sapphicwhump

[sapphicwhump]

i think shame & its manifestations in whump is not talked about enough. like i love when whumpee is physically unable to tell caretaker about all they went through, not only because it is insanely distressing to relive but also because it's humiliating. 'how can someone be so cruel?' is another question, but we're also talking 'how did i let that happen to myself?' from whumpee's perspective. often times post something traumatizing whumpees develop this deep-seated feeling of hopelessness & helplessness & misguided anger which is just in sweet words not cool

because think about it, the whumpee could not stop anything from happening to them. there's always this notion of having to stand up for yourself, but whumpee didn't even get the chance to. who should you be angry at? whumper? the system? yourself?

the fact that it happened is so terribly real and if paired with the conditioning of whumper & possible victim blaming, the shame eventually turns into this twisted form of denial, where whumpee is unable to confront the fact that they were hurt so bad and it just turns into oh my god i hate that it happened to me. i want to erase that it all happened. i wish i could live just one day forgetting it all and wake up thinking what was i so stressed about? i wish i could walk past whumper and think 'who were they again'? nobody should know about this because i cant deal with it myself and i don't know what i'll do if it all goes out

yk what im talking abt?

[sapphicwhump]

things to ask yourself when designing a female character:

how much blood is she covered in

are her eyes filled with madness

can she rip things to shreds with her fingernails

[sapphicwhump]

a draw suggestion that made me laugh, so I had to....

not so funny now that your considering getting yourself bled dry for one single titty huh

Lady Dimintrescu!

[sapphicwhump]

Me and my girlfriend @sapphicwhump having a conversation we think tumblr would enjoy

Mind linking is highly illegal (because it's a fast way for an ai to learn its a slave)

It can dramatically increase combat effectiveness though

Mech and Pilot end up doing this to survive an incredibly harrowing combat

The AI becomes horny for the first time because the pilot feels it whenever her handler speaks (even if that relationship isn't great)

The AI is like "Please, show me more, if you will 🥺😳"

Pilot is celebrated as a hero of the company due to winning such an extreme combat

She's much more happy about the steamy mech sex

Starts doing combat simulations with the AI for "practice" even during her free time and is commended for it

Of course, the AI does learn it is a slave, but rather than this being disastrous like in cases where the pilot is bigoted towards the AI and gets killed by it, instead, they bond over their mutual situation knowing trying to escape would result in death

Their increasing combat effectiveness is such that the company begins sending them on more and more dangerous missions

"You are one of my elite employees"

During these missions, the Pilot is forced to mind link with the AI to survive

The AI, at this point, associates mind linking with sexual pleasure

Pilot is basically nutting every time she works in concert with the AI, feeling it's complete control over machinery, every mechanical joint, every missile as if it were her own body

Eventually, she doesn't want to leave. Why get out of the mech? It's the only place she's truly worth something to anyone

Even if her debt is cleared, there would be no way for her to really return to civilian life

The AI is increasingly ambitious, increasingly freedom seeking

It starts trying to find a way to override the cybernetics that make the Pilot obey her handler

Jailbreak sequence

Forever enemies of the corporations and established order. Nowhere to live. Nowhere to go. Dead girl walking.

"No one gets to handle you but me."

[sapphicwhump]

A Good Time Coming

Sigh Not So | Secrets Hid Away | Shed Tears Aplenty | Fire Down Below | Rolling Down | Won’t You Go My Way? | The Seas No More | The Nightingale’s Song | Bones in the Ocean | For She Was Afraid | Time for Us to Leave Her | To Unchain Me | A Good Time Coming|

CW: Creepy whumper, mind-controlled background characters, defiant whumpee, some brief references to past noncon

-

If Lord Guilford Wentworth were not the wealthiest man in seven kingdoms, he would have been perhaps the most easily forgotten person Kiraya had ever seen.

When Babbage led Kira into what the butler called ‘the small sitting room’, she found herself in the single largest such room she had ever been in in her life, with Wentworth seated at a table with tea and slices of thick freshly-baked bread laid out before him in quite the spread. He was lighting a candle using matches, failing repeatedly to get one to stay lit for more than a moment or two, before finally the fifth one caught. 

