#wild asks

The stars are brilliant, bright, impossibly close, even though you know they're high above you. You keep your face upturned to them, let the marvelous heavens engulf you, hoping that focusing on them will help you keep your nerve.

Perhaps there are women who wouldn't need much nerve for what you're about to suggest. Perhaps you'll be like those women, one day. But for now, you feel as skittish as a doe, fingers trembling against your will. You swallow hard, and do your best not to give it another thought.

"It's warmer than I expected, you know," you call out, the slightest rustle of clothing the only indication that Dogma has heard you. "You should join me."

"I should?" he repeats, confusion lacing his voice. You don't mean to be dramatic, really you don't, but if he says no, you'll just cry. It's so stupid, he gives himself to you almost nightly, kissing down your body so reverently you'd think yourself a church. But you long for the feel of his body, so often rigid, loose and pliant beneath your fingertips. Here, specifically, in this softly flowing creek, where you feel most free.

If you're honest, you've been sort of on edge since y'all met up with Slick and his strange band of men, and you mostly think your emotional state is because of that. And it's not the end of the world if you do cry, of course. You can just duck beneath the gently rippling water and let it drown out your tears. Still. You'd really, really like him to join you.

"But, who'll stand guard?" Dogma asks you, almost in bewilderment. You snort in a terribly unladylike manner, and then try to be serious, for his benefit.

"I s'pose you could ask Stone, if you're that worried," you offer, and Dogma makes a dismissive noise before falling quiet once more. You wait, trying to be patient, a virtue you've never quite grasped fully, and are rewarded by the heavy jingling of metal falling to earth.

"Naked as the day you were born," he grumbles, "you know what the boys'll say if they come 'round and see us like this?"

"'Oh goody, free show.'" Dogma laughs loudly at that, coughing quickly to cover the sound.

"Yeah, you're a show, babygirl," he murmurs. The water splashes some, and Dogma gets closer to you, so that you can see him beneath the moonlight, and oh, what a sight.

He's got plenty of scars and marks from bullets that never finished the job - you know this, of course. You've traced them more times than you can count. But always in the dimness of the tent you sleep in, always squinting just to get a look at his handsome face as you grasp at his length and listen to his soft sighs. Here in the bright white light that gleams down on you both, you can see exactly how jagged the knife was that nearly got his throat and sliced it's way down his shoulder instead. You can spot the bullet that lodged itself in his hip, that he dug out with his own two fingers and keeps for luck in his shirt pocket.

You can see the brand that crooked old lawman gave him, may he rot in hell, clear and in the shape of a v over his handsome face. And sure, you can see that most days, in less intimate moments, but it's especially lovely and rugged as he smiles shyly at you.

"Thank you," you whisper, and Dogma's smile grows wider, even as he shakes his head.

"Think I should be the one doing the thankin', don't you, babygirl?" he says softly, reaching out to your hips and pulling you to him, kissing you so sweet, like what you're doing isn't sinful as all hell. "You look pretty like this."

"Nude?" you ask him. He chuckles as he reaches between you and teases at your nipples, rough, calloused fingers making you shudder, disturbing the water around you.

"Lit up like a star," he tells you, his other hand finding the apex of your thighs and meeting its mark there, pressing the heel of his palm against you and letting you rut wildly. "Y'look like an angel."

"I don't feel like an angel," you breathe, not touching him like you'd intended, too busy holding onto him for dear life as he slips a finger inside you, arms wrapped around his broad frame.

"Feel like an angel to me," he says with a darkness that is damn near blasphemous. He's imprecise against your clit, but steady and sure - he knows damn well how to make you come quickly, of course, you taught him that first thing. But he wants to draw this out, that much is clear as he slips a second finger inside and pumps at his leisure. "Feels holy, babygirl."

"We're going to hell," you moan, and Dogma cuts off the sound with a fierce kiss.

"If this is hell let me be struck down," he tells you, gritty and rough, and you know he's enjoying himself, thrusting his hips against your thigh even as he fingers you. You bite down, hard, on his tanned shoulder as your body convulses, Dogma finding your release like a man on a hunt. You barely hang onto his strong frame as he continues to grind his hips against you, snaking one very shaky arm down, reaching between you both, finding the hard, velvety cock that's evaded you so far, and-

"Dogma! Dogma, where the hell are you?" You're not sure which of the men says it, but you both freeze. You snap back first, releasing him apologetically with a kiss to the cheek and pushing him back toward the river bank. He barely has his belt back on by the time the caller shows up, and you sink into the water, letting your hair fan out as you watch and hope he hasn't forgotten something important in coming out here with you.

"Dogma, aren't you meant to be guarding the camp?" Thorn demands, stomping down the shoreline.

"No," Dogma tells him, and you cross your fingers that Thorn doesn't hear how out-of-breath he sounds. "It's Grenade's rotation. Miss Nightmare had asked that I guard her bath." You cover your mouth to hide a delighted laugh - your nickname isn't so surprising, of course, you've all got them to keep your identities safe in the gang. But he insists on using "Miss" every time he talks about you in company, despite the fact that he's been balls-deep inside you.

"But Grenade's not - oh, well, hi, Nightmare - shit!" Thorn slaps his hands over his eyes, even though you're certain he couldn't see anything even if you were standing up. "I didn't even see you there, uh, ma'am? I don't call you ma'am."

"It's alright," you call. "You can, ah, you can take your hand away." Thorn does not.

"Where the hell is Grenade, then?" Thorn asks, eyes still covered.

"Don't know. Reckon you'd have to ask him that," Dogma says shrugging. "You alright, Thorn? You're all jumpy."

"Well, I, well," Thorn stutters. "I got spooked checking out on the permitter, is all. And I just think someone oughta be out there."

"Another bunny, Thorn?" you ask playfully, and Thorn swears.

"Shut the hell up," Thorn says, turning and climbing back up the hill to camp, but there's no venom in his voice. "A big ass deer, if you've gotta know. I'm going to find Grenade. Try not to drown, Nightmare."

"Yes, sir!" you call. Once he's good and gone, you breathe a sigh of relief, lying back in the stream some and letting it wash over you. It doesn't matter much, really, if the boys catch you and Dogma at it. But you'd never hear the end of it, neither of you.

"Well, guess we better head back," Dogma sighs.

"I guess," you agree. It would've been nice to have fucked in the water, but there's always next time. Dogma has a way of making even the filthiest things seem like good clean fun. "Come by my tent in a bit?"