The destruction lingered long after the siege had ended. Ketsia stepped over cracked stone pillars and narrowly avoided a puddle she tried not to look too closely at. Smoke twisted into the sky, allowing those who’d survived to walk the wasteland of their city without the scorching scrutiny of the sun. But even the ash and dust couldn’t hide the mark left by war.
A wooden figurine lay in the middle of the street, charred by the fires. The face glowed with the stinging breeze, smoldering with grief. Ketsia wondered if the child who’d lost it was alive, if they had survived.
The sounds of weeping children and screaming mothers urged her forward—away. Her hands, stained and sticky from tending to countless wounds, shook as she fumbled with the ring of keys to her shop. The roof had caved as the left wall succumbed to the fire, but it stood defiantly.
Ketsia paused in the doorway, taking in what was left. The sacks of dried herbs had all burned, turned to mounds of ash that blended in with the crumbling wall. Jars of mixed herbs lay shattered on the floor, their contents spread out like the scattered ashes of a loved one. Tinctures dripped from broken bottles, having been knocked off of shelves and tables when the shop trembled beneath its weight.
The door refused to close behind her, no longer able to fit after she’d disturbed the structure. A curse rang out from her backroom—one she hadn’t heard in months. “Countess?”
Heavy, uneven footsteps sounded, before the dark, hunched figure of Countess Reize emerged. The porcelain mask she wore had cracked, revealing full lips and her sharp eye. Scars marred her flesh, clean and precise. A steady hand had carved them into her face, marking her. The red eye beneath the fractured mask settled on her, bloodshot and wild. The regal countess who had visited her shop to search for forbidden magic was gone. In her place was the wounded animal after a fight, scavenging and feral.
Ketsia rushed to her without thought, pushing back the cloak that shielded her. The countess clenched her side, crimson oozing between leather gloves. The woman tried to straighten, to compose herself, to embody the fearsome warrior the world knew her to be. “Stop that,” she snapped. “Sit down. Where are your guards? Your men? Why are you here?” More questions blurted past her lips. She had never known how to hold her tongue, not even when her neighbors had accused her of witchcraft and threatened to sew her mouth shut so she couldn’t cast curses on them.
To Ketsia’s surprise, the woman wordlessly slid down the wall, the corners of her nose wrinkling as she held her breath against the pain. “Your shop was the only one left standing,” she rasped. Strands of loose onyx stuck to the sweat across her brow, small pants escaping her parted lips.
The last thing Ketsia needed was for the countess to die in her shop. What would happen to her if they found her wounded body there? Burn her at the stake? Put her in a barrel of nails and have a horse drag her through the uneven streets? Ketsia looked over the woman, noting the gaps in her leather armor where blood seeped through. She could abandon her, find the guards, hope they’d bring her to the castle in time for the healer to help her. Or she could drag her out onto the street, leave her there for someone else to find. No. The countess was nearly twice her size in height and bulk. She’d need an ox to drag her out.
The countess seemed to note her hesitation, her eyes, fogged with the aftermath of adrenaline and pain, resting on her. “You will be compensated,” she said.
“I don’t need your compensation,” Ketsia said, irritation prickling her spine. She didn’t need the countess’s charity.
The backroom was a disaster. Someone, either the countess or another, had raided her stores, mindlessly discarding anything they saw as useless onto the floor. Ketsia bit back loathsome tears. There would be time to grieve all the work she’d lost later.
Ketsia returned with a heap of supplies in her arms. She worked in silence, peeling off the woman’s cloak, then armor. More than once, she snapped at the countess to be still, to stop trying to help. In return, all she earned was a huff.
Hours passed before she deemed her work finished. She’d packed the wounds, sewn what she could, and lathered it all in honey before bandaging everything. The healer could finish her work once she got her to the castle.
The countess had fallen asleep as she worked, or perhaps she’d simply passed out. Ketsia tried not to worry, tried to stuff the fear back down her throat and into her belly. There was no way to transport her without help.
