More 1870s Cowboy!Ghost, I Saw Someone Cosplaying His Gunslinger Skin And Lost My Mind Just A Little

More 1870s Cowboy!Ghost, I saw someone cosplaying his gunslinger skin and lost my mind just a little

Life is quiet here. The sky is wide and blue, the grass is just on the yellow side of green, and the women are as pretty as they are quick with a gun. Well, just the one. Ghost swings off his horse to lead her the rest of the way to the barn. 

“Hey, pretty boy!” You call from the back door, “Come have a drink when you finish up.” He’s still not used to the way your smile makes his heart jump. The genuine fondness behind it. Pretty boy. He wouldn’t let anyone else get away with calling him that, just you. You get away with a lot of things.

Most recently it’s been this. A spare drink to drown out the still uncaught bounty. Never mind that he’s hardly trying anymore. There’s hardly time for it with all the work you have him doing. Work he hardly minds when it’s you asking for it. He likes the animals, likes the warm soil of the garden, likes looking over his shoulder to see you going about your own work. Shaking out sheets as you take them off the line or twisting ripe squash from the vine, the way you brush your hand up the back of your neck to wipe away the sheen of sweat, you’re gorgeous. Ghost’s never seen anyone like you. 

He takes his time unburdening his horse, putting away tack, checking her stall has food and water. Steeling his nerves. It’s becoming harder and harder to ignore your sweet talk. Eventually he’ll find himself stuck in your honey. Then he can’t say what will happen. Maybe you’ll keep him.

Ghost touches the worn cotton of his mask; thinks of the scars under it, the scars under his skin. Maybe not. 

You’re waiting by the back door when he finally makes his way back to the house. You offer a short glass of clear liquor. “You’ll get him tomorrow,” You tell him. Ghost can’t tell if you’re joking or serious. Your usual good humor makes it hard to gauge. 

He pushes his mask up to his nose and takes the offered glass, clinking it against yours. You both tip your head backs, let the alcohol slide down your throats. Ghost sniffs, clears his throat against the residual burn. He checks his glass to be sure he got it all, and looks up to catch you staring at him.

“I got something on my face?” He jokes, voice flat as he wipes the wet edge of alcohol off his lip with his thumb. 

“No it’s just,” you tilt your head with a smile, “Every time I see you like this I can’t help wanting to kiss you.” Ghost stills, you’re forward but not this forward. “That’s probably silly of me,” your smile falls a little, and he can’t have that. He can’t have you losing hope, losing interest. You’re not supposed to be interested in the first place, but- but he wants you to keep it. Wants you to keep sweet talking him. You can’t give up and let him win. Not when he wants so badly to lose to you.

Ghost grabs you by the collar of your shirt and pulls you to him, leaning down to bring your mouths crashing together. He catches a bit of your smile before you can pucker, a little bit of teeth before he kisses you properly. It's not a perfect first kiss, but it is perfect. You're perfect, so warm and sweet and soft. God you're so soft, how can anyone be this soft? Your lips cushion his and your warmth surrounds him in a way that can't just be physical. You part your lips, draw him in for another kiss and another, a slow slick glide of indulgence. His hand cradles your cheek, and it isn't the last drops of tequila he's savoring when you draw back. Stars, your smile could stop his heart. It nearly does.

Ghost tugs his mask back down over his lips to stop himself from kissing you again. Is he supposed to feel so, so giddy just from kissing someone? He can't push down the smile that bubbles up. Another good reason for the mask. 

"I should-" you take a step back, make a noncommittal gesture with your hands. Ghost nods.

"Right, and I should-" he waves towards the barn, both of you smiling like fools for each other.

"Ok," even your voice is soft, so soft. He should kiss you again, he can still feel your lips against his.

"Supper," Ghost tells you, confirms with you. You nod, grip your skirt with giddy fingers.

"Six o'clock," God he wouldn't miss it for the world.