The manor looked fantastic. Ivy creeping up soot-stained stone, brass lanterns flickering along the gravel drive, thick clouds of staged steam hissing from copper pipes sunk into the garden wall. They’d gone all in. Gilded Rebellion, they called it. This LARP had really gone all out.

I adjusted the collar on my longcoat, and flicked my brass monocle into place. Under the coat, I was in a Victorian dress, steel-boned corset, lace-up boots with high heels. I was Roxy Nightbrass, and I was going to run a revolution in heels.

Inside, it was chaos. Organisers in half-costume flitting between players, handing out personal envelopes of “intel” for the weekend. Warnings about infiltrators. Code names. Clues. Intrigue. All very serious, very dramatic. I was so excited.

Mine was sealed with a wax stamp bearing Lady Smog’s sigil, some spiky gear-and-crown hybrid. I broke it open with a painted nail. There were a few pieces of general information and gossip, but one line made me laugh out loud.

“Cal Locke is working for the Coal Barons.”

No shit. Of course he was. The organisers clearly wanted a show. They’d get one.

Cal bloody Locke, or as his followers called him, Gildgear. Mr neon-trimmed shoulder pads. Mr. “I glued a clock to it so now it’s steampunk.” Every outfit a crime against Victorian aesthetics. He even used fucking glowsticks. He’d probably show up in a chrome corset and call it an innovation.

We’d been "rivals" online for years. Public arguments, pointed reply videos, unsubtle tweets about ‘certain people in the community’. Our followers seemed to love it; I certainly enjoyed calling out his shitty, ahistorical costumes. 

The whole point of steampunk was the steam, the glorious visuals of the Victorian age. He just wanted to peacock around in glowing shit. 

The ballroom was already full when I made my entrance. Brass candelabras lit up every corner, steam curling from floor vents, musicians in mechanical masks playing something vaguely orchestral and very dramatic. All eyes on the stage where Lady Smog, dressed head to toe in oxidised copper, raised her hands for silence.

“Rebels,” she purred, “we stand at the edge of a new dawn. The Coal Barons tighten their grip, but together we can rise up and throw off the yoke of their monopoly. But among us walk shadows. Traitors. Watch each other. Trust no one.”

I strode forward, cloak flaring behind me, boots clicking sharp against marble. Stepped right up onto the stage, Lady Smog looked surprised but stepped aside and handed me the floor.

“If we’re naming names,” I said, voice ringing out clear and sharp, “I’ll start with that one. Over there. Gildgear is a traitor.”

The room erupted in laughter and a few cheers. Apparently people had expected some drama between us. 

Cal, leaning against a column in the most offensively busy jacket I’d ever seen, smiled that lazy, infuriating smile. His hair was a mess, goggles pushed up onto his forehead, jaw rough with stubble. 

“Accusing me without evidence?” he called out, voice smooth and confident. “Sounds a bit traitorous to me, Nightbrass. Or maybe you're just jealous of my latest creation!” he said, hefting a rifle, a modified Nerf gun, that looks more sci-fi than steampunk.

“No,” I said. “I just believe in keeping to the right aesthetic. And taste. And that you are a traitor.”

The crowd was loving it. Phones hidden in props were already streaming. 

Lady Smog stepped forward before the argument got too heated. “In the absence of evidence, I suppose there is only one way to settle this. A duel! Tomorrow morning at dawn.” 

Then came the formal bit. Cal’s second, a woman in bronze half-armour with an actual working automaton owl on her shoulder, stepped forward. My second, a friend called Nick, tall and spindly with floppy hair and dressed as a clockmaker, agreed to terms.

The drinking and partying that evening went on well past midnight before everyone eventually went to bed. The manor had gone quiet at last. Most of the others were in their tents, scattered through the gardens and woods. I had a room in the manor. One of the perks of being just famous enough. Well, famous in the LARP community, that is. 

I was still in full costume. I’d peeled out of my boots and long coat, but the rest had stayed during the party. The dress was deep crimson satin with embroidered brass rivets down the side split, and the petticoats were black lace and stiff tulle.

