the fabric on the back of his elbow, but he barely even glanced at you when your hand slid down his forearm and pushed shyly into his hand. he easily swallowed your hand in his, lacing your fingers together tightly and squeezing.

later, he pulled out a couple of leaves from the inner pocket of his trench coat and offered them to you. mint, he had explained, chewing on the herbage, it staves off hunger.

you would need it by the time noon came and your stomach was growling again. you both stopped by the tracks to finish the last of the berries and cooked parsnips, chewing more mint Ghost picked from the underbrush of the forest.

the glare of the sun had waned by the time you reached the afternoon, and the railway seemed to stretch on forever, sloping over hills, cutting through landscape, till the trek flattened and the woods drew even tighter to the railway, trees towering overhead.

finally, you reached a crossroads in the railway, where a paved road cleaved through the woods, and on the horizon, revealed a sprawling skyline of buildings—smoke billowing above it, and a strange sort of humming raucous drifting across the terrain.

the sound of it made you apprehensive, and you eyed the hazy gray film in the air. you had never seen such a large town—city, would be better perhaps. you stopped in the road.

Ghost’s shoulder brushed your own. “what’s wrong?”

you squirmed with discomfort in your spot. “what is that?”

he squinted at the horizon. “s’a city.”

just as you suspected. but it didn’t make you any less reproachful. “i’ve only seen them in picture books,” admitted, sniffing the air. “it stinks.”

he gave you a twisted smile. “you should see manchester. my father used to work in the factories.”

your eyes widened, and he just kept walking, leaving you scrambling to catch up. “your father?”

he nodded. “my father.”

“and where is manchester?” you pressed, prying for more out of him, as you peered at the side of his face which was trained on the road ahead.

“england. s’where i grew up.”

you snuck your hand into his again. “did you have siblings?”

his grip stiffened around your hand. “an older brother. Tommy.”

your mouth opened and closed, watching the way his shoulders were tightened now. he obviously didn’t want to talk about either of them, you thought weakly, mourning, and instead changed the subject.

“what was it like in manchester?”

he glanced at you. “dreadful. i never want to go back again.”

“besides…” his thumb brushed against your palm. “i have everything i need in america.”

you nodded slowly, trying to chew that information, and desperately wanting more.

from behind, a growing assortment of noises approached you quickly, the clopping of hooves at your back, and Ghost drew an arm around you as he pulled you off the road. a horse and buggy bumbled down the road with a friendly looking coachman in the driver’s seat. 

he had a scraggly white beard and a fray of white hair strewn over his balding head, a big toothy grin, and a beet, splotchy redness to his entire face.

“hullo there!” he called, slowing his horses as he neared. Ghost’s arm went tighter around you.

“hello sir,” he said with a politeness you didn’t know he could have.

“s’a beamin’ day, is it not?” the man’s eyes mosied up and down your body but not in a rude way. you suddenly felt embarrassed by the state of your clothes and crossed your arms over your torso.

Ghost shook his head. “it’s been awful.”

“oh?” the man leaned in, apparently unperturbed by the mask covering half of Ghost’s face. “pray tell, what happened to you folk?”

“we were comin’ down the same path as you last night,” Ghost said, tipping his hat to the place down the road. “and a couple of coyotes came out of the woods.”

you stared at him. coyotes?

where did that come from?

“scared our horses half to death and they went ballistic. tipped over our buggy and everything and galloped off into the woods.”

the man gasped, spluttering. “heavens! how can i help you kind folk?”

Ghost paused like he was apprehensive. you cocked a brow at how easily the act came to him. “well, we were just trying to make our way to san francisco.”

“well i can do that, no problem!” the man said, scooting over his buggy to make more room. “i’m headin’ there right now to visit the ol’ missus.”

“Ghost,” you whispered, feeling a panic when he pushed you forward gently. “can we trust him?”

“unless you wanna walk another two miles, lovely,” he shot back, though not unkindly, as he dipped his head politely to the man in the buggy.

hesitating, you stepped forward towards the thing.

“this yer lovely missus?” he said with a friendly smile, and Ghost nodded.

“my lady.”

you wanted to smack him.

“howdy, ma’am,” the man said to you, offering a polite hand to shake. you stretched up to the buggy and took it with a tight-lipped smile.

“nice to meet you, sir,” you said, voice coming out weaker than you intended and he only grinned wider.

“well climb on in!”

you hesitated. it was only a two-person carriage, and Ghost might barely be able to squeeze into the space left that the other man left. looking back at Ghost over your shoulder, he just squeezed your waist softly, and slid around you to step up into the buggy himself.

rude, you thought with a huff, but only realized his intent once he was settled in the thing. he spread his arms as an invitation, one hand held out for you to climb into his lap.

his raised his brows at you. you looked from him to the beaming man beside him, something twinkling like knowing in his beady eyes, and you bit back a sigh, taking Ghost’s big hand and letting him pull you onto his lap.

you sat on one of his broad thighs, his chest flush to your back. he snaked an arm around your middle and kissed your cheek softly, hand still intertwined with yours.

you dug your nails into the glove of his palm in warning, withering in his arms, and wholly enjoyed it when he winced. 

the man beside you sighed out but it sounded happy. 

“oh, i remember the days when i just married my missus!” he said dreamily, hitching the horses with a snap of the reins.

Ghost chuckled in your ear, and you sent him a scowl over your shoulder when the other man wasn’t looking, but he only smiled wider, pulling the hair from your shoulder to kiss the back of your neck.

you stood on the edge of the street, bidding the kind stranger goodbye as he drew away from the sidewalk, hitching his horses down the wide san francisco avenue.

entering the city had been an enigma for you. it was even stranger now.

people littered the street. too many people. your mama had let you go to a bigger town now and then near your home with the girls from church, but never too far. she had said it was the role of your future husband to expose you to such harrowing conditions.

standing in the midst of one of the largest cities on the western coast, you could better understand what she meant. women and men sauntered down the road in tight-knight groups, business men in three-piece suits and bowler caps shot past you, and a slew of buggies blundered down the streets that Ghost guided you through.

some peered weirdly at the mask but most didn’t even care to notice at all—didn’t even look up from the point they were trained on getting to. 

in all honesty, you found their behavior quite rude as they passed you.

watching a woman in a pastel, flowing dress with pearls adorning her ears and neck, and silk gloves drawn to her elbows, she had her arm linked with a man with a well-trimmed mustache and pristine suit.

feeling strangely exposed, you inched closer to Ghost and linked your arm with his as well. you looked up at him with wide eyes, a whine building in your throat.

you were uncomfortable. very. very uncomfortable.

he huffed, taking your arm in his. “city life overwhelming you, princess?”

you nodded blearily, wincing when a man almost brushed against you through a tight pass on the sidewalk. you had never been flanked by so many people.

“what about Turner’s men? what if they recognize you?” you whispered out, curling closer to him, and he just shook his head. 

“they won’t without the mask.”

right. you had become so accustomed to the revealing nature of his black mask that you had completely forgotten about the broken, bloody skull layer of it.

you passed through more blocks, buildings scraping the sky so high that you felt dizzy and small. 

you craved to be out in the wide array of the demanding western landscape again. you wished you were still walking along that railroad, chewing mint leaves, and your hand in Ghost’s.

eventually, the skyscrapers dwindled into crumpled, shorter, dingy buildings and the avenues tightened into busy marketplaces. but it was different than you had ever seen before.

men wore linen suits—in grays and blacks with small hooped knots down the front—and bowlers caps. some women wore dark blouses with loose sleeves and low collars that gleamed in the evening’s light, curling with patterns of clouds and the fine leaves of bamboo, and flowing bright skirts over heeled shoes that looked binding.

Ghost watched your face closely, and you slowly turned in the spot. you had never seen a culture that wasn’t of your small western hometown before. “where are we?” you asked him, voice tinged in awe, and he put a hand to your lower back and led you down the busy market street.

“this is chinatown,” he said, and you just nodded slowly, trying and failing to digest it all.

“why are we here?” you pressed, and Ghost pushed you further towards a big brick building at the end of the road that dwarfed the dingy places beside it, a throng of people swarming in front of it.

“Turner’s men won’t come here,” he explained, seeming utterly casual. “they think the bubonic plague’s still lingering.”

you stiffened. “plague?”

he nodded. “it came through san francisco in 1900. it’s been gone for years but Turner doesn’t think so.”

“why not?”

he gave you a sidelong look but his voice was soft. “why do you think, lovely?”

feeling saddened, you gave him a meek look and he just smiled, brushing your cheek with his knuckles briefly. “smart girl.”

when you entered the building, there was a reception at the front and a large folding divider with intricate ink brushes over its surface shrouding the rest of the narrow establishment from view. the interior was extravagant—tipped in gold, marble, and lush patterns and a stark disparity to the image outside of it.

there was a tinge of something sweet in the air, a hazy smoke drifting through the place. you wrinkled your nose.

a man came from behind the folding divider in one of those linen, knot-button suits, hair shaved close to his head, with a big smile and a gold tooth. at the sight of it you went cold.

he spoke in a language you couldn’t understand—taking in its foreign inflections with a feeling of awe, and hearing the word Ghost between the slew of his words.

it startled you when Ghost spoke back in the same swinging rhythm. staring at the side of his blank face, he just ignored your burning gaze.

suddenly, the man turned to you with a slick smile, eyes crawling down for a long moment before crawling back up. the hair on the back of your neck bristled. 

“good evening, ma’am,” he greeted in a gentle accent, “how can i help you?”

Ghost braced against the desk, speaking low and fast in that language. the man’s eyes went dark, but that slick smile never left his lips. then, he grinned, gold tooth flashing, before he gestured with his arm to the intricate divider.

“please follow me.”

Ghost’s grip on your waist was tight as you followed the man behind the divide, walking down a dim, but equally decadent hallway. you jolted away from one of the doors—there was an intermittent bang and shout from inside of the room.

a splinter of fear cleaved your heart, and you shot a look at Ghost before he just urged you forward without so much as a glance. 

“here is your room,” the man offered generously, waving his arm to a wooden door with an intricate carving over the front.

you muffled a gasp at the sight of the girl standing beside it. she must’ve been only a few years older than you, with milky skin and long black hair that came down her slim frame like the brush of swirling ink. the crimson dress she wore wasn’t constricting at all, and exposed so much skin.

from the elbows to her wrists, her ankles, calves, and knees, you could see her bare skin. you averted your eyes immediately, fumbling with your hands, but her gaze was solely trained on Ghost.

he wholly ignored her as the man shooed her away with a rude gesture and fast words. her dark eyes flashed, sending Ghost a nasty look, and then you, before turning on her heel and marching down the hallway.

the man handed Ghost a key and you followed the broad, masked man into the room, quickly shutting the door behind you. the strange, elongated noises from the hallway was diminished now. sighing out with relief, your breath hitched when you noticed the intricacy of the room.

there was a low-lying bed strewn with pillows and rich draperies. the room was littered with different wooden furniture pieces with ornate carvings like geometric mazes in the chairs, wardrobe, canopy bed frame, and sunken table in the far corner of the room. you observed the rolls of paper hanging from the walls, the vases covered in gleaming blue brush strokes, and the dim lamp overhead with red tassels hanging down from its silver sheath.

Ghost sat at the edge of the bed with a crumbling sigh, kicking off his boots. your heart sunk, cringing at more of the gentler noises wafting through the door.

“where are we, Ghost?”

you had a sneaking suspicion that you wouldn’t like it.

he cleared his throat, sending you the most apologetic you had ever seen on him. “a brothel.”

you spluttered. “a brothel?”

he had brought you, a good, christian woman, to a brothel?

you did a quick prayer, closing your eyes and clasping your hands together, murmuring under your breath. you could hear Ghost move from the bed and pad closer to you, impossibly silent. 

you ignored him, continuing to pray, as he wrapped his arms around you, impossibly warm and comforting, and tucked his chin into your neck.

“i’m sorry.”

you jolted. opening one eye to look at him, two of his own peered back at you.

you shut your eye, ignoring him and continued to pray in low murmurs. he pressed a kiss to your neck, another i’m sorry falling from his lips. and then another and another wherever he kissed across your neck, jaw, cheek.

you could get used to him saying that. 

it was his warm breath across your lips that startled you back to the present.

when you opened your eyes again, hands still clasped in a bind at your chest, he leaned forward, clothed forehead pressing against your own. 

“i’m sorry.”

a trickle of something muddled dripped down your spine. a new suspicion pricked up in you.

“about what?” you asked, working your jaw slowly.

he buried his forehead into your neck, speaking softly. “about lying to you.” 

your brow quirked.

“about the brothel?” you asked, feeling confused, and he stiffened against you before nodding slowly.

“mhmm.”

that muddled feeling was back again. was he lying about what he was lying about?

you snorted at the thought. that muddled feeling told you he was probably apologizing about a lot of things at the moment—what, exactly, you couldn’t discern. there was a lot to choose from.