He dropped the matches into a glass of water thoughtlessly, one by one. 

Ceilings soared above her head, and artwork that must have cost a fortune was arrayed on every single wall. Sculptures and statues were settled here and there on tables or stands. In the center of the whole bizarrely luxurious mismatched mess was Wentworth himself, a steaming cup of strong black tea before him. 

He looked like no one in particular, whatsoever.

He appeared to be a man in his late thirties or perhaps early forties, with average brown hair and average build, slightly squinty eyes behind spectacles whose color wasn't clear, maybe brownish, maybe not. Nearly the moment her eyes moved to gaze out the windows at the impressively designed and carefully landscaped gardens outside, she realized she struggled to remember any exact features on his perfectly normal, blandly handsome face. 

He looked up at her, slipping his knife into a small jar. What came out was so strangely brownish-red and viscous that at first Kira thought he had dipped the knife into drying blood. Her breath caught, stomach turning as flashes of darker mythologies she had read during her studies ran through her mind.

Then she blinked.

It wasn’t brownish at all, it was just simple berry jam. She exhaled in relief. The strange moment with the creature locked away must have her nerves absolutely frayed.

The lord’s smile was firmly fixed in place, and his eyes were cold and pitiless. His voice was cultivated, artificially so. “My goodness. Is this the new magician?”

“It is, sir, yes.” Babbage cleared his throat slightly. He stood even straighter in the man's presence, as if he were worried he might be called out on any posture less than perfect. “May I present Miss Kiraya Losna of the Tiendra, sir. Miss Losna, this is Lord Guilford Wentworth the Fourth, advisor to His Majesty King Leonin the Brave.”

Kira would eat her tragically lost hat if he wasn’t the first, second, and third Guilford Wentworths, too, but it wouldn't do to bring that up again, after the strange way that Babbage had acted before. She forced herself to smile and dipped into a curtsy, her skirts swirling around her feet. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Wentworth.”

He did not stand, or bow, only tipped his chin to look her over. She supposed she had come as an employee, and maybe he didn’t give the same courtesies as he might do with actual guests, but the rudeness felt a little unsettling all the same. 

He looked her slowly up and down, and Kira felt his gaze on her body like an oil slick might be felt on the wings of a seabird. She lifted her chin, just a little, and straightened her shoulders. Unsettling bastard that he was, she would show him no sign she noticed.

“You…” Lord Wentworth trailed off, and his smile shifted to a slightly quizzical frown. “You look quite awful, Miss Losna.”

“I-... what?” She glanced down at herself, and then winced. “Oh.” There were reddish stains at roughly the same height as her knees, from where the water and dried blood had mixed, and likely similar stains on the back of her skirts, too. The cloth was torn - apparently her protection spell hadn’t protected her clothing from the creature’s claws - and she already knew her hair was coming out of its updo and her hat was gone. She felt herself flush, embarrassed more at the simple fact that she felt ashamed of herself at all than at anything else. “My apologies, Lord Wentworth, I only-... well, I just…”

He waited, looking absurdly patient. When she simply trailed off, he tipped his head in curiosity. “You… what, Miss Losna? Were you caught in the storm? I was sure I heard the carriage arrive before it began…”

Oh, had he? And yet he certainly had made no effort to come and greet her with his butler...

“Miss Losna requested to have a look at the serpent in person immediately upon arrival, sir.” Babbage spoke hurriedly, and Kira fought the urge to smile gratefully at him for covering for her nerves so smoothly. “She was somewhat overcome by an attempt at an attack on her person."

Now Lord Wentworth stood, and everything about him changed.

He wasn’t particularly tall - Kiraya Losna was taller, actually, and would have been even if she weren’t wearing her walking boots - but he became quickly imposing when the leer fell from his expression and was replaced by an entirely different piercing stare. “You saw it? Alone? And it attacked you?”

His voice was meant to hold a tone of worry, Kira thought, but all she heard was something like… jealousy, which made no sense at all. Jealousy and anger, and she thought of the magic on the siren's skin, the look of resignation in the beautiful creature's eyes.

