I am an adult lizard, and I write stories and draw things.
Please call me Lizard, I use she/her pronouns, and I have a lot of anxieties.
Here you’ll find links to all of my ongoing whump storylines to make it easy for you to get right into it.
I mostly write medieval fantasy whump, with defiant whumpees and lesbians/queer folk. I do sketches to go with each story.
I also write and draw nsfwhump, but I always tag very thoroughly to try and make sure everyone is well warned in advance.
I tag asks and non-story text posts in #lovelizard tag, so if you dont like seeing them you know how to remove them.
Each of my story posts has a ‘Previous’ and ’Next’ link at the bottom so you can easily navigate them chronologically. I will link the first post of each story here for you to start out.
If you'd like to be added to any tag lists, please let me know.
Sometimes I draw non-whump things, and sometimes I'll open art requests for your OCs. I also have plans to do free YCH art raffles and things like that in the future. My commissions are currently [OPEN]
I'm always happy to answer any questions you might have. Thank you for reading and enjoying my works, and thank you for welcoming me warmly into the whump community!
｡ﾟ*･WHUMP STORYLINES *･｡ﾟ
Waiting For You
This story is about Iska, an angry and abrasive young mage who is captured, tortured, and experimented on - and Meres, the weak-willed right-hand man of the whumper - who must work together to escape their situations, and search for freedom and happiness together.
Start Reading Here
Field of Stars
This story is based in the Stardew Valley universe and follows Sebastian and Eve, the farmer who moved into the valley just looking for a new peaceful life - who also happens to be a purple alien wanted by the government.
Start Reading Here
Here In The Garden
This story is about Ariadne, a faerie who unfortunately gets captured and imprisoned by a cruel human whose intent is to breed faeries like pets.
CONTENT WARNING:
This story contains noncon and nsfwhump themes
Start Reading Here
Fate's Bitter Song
This story is about Piper, the half-elf advisor to a queen who was violently deposed by a coup on the same night she was crowned. She sacrifices herself so that the queen can escape and ends up in the cruel grasp of a man who will do anything to her to get what he wants.
CONTENT WARNING:
This story contains graphic noncon and nsfwhump themes
Start Reading Here
Ma'esha / My Person
This story is based in the Dragon Age world, and focuses on Tellana, a Dalish elf working as a prostitute in a city, when she becomes unfortunately, miserably entangled with a cruel Tevinter mage.
CONTENT WARNING:
This story contains graphic noncon and nsfwhump themes
Start Reading Here
Baited Breath
This story is about Esther, who is serving out a 10 year prison sentence on an alien moon, being used as live bait by scientists and researchers who are studying the native marine species.
CONTENT WARNING:
This story contains suggestions of noncon and nsfwhump themes
Start Reading Here
The Devil's Darling
This story centers around Petr - a he/him lesbian working in the underground world of violence and lust - and Juliette, the femme he works for and a woman who is unpredictable, sadistic, and who loves drugging him.
CONTENT WARNING:
This story contains dubcon, noncon, and nsfw themes
Start Reading Here
Learn to Love Again
This story is about Athena, a winged woman who was held captive in a tower for most of her existence, and Locke, the butch lesbian who rescued her, travelling together and learning how to live and love.
CONTENT WARNING:
This story contains graphic noncon and nsfwhump themes
Start Reading here
Yuna
This story is a short series following Yuna, and her search for justice after she and fellow strippers have fallen victim to a criminal the police can't apprehend.
CONTENT WARNING:
This story contains noncon mentions and nsfwhump themes
Start Reading Here
｡ﾟ*･ STORIES ON HIATUS *･｡ﾟ
A Long Way Home (Hiatus)
This story focuses on Opal, a gentle dwarf woman, who is kidnapped to be sold on the non-human market, and her struggles and suffering as she desperately tries to return home.
Start Reading Here
Forlorn as the Flowers (Hiatus)
This story focuses on Lady Iris, a young noblewoman and daughter of a baron and Mabel, her closest friend, the daughter of a knight. Iris' father is in heavy debt to the son of the ruling lord, and he makes both of their lives hell while they just try to survive.
Start Reading Here
Witch Breaker (Hiatus)
This story is set in the early 1600s witch trials, and uses era-accurate dialogue (lots of thee's and thou's). It is a brutal tale of Abigail, who is accused of being a witch, and her trials as she suffers at the hands of someone called 'The Witch Breaker'.
CONTENT WARNING: This story will eventually contain graphic noncon and nsfwhump themes
Start Reading Here
Gone Rogue (Hiatus)
This story is about Whynne, who gets caught and separated from her adventuring party, and then used as bait to lure them all to their doom and captivity, serving under an evil deity-like being.
CONTENT WARNING: This story contains noncon and nsfwhump themes
this lizard has been on a mini-sabbatical, focusing on making my body stronger and healthier, and i am truly joyful to reveal that it has in fact been working. while i've been locking in, my art and writing have been blocked (lack of lizard energy? not enough lizard braincells?). i am still here, and i still love whumping women, im just slower and steadier (so mindful, so demure) hope everyone is having a beautiful springtime into summer 🦎💙
➤ CONTENT WARNINGS: stalking, threat, noncon touching, knives, blood, suffocation/asthma attack, chronic illness, hospital and medical whump mention
“Stop - I’ll yell for help - I'll -“ Emma’s heart drummed in her ears, her eyes flicked from the knife to her own warped reflection in the biker's helmet visor, and back again, “- my neighbours will call the police -!”
“Shhhh…”
As soon as she arrived home from the hospital, Emma realised she had lost her wallet.
She patted her pockets, checked her jacket and her jeans - even the depths of her backpack, but no. It was gone. How could it be gone? She was sure she’d had it on the way out of the building…though, it was always a bit of a haze after a particularly rough blood test.
Annoyed, she felt the buzz of a heart rate alert from her phone and forced herself to sit down on the hallway bench, taking some slow, careful breaths.
Surely someone would find it and turn it in.
Only a scumbag would steal a wallet they found in a hospital, and it was only just gone seven, not too late at night yet. If she rested for an hour or so, maybe she could make the journey back out to the hospital and -
The doorbell’s chime went off like an explosion in the silent flat.