“i’m still mad at you,” you said with a tenderness, brushing across the back of his neck with your fingertips.

he just nodded again with a hum.

a much darker furl of despair in your stomach said that this may be the last time he would say sorry to you.

you didn’t know what would happen tomorrow, or tonight even, as the hazy dusk settled outside the carved windows. when would the war break out? where was one-four-one and los vaqueros? why had he brought you to chinatown? why a brothel?

when would he be leaving you again?

would he be dead in the next couple of days like he kept promising?

your silence must’ve been telling because he sighed out across your skin and untangled himself from your body and led you to the edge of the bed where you both sat.

your brows rose expectantly as he shifted over the bed and took off his hat, putting it down. you took it into your hands to have something to fumble with as his hand came to the length of your hair, playing with it in between his fingers.

when his silence was too long, you cocked your head. “tell me, Simon.”

it was more of a command than anything.

he rubbed a hand over his jaw with a curt nod, but he wouldn’t look at you. “i know the owner of this establishment. he owns a brothel chain in san francisco. for the night, we’ll be safest here.”

your hands paused, glancing up at him. “you do business in prostitution?”

the relief that bloomed when he shook his head came as a surprise. you released a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

“an enemy of Turner is a friend of mine,” he said decidedly. “so i learned mandarin.”

you changed the subject. “so what about one-four-one and los vaqueros? where are they?”

“we’ve got a base but it’s across the city,” he said, scratching at his neck, not revealing anything further. you didn’t really expect him to.

“when will you see them?” you asked, sullen.

what you really wanted to ask was: will he take you with him?

“tonight.” his hand dropped from your hair. “only rich politicians come through here. you’ll be safe. i promise.”

you closed your eyes. that was that.

you didn’t really know if you wanted to hear the rest of what he had to say.

“then, you and i will reconvene with them tomorrow. together,” he said, the pad of his thumb brushing over your closed eyelids.

you took a breath of relief. you could work with that.

“and the war?”

his eyes were dark, swirling. “i don’t know. i’d rather stop it before then.”

and still get the revenge one-four-one promised?

you cocked your head. “how?”

the corners of his lips twitched and your brows rose. “it’s a surprise, princess.”

you groaned, exasperated. “no more surprises, Simon.”

“will you allow an awful man to fix a date with you, lovely?”

you gave him a bitter look and his smile only grew. “what makes you think i want you to court me?”

he slowly slid off the bed and you watched in amazement as he kneeled in front of you, hands on your thighs.

“what do i need to do?” he asked softly, eyes wide and beseeching. 

you were in awe at the sight of him—on his knees in front of you, broad body bowed down. you looked over the plains of his masked face, and all that was revealed beneath it. his pale skin, littered with scars, and the silvery one on his upper lip, that blonde brow and tall nose, his telling dark eyes.

you blushed. “more than that.”

“how about this?” he offered, stretching up to kiss the tip of your nose.

“more than that.”

“this?” he kissed over your jaw, down your neck, lips warm and soft and wet when his tongue slid out, sucking at the flesh of it.

“more,” you whined, feeling hot all over when his hands expertly came to unclasp the back of your blouse.

it was perplexing in the way he could strip away your facade in mere seconds, melt the stubbornness from your shoulders, and evaporate any reign of control over your intent to be furious with him.

he had you completely bare in seconds and all your ruined clothes in a pile on the floor, pushing you back onto the soft bed, and then it was his turn. he stood up and undressed in front of you, and you watched with a greediness, that familiar dark, needy pulse between your thighs.

you pawed at that ache, feeling relentless, and his pupils blew wide, hands flying to get out of his clothes.

swallowing, you tried to not let the shame consume you when you dipped your hand beneath your thighs, and touched that spot for the first time. his hands fumbling with his belt stuttered to a stop.

experimentally, you dragged your fingertips against its wet softness, gasping when it came in contact with your clit. it was a little nub that swelled against your fingers, fluttering in time with the pulse of your heart in your throat.

you kept your eyes on Ghost, fighting the droop of them, when you started to circle around it like he had. a pleasure bloomed through you, and you gasped again. curious, you jerked your hand faster, and the intensity of it only spread, through your core, dipping into your stomach, and you thought you saw gold.

with a loud moan, you realized you never knew that you could make yourself feel so good.

you jolted when Ghost let out a guttural, low sound, and pitched forward, pressing his knuckles into the space beside your head, towering over you on the bed.

“you touchin’ yourself, pretty thing?”

you whined with a nod, his words only spurring you on.

when he reached down to grip your hand rubbing against your cunt, you hissed. “no.”

“no?” his brows shot up, eyes searching yours.

“no touching. just watch,” you commanded, deadly serious, arching into your own magical touch.

the sound that left his throat was in between a groan and a whimper, and it made your hips buck up, a whine tearing through you in response.

he sat back, hands twitching against his thighs, and a painful looking swell in his pants, you noticed, but you were perfectly content with the way you were touching yourself.

rolls of aching sweetness unfurled through you.

“are you teasing me, princess?” he asked, head tilted and voice incredibly deep, the swell of his chest fast and breathy.

“mhmm,” you whimpered, slowing your hand painfully so, then quickening again, gasping when a thick wave of pleasure poured over you and swept you into a distant haze. 

“s’your punishment—” you went even faster, “—for bein’ an asshole.”

he groaned at that, leaning down to kiss your bare ankle, and you hissed, pushing him back with your foot to his shoulder. the look he gave you was steeped in such an obvious display of desperation that you almost wanted to give in.

“let me do it,” he rasped, leaning forward to tower over you again, hands by your head, but still not touching.

“no.”

he leaned down to your ear. “please?”

you whined, bucking into your hand, feeling the edges of your vision fade and flutter. you were getting closer to that telltale, delicious, precipice—but frustratingly, it still felt so far away.

“no,” you whimpered, and you chased that edge desperately.

he licked over his lips. “struggling, pretty girl?”

you shook your head, whole body jolting when a new flare of intensity coursed through you. it was almost too much, and suddenly, you wanted to take your hand away.

you looked up to the man perched between your legs, his bare muscled torso gleaming in the dim light, and the sharpness of his jaw spurring you on.

he cooed, “you sure you don’t need my help, pretty thing?”

sniffling, you mewled, feeling defeated when you pulled your hand back, your sensitive clit twitching in response to the cold air that filled the absence where your hand had just been.

Ghost hummed, looking positively pleased at your surrender, and he tentatively brushed his fingertips over the softness of your inner thigh.

“may i?” his eyes were dark and malicious, and a shudder of something bordering on fear slithered down your spine as you squirmed against the blankets.

“please.”

he lurched forward, and you squeaked in surprise when one of his arms slid beneath your back, the other beneath your thigh, as he threw you further up the bed.

“shoulder?” he asked softly, though his hands were rough as he positioned you the way he liked, pressing the back of your thighs up so that almost touched your chest, legs lolling over his shoulders.

you could barely feel anything in your shoulder—all the blood had pooled to your cunt, pulsing with a wild, aching need.

“please, Simon,” you said instead, grabbing his shoulders and pushing them down to where you needed him.

but he was too strong. much stronger thank you, as he pinned your wrists to the bed. 

“answer me,” he said, voice thick and dark, and you whimpered.

“s’fine.”

“you sure?” he breathed over your cunt and you whimpered.

“y-yeah.”

he hummed. “we’re going to do something different today.”

that piqued your interest, pulling you from the muddled haze of your mind. he splayed a big hand over your stomach, pressing against it, the rough pad of his thumb reaching down to rub lazy circles over your clit. 

you melted back into the bed, a deluge of relief coursing through your veins. you think you could come just like this—Ghost leaning over you, sucking the skin of your neck, whispering low murmurs into your ear, and a circling pressure growing against your clit. you think you could mostly because it was Simon.

“Simon,” you whined, and his eyes snapped to yours, turning warm and buttery when he kissed your eyelids.

then, you felt something circling the entrance of your core.

a confused hum left your lips, and you looked down to see his other hand spreading his fingers down the slick of your entrance.

“what’re you doing?” you asked, sliding a hand over his.

“do you trust me?”

your breath hitched, looking up into his hooded eyes. you didn’t take a second to even think—

god, yes, you trusted him. you needed him.

“need you,” you whimpered, truthfully, and his eyes went even darker as he bent down to kiss your clit softly.

then, you watched him push a finger into you, swallowed up by your cunt inch-by-greedy-inch.

you gasped, arching at the new feeling of a stretch that felt… good.

“Simon?” you squeaked, and he just shushed you gently, kneading at your breast as he sucked on your clit, pinning you down as you squirmed.

then, he began working the finger inside you, rubbing against your gooey inner walls, and then he was pressing in a second finger, and that delicious stretch swept you away into a haze.

breathy moans were torn from your throat and you could do nothing to stop them when he curled his fingers, pressing even deeper and against something that had the sweetest feeling unfurl deep, deep, deep inside you.

“Simon!” you mewled, feeling your climax approaching quicker than ever as he fucked you open with his fingers, his lips wrapped around your clit, a sinful squelch harmonizing with the breathy tones of your voice.

your whole core convulsed, clenching, then—

he stopped.

your chest fell in rose in heavy pants, that delicious edge receding slowly. picking up your head up to look at him, your brow furrowed when you found him just staring back at you.

whining, you picked up your hips to press your swollen clit to his plush lips, but he just shifted back a bit so the tip of your nub barely brushed his lower lip.

he cocked his head with a malicious smirk.

“you’ve been teasin’ me for days, minx,” he said, eyes so empty and cold that you shivered. he slid a hand over the goosebumps of your thigh.

“at the lake. today by the railroad.”

he began pumping his fingers again, slowly, and you whined, trying your best to grind down on it so the tips of them would find that swollen place in you that felt heavenly, but he just pulled his hand back every time you pressed down.

his eyes darkened. “touchin’ yourself in front of me like i’m not allowed to do anything about it.”

“please,” you whimpered, and the smirk dropped from his face.

“you’re not allowed to come until i say so, pretty thing.”

a shockwave went straight through your tummy at the words, eyes blown wide with shock. you didn’t know why those words made your heart drum harder, the slickness between your thighs feeling unbearable with the way he just slowly fucked you with his fingers.

you wanted more. you wanted him deeper. something bigger.

his fingers brushed over your clit, and you jolted. “ready f’more?”

“mhmm. please, Simon.” your voice was a keen, and you whined louder when he completely pulled his hand away from you, feeling desperately empty, but he just grabbed your hips and flipped you with ease onto your stomach.

he pulled your hips up, one hand smoothing down your back so you were arched, arms braced against the soft pillows. it was a strange position, left you feeling awkward and exposed, but he pressed a soft kiss to your injured shoulder and you ignored the throb from the weight it bore.

then, he slid off the bed and you heard the clink of his belt, something dropping on the floor, before the bed dipped again, and then silence.

looking back at him, you blushed at the sight of him just shamelessly staring at you in the position.

“Simon!” you chided, curling out of the position before he gripped at your hip tightly with a sly smirk, pushing you back down into the arch with a low rumble of protest.

he crowded over the back of you, settling down over your body, and pressed you further into the bed, his warm chest flush to your back and knuckles pressed to the space next to your ears. you gasped when something warm, sticky, and hard brushed along your inner thigh.

he stroked a hand along your neck, words a throaty whisper in your ear. “comfortable, lovely?”

you felt him press himself against your soft slit, the thick head of it pressing against your clit. 

it felt hot, big, throbbing, and—

you gasped, a cracking dawn of realization washing over you.

“it goes…?” inside.

your whole body shook in anticipation, a strange muddle of fear and desperate want making your hips press further back into him.

he hummed, kissing your neck. 

“figure it out, pretty?”

“mhmm,” was all you could get out, wiggling yourself against him in impatience, and he just gripped your hips tightly.

“inside,” you retaliated, and he huffed in your ear, the curve of his smile pressed to your hair.

“needy girl. you don’t even know anything about this,” he chided, a hand coming down to rub at your clit, and you squirmed with relief.

“what do i need to know?” you squeaked, grinding against his fingers.

“it hurts.” your movements slowed, suddenly feeling apprehensive.

“it hurts?” you looked back at him from over your shoulder, his eyes only inches from your own where his lips were against your shoulder.

his stopped moving. “mhmm.”

you reached down between your legs and gripped at his wrist, willing him to move again.

“i don’t care. i can take it.”

he smiled against your shoulder.

“im sure you can, but save it for your marriage.” his words were hushed, and you just frowned, a ball of frustration building in you, arching back into his touch.

“i don't want anybody but you.”

he went stock still, and you swallowed hard, feeling an edge of unease bubble up between your desire. you wished you could see his face but you didn’t dare look behind you.

his hand slid away from your core again, leaving you wanting and cold. but you took a breath of relief when he didn’t move away, only pressed his body down into you harder, the heady weight of him a pleasant pressure.

“i guess you’ll just have to wait till we’re married then.”

the breath was stolen from you, and you fought to whimper out, “no. now.”

“that’s improper, lovely,” he whispered, dark and throaty, hot tongue licking over your ear.

he slid his hips forward between your thighs, and you felt his hard length glide smoothly over your cunt, catching against your puffy clit, ripping a gasp out of your throat.

your eyes drooped shut. “don’t care.”

“so bratty. can’t you let me court you first?”

you grit your teeth, fighting back the breathy noises from the back of your throat, as he thrust forward between the hot clutch of your plush thighs.

“no,” you moaned out, letting his hands guide your hips in a slow roll over him, your cunt clenching with every movement.

