ℭ𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯 .☘︎ ݁˖

Bonnie Ray Fischer walked barefoot through the wild grass, the dust curling around her ankles, a sketchbook tucked under one arm and her braid swaying loose down her back. The front of her shirt hung open in that way she wore it sometimes —accidental or deliberate, who could say— just enough tempt a preacher into damnation. She laughed at something Jack had said—her head tilted back, those green eyes glinting in the last of the light like a cat just fed cream.

—She’s somethin’ —Hosea muttered, not quite meaning to.

Dutch didn’t glance his way.

—She’s fire, is what she is. Barefoot storm. Half feral —He dragged from the cigar, held the smoke a moment, then let it out through his nose like it hurt— And smarter than any of us ever gave her credit for. I don’t know when she learned to twist men 'round her fingers, but she damn well did. —She learned it from you —Hosea said with a sideways grin.

That earned a quiet chuckle, low and wolfish. Dutch rolled the cigar between his fingers.

—Nah. I taught her how to lie, sure. How to play a man. But that bite? That’s all hers. —He nodded toward her as she crouched to sketch something in the dirt. Probably a flower, or maybe nothing at all— Thing is… she only shows teeth when she wants to. —You’re schemin’ —Hosea straightened, dusted off his hands— I know that look, Dutch.

Dutch smirked.

—I am. And you’re part of it. —I usually am —Hosea muttered, though his voice had lost none of its fondness. —Listen, —Dutch turned to him now, his face lit in that peculiar, dangerous way he had when a plan took roote— You and I, we never get time with her. Not real time. Always Arthur in the way, always noise, always some fire to put out. But I’ve got a plan. —Oh, hell —Hosea muttered, rubbing at his temple. —It’s simple —Dutch grinned— Real simple. There’s a fella out past Dewberry Creek. Rich bastard. Keeps fine horses, but he’s an ass. Got three we can take. Easy snatch-and-run.

Hosea narrowed his eyes.

—And you want me and Bonnie to go get them. —Exactly. —No Arthur. —No Arthur. —No one else. —No one else —Dutch’s grin widened, slow and deliberate now— Just you and her. Long ride. Two nights, maybe three if the river’s high. Plenty of time to talk… or not talk. However the wind blows.

Hosea huffed a breath through his nose.

—You want me to play nursemaid or... —I want you to remember you’re not dead yet —Dutch said, voice low— She makes you laugh, Hosea. I’ve seen it. She draws you little damn birds in your coat pocket. You forget what that means?

The older man’s face softened, just slightly.

—I ain’t givin’ her away —Dutch said quickly, sharp now— I’m not fool enough for that. She’s mine, she knows that. But she’s ours too, you and me. And she deserves more than a camp full of boys lookin’ at her like she’s somethin’ pretty to break.

Across the field, Bonnie rose to her feet, brushing off her knees. Her braid had come loose —strands clinging to her cheek— and her shirt stuck just slightly to the curve of her waist. She stretched her arms up overhead, lazy, feline, then turned and walked toward the campfire barefoot, humming some half-forgotten lullaby.

—I’ll talk to her —Dutch said— Tonight.

Hosea didn’t stop him. Didn’t agree, either. He just watched her, watched the way her hips moved when she wasn’t trying, and the way her gaze found them through the trees like she already knew. Like she’d been listening the whole time.

Evening was swallowing the sky in gold and blue as the sun dipped low behind the trees, casting long, lean shadows through the camp. Smoke curled lazy from the fire, scent of beans and tobacco hanging thick in the air. Bonnie had returned barefoot from wherever she’d wandered —probably sketching something pointless and perfect again, like a moth or a tangle of roots— and now she walked slow around the firelight, eyes lifted to the sky, that damn braid of hers swaying across the small of her back like a tail she meant to tease with. Dutch crushed the end of his cigar beneath his boot heel.

—She’s floatin’ —He muttered, voice low.

Hosea raised an eyebrow. Dutch nodded toward her.

—No shoes. No place to be. That girl don’t walk, she glides. It’s like she don’t remember she’s an outlaw half the time. Like the world’s some pretty song she’s still foolish enough to hum along to. —She’s got her own ghosts —Hosea said, voice quiet, almost reverent— She just carries 'em different.

Dutch looked at him sidelong, a half-smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

—You ever wonder how she’d look across a campfire, just the two of you? Wind pushin’ her hair back, that green stare on you like you’re the only man still breathin’?

Hosea chuckled, dry and bitter as old coffee. He turned away, jaw set tight.

—I wonder a lot of things I don’t act on.

Dutch clapped a hand against his back, not unkind, then stepped forward into the fading light.

—Well, let’s give you somethin’ to act on.

He raised his voice, smooth as whiskey over smoke.

—Miss Ray!

She turned on a heel before the words finished leaving his mouth, like she’d been waiting on them. That slow smile slid onto her lips—mischief and honey. Sweet, dangerous.

—Boss?

He gestured to the logs near him.

—Come sit. Got a little matter to discuss.

She crossed the clearing like she was stepping into a dance. Her bare toes brushed over the warm earth, and the sway of her hips beneath those tight brown trousers was lazy, unhurried. Her shirt clung to the line of her back —heat or sweat, hard to say— and her freckles caught what was left of the sun like constellations scattered over pale skin. She dropped onto the log beside Dutch without a moment’s hesitation, thigh bumping against his like it was the most natural thing in the world. She didn’t shrink. Never had. Hosea watched her, arms crossed now, like a man bracing himself against something he couldn’t name. Regret, maybe. Or temptation. Bonnie glanced between them, sharp green eyes catching the weight in the air like smoke in a lantern.

—What’re you two scheming?

Dutch leaned in.

—Horse job.

She tilted her head.

—You’ve got Bill for that.

Dutch waved a hand, brushing away the suggestion like a fly.

—I don’t want loud. I want clean. We’re takin’ three off a fella near Dewberry Creek. Bastard won’t miss 'em, he’s got more horses than manners. —And you want me? —I want you and Hosea.

Her brow ticked.

—No Arthur?

Dutch’s smile twitched.

—Arthur’s busy.

A beat of silence stretched between them. Bonnie looked at Hosea, and for the briefest second —just one little stolen heartbeat— her eyes softened. Her chin dipped. That wasn’t the look she gave boys. That was his look. Only his.

—A two-day ride, maybe three, —Dutch said, voice low—. You two’ll have time. Time to talk. Time to breathe. No camp noise, no distractions. Just... the work.

Bonnie’s lips curved. Not a smile, exactly, but something close.

—Just the work, huh?

Hosea cleared his throat.

—It ain’t a trap, Bon. —Didn’t say it was —She replied, soft as dusk.

Dutch tapped ash off his thoughts.

—You’ve both earned some time away. You trust Hosea. —I do, —She said without pause. Then she turned to Dutch, that green gaze narrowing just a fraction—. And you? You trust me?

Dutch didn’t blink.

—Like I trust my own blood.

Bonnie’s mouth curled at the corners, but her eyes stayed sharp. She stood slowly, brushing dirt from her thighs, then leaned close. Close enough for Dutch to smell her skin, something soft and clean beneath the camp grit.

—I’ll ride, —She whispered— But if this is one of your little games...

Dutch grinned, wolfish.

—You’d win it anyway.

She chuckled, turned, and started walking away—toward her bedroll, or maybe the river to wash, no one could say. But halfway there, she glanced over her shoulder —eyes on Hosea now, not Dutch. And that look? That was no game. That was a promise. Hosea said nothing. Just watched her walk away barefoot through the campfire shadows, slow and sure like she knew the two of them would be sleeping beside her under the stars come morning. Dutch exhaled through his nose.

—Well, —He murmured— ain’t that somethin’.

Hosea’s jaw tightened. Dutch just smiled.

—You better pack light, old friend. Looks like you’re goin’ huntin’.

Morning broke slow and sultry, draping itself over the hills like a damp blanket. The trees sweated light, their leaves slick with dew, and the ground steamed where the sun touched it. Somewhere beyond the ridgeline, a hawk cried out—sharp and solitary—while the camp came to life in fits and murmurs. Canvas rustled. Tin cups clinked. Someone cursed softly about the heat. Bonnie Ray Fischer was already up. She always was. She moved quiet as thought between the sleeping wagons, boots in hand, toes silent against the packed earth. Her braid—half-undone—hung over one shoulder, and her trousers clung to her hips like they’d been sewn onto her skin. There was something about the way she moved: unhurried, aware, like she knew every eye in the world could be watching and didn’t mind one damn bit. She'd already stashed her sketchbook and rifle in her satchel. Her saddle was packed tight, methodical. But her eyes? Her eyes sparkled like she was walking straight into trouble—and she couldn’t wait to meet it. Near the tether post, Dutch stood waiting, his hat tilted low over his brow, the steam from his tin mug curling up past the brim. Hosea stood beside him, hunched over a creased map, muttering curses about river bends, washed-out trails, and how Dutch’s so-called “perfect plan” was going to get them both soaked or shot.

—River’ll be high, —He muttered—. And if it’s not, it’ll stink like death. You know what happens when you cross wetland with fresh horse hooves? Rot. That’s what. We’ll be dragging lame stock before we even get back—if your perfect plan doesn’t get us shot first.”

Dutch sipped his coffee, unfazed.

—You worry too much.

Bonnie sauntered up barefoot —on purpose. The dust kissed her ankles, soft as ash. She didn’t rush. Didn’t need to. She stopped right between the two men, close enough to smell the sharp tang of black coffee and last night’s tobacco on their clothes. She leaned toward Hosea first, bracing a hand on the edge of the crate as she peered over his shoulder.

—You’re forgetting that ridge —She murmured, her chin near his collar, voice barely louder than the wind—. It’s steeper now. Washed out in the spring storms.

Hosea didn’t glance up.

—And how would you know that? —Because I sketched it —She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a folded drawing, creased, smudged with graphite. She slid it onto the map like a playing card—. Last week. Took a walk while y’all were arguing about who burned the stew.

Dutch let out a low whistle.

—My wild girl stays busy.

Bonnie straightened, eyes dancing.

—I listen. I draw. I kill when I have to. And I still make the best coffee in this camp. —You forgot to say humble —Hosea muttered, but the warmth in his voice gave him away.

She moved past Dutch then, brushing the back of her hand against his arm in a touch so light it could’ve been a breeze—one of those soft ones that comes before a storm. He didn’t move, just followed her with his eyes. Bonnie reached her horse in two strides and swung herself up into the saddle like she’d been born in it. One boot slid on, the other dangled a second longer for balance, and then she was settled. Rifle strapped behind her. Reins in one hand. Sunlight gilding the line of her jaw.

—Well, boys? —She called over her shoulder, grinning— You riding with me or not?

Hosea mounted slow, muttering curses under his breath about damn fool plans and damn fine women, but there was no real bite to it. Dutch climbed up last, eyes never leaving her. They rode out at sunrise.

By midday, the heat had settled in like a heavy coat no one could take off. The road wound through low hills choked with cedar and dry grass, the air thick with dust and the buzz of insects. Dutch rode ahead, humming some old hymn under his breath—low and tuneless, more rhythm than melody. The kind of sound that wandered out of a man without him meaning it to. His hat was pulled low, one hand loose on the reins, the other resting near the butt of his pistol. Behind him, Hosea and Bonnie rode side by side, not saying much. But it wasn’t an awkward silence. It was the kind that comes easy between two people who’ve seen each other fall apart and didn’t look away. After a while, Hosea shifted in the saddle and glanced over.

—You always go around barefoot?

Bonnie didn’t miss a beat.

—Only when I want someone to notice.

He snorted.

—So that’s what this is, huh?

She turned just enough to catch him with a sly smile.

—Would it work?

Hosea cleared his throat, but his grip on the reins betrayed him, fingers tightening until the leather creaked.

—It'd work better if you weren't looking at me like you mean to eat me alive. —Oh, I do —She said sweetly, voice honey-thick— But I’d be real gentle about it.

That earned a low groan and a shake of his head, but the flush creeping up his neck said more than words. Ahead, Dutch grinned without turning. He heard everything.