It made Emma jump and set her heart pounding even harder. Her brows furrowed, and she turned to the door, unconsciously putting a hand on her chest.
She’d only just got home, who could it possibly be?
With a heavy sigh, Emma slowly pulled herself up from the bench and made her way to the door, one hand trailing back along the wall for the extra balance in the low light of her flat. Just as she put her hand on the knob, a knock from the other side made her flinch.
Why even bother trying to stay calm?
The peep-hole showed it was a woman outside.
Well, they were wearing a large biker helmet - the visor showed nothing except the warped reflection of the hall outside - but their figure was feminine. A low-cut black top with a ripped collar showed a floral, winding collarbone tattoo and the chapstick hanging amongst keys from the decorative carabiner on her belt loop was the same brand that Emma used. Possibly a woman, but definitely a biker.
“Can I help you?” Emma called through the door, watching through her little fish-eyed window as the biker reached into one of her cargo pants pockets and held up a wallet.
“This is yours, right? Emma Cross?” She called back, somehow easy to hear despite the helmet on her head.
It was, in fact, her wallet.
Emma was so grateful to not have to make another journey, so relieved and caught up managing every little ounce of energy she could, that she didn’t even consider how the woman had found her address in the first place.
She opened the door with a weary smile.
“Hi, yeah. You found it at Northwest Hospital, right?”
“Sitting pretty in the parking lot.”
The biker offered it out, and Emma got a peek of muscular arms and more tattoos under the rolled sleeve of her leather jacket.
“Thanks, I really appreciate it,”
“Sure. Those are pretty nasty -“ the biker commented, nodding her helmet towards the bruises on Emma’s arm.
“Oh, yeah…uh, I’ve got bad veins,” Emma said with a weak sort of laugh; out of habit she flexed the sore muscles, “Had to get like four sets of blood tests in the past couple weeks.”
“It must be hard being sick…”
“Yeah, the doctor doesn’t really know what's causing - well, my issues. Still, gotta keep on living, right?”
But the biker didn’t respond to that.
Just stood there in silence for a long moment.
Emma blinked, noticing from the corner of her eye that the biker’s fists were clenched.
In fact, she noticed the biker's chest was heaving just a little heavier than it had been a second ago, and for the first time realised she’d just been talking to a complete stranger who hadn’t shown their face yet.
“Uhh…well, thanks for bringing my wallet, I’ll let you get back to your -“
The biker's hand slammed down on the door as Emma moved to close it.
Her heart leapt into her throat and brought on a bout of hiccups; she took an unsteady step back into her flat as the biker took a powerful step towards her; “What are you doing? Th - there are cameras in my building -“
“Outside. Looking at the main entrance,” the biker interrupted, forcing Emma to flee further backwards as she took a calm step forward.
And as the shadow of the doorway fell over her, she pulled a knife from another cargo pocket. A ridiculous, sharp-looking thing made of black metal and surely too big to have fit in the pocket it came from.
“M - my partner will be home s -“
“You live alone.”
The biker took another step towards her; she took another halting step back.
“Stop - I’ll yell for help - I'll -“ Emma’s heart drummed in her ears, her eyes flicking from the knife to her own warped reflection in the biker's helmet visor, and back again, “- my neighbours will call the police -!”
“Shhhh…”
The biker eased further into the flat, never more than a couple of feet away from Emma, her knife close enough to kill. And once she got far enough inside, she slowly closed the door behind her and twisted the deadbolt with a loud clunk.
Emma put a hand on the wall to steady herself and tried to blink away the spinning in her head.
What was she supposed to do?
Try to talk? Defend herself? Submit to whatever it was she wanted?
No one had ever prepared her for a fucking hostage situation in her own home!
“Please - I don’t have anything to steal, my - my television is twenty years old. My PC is cobbled together from cheap parts -!” She flinched as the biker raised the knife, feeling her stomach twist into a tight knot, “-but you can take it! You can take it, take whatever you want, just please -!”
“Not much space to run in here, huh?” The biker asked, though her voice was husky and tinged with sarcasm.
Emma felt her heart in her throat, suffocating her with each beat.
It was true she didn’t have much space to work with, but her phone was sitting in her pocket as heavy as stone. If she could get even a couple seconds locked in the bathroom at the other end of the hall, she could call the police and maybe scare the woman off.
But no matter how much she willed herself to run, to just do it, just break into a sprint and get safe - damn the consequences to her body - she couldn't.
She found herself wholly frozen where she was, eyes wide and mouth hanging open like a fish caught on a hook, dangling, helpless, in front of a terrible fisherman.
“No…” she managed to wheeze, “I don’t…need much space."
It was all she could do to shuffle back on wobbling legs, her wallet on the floor, long since dropped.
"Can you even run?”
“N…not well,” she admitted through choked breaths, glancing away from the biker for the first time to look for her inhaler - which sat on the windowsill on the other side of the living room. It might as well have been miles away.
The biker followed her eye line, and the knife clicked innocently in her hand as she gestured with it.
“You can get it.”
“I-it’s just my inhaler, I-”
“I said get it.”
“Okay…o-okay…"
Emma swallowed hard, carefully, slowly backing through the living room towards the window. The biker followed, looming like a shadow, her booted footsteps creaking on the floorboards; but the distance between them slowly grew - a few more feet, and then a few more, until Emma bumped into the windowsill and finally had to commit.
If she could surreptitiously get the phone out of her pocket then maybe she could get a call off to the police before…before…
What if she got caught? Would the biker hurt her?
She hadn’t hurt her yet…but...
There was nothing else but to try. Maybe she was dead either way. And it was getting harder and harder to think.
With great difficulty, she turned her back to the room and cursed herself for putting up privacy film on the window - it was beautiful and looked like stained glass, but not a soul from the parking lot outside would be able to see her getting fucking murdered, and maybe call the cops…
So, she picked up the little blue inhaler next to her dying house plants.
And she raised it to her lips with one hand, while shielding her other hand and slowly, carefully reaching down towards her pocket.
Her fingertips brushed the edge of her phone…
And at the same time, the biker's body slammed into her from behind.
It jolted her forward, knocking the inhaler out of her hand entirely and off the edge of the windowsill.
The knife came over one of her shoulders, and Emma let out a cry that was strangled by the biker's free hand clapping down on her mouth.
