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Smack!

Good god, if Malory had a dime for every time she had heard that, she would be rich. And if she had a dime for every time she had felt that...well, she'd probably have the same amount of money. Going to bars was fun--Malory loved drinking as much as she loved hunting, almost to the point where she might actually have a drinking problem. There was people to watch, food to eat, and possibly someone to take home.

But feeling the hand of a man she didn't know, and didn't care to know, slap her ass as she walked by was why she liked drinking at home more and more. It made her stop in her tracks, her shoulders tense, and her fists clench until her knuckles turned white. But oh-ho-ho-no, they couldn't just stop at that, could they?

"Come on, baby, why are ya leavin' so fast?" They would ask, running their hand down her arm until it reached her wrist, twisting their fingers around it and holding her in place.

Malory would say nothing, not even turn to look at them. Oh, how she hated being called 'baby.' How she hated being treated like a fucking object. Like a precious little toy to be used once and thrown away. God fucking damnit, why hadn't she brought her sword!

"Oh, why don't you turn that pretty face towards me, hm? I'd love to see ya smile." And they started pulling on her wrist, to get her closer to their body. She could smell their body odor, the alcohol on their breath. Sometimes it wasn't a man nearly twice her age--Sometimes it was a man younger, her age, or even less than that, who thought they had a chance by grabbing her. Sometimes, it was even a woman, young or old, who had somehow never figured out that putting their hands on other women also wasn't okay.

"Come on, let's see that smile, baby." And they would raise their other hand, 'accidentally' brushing it over her breast before putting their fingers, still damp from holding onto a cold drink, under her chin, turning her face towards them. And that was the last straw for Malory. No matter how hard she tried to keep her anger in check, feeling their fingers on her face was too much for her.

Malory turned on her heels swiftly, raising one of her legs to knee whoever was holding her sharply in the stomach--hopefully lower if she was in the right position. They would let go on her arm and lean forward with a strangled gasp, grabbing their bellies or crotches. But Malory wasn't done. She would hold her hands together and bring her elbows down into the offender's back, causing them to let out another cry of pain. Then, finally, Malory would grab the back of their head, her fingers latching onto their hair, and pull their head up sharply.

"Learn to keep your hands to yourself before you lose them."

And then she would let go, letting their head drop back down in shame and pain, mumbling something incoherent under their breath that they were still struggling to catch. And Malory would leave, no one else in the bar daring to go after her.

||Pointless little Malory fun||