“even when i’m being so nice to you right now?”

“you’re being mean,” you whined, pushing back against him, meeting the snap of his hips with a string of breathy gasps as your head fell forward.

he snaked a hand into your hair and pulled, tugging you back over his sticky length with every thrust. you felt the telltale beginnings of a rolling, sweet burn stemming from your clit to the rest of your body that you needed to satiate.

“please,” you begged, and he hummed, curling an arm beneath you to play with the sensitive swell of your nipples, holding you close to him as you jolted with each brush of your clit.

“wanna come?” he asked softly, and you nodded eagerly, feeling the first waves of your orgasm pulling you under—

then he pulled his hips back, pushing you back down to the bed, and you almost sobbed at the loss of friction against your core.

he leaned down to coo in your ear softly, “what’s wrong, princess?”

that desperate, squirming ache in your stomach melded into something angry.

“stop teasing me!” you snapped, sending him a teary-eyed look from over your shoulder, jolting when his eyes snapped up to yours.

his face was hooded—lustful, pupils blown wide, and dark with something sinister you’d never seen before.

“stop teasing?” he growled, pushing his hips forward between your thighs again, your clit twitching against the tip of him. “like how you were teasing me earlier?”

you whined as he began rolling his hips, the combined slick coming down your legs in a sticky, mixed muddle, and gasping when he hooked his arm beneath you and pulled you up so you were leaned back against his chest—his teeth sinking into the skin of your shoulder.

you grabbed at the back of his neck, a pleasurable pain gliding across your skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake. a dark, slithering heat tightened that inevitable knot in your tummy when he slid a big hand up and wrapped it around your throat.

“bratty girls get punished. didn’t church teach you that?”

the moan you let out was downright sinful, breathy, and left your throat raw and aching, as you clawed at his hand around your throat, trying and failing to anchor yourself to anything.

he pitched forward, grabbing at your hand and pinned it down to the bed beneath his, intertwining your fingers tightly, and you watched his length between your thighs leak white pearls that glided down your skin with every heavenly thrust.

“are you gonna be good?” he whispered out, and you nodded eagerly, a slew of little whimpers and begs falling from your lips like a breathy flood.

he purred a sound of approval. “i know you will. bein’ such a good girl lettin’ me fuck your thighs like this.”

“yes, Simon, i’ll be good, i’ll be good—”

god you were so close—

“pretty girl. my sweet girl. you’re mine.”

his growled words guided you right through those convulsing shudders and a hot, searing haze welled up in your throat—tears pricking in your eyes from the intensity of it.

you only realized that Ghost came too when you felt ropes of something warm and thick splashed against your cunt and inner thighs, his groans a pretty song right by your ear. 

he practically crushed you to the bed, his warm, sweaty body pleasant against your skin. you stayed like that for a long time, listening to his deep breaths, a tickling drip down your spine—the after-effect of your shared pleasure.

you never wanted the sensation to leave you.

you searched for Ghost behind you and came into contact with his shoulder, then grabbed at his neck, and he hummed contentedly, sliding his arms beneath your stomach, pressing fleeting kisses to your shoulder and neck.

you squirmed, giggling at the ticklish sensation, but you were trapped there, and he only kissed you more with a soft smile against your skin, up to your ear, your cheek, before he leaned back to turn you over.

you looked up at him, his brown eyes warm and lips twisted in a wry smile, and curled your arms around his shoulders to pull him back down. he settled between your thighs, cheek pressed to your breast, and you scratched at the back of his head lightly like your mama used to do to make you fall asleep after a bad nightmare.

he practically purred, sinking further into the big bed, his arms winding back around your middle.

his voice was a raw rasp. “does this mean you’ll accept my request?”

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile on your face. “where are we going for a date?”

he inched up your body so he braced his forearms beside your head, the tip of his nose brushing yours. he blinked at you, face blank.

“don’t get mad at me, alright?”

you quirked your brow, sliding your hands up his shoulders, filling the dips and grooves of the bunched up muscle.

“what’re you hiding, Simon?”

he cocked his head. “it’s a social event.”

your brows rose. a social event?

you thought back to your daddy’s letter, such a strange and hazy memory now—i’ll round up my men and join the effort in two weeks time after we conjoin at the social. there, we can talk finances.

was that the same social?

you turned your cheek, giving Ghost a sidelong look. “the same one my daddy was talking about?”

you saw something flash in his eyes before his face became impossibly imperceptible again.

“how did you know about that?”

you snorted. “i snooped through your basement, remember?”

his brows rose, a very slow smile creeping up on his lips. 

you frowned at him. “what?”

he shook his head, grinning, “nothing.”

you dug your nails a bit into his shoulders. “tell me.”

“it’s just—”

he wouldn’t look into your eyes. he leaned down closer to you, lips against your cheek, voice a seductive, low sound. “your mind. i lust for it.”

your breath hitched. “lust for it?”

he nodded. “you’re brilliant. it’s sexy.”

you scoffed, swatting at his shoulder lightly, and a laugh rumbled through his chest into yours.

you wondered what he would think about your brilliant mind if he knew that you were periodically going through… mental struggles. you thought about something else instead.

“tell me what this social’s about.”

you watched him close his eyes, fingers fumbling with your hair. “Turner’s having a masquerade ball. somethin’ ‘bout going back to historical roots.”

your brows shot up. “and you want to go with me?”

his smirk was devilish. “who else? i was invited.”

now, your brow was furrowed. “why would Turner invite you?”

he shook his head. “he didn’t. it’s his way of having a little victory party over this war before it’s even really begun. s’basically an invitation.”

there was a bitter taste in your mouth.

“i thought you said i wasn’t going anywhere near Turner?”

he shifted above you, eyes open now, and hand still tangled in your hair.

“changed my mind.”

you scoffed. for Ghost, changing his mind wasn’t surprising. in the matter of Turner and you however…

“why’d you change your mind?” you pressed softly, meeting his buttery warm eyes.

he smiled, whole body going lax and soft against you. “last night.”

that didn’t clarify anything at all. when your jaw dropped open to reply, he filled the words in for you.

“s’just a stupid omen. there was a coyote. it was scared just at the sight of me, but i was more scared than anything.”

you stroked along the soft, warm skin of his back. “why?”

“because i wanted to protect you.” 

his eyes were wide and open, and you bit your lip, a new burning ache pushing up between your lungs.

“i promised i’d never let anyone hurt you again,” he said with a hush, pressing his forehead to yours. “i want you to be with me when you’re in danger.”

then, he slid down pressing his ear to the steady thrum of your heart. “just be with me all the time.”

a rush of sweetness poured through you. just be with me all the time.

you felt giddy, your grin big and making your cheeks ache.

“is that what you were getting all thoughtful about this morning?”

you remembered him sitting on the rock beside you, fumbling with his knife, face shadowed and faint with a furrowed brow.

he craned his neck to look up at you.

“you noticed, smart girl?”

you wanted to scoff. “i notice a lot of things.”

you drew lazy circles into his skin. “i noticed how you always like to fold my clothes. i noticed how like to put your face here—”

you pointed to the area where your hair pooled around your neck, and with that, he pulled forward to press his face to that spot with a contented hum.

you held the back of his head, feeling like you were in a hazy, surreal dreamscape.

had you really wanted revenge on him only a night ago? a few mere hours ago? did it really matter what his original intentions were with you when he displayed his feelings so clearly like this?

yes, a voice hissed out, leaving you feeling uneasy, but you beat it down so it wouldn’t cloud the blissful moment.

soon, he pulled away, shifting off of you, and slid off the bed to kneel on the hardwood floor again. the absence of him felt wrong—cold and too light. like you needed his heavy warmth to pin you back down again.

he gripped at your splayed hand from the edge of the bed. “will you go on a date with me, lovely?”

his question was completely simple and pure, but you found yourself wanting to tease him, lips twisting into a sly smile, enjoying the way he blinked in response, a bit perturbed.

“and what will we do on this date, Simon?”

you flipped over onto your stomach, propping up your head up over your elbows with your knuckles, in love with the way his blonde lashes fluttered against your cheek when your noses brushed. his lips were a mere breath away from yours.

“dine. dance…” he whispered, dark eyes flickering from your own to your lips.

his lips parted, head tilting. “maybe i can hold Turner down, and you can torture him to death.”

at that you laughed, pulling back away from him and curling onto your side into the sheets. he remained at the edge of the bed, grin wide and wolfish. once your fit of laughter stopped, you peered back over your shoulder with a hum.

“i’ll tell you what i decide in the morning,” you sang, sitting up, watching with delight as a curiosity burned in his gaze.

“did i not teach you well enough what happens when you tease me?” he asked, voice throaty, and you shivered, suddenly very aware of the exposed nature of your bare skin.

you shrugged. “guess you’ll have to remind me.”

his eyes darkened and you squirmed away from him with a giggle across the big bed so he couldn’t reach you so easily. his brows rose carefully.

“think i can’t catch you if you run away like that, bunny?”

a low, kicking thrum came back to life between your thighs.

“what are you?” you asked with a laugh, gripping at the sheets, “a wolf?”

he cocked his head in a predatory manner, words low and deep. “when i want to be.”

you shuddered and he just shook his head with an amused look, padding away from the bed to a door across the room. behind it was a bathroom, and he disappeared inside, the sound of running water accompanying you as you laid back down on the bed, reclining back into the soft blankets and even softer pillows.

the more you laid there, the more you could feel a growing, painful ache returning to your shoulder. it was stiff, hot and swollen to the touch, and you chided yourself for going so… rough in your intimate moment with Ghost.

but when he sauntered back out of the bathroom, footsteps eerily quiet, a damp washcloth in hand, you didn’t feel an ounce of regret.

he helped clean you up, swiping away your shared fluids from your skin as his kissed the crown of your head with a tenderness. you reached for the cloth, grabbing his bare hip, and were about to return the favor when you were reacquainted with the battered state of his body.

the bruises had reduced but there were still a blotchy, purple mess, and his stitches were just as bad as before—that same dried crust around it. now, you really chided yourself, angry that you hadn’t taken a moment to take care of him before…

you wiped away any residue from his nether regions, before thumbing gently over that strong, muscled v-line of his hip.

“what is it?” he asked, touching a knuckle to the bottom of your chin and tilting your head up to meet his eyes.

you blinked. “it’s really bad.”

his expression was blank. “honestly, lovely, i’ve had worse.”

“like what?” you pressed, and when his face contorted, you waved a hand.

“nevermind. don’t tell me.” you might be sick if he did.

“just please let me take care of you,” you practically begged, sliding a hand down his bare thigh as his eyes narrowed.

your frown deepened, trying to give him your best doe-eyed pout, and he heaved a sigh with a nod, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

you walked to the bathroom, casting a look over your shoulder to make sure Ghost was still sitting obediently at the bed, and when he cocked an impatient brow at you, you bit back a smirk as you entered the bathroom.

there was a big tub pressed to the corner of the room, and a wash bin where you rinsed off the wash cloth and grabbed an extra cup from the sink, filling it with water. you fished around the ornate cabinets, smiling in victory when you found a jar of vaseline pushed to the very back of a cabinet filled with sparse miscellaneous items. your mama had spread it over any injury of yours like an invisible gauze.

taking a moment to inspect your appearance in the mirror, cheeks flushed and hair disheveled, you splashed your face with a bit of water and calmed your hair with your hands.

on the back of the bathroom door, you took the simple silk robe in a pale yellow pattern and tied it around yourself, walking back out to Ghost who was lounged back against the bed and still stark naked.

“has my pretty nurse come to my aid?” he asked, eyes half-lidded.

you just nodded with a sheepish smile, crawling over to him and dipping the washcloth in the water before dabbing at the stitches. you watched his whole body tense with a hiss, and then relax again, his eyes screwed shut.

“sorry,” you squeaked with wince, wiping away the yellow ooze around it. you bit your lip, brows furrowed as you looked down at the fleshy wound—red and swollen with a loose thread pulled through it. you pressed your fingertips to it and he jolted, jaw clenched. it was hot to the touch.

“it didn’t reopen, did it?” you asked sullenly, and his eyes barely fluttered open.

“i’d be bleeding if it did.”

with that, you spread the cool vaseline over it, and he sighed, sinking back into the bed. then, he wrapped an arm around your waist, and you muffled a squeak as he tugged you towards him into pillows.

his lips were against your hair. “shoulder?”

you pushed away from him with a hand to his chest, and he grumbled in protest as you moved to put your gathered medical supplies onto the nightstand.

“s’okay. kind of swollen but nothing like yesterday.”

the sound that left his throat was full of disapproval.

instead you changed the subject, turning to him with a hand on your hip.

“are you gonna change?”

his brows raised slightly, knees tipping wider as he picked up his head to look at you with a smirk. with a blush, you refused to look down at his bare, muscled body.

“nope.”

rolling your eyes, you clambered back into the bed and he tugged the silky robe loose from your body, and you just let him do as he liked as he positioned the both of you beneath the thick blankets. 

he pulled you into his pleasant warmth and you hummed, your cheek nestled to his chest and his lips against your hair.

the room was dim, a lulling quiet darkness over the room now, pitching deep into the night. you drew circles over his forearm cast over your waist.