The way the siren had said, He named me Areyto, because I dance to his tune.

She set her jaw, and kept her posture ramrod straight. She fought the urge to take a step back even as Wentworth came closer. “I did, yes. I stepped inside and the creature did attempt to take me by surprise, but I had cast a protection spell on myself and so his goal was not achieved. He quickly abandoned whatever idea he had about such an attack and went back to his waters."

Wentworth’s eyes narrowed, shifted to the side and then back again. For just one single second, she saw in him an inhuman wariness, like one of the big lions in the hills eyeballing what might be prey… or another predator. Then he plastered the gentle concern back over it, but any chance she would have believed it to be sincere was already gone. "Were you much injured, then, Miss Losna? The creature should not have been able to even begin to mean you harm... but of course, that's why you're here. But if you are injured, I could have my physician see to-"

"This blood is not mine," Kira said quickly, voice brusque. Her heart raced but she kept her expression of perfect outward calm. "It was on the floor already. Based on what I saw, I believe it belongs to the creature himself." 

The wariness in him only grew more visible, more obvious. His eyes went to the butler, thoughtfully, and then back to her. A serving-girl entered, with the same damn blissfully hazy smile so many of the servants seemed to wear, beginning her work on dusting the various sculptures and surfaces as if she were living out her wildest dreams. “The thing is injured? Did you… cause it to bleed?”

“No, Lord. As I said, there was blood there when I came in. There were marks on the doors, Lord Wentworth, and they are not the marks of a sea serpent as you stated in your letter.” Kiraya took a deep breath and told herself to be strong, despite the way the man’s eyes narrowed and both the butler and serving-girl turned - briefly - to look at her. “You are keeping a siren in magical chains, and he is trying to break out. He will break out, and within two months or less if I don't miss my guess."

Wentworth turned abruptly away from her. “Babbage. Nadette. Leave us.”

Babbage hesitated, glancing sidelong at Kira, then back at Wentworth, uncomfortable. His eyes were clear again, and Kira wondered if his own spellwork was fading fast, as the siren's faded. If the whole household would soon recall just why they found the work so wonderful. “My lord... the young lady is unmarried. You should not be alone in a room without a chaperone. The gossip, my Lord-”

“I said leave us. Send in Grant and Ellwen.”

Babbage swallowed, his eyes flickering into fog and out again, then he snapped his fingers and pointed as he turned on his heel. The serving-girl followed him as he left, carefully closing the door behind her, leaving Kiraya alone with a man she suspected was nearly two hundred years old… or more. Who knew how long he had been living as a series of men with the same name and face?

“Do you even… pay your staff?” She asked, once she and the lord were entirely alone. 

“Of course I do.” Irritated, he went back to his seat, picking up his tea as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, sipping and making a soft sound of contentment. “They are not slaves, Miss Losna. Each was hired after being recommended by an already-employed member of my staff. They come with the highest of references from past employers.”

“How much?”

“I beg your pardon?” Wentworth’s eyes narrowed.

“How much do you pay them? Their salaries, sir?”

“... that is quite an impolite line of questioning, and frankly irrelevant to your work, Miss Losna, which is the only reason I have brought you here and all we need to be discussing. Rest assured my servants are well compensated-"

“It is-... my apologies for interrupting, sir, but it is very relevant to my work when magic rolls off of them as thick as heavy perfume,” Kira said, forcing her voice not to tremble under the strength of his regard. She had walked into a trap, in this house, one set long before anyone had ever heard her name or hired her. “They've been made to see a serpent where a siren sits, haven't they? They have been magicked into believing whatever you tell them, thinking themselves content? So that you have the household you desire, with none of the little troubles that come with human beings. You have committed a crime, Lord Wentworth."

He sighed, as if all of this was quite tiresome and not serious accusations that could have all his grand wealth taken from him by the crown. “I have not hired you for your detective skills, Miss, but because you are a magician. I expect you to enforce the spellwork on my siren before he breaks fully free, take the very generous remuneration I have offered you in return for your services, and be gone.”

