Voting - Female Fanfiction - Part One
This is the part one of the voting for the female fanfiction challenge - fics 1 through 7. Please do not vote in this post, I will make a voting post later.
Warning: Morgana/Morgause
One
The first time
The only thing that
Morgana
Can see
Is
Dark curls
Small hands
Clutching
At a mother’s skirts
(something
she
no
longer
had)
The girl is bustled away
And she forgets her
The second time
The first thing she sees
Is
A smile
White
Cheerful
Against the smooth dark
Of her skin
(Morgana is lost
they are children
and she is lost)
The third time
The girl is introduced
(Gwen
The smile returns
full force
forcing
her
to smile back
though she didn’t know why)
(she never knows why)
As her maidservant
(Gwen)
The next hundreds
Thousands
Of times
They
Smile laugh talk bicker
Dress undress bathe
Whisper touch
Touch
Touch
(Love)
And then
And then
(The first time
She only sees the cold metal
At first
But
The helmet is cast aside
And all she sees is
Blonde hair
Strong hands
Resting
On her weapon)
(Morgana is found
they are grown
and she is only just found)
(But not by Gwen)
The last time
Gwen’s eyes
Are lined
With
Years.
Morgana
wonders
when
that
changed.
Gwen
doesn’t smile.
(Morgana is broken
they are old
and so, so broken)
Two
Night wraps itself around the castle, and in the candle-lit stillness of her chamber, Morgana waits. Gwen’s smile flickers easily on her face, and Morgana returns it, trying not to give away how much she yearns for these moments in the hinterland between day and sleep, how it’s only in these tiny snatches of warmth and quiet she actually feels like there’s blood in her veins.
Gwen’s fingers scuff the back of Morgana’s neck - make her shiver, just - as she sweeps her hair to the side to get at the fastenings of her dress. They slip down her spine unhooking, delicate and deft, and Morgana leans into them, willing them to brush. Her breathing quickens with the loosening of the fabric and she allows herself a fancy: Gwen’s lips parted on her skin as they reveal it; hands slipping inside to touch and to savour, rather than carrying on down. Fabric turned into an expensive puddle at her feet she steps out of the day and the dress, and watches Gwen gather it back up. She rearranges it over her arm, smoothing the creases from the purple satin with long, languid strokes, and Morgana can’t help a little flare of jealousy, and a wish for that care to be on her skin.
She fumbles on purpose with the clasp on her necklace - and in a flash Gwen’s there, leaning in, concentrating on the tiny circle of metal, breath a heated flurry across Morgana’s collarbone. Morgana’s fingers twitch to twine themselves in Gwen’s hair, to lift her up and meet her lips with a kiss, but instead she pretends she can’t undo her earrings, either, and with a little laugh Gwen does those for her too. Morgana’s insides tremble as the metal slips through her lobe at Gwen’s command, clench at the thought of what those clever fingers and her trust in them might do elsewhere.
Breathing unsteadily she closes her eyes, keeps them like that as Gwen encloses her in her nightgown, tugging it down gently -- but with concern for the fabric and not what’s beneath, alas.
“Will there be anything else, my Lady?” Gwen says.
Sometimes she thinks about what would happen if she said, “Yes. Stay.” Gwen’s lips would part in surprise, give out a little gasp, perhaps. When Morgana indulges a fancy, there’s a flicker of desire in Gwen’s eyes as she comes over and whispers a lover’s touch to her jaw. She won’t do that, though, because she knows it’s all in her head, and were she to utter a command, even though it would sate her craving, inside it would feel like she were begging for love.
“No, that’s all, thank you, Gwen.”
She sits in front of the mirror and reaches for her brush, listens as Gwen closes the door. She brushes, counting a hundred strokes, feeling cold as a moving statue, and she wonders how long until morning, when Gwen’s fingers come back to weave life and a pattern into her hair.
Three
She thinks about the ramifications of her actions sometimes, but finds it best not to dwell on them anymore, it only does more harm. Her decision was made a long time ago, in reality it was made for her by others, and now the only paths that seem available to her are the one she’s on or nothingness, so she continues blindly ahead. Revenge is hungry, it burns in her and keeps her moving, but it also seems to have hollowed out her insides, leaving behind a bitter tasting husk now void of the sweet fruit it once held. Does she regret her actions? In the dark hours just before dawn sometimes she does; then the sun rises on another day and her hatred swells with the sun’s glow, burning away at her, twisting her thoughts, and she lets it-she needs it, as without it there is only pain and loss and despair…So she ignores the voice in her head that whispers ‘what if’ over and over and over because it’s too late now, it was always too late. This is her path now, it will be until it ends, which can only be when she wins or when she dies…there will be no surrender-that she does know. Not now, not ever. The dice have been thrown and everyone will take their turn carefully, because it is a dangerous game that’s in play...all the pieces are locked in place now. She's not even sure what prize he's playing for anymore, she only hopes she can be the victor even if that victory will be as hollow as she feels, because if all this has been for nothing it’ll be more than she can bear.
Four
There once was a ward,
Who was terribly bored,
Wanted to go out,
And be a roustabout,
But for her patience should have got an award.
Her miad was awfully brave,
It was herduty that she continually gave,
She was pretty and with a bit of strong stout,
Could give a very loud shout,
She also had a very swift kick that could make any a knight go up an octave.
My sister likes black eye liner,
Some think it makes her look like a miner,
I think she looks so terribly cool,
She even makes my handmaiden drool,
I could not ask for a realtive who is finer.
I really like my sword,
You should see it slice through gord,
With it I like to bounce,
But never flounce,
With me it strikes a happy cord.
I like cake,
I really think it's great,
"Oh damn, I stuffed that one up," grumbled Morgana as she started a new page.
I really like cake,
I love it best when I'm at the lake,
I like to share,
Because you know I do care,
"Oh damn, damn, damn, ah!" Morgana re-read her limeric and added the last line before penning down another. About a new Lady who'd caught her eye at court.
I really like cake,
I love it best when I'm at the lake,
I like to share,
Because you know I do care,
But it's not so hot when the boat starts to shake.
Her eys are so green,
And I think she's so terribly keen,
Her last name sounds like a church,
On her window sill I'd love to perch,
But to her friends she can be awfully mean.
I want to be a magem
Now that I'm of age,
Morgana gets stumped and with her magick. she makes her quill fly around the room.
I want to be a magem
Now that I'm of age,
I want to be out and loud,
Much better than house proud,
And using autonimy as my gage.
I like to go to the beach,
I wish it wasn't so far out of reach,
I really want to go,
And watch the ebb and flow,
Plus I can
Morgana growled as she crossed out the last line. "I had it and then it left me. Beach. Reach. Teach. Screach? Screach."
I like to go to the beach,
I wish it wasn't so far out of reach,
I really want to go,
And watch the ebb and flow,
Only in frustration am I able to screach.
I'd like to have a cat,
Curled up and purring in my lap,
All soft and warm,
Even cute when it has a yawn,
But hopefully not leave little surprises on the mat.
Morgana cackled while penning the last line. "Oh, that's dreadful. ....Dreadfully good."
I really hate a blank page,
It gives me such writer's rage,
Taunting me for oh so long,
Its lure too strong,
The quill makes another flight around the room. "Page, rage, gage. No I used that one already. Sage? Wage?...." The quill does another round, coming back sprinkled with pollen and petals which Morgana taps off onto the page.
I really hate a blank page,
It gives me such writer's rage,
Taunting me for oh so long,
Its lure too strong,
Maybe I should punish it by sprinkling it with sage.
Five
Hunith couldn't believe she'd never noticed how boring Ealdor was. She'd lived there all her life. Tending the fields, milking the cow, feeding the chickens, hauling water from the well, scrubbing the wash, cooking, cleaning, mending...every day for almost half a century. Half a century. How had that happened? Hadn't she had dreams of leaving this little town as a child and going on adventures? Fighting bandits? Dueling sorcerers? Slaying dragons? Protecting the weak? What had happened to those dreams of heroism?
She sighed heavily, putting down the wooden spoon she'd been listlessly stirring through her thin soup. Life had happened to those dreams. And more importantly, reality. No matter how strong and brave she'd been in her head, the fact still remained that she weilded a sewing needle better than a sword. She supposed having dreams of grandeur was the result of having only boys to play with as a child. She was much too old to be having such thoughts anymore.
"Hunith? Hunith, dear, are you awake?"
Hunith glanced out the window at the sound of her neighbor, Muriel, calling out to her. She went to the door and opened it to find the elderly woman leaning heavily against the barrel full of water beside the door.