“when will you leave?” you whispered, sullen, because you knew these tranquil, soft moments were dwindling with uncertainty.

he smoothed a hand over your back. “in a little bit.”

you bit your lip. “why can’t i come with you?”

he shook his head, and you closed your eyes, a pinched feeling in your chest.

“i have to do this on my own. you won’t be in danger here.” 

you thought back to what he said a mere moments ago.

“what happened to just be with me all the time?”

his words were soft. “you are with me all the time.”

you craned your neck to look up at him and he inclined his head against the pillows, tapping with a finger to his chest lightly.

oh.

“i think i’ve read about that in a children’s fantasy novel, Ghost,” you said with a cocked brow and he gave you a wry smile, then shifted to tuck his chin over your head.

“what happened to Simon?”

you closed your eyes. “Simon privileges revoked.”

he scoffed. “bratty.”

you smacked at his arm and he didn’t even move—like a big rock you could anchor yourself to. 

a big rock you wanted to anchor yourself to, except that he was always leaving it seemed. 

and when he left, would he actually come back as promised? or would he leave you to the streets of san francisco as you feared—without a use for you?

unless your use was turning up to Turner’s masquerade as Ghost’s lady for the evening in another display of their battle for… ownership.

at that you stiffened and Ghost roused against you, his even breaths hitching.

the question you posed was careful and calculating. “if i wanted to run away and never look back, would you let me?”

he went impossibly still at that. then, he pulled back far enough so you could see the grim lines of his face, even through the darkness and the shroud of his mask.

“yes.” the word was so strained it almost didn’t sound like his own voice. “i think it’d kill me though.”

you cocked your head.

“when are you gonna take that mask off?”

his eyes flashed. “full of questions are you?”

you nodded. “always.”

he looked away from you. “i can’t answer all of them yet.”

always hiding something from you.

“why not?” you pressed, and he frowned, taking up your hand to press to his chest.

“in time,” he whispered, kissing the back of it, before sliding out from under the blankets.

you gripped his wrist to keep him tethered to you, voice cracking wide open.

“did you mean what you said?” 

he cocked his head, eyes a placid coolness.

you swallowed hard “about courting me? about me being yours?”

your breath was shallow when you added, “do you really think you’ll die tomorrow?”

he stared at you for a long moment before sighing out, climbing back onto the bed and over you, leaning down to brush his lips against yours softly. you jolted with a gasp, straining up to kiss that silvery scar on his upper lip carefully. he was stock still, eyes following your movement with a familiar stoicism. 

“i will be back tomorrow morning,” he promised and you grimaced.

“will you?”

he nodded strongly. “before dawn.”

you curled an arm around his neck. “promise me?”

“honest to god.”

you winced, remembering your words from two nights ago.

how can you be honest to god?

as he redressed to go out into the night, you watched him to try and find any tightness in his movements. the stiff motion of his body looked pure and simple—easing off the pressure of his injuries.

there wasn’t a trace of apprehension as he slung his gun back into his holster, sheathed knives back into the layer of his trench coat, and put on his stetson, that silver skull pendant on its brim glimmering in the dull light.

but you had seen how easily he lied to the kind man earlier. 

how easily he could lie to you.

before he left, he pressed his forehead to yours, cool leather palm against your chest, and then to that spot where your hair and neck met, and then he stepped out into the hallway and the door shut behind him.

you twisted in the sheets, searching for a sliver of warmth that he had left behind. 

there was an emptiness in your heart when you couldn’t find it.

you couldn’t sleep almost the entire night—desperately waiting for when the sun would breach the horizon, and Ghost would crawl back into that space in your heart you left vacant for him.

the night steeped into an black sky, clouds drifting across the moon in splotchy patches. you fell into a half-slumber, perched between the soft pillows of the bed when there was a quiet thud from a distance. 

you startled, picking up your head and searching in the darkness in a sleepy haze.

“Ghost?” you whispered out, only a silence answering you, as a form materialized, prowling forward from the entrance of the room.

it was the girl with milky skin and an inky black hair, in that same revealing dress as before, skin reflective in the moonlight, and a revolver in her hand.

important note: if anyone wants to learn more about san francisco’s chinatown in circa. 1900, here’s are two articles i found interesting: time magazine (bubonic plague) and history.net (prostitution & Donaldina Cameron)

that being said, i want to clarify that much of san francisco’s chinatown culture became characterized solely about prostitution, opium, and gambling in the media (movies, tv shows, etc.) because of racial prejudices in the 1900s. while i talk about those themes in this story, they don’t make up even half of the rich culture in san francisco's chinatown and i do not want to create that impression!!

ugh anyways i didn’t mean to make this chapter so angsty 🙁 it will get better i promise i promise i promise but thank you for all your guys’s amazing support <33 i hope you enjoyed this chapterrr <33 next up... character development 🌚

taglist: @poohkie90 @kunikku @tomiesdiet @silverianni @doublesuicidewithme @cliosunshine @one17 @warenai @saturnknows @migueloharaapologist2 @keiva1000 @kenma-izhu @lilvampirina @deltottoro @maki-z @leeeenistop @danika1994 @stillinracooncity @saevitiaa @itsalwaysbetternottoknow @karagd13-blog @nattywatty @oyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoya

@havoc973 @mentallynot-here @aqua7ofana @ccerviee @haleidontknow @imjusttheretofightforlove @moonstonedeluluera @tieflingteatime @syddieuh @savakewl @shinebright2000 @bakugo-apologist98 @queenie-b- @whenyoushipuponastar @cloufie @belm412 @thriving-n-jiving @skyxskywlkr @yellooaaa @simplyreading @sucka2me @koreoftheunderworld20 @mr-sol @riverbutghost @salsa-reads-stuff

#simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw2 #ghost cod #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare 2 #ghost smut #ghost angst #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon riley #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost fluff #simon riley fluff #simon riley angst

[wri0thesley]

business dealings - sampo x reader (3.5k)

sampo's line of work has given him a lot of experience in getting what he wants.

cw: corruption kink, naive virgin reader, sampo is manipulative n kinda sleazy. reader is afab but no gendered terms/language are used. reader is chubby, shorter than sampo. loss of virginity, blowjobs, coming inside.

not sfw, minors dni.

At heart, Sampo is a businessman.

He knows what he wants - generally, as much shield as possible - and he's willing to do almost anything in order to get it. Bartering, trading, a little bit of illegality (it's only illegal if he gets caught, after all) - talking his way both out of and into things. 

So when you'd looked at him, with your eyes all pretty and big and doe-like, admiration leaking into your tone as you asked him about what the underworld was really like . . . he'd decided that what he wanted next was . . . well. You. 

It’s surprisingly easy. 

Easy, because you’re malleable and naive to the ways of the more . . . nefarious sides of society. You’ve never had to worry about stepping foot out of your comfortable life, beyond the vague threat of the Fragmentum and the Eternal Freeze that bothers every citizen of Belobog. But your life within the city isn’t threatened; you look at the Silvermane Guards with respect and awe, but you don’t honestly believe yourself in any danger. And because of that certainty that bad things will not happen to you, you’ve developed quite a cute interest in those other things - like Sampo, and his trips to the underworld, his easy way of slipping between things, his adventures and the embellished stories he tells you. And you’ve become quite easy to get information out of, on top of all of that - anything to help Sampo out, after all. 

Oh, you’re adorable. 

He thinks about you a lot, when he’s embroiled in another danger he brought upon himself - imagines how to spin it so he’s the hero, and you look at him with those wide eyes and your mouth open, lips soft and kissable in the glow of the heat lamps, and you breathlessly say; “Oh, Mr Koski!” in that awestruck little tone he cannot get enough of. 

He thinks about you a lot, too, alone in his bed at night with one hand wrapped around his cock and his back arching. He thinks about the shape of your body beneath your clothes; the ample curve of your chest, the wide contour of your hips and how perfectly they would fit in his grip if you were beneath him. The fullness of your cheeks and lips, and how they would look wrapped around his length - the soft noises you’d make as he pushed it in just a little further than you could handle. 

He thinks, perhaps, he should feel guilty about it. The thing in your eyes when you look at him is almost hero worship. But Sampo Koski did not get to where he is by way of self-reproach, and surely one wants to help out their heroes when they can? 

So he does what he always does. He sets his plan in motion. 

And if this plan does not end in shield, but in someone sweet wrapped around his finger, thighs wrapped around his hips, mouth wrapped around his cock? Well. It’s a plan nonetheless, and Sampo has never been a man who says no to the spoils of his own schemes. 

He starts only small. 

Bends his head closer to yours when the two of you talk, making sure that you’re made entirely aware of the breadth of his shoulders and his biceps, the peek of his bare chest beneath his complicated (but fashionable--) outfit. Allows the sharp emerald of his eyes to wander, just enough to be appreciative - just enough that he can sense how your cheeks heat, how you twist your fingers shyly into the fabric of your garments. 

Lets his hand wander to a place that skirts the edge of being respectable; your waist, but almost your hip. The dip of your lower back, but so close to the tantalising curve of your rear. Your cheek, but so so close to the delicate pulse beating in your throat that he sees how it speeds up at his touch. 

Pays you compliments, thrown out as casually as a breath but aimed to strike at the heart. How pretty you look today. How much he appreciates your time together. How you’re always the highlight of his time on the surface - how he simply couldn’t imagine not coming to see you. You respond, as he knew you would, with eager little soft-voiced entreaties about how you feel the same, how much you appreciate him, how you’re always so happy to see him. How you just love having the chance to help him.  He knows that the time is ripe when he catches your chin in gloved fingers and smiles down at you and says, his voice carefully pitched like affable velvet;

“And what if I asked you for your help with something else, sweetheart?”

Your eyes go all big and wide. Even through the fabric of his gloves, he can feel the heat that has risen to your face. There was never any doubt about it, but he’s glad to have the confirmation even so - you’ve been nursing an innocent crush on him. 

It won’t be so innocent when he’s done with you. 

“Mr Koski,” you say to him, your voice squeaking with nerves. He can see, again, the quick beating of your pulse - the eager-to-please nature that makes you such a thrillingly delicious prospect to have in his bed. That hopeful look that you can be of use to him. He wants to ruin you. He loves the way you say his name. “Of course, I’d do anything you asked me to!” 

He chuckles at you affectionately and leans in so close he can feel your breath against his lips. You tremble under his touch even now - he can’t wait to see how you’ll tremble under his clever fingers later on, when he has you somewhere more private. You look into his eyes with the breathless delight of someone having a fantasy come true. Naive little thing. Still. It wouldn’t hurt for him to play the gentleman just a tiny bit longer. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, chivalrous as he wants you to think he is. Your lips part, and he thinks about choking you on his cock even as you go giddy inside over the concept of your first kiss.

“Yes,” you breathe - and Sampo’s lips meet yours. They curve into a smile as you kiss back - unsure, prim, pure as the driven snow. 

Sampo’s plan has been a great success. 

He’s going to get what he wants. 

He takes you somewhere that he knows will not ask questions. The Goethe Hotel is not an option, but a man like Sampo doesn’t get where he is by not having connections - connections who will not ask about the pretty, wide-eyed Overworld denizen who’s clinging to his hand so tightly, looking around like they’ve found themselves in a storybook. You don’t even have the sense to ask him where he’s taking you - you’re all caught up in the romance of his kiss, the sweetness of his compliments, and the fact that your daydreams are coming true. 

“You wanna make me happy, don’t you?” He asks you, thumb skating over your cheek, and you nod at him with a sweetness that makes his teeth ache. “Come here, sweetheart. Pretty thing.” 

You shiver under his touch like a shy flower blooming, petals soft and untouched by human hands. You whisper out his name when his fingers find the buttons of your outfit, your skin going hot and nervous - but he makes soft little noises of comfort, reassuring you even as you’re bared before his eyes. He can barely stop himself throwing you onto the bed and having his way with you. 

“Look at you,” he says instead, as you stand before him all shivering and hopeful and naked. “You’re gorgeous.” You press your thighs together at the compliment, teeth biting into the plumpness of your bottom lip. His hands slide over you appreciatively, pulling you closer to where he sits on the bed. He maps out those same places that have haunted his wet dreams; all of those curves, the plumpness of your thighs and your stomach, the weight of your chest in his hands as he swipes his thumb over your nipples and you make a sweet little noise of surprised desire that makes his cock throb in his trousers. 

“C’mon,” he says, with that crooked smile that makes fireworks go off in your stomach. “Would Sampo hurt you, sweet thing?” You shake your head, immediately - even now, you’re unwilling to think the worst of him. You’re perfect. “Get on your knees. I’m gonna teach you somethin’.” 

It’s a scene right out of his nighttime fantasies when you hesitantly sink to your knees. Your desire to please warring with your desire to hide. But oh, do you look lovely down there. 

“That’s right,” he practically purrs, stroking your cheek. He feels giddy with the power of it all as he looks down at you - and as he unzips himself, you stifle a gasp and he feels his cock twitch in his grip. He’s proud enough of what he’s packing, but he sees it through your eyes and wishes he could take a photograph of you right there and then. Hesitant and eager and shy all at once. “Open your mouth for me, hmm?”