“You really think you’re cute, huh?” She mumbled - her voice clear, and low, and frightening despite the cool plastic of the helmet that pressed against the side of Emma’s face.
“Mmm - mm!” She shook her head, falling forward over the windowsill as the biker pressed more weight against her back.
The tip of the knife danced down her, scratching a path through the sweat but not drawing blood.
“Changed my mind, I want you panting.”
Tears sprung into Emma’s eyes, she shook her head again but the biker held her fast, her grip tight and fingers squeezing tight.
The knife paused at the collar of her t-shirt; “No screaming. Got it?"
“Mmgh…”
Emma nodded slowly and blinked through tears as the biker’s hand let go of her mouth and smoothed down her arm - her bad arm, where the nurses had drawn blood from today. The biker rubbed her fingers over the tender bruise.
“I saw you at the hospital today,” she said, “I like watching you at the hospital.”
Emma’s entire body stiffened.
“Wh…what?”
“You forgot your chapstick last time. Your lips taste good.”
The biker’s arm snaked around her waist and pulled her hips back with a powerful yank, holding her tightly as she guided the knife over the bump of Emma’s breasts and the folds of her stomach.
“S…stop…what're you…?”
Each breath was a struggle, a whistling gasp for air.
“I wish it could be today. You feel so good in my hands.”
The knife trailed down one of her thighs.
Emma groaned, seeing spots at the edges of her vision. Her arms gave out under her, and she fell forward onto her elbows - and the sharp point of the knife bit through her jeans, into her skin.
“Please…I-I can’t…breathe…” she wheezed.
“You were crying at the hospital. You tried to hide it, but I saw. I always see what you show me,” the biker said, letting go of her waist and crushing her bruised hand, leaning down so far that Emma’s head bowed forward, pressed up against the window.
“Pl...ease…"
“You hate suffering, but you love having suffered. You want everyone to see how much you struggle. But you don’t want to have to say it…that’s alright. You don't have to say it to me.”
Her vision was going dark and blurry; her head reeled, too heavy for her neck to hold.
“Help…” Emma coughed through tears, “I can’t….I can't…”
“Shhhh, I know.”
The biker knocked her knee into the back of Emma’s legs, and they buckled.
She stepped away, just far enough to let Emma fall backwards onto the floor but close enough to catch her head before it hit the carpet.
Like a shadow, the biker stood over her for a moment that felt like hours as she lay there, gasping for breath, on the floor.
The floor…her inhaler…it fell on the floor…
Weakly, she fumbled for it - forcing her failing body to move, to turn over, forcing her blurry eyes to find it in the darkness.
Then, her hand touched plastic.
Emma grabbed the inhaler quickly, and forced it to her lips, taking a painful, deep breath of medicine and choking heavily on it.
Panicked, she took a second dose immediately, and nearly passed out from the rush of lightheadedness that followed. She squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on breathing, every muscle in her body trembling.
And when she was finally able to open them again, to look back up - the biker was gone.
The door of her flat was unlocked and hanging open, and the motion lights in the hall flooded inside, chasing away the darkness.
Muscles screaming in pain and a stinging heat was spreading on her thigh where the knife had drawn blood, Emma forced her arm into one final task - taking her phone out to dial the police.
Once they were on their way, she lay back limply, coughing and crying.
It had been a horrific night.
But it was over…
It was over...
[General Tag List]: @acelightningwhumper @blood-and-regrets @chaotic-orphan
➤ CONTENT WARNINGS: noncon, dehumanisation, captivity, drugging, head injury, bruises, emotional distress, death mention
White hot anger bubbled up inside her; it clutched her heart like a vice, it raked its claws down her chest with a rage that threatened to overcome her.
Too late, it mocked. It's too late now!
After the first time, the next wasn’t as bad.
And the next was easier still.
Lying awake with an aching body through long nights - staring out the nearby window, which loomed so cruelly close - she watched the sun rise in the mornings.
Mudan slept fitfully at night. Maybe a side effect of the drug.
She couldn’t bring herself to look at him.
Nor could he, when he finally woke in the mornings, bear to look at her.
Sometimes in the day she could hear him mumbling to himself, shuddering and gasping - fitful, just like he was at night.
But Ariadne stayed far away from him. Leaning her hot body against the cool glass wall, and watching the trees outside rustle in the wind.
The human visited twice every day. Once in the morning to bring food and water. Once in the evening to spray a sickly and bitter smelling mist into the jar.
For some reason it had no effect on her. Maybe it would have been easier if it did.
But the effect on Mudan was instant.
The second night, Ariadne still tried to fight him off. She pleaded and screamed, tried to break through the haze of the drug, tried to reach whatever little there was of him left.
The third night her voice left her, hoarse and whispery, along with what little strength she had left. Her body was the final betrayer; it had given up when she needed it most, and again had given up, this time for good.
What use was it to fight anymore?
One way or another, it always ended the same.
Mudan on top of her, his bruising grip crushing her shoulders, the rough canvas coarse against her bare skin, and the terrible burning heat tearing up through her for hours afterwards.
Every night after that, it was less painful to just lie there and let him do what it was he needed to do. Her rope bindings were so heavy on her arms. Her legs trembled with even the hint of movement.
So she stared out into the dark trees instead, still and compliant, locking away any thoughts that might further betray her and ignoring the steady drip of Mudan’s tears on her collarbone, waiting for the night to end.
For twelve days, every day, that was Ariadne’s entire existence.
The only reason she knew it was twelve days at all was on account of the sunrises.
The warmth of the day bleeding into the sky was a respite, and on a thread she had plucked from the fraying end of the canvas, she tied a knot for each one.
Twelve knots. Twelve days.
On the thirteenth day, the human only came once.
In the morning he brought food, then reached down into the jar and took Mudan away.
With a one-eyed smirk, he gave her a warning: "Don't worry, I'll bring your little boyfriend back soon."
So Ariadne lay there, waiting, her body tense and trembling, as the sun slipped behind the clouds and then down behind the tree line, and night finally arrived...
But he didn’t come back.
The cruel irony of it was, even without Mudan on top of her, a painful heat throbbed between her legs and in the deepest pit of her stomach - a pain that stayed with her, as it usually did, all night until the blessed sunrise finally came.