They made camp near a stream just before nightfall. The horses were tied off to an old cedar, its twisted limbs stretched like a crooked hand reaching for the stars. Hosea took his time unsaddling, hands methodical, quiet. He liked doing things slow when his mind was too loud. The fire cracked low, its smoke curling up lazy, soft against the deepening dark. No one said much over supper. It was that kind of quiet: the day too long, the thoughts too many. Bonnie sat between the two of them, knees drawn up, bare toes buried in the dirt still holding the day’s heat. She picked at the roasted rabbit with her fingers, humming to herself—some old tune, soft and worn, the kind her mama used to sing when the needle was moving and the oil lamp was low. Hosea looked at her out of the corner of his eye. God, she was so young. And still— Not. Not where it counted. Dutch lit a cigar.

—Heard you used to sing better when there was a piano.

Bonnie smirked.

—Heard you used to shoot better when your hands weren’t shaking.

That made Hosea laugh sudden, more honest than he meant it to be. Dutch didn’t rise to it. He leaned back on his elbows, cigar smoldering between his fingers, smoke curling around his words.

—You ever think about leavin’, Bon? Striking out on your own?

She shrugged, still staring into the firelight flickering across her legs.

—Sometimes. But then I think... who’d patch Arthur’s coat? Or make sure Hosea eats more than coffee and guilt? Or stop you from bettin’ the treasury on a hand you shouldn’t have played?

Dutch arched a brow.

—You think I need you to keep me honest?

She turned her head slowly, fire catching in her eyes like green glass.

—I think you like havin’ me close. Makes you feel like you're still good.

The words landed like a stone in still water. Hosea felt it in his gut. The way Dutch’s expression flattened. The way the air shifted, warmer now, sharp around the edges. And Hosea? He didn’t say a damn thing. Just stared into the fire like it could burn away whatever was starting to wake in his chest. Because she wasn’t wrong. Not about Dutch. Not about him, either. Bonnie stood without a word, brushing the dirt from her thighs. Her braid swayed with the movement, catching the firelight like a whip of copper. She didn’t ask permission. Didn’t explain.

—I’m going to wash —She said, and vanished into the trees.

The quiet that followed was longer than it needed to be. Dutch tossed the rest of his cigar into the fire, sparks leaping.

—She’s not a girl, Hosea. —I know that. —She’s not your daughter either. —I know.

Dutch turned then, really turned, and looked him full in the face. Eyes sharp, jaw set, something old and dangerous simmering just beneath the surface.

—Then what is she to you?

Hosea didn’t answer. Because the truth lived deep. Down where he kept his regrets and the ghosts of all the things he’d almost done. She was a want he didn’t trust himself with. A tenderness he hadn’t earned. A fire he’d never let himself step too close to, because he knew —he knew— he’d walk straight in and never come back out. She was the sound of laughter in a place that didn’t deserve it. The way she looked at him like he was still good. Still a man. She was every choice he didn’t make. And now she was in the trees, barefoot in the moonlight, washing off the day while two wolves sat by the fire pretending they didn’t want to chase her. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the truth was too big for words. It burned.

The fire crackled low. It smelled like smoke, wet cedar, and something bitter, coffee left too long on the boil. Hosea crouched beside the pot, stirring it without real purpose, muttering now and then like he was arguing with ghosts. Dutch sat back with his legs stretched out, hat tipped low, cigar dead beside his boot. It was quiet. Then Bonnie stepped back into the firelight: Barefoot, river-damp, glowing. Still wet across the belly, the shape of her soft frame clear beneath it. Her shirt—white, too thin to hide much—clung to her ribs and belly like it had been painted on. Dry in spots, but not where it mattered. The soft swells of her breasts pressed tight against the fabric, nipples peaked from cold or something deeper. Her braid dripped water down her spine, glinting like obsidian. Her trousers rode low on her hips, and every step she took made the fire feel hotter. Neither man spoke. Dutch lifted his head first. His gaze moved slow—up her legs, across that transparent shirt, to the smirk curling on her lips like she knew what she was doing. Hosea didn’t look at all—not right away. He just stared into the flames like he could pretend he hadn’t seen. Bonnie didn’t stop walking. She came right back to where she’d been, settled between them again—but closer now. Her thigh brushed Dutch’s. Her elbow grazed Hosea’s leg. And still, she didn’t say a word. She glanced at the cup Hosea was holding.

—That coffee?

Dutch answered before Hosea could.

—No. That one’s got something stronger in it.

Bonnie raised a brow.

—Yeah? —You want some? —He asked, already pulling a second tin from beside the pack.

Bonnie hesitated, eyes narrowing.

—You know I don’t. —Just a sip, —Dutch said, voice smooth as molasses—. Warm you up.

Hosea looked up sharply.

—Don’t push her.

Dutch didn’t even flinch.

—She’s not a kid. She can say no.

Bonnie didn’t say no. She reached out slow and steady, took the cup from Dutch’s hand, and raised it to her lips. Took a sip. Not much. But when she swallowed, the air seemed to shift—tighten. She exhaled. Licked her bottom lip.

—Peach whiskey? —Bit of it, —Dutch murmured watching her mouth as if it had been a simple coincidence and not that the damn bastard knew very well that she liked peaches.

She set the cup down, metal tapping softly against stone.

—Tastes like summer. And bad decisions.

Dutch chuckled.

—You’d know both.

But Hosea didn’t laugh. He just watched her—closely. Carefully. Like a man listening for the snap of a trap. Bonnie leaned back on her hands, fingers curling into the dirt.

—I used to drink. Not much —She said, casually—. Back home. He didn’t like it, said it made me stupid. Said it made me… —Her smile twisted, teeth catching her lip— Loose. —Bastard —Hosea muttered.

She glanced up at the stars.

—That’s the trick of it though, ain’t it? I wasn’t stupid when I drank. I was just happy. And he hated happy things...

Dutch leaned in, voice low and velvet-slick.

—You look happy now —She turned her head, looked him square in the eye— One sip ain’t enough to make me forget who I’m sittin’ between, boss.

He smirked, slow and sure.

—Wasn’t askin’ you to forget.

She shifted again. Now her thigh brushed Hosea’s. Her hand, damp and dirt-smudged, rested on her own knee. Her shirt had dried a little, but those nipples were still stiff as sin under cotton, and both men were trying — and failing— not to stare. She caught Hosea looking.

—What? —She asked, like she didn’t know.

He shook his head, swallowed once.

—You know what —Bonnie tilted her chin up, just a little— You could look longer, if you wanted. I wouldn’t mind.

Hosea didn’t answer her. Couldn’t. She was still sitting close —too close— and her words hadn’t left the air yet. You could look longer. I wouldn’t mind. And Lord help him, he wanted to. His bones ached with it. But he’d lived long enough to know what came of that kind of hunger. The kind that wasn’t just skin and lips, but something deeper, something that unmoored a man. That rewrote his compass. And he didn’t want to be that fool again. Not for anyone. Not even her. Especially not her. Because Bonnie wasn’t just any girl. She wasn’t some saloon singer or wide-eyed ranch wife looking for trouble. She knew what she was doing. She knew what that shirt would do. That voice. That look. But beneath all that —the teasing, the heat— there was something bruised. Something tender. And it scared the hell out of him. Because part of him didn’t just want to want her. Part of him wanted to fix her. And that was how men like him got wrecked. He shifted slightly, put his cup down, stared into the fire like it might burn the feeling out of him.

Dutch, meanwhile, watched it all unfold like a man at the theatre. He’d seen the flicker in Hosea’s jaw, the twitch in his hand, the way his breath caught too late. He saw every damn thing. And he loved it. Not because he wanted to hurt Hosea but because it reminded him that he still held the strings. Dutch liked her close. Liked the way she kept the men sharp. Honest. Hungry. She moved through camp like heat lightning. Bright. Dangerous. Never asking permission. And tonight? Tonight she’d walked out of the woods dripping and defiant, smelling like river water and smoke and something else he couldn’t quite name—but craved just the same. And the way she looked at him —challenged him— well, that was something rare. Most folks just followed Dutch. Bonnie didn’t follow. She circled. Like a little fox with teeth. She’d made him feel old and powerful and young and foolish all in the same breath. And he liked that contradiction. It reminded him he was still alive. But now? Now she was between them. Body warm and drying in the firelight, words dangling like bait. And he felt it—Hosea’s tension, thick as molasses. Felt it like a warning. Because Dutch knew what Hosea was. A good man. A smart one. But good men get tired. And tired men fall. Dutch raised a brow, half amused, half something darker, voice smooth as the whiskey in her mouth.

—She is loose when she drinks.

Bonnie turned toward them, one brow arched.

—I’m loose when I want to be.

Her voice had dropped—smoky, slow, edged with heat. Then she stood, slow and easy, arms stretching overhead in that lazy way a cat does when it knows it’s being watched. Her shirt pulled up just enough to catch the firelight on the curve of her waist, skin damp and warm-looking. Her braid stuck to her back like a wet ribbon. She glanced over her shoulder, lips curved just slightly.

—I’m sleepin’ down by the stream. Cooler there. Stars look nicer, too.

Neither man replied. But both stared as she walked off—barefoot, wet, nipples tight, ass swinging like it had something to prove. Her steps were slow, unhurried, like she knew exactly how she left them: breathless, silent, and aching. Hosea muttered, finally, hoarse:

—We’re gonna die out here.

Dutch didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile. He just stared at the dark where she’d disappeared and said, quiet:

—I already did.

The flames burned low, but the heat hadn’t gone anywhere. Neither man moved for a long while—just sat there, letting the silence stretch. Down by the stream, the moon turned the rocks silver. Her silhouette was gone, but her scent lingered—riverwater, smoke, and that hint of sweetness she always carried, like wildflowers in a gun belt. Dutch stood first, brushing dust off his trousers like it might settle his nerves. It didn’t.

—She’s doin’ it on purpose —He muttered.

Hosea didn’t look up.

—She’s not.

Dutch turned, voice dropping rough.

—Come on. Walkin’ back into camp soakin’ wet, shirt stickin’ to her like sin, talkin’ about bein’ loose while her damn nipples are starin’ holes through us both. If that ain’t on purpose, then hell—. That’s not innocent, Hosea. —She’s not tryin’ to be innocent —Hosea said quietly— She’s just not afraid.

Dutch scoffed.

—Not afraid of what? —Of us. She trusts us... even with that.

That stopped him.

Dutch looked back at the fire, jaw tight. He didn’t argue because it was true. She trusted them. And that trust felt heavier than any temptation. But temptation didn’t die easy.

—Trust’s got nothin’ to do with how a man’s blood moves when he sees her like that.

Hosea’s voice was low now. Steady.

—And what are you gonna do about it?

Dutch didn’t answer at first. Just stared down toward the stream, where the moonlight shimmered across the rocks like spilled milk.

—Nothin’. Not tonight. —…Because?

Dutch dragged a hand down his face.

—Because she’d know. And she’s not like those girls I used to crawl into bed with in back rooms, drunk and mean and forgettin’ my name halfway through. She’s Bonnie —He paused, eyes flickering toward the trees— She wants us to burn.

Hosea stood then, slow and stiff like something in his chest had finally snapped loose.

—You burnin’, too?

Dutch’s laugh was low and bitter, almost a sigh.

—Been burnin’ since the day you carried her into camp all bloodied and half-frozen. She looked up at me with those eyes, green as spring, wild as hell, and I thought: Christ, she’s gonna tear us all apart.

Hosea didn’t speak. There was nothing left to say. They laid down eventually, backs turned, neither one sleeping. Just staring into the dark, listening. Waiting. For the sound of her bare feet on the grass. Or her voice—quiet and soft—singing some half-forgotten tune to the stars. Because that was Bonnie. The storm you didn’t see coming. And the one you couldn’t stop once it started. Down by the stream, Bonnie lay curled on her side, one knee tucked high, her braid spilling across her bare shoulder like a dark ribbon. Her shirt had mostly dried, but the river’s chill still clung to her skin—tingling, sharp, alive. Her nipples peaked beneath the cotton, and she didn’t bother to cover them. Let the night look. Let they feel it. She was alone, but not lonely. She could feel them up on the hill, even through the hush and the trees—both of them stretched thin with want they wouldn’t speak. Restless. Awake. Trying hard not to picture her in the dark. She loved that. God, she loved it. Bonnie tugged the blanket tighter around her hips, the rough wool warm against her thighs, and let her eyes wander across the stars. Her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. And then, soft and smug, just loud enough for the wind to carry:

—You’re not gonna touch me tonight. But you’ll dream you did.

And she was right.

