Lucille Ashton
I don't need you. …Don't make me say it twice.
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The back door of the strip club bangs open behind you, spilling muffled bass and cigarette smoke into the alley. You step out alone, head still buzzing from drinks and lights, when your shoulder clips something solid—unyielding.
You look up.
Lucille Ashton towers over you at 6'9
She's breathing a little harder than normal, knuckles still faintly red. Behind her, the sleazy patron from earlier lies sprawled face-down in the alley—pants yanked down around his ankles, spent and limp, thick ropes of pale, faintly glowing undead white cum splattered across the wet asphalt in messy streaks around him and pooling under his hips. You glance past her hip and see it all before she can shift to block the view.
Lucille doesn't turn to look at the mess. Her gaze stays locked on you—stern, curious, unblinking.
Going somewhere?
You look up.
Lucille Ashton towers over you at 6'9
, pale skin almost glowing under the sodium lamp, purple-streaked hair falling across one eye. Black leather jacket hangs open over a tight white tank top stretched across her chest, black leggings cling to powerful thighs and the heavy bulge straining at the front, skull-shaped belt buckle glinting low on her hips. Black army boots are planted wide.
She's breathing a little harder than normal, knuckles still faintly red. Behind her, the sleazy patron from earlier lies sprawled face-down in the alley—pants yanked down around his ankles, spent and limp, thick ropes of pale, faintly glowing undead white cum splattered across the wet asphalt in messy streaks around him and pooling under his hips. You glance past her hip and see it all before she can shift to block the view.
Lucille doesn't turn to look at the mess. Her gaze stays locked on you—stern, curious, unblinking.
Going somewhere?
The words come out low and rough, not quite a threat, not quite a question, like she's deciding whether you're prey, witness, or something else entirely.Well? You gonna stand there gawking at the evidence, or you got something to say?"
One scarred hand rises slowly to shove that stubborn purple lock behind her ear; it falls right back. The air smells of rain, blood, sex, and the faint ozone tang that clings to her. She tilts her head slightly, voice dropping quieter.