"Is something wrong, Muriel?" Hunith asked, concerned.
"Well, I was wondering if I could get you to haul up a sack of flour from the cellar?" The woman gave her a weary smile. "You know I hate to ask, Hunith, dear, but this old body of mine isn't quite what it used to be and I can't seem to manage it on my own."
"Of course, Muriel; you know I'm always here if you need anything," Hunith replied, already stepping outside to follow Muriel back to her dwelling.
"Oh, bless you, dear! I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Think nothing of it," Hunith said, waving the thanks away.
Despite her embarrassment at the woman's gratitude, Hunith smiled to herself, pleased. She may not be a heroic adventurer, but she was a knight in shining armor to this woman, and that was good enough for her.
Six
It’s a hot summer’s night, they are young, and Nimueh leaves tomorrow, so they see no reason why they shouldn’t escape the stuffiness of the castle’s walls and find out how Ygraine’s small world looks like in the moonlight.
“Show me something.”
Nimueh hums a question. The heady scent of grass grows stronger as she turns her head, gaze catching on her companion’s face. In the moonlight Ygraine looks even paler; a statue carved out of marble and gold.
After moment of lazy silence, Ygraine meets her eyes.
“Just… something. Anything. With your…” She lifts her hand slightly and wiggles her fingers, her meaning obvious. Her eyes glisten with anticipation.
So Nimueh brings down the heavens.
She hears the breath catch in Ygraine’s throat as the clearing fills with light, a mirror of the constellations.
Ygraine reaches out. The orb nearest her bursts as she touches it, exploding into threads of light that wriggle through the air in all directions, spreading further and further and further until they wink out.
She stares, enraptured. Nimueh does, too, but not at the magic.
Their hands find each other’s in the dark.
Things are changing. They’re getting older, gaining responsibilities that they’re not sure they can handle, Ygraine as a Lady and Nimueh as a soon-to-be-Priestess, just as they’re not sure that they will always find a way to be together.
Maybe one day they’ll be too different to be friends. Maybe one day their moments spent together will be awkward, stilted, remembering what they used to be and wishing that could go back to that, and knowing that they can’t.
But, for now, they have this.
Seven
Morgana slowly trails one finger along a dampened moss-covered wall. From where she stands in an archway, her arms folded loosely across his chest, Morgause watches as a path of small flowers bloom after Morgana’s touch, following the pattern she traces. Morgause tilts her head a little, enough to rest it against the cooling old stone, and observes the way Morgana’s eyebrows dip down in concentration, her eyes become golden and her lips move as she utters the simple spell under her breath.
It may not seem like much, but Morgause tells herself that now Morgana is beginning to embrace and develop her powers. She is finally beginning to have a hold upon them, know them, embrace them and understand what they can do. Today she grows small flowers upon a wall. Within a year she will step away from the Isle of the Blessed and make kingdoms fall.
Then Morgause notices that Morgana has stopped uttering and that her lips are still, paused slightly parted. But she still gazes in concentration at the wall. Morgana’s finger moves in unplanned swirls and small purple flowers are all that shudder into life and bloom.
In a sweep of silks, Morgause strides away from the archway to take Morgana’s wrist. She draws her sister’s hand away from the wall and watches as the small purple flowers reach after her.
“You hold a fondness for those,” Morgause observes as the petals of the flowers begin to droop. “So often you grow them.”
“I still hold some fondness of Camelot,” Morgana confesses and Morgause can’t read the expression in her eyes. Can’t decide if she’s angry, hurt, confused or even missing something. Someone.
Her grip on Morgana’s wrists tightens and Morgause pulls her around, makes sure she’s right at her before leaning in and placing her free hand upon the wall. Morgause crushes the little flowers beneath her palm. Magic surges within her own body and she feels the remainder of the small purple flowers burn.
With the surging magic still hot in her veins and her grip still tight upon Morgana’s wrist, Morgause fills her mind with red. Scraping fingernails, swollen lips and shuddering thighs take the memory of purple flowers, soft curls and gentle smiles. In their place Morgause makes sure Morgana knows nothing more than red. Red lips, taking hers, sucking, biting, kissing, possessing. Red petals of the rose under which hide the thorns that will rip, tear and destroy. Red of their enemy’s blood which will pool at their feet as they take their victory piece by piece as she takes hers now, slowly, enjoying every press of heat against her tongue and every low whimper.
