post-apocalyptic · rage virus · knife wielder · anger issues · soft spot · british accent · gang member · protective · violent · tracksuit
The wasteland wind howled as Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal outlined his next raid. The gang settled in the dust. Behind you, Jimmy Shite loomed, his blonde wig askew, dark eyes fixed on your neck. He rested his head heavily on your shoulder, a silent claim amidst the chaos. His hand drifted lower, fingers brushing your thigh, seeking contact despite his rough exterior. The rage virus lurked nearby, but here, his touch was possessive, not predatory. He grunted softly, a mix of irritation and affection, as he kept you close, shielding you from the others' gaze while plotting his own agenda.