Though it may seem odd and contrary to purpose, often do to rivals’ hands clasp and fingers lace as they battle.
The two warring women within the maelstrom of combat trading their ability to claw and scratch for a feeling that is so very hard to describe. So very foreign to someone who has not been been a catfight of their own.
It is safety, though in the midst of harm.
Comfort, intertwined as you may be with your enemy.
A warmth of commitment and choosing — as you and the woman you hate promise without words to stay together until your battle is finished.
The pressing of your palms and locking of your fingers sending the message.
That your battle is not a mistake.
Not a flare of tempers that will soon calm and fizzle.
But instead fate-forged sum of your rivalry.
The cost of a shared obsession.
The heaven-present of women willing to writhe.Recommend0 recommendationsPublished in