Warning: Morgana/Morgause
One
The first time
The only thing that
Morgana
Can see
Is
Dark curls
Small hands
Clutching
At a mother’s skirts
(something
she
no
longer
had)
The girl is bustled away
And she forgets her
The second time
The first thing she sees
Is
A smile
White
Cheerful
Against the smooth dark
Of her skin
(Morgana is lost
they are children
and she is lost)
The third time
The girl is introduced
(Gwen
The smile returns
full force
forcing
her
to smile back
though she didn’t know why)
(she never knows why)
As her maidservant
(Gwen)
The next hundreds
Thousands
Of times
They
Smile laugh talk bicker
Dress undress bathe
Whisper touch
Touch
Touch
(Love)
And then
And then
(The first time
She only sees the cold metal
At first
But
The helmet is cast aside
And all she sees is
Blonde hair
Strong hands
Resting
On her weapon)
(Morgana is found
they are grown
and she is only just found)
(But not by Gwen)
The last time
Gwen’s eyes
Are lined
With
Years.
Morgana
wonders
when
that
changed.
Gwen
doesn’t smile.
(Morgana is broken
they are old
and so, so broken)
Two
Night wraps itself around the castle, and in the candle-lit stillness of her chamber, Morgana waits. Gwen’s smile flickers easily on her face, and Morgana returns it, trying not to give away how much she yearns for these moments in the hinterland between day and sleep, how it’s only in these tiny snatches of warmth and quiet she actually feels like there’s blood in her veins.
Gwen’s fingers scuff the back of Morgana’s neck - make her shiver, just - as she sweeps her hair to the side to get at the fastenings of her dress. They slip down her spine unhooking, delicate and deft, and Morgana leans into them, willing them to brush. Her breathing quickens with the loosening of the fabric and she allows herself a fancy: Gwen’s lips parted on her skin as they reveal it; hands slipping inside to touch and to savour, rather than carrying on down. Fabric turned into an expensive puddle at her feet she steps out of the day and the dress, and watches Gwen gather it back up. She rearranges it over her arm, smoothing the creases from the purple satin with long, languid strokes, and Morgana can’t help a little flare of jealousy, and a wish for that care to be on her skin.
She fumbles on purpose with the clasp on her necklace - and in a flash Gwen’s there, leaning in, concentrating on the tiny circle of metal, breath a heated flurry across Morgana’s collarbone. Morgana’s fingers twitch to twine themselves in Gwen’s hair, to lift her up and meet her lips with a kiss, but instead she pretends she can’t undo her earrings, either, and with a little laugh Gwen does those for her too. Morgana’s insides tremble as the metal slips through her lobe at Gwen’s command, clench at the thought of what those clever fingers and her trust in them might do elsewhere.
Breathing unsteadily she closes her eyes, keeps them like that as Gwen encloses her in her nightgown, tugging it down gently -- but with concern for the fabric and not what’s beneath, alas.
“Will there be anything else, my Lady?” Gwen says.
Sometimes she thinks about what would happen if she said, “Yes. Stay.” Gwen’s lips would part in surprise, give out a little gasp, perhaps. When Morgana indulges a fancy, there’s a flicker of desire in Gwen’s eyes as she comes over and whispers a lover’s touch to her jaw. She won’t do that, though, because she knows it’s all in her head, and were she to utter a command, even though it would sate her craving, inside it would feel like she were begging for love.
“No, that’s all, thank you, Gwen.”
She sits in front of the mirror and reaches for her brush, listens as Gwen closes the door. She brushes, counting a hundred strokes, feeling cold as a moving statue, and she wonders how long until morning, when Gwen’s fingers come back to weave life and a pattern into her hair.