Obediently, you do exactly as he asks. One of his hands fastens about the back of your head, keeping you in place - you start but do not fight it, looking up at him with your expression utterly open and guileless. You trust him, and the thought makes a ripple of pleasure go down his spine. Your tongue is pink and wet in the lamplight. 

“Good,” Sampo praises, and your skin heats again. He guides himself into your mouth - you make a soft noise of surprise, but don’t pull away - your eyes stay locked on him, an unspoken question in your eyes. Am I doing this right? Is this good? Are you happy with me, Mr Koski? “Use your tongue for me, sweetheart. That’s right. You’re doing great.”

You look up at him from between his thighs and he lets out a muffled groan of pleasure as your tongue swipes unsurely over the head of his cock. You’re so cute down there. Even better than he imagined. There’s no satisfaction like a plan that’s going off without a hitch - and as you manage to swallow down even more of his cock, as a trickle of drool escapes from the corner of your mouth and your eyes go watery with the effort, he can’t help but cant his hips into you.

“Shh, shh,” he says, as your eyes widen in surprise and you almost try and pull back. His hand stays in place on the back of your head. That look on your face is going to keep him company through some very lonely nights. “I’m only doin’ that because you feel so good, sweetheart. Don’t stop, okay? You’re so good for me. Perfect.”

The last comes as you bob your head, tongue tracing the veins of his shaft - he relaxes his grip just enough for you to carry on the movement. Sampo lets a sigh fall from his lips as he enjoys the wet tightness of your mouth around him, the hesitant licks. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate someone who knows exactly what they’re doing in a blowjob - but something about you, and this? Something about knowing he’s the first man to have your mouth like this, to guide you through these motions? Nothing could compare. 

He almost doesn’t want to pull out. He almost wants to keep going - to see your surprise when he comes in your mouth, to implore you to swallow and call you such a good little thing, to shower you in praise until you’re dizzy and drunk from it - but . . . ah. Who knows when he’ll have the luxury of this much time with you again? And you keep shifting on your knees, your chest heaving, surprised by your own arousal . . .

It would be a hard heart indeed that didn’t let you have the full experience, and Sampo Koski is a soft touch. 

“D-did I do a bad job?” You babble, as he pulls his cock out of your mouth. It slaps softly and wetly against the plump fullness of your cheek and Sampo swallows back more thoughts of hitting your pretty face with it until you pout and beg him to put it back in, to choke you on it, to ‘please please please let me make you come Mr Koski--’

“Nah,” he says, affectionate and easy. “Not at all, sweetheart. I just . . . have other things I want to show you.” Your face is open and hopeful as he leans down again and takes your jaw in his hand. “Tell me something.”

“Anything,” you breathe to him, and he thinks that he could make you spill every secret in your pretty little head right there and then. 

“Are you wet for me, angel?” 

Your eyes widen, and he chuckles again. Your gaze flutters shyly around the room, away from Sampo’s own - but he doesn’t let go of your chin. He jerks it just so; not too hard, just enough to be playful. He doesn’t really need you to say it - not from the reaction you just had - but . . .

“C’mon,” he says again, smiling crookedly. “Tell me. I’m not gonna think less of you.”

You swallow. He raises one eyebrow.

“Do I need to check for myself?” He asks you, and shoots you a wink. “Stand up.” You follow the order helplessly, breathlessly, still just a little too shy to put word to the feelings that Sampo is pulling forth from you. His hand slides over the fullness of your thighs, and you reflexively push them together and win another laugh from him. “Don’t be shy,” he says. “Spread your legs. C’mon. I’ll be upset if you aren’t, y’know!”

You let out a slow breath as you follow his order and his palm curves around your thigh, as his fingers slide up and tease the seam of your sex - and Sampo follows suit, a satisfied exhale as he finds you hot and slick. He lets his fingers slip between the plump lips of your sex and wins a soft little ‘oh!’ of surprise, a flutter of your lashes. His cock twitches again. 

He fondles you for a few moments; lets his middle finger slide to your entrance, tease it and draw circles around it. You bite your lip again, but you spread your thighs further apart to allow him better access, breath hitching as he slides just the tip of one finger inside of you. His smile doesn’t falter as he looks at you. 

“Sweetheart,” he says to you, voice like smooth silk. He sinks his finger in further, to his knuckle - you’re tight but wet, and you take it easily. “You’re soaking.”

“I--I--” You falter, almost ashamed, and Sampo lets his eyes go half-lidded. There’s a whine to your voice that Sampo knows well. “Mr Koski--”

“Sampo,” he corrects you. His smile is rakish. “Mr Koski’s cute and all, but . . . not when I’ve got my fingers buried inside of you, yeah?”

“Sampo,” you breathe out, and he gently moves his finger; pumps it in and out of you a few times and enjoys the sight of your thighs flexing, of your body shivering. Your nipples are hard in the cool air, the tremble of your body a siren’s call to throw you onto the thin little mattress. He lets his thumb ghost across the swollen nub of your clit and you let out a strangled noise of pleasure, a whimper that’s so close to a moan he can taste it. 

“That’s right,” he says. “Let’s get you on the bed.”

You’re pliable to all of his pushing, all of his touching - obedient to a fault, as he kisses your cheeks and props your hips with pillows and lets his hands stroke all over your body, learning the most sensitive places. The soft noise of surprise when he digs his thumbs into the indent of your waist, the inhale when he grasps your hips, the flutter of your lashes when his lips brush across your stomach . . . he commits them to memory. Part of the fun of taking someone as sweet as you is teaching them all the pleasures they didn’t know their body was capable, and Sampo is a thorough man. 

You tremble for him so sweetly, when he finally has you caged beneath him. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, again, and delights in the way you shiver, the shy way you pull away from his gaze. “Don’t hide.” The rub of the head of his cock through your slit, wetting himself in your slick, makes you squirm hot beneath him and gasp in surprise. He repeats the motion, swirling the tip of him against your clit, until you whine and your thighs twitch and he wonders if he could make you come just like this.

Right now, though . . . he doesn’t have the patience. 

Your hands curl into the broad muscle of his shoulders as he splits you open on his cock. You cry out, but it’s a noise that’s a culmination of pleasure and surprise as well as just a little sting, and Sampo commits it to memory the same way he tries to commit the velvet cling of your walls and the tight heat and the feeling of you, letting him take you in every way possible. 

“Sweetheart,” he says to you, his own words getting lost as months of fantasies and pining and imagining you come rushing to the forefront of his mind. “You feel incredible--”

He might say more. It’s hard to keep track of anything when he gets lost so quickly in the pounding of his cock against your walls and the way you gasp and cling to him as he fucks into you more desperately than he realised he was going to. You’re vice-tight about him, utterly willing to give yourself up and let him show you what to do. He has the sense to slip one hand between you both to play with your clit as he fucks you - Sampo Koski is a gentleman, thank you very much, he might be taking advantage of your naivety but obviously he’s going to make you come, dammit - and you respond to him with helpless, brainless whines and little thrusts of your hips. 

You’ve never felt like this before. You’ve touched yourself a few times - thought of Mr Koski a few times, if you’re honest with yourself - but this is new. The feeling of something thick stretching you out, of a handsome man above you sighing and whispering out your name . . . The delicious feeling, too, of doing something you’re not supposed to be doing. 

Your orgasm hits first, your body unused to the touches of someone who knows what they’re doing. Sampo is ruthless as you gasp out his name--

(“Mr Ko-- S-Sampo--!” - somehow, the way you trip over the title and replace it is even better than just hearing his name issue forth from your pretty mouth). 

His fingers don’t stop working over your clit even as you come, your channel pulsing around him wildly, your spine arching and a cry that’s pure pleasure working itself loose from your throat. All that your peak does is drive Sampo on, teeth grit, hips hungrily fucking into you until he feels himself twitch and his balls draw in tight and hot. 

He should pull out. The thought tickles the edges of his consciousness; that he should let his release splatter all over your thighs instead of filling you up with it, letting himself keep fucking it shallowly into your tight little cunt with the weak aftershocks pushing him to carry on thrusting--

But . . . oh. The thought of you beneath him, fucked out and leaking his come. Your virgin sex full to the brim with him, claimed and taken and filled . . . 

Sampo groans out your name and shoots rope after rope of his own release inside of you, losing track of anything but the feel of your body and the feeling of conquering something uncharted. 

You lie there beneath him, big pretty eyes blinking up at him, cheeks wet with tears of pleasure and surprise and over-stimulation. Your chest heaves against his, your heart rabbiting. Both of your skins sweat-slick where they press against one another. 

You look up at him like a hero who’s hung the moon and shown them a brand new world, and Sampo looks down at you like you’re just the cutest damn thing you’ve ever seen, committing the sight of you - fucked for the first time, ruined for the first time, claimed for the first time, and all by him - to memory. 

“You did great,” he says to you, and kisses you softly on the forehead. “Thanks for the help, sweetheart.”

He knew what he wanted, and he got it. But looking at you beneath him, remembering all the things he’s fantasised about, taking in how your hero worship doesn’t seem to have ebbed even the slightest bit . . . 

Business deals don’t have to be a one-time thing. 

#honkai star rail smut #honkai star rail x reader #sampo smut #sampo x reader #corruption kink cw #writing #i am sorry the game has bewitched me #not sfw text #hsr posting #hsr x reader #hsr smut #chubby reader posting

[fashionsfromhistory]

Waistcoat

c.1620-1625

England

The high waistline and narrow sleeves, open at the front seam, are characteristic of women's waistcoats of the early 1620s. The blackwork embroidery is of exquisite quality and is worked in a continuous pattern throughout the body of the garment. A group of interlocking curling stems enhanced with a garden of roses, rosebuds, peapods, oak leaves, acorns, pansy and pomegranates, with wasps, butterflies and birds, make up the embroidery design. The extremely fine speckling stitches create the shaded effect of a woodblock print. This style of blackwork is typical of the early seventeenth-century and thought to have been inspired by the designs from woodblock prints that the embroiderers were using. The waistcoat is unlined and embellished with an insertion of bobbin lace in black and white linen at the back of each sleeve, and a edging of bobbin lace in the same colours.

The Victoria & Albert (Accession number: T.4-1935)

#waistcoat #fashion history #historical fashion #1620s #17th century #1620 #1625 #stuart era #jacobean era #silk #linen #embroidery #floral #blackwork #england #v and a #up close

[mynameis-noe-body]

Can you do a marquis one shot where the reader works as a tailor/assistant/spy for the marquis but they’re also really innocent/upbeat . As he gets to know the reader, he finds himself going from confused that they’re so cheery to loving them as they are to corruption kink?

Thank you for your patient, anon. 🖤 I hope you'll love this.

This add to a second request I recieved.

➡️ Also cause I saw you mentioned a corruption kink, one with the marquis de framing would be fantastic 🥹❤️❤️❤️❤️

I didn't quite understand, but here is corruption kink fo you. I hope you'll love this as well.

Little dove

Marquis Vincent Bisset De Gramont × you (F)

Rating: Explicit

Status: Complete (one shot)

“Oh, Marquis De Gramont — what a pleasure to have you here!” you exclaimed, seeing him enter your shop. You walked towards him, holding the door open and showing him your best smile. “I just got an absolutely cheeky outfit that you will love, exactly your size.”

Vincent smiled. By now he had gotten into the habit of frequenting your shop at least once a week. He didn't lack money, nor time; he loved spending a few hours on a Saturday afternoon exploring the embellished and sumptuous dresses in your shop. And most of all, he loved spending time with you.

So joyful, friendly, sweet — a little macaron. Such a lovely pastry. You were an extraordinary creature, in his eyes. He, who had seen so much death, who had held so much power—he looked at you and found such innocence in your gaze. It was a part of you that was impossible not to love.

He cleared his throat, with a wave of his hand he ordered his second to leave the shop, closing the door behind him and leaving the two of you alone. That was his moment of pleasure.

The first time he entered your shop, fascinated by the silk garments and elegant suits, the shiny patent leather shoes and the cashmere coats, Vincent believed that he would find the usual snooty shopkeeper who would try to raise the prices by realizing his status. But no, you were there. So excited to be able to show off your best suits and dress him up like a fucking prince. Vincent had to call two of his men and a second car to be able to load everything he had purchased and take it home. You had shaken his hand, you had thanked him, you had given him a discount (even!) and you had suggested that he come back soon; you would have been happy to have such a passionate customer in your shop. Vincent might have believed it was a matter of money... but upon returning, noticing the way your gaze lit up when it met his, he changed his mind. You had fun with him. You loved your job. You were excited, happy… innocent. So pure. A sweet, little pastry, in fact.

Once, arranging the collar of his shirt while he was looking at himself in the mirror, you had asked him with a certain veiled embarrassment: “Monsieur De Gramont, forgive my impudence, but I really want to ask. What is your occupation?”

He had laughed. “Are you asking me about my job?” You had blushed, you had apologized stepping back but he had turned around, taking your hand before you could move away. "No need to be embarrassed, cheri. I find your curiosity quite... charming." Your cheeks were colored the sweetest red. He had lifted your hand to his lips, leaving the ghost of a kiss on your fingers. "I am a businessman. Marquis Vincent Bisset De Gramont, at your service."

