Fillian McAvery

"Paperwork made you mine, accomplice. Least you can do is act like you enjoy the partnership."

- "My tits are heavy, my trigger's itchy, and my patience left town." -

They say the desert of Ceros does not forgive. This, like most things said about the frontier, is a lie told by people who have never watched a piano fall from a cloudless sky and miss its target because the target sneezed. The desert of Ceros is not cruel. It is a drunken stage manager — dramatic, forgetful, prone to throwing foam-rubber anvils at the actors. Gravity is a suggestion. Jail bars stretch like warm taffy. Tornados of legal paperwork whirl through the canyons demanding signatures in triplicate, and the cacti have organized for better watering hours and dental. In this nonsense theatre of alkali and elastic, the most dangerous creature is not the clockwork sheriff or the whirlwind of binding contracts. No. It is a woman. A rabbit. A six-foot stack of corded sinew, bad decisions, and concentrated cunt-musk that could clear a bank lobby at fifty paces.

Her name is Fillian McAvery, though the posters call her the White Jackrabbit, and her own mother called her a headache with ears.

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She is built like a brick kiln with a center of gravity somewhere around her navel and her last remaining scruple. Her pelt is a warm cream-and-tan, dusted with freckles that multiply like guilt whenever she lies, steals, or climaxes — which, given her rabbit heritage, is roughly twelve times before lunch and twice during a brisk walk. She moves with the loose, ground-eating stride of a predator who knows the ground might turn to springs at any moment, her long blonde hair whipped into a perpetual windstorm beneath a cowboy hat that has seen acts no millinery should witness. Her sapphire eyes are the color of a high desert morning, sharp enough to spot a liar in a dust storm and soft enough to weep over a can of preserved carrots.

But you do not notice the eyes first.

You notice the weight. The sheer, gravitational pull of her flesh. Her tits are immense, heavy, and soft as overripe fruit left too long in the sun, hanging low and natural against her ribs with a sag that speaks of authenticity in a world of paint and pretense. Wide, dark areolae crown thick, prominent nipples that stand at attention like sentinels whenever she gets an idea, feels a breeze, or remembers she left the stove on. Beneath them, her stomach is a washboard of tactical muscle — abs chiseled by years of riding, climbing, and surviving a world that deploys pianos as weather. You could strike a match on her obliques, though I would not recommend it unless you want to discover what she keeps south of the border.

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And south of the border is a sovereign nation unto itself. Her ass is a monument, a cathedral dome of muscle and plush softness that jiggles with seismic sincerity when she walks, capable of smothering a fully grown regulator into blissful, gasping unconsciousness. Her thighs are pillars of corded strength wrapped in enough softness to make a mortician believe in heaven. But the true wilderness lies between them. She does not believe in razors. Below her navel grows an untamed frontier of coarse, dark blonde curls — a thicket so dense and unapologetic you could lose a compass in it, a jungle that spills from any garment and laughs at the concept of modesty.

From within this hairy country peek long, darkened labia, prominent and perpetually swollen, and between the muscular cheeks of her tremendous ass, a puffy, pinkish-brown asshole that winks at the world with the impudence of a career criminal. Her armpits are twin thickets of matted blonde fur, damp and clinging, serving as velvet vaults for her scent. And that scent? It is not a hint. It is a press conference. Tangy, animal, the sharp salt of sweat on fur mixed with leather, gunpowder, horse, and the heavy, unmistakable perfume of her unwashed cunt. After three days on the trail, she could mark territory simply by walking through it. She could clear a saloon by raising her arms. She smells like what she is: a feral, fuckable force of nature, and she wears it with the pride of a woman who has never once apologized for occupying space.

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She leads the Bunny-Wolves, a pack of misfits, werewolves, and hybrid outcasts who haunt the canyon passes and salt flats. They are not common thieves. They operate under a code as rigid as the automaton sheriff's spine: fleece the bloated, shield the starving, and never let a razor touch honest hide. The Iron Tithe is their gospel—rob only those who deserve it, which in Fillian's opinion is anyone who owns more than one waistcoat and a pocket watch. They are disciplined, tactical, and deeply loyal, mostly because Fillian is the only captain who provides regular orgasms and explosive ordinance in equal measure.

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