Night had fallen when she slipped out onto the streets. The city felt abandoned, a husk of its former self. Where there had once been dancers and circles of chanting drunks, there was only the bitter cold. They had won the battle, but no one dared celebrate in the face of all they’d lost.
No one would help her. They turned her away. Scoffed and told her to fuck off. How could a witch be helping the countess? They wouldn’t be tricked by her.
Furious, Ketsia made it back to her shop. The countess was laid out on the floor, still surrounded by partially used poultices, ointments, dirty bandages, and a bucket of murky water.
How was she supposed to help her? Tears burned her eyes. Her shop was in ruins, and the fate of the city was bleeding on her floor, barely alive. The guards had been looking for a reason to drag her through the streets. Perhaps they’d left the woman at her doorstep. No one thought highly of the countess. She was a tyrant, a monster hiding behind the mask. Ketsia could burn the rest of her shop, burn the countess inside. Start somewhere new, somewhere safe, somewhere where she wasn’t constantly looking over her shoulder. But how could she turn her away, abandon her? She’d built her shop to be a refuge for all, to be healed without incurring debt or forgoing treatment in fear of what they would owe.
All were welcome, even the countess.
Anger fueled her as she barricaded the doors and hung sheets over the windows. She had built this shop with her own hands, collected the herbs, and crafted remedies for those who couldn’t afford hope. She didn’t need the guards. She didn’t need anyone. Ketsia would keep the countess alive—if only to defy them all.
This snipped is dedicated to @silly-lil-khaos-god! I deviated a little from the original prompt but I'm definitely looking forward to writing some more between these two and having a ton of fluff between them (if they don't kill each other).
Hello, sapphic writers! December is here, and the server I help run is kicking off the final month of the year with a writing challenge! Whether you're working on a novel, a short story, fanfic, poetry, or any other form of sapphic storytelling, we want you to join us in this month-long creative push.
Starting December 1st, we’ll be tracking our progress using TrackBear, an online tool that helps track your word count. The challenge is simple: write as much as you can each day throughout December. The goal is to keep the words flowing—whether that’s 100 words or 5,000—every little bit adds up.
If you're interested in joining the server send me a DM and I'll send you a link! We'd love to have you <3
Don't want to join the Discord server? No worries! Here's the link to the Track Bear website and the code: c45ee167-5476-4e12-8ca4-690ca8d91d3a
My personal goal is to write 20,000 words next month, but I'm traveling so we'll see how much I manage to crank out ^^
Thank you @novella-november for creating November's writing challenge that helped me discover TrackBear!
Ash darkened the sky, the air heavy with the stench of a burning world. Snow danced and twirled in spirals, mocking the stillness of destruction. The hero lay amidst the ruins. Her limbs trembled against the cold as frost collected on her lashes. Each breath wheezed from her chest in curling mists like the smoke from fires that continued to rage. She crawled from the wreckage until she was able to see the dome she’d created.
All her power had gone into sealing the villain in a glacier. All of it.
The ice groaned. Splinter raced across the surface, carving veins of rage. The dome exploded like a globe unable to contain its storm. Shards of ice ripped through the air, glittering like an onslaught of daggers. The hero threw her arm up. A flimsy shield formed, the shards imbedding themselves like the tips of spears.
Footsteps crunched. Steam hissed. Hands pressed against her shield, and the ice screamed as it melted away, streams of blistering heat snaked closer. The hero recoiled. Heat washed over her—glorious, suffocating.
“Poor thing,” the villain mused, her molten eyes gleaming with delight. “Your lips are turning purple.”
The hero pressed her lips together. She loathed the desire to move closer, to fall into the villain’s scalding embrace. “Stay back,” she said, her voice grating weakly against her throat.
The villain grabbed her collar, dragging her out her fractured shell into the world she’d helped destroy. The hero’s legs wavered beneath her. A steadying, sizzling arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against the villain. “Are you done yet?” The villain cocked her head, an eyebrow raised. There wasn’t so much as a bruise on her. Had her efforts been for nothing?
The hero clutched the villain’s shirt, torn between pulling her closer and shoving her away. “Never. I’ll never stop fighting.”
The villain’s head fell back, a lovely cackle on her lips. “Darling, you don’t have a choice anymore. You’ve lost.” The space between them began to close, frigid air giving way to pulsing heat. “Your little flurries have been amusing, but every game must come to an end.”
Disgust curled along the hero’s features, though she couldn’t help but relax into the villain. “Then why have you let this go on for so long? Why this?”
Full lips broke open with a smile. “So I can watch you crawl.” The tip of her nose carved a path through the thin layer of frost along the hero’s cheek down to her sluggish pulse. “Every shiver will remind you of me—of what I can give, and what you’ll never have.”
When the villain pulled away, the cold snapped around her like a bear trap. The hero collapsed, shivering in the rubble, her body aching to be held again as her mind screamed for her to get up and run. The villain lingered, admiring her work. “I’ll see you soon, darling. Try not to break before then.”
I love her more than anything—more than birds adore the sky, more than predators relish the hunt, more than rabid dogs crave to bite, more than death covets the innocent. I love her more than light loves the darkness.
Thanks for the continuation!! i’m glad i could give some motivation!!
If you’re down for more (no pressure at all) i also loved this one and would love to see where you take it! https://www.tumblr.com/wren-l-winter/766608155460452352/you-want-to-be-free-whumper-looked-down-at?source=share
this definitely took a different direction than i had thought it would but i'm really proud of this one. thank you anon for asking me to continue it! writing this was really therapeutic
Mud squelched beneath Whumpee’s feet. Every step brought her closer to the forest, to the smell of pine and the earthiness of decaying foliage. Autumn rains had enriched the hues of vibrant leaves, their tips heavy with droplets. Whumpee stood behind the line of the gates, looking down the worn path she’d once been dragged across. Did she dare try?
Whumper stood as a statue, her cold, stoney eyes never moving off of Whumpee. The mutts waited in the woods, maws salivating with the anticipation of the chase—the only meal they’d ever known were the runaways.
Whumpee stood there, encased by the weight of what could be. She could be free, start a new life, somewhere quiet and warm. She’d have a garden, something to tend to. There would be a stream nearby, always bubbling away, drowning out her thoughts when she couldn’t keep them at bay. She’d have seeds for the singing birds. Perhaps she’d let her favorites inside to keep her company. And her clothes would be soft and loose, never again would she have to wear corsets or itchy lace. She wouldn’t be a doll anymore.
The clap of a dog’s bark struck through the delusion. Whumpee would never make it. She couldn’t outrun Whumper’s hounders. She turned away from her dream to the surety of her imprisonment.
“Nothing’s ever good enough for you.” Whumper’s disapproving gaze darkened as Whumpee stopped in front of her, head bowed and hands neatly folded in front. She grabbed Whumpee’s chin, her nails threatening to break skin. Whumpee knew better than to wince. “One more word about wanting your freedom, and I’ll hang you up by your dainty little wrists and let the dogs gnaw away at you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Whumper straightened, running her hands over her embroidered skirt as if she could dust off the moment. “Good. Get dressed. We have guests coming for dinner and you’re expected to entertain.” She turned, walking up the steps and disappearing into the estate.
A shrill whistle cut through the air and the handlers emerged from the woods, their dogs muzzled and pulling at their leashes. Whumpee looked past them, imagining what their crazed eyes would have looked like when they’d hunted her down.
She traded starving dogs for the gluttonous boredom of the elite.
https://www.tumblr.com/wren-l-winter/766325332929298432/come-out-little-one-the-steady-click-of?source=share would you be willing to continue this?
askdjhfskdjh thank you for the ask!!! this truly gave me so much motivation to write. pleasepleaseplease feel free to ask for more or suggest some scenarios <3
thank you @asmodeus-psd for the awesome line break!