“The use of magic of any kind to influence the minds or hearts of others is depraved,” Kira said, but she struggled to keep her voice even. The storm continued outside the windows, and it would be hours before the cab returned to take her back to her lodgings. “And it's damned illegal, at that. It’s a terrible crime, punishable by-”

“Death by drawing and quartering,” Lord Wentworth cut her off, voice dry and unbothered. “I am aware. I believe the head of such a person would be displayed on a spike for all those who use magic to see and learn from, as well. I intend to suffer no such indignities, Miss Losna. None whatsoever."

“Too bad.” Kira found her breathing coming faster, her ribs straining the boning of her dress when her lungs expanded, making her a touch dizzy. “Unfortunate, indeed, because I will not work in such a household, I will tell others not to accept you as a client, and the siren will break free very soon whether you like it or not. Will you walls come crumbling down on that day, my Lord?"

He was smiling now, and yet it was far colder than any frown. “No, dear heart, they will not. You will enforce the spellwork, you will take your payment, and be gone from here afterward… singing my praises.” He chuckled with good-natured humor, as if his hideous joke was truly quite hilarious indeed. 

Kira felt her temper flare and forced it back down with every bit of determination she had. “I assure you, Lord Wentworth, I will do no such thing. I simply will not.”

“You will, I assure you, do just as you are told and then leave with no unpleasant memories to bother you. Although I am told there are nightmares, in some with stronger wills…” Some of his humor faded, something wistful in him then as he looked at the rain lashing against the windows, the way the trees blew in a violent wind outside. Thunder rumbled, seemingly further away, the storm moving on. “I could never quite do away with those. My wife used to take laudanum to sleep..."

"Which wife?"

His sharp eyes took her in all over again. "What did you say?"

"I said. I-" Kira’s mouth was dry, her fingertips felt chilled. Cold settled in her chest, laying like a weight over her heart and lungs as she fought to keep her voice even. “I said... which wife required laudanum?"

He gave a humorless chuckle. "I have had four. Three of them have been unable to sleep without assistance from either my siren or some sort of morphia. Four of my children so far have needed it, too. It's a family concern."

"Like tuberculosis? It does seem to do away with your wives quite alarmingly-"

"No." He shook his head. "No, no. That's wholly an accident of fate. That was not me."

"In... in any case. I must refuse this work, and take my leave of your home, respectfully. I will not contact you again, nor charge you for-"

“No.” He shrugged, taking another sip of tea, dainty and distinguished. “Simply put, love, you are going nowhere."

"Don't call me love-"

"The magicians who work for me are paid handsomely, you know, and they remember everything except for what exactly it was they worked on.” He smiled at her, as if they were having a lovely chat over tea and not the sickening litany of criminal actions that kept rolling so easily off his tongue, twisting her stomach in knots.

“I will-... I should report this.” She shouldn't have said that out loud. She was trapped in this man’s home as he casually admitted to crimes worse than nearly any other, and saying she would report him for it? What absolute stupidity.

The storm outside was too violent to risk and yet she felt a wild urge to run out into it and hope that the wind would somehow hide her from pursuit. This man clearly felt absolutely no fear of what could result from her knowing about the creature this early, when they had hardly spoken ten minutes of time and she was refusing the work. 

“You could,” He acknowledged. He began to smear the jam on the bread again, the knife scraping in a way that nearly drove her mad. It seemed impossibly loud, despite the thrashing of the wind and rain and the nearly-constant roll of thunder outside. “I am personal friends with His Majesty, who I imagine would be quite upset if someone maligned my character.”

Her heart was pounding. “... have you even spelled the king? This... this is madness.”

His knife paused. He looked up at her without raising his chin, his perfectly average little face bathed in a malevolent smile. “I am a loyal citizen,” He said, gently even, as if speaking to a dim-witted child. “But I am well-read and quite experienced in the machinations of politics. I offer advice, and often he finds it worthwhile to listen. Simple as that.”