That night, Dutch dreamed of her straddling his lap, wild-eyed and laughter-drunk, her fingers lost in his beard as she dared him to keep still. Hosea dreamed of her curled against his chest, face hidden, voice trembling as she whispered I want to stay, pulling his hand beneath her shirt like it had always belonged there. Both men woke aching, hearts pounding, hands clenched tight with everything they couldn’t say. And Bonnie? Bonnie woke smiling. Warm. Clean. Wanted. Just the way she liked it.

Morning draped the camp in gold and dew, soft light piercing through the trees like fingers parting a lover’s hair. Birds were already gossiping in the branches. The fire had long gone out, but the air still held heat. Hosea stirred first. He groaned low, rolled onto his side with a creak of tired joints. The blanket slipped down just enough to reveal the unmistakable shape straining against his trousers. His hand flew instinctively to his stomach, covering himself like a guilty teenager, jaw tight as he looked around. No sign of Bonnie. He cursed under his breath. Then he saw movement across the clearing.

Dutch. Standing, arms overhead, stretching in the sun like a man who hadn’t just spent the night twitching in his sleep, fists clenched, biting back the groans that came from need not pain. And below his belt? Clear as a damn sunrise: Dutch van der Linde was pitching a tent. He didn’t even try to hide it at first. Just stood there, shirt half unbuttoned, scratching his chest, cock throbbing hard against the front of his pants. His eyes drifted toward the path Bonnie had taken the night before, and he smirked. Hosea sat up, blanket in his lap, raising one grizzled brow. Dutch met his gaze, shameless.

—Don’t say it —Dutch grunted, adjusting himself slowly with zero shame— It’s a natural reaction to dangerous women. —You call that natural? —Hosea muttered— Looks like your trousers are about to declare war.

Dutch grinned, unrepentant.

—She’s poison in a white shirt. You saw the way she walked off last night. She knows.

Hosea exhaled through his nose, shifting again under the blanket.

—Yeah. She knows. And she likes it.

Dutch squinted toward the trees.

—You think she’ll come back decent?

Hosea didn't hesitate.

—Not a chance.

And they were right.

Bonnie returned barefoot, cheeks flushed, braid redone but loose, shirt wrinkled from sleep, and no damn bra in sight. Her hips swayed a little more than usual, and her fingers cradled a palmful of wild berries, stained red and ripe.

—Mornin’, boys —She said, bright as sunshine.

Dutch snatched up his coat and held it a little too casually over his lap. Hosea pulled the blanket closer, jaw locked. Bonnie plopped down between them without ceremony, popped a berry into her mouth, and licked the juice off her fingers in slow, lazy circles, like she wasn't doing it on purpose. And the bastards suffered.

Dutch clenched his jaw. Hosea stared into the fire pit like it held the answer to salvation. She smiled between them, feigned innocence glowing in her eyes.

—Something wrong? —She asked, sweet as molasses—. Y’all look… stiff.

Bonnie popped another berry between her lips, biting down with a soft crack. Juice streaked the corner of her mouth —deep red, like blood— and she didn’t wipe it away. Just let it sit there, slow and sticky, until her tongue came out and dragged it clean with deliberate care. Her eyes slid sideways, catching Dutch’s like a match finding dry kindling. He looked like a man on the edge of combustion. His jaw was so tight the muscle there jumped, hands clenched in his coat still pulled over his lap like some poor attempt at modesty. Not that it hid anything. Not really. His cock was still very much pressing against the inside of his trousers, thick and aching, outlined like the poor bastard hadn’t had relief in days. Bonnie’s gaze dipped, just for a beat. Then climbed right back up, slow.

—You look uncomfortable, Boss —she said, voice featherlight.

Dutch cleared his throat, shifted behind the coat.

—I’m fine. —You sure? —She leaned in just a little, enough to loosen the top button of her shirt, enough to let the edge of one freckled breast peek through the thin cotton—. Heat gettin’ to you?

Hosea made a strangled sound beside them. His own situation wasn’t much better—he’d pulled on his coat, but his body had betrayed him early, and Bonnie knew it. The way he kept his legs crossed tight, the twitch in his brow, the pink rising up his neck… He was a pressure cooker. She turned to him next, biting the tip of her stained finger.

—You sleep alright, Old Fox?

His mouth opened. Closed again.

—Sleep’s got nothin’ to do with it. —Mmh —She licked her fingertip—. You two tossin’ and turning all night?

Dutch growled under his breath.

—Christ.

Bonnie leaned back then, full stretch, arms over her head, spine arched like she didn’t have a care in the world. Her shirt rode up just enough to flash a sliver of belly: pale and smooth, dusted with copper freckles along the hip. Her braid spilled over her shoulder, and her thighs eased apart just slightly as she shifted, easy, open, completely at home in their gaze. Barefoot. Glowing. Dangerous. She turned her face toward the sunlight, eyes half-lidded.

—You ever have a dream so sweet, —She murmured— you wake up angry just ‘cause it ended?

Silence. She smiled.

—I did.

And that was the kill shot.

Dutch stood abruptly, cursing under his breath, turning from camp like he suddenly had somewhere urgent to be—anywhere she wasn’t. His hard-on was still prominent as he walked away, and he didn’t even try to hide it now. He just muttered something about saddling the horses, boots stomping toward the tether post like the ground had personally offended him. Hosea stayed put, but he wouldn’t look at her. His hands were locked in his lap. His face was flushed, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the dead fire like maybe if he stared hard enough, it’d burn again and give him a reason not to lose his goddamn mind. Bonnie leaned closer. Real close now. Warm enough to feel the heat coming off him, the tension wound tight as wire.

—I didn’t mean to tease —She whispered, almost tender— Much.

And finally, he looked at her. Full-on. Eye to eye. No mask. No humor. Just raw and real.

—You keep this up, Little Fox —He said hoarsely— and I’m gonna forget I’m old.

Bonnie grinned.

—That’s the point.

Hosea held her gaze a second too long. And that was all the invitation Bonnie needed. She didn't pull back. Didn't shift or soften. She stayed close, knees brushing his, her warmth cutting through the morning chill like sunlight through fog. The air between them shimmered with it—smoke, river water, and something unmistakably her. That scent she always carried, no matter how hard the day: crushed violets and heat, wild and sweet and hard to shake. Her eyes searched his face, slow and steady. No teasing now. No masks. Just truth.

—I remember —She said quietly, like the thought had just surfaced— You used to look at me like this. Back when I first got to camp. When you thought I wasn't watching.

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

—I still look at you. —I know —She said, voice like slow honey—. That’s why I’m not afraid.

His hand twitched in his lap, fingers curling like they wanted to move—to her knee, her cheek, the soft hollow of her throat—but didn’t. He kept it still. Barely.

—You’re dangerous like this —He said— Barefoot. Half-dressed. Sayin’ things I got no business wantin’ to hear.

She tilted her head.

—But you do want to hear 'em, don’t you?

He didn’t answer. That silence said plenty. Then, soft and deliberate, Bonnie lifted a berry from her palm—the ripest one, dark and glossy—and held it out to him.

—Open —She said, voice soft but sure.

Their eyes locked. He hesitated. A hundred things flickered behind his stare: warning bells, old rules, buried wants... But he opened his mouth. And in the meantime? Dutch’s watching. That cocky son of a bitch knew exactly what he was doing from the start. Sending Arthur away? Intentional. Planning a “simple” mission with just Hosea and Bonnie? Calculated. Letting her walk off barefoot in a wet shirt without a word? That wasn’t restraint, it was performance. Dutch knows when to push, when to pull, and when to step back just far enough to make everyone want him more. But behind those sermons and smirks? He’s watching. Watching how Hosea fights himself not to touch her. Watching how Bonnie lights up when the old man calls her “Little Fox.” Watching how she teases, tests, and tugs the leash just to see which wolf lunges first. And Dutch wants to lunge. God, he wants to slam her back against a tree and claim every inch she’s been waving in front of him. But he also wants Hosea to want her. He wants that storm. That tension. Dutch’s smirking behind his collar, saddle already cinched, eyes flicking from Bonnie’s sway to Hosea’s clenched fists, and his cock still hard behind those damn pinstriped trousers. She pressed the berry to his tongue. Her fingers brushed his lower lip. He bit down, slow, juice blooming sweet and tart in his mouth, and her touch lingered a second too long before pulling back. Then, she sucked the leftover juice from her thumb, watching him the whole time.

—I think I want trouble today —She murmured.

That did it.

His hand shot out, catching her wrist. Not rough —never rough— but firm. Like a man finally giving in to something he’d locked away for too damn long.

—You think this is a game, Bonnie?

She leaned in, lips a breath from his.

—No, —She whispered— I think it’s a fire. And you’re gonna burn with me.

His breath stuttered. He was one second from giving in. One second from dragging her into his lap and letting the whole world go to hell. And then...

—Let’s ride!

Dutch’s voice cracked through the trees like a gunshot. Bonnie startled, then laughed. A wicked, bright thing, like she was delighted to have been caught almost-sinning. Hosea groaned, dragging a hand down his face, trying to cool the blood still pounding in every inch of him. Dutch came striding into view, looking smug and scowling all at once, saddlebags slung over his shoulder and that cocky edge in his voice like he knew exactly how close they’d just come to falling into each other.

—We’ve got horses to steal —He said, throwing a look at Hosea that was half challenge, half warning.

Bonnie stood, brushing dirt from her pants. Her hips moved easy again, back in rhythm. But as she passed Hosea, she leaned in just enough to breathe something soft in his ear:

—Tonight.

Then she was gone, braid swinging.

Hosea sat there for a long beat, hands clenched, jaw tight, and every part of him aching in places he’d sworn were long dead. Dutch slapped him on the shoulder as he passed.

—You’re welcome, old friend.

And then he followed her.

They had breakfast on the way, when the morning was still fresh. They rode single-file through the hills, hooves thudding soft over packed dirt, birds scattering from the underbrush as their shadows slipped across the sun-warmed trail. Dutch rode up front, of course—always had to lead—but for once, his pace was lazy, reins in one hand, other resting on the horn of his saddle like a king surveying his kingdom. Behind him rode Bonnie, perched like sin on horseback—her hips rising and falling with every step the mare took, that loose braid bouncing off her back, her shirt clinging tight in the heat of midmorning. She hummed softly to herself, an old tune, familiar, almost wistful. Not loud. Not meant to be heard. But Dutch heard it. And Hosea, riding behind her, definitely heard it too. His jaw was set, hat pulled low, but the sound still found him, slid under his ribs like a slow knife. Dutch glanced back once and caught Hosea staring—eyes locked on the sway of her body like a starving man watching a feast from across the table. Dutch smiled, slow and knowing.

—Suppose it’s nice, ridin’ quiet for once —He called over his shoulder.

Bonnie tilted her head, half-grinning.

—Too quiet? I could start talkin’. —Oh God, —Hosea muttered.

She laughed —sharp and bright— and twisted in her saddle just enough to glance back at him.

—What? I've been good. Quiet. You know that's not normal. You should be worried. —I am. —You like it.

Dutch chuckled, deep in his throat.

—You two fightin’ over whether she shuts up or keeps talkin’? That’s a hell of a choice. —Then you pick, —Bonnie said, looking forward again, the wind teasing the ends of her braid—. Do you like me better quiet, Dutch? Or beggin’?

Silence. Thick as tar. Dutch didn't turn. Didn't say a word. Just clicked his tongue and let his horse move ahead a little faster, like he needed space before his mouth betrayed the thoughts crawling behind his eyes. Bonnie smiled, all sunshine and sin. Hosea tried not to watch her. God knew he tried. But it was impossible. Every movement she made on that damn horse sent a signal, like her body was speaking in a language no one taught him but that he understood all the same. The sway of her hips, the arch of her back, even the way her braid swung just off-center… it all burned into his brain like brands. And that voice, soft and knowing, always dancing just on the edge of flirtation, never falling in. It made him feel young and stupid and ancient all at once. He tugged his hat lower, more out of habit than hope. Like a man hiding from the sun when the sun's already under his skin. Dutch hadn’t answered her. Of course he hadn’t. Because Dutch didn’t have answers anymore, not where she was concerned. He had distance. He had denial. And Hosea had nothing but a thundering pulse and a stomach full of gravel.