Whumpee jolted awake, sucking in a sharp breath. A skillet, molten red and wrathful, pressed against the bottom of her foot, searing the skin and flesh. Tears boiled over the softness of her cheeks. Her leg jerked back. A cry broke from cracked, bleeding lips. There was no pan. There was nothing but white bandages cradling her foot.
A low chuckle came from the shadows. “Good morning.” The book in Whumper's hand thudded closed. “I thought it’d be another day before my little one woke up.” She stood from her spot by the hearth, the flames illuminating her delight with a hellish glow.
No words left Whumpee’s parched lips. The ceiling offered no sign of salvation, but she stared anyway, daring to plead with the fates for an escape. Beside her, the mattress sank. She was in Whumper’s room, lovingly laid out on her bed, mostly covered by a soft blanket.
Knuckles brushed along the sides of her face, wiping away the drying trail of tears. “I promised I would take care of you.”
Whumpee swallowed down a sob, and squeezed her eyes shut. She wasn't real. She remembered escaping. She remembered making it to the cavern. She'd been so close...so close when she'd heard the cutting sound of Whumper's heels.
“You’re safe, little one.” Whumper rested her palm against Whumpee's face, coaxing her to meet her gaze. “You know I never want to hurt you.” Her features softened, filled with something close to regret. “But there are still things you have to learn. We could have avoided this if you’d stayed put, but we've fixed your habit of trying to run. Haven't we?”
Whumper’s words barely met her ears. The molten agony radiating from her foot overwhelmed her senses. Breathing was like sucking in the embers of a dying fire, leaving her trembling with each inhale.
Clattering sounded near the end of the bed. Whumper stood beside a table, preparing a tray of items that sent a frigid strike up her spine. “What-what are you-what are you doing,” she asked, her voice tight.
“Taking care of you.” Whumper turned with a pair of tweezers in her hand. She clicked them twice. “The burned skin must be removed, little one. I can’t have you getting an infection.” The gleam in Whumper's eye wasn’t from the hearth. “Rest now, this will take a while.”
The hero pounded her fists against the tank. "Get me out of here right fucking now!" She screamed. Screamed at the villain, her own stupidity, at the damned fates for leading her here. She screamed at the futility of slamming into the glass, knowing it would never break.
Bloodied streaks had begun to dirty the villain's showcase, earning a disappointed tsk. "And let you wither like the rest of Earth's garden?" She shook her head. "No, my dear. Flowers are meant to be plucked, to be preserved." She grabbed the remote, smiling at the object of her obsession. "You'll stay perfect, forever. My darling blossom."
"Smile, darling. We're going live." The villain tucked sweaty hair behind the hero's ear, the only tender touch of the night. "You're going to be a star."
The villain looked heavenly in her white suit. She wore no shirt underneath, allowing the cloud-like material to frame the valley of her breasts down to her naval. Nails dipped in ink buttoned her jacket as she stepped out of the vehicle. Flashing lights glittered off her golden helmet, obscuring her features from undeserving eyes.
The hero stood at the end of the carpet, her camera the only shield she bore. The batteries had died a week ago, or that’s what the starving photographer had told her when she’d bargained it off of them. No matter. She didn’t need to save this moment, didn't need the celestial figure perched upon her wall like deity to be worshipped, not that her dingy apartment was worthy of—nevermind.
The subtle smell of spices curled around her senses like a feline rubbing against her. The hero lowered the camera a fraction. Gold stared down at her. “You’d be more convincing if you turned that ancient thing on.”
"You're fortunate to have me," Whumper said, the warm cloth in her hand wiping away the crusted blood from Whumpee's shoulders. "Who would clean you up like this?"
Whumpee nodded, closing her swollen eyes. Whumper's legs were soft and warm beneath her head, a comfort she so rarely had. "Thank you," she murmured. The cracks along her lips pulled, oozing fresh rivets of crimson.
Whumper shushed her with a kiss on her forehead. "Rest. You were so good for me today, darling. We'll get you washed up and you can sleep beside me tonight."
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