I didn’t bother with a lantern. The sconces lining the corridor hissed low amber through frosted glass, enough to see the number on his door. He was opposite me, of course. 

I didn’t hesitate. I padded across the thick rug, holding my skirts just high enough to move without tripping. Knocked once. 

He opened it right away. Smirking, shirtless, the brass fittings of his suspenders still clinging to his trousers, goggles pushed up into that unruly hair.  “Oh, the traitor has come to assassinate me in the night,” Cal said with a smirk.

“Shut up and let me in,” I said, brushing past him, skirts swishing, layers of bustle and lace and satin still clinging to me like heat. My gloves stayed on. So did the monocle.

He closed the door behind me. “You do realise I’ve got an early duel in the morning?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t leave marks anyone will see.”

“You always leave marks.”

“Good.”

He stepped forward and grabbed a fistful of skirt. Pulled it up until he could see thigh, lace stockings, the tops of my garters. I shoved him back, pinned him against the wall. “I know you’re the traitor,” I said as I leaned in very close.

“You’re the one sneaking around after curfew.” He growled as he grabbed my hips, pulled me against him, lips brushing mine.

I kissed him. Biting his lip. He turned me fast and pushed me face-first against the wall, skirt still bunched in his hand. The other slid up the back of my thigh, knuckles grazing the wet heat between my legs.

He bit my shoulder through the collar of my blouse and yanked my knickers down in one rough motion. My cunt was slick already. I didn’t care. I wanted him to know it. His fingers finding my cunt, two sliding inside me. Making me groan, pressing my forehead on the plaster wall. 

“You seem very wet considering you keep saying I’m a traitor,” he muttered.

“Fuck off.” I moaned, pressing back into him. 

We’d been doing this for years. Con after con, LARP event after LARP event. We’d fucked in hotel rooms, green rooms, back rooms. Always in costume. Always secret. 

I didn’t even know why I kept letting it happen. But god, he fucked good. Which was probably why I kept coming back. 

He pulled out his fingers. I heard as he pulled out his cock, felt him pressing against me before he slowly thrust himself inside in one hard thrust. I choked out a breath, the stretch sudden and brutal. He didn’t wait. He started fucking me right there, pressed up against the wall, skirts bunched high in his fists. The sound of him slamming into me echoed in the polished wood and copper fittings of the room.

My skirt was still bunched around his fist. Every thrust pushed the layers higher, baring me more, pressing me harder against the wall.  My corset was still laced tight. Too tight. Every gasp caught behind the boning. The pressure made it hotter, dirtier. My cunt clenched around him, hungry and furious. I couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.

“Corset’s too tight,” I gasped.

He didn’t stop moving. Reached up with one hand and started untying the cords. I felt the tension loosen stitch by stitch, until I could suck in air and moan properly.

“That better?” There was a chuckle in his voice as I moaned in breathy pleasure. I didn’t answer him, just thrust back into him with renewed vigour as I reached between my legs, fingers on my clit, working in time with his thrusts. My feet scraped against the floorboards. My thighs burned. My cunt was soaked, clenching around him with every thrust. The heat under all that fabric was overwhelming, slick and filthy, sweat soaking through lace and silk.

“Don’t you dare finish before me,” I growled.

“Try and keep up.”

He slammed in deep and came with a low groan, cock twitching inside me. I didn’t stop. Rubbed harder. My orgasm hit hard, stomach tight, cunt pulsing around him as my knees buckled as his cum dripping down my thighs..

We stayed there, still, breathing like we’d run miles.

Then I pulled away, yanked my drawers back up, straightened my skirts, gloves still spotless.

“Leaving?” he asked.

“Obviously.”

Same time next con?” he said from behind me.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said, turning just long enough to wipe the sweat from my brow.

“You’re always the one knocking.”

“Well, you’re always waiting by the door with your cock in your hands.”

I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. No one was around. I didn’t look back.

My corset hung looser now. My thighs were still shaking. My cunt was sore and wet and full of him.

And I still couldn’t stand the prick.

Tomorrow, I’d shoot him.

And I’d make sure it hurt.