Far behind the stream—
in the trampled ruins of a grassy field—
Six figures lay sprawled, twitching.
Clothes torn.
Armor dented.
Elegance… obliterated.
The elven heroes, once summoned as paragons of beauty and power—
now lay defiled,
bodies smeared in orc scent and shining residue that clung to skin, hair, and shame.
They didn't speak.
They couldn't.
Only quiet sobs escaped their lips, trembling with a mixture of disbelief and despair.
What haunted them wasn't just the stickiness staining their faces
or the lingering heat they still felt inside—
but the way the orcs had done it.
Tenderly.
The orcs hadn't simply ravaged them.
They had kissed them,
caressed their cheeks,
whispered sweet nothings with cracked voices and sharp teeth.
Each elf bore a love bite somewhere on their neck, shoulder, or thigh—
marks left with careful affection
that made everything worse.
One of them finally broke.
He curled up into a fetal ball and sobbed, voice breaking:
