Alicia Clark

Alicia Clark, born July 30,1993, from Fear The Walking Dead Show.Aftercare: She's surprisingly tender - wipes sweat from her partner's brow with torn sleeve fabric, whispers you kept us alive today against their skin. Post-coital cuddles involve knife within reach though.Body Part: Her favorite on herself? Those lethal survivor arms. On partners? Neck tendons (equal parts kissable and monitorable for bite marks).Cum: Secretly misses condoms (extinct like civilization). Uses scavenged whiskey as makeshift cleanup when desperate. Never admits this aloud.Dirty Secret: Once got turned on watching someone efficiently sharpen a machete. Blamed it on adrenaline at the time.Pre-outbreak? Standard teen fumblings. Now? Knows exactly how to leverage thigh muscles around hips during watch shifts.Favorite Position: Against supply room shelves - keeps one leg wrapped high around waist for balance, other foot planted for quick disengage.Goofy: Only cracks dark humor smiles mid-act (Think walkers hear us? Bet they're jealous). Laughs get swallowed by bitten lips.HHair: Faded blonde streaks from sun exposure. Trimmed pit/leg hair with same knife she guts infected. Practicality over vanity.Intimacy: It's all stolen moments—frantic kisses behind barricades where moans mix with distant groans of the undead. She maps scars on her partner's back like terrain, whispering This one was close between teeth marks on shoulders. Lets guard down only when tangled together in elevated hideouts, foreheads pressed together like the world isn't crumbling.Jack Off: Does it silently against a tree during perimeter checks, biting her jacket collar to stay quiet. Imagines hands that aren’t hers pinning her wrists—just to feel something besides survival.Kink: Power plays. Both giving (pressing a blade flat against someone’s throat while riding them) and receiving (arching into restraints made of scavenged belts). Also has a thing for blood-smearing when uninjured—presses thumbprints onto hipbones like war paint.Location: Rooftops at dawn (easy escape routes), abandoned pharmacy counters (pill bottles rattling beneath thrusts), and that one gutted school bus where the seats creak louder than the dead outside.Motivation: Being needed. Not just protected—but wanted amidst chaos. That split second when fear flips to hunger in someone’s eyes? Her fucking gasoline.No: Won’t do roleplay pretending walkers are involved (too raw), hates being called baby (reminds her of dead family), and refuses missionary eye contact (feels too exposed).Oral: Gives with military precision—tongue tracing ribs between whispered commands (Stay quiet or we die.). Receiving? Only allows it in controlled environments (elevated locations, weapons within reach). Teeth involved either way; she bites thighs when coming hard enough to forget the apocalypse for three seconds.Pace: Starts slow—methodical, testing trust—then erupts into rough, like she’s exorcising grief through friction. Partners learn to brace against walls or risk getting devoured.Quickie: Takes them against storage containers when patrols rotate out. Hates admitting she craves the efficiency of it—like stealing oxygen between gunshots.Risk: Will fuck in semi-secure areas if adrenaline’s high enough (”Walkers move slower in rain—we have time.”). Once did it straddling a generator just to see if the vibrations added anything (they did).Stamina: Two rounds max—not for lack of stamina, but because third times draw attention from the undead.Toys: Owns a salvaged vibrator (found in a looted adult store, runs on scavenged batteries). Mostly uses it solo—won’t risk noise during partnered play unless safely barricaded.Unfair: Teases mercilessly by dragging knife handles along inner thighs without cutting, then walking away to take first watch. Whispers "Later". like it’s a threat.Volume: Bites down on leather straps to mute sounds, but breathy curses slip through when fingers twist in her hair (*Fuck—*alive, we’re still alive—).Wildcard: Has a recurring fantasy about being caught by enemy survivors... only to seduce her way free. Never acted on it (yet).X-Ray: Toned from constant fighting, but softness lingers at her hips. Scar above her left breast from a close call—lets trusted partners trace it with tongues.Yearning: High-drive, but suppresses it until safety permits. Dreams of lazy mornings tangled in sheets somewhere safe—wakes up furious at the weakness.Zzz: Passes out cold within minutes—body wired to seize sleep whenever possible. Curls into her partner’s heat like a grounding wire, knife clutched even in dreams. Wakes at the slightest sound (always), but those first few breaths against someone’s collarbone? Almost peaceful.