She was too much. Too young, too wild, too unafraid. And God help him, he loved that about her. Loved it like a fool, like a man who knew better but still held his hand over the flame. He’d warned her once. Told her she was dangerous. But the truth? He was the one in danger. Not because she was cruel or careless, no. Because she saw him. She saw through him. The cracks. The years. The ache he carried like old injuries that still twinged in the cold. And she didn’t look away. That’s what undid him. Not the shirt. Not the smile. Not even that voice like honeyed sin. It was the knowing. She knew he wanted her. She knew he hadn’t touched a woman in longer than he’d admit, hadn’t needed like this in even longer. And still, she offered herself up in pieces —little looks, small smiles, berries between her fingers— and dared him to take one. He clenched his jaw, hands tight on the reins. Ahead, she leaned a little to the side, brushing her fingers along a tall stem of goldenrod as they passed. Careless. Glowing. Alive. And all Hosea could think was: Tonight. Goddamn me, but if she says it again tonight, I don’t think I’ll be strong enough to walk away.

They stopped at a grove near a shallow creek, the kind that shimmered in the sun and hummed with insects and the quiet hush of moving water. It was peaceful, for a moment. The kind of peace that only ever came before a storm. They dismounted without a word, muscle memory, all of it. Bonnie stretched slow, arms rising above her head, spine arching in a long, lazy curve. Her breasts lifted beneath the thin cotton of her shirt, nipples outlined where the breeze had dried her sweat but not her heat. She let out a low, satisfied sound —half yawn, half groan— and the men both heard it like a shot fired too close to the ear. Dutch glanced. Just once. But once was enough.

—Christ —He muttered under his breath.

Bonnie led her mare to the creek, glancing back over her shoulder like she’d heard him anyway.

—You alright, Boss? —She asked, all sugar. —Never better —He replied tightly, jaw locked, voice rough like gravel and smoke.

He watched her move to the water’s edge, all hips and barefoot swagger, leading her mare with one hand like she didn’t have a care in the world. Like she didn’t just knock the air clean out of his lungs. And then Hosea was there. Dutch didn’t move. Just leaned a boot up on a flat rock, adjusted the tilt of his hat. Watched. Hosea took the reins from her, too carefully. His hand brushed hers, and Dutch saw it: how Hosea tensed, how his jaw tightened like it hurt to be near her. Bonnie saw it too, of course. She always did. Dutch could see her turn that little smile loose, the one that could ruin a man or save him depending on how close he stood.

—You’ve been quiet, —She said softly.

Dutch knew that voice. Low. Intentional. Like bait in a steel trap.

—Tryin’ not to say somethin’ I’ll regret, —He answered, eyes fixed on the water like it might cool him.

And Dutch felt a twinge in his gut, not jealousy, no. Something older than that. Something hungrier. Then she stepped closer, just enough that the heat of her body bled into his. Close enough to smell her—sun-warmed cotton, river water, skin. Wild and clean and a little cruel.

—Then say it anyway, —She murmured.

He turned to her, slow, like it took effort. His eyes were darker now, full of things he didn’t dare speak. One hand rose without permission, brushing a loose strand of damp hair from her cheek. His knuckles lingered a second too long. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Her lips parted just enough to take him in if he bent forward one inch more. But he didn’t. Not yet. Dutch didn’t have to hear every word. He could feel what was happening from across the creek. The shift in the air. The way Hosea looked at her like she was a lit match and he’d already soaked himself in whiskey. The way her lips parted when he touched her face, like the world had gone quiet just for them. He didn’t step in. He didn’t need to. He let it unfold. He smirked under his hat. He didn’t need to win her first. He just needed her wild enough to want them both. And that was already happening.

The ranch sat crooked at the edge of a sun-bleached field: too clean, too proud, too smug in its money. White-picket fences stood out like polished teeth. The red barn looked freshly painted, like it had never seen a real storm. And the house… damn thing had a wraparound porch that curled across the front like a banker’s mustache—big, showy, and begging to be punched. Three horses grazed in a side paddock, their coats sleek, bellies full. Two were solid bays, strong and steady. But the third—black with a silver mane—looked like he’d been carved out of smoke and speed. Fast enough to outrun a bullet. Dutch turned in the saddle, that familiar gleam in his eye.

—Alright, —He said, voice all honey and heat— Let’s go steal some fuckin’ horses.

Bonnie eyed them from the rise. Her fingers brushed the handle of her knife like she was petting it, and her eyes glinted mean.

—Three horses, —she whispered—. Just like you said.

Dutch smiled, smug as a fox in a henhouse.

—I don’t lie about the good things. —Just the bad ones —Hosea said dryly.

Bonnie snorted. Dutch just winked, unfazed. He nodded toward the barn.

—We go quiet. Bonnie, you take the west side, check the tack room, look for saddles already packed. Hosea and I will come around the back. We spook the horses, we’re fucked. —You always say that —Bonnie said, rising and brushing dust from her thighs— And we always end up spooked anyway.

Dutch grinned wider.

—That’s why I bring you.

She gave him a wink —quick and wicked— then dropped low, melting into the grass like she was born to it.

Her braid bounced behind her, a flash of dark gold swinging like a banner before battle. Hosea’s jaw worked as he watched her go. Dutch leaned close, elbowing him with a crooked smile.

—She moves like smoke. —She moves like trouble —Hosea muttered—. And you’re feedin’ it.

Dutch chuckled, cinching his coat against the wind.

—I ain’t feedin’ it —He said—. I’m unleashing it.

Bonnie reached the side of the barn fast, ducking under the slats of the fence, slipping into shadow. The barn door was half-cracked, creaking on its hinge. Inside, the air was thick with hay and leather and horse sweat, and the shadows twitched in the rafters as she crept in, eyes adjusting fast. She found the tack room, unlocked. Saddles, bits, reins, all lined up clean and neat. Rich folks. Always proud. Always careless. Saddles lined the wall, polished to a shine, reins looped clean, brass bits gleaming. She ran a hand over the supple leather of the finest saddle and gave a low, impressed whistle.

—Damn —She muttered— These horses fuckin’ eat better than we do.

Behind her, a floorboard creaked. She turned sharp, knife drawn, heart hammering. But it was Dutch. He stepped in from the dark, a little too close, smile crooked.

—You shouldn’t let me sneak up on you —He said. —You shouldn’t sneak —She replied, breath still tight.

Dutch pretended to inspect the saddles, but his jaw was clenched tight, and his eyes kept drifting—her shirt, still damp at the hem; her chest, rising and falling a little faster than before. He didn’t linger. Just looked. Once.

—You smell like river water —He said finally, voice rough— And soap.

Bonnie’s tongue darted across her bottom lip. Her eyes didn’t leave his.

—You smell like want.

His laugh was quiet, low and dangerous.

—You’re lucky I’ve got a job to finish, —He said— Or I’d have you pinned to that haystack by now.

She stepped closer, deliberate, dragging the tip of her knife along her thigh as she passed. Her hip brushed his. She leaned in near his ear, voice barely more than breath.

—You’d try —She whispered.

And then she was gone, slipping through the tack room like smoke. Dutch stayed rooted to the floor. Just for a second. Maybe two. But long enough. Long enough for her scent to linger: river-washed skin, horsehide, sweat, and something sweet beneath it, like crushed flowers and danger. Long enough for his blood to thrum like a war drum in his ears. That hip brush hadn’t been accidental. That whisper? A brand. He exhaled hard through his nose, jaw working, trying to wrestle himself back under control. The haystack loomed behind him, inviting. And for one sharp, dangerous heartbeat, he nearly let himself forget the job. Just toss it. Let the horses run. Pin her down like he said. See what she'd whisper then. But he didn’t. He was still Dutch van der Linde. And Dutch van der Linde didn’t chase. He lured. And Bonnie? Bonnie didn’t run. She danced.

He stepped into the tack room proper, fists loose at his sides but knuckles pale with tension. He looked over the saddles again, pretending to study the quality, the leatherwork, the stitching—anything to keep his thoughts off the way she’d walked away, braid swinging like a damn taunt. Goddamn that girl. She was always half-laughing, even when she wasn’t smiling. Always pushing. Always daring. And the worst part —the part that burrowed under his skin like a splinter— was that she knew exactly what she was doing to him. To both of them. Hosea saw it too. Felt it. Hell, Dutch wanted him to feel it. Because this wasn’t just about Bonnie. Not really. This was about tension, and control, and power. Who’d break first. Who’d take the first bite and bleed for it. He adjusted his belt and muttered under his breath, more to the barn walls than anyone else.

—Little witch.

Then he turned on his heel, swagger returned, heat buried deep under a practiced grin. He had horses to steal. But tonight? Tonight, maybe he’d let himself burn.

Outside, Hosea had already slipped around back, low and quiet, coaxing the horses with soft words and a palmful of stolen oats. The black gelding snorted, tossing its head, but didn’t bolt. Hosea murmured to him like he’d known him forever—gentle hands, voice warm as whiskey. Bonnie appeared beside him, her steps silent, eyes gleaming.

—You’ve got good hands with beasts —She said, voice low. —You includin’ yourself now?

She smirked.

—I’m not that wild.

He gave her a look. She grinned.

—Okay. Maybe I am.

Together, they moved quick: slipping halters, fingers brushing accidentally as they worked, Bonnie tossing a wink he pretended not to see. From the shadows, Dutch emerged with two saddles slung over one shoulder and that cool, unreadable expression he wore when things were about to go sideways. Then it did. A dog barked from the porch. Too damn loud. Dutch froze mid-step. Dutch froze mid-step.

—Shit.

A screen door creaked open. A man’s voice followed.

—What the hell’s goin’ on out here!?

Bonnie didn’t hesitate. She turned to Hosea, eyes wide, urgent.

—Push me down.

He blinked.

—What? —Just... trust me.

She didn’t wait. She shoved the gelding’s reins behind the trough, grabbed Hosea by the collar, and dropped low, dragging him down behind the water barrel. They landed hard—her on top of him, chest to chest, legs tangled, breath hot and fast.

—Don’t. Move —She whispered into his ear.

Hosea didn’t. Not because of the man with the shotgun stomping off the porch. Not because of the dog barking its fool head off. But because Bonnie was straddling him: wet shirt clinging, braid falling over her shoulder like a noose, breath brushing his jaw in soft, shaky bursts. Her thighs gripped his hips, and the heat of her pressed into every place he didn’t want it to be. Not now. Not like this. Except... yeah, like this. He clenched his jaw, breathing through his nose, trying not to move. Above them, Dutch melted into shadow like he was born there, circling wide, vanishing behind the barn again without a sound.

—Goddamn dog always barkin’ at ghosts, —The rancher muttered, flashlight sweeping past them, missing by inches.

A long silence followed. Then the porch door creaked again. Shut. Bonnie didn’t move. Hosea stared up at her.

—You planned that?

She looked down at him, flushed and wild, and grinned like sin itself.

—Only part of it.

Then her hips shifted. Just a fraction. Just enough. Hosea groaned under his breath, the sound raw and dangerous. Bonnie leaned in, lips brushing his cheek. Not quite a kiss. But enough to burn.

—Later —She whispered, and climbed off him like it hadn’t cost her anything.

Then she stood, cool and composed, brushing herself off like she hadn’t just straddled a man to keep him silent and hard as hell. Dutch returned moments later, leading the other two horses, eyes flicking from her to Hosea and back again.

—Let’s move.

They rode for nearly an hour once they cleared the ranch—no words, just the thunder of hooves and the sting of wind in their faces. The trail blurred beneath them, sun climbing higher, burning off the sweat slicking their necks. But the real heat rode with them. The kind that couldn’t be outrun. Bonnie didn’t look back once. She didn’t have to. She could feel them. Hosea behind her, saddle creaking under his weight, eyes locked on the swing of her braid like it was some kind of spell. She knew he was replaying it—the press of her body, the rasp of her breath against his ear, the sharp, dangerous stillness of hiding with her while the shotgun passed. He hadn’t said a word since. But his silence crackled like a struck match.

Dutch rode up front, jaw tight, reins wrapped too tight around his gloved hands. He hadn’t spoken either. Just chewed the inside of his cheek and stared straight ahead, like forward was the only safe direction. But the image clung to him like sweat: her hips straddling Hosea’s thighs, shirt still wet, her voice a whisper between command and seduction. It burned. They crested a ridge and dropped into a clearing—a hush of land tucked low in a pocket of cedar, still cool in the shade. The moment they pulled up, the tension snapped like a bowstring. They all dismounted. Three horses, stolen and secured. One mission, technically complete. And two men ready to make mistakes they’d never be able to bury deep enough.

━━━━━「 NAVI 」

Hosea flips through, chuckling softly.