Only then, in the safety of the light of day, did she finally dare to move again.
Her body was just as stiff as usual, creaking and twinging along the fresh scars in her back as she pulled herself up, a nervous glance hovering on the distant door.
No human. No Mudan.
Everything in her screamed in distrust.
One night was nothing. He could just as easily come back the next.
Ariadne didn’t dare feel anything - least of all relief.
That night, instead of lying flat on her back in the middle of the floor and waiting, she stayed where she was against the edge of the jar, half-hidden by a tall fold in the canvas.
She clutched her elbows tightly, ignoring the ache of her bruises, pressed her knees in against her body, and stared down the closed door at the other end of the dark room.
All remnants of the sun faded away, and the moon rose up among stringy grey clouds behind her…
And then, a soft sound.
Not from the door, but from behind her - from right outside the glass of the jar.
Ariadne flinched violently, throwing herself away from the wall out of pure base instinct, tripping over the canvas and scratching up her legs as they crumbled under her weight, too weak to hold her.
“A - A - Ariadne…” a stuttering, muffled voice called from behind her.
“Ariadne, it’s us - it’s us -”
Through trembling arms raised up in front of her face, Ariadne blinked away the fog of fear and saw them. Bathed in the unwelcome, pale light of the moon: Percy and Briar.
Breathless, Ariadne slowly lowered her hands.
“P…ercy…” she croaked, slowly pulling herself back across the waves of canvas to the glass wall, “Briar…you’re…”
Suddenly she was all too aware of her nakedness; of the deep mottled bruises that painted her skin in violet and sickly yellow, of the jagged scars that tore up her back, the ropes attached to her wrists, and the truths it all told.
“A - A - Alive, yes,” Percy finished, struggling to get the word out, “though I s - s -seem to have dev - v - veloped a bit o - of a -"
“He hit his head during the escape,” Briar said, though he was looking away and harder to hear through the glass, “But we made it out, thanks to you.”
Ariadne swallowed the lump in her throat.
Percy’s soft blue eyes were shadowed in the dark, but she could see that one of his pupils was larger than the other - and there was long-dried blood in his hair. And the wound on Briar’s neck - from where Gale had held a knife to it - was dirty and scabbed over.
Both of them looked a bit thinner, a bit more gaunt than before, but otherwise fine.
The injustice of it burned low in her chest. How could she begrudge them their freedom…?
But it should have been her there, on the other side of the glass.
If she’d just left them, if she’d carried out her plan - what did it matter if they died? She’d warned them! She’d told them to kill Gale! It should have been her out there! It should have been -
“We w - w - w - want to help you,” Percy said, placing a hesitant hand on the glass.
“How do we get you out?” Briar asked.
Ariadne tried to take a calming breath, tried to still the raging of her heart.
“No, its - best if you go,” Ariadne coughed, “go and bring help, we - we can’t do it on our own -“
There was no telling when the human might come back.
If they got caught again…
If they got caught it really all would have been for nothing.
“There m - must be a way t - t - t - t -“ Percy trailed off with a frustrated sigh.
“He’s right,” Briar agreed, "we can gather supplies. Make a plan.”
Ariadne sat back from the glass, a cold shiver going through her.
She raised her wrists, looking at the place where her skin had been chemically fused to her rope bindings. And then at the heavy stones that sat on the other end of them.
“…No way out…” she rasped, feeling her fingers curl into fists.
Where had their enthusiasm been when they all lived in the tank together?
Where was it when she had been whole?
If they’d been as willing back then as they were now...
“Th - th - there has to be something!” Percy insisted in a hushed tone, “We can get you a kn - kn - knife or -“
“We can’t just leave you,” Briar said quietly.
Another shudder, more vicious, ripped through her.
White hot anger bubbled up inside her; it clutched her heart like a vice, it raked its claws down her chest with a rage that threatened to overcome her.
Too late, it mocked. It's too late now!
“Fucking bastards...” she wheezed, screwing her eyes so tightly shut that she could hear the blood rushing behind them, “Bastards…I could kill you! I could kill you!”
She beat her fists against the glass with a strength that came out of nowhere, throwing her body into every movement. Her hair whipped around her face, sweat sticking it to the back of her neck; “Bastards! I’ll kill you!” She screamed, hearing her voice echo inside the glass prison.
Ariadne felt every movement. Each one ached of bruises, it pulled tight against the pain in her abdomen and set every inch of her to trembling.
Her fingers hitting the glass hurt.
Her entire body hurt.
And the burn of tears in her tired eyes hurt, as she slumped over - too exhausted to do anything more except let wailing, moaning sobs overcome her.
Boiling tears poured down her cheeks. Her desperate hands clutched at her hair. Her forehead fell against the glass.
And she cried.
She cried so deeply, and for so long, that by the time she could even manage to raise her head again, the sun was already peeking over the far horizon, bleeding its pale yellow and pink into the dawn sky, and Percy and Briar had disappeared.
➤ CONTENT WARNINGS: nightmare, slavery, death, fire
Do you ever have bad dreams? I have them, every night.
Last night...
I'm in the middle of a frozen ocean, on the tiniest wooden boat, barely enough to survive the waves. It's the dead of night, and the water is treacherous, and its bitter cold - but it doesn't feel cold.
All of my friends are there, other servants and slaves like me. We sing comforting songs, we hold each other - and a guardian angel…she sits at the back of the boat.
She has no wings, but a shimmering ribbon tied into a bow around one of her shoulders. I can see where the ribbon connects to - all the way, straight back across the water to where we came from.
And then it all goes wrong.
A creaking metal warship appears over the next cresting wave. In the sky, a thousand airships, each with just a single pilot, tear through the dark clouds.
And then there is fire.
So much fire, and we can't escape it - faceless men on the battleship, they bear no weapons…just fire.
The guardian angel dies first.
Not by fire.
I see the look on her face, sorrow and regret and panic. She wants to help, that's why she came - but she can't. Then, her ribbon comes loose and she falls dead into the water.
When I look away from her, everyone else is dead, too.
It's just me now, and the fires go out just as quickly as they started - and the airships descend.
They take me back, back where I came from, with shackles on my wrist and too much grief to even scream…the only survivor.