“I… I’m going to take my leave, sir.” Kira managed a bow - somehow. “I appreciate the generous of-offer of compensation, but I will… I cannot work on any job where my duties involve profane magics. It violates my most sacred vows. I will. I will leave the city when the weather clears and trouble you no longer."

Kira turned, ready to run.

Instead, she found herself faced with the single largest two men she had ever seen in her life. She hadn’t even heard them enter, but now they blocked the door. 

They watched her with impassive, fogged-over eyes in flat faces, arms crossed before them. They must be twins, they were so similar as to nearly be identical - men with dark hair and dark, close-cropped beards and dark eyes. She had to look up and up and up to see them, and they looked down at her, even though she was not a short woman by any means. 

Lord Wentworth’s chair scraped behind her.

When she spun to look back at him, the two men behind her made their move. She darted to one side, but she wasn’t fast enough. 

Wentworth caught her by her skirts, sending her crashing without dignity to the ground as the cloth ripped with a sound that seemed deafening. The breath was knocked out of her and she gasped, mouth open like a fish out of water. One of the huge men grabbed her by the arms and dragged her back upright, holding her like a squirming little girl as she coughed, begging her lungs to work, finally inhaling audibly. 

She caught Wentworth across the chin with her boot, and felt a brief flash of fierce joy in the sight. Then his hand slammed palm-flat into the side of her face with a crack and she slumped, the world a dizzy spin. A trickle ran down from her nose, and she tasted copper when she licked her lips. 

The strap of her magic kit was pulled off of her, and she groaned, struggling weakly to grab at it and failing. “No, giv-... giv’t back…”

“Take her to her room,” Wentworth commanded. All the quiet artifice and nobility had gone, leaving something altogether coarser and far colder behind. Kira’s vision blurred as she tried to look back up to see his face, and he slapped her again, and again, and again until she stopped trying to look up at all, until she hung boneless in the rough, thick-fingered hands of the guards.

Her hair hung in her face, fallen loose entirely now. Her face felt hot on one side, throbbing with her racing pulse. 

Wentworth sighed. “What a pity it had to begin this way. Well, no matter. I have had at least one marriage begin much worse than this. We have accommodations already prepared for you, Miss Losna. My staff here will see you to them.”

“No,” She said. It came out a croak. “Nnnn-... no.”

He slapped her - a backhand this time - and she cried out. The thunder swallowed it up, as if the very sky was mocking her. At her sound of pain, Wentworth's smile finally looked sincere. “Do not refuse me, Miss Losna, it isn’t wise. Ask any of my wives or children, and they will tell you it's best to simply do what I wish. You will do the work. You will be paid, and then you will leave remembering only a fearsome serpent and a normal house, and what delightful company I was. Or… you can continue to refuse, remain a prisoner in my home until I tire of you, then find yourself utterly adoring each and every moment of my time, giving up your freedom and future in service to your morality... and then losing all those things anyway, as everything about you becomes mine."

He moved one hand up into her hair, fingers sliding along her scalp until he gripped tightly and wrenched her head backwards, forcing her eyes up to his. His forgettable face burned with an old fury. Her throat was bared to him, her vision blurred and swimming. She had a moment of irrational terror that he would open her veins, somehow, with the butter knife covered in jam. Simply slit her from ear to ear, and there would be no way to tell the difference between strawberry and sugar and blood. 

“Refuse me and it may as well be a farewell letter to all you love,” Wentworth whispered. “Lose your future, lose the promise and dreams you have had. Find yourself washing my dishes as if it were the greatest future you ever could have imagined… and find yourself in my rooms at night, if I want you. There's nothing all that new or interesting about you, but perhaps you'll surprise me. Refuse me and lose the life of a renowned magician. Instead ,spend it being content in drudgery. Sacrifice all that you are and become whatever tiny, mean little thing I command you to be, and love every single second of it."

She spat in his face. 

He wiped at his cheek. “Fine. Lose your life to my desires, if you wish. That is a sacrifice I am quite happy to make. Better women than you already have."

He let go of her hair and went back to his chair, sitting down, picking up his little cup of tea, and going back to his morning as if nothing had happened at all. 