Three
She thinks about the ramifications of her actions sometimes, but finds it best not to dwell on them anymore, it only does more harm. Her decision was made a long time ago, in reality it was made for her by others, and now the only paths that seem available to her are the one she’s on or nothingness, so she continues blindly ahead. Revenge is hungry, it burns in her and keeps her moving, but it also seems to have hollowed out her insides, leaving behind a bitter tasting husk now void of the sweet fruit it once held. Does she regret her actions? In the dark hours just before dawn sometimes she does; then the sun rises on another day and her hatred swells with the sun’s glow, burning away at her, twisting her thoughts, and she lets it-she needs it, as without it there is only pain and loss and despair…So she ignores the voice in her head that whispers ‘what if’ over and over and over because it’s too late now, it was always too late. This is her path now, it will be until it ends, which can only be when she wins or when she dies…there will be no surrender-that she does know. Not now, not ever. The dice have been thrown and everyone will take their turn carefully, because it is a dangerous game that’s in play...all the pieces are locked in place now. She's not even sure what prize he's playing for anymore, she only hopes she can be the victor even if that victory will be as hollow as she feels, because if all this has been for nothing it’ll be more than she can bear.
Four
There once was a ward,
Who was terribly bored,
Wanted to go out,
And be a roustabout,
But for her patience should have got an award.
Her miad was awfully brave,
It was herduty that she continually gave,
She was pretty and with a bit of strong stout,
Could give a very loud shout,
She also had a very swift kick that could make any a knight go up an octave.
My sister likes black eye liner,
Some think it makes her look like a miner,
I think she looks so terribly cool,
She even makes my handmaiden drool,
I could not ask for a realtive who is finer.
I really like my sword,
You should see it slice through gord,
With it I like to bounce,
But never flounce,
With me it strikes a happy cord.
I like cake,
I really think it's great,
"Oh damn, I stuffed that one up," grumbled Morgana as she started a new page.
I really like cake,
I love it best when I'm at the lake,
I like to share,
Because you know I do care,
"Oh damn, damn, damn, ah!" Morgana re-read her limeric and added the last line before penning down another. About a new Lady who'd caught her eye at court.
I really like cake,
I love it best when I'm at the lake,
I like to share,
Because you know I do care,
But it's not so hot when the boat starts to shake.
Her eys are so green,
And I think she's so terribly keen,
Her last name sounds like a church,
On her window sill I'd love to perch,
But to her friends she can be awfully mean.
I want to be a magem
Now that I'm of age,
Morgana gets stumped and with her magick. she makes her quill fly around the room.
I want to be a magem
Now that I'm of age,
I want to be out and loud,
Much better than house proud,
And using autonimy as my gage.
I like to go to the beach,
I wish it wasn't so far out of reach,
I really want to go,
And watch the ebb and flow,
Plus I can
Morgana growled as she crossed out the last line. "I had it and then it left me. Beach. Reach. Teach. Screach? Screach."
I like to go to the beach,
I wish it wasn't so far out of reach,
I really want to go,
And watch the ebb and flow,
Only in frustration am I able to screach.
I'd like to have a cat,
Curled up and purring in my lap,
All soft and warm,
Even cute when it has a yawn,
But hopefully not leave little surprises on the mat.
Morgana cackled while penning the last line. "Oh, that's dreadful. ....Dreadfully good."
I really hate a blank page,
It gives me such writer's rage,
Taunting me for oh so long,
Its lure too strong,
The quill makes another flight around the room. "Page, rage, gage. No I used that one already. Sage? Wage?...." The quill does another round, coming back sprinkled with pollen and petals which Morgana taps off onto the page.
I really hate a blank page,
It gives me such writer's rage,
Taunting me for oh so long,
Its lure too strong,
Maybe I should punish it by sprinkling it with sage.
Five
Hunith couldn't believe she'd never noticed how boring Ealdor was. She'd lived there all her life. Tending the fields, milking the cow, feeding the chickens, hauling water from the well, scrubbing the wash, cooking, cleaning, mending...every day for almost half a century. Half a century. How had that happened? Hadn't she had dreams of leaving this little town as a child and going on adventures? Fighting bandits? Dueling sorcerers? Slaying dragons? Protecting the weak? What had happened to those dreams of heroism?
She sighed heavily, putting down the wooden spoon she'd been listlessly stirring through her thin soup. Life had happened to those dreams. And more importantly, reality. No matter how strong and brave she'd been in her head, the fact still remained that she weilded a sewing needle better than a sword. She supposed having dreams of grandeur was the result of having only boys to play with as a child. She was much too old to be having such thoughts anymore.
"Hunith? Hunith, dear, are you awake?"
Hunith glanced out the window at the sound of her neighbor, Muriel, calling out to her. She went to the door and opened it to find the elderly woman leaning heavily against the barrel full of water beside the door.
"Is something wrong, Muriel?" Hunith asked, concerned.