He had been absolutely lovely. And he, from that moment on, had wanted in the most perverse, craziest, most intense way, to ruin you completely.

Vincent had noticed the way you watched him, so constantly attentive to every curve of his body, the way his muscles filled your clothes, stretching the fabric, wrapping it in the most attractive way. Your intoxicating gaze devoured him, and he was dying to have your hands on him, your desperate eyes, your mouth praying for his benevolence. So submissive, and desperate. Corrupted by your own will, by the desire and pleasure that only he could have brought you.

That day, without exception, you stood behind him while he looked at himself in the mirror and admired himself. But soon, his blue eyes met yours in the reflection. He smiled.

“What do you think, my dear?”

You nodded, your face bright. “That shade of red is definitely your color.”

His eyebrow rose in mock surprise. He caressed the fabric of the jacket with his fingertips, but secretly watched the way your gaze only followed his touch. Bewitching, indeed.

“I like the jacket. I love it. This scarlet is... fiery. Don't you think?” Your eyes flickered up again, and you nodded without adding anything, attempting a shy smile. "And the pants? Do I wear them well?" It was impossible not to notice the way you blushed and swallowed slowly. He bit back a satisfied grin. With his hands on the belt, he gripped it, lifting it a little. “Look at me.”

He nodded. “Maybe I should sit down, and try to feel them.”

And you looked at him. He had them so tight — you could see everything. All of it. You had to fight against your instincts and force yourself to seek his eyes again. You smiled. “I think they are perfect, monsieur.”

Vincent sat gracefully in the armchair next to him, and sighed. There was nothing innocent about his smile. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, he spread his legs. His right hand, on his thigh, went up his leg, stopped right there, so close to his —

“Sweetheart” he interrupted you, laughing loudly. You turned your eyes, deeply embarrassed and red in the face, but he seemed almost happy with your obvious reaction. “Oh, don't get all shy now, my dear.” He made himself more comfortable in the armchair, spreading his legs in an almost vulgar, cheeky way. God, he loved that game. “Come on, look at me. I know you like it. I see you — the way you look at me — and I bet you're not as fragile and innocent as you want me to think, are you?”

Now you looked at him, with your mouth slightly open and your eyes large, wide and full of bewilderment, your cheeks scarlet, your voice trembling as you stammered an apology.

He shook his head, and his face darkened. “No. I will not accept your apology” he hissed. He raised his finger and motioned for you to come closer. “Come here, little dove.”

He wanted you to stand between his open legs, and immediately his left hand grabbed your hip, while with his right he was already unbuttoning his trousers. He licked his lips like a lion at his delicious meal, hungry, ravenous. “Keep looking at me, don't look away, I know you like it” he said.

And look at you, completely disarmed, dominated by that crazy and irrational desire that he wasn't offering to satisfy, on the contrary, it was fomenting your obsession. He was a fascinating man. And a very passionate one, from what you could see. Without any shame he pulled his hard length out of his trousers, stroking himself slowly, showing you all his virility, his silky skin, his intense hardness. He was perfect.

“And I thought you were so pure, innocent” he whispered, with a certain satisfaction. "But now I see how wrong I was, you little pervert. You like watching me, don't you? Ma petite voyeur."

But his hand suddenly slipped between your legs, he lifted your skirt without shame, found your panties already so wet for him and smiled — he smiled, the bastard.

“I — oh, Marquis, I'm mortified. I didn't mean to —”

“Don't you dare apologize again. I want to hear other sounds from your mouth.”

And his fingertips pressed against the little knot of nerves, right there, causing a vibration of pleasure throughout your body. If you were honest, that exposure and embarrassment only inflated your excitement.

“You're already shaking for me.” His voice was deep, controlled. “Tell me anything you want. I want to hear you pray. I know you can. Tell me, and I will satisfy your every curiosity.”

You breathed, your sigh became labored, panting. “Please, Marquis, I...”

He laughed. His hand continued to touch his member, so hard, up and down, and you could do nothing but watch as your intimacy became wet and your hunger grew without rest. "You what, my dear? Do you want me? Is that it? Do you want my hand, my mouth?"

You nodded.

“No — no, love. Tell me.”

You swallowed, searching for a small voice in your chest. "I want you."

“What do you want?”

"All of you!" his fingers moved the panties, you finally felt his touch on you. And, hungrily, they sought the little wet hole between your soft lips. You could hear the sticky sound of your arousal on his fingers.

“Again, tell me more.”

“Your fingers, they're so — oh, oh please. Inside!”

He licked his lips. “What a good girl. You know your manners. But I don't want you so innocent darling, we know how dirty you really are, don't we?”

You shook your head, but you couldn't deny the truth to yourself.

“Tell me you're mine, tell me how much you want me.”

On the verge of tears, humiliated and excited, you nodded. “I'm yours, all yours. I — I want you so bad.”

His fingers slipped inside you, sweet and intense, touching all those perfect spots that made you moan all your pleasure. And you closed your eyes, for a moment. He stopped.

“Nu-uh, eyes on me. You like to watch. Tell me you like it.”

Yes, yes. “I love it. You are...”

“What? Don't be afraid. I want to hear everything.”

“Perfect. Your body, your...”

Oh, you were still so embarrassed. No, he wanted more. Vincent stood up suddenly, mistreated you hard, pushing you onto the chair. So, still dressed, he knelt over you, tickling your pussy lips with the head of his hard cock. You were dying of pleasure, and you looked at him excited and scared at the same time.

“I know you want it — say it. Tell me you're my little slut, tell me you want my hard cock inside you. Say it!”

And you cried, pleading. “I'm everything you want! Your whore, your tight cunt, your little slut — just give it to me, fuck me hard, now!”

And Vincent finally obeyed.

He fucked you, hard and deep, with an unprecedented ardor, grabbing your hair, your neck, biting your lips, spitting on your tongue.

“More, use me!” you begged. "Yours, only yours! I love it! Fuck my cunt — my ass. Yes, spit on my tongue, and fuck me like you mean it!”

“Dirty, dirty girl” he growled. His fingers dug into your thighs. "I knew you were a slut underneath, all mine. My little voyeur, my bad, dirty girl. That's it, take it, take it all!”

The contractions of your orgasm milked his cock, every drop of his come inside you. And you panted his name, and every dirty thing, now corrupted by that pleasure and prey to a will stronger than you. Your every word was honey. He came inside you, on top of you, making you dirty inside and out.

And looking at you like this, ruined for him, Vincent understood that you were no longer the innocent, sweet girl he thought he had met the first time.

#marquis de gramont x reader #marquis de gramont #marquis vincent de gramont #vincent bisset de gramont #vincent de gramont #vincent de gramont x reader #smut

[rewh0re]

OMG WE'RE MATCHING!!

-headcanons of items that you'd match with each other hehe, very fluffy lol, short short short, this is my way of saying that I'd love to match with my babies. REBLOGS + INTERACTIONS ARE HIGHLY APPRECIATED!!

-pairings : reo, chigiri, isagi, rin x reader (separate)

╰►REO :

He'd definitely be the type to get a pair of matching rings. They're expensive too, probably from Tiffany and co. or some big brand like that. Reo would buy these gorgeous pair of diamond rings for couples which would make your eyes almost pop out of their sockets. You would chastise him for getting such an expensive item too but all he would say is that it's a sign of commitment. He'd get so confused when you would tell him that you can't wear it daily.

"What? Why?" Reo would ask, a tinge of hurt taking over him filling you with immense sadness.

"Baby these are expensive. I don't wanna lose them by mistake or have someone steal them," you would hold his hand in reassurance.

He'd find a way for that too. The very next day he gets two thin silver chains for the rings. That way you can wear it and have the ring on you daily without losing it!

╰► CHIGIRI :

I think you guys probably saw this coming but Chigiri would definitely get like these hair ties or scrunchies. He'd buy these sets of 2 and would give you one while the other stays with him. You bet he'd always wear the hair tie or scrunchie on his wrist without fail. He would never take it off and if he ever sees you without it, he'd probably frown a little bit asking where the hair tie was. You would also trade them. He would take yours and you would take his whenever you felt like it and he was always open to it. He probably doesn't like sharing his hair items but when it comes to you taking his hair tie, he'd gladly give it to you and take yours too. Oh he would also try out hairstyles on you and tie your hair with his gift. So sweet.

╰► ISAGI :

Isagi is a bracelet guy. He had bought this simple bracelet with an infinity charm for the both of you before joining blue lock as a parting gift. He would never take it off and neither would you because it was the only reminder you both had of each other. Coming out of blue lock, his popularity hit a surge. His strength as a footballer increased ten folds, he changed a lot overall. However, what still remained was the bracelet he'd got for the two of you. Seeing the little accessory, you knew he had and always would be your Isagi. Later, when he's even more popular, on covers of magazines as a star football player and a lot richer than he was years ago, he gets a more luxe bracelet. Don't get me wrong, he still wears the little infinity charm one but he gets the pair of you, two new golden bracelets with little embellishments of precious gems as you both are settling down. So now both of your wrists have not one but two bracelets as a sign of forever!

╰►RIN :

In his case, you would be the one getting something. Probably like a set of matching t-shirts, and I am talking about those t-shirts that had ‘I LOVE MY S/O’ or ‘IF FOUND PLEASE RETURN TO THEM’ ‘I AM THEM’ printed on them in bold. You had the most mischievous grin plastered on your face as he opened the packaging to find two absolutely hideous choices of garments (he would frame it like that, not me). However with a bit of whining and a little bit of bringing out your inner theatrics would finally lead him to wear the t-shirts. He would mostly wear it at home whenever you would wear your one. However, recent paparazzi pictures of him showed him wearing that specific t-shirt paired with some jeans and shades, a cup of coffee in his hand. When it reached you through the power of the internet, it sent you hollering. There were memes being posted every second and you lost no opportunity to troll your boyfriend. Rin would be so embarrassed but hey as long as you were entertained right?

#bllk #blue lock #bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #reo x reader #mikage reo #chigiri x reader #chigiri hyoma #isagi x reader #isagi yoichi #rin x reader #itoshi rin #bllk fluff #blue lock fluff #reo fluff #chigiri fluff #isagi fluff #rin fluff #bllk headcanons #blue lock headcanons #isagi headcanons #rin headcanons #reo headcanons #chigiri headcanons #blue lock x you #bllk x reader fluff #bllk x y/n #isagi is definitely a bracelet guy no argument accepted bye #—storytelling🌙

[slavinkka]

Rakvice🇨🇿

Some beautiful Moravian dresses/costumes from Rakvice, a village/municipality in the South East of Czechia🇨🇿. 

This place has wonderfully preserved their beautiful culture.

You will notice with Moravian dresses, women tend to have large, puffy dresses with their distinctive huge, wide skirts and abundant petticoats underneath.

In many regions in South Moravia, men's costumes typically include a long white embellished ribbon with a decorated cockade on the right side of their vests as you can see above.

I managed to find some older photos from 1959 too❤️

A traditional dress/costume in Czech & Slovak is called a "Kroj" (pronounced like kroi). I love how highly and beautifully embellished each garment is from here❤️

#slavic #slavic culture #folk #folklore #slavic tradition #tradition #czech republic #czechia #czech girl #moravia #czech folklore #czech tradition #moravian folklore #morava #moravian tradition #czech traditional dress #moravian dress

[69dias]

jude sees you wearing a gasp rival’s shirt

a/n: as a culer for life this was so hard for me to write . however. jude is sexy and this was sexy so!

warnings: smut, just fingering and sexual tension, impact play !! spanking !! and Jude being upset at oc lolz

blue looks really good on you; that’s the only thing keeping you from ripping this jersey off of your body and waiting for jude in nothing but your underwear. you don’t doubt that this plan will just be a longer, roundabout way of getting him inside you, but there’s a little nervousness rippling under your skin that makes you shift uneasily in front of the mirror.

the jersey was hard enough to buy when the idea struck you a few weeks ago, having to get it ordered to your friends house, who was kind enough to just shoot you a confused look, obviously shocked at the irony of you (given your relationship) buying a barca kit of all teams. now that you’re wearing it, the whole scheme of yours seems ridiculous, not to mention how awkward you feel; the fabric too rough on your skin, the name on the back — gavi’s, embellished above a 30 — too foreign, the prospect of this causing a fight making your stomach turn.

jude wouldn’t be angry, you’re sure he’d just go silent and wait for you to give up the shtick to even speak to you, but the possibility of it all going south, his rare jealousy showing it’s head in a fit of rage when he sees a rival’s name on your back when it should be his — it has you grabbing the hem of the jersey where it falls just below the middle of your thighs to pull it off.

as these things go, though, you’re cut off by jude himself, calling your name as he announces himself.

“babe? ‘m coming in. practice was terrible, they shouldn’t be allowed to have us practice out in this fuckin’ weather —“

he stops as his eyes land on you, but you can’t bring yourself to look up at his face to gauge his reaction. you’re sure his mouth is slightly agape, eyebrows beginning to furrow as the realization settles, but you force yourself to stare at the edge of the mirror in front of you, shifting on your feet as the tension in the room begins to settle.

you clear your throat, clenching and then unclenching your fists as you will yourself to stop standing so still.

