[ Most men would balk at the way she handles him, shoving him back, a hand in his hair to bare his throat. Back home, no one would have let her get this close - not with the blood already on her teeth, not with her knuckles bruised and stinging, no, they'd know better. They're ten years gone since the end of the world and only the hardened survivors remain, the kill or be killed kind. Pope called that divine intervention. Pope believed he was going to live forever, right up until she put her boot on his back and a knife through his skull. She's wearing that same knife on her hip now, the weight of it a creature comfort even as this man grabs a tit.
But he lets her, is the thing. Wandered into distance despite the blood on her teeth and her hand in his hair. She watches his throat bob, eyes half-lidded, and then she tightens her grip on his hair. Almost vicious.
Men let her do a whole lot of things here, she's found. But this one, oh, he's seen her bloody. He has calluses on his hands like he handles knives. He's got his head tilted back, right where she put him, eyes on the ceiling like he's looking for God. There's a sharpness in him that she recognizes, that's mirrored in her and about half the men she's ever slaughtered. ]
Am I? [ She drags her hand under the hem of his shirt, over the softest part of his belly, and then lower. And then she draws her hand back to spit in it, and takes his cock in hand even as she bites down on the place where his neck meets his shoulder, hard. ] Behave.
[ Or don't. She'd rather fight him to the ground, she thinks. She'd rather bite him hard and watch him writhe under her. There's something vicious in the air. Some hunger that's risen in her, sure as the dead come calling, sure as every edge Pope honed her into. There is no gentleness in her now. ]
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But he lets her, is the thing. Wandered into distance despite the blood on her teeth and her hand in his hair. She watches his throat bob, eyes half-lidded, and then she tightens her grip on his hair. Almost vicious.
Men let her do a whole lot of things here, she's found. But this one, oh, he's seen her bloody. He has calluses on his hands like he handles knives. He's got his head tilted back, right where she put him, eyes on the ceiling like he's looking for God. There's a sharpness in him that she recognizes, that's mirrored in her and about half the men she's ever slaughtered. ]
Am I? [ She drags her hand under the hem of his shirt, over the softest part of his belly, and then lower. And then she draws her hand back to spit in it, and takes his cock in hand even as she bites down on the place where his neck meets his shoulder, hard. ] Behave.
[ Or don't. She'd rather fight him to the ground, she thinks. She'd rather bite him hard and watch him writhe under her. There's something vicious in the air. Some hunger that's risen in her, sure as the dead come calling, sure as every edge Pope honed her into. There is no gentleness in her now. ]