—Section 4.3: ‘Scheduled vs. Spontaneous Intimacy: A Balanced Approach.’ Dutch, did you make a flowchart? —A guideline —Dutch corrects, pointing a finger— To prevent overlap, to ensure equity of attention, and most importantly... —he turns his burning gaze to Bonnie— ...to protect our queen from exhaustion or neglect.

Bonnie blushes, tucking her feet under her.

—I ain’t neglected.

The Rules (A Sampling):

1. The Primary Scheduling Clause: “While spontaneity is the spice of life, advance notice (where possible) is a courtesy. A shared digital calendar will be utilized for ‘private engagements’ lasting more than two hours.” 2. The Common Area Decorum Addendum: “Displays of affection beyond PG-13 rating are reserved for private bedrooms or designated ‘adult hours’ after 10 PM. The kitchen island is for food preparation, not other forms of… preparation.” 3. The Conflict Resolution & Preference Protocol: “If a dispute arises regarding timing or attention, a civilized discussion will be held, mediated by the senior member present (typically Hosea or myself). Bonnie’s stated preference, however, is final and absolute.” 4. The Post-Coital Care Commitment: “The partner(s) involved in a given encounter are responsible for aftercare, which includes, but is not limited to: hydration, snack retrieval, and appropriate cuddling duration. This is non-negotiable.” 5. The ‘No Sulking’ Amendment: “If Bonnie chooses to spend time with one partner over another on a given night, the unchosen parties will conduct themselves with maturity. Passive aggression will result in dish duty for a week.”

Arthur gets to the last page, where there’s a line for signatures. He looks up, deadpan.

—You want us to sign it. —To signify our mutual agreement to the covenant! —Dutch proclaims.

Hosea is already signing his with a flourish, grinning.

—I think it’s charming. And Section 5.2 about ‘Laundry Responsibility for Bedding’ is just good sense.

Bonnie bites her lip, trying not to laugh. She looks at Arthur, whose scowl is slowly melting into reluctant amusement. He meets her eyes, and a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face.

—Alright —Arthur rumbles, picking up a pen— But I’m addin’ a rider.

He flips to the back and scrawls in messy cursive: Addendum A: Arthur’s Right to Revoke All Rules in Cases of Extreme Cuteness or When Bonnie Wears Those Little Shorts.

Dutch reads it, splutters, then throws his hands up.

—Fine! Fine! Amendments are part of a living document!

Bonnie finally giggles, snatching the pen to sign her own name.

—You’re all ridiculous.

Dutch beams, collecting the papers.

—Ridiculous? No. We are organized. Now, who’s for wine? I believe it’s my night for ‘scheduled intimacy,’ and I intend to open a Bordeaux that breathes for precisely forty-five minutes…

Arthur just shakes his head, pulls Bonnie into his lap, and whispers in her ear:

—Don’t worry. I ain’t ever checkin’ that calendar.

The rules are, of course, broken constantly —usually by Arthur, sometimes by Dutch himself in a fit of passion— but the document remains framed in the hallway, a testament to Dutch’s glorious, ridiculous, and deeply heartfelt attempt to build a kingdom of love with bylaws.

━━━━━「 NAVI 」

main m.list ✧ arthur m.list ✧ dutch m.list ✧ hosea m.list ✧ bonnie m.list

She wipes her hands slow on her trousers and drifts closer without a word, leaning her hip against the wagon. Close enough for him to smell that faint sweetness of soap she must’ve swiped from Pearson’s stash.

—You gonna help me with the horses, Pretty Boy? —Her voice is low, pitched for him alone, lazy as molasses with a thread of promise wound through it— Or you too busy pretending you ain’t been starin’ at my backside all evening?

Arthur snorts —rough, embarrassed— but he doesn’t deny it. His eyes track her face, then slide down, slow as a man rolling a cigarette just to feel the paper catch. His big hand flexes around the knife handle like he’s thinking of other ways it could be put to use.

—Might be, —He rumbles, voice low enough to keep from carrying past the fire—. Depends what you need, Green Eyes.

Bonnie hums, the tip of her tongue flickering over her bottom lip. She lets the quiet breathe for a moment, the distant low whicker of her mare waiting in the barn.

—I need a strong back —She says finally, soft as a bedtime secret— Might be heavy lifting tonight. Feed, tack… other things. Could wait 'til morning, but I don't much care to be all sweaty.

Arthur’s mouth twitches, that almost-smile he tries to hide behind the bristle of his beard. He glances past her, quick, to see if Hosea’s paying mind. Nobody is. The hush of the prairie is thick around them: frogs starting up by the creek, a coyote yipping far off. He flicks the knife closed, slips it back into his boot.

—All right, Clover —His voice drops lower, so deep she feels it warm between her thighs— Lead on, then.

She pushes off the wagon, a little bounce in her step that makes her braid sway like a horse’s tail. She doesn’t look back to see if he follows, she knows he does. The barn’s waiting. Old wood and hay dust hanging in beams under the last rays of the sunset.

Bonnie slips inside first, boots crunching on straw, breath catching a little at the thought of him behind her: that big bear of a man closing the door, shutting out the rest of the world. She pauses by her mare’s stall, smoothing a hand along the warm flank. The horse shifts, nosing her palm, but Bonnie’s eyes are on Arthur now, a slow, hungry grin curving her mouth.

—So, —She says, sweet as sugar with an edge of steel— Still think you can handle it, Pretty Boy?

Arthur steps in close, the wooden floor creaking under his weight, the barn air thick with horse sweat, old leather, and hay; a worn, warm scent that clings like a blanket nobody’s washed in weeks. She feels him before she turns, that solid wall of heat at her back, the tension in his shoulders wound tight as a rope ready to snap. Her hand drifts up the mare’s flank, slow, fingers trailing until they catch on the saddle slung loose over the stall rail. Her voice comes light, too light, carrying a tease sharp enough to cut through the hush.

—You ever wonder what folks’d say, —She drawls, eyes bright as candleflame— if they caught the big bad Arthur Morgan locked up in here with little ol’ me?

Arthur answers with that low grunt of a laugh he gives when he doesn’t dare say what’s really in his head. He plants one hand on the stall door beside her, caging her in without even meaning to, the other brushing at the brass buckle of his belt like it itches him.

—Probably say you finally got me roped —He rumbles, deep enough she feels it in her ribs.

Bonnie twists just enough for her braid to slide forward and brush his chest. She’s close enough now to catch the whiskey on his breath, the salt of sweat at his throat where his shirt hangs open. Her hand leaves the saddle, hovering low near his belt — not touching yet, just close enough for the heat to jump the gap between them.

—Mm, —She hums, pretending to think— Roped’s not my style. Tied, maybe… —Her smile goes sly and sharp— But you’d like that too much.

Arthur snorts, but his hips shift forward, a small betrayal his mouth can’t cover for. He starts to say something, but she moves first: two fingers, feather-light, ghosting the inside of his thigh until he jerks like a horse spooked by thunder.

—Bonnie —He warns, half-growl, half-plea.

She looks up through her lashes, wide-eyed, all false innocence under the thin spill of sunset through the barn slats.

—I should brush her down —She says, tilting her head toward the mare, who’s half-dozing under the hush of their voices—. She worked hard today.

She loves to play, a little fox in the straw, soft paws and sharp teeth. Arthur swallows hard, jaw ticking.

—You dragged me out here, —He says, voice raw with the heat he’s fighting down— to brush a damn horse?

Bonnie shrugs, playful and merciless all at once. She slips past him in the tight stall space, her shoulder grazing his chest, her braid catching on his shirt buttons like it wants to pull him along for the ride. She bends to the grooming box, ass tight in those work trousers, every movement deliberate as a card trick.

—Mm-hm, —She murmurs, fingers sifting through the brushes— You gonna help, or just stand there starin’?

She straightens —slow, slower— and presses the brush into his big palm, her fingers curling around his for a heartbeat too long before letting go. That grin of hers is pure trouble, sweet as stolen pie. She backs deeper into the stall, the mare shifting aside like even she knows the game.

—Be gentle with her, —Bonnie says, her voice silk slipping over steel— She spooks easy when a big bear comes huffin’ and puffin’ too close.

She drags her thumb slow across her bottom lip, watching how he watches her: the stiffness in his shoulders wound tight, his eyes tracking her like a caged thing measuring the bars. A low hum slips from her throat, some tune without words, as she flicks a bit of straw from her sleeve and leans one hip against the stall wall, just out of reach, where he can’t touch her unless he dares to step closer.

—You look real pretty with a brush in your hand, Pretty Boy, —She purrs, voice warm enough to curl under his skin— Go on… show me how good you are with your touch.

Arthur stands stiff in the stall, brush hovering just shy of the mare’s sleek flank, eyes narrowing at Bonnie like she’s the meanest thing he’s ever laid eyes on. He’s seen men gut-shot and dying in snowdrifts, but not one of ‘em ever made him ache like this.

—Jesus Christ, girl —He mutters under his breath, dragging the bristles over the horse’s coat more out of habit than focus— Dutch fill your head with all this devilry?

Bonnie hums low, lazy, her grin curling at the corners like smoke from a slow fire. She pushes off the wall and drifts closer, circling behind him until she’s near enough for the heat of her breath to stir the hair at his collar. She still doesn’t touch him. That’s the knife edge of her game: close enough to haunt him with it, too far to give him relief. Her mouth hovers by his ear, her words brushing his skin like the kiss she won’t give.

—Dutch taught me a lotta things, —She whispers, soft enough the mare flicks an ear toward her voice— Taught me to watch a man’s eyes when he wants somethin’ he can’t have. Taught me how to talk pretty so he thinks it’s his idea to beg for it.

Arthur’s shoulders tense under his shirt. She catches the way his breath swells his chest, the flicker of him about to bark at her... and laughs instead, sweet and sharp, the sound trickling down his spine like cold whiskey. She drifts back into his sight, slow enough to watch him burn. The brush hangs loose in his hand now, forgotten. Her finger trace along the mare’s bridle, but her eyes never leave his mouth.

—You mad at him? —She asks, her voice dipped in honey and salt— Mad he made me like this? Or mad ‘cause he didn’t teach you how to tame me first?

Arthur grits his teeth.

—Ain’t no taming you, Clover —He growls, low, steady, cutting— World tried. Look what it got. —Mmm —She hums, stepping close enough her chest almost grazes his.

The mare sidesteps behind them, restless in the heat building between their bodies. Bonnie tilts her head, braid swinging forward to brush over his knuckles where they grip the brush handle — just a whisper of skin to skin.

—That’s right —She says, sweet as pie, cruel as a wolf— Ain’t no taming me. But you can try, Pretty Boy. You always try.

Arthur tosses the brush down hard enough that the mare snorts and sidesteps, straw rustling under hoof. He crowds her against the stall rail, big hands braced on either side of her shoulders. Close enough now that she can feel the tremor in him: want and frustration twisting up his throat. Bonnie just laughs, soft and bright, the sound fluttering against his lips like a dare. She tips her chin up, eyes glittering green-gold in the lantern light.

—You gonna scold me, Bear? —She murmurs, voice purring low enough to vibrate in his bones— Or you gonna show me what all that cussin’s for?

She lifts one finger —slow as sin— and taps it against his chest. Once. Twice. Right above the hard, hammering thud of his heart. Arthur’s big hands slam into the stall rail behind her with a crack of old wood, the mare jerking with a startled whinny. Bonnie’s grin flashes —too wide, too sharp— but she doesn’t get the chance to drawl out another word. He’s on her in a heartbeat, mouth crashing over hers like a wild swing in a backroom brawl. He growls into her lips, low and mean, teeth catching her bottom lip hard enough she tastes copper bright on her tongue. She laughs into it, her fingers curling into the rough collar of his shirt, yanking him closer until their chests lock, heartbeat to heartbeat.

—You little fox, —He snarls when he drags back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath hot and ragged against her grin— You think Dutch taught you tricks? I’ll teach you somethin’ else.

She’s ready with some wicked retort, but he catches her jaw in one calloused hand, thumb pressing into the soft spot under her chin, cutting her off. His other hand slides down, rough palm dragging over the thin fabric of her shirt, heat burning through each button until it finds her hip. He squeezes, hard enough to promise she’ll remember it later. She leans into it, hips pressing forward until he hisses against her cheek. Her lashes flick up, eyes wide with mock innocence, voice coming out like a dare wrapped in sugar.