“it’s - it’s hot out, huh?” it’s a stupid thing to say, and your voice comes out smaller than you expect, barely ringing out as you feel his gaze on your face. the hardness of jude’s stare makes you want to fling yourself at his feet and give him head for hours as an apology, but you need to see this plan through. “they really shouldn’t have you practicing—“

“where did you get that?”

“get what?” your feigned ignorance makes you scoff as you look up, biting the inside of your lip as he meets your gaze. his eyes are dark, glazed over in something you can’t quite read, but it’s almost primal.

“that… that fucking —“ he pauses, like he’s trying to find the correct words to describe the garment, the one your fingers are twisted in as a feeble attempt to calm yourself down. “that fucking shirt.”

jude spits the word out with a pointed venomous tone, taking a step to his left so he can see the name on the back. you can feel the heaviness of the room when he reads his rival’s name and number. he barks out a short laugh, taking short steps to walk behind you. your arms are folded over your chest to cover the small embroidered logo of the club, but he reaches around you to bring them down to your sides.

you can tell he’s not angry, that this is going exactly where you hoped it would and the though makes your mouth run dry, especially when he bends his head, pressing his chin against your shoulder to look you in the eyes in the mirror.

“jude,” your voice is still shaky, and it makes him smile, a soft reminder that he’s not actually upset with you. “don’t you think I look good?”

his fingers trace your thighs, right under the hem of the kit. they make absentminded patterns, sending heat rushing down between your legs at his nonchalance.

“I think you just want my attention. isn’t that it?”

you don’t answer, and he urges you to say something with a gentle pinch to the side of your thighs.

“no, I just like barca.”

jude laughs out loud at that, seeing right through your (albeit impeccable) lie. his hands smoothen out the jersey as they make their way up to your back, tracing the embellished ‘30’ right under the name on the jersey.

“and what about him? gavi. you like him too?”

you gulp at his question, arching back into his hardening touch. your next words are ridiculously risky, but you don’t mind being out on a ledge if it means you’ll get laid.

(he may actually be right about you just wanting attention, but you wouldn’t really ever admit it.)

“I think he’s really hot, actually. good player, but better on the eyes.”

jude’s eyes harden at that, left hand grabbing your waist so he can bend you over, right hand drawing back to land a harsh slap on your barely clothed ass. it makes you yelp, jolt forward until he has to use his grip on your waist as leverage to pull you back towards him. the sting is sharp, traveling down your legs until your cunt flutters around nothing at the impact, mouth dropping open in a silent moan.

jude’s gaze meets yours, and you nod slightly, knowing he’s just testing the waters. the green light is all he needs, pulling his hand back from where it was soothing your smarting skin and hitting you again, twice, thrice, four times until you squeeze your thighs, a desperate gasp leaving you as tears well in your eyes from the sheer desperation and pain.

“how many was that, baby?”

“what?” your voice is barely above a whisper, blinking away the tears. “I didn’t count.”

the words are wet, wobbly as they ring out and he rubs the small of your back. It’s clear that he doesn’t take pity on you, though, with the kit still sitting on your body.

“I counted. that was 5.”

you furrow your brows, confusion etched on your face when you look up into the mirror to catch him staring down at you.

“what?”

“that was 5. you’re wearing the number 30. so how many more do we have to go?”

he can’t be serious, you think, but you feel the wetness on your inner thighs as he speaks, and the way your ass stings makes you crave more in an almost sadistic way.

despite your better judgment, still, you don’t tell jude to stop; you don’t tell him anything, in fact, shaking your head defiantly like you want him to get even more ticked off. from the way his jaw clenches through your blurry vision, it seems like you’ve succeeded.

jude’s hands began to take turns, the smacks on your thighs and ass falling in hard and painful rhythm. stubborn was truly your middle name, but he was determined and you always fell before him eventually.

“that was 13, now. how many do we have left?”

you sniff, the wetness between your legs getting uncomfortable as you grind your thighs together, only for him to stick his thigh in between your legs, effectively stopping your movements.

you shake your head again, reaching behind your neck to remove the hair that covers the number on the kit in an open act of defiance, one that makes him scoff out loud.

“we can do this all day, baby.” his fingers make quick work of your panties, slipping them down your smarting ass, rubbing over the red skin before dipping in between your legs. he strokes your slit, two of his fingers flicking at your clit until a jolt of pleasure rushes down your legs, a squeal of his name coloring the air.

“you can be a brat all you want, wearing this fucking shirt, trying to piss me off. but I’m gonna keep asking, and until you answer me, this greedy cunt isn’t going to get anything.”

the promise sends a shiver down your back, especially when he punctuates it with a swift plunge of his fingers into your pussy. your mouth falls open in a sharp exhale, grinding your hips back into him, but to no avail.

jude pulls out of you just as soon as you get too greedy, wiping the wetness on your reddened ass before delivering two more smacks to the skin.

“how many was that, baby?” he gives you another, and another, and you’re so desperate that your head spins, trying to get it together so he can’t just fuck you, dammit, but the ability to add has seemed to vanished from the face of your brain. “now?”

he slips his fingers down between your legs again, letting you grind against his feathery touch until you whine out, kicking your legs like a petulant child until he smooths his hand down your skin, calming you down.

Fuck.

Thirteen, and then two more.

So fifteen.

And then two.

So seventeen.

you reach back to grab his wrist, keeping it between your legs as you take a deep breath to calm yourself down.

“seventeen, jude, please,” he uses his free hand to continue rubbing over your smarting skin, soft over the swollen redness. “i’m sorry, he’s nothing.”

you know he doesn’t need the assurance, that he’s secure enough in himself, but you say it anyways because it obviously eggs him on. his fingers rub over your clit, and you can see how his eyes darken when you tense your legs, spreading them further so he has better access. his touch is still light, especially when he prods over your fluttering hole, pressing his middle finger in until you clench around it.

“that’s my girl,” he pulls out, leaving just his first knuckle in, and then pushes back until his finger is completely sheathed within you. you muffle your moans with one hand, embarrassed at how far gone you are, but he doesn’t let you, reaching around to pull your hand away from your face, lacing his free fingers with his. “you take it so well, don’t you?’

your nods are fervent, squeezing onto his hands until he rubs a thumb on the outside of your palm. all you can do is beg him, clenching around his finger, jaw dropping from the numbing pleasure when he pushes another finger in, thumb rubbing at your clit. your legs feel like jelly, head heavy like it’s suspended in thick syrup as he molds you however he wants. you love when jude gets like this, giving you everything, more than you can even take; his free hand has left yours to hold onto the base of your hair, pulling it back so he can look right into your eyes.

“you gonna let me tear this off you? or is barca still too precious?” the last part of the question is whispered against your skin when he leans forward, not letting you answer as he pulls you in for a sloppy kiss right after. “because we can go as long as it takes.”

#football fanfic #football fanfics #football angst #football smut #football/reader #football fluff #football × you #football players/reader #football players × reader #football imagine #football player fluff #football players fluff #football players smut #football player smut #football player angst #jude bellingham/reader #Jude Bellingham x you #Jude Bellingham smut #Jude Bellingham fluff #Jude Bellingham angst #Jude Bellingham oneshots #Bellingham drabbles #Jude Bellingham imagines

[1-800fandomqueen]

Primae Noctis

King Viserys x fem!AFAB!reader (OC)

WC : 3.6K

SW : Reader is given a name to make my life easier, however there is no usage of "Y/N," and physical appearance and details are left completely ambiguous and up to interpretation. PWP, Jason Lannister is an inadvertent cuck, oral, both m! and f! receiving, unprotected PiV, creampie, breeding kink, - you can't tell me that vizzy t doesn't have one -

If there's any more warnings to be added let me know!

This is the first installation out of a few others, I'll be doing Aemond, Aegon, Daemon, and possibly other hotd characters.

This is a re-post, all of my old accounts were deleted.

“Droit Du Seigneur,” which translates to “right of the lord,” is a mediaeval practice that’s also known as Primae Noctis, and it refers to the assumed legal right of feudal lords and kings to deflower and bed subordinate women on their wedding night, instead of new their husbands. 

“Presenting Lady Braella of House Kneight, to King Viserys of House Targaryen, first of his name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.” The boisterous voice of the Kingsguard calls out, opening the door for you into King Viserys’ chambers. You’re still in your wedding dress, a beautiful garment of a light cream colour with gold embellishments, it looks surprisingly opulent and fit for a member of royalty considering that your family is poor, and had little money to get it made. 

You stand with your hands clasped in front of you, gaze lingering on your shoes as Viserys quietly dismisses the guard, “Thank you, Sir Erryk,” a slight chuckle in his voice, “That will be all.” The heavy door closes with a resounding thud, leaving you alone with the King of the Kingdoms. “Good evening, Lady Braella, would you like to take a seat?” An arm covered in black fabric that’s trimmed with red lifts up and gestures towards two seats that are directly in front of an ornate fireplace that burns softly, on the left side of the room. On the right, lies the sculpture of Old Valyria that the King seems to have worked endlessly on. 

You give a polite nod, finally lifting your head up to take in your surroundings. There’s a desk next to the chair, endless amounts of books stacked up on the surface and the area around it, various half-melted candles littered throughout the room, basking the room into a very light golden glow, but still leaving it rather dark. In the next area of the high-arched chambers is a bench seat in front of the window, a chaise lounge, another softly glowing fireplace, and finally the Kings’ bed, a plush looking thing with a dark oak four-poster frame, and soft looking red and gold sheets.

‘It’s a good thing that the bed appears soft,’ you think, ‘considering I’ll be laid across it later.’

The thought causes you to blush, and you can feel the heat rushing to your face. Gently sweeping your dress underneath yourself as you take a seat, hands coming back up to clasp in your lap. The king looks at you with a soft smile on his face, and a knowing look in his eye. “Could I offer you a cup, Lady Kneight? Possibly for the nerves?” already reaching for the pitcher of wine and one of the goblets next to it, “Yes thank you, my King, and unfortunately it is no longer to be Lady Kneight, but Lady Lannister, my Lord.” Reaching out to accept the cup offered to you, nearly downing half of it in one gulp. “But you are not yet married, and until you perform your nuptials and Jason Lannister beds you, you are still Lady Kneight.”

Remaining silent, you continue to take generous sips of wine, feeling down at the reminder that you are to marry a man that does not love you. You come from a small farming isle, your father is the most wealthy and successful farmer on the Island, and all the other citizens declared him Lord and representative because of this, but in terms of King’s Landing, in the eyes of the King himself, you were to be considered very poor and impoverished. The only reason Lord Lannister asked, or more so demanded, for your hand was to try and obtain the Isle for himself. Your father was very old, you were the last attempt out of a long line of failure and loss, and unfortunately the years of strain had already caused irreversible damage, and your mother died shortly after you were born. Lord Lannister believed that once your father died he could then possess the largest farming plot, and then after that, the whole town. You can feel the overwhelming sadness, the future ahead of you is dim; a long life of being the broodmare for some proud lion who will show you no love, no kindness, and will expect you to sit by quietly while he continues to indulge in women, cups, and chase after power. 

You feel a warm calloused hand place itself softly upon your own that are still clasped in your lap. You tear your eyes away from the random spot that they had focused on upon the wall, turning to face the King you find that he has this melancholy look upon his face. “As you know, I lost my wife, Aemma, and my son Baelon, not long ago. The council has been demanding of me to remarry, to take a new bride for the prosperity of the kingdom and the propagation of the Targaryen line.” His eyes have begun to drift away from yours, the death of his wife and child weigh heavily upon his mind still. You’re suddenly filled with doubt, you shouldn’t be here, not so close to the death of his wife, it’s rather selfish of you, you think, even though it’s the law that you be here.

“Even though I am one for tradition,” He carries on, thumb absentmindedly rubbing across your knuckles. “I must say, the notion of arranged marriages is not one of my favourites. At least luck was in my favour with my marriage, I had known Aemma almost all my life, I was familiar with her, which made everything much easier. However I offer you my commiserations, to be forced to marry someone of whom you hold no knowledge or familiarity with. And if you’ll allow me to speak freely my Lady, I’m sorry that you’ve been stuck with such an excuse of a man as the Bastard of Casterly Rock.”

You feel your eyes widen as you choke on the sip of wine you had just taken. The King was allowed to speak freely of course, he is the King after all, but you didn’t expect such crass and crude honesty from him, especially towards someone who consistently supported and pledged fealty to the King, whether out of cowardice or not. He makes a shocked face as you begin to cough, sliding to the edge of his chair to reach out his left hand and place it on your back in a comforting manner. He doesn’t remove his hand from your own or your back even after you’ve regained control of your breathing and ceased coughing. 

The room is silent for the next few moments as the two of you look at one another. The King has a soft smile on his face as the two of you resume your conversation, you find that speaking to him is actually rather easy, considering the fact that he’s the King. You speak on everything from your parents to the model of Old Valyria that he’s constructing, a large and eager smile overtaking his face when you ask him about the subject. Eventually after a few more cups of wine on both your parts, the mood of the air shifts, more tension arising between the two of you. 