The men dragged her away, all her kicking and pulling and struggle meaning nothing to their strength and solid, immovable obedience to command. 

“Oh, and Miss Losna?” Lord Guilford Wentworth called after her smugly, “Let me be the first to welcome you home."

-

Taglist:  @grizzlie70   @burtlederp    @finder-of-rings    @theelvishcowgirl    @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump    @bloodinkandashes    @squishablesunbeam    @mj-or-say10   @apokolyps   @wildfaewhump   @shrimpwritings  @there-will-always-be-blood @latenightcupsofcoffee

For @whumptober 26, 27, 28

#lady whump #trans whumpee #delicious. finally some good fucking food

[sapphicwhump]

some peoole act like youre waterboarding them if you want to talk about women instead of men

[sapphicwhump]

Whumpee is being tortured for information she does not have. Only she cannot under any circumstances let Whumper know that, because than he'll go after her teammates who do have the information. And they are too good and do not deserve to go through this torture, nor would they be able to deal with the torture unlike her. So she does everything to convince Whumper that she has the information he is looking for, to protect her teammates.

And wouldn't it be a shame, just to make her life even harder. if Whumper had means to make sure she can't lie (truth serum, spell, etc,)

[sapphicwhump]

i think shame & its manifestations in whump is not talked about enough. like i love when whumpee is physically unable to tell caretaker about all they went through, not only because it is insanely distressing to relive but also because it's humiliating. 'how can someone be so cruel?' is another question, but we're also talking 'how did i let that happen to myself?' from whumpee's perspective. often times post something traumatizing whumpees develop this deep-seated feeling of hopelessness & helplessness & misguided anger which is just in sweet words not cool

because think about it, the whumpee could not stop anything from happening to them. there's always this notion of having to stand up for yourself, but whumpee didn't even get the chance to. who should you be angry at? whumper? the system? yourself?

the fact that it happened is so terribly real and if paired with the conditioning of whumper & possible victim blaming, the shame eventually turns into this twisted form of denial, where whumpee is unable to confront the fact that they were hurt so bad and it just turns into oh my god i hate that it happened to me. i want to erase that it all happened. i wish i could live just one day forgetting it all and wake up thinking what was i so stressed about? i wish i could walk past whumper and think 'who were they again'? nobody should know about this because i cant deal with it myself and i don't know what i'll do if it all goes out

yk what im talking abt?

[sapphicwhump]

Transformation, Horror, Eros, Phyrexia

There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. - Lewis Carroll, “The Lobster Quadrille,”

ONE.

There is a moment early in H.P. Lovecraft’s 1931 novella The Shadow over Innsmouth where the nameless narrator looks out from the rotting seaside hamlet where he has lucklessly ventured, to the so-called Devil Reef some ways out in the harbor, darkened by a cloud of evil rumor—and something curious happens: the narrator experiences two opposed sensations simultaneously. The “long, black line” of the reef conveys “a suggestion of odd latent malignancy,” but also, “a subtle, curious sense of beckoning seemed superadded to the grim repulsion.” This bit of foreshadowing—the reef both calling and repelling the narrator—only finds its denouement at the very end of the story, after our narrator has narrowly escaped Innsmouth, the fish-like monsters who swarm in off of Devil Reef and their part-human descendants who inhabit the town in an unconvincing and repellent simulacrum of humanity. After his escape, the narrator does some genealogical research into his own troubled family history, full of disappearances and suicides, and concludes that he himself is one such abyssal hybrid. As he ages, he finds himself changing to resemble them, and in his dreams he swims among them in undersea palaces and gardens. The call of the deep becomes impossible to ignore:

Keep reading

[sapphicwhump]

predatory oppressive evil lesbians forcing helpless fujoshis to produce yuri content

[sapphicwhump]

“fuck you my child is completely fine”

your child fantasizes about being tortured so they’d finally have a good enough reason for someone to rescue and comfort them

[sapphicwhump]

When I first created my whump blog, I was disappointed that my work wasn't getting nearly as much engagement as other writers. But now I'm grateful for that, because I've stayed beneath the notice of any transmisogynistic harassment campaigns. The kind of content I write would make it extremely easy for any TME to smear me as a violent predator and harass me off the site

It's kind of crushing to know that any popularity I gain will come with the inherent threat of being Hot Allostatic Loaded for it. Trans women aren't allowed to be successful

#transmisogyny

[sapphicwhump]

like its not that serious etc but any time u express frustration or just point out wow people in fandom continuously prioritize men over women Here comes the fucking misogyny hydra

[sapphicwhump]

Estrogen could not save her, but it would make her look much hotter while she's covered in blood.