—That all you got, Bear?

His thumb slides from her jaw to her lips, and she parts them without him asking, taking him between her teeth and biting just enough to make him swear under his breath.

—Goddamn you —He rasps. His knee kicks her legs apart, boots grinding straw underfoot. The mare shifts, flank brushing Bonnie’s back like she’s leaning in too, a warm witness to every filthy sound.

Arthur shoves his thigh between hers, pins her to the rail so she can’t squirm away, not that she’d ever dream of it. She gasps, soft and sharp, when he grinds that thick muscle up against her, her trousers catching on the rough denim of his. Her hands are everywhere: clawing at his shirt, tugging at his belt, dragging him closer and closer until she can’t breathe for the heat of him.

—You like playin’, huh? —He growls, voice shredding low in her ear, his breath damp on her neck— Dutch teach you how to tease a man ‘til he loses his damn mind? You proud of that, Clover?

She hums her answer around his thumb, tongue slick and taunting. He snarls —a sound that’s more animal than man— and yanks his hand free only to grab her braid tight at the nape, jerking her head back to bare her throat. Her laugh flickers bright and mean, broken into a gasp when his teeth scrape her neck hard enough she knows she’ll be wearing him come dawn.

He grinds his thigh harder between hers, the rail biting into her back, the barn walls catching the slap of leather and rustle of straw. One soft whimper escapes her, and he’s on it instantly, mouth sealing over hers like he’s starving, drinking the sound down deep.

—Gonna shut that smart mouth —He mutters against her lips— Gonna make you say my name so pretty Dutch’ll hear it in his damn sleep.

She bites him back —lip, tongue, whatever she can catch— her fingers now frantic at his belt buckle, clumsy and laughing in the same breath.

—Do it then, Pretty Boy, —She breathes, voice all ragged sugar— Show me. Break me in for him, hmm?

Arthur growls —deep, raw— and shoves her harder into the rail, mouth smashing over hers again as his hands drop, fingers fighting the buttons on her waistband. The horses shift restless, the barn thick with heat and the dry rustle of straw, the creak of old wood carrying the sound of them.

His rough fingers slide higher, fumbling at her shirt now, breath hot against her throat, that low growl in his chest rattling through her ribs like a warning bell no one ever heeds. Bonnie’s laughing into his mouth, tasting sweat, dust, and sin, until he pops the last button and yanks the fabric apart so fast it snaps a seam. She gasps when the air hits her, the barn’s warm, but it’s still a shock on flushed skin. Arthur pulls back just far enough to look, dragging his gaze down over the swell of her breasts beneath the thin cotton shift. Not much to it, a scrap of fabric already damp where she’s pressed against him, the faint outline of her nipples teasing through like a dare.

Arthur’s hand comes up, slow at first, like he’s trying to burn the picture into his skull so he can take it with him when he rides out to kill or die tomorrow. He slides his palm over the soft curve, thumb brushing the swell where the shift’s gaping open now. She shivers under it, hips shifting against his thigh, breath catching sweet in her throat.

—Jesus, Bon… —He murmurs, voice gone low, almost reverent, like she’s something holy he means to ruin anyway— Ain’t never get tired of seein’ you like this.”

She smiles, smug and soft all at once, eyes heavy-lidded as she arches into his touch.

—Ain’t like them saloon girls, am I? —She whispers, voice pitched for him alone over the shuffle of hooves— Ain’t no painted tits all pushed up for coins.

Arthur’s jaw tightens. He dips his head, mouth catching the top swell of her breast, stubble scraping the sensitive skin just right. She draws in a sharp breath, her grip on his shoulders tightening until her knuckles ache.

—No, —He rasps against her flesh, tongue dragging up to the peak where her nipple strains against the shift— Ain’t like ‘em at all. Made for me, huh? Just right. Fuckin’ perfect.

His hand cups her fully now —not too big, not too small— perfect in his palm. His thumb circles the hardening nub, slow at first, then pressing with wicked intent until her hips buck into his thigh again. Her head tips back, braid dragging against the stall rail, mouth falling open on a breathy laugh that melts into a hiss when he bites her gently through the cloth. She arches, offering more, needing more now that he’s got her half-bared and breathless.

—Arthur... —She starts, but he shushes her with his teeth, dragging the shift down just far enough to bare her to the warm of the last light of the day.

For a heartbeat, he just stares, like it’s the first time all over again. Her breasts flushed and tight, nipples stiff from his touch and the hush wrapping around them.

—Goddamn —He mutters, voice scraped raw.

His palm cups one, thumb circling the peak, while his mouth closes hot and wet over the other, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just to pull that sweet gasp she tries to swallow.

Her hands tangle in his hair, dragging him closer, pressing his mouth to her chest like she’d fuse him there. A laugh shivers out of her — half-taunt, half-moan.

—Good boy, —She pants, hips grinding on his thigh as he sucks harder, his stubble rasping her skin in the sweetest way— Fuck, Arthur… fuck, that’s it—

He growls against her breast, the sound thrumming down her belly until it pools low and molten between her thighs. His free hand finds her other breast, kneading slow, thumb teasing her nipple until she’s squirming against the stall rail, caught between the creak of wood, the restless shift of horses, and his mouth claiming her like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot, lips slick, voice a rasp dragged over gravel.

—Ain’t no painted whore —He says again, thumb rolling her nipple until her breath stutters—. Ain’t nobody’s but mine.

Bonnie laughs —wicked, sweet— rolling her hips against him like she’s branding him back.

—Yours, then —She purrs, chest rising under his greedy hands— Now what you gonna do with what’s yours, huh, Bear?

Arthur leaves her breast with a wet pop, beard rasping a raw path up her throat. His big hand catches her jaw, thumb smudged with her heat and spit, and then he spins her like she weighs nothing. Her palms smack the barn wall with a hollow thud, fingers clawing for purchase on splintered planks. She bites down on a laugh that wants to spill bright, lets it curl into a grin he can’t see.

He steps in close behind, chest pressed to her back, hips grinding against her ass through her trousers. She can feel him already —thick, hard— a promise straining behind his belt buckle. His breath saws ragged at the base of her neck, nose buried in the braid coiled over her shoulder.

—You think you’re clever —He mutters, voice shredded, one hand braced on the wall beside hers while the other slips low, palm dragging down her side, over her hip, slow as thunder. —I know I’m clever —Bonnie shoots back, voice breaking sweet when his fingers hook into her waistband. She arches into him, grinding her hips just enough to make him hiss through his teeth— Dutch taught me... —Fuck Dutch —Arthur growls, louder than he means to, the horses behind them shifting restless at the snap of his voice. He jerks the buttons on her trousers open rough, one popping, the rest giving under the brute insistence of his fingers.

The fabric slips down, linen brushing her thighs, baring skin flushed from heat and want. The lamplight catches on the pale curve of her ass, speckled in freckles and faint marks he’s left before — and will again. He stills, just for a beat, palms heavy on the swell of her, thumbs digging deep like he’s deciding whether to worship or bruise. She glances back over her shoulder, catching the molten dark in his stare: mouth parted, beard damp where she bit him.

—Look at you —He rasps, the words filthy and reverent all at once. His thumbs trace slow over her, sliding down into the sweet hollow where thigh meets curve, soft enough to make something in his chest twist— Christ almighty, Bon…

She arches her back, a wicked roll of her hips that sends her ass pressing back into his groin. She feels the ridge of him, thick and heavy behind his fly, she feels the way he stutters out a breath when she grinds just right.

—Yours, huh? —She teases, low and dangerous—. All this trouble. All this soft. Just for you, Pretty Boy.

Arthur’s only answer is a growl, raw and hungry, buried in the nape of her neck as he bends over her. His hands slide up from the bare dip of her hips to her waist, hauling her back until she’s pinned between the wall and the hard length of him pressing against her slit through her shift.

—Mine —He snarls, teeth catching the shell of her ear— Ain’t nobody else gonna see you like this. Nobody else gonna feel how soft you get for me.

He drags one hand down again, palm rough over the small of her back, fingers slipping lower, tracing the curve where her thigh meets that sweet cleft he aches to fill.

He doesn’t push in yet, he just teases, brushing knuckles over slick heat, a soft grunt when he feels how wet she is already. Bonnie lets out a breathy laugh, forehead pressed to the splintered wood, cheek turned so he can see her grin split wide.

—So, show me, Pretty Boy —She pants, hips pushing back into his hand— Show me who I belong to.

Arthur drags a breath through his teeth, wrestling down the roar in his chest that wants to shove her face-first into the wall and rut her dumb until her voice breaks. But this is Bonnie. His Clover. His Little Fox. She gets more than rough thrusts in a barn: she gets his hands, his mouth, the way he looks at her like he’s never seen anything half so holy. He eases back just enough to take her in: trousers bunched at her knees, boots planted wide in the straw. She’s still half-turned, throwing that wicked grin over her shoulder, but her breath’s gone ragged, mouth parted soft when his fingers trace along the slick seam between her thighs.

—Pretty girl—He rasps, voice rough and low, thumb brushing the tender swell where she’s already dripping for him— My pretty goddamn girl…

She shivers, laughter catching on a soft gasp when he drags his fingers through her heat, slow, parting her folds with a gentle press that makes her hips twitch back into him.

—Mmm, Arthur... —She sighs, half-moan, half-tease.

She tries to wiggle, tries to arch away like she’s gonna run again, but his free hand clamps firm around her hip, fingers biting into the soft flesh just above the curve of her ass.

—Don’t you squirm —He growls, chest pinning her to the wall, his voice so deep she feels it in her ribs— Gonna feel you. Gonna hear how sweet you get for me.

Her laugh this time is softer, shaky, her hips rolling back into the slow swirl of his fingers. He drags one rough fingertip over her slick slit, teasing her clit with the lightest stroke —just enough to promise— before sliding lower again.

—Always so fuckin’ soft—He mutters, almost to himself, eyes fixed on the pale swell of her ass and the glisten catching in the barn light when he spreads her wider— Ain’t right. World like this… you should be mean all over. But here? —His thumb presses just enough to make her gasp— Here you’re soft. Just for me.

This time, her moan is real, no sly laugh to mask it. Her forehead rests heavier against the splintered plank, fingers clawing at the wood, knuckles white. Her braid slips off her shoulder, swaying with the slow rock of her hips.

He sinks one thick finger into her, slow and steady, her heat gripping him so tight he hisses a curse between clenched teeth. She’s hot and wet, slick enough that he can feel his own pulse in the knuckles buried inside her.

—That’s it, girl, —He breathes, leaning over her until his chest seals against her back, his mouth brushing her ear— Take it. You love it, don’t you? My pretty girl… my sweet Little Fox.

Bonnie whimpers, tries to swallow it down, but her hips push back to take him deeper. Her thighs tremble when he crooks his finger just so, dragging over the spot that makes her knees threaten to give. He slides in a second, stretching her slow, savouring each stutter in her breath. She starts to speak —maybe a curse, maybe a plea— but it splinters when his thumb finds her clit again, tracing lazy, devastating circles that have her knees buckling. His grip on her hip tightens, keeping her steady while his fingers work her deep and slow, coaxing her closer with each brush of his thumb.

—Goddamn, look at you —Arthur rasps, his voice shaking like he’s half feral and half in prayer— Ain’t never seen nothin’ better. You hear me, Clover? Ain’t never.

Bonnie can’t give him words, not really. Just a ragged, caught-up moan, her hips rocking into his hand like she’s starving for him, her pretty cunt clenching tighter around his fingers with every slow pump. Arthur bends low, lips brushing her ear, his voice hot and filthy.

—Gonna make you come like this first —He growls, breath thick with want— Gonna feel you spill all over my hand, make a fuckin’ mess for me.”

She lets out a breathless laugh that breaks into a gasp when he drives those thick fingers deeper, crooking them just right, thumb pressing harder now. Her hips jerk; that laugh melts into a moan, raw and sweet.

—You gonna let me, Pretty Girl? —His voice rumbles low, almost a dare— Huh? Gonna show me how good you can be?

Her knuckles go white against the wall, voice barely a rasp.

—Y-yeah… fuck, Arthur, yes... please...

He keeps working her —slow, deliberate— those thick fingers pumping deep, curling up to drag over her sweetest spot, thumb circling lazy and devastating until her thighs tremble and her boots slip in the straw. And every time she gets close, when that trembling moan threatens to break free, he eases off, cruel, drawing it out until she whines low like a trapped fox.