➤ CONTENT WARNINGS: injury and bruising, animal bite, blood, discussion of death, emotional distress
"I did know her!" Piper insisted, though even she could feel how weak her desperation sounded in the silence of the room, "She - she was an excellent swordswoman! And she - she often worked with the castle knights, and -"
"- and what? She was a good little servant? Good enough to serve you? Good enough to die for you?!"
Piper ran as fast as her feet could carry her, her ruined gown from the coronation feast catching in tatters on splintered roots and her own heels.
She ran with the queen, and with Melina - terrified in the shifting darkness of the woods, and yet inexplicably found herself terribly, desperately joyed to see them both.
Except, she couldn't see them. Her two dear friends seemed like ghosts, fluttering alongside her in the night, there in the corner of her eye but gone the instant she turned her head.
Piper tried to call out to them, but instead of their names, wailing, frightened screams burst out of her. Crashing footsteps thundered behind her. Branches snapped, leaves hissed, and even what little light came through the trees from the full moon dissolved into nothing.
She expected an arrow - but instead, razor sharp claws shot through back and burst out through her chest, stopping her dead.
Somehow, she continued to breathe. Continued to live, and to scream, staring in horror at a pulsating, twisted knot of sinew and flesh grasped in the claws of the creature behind her.
"Sweet...fox..." a rumbling, warped voice sang against the back of her head, "Sweet...fox..." it sang, clutching her beating heart tighter and sending a wave of agony down through her stomach and into her womb.
The darkness melted around her to blinding white light from a full moon that blared in her tear-stricken eyes.
She was desperate to escape, desperate to breathe, to live - to cower away from the light and cover her ears against the ringing roar of her own screams.
The white light burst through her into the grey drab of a misty, early morning and Piper shot straight up in bed - cold sweat pinpricked her bare skin, her mouth was dry as a bone and her jaws were sore.
She flinched at the sight of a girl next to her, a young girl all of twelve or thirteen years old with shaggy dark hair hiding much of her olive-skinned and freckled face.
It took her a moment to gather herself and catch her breath, and all the while the young girl just watched. She wore similar wools and furs of the woman who had come in before, perhaps she was also a young wolf monster.
Piper covered herself again with one of the quilts, a flush of embarrassment not at her nakedness, but that she had most certainly been screaming in her sleep and this young girl heard and saw it.
"Thank you for waking me," she said, her voice catching painfully in the back of her throat and bringing on a coughing fit.
"They told me not to," the girl said, pouring a mug of steaming wine and offering it out, "Said it was the dark magic escaping your body, but I didn't even see anything."
Dark magic escaping her body? A shudder went through her as her numb fingers burned against the ceramic cup.
"It must have been frightening for you, I'm sorry," Piper said.
"I've heard way scarier things than that," the girl insisted, jutting her chin out bravely, "I'm the bravest, strongest wolf in my litter, and my mama says -"
The door opened with a sudden click, which made the girl nearly jump out of her skin.
The same stern-faced nurse as before came in, and with a single look she sent the little girl retreating from the room.
The cup in Piper's hand had begun to burn cold against her palms.
"Your name is Willa, is that right?" Piper asked quietly.
"So it is."
The woman set down her tray with medicines and salves on it and took a seat on the edge of the bed. She reached the back of her hand out towards Piper's forehead, but the gesture made Piper flinch away out of instinct.
"I'm - sorry, I'm -"
"It's fine. Your fever is mostly gone anyway," Willa said, picking up a little wooden pot of green paste, "I'm going to put this on the corners of your mouth to help with healing, so don't speak for a while."
"A - alright, mm -"
The woman touched the corner of her mouth, interrupting her and gently smoothing freezing-cold medicine over a stinging scab.
Piper obeyed, keeping her mouth shut all the while.
"I'll do your leg now, lift it into my lap."
"Ah - mmh - " Piper opened and then closed her mouth, remembering her nurse's instructions, and carefully rested her injured leg and its heavy cast in the young woman's lap.
And Willa, with her bare hands, easily broke the dried clay away in chunks and cracked the rock hard bandages until it was just the leg underneath it left.
More bruise than skin, her ankle was twisted with fresh pink scars where the shackle had worn the flesh away. Scabs drew jagged black lines across her calf where Rhys, as a monster, had grabbed for her.
Another shudder went up her spine, both at the memory of his beastly form, and at Willa's gentle touches on her fragile skin.
A long while passed as Willa carefully washed her ankle and leg with warm herb water, then carefully applied a thick brown medicine over the worst of the scars.
"Mm - excuse me - " Piper tried, being careful not to move her mouth too much.
"Don't speak," Willa said.
"I - I know, but - I have questions -"
"Questions later."
"Please, I need to -"
Willa slammed her tin of medicine onto the bedside table.
Piper flinched and her heart leapt up into her throat at the sudden show of force.
A thousand panicked thoughts burst in her mind like the breaking of a dam. Her eyes flickered to the door, then to the window, then to the bedside table and anything she might be able to use as a weapon and then -
"I may have to heal you, but I don't have to answer your questions," Willa said, her voice a poisonous mutter, "so whatever you have to say, save it."
Piper's brows furrowed, and her lips pressed into a tight line. Unexpected, irrational, a flush of temper rushed into her cheeks.
"If you're being forced to help me, I have nothing to do with it. I didn't ask anyone to nurse me like this, I - I didn't want to get so sick, I had to escape and - ouch!"
Willa tied the bandage around her leg too-tight, pinching the tender skin and drawing a clean line in the otherwise thick layer of medicine.
"I guess I win the bet," Willa sighed.
"Wh - what do you -?" Piper started, then she caught herself as Willa finished and pushed her leg away like a piece of rotten meat.
The young woman stood up from the bed and collected her supplies, and Piper started to follow her up, but froze as she caught Willa's sharp amber eyes.
"Jericho wants to see you. Clothes are in the bed chest."
"W - wait, who is Jericho? And what are you -?"
Willa waved a dismissive hand over her shoulder, heading for the door, but that irrational, hot temper - burning low like coals in Piper's chest - flickered; "Stop, wait -!"
Piper flung the furs away and tore out of bed - and then toppled onto the floor with no strength in her legs.
"How spoiled do you have to be...?" Willa muttered, glancing over her shoulder at Piper with an unmasked scowl.