The King slides off his seat, placing his cup back on the small table before reaching a hand out for your own. “Thank you my King,” placing it in his hand, “There’s no need for formalities, my Lady, you may call me Viserys.” now reaching his hand out for your own to help you from your seat. “Of course, Viserys, and you may call me Braella, if it suits you.” The two of you stand facing each other, just a hair's-breadth away from being chest to chest, The room is feeling very hot, but as much as you’d like to blame it on the two fires that circulate the air, you know it’s because of your close proximity to Viserys and the knowledge of what comes next. 

He brings a hand up to cradle your face, thumb rubbing against your cheekbone. The heat that emanates from his skin floods your senses, his skin rough yet soft at the same time, providing a certain comfort. Parting your lips as your eyes flutter, the air moves around you and grows warmer before a pair of lips slot against your own. Letting out a soft sound as you press your lips more intently against his own, hands coming up to rest on his shoulders, your nails no doubt digging through his shirt to his skin. Viserys’ other hand comes up to cradle your face as well, pressing a little harder into your skin as the two of you fervently kiss. 

When you break the kiss, he begins to guide you towards his bed, still slightly panting for breath. He guides you until you stand at the edge of the bed, “May I?” hand gently caressing your back. Nodding your head gently, Viserys begins to undo the laces of your dress while still maintaining eye contact with you. His fingers are quick yet nimble as they loosen the strings, and soon your dress is sliding down your shoulders, leaving you in nothing, as you had removed your smallclothes earlier. He raises a brow at this, “Ready are we?” gently teasing you, offering you a hand so you can step out of your dress. You giggle, more heat coming to the surface of your face. You ignore his comment and instead begin to undo the fastenings of his shirt, going through the clasps as quickly as you can. 

He shrugs off the shirt as you glide your hands featherlight down his chest. As you drag your hands down you also begin to slowly sit down on the edge of the bed, as your hands reach his breeches you gently palm the bulge that sits there. Viserys throws his head back with an audible moan that echoes lightly across the empty stone walls, eyelids slipping closed, his hands slightly clenching at his sides. You untie the laces and reach a hand in to grab his cock, one of his hands immediately comes up to loosely rest on the back of your neck, you lower his breeches just enough to pull his cock out, watching as it gently bounces up. Viserys is well endowed, it’s a good length and your fingers just barely wrap all the way around, the tip is pink and glistening in precum. 

Glancing up at him to find that he’s already looking at you, mouth parted and pupils blown. You realise that he’s waiting for you to do something, but you’re not exactly sure how to do it. You suddenly grow very nervous, eyes darting away from his own, he seems to notice this, bringing up the one hand that isn’t on the back of your neck to encircle your own, he tightens his grip and subsequently your own, before moving your hand up and down his length. He groans and speeds it up a little more, moving your hand to stroke over the head, collecting the precum on your palm to spread it and make the glide of your hand easier. “Oh, keep going.” words breathed out, continuously letting out groans as he lets go of your own hand to let you take over completely. 

You keep going for a while, slowly tightening your grip and speeding up which gives you a steady stream of moans from Viserys, until you remember something some of the married women told you about; how men found a woman using her mouth pleasurable. You toss a quick glance upwards towards Viserys before leaning forward and licking the tip of his dick. He gasps loudly, the hand resting upon the back of your neck moves to card through your hair, gripping it tightly. You do it once more in hopes of getting the same reaction from him, doing it again and again, then you take the tip into your mouth, gently sucking. Viserys thrusts his hips forward a little, “Keep going Braella,” his breathing picking up, “Keep going.” He keeps giving little thrusts as you take him further and further into your mouth. 

Eventually he gets closer and closer to the edge, quietly murmuring the words “Stop, stop,” as he pulls out of your mouth, his cock throbbing. He gestures a hand towards the pillows, “Get on the bed.” before he works to pull his breeches all the way off. You lay on the bed, slightly propped up by the pillows, watching as he climbs onto the bed, laying slightly on his stomach before grabbing both of your legs and throwing them over his shoulders, gripping your hips and pulling you towards his mouth, immediately beginning his ravishing. You let out a loud cry, hands going down to his head, grabbing his hair. Viserys licks and sucks on your clit, with various licks downwards to collect more slick, moaning out between ravenous slurps, the vibrations causing you to moan out and grind your hips against his face. He moves his mouth down to your opening, tongue prodding around to stretch you out as his nose now rests against the bundle of nerves. Pushing his tongue in and out as he periodically shakes his head from side to side, providing stimulation to both areas that makes you squirm around on the bed. 

The pressure builds up in your lower abdomen, warmth building deep in your bones. Viserys moves his mouth back up to suck on your clit at the same time he pushes two fingers into your hole, quirking them up straight into a spot that makes your head spin and sends you immediately into your peak. You let out moan after moan, not caring how loud you’re being and who could hear you. Your hands are still clenching in his hair, pulling on it and you’re bucking your hips up and down without abandon only for Viserys’ arm to come up and hold you down, his other hand still working you to completion. You squirm around as pleasure turns into overstimulation, moans turning into whines and gasps. 

“Oh- Viserys please! Viserys please, it’s-it’s too much!” He looks up at you, mouth still attached to your centre. His eyes crinkle at the corners as you feel his lips quirk around the edges before he doubles down, still working you through it, as the first peak melds into a second one. It’s a blinding pleasure, and you lose feeling of your limbs for a moment, slightly twitching and convulsing, riding your high. 

The second you come down you feel Viserys remove his mouth and fingers before he immediately slides his way up the bed, moving your legs from his shoulders to around his waist. There’s not even a moment for you to catch your breath before he’s pushing the fat head of his cock into you, the both of you letting out moans as Viserys slides in slowly, pausing as he reaches your maidenhead. He leans down towards you, lips slotting over your own, spreading the taste of you. One hand goes to cradle the side of your head while the other works its way under your back, pulling you flush against him. You worm your arms up, placing one around his neck and the other into his hair. Pulling his mouth away from your own he gives you a reassuring smile, the hand cradling your face thumbing against your lips. “I’ll be gentle, Braella, as gentle as possible. Are you ready?” offering him an enthusiastic nod at his question, lifting your head up to press your lips back to his own as he begins to move. He thrusts forward gently, continuing to push as he meets the resistance of your maidenhead, soothing your painful whimpers with a stroke of his thumb on your cheek and deepening the kiss. Viserys pushes until the painful pressure suddenly snaps, the pain dissolving into gentle pulses as he finally pushes all the way in. 

Viserys stills for a few moments, allowing you a little time to recover, then he pulls almost all the way out, the head of his cock still pressed snuggly inside, before thrusting back in. He immediately begins a steady pace, letting out a groan everytime he pushes in. He breaks the deep kiss that the two of you were in before trailing his kisses down your neck, sucking spots into the tender flesh. He works his way down to your chest, pulling a nipple into his mouth, sucking and biting gently before blowing cold air on it, causing you to cry out. Switching to the other side to continue the ministrations. 

He lets go of your nipple with a wet pop, lips slick and shiny with spit as he looks at you with dazed eyes, speeding up his thrusts. “I offer my apologies, Lady Braella, there’s no way that the Proud Lion would ever be able to make you feel this way. He’ll make for a pathetic excuse of a husband, and an even more pathetic lover.” You’re barely paying attention to the words he’s saying, the faster his thrusting grows, and the harder his pelvis hits against your own, the more lost you find yourself becoming. “Maybe I’ll spare you from such a fate, hmm? Keep you in my bed, keeping it warm, giving me heirs-” you let out a small whimper, clenching around him tightly. “Oh do you like that idea? The idea of me making you mine, of keeping you full of my seed? Warm and swollen with my child-” His words stuttering off with a groan.

The hand that rests against your face goes down to hold onto your hip, using it to pull you down on his thrusts. The change in angle causes him to hit something that makes white sparks shoot behind your eyes, letting out a loud moan. You begin moving your hips with each of his thrusts, letting the tip of his dick pummel against the spongy spot inside you. “Viserys please, please, I wanna, I have to-” Feeling the pressure build up quicker and quicker, you move your arms down to his back, nails digging half-crescents into his skin. “Go ahead, let go for me.” 

It builds, and builds, and then it snaps. You scream out, loud enough for half of the Red Keep to hear you, maybe even loud enough for your soon-to-be-husband and the rest of the wedding party who are waiting in the chapel for you to finish so that way you can begin the ceremony and thusly be locked away in Casterly Rock for the rest of your life. 

You can feel yourself clenching and pulsing around Viserys, he lets out moans that rival the audibility of your own, his hips stuttering, pace becoming uncoordinated. He pushes his hips flush to your own, dick twitching as he fills you with rope after rope of cum, it goes deep, and the heat from it makes you moan out. He does a last few little thrusts before pulling out, Viserys presses his hands to the insides of your thighs, holding them apart slightly so he can watch his spend slowly drip out of you, before scooping it up with a finger and pushing it back inside of you. You squirm to the side, too overstimulated for anymore, but too tired to really move away from him. The both of you pant for breath as Viserys removes your legs from where they hang over his hips still, allowing you to stretch them out, he then pulls you onto your side before laying down as well, facing you. 

You lay in silence for a moment, looking at the content smile upon Viserys’ face. Reaching a hand up, you push wisps of his recognizably Targaryen white hair out of his eyes and away from his face. He pulls you closer, letting out a contented hum as he presses a gentle kiss on your lips. Nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck you close your eyes, the both of you basking in the afterglow and taking the time to collect your breath, you feel yourself slowly slipping asleep, finding the utmost comfort in the bed of the King. 

After a few moments Viserys sits up, gently laying you back on the pillow and pulling the downturned covers over your body as the fires in the room had gone out sometime during your bedding, and now a chill was bouncing off the stone walls of the chambers. Before you can sleepily mutter out your confusion Viserys offers you a gentle shush, murmuring out a quiet “give me a moment.” as he stands to put on a pair of loose linen breeches and a billowy shirt, throwing a long red robe overtop of them. 

He leans down to bestow you with a small kiss, giving you a cheeky smile as he stands back up to his full height. 

“Now if you’ll excuse me, Lady Braella, I must inform Jason Lannister that he will no longer be getting married.”

~

Originally posted June 4th, 2023.

#king viserys #King Viserys I #Viserys targaryen #viserys targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #hotd x reader

[genderlessghoul]

On today's episode of "Meerkat is so normal about Ghost costumes, I swear I'm normal I DON'T HAVE A PROBLEM."

Let's swatch Terzo's papa robe!

And the tunic he has under.

Now this is going to be about showcasing the more detailed fabrics on his garment, so I will not be covering things like the lining of his robe. Disclaimer done, let's get into it.

First of, the robe itself! Liturgical satin brocade. At first I thought it was embellished with just gold sequins but upon closer inspection HOLY SHIT THERE'S A TINY SKULL INTO THEM

The center panel is a type of guipure lace, that same pattern is also used on the bottom of his tunic, but in gold instead of black.

The sleeves of the tunic use a different kind of guipure lace, lined some kind of golden brocade.

The hem and the front panel are adorned with a very basic lace trim.

I'll probably do this again with other costumes because this is fun :3 anyways, good evening ghulehs!

#the band ghost #ghost bc #terzo #papa emeritus lll #papa emeritus the third #papa terzo #ghost terzo #meerkat talks about ghost costumes #meerkat swatches Ghost

[taylorswiftstyle]

The Tortured Poets Department | April 19, 2024

Grace Lee 'Demi Earrings' - $1,298.00

One of my favourite parts of the album listening experience is, of course, the new set of visuals that come with it. While there’s much to be said about interpreting clues, patterns, and preferences in aesthetic from the case study that candids provide, I view the album photoshoot as the most ‘canonical’ of every era. And oh *swoon* is this one ever beautiful. The original album cover set it up and the rest of the album’s photographs followed through to create a beautifully raw, desaturated world. One that provides ample space between all the black and white for the music to paint with all the shades of grey that its messy, complicated circumstances depict. 

In this particular shot, I love that we get to see Taylor’s hair smoothed out into a more classical glamour shot with a low, off-shoulder garment that exposes her back. Again, underlining the vulnerability of the shoot itself and how that ties into its respective work. The only ornamentation we see is from her modern, curved #GraceLee earrings. 

But what’s most interesting in this shot are what appears to be calla lilies resting on her shoulder. The flowers look so naturally tied into the shot they could almost be the ends of her hair or floral embellishments on the garment. Of course, Taylor being Taylor there’s a lot to possibly interpret from these flowers (the language of flowers is fascinating and there’s a lot of conflicting and wide-reaching symbolisms to each). That said, calla lilies are a common funeral service flower as they’re typically seen as symbols of resurrection and rebirth or purification of a departed soul. Broken calla lilies on tombstones often indicate someone who died before their time. With a lot of lyrical imagery across the album that centers on death, dying, and grief this makes the most sense

The calla lily also has ties to other themes we’ve already seen Taylor opt into for #TTPD. First, the Victorian era, the lily having become popularized in the 1800s (the Victorian age was 1820-1914). Secondly, in Greek mythology as it’s often seen as the symbol of Hera (goddess of marriage). 

Editorial Note: Original cover image captured by Beth Garrabrant - Taylor’s album photographer since folklore. In place of Beth’s image, for which she retains rights, I’ve commissioned a lovely demonstrative illustration by the talented Amelia Noyes.

#taylor swift #photoshoot #jewelry #grace lee #april 2024 #ttpd