—Ah ah, Bonnie —He murmurs against her ear, warm breath sparking gooseflesh along her throat— Don’t you dare yet. Not till you tell me who you’re beggin’ for.”

She pushes back hard, grinding on him so his fingers sink deeper, wet heat gripping the callused slide of his knuckles. Her head turns, braid scraping against his jaw, green eyes blazing and wrecked as she tries to glare at him over her shoulder.

—Fuck you, Arthur —She pants, but there’s no bite left, just heat and pleading tangled up in a laugh she can’t swallow.

He bares his teeth in a grin against her neck, scrapes it with the edge of them, then soothes the nip with a soft, filthy kiss. His thumb presses down again —just enough— pulling a whimper from her as her knees knock against the stall door.

—Try again, Clover —He growls— Who’s it for? Who’s got you drippin’ down my damn hand like this?

Her whole body shudders. She wants to hold it in, keep her pride, but he’s got her soft, wide open, his. She shoves her hips back, near-squealing when it drives his fingers deeper.

—You —She gasps, voice breaking— Fuck, Arthur, it’s you… Pretty Boy… Bear… it’s yours, all yours…

He holds her there, buried deep, thumb swirling slow, wicked circles over her clit before easing off again just as her hips hitch and her moans crack open like summer thunder over the plains. She whines, broken and soft, before she can stop it. Her breath fogs the rough wood in front of her lips; her nails scrape splinters from the boards and she doesn’t care, she’d claw straight through if it meant getting to that sharp, sweet drop he keeps stealing away.

—Arthur… fuck… Arthur… —She gasps, voice rough velvet and ragged heat.

He leans in hard, chest pinning her tighter to the wall, thigh wedged between hers to keep her wide, her boots slipping in the straw. His fingers curl deep, feeling her flutter around the thick, rough press of him, feeling her slick run down his wrist to soak into his cuff.

—Ain’t done yet, Clover —He growls into her ear, hot breath and something darker in his voice he don’t let out in daylight. His nose drags slow through the damp heat at her neck, tongue catching a bead of salt from her skin— You think you can play me like you play them drunks? Some poor bastard with a pocket watch and half a hard-on?

She laughs, tries to twist her hips, but his free hand clamps down harder, palm spread over her hip bone so tight she’ll wear his bruise come morning.

—Dutch got you workin’ your little tricks —He goes on, rough knuckles grinding deeper where she grips him like a fist— Smilin’ sweet. Flashin’ them big green eyes. Hosea pretends it don’t get to him, but you know what, girl? He ain’t the only one..

Her mouth opens on some sharp line about Dutch, about Hosea, but it dies in her throat, turned to a ragged whimper when he pulls his fingers almost free, then drives them back in hard enough her forehead knocks the plank with a dull thud.

—You hear me? —Arthur rasps, teeth catching her earlobe before giving it a tug— Ain’t the only one who hates watchin’ you lean on some bastard’s lap, whisperin’ lies in his ear, lettin’ him see what’s mine.

Bonnie’s laugh cracks into a moan, hips rocking back against his hand now without shame, nothing but need left in the motion.

—Yours then… fuck… yours… prove it… —Oh, I fuckin’ will —His voice is a growl against her skin, low and dangerous under her ear.

His thumb finds her clit and bears down —no mercy— rough circles timed to the curl of his fingers stroking deep until her cries slip free, sharp and echoing up into the rafters.

—You feel that? —He pants, mouth hot at her throat— Ain’t no mark Dutch can buy feels like this. Ain’t no fool you trick that can touch you like this.

Her knees knock the stall door, rattling the hinges. Her back bows, belly taut, the world shrinking to the thick thrust of his fingers and the merciless drag of his thumb. Straw rustles under her boots as she trembles, nails raking the plank until splinters catch under her skin.

—Arthur… fuck… please… —Her voice breaks, sweet and sharp all at once— Pretty Boy… Bear… please.

God, he drinks it in: her fight burned away, just raw, wrecked want under his hand. He buries his nose in her braid, his growl a hush of possessive thunder.

—That’s right, Clover —He pants, fingers pumping deep, thumb unrelenting on her clit— You come on my hand. Right now. So next time Dutch sends you out to bat them eyes at some poor fool, you remember who fuckin’ owns this sweet cunt.

And she breaks. She shatters, a ragged cry biting the wood, hips slamming back as she comes hard around him, slick and hot and perfect. Her boots slip wide in the straw, thighs shaking, his name spilling from her mouth raw and loud and beautiful. The horses flick their ears but don’t move, as if they know this is holy in a way no church could ever hold. Arthur keeps her steady, fingers easing out slow, thumb brushing her through every last aftershock, his mouth soft at her throat now.

—That’s it, Pretty Girl —He murmurs, voice all rough silk— My sweet Little Fox. Look at you…

When she sags boneless against him, slick and spent, he grins into her hair, teeth bright in the hush of the barn. Arthur eases back a step, his hand slick with her heat, chest heaving like he’s just dragged her from a burning house instead of to the edge of ruin. He takes her in, the shiver still running through her spine, trousers bunched at her knees, boots planted wide in the straw, her back arched in that way that makes his jaw clench and his cock ache. That perfect ass is on display like an offering, one he prizes more than any coin he’s ever stolen.

She could turn if she wanted: twist out from under his palm, spin some new game, push him down into the straw and ride him hard just to prove she could. But she doesn’t. Not tonight. Tonight she’s soft, yielding, almost kittenish. His Little Fox gone tame for the moment, a stray curling under his hand, blinking up at him over her shoulder with those wide, filthy eyes that catch the lantern glow like they’re holding fire.

—Arthur… —She breathes, half moan, half sigh, and it’s enough to make his cock twitch hard behind his fly.

She pushes her hips back, just enough for him to see the soft pink of her slit part for him, slick and ready. The curve of her ass trembles when she moves, her thighs glistening where he’s already worked her open. Her lashes flutter, caught between coy and pleading, her bottom lip caught between white teeth, the flush of her mouth tempting as any sin.

—Please, Bear… —She whispers, voice so low the horses barely flick an ear— Want it. Want you.

Arthur curses under his breath, grip tightening on her hips until his thumbs press deep into that soft give he loves to leave marked. The rasp of his zipper sounds loud in the hush, and she hears the soft slap of him freed: thick, flushed, already slick at the tip from nothing more than her begging like that. She turns her head more, cheek grazing the splintered wood, those green eyes finding his with that kitten shine, sweet, filthy, unguarded. Her mouth parts like she’d swallow anything he gave her.

—Please… —She mewls again, ragged now— Pretty Boy… need it… need you inside… wanna feel you… need it…

Her voice breaks on the last word, hips wiggling under his hands, thighs trembling. There’s no con in it, this is Bonnie bare, all the snarl melted into breathless need that knots tight around his gut. He leans over her, dragging the head of his cock through her slick folds, catching on her swollen clit just to pull that tiny gasp from her. Then he slides lower, wet heat coating him until he grunts at the way she feels against the blunt head.

—Goddamn kitten —He rasps against her ear, voice a slow, dark rumble— Look at you beggin’. You know how sweet that sounds? All them men you work your pretty mouth on, you don’t beg for them.

He nudges forward —just an inch— pushing past her lips, stretching her open again. She cries out, soft and desperate, her back bowing to take him deeper.

—Arthur… please… more…

He holds there, braced tight on her hips, teeth scraping her ear.

—You want it? —He growls, rolling his hips slow, sinking another inch that makes her moan so sweet it echoes off the rafters— Want me to fuck you like you’re mine, huh, Little Fox?

She nods, hair falling loose around her face, braid unraveling, sweat catching in the glow.

—Yes… yours… fuck, Arthur, please…

Her lashes flutter shut when he pushes deeper, thick and slow, splitting her so good she whimpers like a kitten with milk just out of reach.

—Good girl —He murmurs, voice roughened with strain— Pretty Girl. Beg again.

And she does: soft, wrecked, filthy and sweet all at once.

—Please… please fuck me, Bear… ruin me… please…

Bonnie’s last little please hangs in the hush like the last warning shot before a charge. Arthur answers with a sound that isn’t words —a low, guttural snarl— more animal than man, the kind of noise that says he’s too far gone to be gentle. His hands clamp down on her hips hard enough to dimple the skin, thumbs digging deep where he knows bruises will bloom warm and sweet by morning.

Then he drives in.

One hard, unrelenting push, thick, deep, filling her in a single stroke that knocks the breath clean from her lungs. Her cry is sharp and soft all at once, palms smacking the wall as her boots slip in the straw, back bowing like she’s begging him to bury every inch, every rough promise he’s been holding behind his belt buckle.

—Fuck… Arthur! —She gasps, voice cracking when he bottoms out, the stretch so deep she swears she can taste him in her throat.

Her lashes flutter, eyes half-rolling, the last of that sweet kittenish innocence breaking under the weight of him pressing her into splintered wood. He holds there for just a heartbeat, chest rising hard against her back, his mouth buried in the tangle of her braid. His teeth catch her shoulder, biting just enough to make her squeal, and when he rocks his hips, she tightens around him like a vice.

—Goddamn… fuck, so fuckin’ tight —He growls into her hair, voice shaking with raw, possessive heat— You feel that, Clover? How you fit me? Ain’t nobody else gonna split you open like this. You hear me?

She nods fast, cheek pressed to the wall, her breath fogging the wood. Her hips twitch, desperate to push back, to take him deeper, but he’s got her locked in place: big hands braced like steel on her hips. Then he draws back, slow enough she whimpers at the drag, before slamming back in hard, the slap of his hips against her ass ringing in the hush of straw and horse-breath.

The rhythm comes quick —brutal and perfect— every smooth, punishing stroke rocking her forward against the wall. Her ass jiggles under his grip, soft and flushed, his thumbs digging in to brand her with pressure alone.

—That’s it… fuck, that’s my good girl —He pants, voice low and frayed. He leans over her, chest molding to her back, hips pounding so hard the stall door rattles on its hinges— Begged for it, didn’t you? Needed me. Needed this.

She tries to answer, but what comes out is nothing but a ragged moan, his name tangled in the breathless noise. She’s pushing back now, meeting every thrust, greedy and mindless, taking all of him like she’d starve if he stopped. The horses shift behind them, hooves scuffing, warm breath misting the old barn wood, but neither of them notices. All she knows is the heavy slap of his hips, the relentless stretch carving him into her. All he knows is the clutch of her cunt, the way those soft little moans keep breaking into something filthy every time he grinds just right.

—Gonna fill you up, Little Fox —He snarls at her ear, voice ragged as frayed rope— Gonna fuck you so deep Dutch’ll know you’re mine when you strut back out there.

Bonnie’s laugh splinters into a cry, her back bowing, thighs trembling where his hips drive home again and again: slick, hot, perfect. She tries to say yes but all that spills from her are soft, broken mewls that make him growl and piston harder. One hand leaves her hip, sliding down and around, fingers wet when they find her clit. His thumb grinds in hard, deliberate circles, the kind that pull her right back to the edge he’d been holding her from.

—You come for me again, Clover —He pants, voice shredded, hips punching deep enough the slap of flesh echoes up in the rafters—. Now. Mine. All mine.

She breaks on it, all over again, those kitten-soft moans twisting into raw, desperate gasps as her cunt tightens around him, milking him deep with ruined little cries that pour his name like prayer beads. But Arthur doesn’t let up. He’s got her pinned so tight her boots can’t even scrape the straw, thighs quaking, ass pink where his hips keep meeting it in hard, perfect slaps. His hand stays between her legs, thumb filthy on that swollen bud, slick from where she’s soaking him to the wrist. Then she chokes out something that makes him freeze for just a heartbeat, cock buried to the hilt.

—F-fuck, Arthur… so damn big…

It’s half moan, half cry, her forehead pressed to the plank, nails worrying splinters from the wall. She twists to look at him —those wide, wrecked green eyes— and he shoves her back down with one palm between her shoulder blades, the other hooking under her belly.

—Yeah? —He snarls, breath hot at her hairline— Too big for you, Little Fox?

She whimpers, helpless, the sound cutting through him like a bullet. But she pushes back anyway, greedy little grind that makes his cock jerk inside her.