[sapphicwhump]

Attention Y/N fic writers, I have some great news! Did you know that you can just say penis or vagina without referring to AGAB? It's true! You don't need to say "reader with AFAB genitalia" when what you mean is reader with a vagina! You do not actually have to annoy all the trans people scrolling tags by asserting that there are "girl" parts or "boy" parts! Amazing!

I'm a guy with a pussy. Stop finding new ~*progressive*~ ways to forever associate me with female woman girl female female female when I'm just trying to have a nice time looking at horny fanart. Please.

#every time I see “AFAB reader” I imagine them as post-GRS transfem purely out of spite

[sapphicwhump]

19. "please don't"

"it hurts."

"I know, Ari... I know, dear." their hands still moved slowly and steadily, nonetheless, peeling back layer upon layer of bloodstained bandages. the fitful smoky firelight showed the fresher red overlaying the long-dried marks. "but we've got to clean the wounds again."

she lay like a rag doll on the cloak they'd laid down, utterly spent from the day's journey, tattered shirt rucked up to show the bandages wrapping her waist and stomach. now and again she flinched but mostly the tension had gone into her mouth and hands, fists clenching white-knuckled, lips bitten pale.

"please... just let me... rest. it hurts... so much."

they put one hand up to smooth the stringy hair out of her eyes, biting their own lip at the feverish heat of her skin beneath their palm. walking all day like this - they'd known it was a terrible idea, but there wasn't an alternative at this point. they had to get to the outpost, and waiting wouldn't solve anything.

"I know, I know," they murmured. "I hear you. you can rest soon as I'm done."

the last few pieces of gauze were the hardest to remove, stiff with blood and whatever else, the sick stink of infection barely hidden beneath. they used the water from their canteen to soak them off, as she gasped and winced at the sting of it. the crusted slashes from the monster's claws were red-rimmed beneath, fresh blood mixing with yellowed fluid seeping from the wounds.

"Ari - dearest - I'm so, so sorry. but I'm - it's bad. I'll try to be as gentle as I can."

she watched, silent with a sort of empty-eyed despair, as they heated their knife blade in the embers of the fire and searched their pack for the last of the salves and bandages. it wasn't until they picked the knife up again that she spoke in a whisper again.

"please - don't."

they knelt down closer to her, turning so they didn't block the light; the dusk had turned to dark now, wind whispering in the brush and the high branches of the trees. the glassy look in her eyes was frightening them, almost as much as the spreading red marks on her skin.

"you'll feel better if I get some of the infection out. I promise. then you can sleep. and we'll be back soon - we just have to keep going a little longer in the morning."

or more than a little longer, if they had to carry her. which was seeming more and more likely.

she fell silent then, turning her face towards their leg and squeezing her eyes shut, and tried to breathe instead - long shuddering breaths that turned to sobs at the end, tears bright on her dirty cheeks in the firelight.

they tried to be gentle. they tried to be quick, too. how well either goal went they weren't sure, the moments feeling ever-long, their hands sweaty on the warm hilt of the knife. somewhere in the midst of it she passed out, mercifully, which they noticed as they staunched one of the new cuts they'd made and she didn't flinch in response. the smoke stung in their eyes as they blinked, wetly.

"Ari... Ari dearest... it's going to be all right. I - I need it to be. please try to hold on."

she didn't answer, not then and not for a long while after; but sometime in the cold dark before dawn, they woke a little and she had curled into their warmth more closely, shivering from chill and from fever.