Piper's shoulders rose around her neck. Lying in a heap on the floor, she felt much more like a feral animal and much less than the lady she once was.
"I'm not doing this on purpo -"
"- You act carelessly with yourself, doing whatever you want, not even thinking about how it effects those helping you. And you say you're not doing it on purpose?" Willa asked, making no move to help her up.
"Wh...no, I - I'm not, I didn't -"
"Get dressed."
"No, wait -!" Piper wasn't unfamiliar with being strewn across the floor, but shame burned hot next to her anger and started to churn painfully in her stomach.
Compared to every other torture she had endured, her moral failings being questioned surely wasn't so heavy to bear.
With as much grace as she could muster, Piper pulled herself up using the bedside table to steady her shaking legs, and took a careful seat on the edge of the bed.
She took a breath; "I'm sorry. You're right, I've behaved badly. I may have died without your help, I'm in your debt."
Willa didn't seem moved in any sort of way, her eyes held no clues to her feelings. She turned away and threw the door open.
"I wasn't talking about myself."
Piper hesitated, too long to ask a follow up question. Willa left her with her muddled thoughts, but she couldn't put the pieces together; she had too much else to worry about.
So instead, she wobbled to the clothes chest to struggle through getting dressed in roughspun wool and grey-brown fur.
Instead of a dress, Piper opted for a plain blouse, a warm, fur-lined surcoat, thick leggings and sturdy boots. It would be easier to run or hide, even if it felt strange against her skin and invasive between her thighs.
She caught her reflection in the warped glass of the window, felt a shudder go up her spine, and pulled the fur closer around her neck.
-
By the time she was led from her room - only slightly limping - the bright sunlight of midday was already warming the stone hall, and was a welcome comfort against Piper's cheek.
Another woman had come to guide her, not Willa, to no surprise.
From the view, looking down over the misty treetops of a vast pine forest, wherever she was must have been inside a mountain. She knew that far to the west of the palace was a mountain range, though she couldn't see the palace - not even on the horizon - as Piper followed her guide through a curtained doorway.
The room beyond was also carved of stone, and yet it gave a sense of warmth with soft fur rugs, sturdy, rugged wooden furniture and a roaring fire in the hearth that tickled her nose with the scent of sweet pine.
Near one of the large windows, Willa was sitting, arms crossed and watching something out in the distance. At the table in the centre of the room were two unfamiliar women.
One was impossibly tall and muscular, but had a feminine square jaw and a thick mane of kinky black hair around deep mahogany skin. And the other was sitting in a carved chair with wheels; she had a soft, curvy frame and messy grey-brown hair that brushed her shoulders.
Piper had no experience to rely on in regards to dealing with wolf monsters, except to treat the meeting like the diplomatic audiences she'd attended with the queen in the past.
Despite her haggard and less than noble appearance, she folded her hands in front of her and stepped up to the table, giving a polite bow of her head.
"Thank you for taking me in," Piper started, "I wish we had met under different circumstances."
The two women glanced at her; the taller, handsome beast of a woman stood up from a casual half-sitting lean on the table.
"Jericho," the woman said, gesturing to herself, "and my Emme," she added, brushing a caressing hand - a hand missing two fingers - along the round cheek of the sitting woman.
"Lady Piper," Emme offered gently, "You are most welcome here. I'm glad to see you've made a speedy recovery."
Emme gave her a smile, a warm and calm thing.
It felt unfamiliar.
As if the last month had wiped away all memories of kindness.
"Thanks to an excellent nurse and your gracious hospitality. I hope to repay your kindness in turn." Piper responded, watching Jericho pace slowly around the table towards her and trying to remain as calm as her demeanor suggested.
Jericho came to a stop only a few feet away from Piper, and even as she took a seat on the edge of the table she still towered over Piper - leaning in a slouch on her three-fingered hand.
"The stink of dark magic isn't as bad as I expected," Jericho sniffed, yawning easily and flashing a mouth full of sharp teeth, "but I don't imagine a fallen noble lady from a ruined kingdom has much to offer us."
Piper felt her posture stiffen, like a puppet with all its strings yanked at the same time.
The blunt truth was a slap in the face.
"Perhaps you're right," she said through a long exhale, "for now, at least, I have no way to repay you. But the queen survives, and we have allies across the continent. The castle cannot be held by one monster and his army of mercenaries, not forever."
"No need to pitch your glorious comeback to us, Lady Piper," Jericho laughed, fiddling with a carved wooden pendant around her neck, "My pack and I have long since kept ourselves out of the politics of the human world."
"You can hardly call a hostile, murderous takeover politics," Piper insisted, "and he - Lord Rhys, the man responsible, he's a monster."
"Oh, we know," Emme said plainly.
Piper hesitated.
"No, I mean he's actually a -"
"- We can tell from the stench," Jericho interrupted, a flash of amusement in her emerald eyes, "The castle reeks of dark magic for miles, and so did you - the kind of stink no number of baths could wash away."
"Your Lord Rhys is what we call a Lycanthrope," Emme said, rolling herself closer using the wheels on her chair.
"Lycanthrope..." Piper repeated, glancing away briefly as Jericho leaned down, took Emme's hand, and gave her an affectionate kiss on the wrist.
"They are creatures borne of forbidden magic, forced to change forms under the light of a full moon. They bear a heavy curse, and lose most of their humanity during their transformation." Emme explained.
Piper hesitated again; she had read myths and stories as a young girl, maybe the word was vaguely familiar somewhere in the back of her head - but somehow it didn't seem to fit the true horror of the thing that had attacked her.
A flash of sharp teeth and gnarled grey skin played in her head, but she pushed the fear down.
"Forgive my ignorance," she finally said, "But does that mean you and he aren't the same?"
Willa, still by the window, scoffed.
Jericho, too, seemed to bristle slightly at the question, but calmed at a touch from Emme.
"In the ancient language we are called Loup Garou," Emme said, stroking her fingers across the back of Jericho's hand, "a fable not often told in your parts of the world. Perhaps the term 'werewolf' is more familiar."
"I understand," Piper lied, touching her temple to will away the memory of her escape.
"We are shapeshifters, but we begin as wolves. We shift into human form when we're old enough, and can change at will."
"Yes, I see..."
"Though, we too are beholden to the night of the full moon."