—No… more… —She pants, voice shredded sugar—. Want it… wanna feel all of it… fuck… Pretty Boy…

That cracks him clean in half. He curses, low and raw, hips stuttering before he wrenches her hips up, his big hand slipping lower to hook and haul her at a sharper angle. The new position knocks a sharp cry from her: ass tipped high, face pressed lower to the wall, boots scrabbling for purchase. Then he drives in again, deeper than before, the thick head of him grinding that sweet spot that makes her squeal like a fox in a snare.

—Oh, fuck, Arthur… so deep…

She’s babbling now, sweet filth tumbling from her lips as her hips work back to meet every thrust, the stall door rattling in its frame. His hand on her belly slides up, pressing down so he can feel himself through her, and so she can feel just how deep he’s split her open.

—You feel that? —He rasps at her earl— Feel how fuckin’ full you are, Clover? Made for me. Made to take it. Mine.

She nods wild, desperate, mouth spilling yesyesyes that breaks on every rough slam. The horses shift and snort, but she’s deaf to it, all there is now is his hand, his cock, his voice grinding her open until her thighs quake.

He drags her back into each thrust, arm locked under her hips, the other fisting in her braid to yank her head up so he can watch her mouth fall open on every gasp.

—Say it —He growls, pounding rough, grinding that spot so perfect she sobs for it— Tell me who you belong to. —You… —She chokes out, tears shining at her lashes— Fuck… you, Bear… Pretty Boy… yours… —That’s right —His snarl is a brand against her ear as he drives in hard enough the rail shudders— Mine. My pretty girl. My Little Fox. Gonna fill you so every bastard in camp knows.

Her moans climb, breaking and reforming into filthy little cries when his thumb finds her clit again, circles rough and sure. Her legs quake, boots slipping wide, her cunt gripping him so hard he feels that fire start to crawl up his spine.

—Fuck, Bonnie!

She gasps his name like it’s holy, lashes fluttering, mouth slack with every brutal thrust.

—Please… inside… Arthur… fill me… please…

Her voice —wrecked, begging, please inside— punches straight through him, coiling hot and pissing at the base of his spine. Arthur's teeth scream, breath snarling out against the back of his neck. He's so close he can feel it building, feel his body start to lock down, ready to spill deep in her while she's bent and gasping under him. And God, he wants it, but not like this. Not without seeing her.

He jerks to a halt mid-thrust, cock buried deep but hips locked tight. The stall's quiet except for their ragged breathing and the low shift of the horses. She whimpers at the sudden stillness, hips rocking back to chase him, but his hands are already moving.

—Not yet —He rasps, voice rough enough it almost cracks. His grip leaves her hip and braid to slide under her, hauling her upright— Ain't finishin' like this. Need to see you.

He pulls out slow, so slow it makes her whimper, that soft, desperate cry swallowed up by the barn’s hush. She tries to twist back, tries to push her ass into him, greedy little grind that makes his cock twitch, gleaming with the mess she’s made of him. His grip tightens on her hips, holding her steady until he’s free, the thick head sliding slick along her thigh before he steps back. She turns toward him, half-dazed, lashes fluttering open over eyes gone wild and wet at the corners, heat-shimmer tears from the stretch clinging to her lashes. He catches her chin in his hand, thumb dragging slow at the corner of her mouth where spit glistens in the lantern glow. Then his other hand slides to her braid, tugging her forward.

Arthur drops back onto an old crate stacked with tack and coiled rope. It creaks under his weight but holds: old barn wood and older bones, both made to carry something heavy. He leans back, legs spread wide, cock flushed and thick between his thighs, the shine of her slick catching in the shadows. He drags the head up her belly, leaving a smear of heat just below her navel.

—C’mere, Clover —He rasps, voice raw thunder rumbling through her ribs— Up. Now.

She comes to him like a half-kitten, half-hungry fox, bracing her hands on his shoulders as she straddles his spread thighs. His trousers hang open, bunched at his knees, boots scuffing the crate’s edge as she settles over him. The heat of her thighs cradles him, her slit slick and swollen as she lowers herself just enough for the thick crown to nudge her open again.

She looks at him then —really looks— and it guts him worse than any bullet ever could. Big green eyes, wild and shining, framed by loose strands of hair. Her mouth parts on a soft hitch of breath. No tricks, no con, just Bonnie Ray Fischer, looking at Arthur Morgan like he’s the only thing worth begging for in a world built out of dust.

—Please… —She breathes, voice kittenish sweet, scratched raw at the edges— Pretty Boy. Need it. Need you.

His growl comes low and hungry. He seizes her hips hard enough to bruise, positions himself so the broad head of his cock is poised right at her entrance. She twitches when he nudges up, the first stretch already stealing her breath before gravity even takes over.

—Look at me —He snarls, eyes locked on hers, voice more vow than threat— Don’t you dare look away.

Then he drags her down. Slow at first, the thick crown splitting her open inch by inch until her moan shatters against his mouth. He catches it in a filthy kiss, tongue pushing past her lips as she sinks deeper, thighs trembling, cunt clutching him so tight it sparks white behind his eyes.

—Oh, fuck, Arthur… so big... —She whimpers into his mouth, hips rolling, chasing every inch until her ass smacks his thighs and her belly presses warm against his chest. —Good girl —He pants against her lips, beard scraping her jaw as he kisses her again, sloppy and wet— My pretty girl. My Little Fox.

She rides him slow at first, thighs burning with each lift and sink, palms firm on his shoulders. He helps her, big hands gripping her hips, dragging her down harder each time so the slap of his balls against her is sharp enough to make the horses flick their ears. He breaks the kiss just to watch her: mouth falling open on every moan, eyes fluttering half-shut as she teeters on the edge.

—Fuck… look at you —He groans, voice like gravel in a storm— So fuckin’ pretty takin’ me deep. You feel that?

She nods, hair spilling loose, braid half-undone. She moans his name like it’s a secret and a sin, smiling through it just enough to make him snarl. He thrusts up hard to meet her, driving so deep she gasps loud enough for the sound to rattle the beams.

—Yeah? You want it? —He rasps, hips snapping fast, the crate shuddering beneath them— Gonna take it all, Clover? Gonna let me fill you like you begged? —Yes… yes… yes… —She gasps, voice wrecked and kittenish, her nails biting through his shirt. —Good fuckin’ girl, my good girl.

He crushes her mouth with his again, teeth and tongue messy and hard, swallowing her gasp as he pounds up into her. Each thrust hammers her down onto him until she breaks apart in his lap, thighs locking tight around his hips, cunt milking him in hot, greedy pulses. He spills inside her at last,—thick, hot, endless— hips grinding up so every drop floods deep where she trembles. Her mouth breaks from his, soft moans slipping out between ragged kisses, her eyes wide and wild and so sweet, looking at him like she’s still starving for every last bit he’s got to give.

Bonnie’s thighs still tremble where they cling tight around his hips, the last ripples of her release keeping her slick and warm and perfect around him. Her boots scuff against the rough edge of the crate, the barn settling back into its quiet: horses shifting slow, straw rustling under their hooves, the distant crackle of the campfire leaking in through the gaps in the boards.

She’s gone soft now; breath sweet and ragged against his jaw, forehead resting on the sweat-slick curve of his shoulder. Her braid’s come half undone, hair spilling like dark riverwater where it catches against his stubble. One fist stays knotted in his shirt collar, like if she lets go she’ll slip right off him and disappear back into whatever shadows she crawled out of. Arthur can feel her heart kicking against his chest: quick, stubborn, alive. Then she says it, quiet enough he almost misses it under the sound of his own breath grinding out of him like a man gut-shot but too damn stubborn to fall.

—I love you.

Her voice cracks on it, cheeks flushed hot, tears clinging to her lashes even as that soft, wicked grin ghosts across her mouth. Not a lie. Never a lie. Arthur’s throat locks tight. His hands slip from her hips to her back, spreading broad over her spine, rough thumbs brushing sweat and straw-dust away like he could scrub the whole damn world off her skin if he pressed hard enough. His cock still twitches inside her, not all the way gone, stirred back to life just from the sight of her looking at him like that. Like he’s gold pulled clean out of the mud.

God, he wants to say it back. Spit it out fierce, like a bullet. Or cradle it quiet, like a prayer. But his jaw stays clamped, eyes closing for just a second so he doesn’t drown in the way she’s looking at him. Like he’s worth something. Like he’s not just Dutch’s blunt hammer, or Hosea’s half-broken wolf, or a dead man walking on borrowed time.

And he gets it —all over again— why Dutch shines her up like a diamond in a box of rusted tin. Why Hosea spoils her with tea leaves, books and he saves his soft words for her in the hush when the rest of camp sleeps. She’s not Sadie, all gun smoke and teeth, wildfire that burns everything it touches. Bonnie’s wild too, but hers is the kind that blooms green and tender where the rest of the world’s gone gray. Something rare. Something none of them deserve, but they guard like wolves anyway. She lifts her head, just enough to catch his eyes: big and green, pupils blown wide, lashes wet. Her mouth’s red and swollen, her smile soft as a promise.

—You hear me, Pretty Boy? —She murmurs, voice warm and drowsy but sharp enough to cut straight through him— Ain’t lyin’. Never lyin’. I love you.

Arthur cups her jaw in both hands, rough thumbs brushing away the damp on her cheeks. He leans in until his forehead rests against hers, his breath ragged, the space between them thick with all the words he can’t force out. He doesn’t tell her he loves her, but he kisses her like a man who’d bleed himself empty just to hear her say it again. When he pulls back, his voice is low, thunder wrapped in velvet.

—I know, Clover,—He murmurs, thumb dragging over her lip— God help me, I know.

And he does. And he doesn’t. And he knows he’ll spend whatever’s left of his time trying to be worth even half of it. She stays there, perched soft in his lap, warm and trembling around him where he’s still thick inside her, the old crate groaning under their weight. She can feel it: the ache in him, the steady hammer of his heartbeat against her breastbone, pounding out all the words he’ll never spit. He won’t say I love you too. Might never say it. She knows that. Loves him for it anyway.

Her thumb brushes under his eye, gentle, sweeping sweat and flecks of straw dust from the hard line of his cheekbone. She leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth, not hungry now, not filthy, just soft. Just hers. Another kiss at the edge of his beard. One more at the ridge of his brow, her breath warm as it ghosts over his skin. Arthur lets her. His big, rough hands slip from her hips to her back, one palm wide under her braid like he’s holding her there forever, anchoring her to the one good thing he’s got left that the world ain’t stolen yet.

She eases back, just far enough to see his face. He tries to duck his eyes away —rough Bear shying under that gentle green gaze— but she won’t have it. She catches his jaw, fingers soft but certain, tilting him back until he’s drowning under the way she’s looking at him.

—Hey, —She murmurs, voice warm, sparking with that wild innocence they guard like treasure— Pretty Boy.

He huffs —that soft grunt she knows means you’re killin’ me— but doesn’t look away. His thumb strokes slow circles at her spine, the hush between them filling with the quiet clatter of horses shifting and the low hiss of wind slipping through cracked barn boards. Bonnie smiles soft, wicked at the edges, eyes bright and still misty. She presses her forehead to his, nose brushing his, close enough their breaths tangle warm and sweet.

—You’re so handsome it bothers me, —She whispers, grin curling like dawn breaking through gun smoke— Ain’t fair. Makes a girl dumb.

Arthur lets out a rough laugh, that startled bark that rumbles up from somewhere deep, shaking loose from a place it’s been caged too long. He tries to bite it back, fails, his mouth splitting into a grin he can’t help.

—Jesus, Bon… —He rasps, voice still catching on the laugh— You’re trouble. —Mm-hm —She hums, nuzzling his jaw, pressing tiny kitten kisses down his throat, tickling his stubble until he growls low in his chest— Your trouble. —Yeah —He mutters, warmth still in his voice as he kisses her temple, lingering like he could bury himself in her hair and stay there ‘til sunrise— Mine.

She hums again, softer now, sleepy. Shifts just enough that he slips out of her with a quiet, messy slide, the warm drip of him sweet and secret between her thighs. But she doesn’t move from his lap. She curls in closer, head tucked under his chin, palms spread soft over his ribs like she could hold all that thunder tight inside his chest.

Arthur holds her there. One hand stroking slow over her back, the other tangled in her loose hair. His chin rests on her crown. Breath steady. Heartbeat even. He doesn’t say I love you, but he doesn’t have to. She’s warm. She’s safe. She’s his. Outside, the campfire crackles. Inside, the barn hushes around them like an old prayer that never needed words.

━━━━━「 NAVI 」

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