"Well, I was wondering if I could get you to haul up a sack of flour from the cellar?" The woman gave her a weary smile. "You know I hate to ask, Hunith, dear, but this old body of mine isn't quite what it used to be and I can't seem to manage it on my own."
"Of course, Muriel; you know I'm always here if you need anything," Hunith replied, already stepping outside to follow Muriel back to her dwelling.
"Oh, bless you, dear! I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Think nothing of it," Hunith said, waving the thanks away.
Despite her embarrassment at the woman's gratitude, Hunith smiled to herself, pleased. She may not be a heroic adventurer, but she was a knight in shining armor to this woman, and that was good enough for her.
Six
It’s a hot summer’s night, they are young, and Nimueh leaves tomorrow, so they see no reason why they shouldn’t escape the stuffiness of the castle’s walls and find out how Ygraine’s small world looks like in the moonlight.
“Show me something.”
Nimueh hums a question. The heady scent of grass grows stronger as she turns her head, gaze catching on her companion’s face. In the moonlight Ygraine looks even paler; a statue carved out of marble and gold.
After moment of lazy silence, Ygraine meets her eyes.
“Just… something. Anything. With your…” She lifts her hand slightly and wiggles her fingers, her meaning obvious. Her eyes glisten with anticipation.
So Nimueh brings down the heavens.
She hears the breath catch in Ygraine’s throat as the clearing fills with light, a mirror of the constellations.
Ygraine reaches out. The orb nearest her bursts as she touches it, exploding into threads of light that wriggle through the air in all directions, spreading further and further and further until they wink out.
She stares, enraptured. Nimueh does, too, but not at the magic.
Their hands find each other’s in the dark.
Things are changing. They’re getting older, gaining responsibilities that they’re not sure they can handle, Ygraine as a Lady and Nimueh as a soon-to-be-Priestess, just as they’re not sure that they will always find a way to be together.
Maybe one day they’ll be too different to be friends. Maybe one day their moments spent together will be awkward, stilted, remembering what they used to be and wishing that could go back to that, and knowing that they can’t.
But, for now, they have this.
Seven
Morgana slowly trails one finger along a dampened moss-covered wall. From where she stands in an archway, her arms folded loosely across his chest, Morgause watches as a path of small flowers bloom after Morgana’s touch, following the pattern she traces. Morgause tilts her head a little, enough to rest it against the cooling old stone, and observes the way Morgana’s eyebrows dip down in concentration, her eyes become golden and her lips move as she utters the simple spell under her breath.
It may not seem like much, but Morgause tells herself that now Morgana is beginning to embrace and develop her powers. She is finally beginning to have a hold upon them, know them, embrace them and understand what they can do. Today she grows small flowers upon a wall. Within a year she will step away from the Isle of the Blessed and make kingdoms fall.
Then Morgause notices that Morgana has stopped uttering and that her lips are still, paused slightly parted. But she still gazes in concentration at the wall. Morgana’s finger moves in unplanned swirls and small purple flowers are all that shudder into life and bloom.
In a sweep of silks, Morgause strides away from the archway to take Morgana’s wrist. She draws her sister’s hand away from the wall and watches as the small purple flowers reach after her.
“You hold a fondness for those,” Morgause observes as the petals of the flowers begin to droop. “So often you grow them.”
“I still hold some fondness of Camelot,” Morgana confesses and Morgause can’t read the expression in her eyes. Can’t decide if she’s angry, hurt, confused or even missing something. Someone.
Her grip on Morgana’s wrists tightens and Morgause pulls her around, makes sure she’s right at her before leaning in and placing her free hand upon the wall. Morgause crushes the little flowers beneath her palm. Magic surges within her own body and she feels the remainder of the small purple flowers burn.
With the surging magic still hot in her veins and her grip still tight upon Morgana’s wrist, Morgause fills her mind with red. Scraping fingernails, swollen lips and shuddering thighs take the memory of purple flowers, soft curls and gentle smiles. In their place Morgause makes sure Morgana knows nothing more than red. Red lips, taking hers, sucking, biting, kissing, possessing. Red petals of the rose under which hide the thorns that will rip, tear and destroy. Red of their enemy’s blood which will pool at their feet as they take their victory piece by piece as she takes hers now, slowly, enjoying every press of heat against her tongue and every low whimper.