Piper sat on that information for a moment.
She had seen the dark magic that Rhys had control of. And she had seen, all too well, the difference between the monster he had become and the wolf dog Orielle had -
Orielle had...
"Orielle!" Piper blurted out, the thought striking her with a cold bolt through the heart, "She saved me the night I escaped, she's still in the palace, and -"
"- She's dead." Willa said, still staring somewhere out over the horizon.
Dead? Dead...
That night, Piper had heard...
"It's - it's possible she survived -!"
"No, it's not," Willa argued, turning to glare at her.
"But how could you possibly know?! She was strong and brave, she could have -!"
"Don't talk about her like you knew her!" Willa - raising her voice for the first time - yelled back, standing up from the window.
"I did know her!" Piper insisted, though even she could feel how weak her determination sounded in the silence of the room, "She - she was an excellent swordswoman! And she - she often worked with the castle knights, and -"
"- and what? She was a good little servant?" Willa growled, taking a couple of stalking steps towards her, "Good enough to serve you? Good enough to die for you?"
Willa's posture had shifted. Her shoulders were hunched, and her teeth were bared in a snarl, and for a moment Piper felt the familiar pang of fear that an animal of prey feels staring into the eyes of a predator.
"N - no! No, that's not what I -!"
"- She died to save you! And all you know is that she was good with a sword?!"
"We - we didn't see each other often, but -!"
"Didn't see each other?! What about her family?! What about her life?!"
Willa let out a guttural scream, falling forward as if she might faint but then landing on all four paws as her visage shifted in an instant to that same sable wolf - the one who had saved her - but this time it raced at her, out for blood.
It leapt up onto the table.
Piper cried out, raising her arms in front of her.
The wolf made a wanton dive at her, baring vicious fangs.
Her eyes squeezed closed out of reflex.
Emme let out a sound of surprise.
But there was no pain. No wolf's teeth sinking into her skin.
She chanced a look.
Willa's bite had in fact found purchase, on Jericho's outstretched forearm - which hovered almost boredly between her and Piper.
With her free hand, Jericho clamped down on Willa's snout - eliciting a whine - and forcing her to remain attached by the teeth.
Thin lines of blood streamed down the woman's muscles and dripped onto the tabletop.
Willa struggled in vain to pull free.
Piper's gaze flickered to Emme, perhaps expecting a gentler response - but the woman's grey eyes were set, and her expression was hard and serious.
"Once," Jerico said, breaking the silence, "for Orielle's sake, just once."
Willa's squirming settled. Her ears lowered, her tail fell limp.
Only then did Jericho release her.
Sullenly, still glowering with hateful amber eyes, Willa padded out of the room. Once the tapping of her claws on the stone had finally faded away to silence, finally Piper let out the breath she'd been holding.
And Jericho sighed too, looking down at the bloody bite wound on her arm the way a parent might look at a misbehaving child - disappointment and sorrow mingling.
Piper's legs felt weak.
She sank, finally, into a seat - watching as Emme Rolled closer to Jericho and began staunching the wounds with a handkerchief - and then dropping her head into her hands.
How could she not know anything about Orielle?
She had grown up in the palace, she'd seen Orielle so often as a child and then as an adult. The woman always had a smile on her face. She smelled often of roses, but in Piper's mind the fragrance of roses belonged to Melina.
How many conversations did they have? How many meals together?
Piper couldn't remember.
Who was she, really? Who was her family?
Could Piper have considered her a friend? Or even an acquaintance?
Guilt tore at her heart, which beat furiously in her throat and brought her to bitter, frustrated tears.
Piper had always focused on her role in the palace, and by extension always expected those around her to remain well within their roles, too. The knights were there to protect her, and the queen. Piper was there to...to...
What exactly was her role?
A cold heat settled in the pit of her stomach.
She advised Fillipa, prepared her to take the crown. She met with diplomats, discussed foreign affairs, remained a cool and level-headed voice of reason in rooms often ruled by hot emotion.
But...as a person...as a woman...
What right did she have to ask anyone to die for her?
"Pull yourself together." Jericho's voice interrupted her spiral, and when Piper pulled her head from her hands she thought - for a moment - that the woman's glittering green eyes belonged to Orielle.
"I apologise, I...I'm sorry."
"Orielle was old enough to make her own decisions," Jericho looked away from her, resting her eyes on Emme and brushing her fingers gently through the woman's hair; "I always told her living in the human world would get her killed. Maybe she felt called by a higher power."
Piper gave a half-hearted nod and dashed her sleeve across her eyes; no time for crying now.
"Where will you go next?" Emme asked, focused on her task of tying bandages around Jericho's arm.
It was something Piper had thought while waiting out countless sleepless nights at the palace. A dream, formless and just out of reach - that now she could finally seek.
"I...I plan to leave the bounds of the kingdom. If I can make it past the border I can claim sanctuary with our allies." She said.
"These allies of your, they don't fear retaliation?"
Piper smoothed her thumb over the back of her hand.
"Rhys is mad," she admitted, "but his soldiers are few and he's lost the element of surprise. He wouldn't dare wage war against a forewarned enemy."
Jericho gave a non-committal hum, flexing her arm after the bandaging was done, and then finally looked back down at Piper.
"You'll probably need some food for the journey?" She asked, her lips quirking into a sardonic smirk, "And medicine for your injuries?"
Piper felt the flush of shameful heat in her face again.
Manners dictated that she should turn down any offer of more help, after taking so much without giving back...
"Any help you can offer...I would be grateful for," she admitted weakly, flinching as Jericho let out a bark of a laugh and even Emme smiled sympathetically.
"It takes a strong will to ask for what you need!" Jericho laughed, slamming a hand on the table, "Alright then, Lady Piper, you'll get some supplies from us. Emme, please."
Emme gave a polite bow of her head to Piper - graciously not acknowledging how red Piper's face had grown - and then wheeled herself out of the room
"Thank you," Piper said, standing up carefully, "I swear to you I will return your kindness some day."
"Sure, sure," Jericho said, waving a hand dismissively as she, too, stood, "but more important than that -"
The woman's expression fell suddenly from easy merriment to a dark serious frown. She leaned in so close that Piper instinctively took half a step backwards.