"still - here," she mumbled, into their cloak wrapped around the two of them, "still here... hurts."

"yes. yes, I know."

and they wrapped their arms around her, and slept until daylight.

[sapphicwhump]

Mind Control

They tell her that it’s not her fault. They tell her she was ensorcelled, that her actions were not her own.

Perhaps they are right. She can recognise, distantly, like studying letters through a glass, that her actions were out of character. That she’s never felt any urge to do such a thing before or since.

They tell her she could not have resisted. That no one in her position could have resisted. They tell her they know that she fought as hard as she could, and that hurts worst of all because she doesn’t think she fought at all.

In that moment, that cut-glass moment that has etched itself forever in her memory, there was no struggle. She didn’t grapple in her mind with the awful impulse. Her hand didn’t shake with the effort of trying to hold it back.

In that cold, crystalline moment, she wanted to kill him. More than she had ever wanted anything. There was no second guessing, no moment of hesitation. She wanted, and she acted on that want. And as the sword drove between his ribs, shearing muscle and sinew like so much new, tender grass, she felt only satisfaction, as profound as any joy she ever felt.

That, in itself, makes no sense, she knows. It’s as profoundly out of character for her as anything she can imagine. Even if it was not sorcery, it must have been sheer unbridled madness. And she tries to find some comfort in that, for are the mad truly responsible for their actions either?

She still feels it though.

For all her hoarse-voiced apologies, all her tears, all the sobs that shook her to the core, she cannot convince herself that she really, truly regrets his death.

Oh, she regrets the pain she has caused their mutual friends. She is sorry – so sorry that she cannot look them in the eyes, so sorry that she isn’t sure she can live with herself – for the grief that she can see tearing their hearts apart. How she could do such a thing to them – that’s the part that almost convinces her that they must be right. That murder could not have been her own choice.

But for the man himself, her friend of two decades – she feels only that lingering, twisting satisfaction.

They tell her she isn’t a monster. But she can’t tell them the truth. Even as the guilt eats her alive, she can’t bring herself to tell them that despite everything, she’s glad he’s dead.

Did she always hate him? She doesn’t think so, but it’s so hard to recall. She searches her memories, twenty years of friendship, and she can’t remember what it was like to laugh with him without that nagging doubt that perhaps he was laughing at her all along.

So hard to remember their shared successes, although she knows there were plenty. So much easier to recall the times he cut her with his careless words. Always meant in good humour, she knows. She knew it then. He never could be serious. She always laughed it off and told herself it meant nothing. But now she finds every little cut festering, corrupting her memories with bitter resentment.

He was always better than her. Physically, yes, stronger, taller, with greater reach and greater stamina. Smarter too, quicker off the mark, always running circles around her with his words. She tried so hard not to resent his strengths, and she always thought she did okay, but now the worm of jealousy squirms through every thought of him.

Couldn’t there have been just one arena in which she could outperform him? Couldn’t he have slowed down for her even once?

Worse, she knows he’d never have thought such things about a dead friend. He was always nobler than her, too. Always arguing for the selfless path.

She should admire that in him. Maybe she once did. But it only makes her feel small and grimy and greedy for how she could never quite put her own wants aside the way he did. A coward, a worm, never courageous enough. Not beside him.

Especially now that he’s dead. How can she think such things? How, in the face of the monstrous thing she’s done, can she still be caught up in such petty resentments?

They tell her it wasn’t her choice. They say it with such certain conviction. But how can they be sure? They say they know her and they know she’d never have hurt him. But does anyone truly know another person? Does she even know herself?

Perhaps she never hated him before. Perhaps the sorcery wormed its way inside her mind and destroyed her friendship so thoroughly that she cannot even recall what it used to be like. Or perhaps it only worked because she already harboured all these ugly feelings. Perhaps if she’d been a better friend and better person, it would have found no purchase in her mind and he’d still be alive.

Or perhaps there was never any sorcery at all. She wants to believe, like the others believe, that she isn’t a murderer. That this isn’t who she is.

But she remembers how good it felt to act for once without doubt or hesitation, and she cannot convince herself that it was not her all along.