The woman growled; "You have to live now. You hear me? My daughter doesn't give her life away for nothing. So you go and claim your sanctuary, and you live, and you make that stinking creature regret it."
Piper's heart fluttered as it skipped a beat.
Her lips pressed into a line, her shoulders raised.
just wanted to go ahead and reinforce that your writing is reallyyyyyy good and actually what got me into the whump community here on tumblr!! you have such strong concepts and compelling style that every time I read something from you i'm wishing it was novel length
genuinely got me crying in the club (my enclosure), thank you and welcome to the community 🦎
➤ CONTENT WARNINGS: kidnapping, grief & intense mental distress, discussion of noncon, threat of noncon, discussion of death/murder, broken bones, physical violence
"She was still breathing!" Mrs. Collins screamed in reply, closing the distance between them with clumsy bare-footed steps and clutching at Maia's hair, "She was alive! Through all of it! Through every second of suffering!"
Hazy, dusty red light filtered through the frosted glass of a tiny window near the ceiling, as Maia slowly came back to consciousness with a terrible pounding in the front of her head and the reek of harsh chemicals stinging her nose.
A groan rumbled from her throat at the effort it took to raise her head.
Around her was an unfamiliar room, all smooth concrete with metal shelves in one corner, an old mattress on a metal frame in the corner, and a foreboding, flickering lightbulb hanging on its wire above her.
And Maia, in the middle, with her wrists handcuffed behind her to an old metal chair that itself had been welded to the floor.
Maia took in a slow breath, trying not to let her thoughts run wild.
Surely this wasn't...this wasn't...
Maybe it was a bad dream - or -
A prank! It could be a prank!
But, she couldn't bring herself to shout out for her friends. Something trembled up from the pit of her stomach and made her shudder and kept her mouth solidly closed.
What did she remember? Where had she been?
She remembered leaving the college dorms with her friends earlier that morning, attending her lectures...
Then what?
A phone call.
A soft, familiar voice saying Rebecka had left a letter for her...
Asking her to come over, and...
The old metal door squeaked open on rusty hinges and made Maia jump so badly she jarred one of her shoulders.
"M...Mrs. Collins?" She groaned.
Maia had seen her a few times on campus with Rebecka, but now she was barely recogniseable, with pale skin hanging on a bony frame - like some terrible ghost cast in eerie crimson light come to haunt her.
It had been her on the phone. It must have been.
The woman shuffled on bare feet to a dirty countertop and set down the box she was carrying. Then she turned to Maia, her arms dead, hanging weights at her sides, her eyes even more red in the eerie glow of sunset and swollen and tired; limp and greasy hair hung in her face.
"I've thought about this..." the woman mumbled, "for such a long time...such a long time...a year, a year..."
A sob, bubbling up from nowhere, overcame her and sent the woman stumbling aside - only stopping when she caught herself on the countertop; "A year...!" she wailed, "how can it only be a year?!"
Maia watched the woman's back and shoulders tremble, and felt her own heart send a tremor up her chest.
Every one of Rebekkah's friends had said it, but Maia never wanted to believe it...
"Mrs. Collins, c...can you help me? Please, can you..."
That the woman had lost her mind when her daughter died, that she had been detained under suicide watch for months after the incident, and then disappeared from the public...
Maia's friends, the ones who'd known Rebecka anyway, figured she'd kill herself soon enough.
But Maia watched as that woman - very much still alive - took a deep, shuddering breath, stood up straight again, and turned a chilling, blank stare over her bony shoulder.
After a few quiet moments, the woman started taking things out of her box.
A metal tray lined with knives.
A wooden spoon.
Rope, duct tape, a hammer, and -
Something sickening and cold twisted in Maia's stomach, as the woman set down a black strap-on dildo and harness.
She laughed in a weak breath, almost not believing her eyes, "Mrs. Collins, it's - I won't tell anyone, so please let me go and we can -"
"I don't sleep anymore..." the woman interrupted in a hoarse whisper, "...I can't. I can't...I hear her in my dreams. I see her, but she's...she's not, she cant..."
Another wave of sobs overcame her, during which Maia twisted her wrists against the handcuffs, pulling them hard, trying to free herself.
They'd said she was crazy. They'd said it, and Maia didn't listen!
If she really was crazy, then -!
With a guttural scream, the woman swept her arms across the countertop and sent the entire metal tray of knives clattering to the ground.
Maia's heart leapt up into her throat and deafened her with its pounding.
Another long, silent moment passed, until Mrs. Collins continued:
"You didn't see her...you don't understand!" A seething fury mottled her face and pulled her sallow features taught, "She was so bruised and bloody...she was covered - covered in burns and cuts and - !"
"She was still breathing!" Mrs. Collins screamed in reply, closing the distance between them with clumsy bare-footed steps and clutched at Maia's hair, "She was alive! Through all of it! Through every second of suffering!"
Maia cried out in terror as the woman shook her viciously, slamming her back against the metal chair as she screeched: "Why?! Why did it have to be her!? She was my baby! My only baby!"
"Stop! I - I didn't do anything! Stop!!" Maia shouted.
And, to her surprise, the woman did stop.
Her grip softened, and she pulled Maia close to her chest, cradling her head.
"I - I didn't - I swear I didn't! Becka was my friend!"
"I know," Mrs. Collins repeated, her voice steadying as she pulled away again and started to clean up the tools scattered across the floor.
Maia's body refused to stop trembling.
Her fingertips had gone numb.
And she watched with wide, burning eyes as her dead friend's mother set down the tray of knives and picked up an old wooden broom from against the counter - the kind that her grandma might have used back in the day.
"W - wait...please..."
"They said there was too much internal bleeding. Everything was broken - her ribs, her arm, her back...they said someone -" the woman hesitated, taking in a hissing breath through clenched teeth, "- someone violated her...multiple times...and at least once with a foreign object."
"M - Mrs. Collins, please, please - you - you know me, I've had sleepovers at your house with - with Becka, I - "
"- She didn't even last the night," the woman interrupted, turning again to meet Maia's eyes.
There was nothing in the woman's face.
No light. No emotion.
"I - I didn't - didn't do anything - please -"
"I sat with her in the hospital. I begged her - I begged her to keep fighting. There was nothing else the doctors could do..."
"Mrs. Collins, I - if you just let me go, I - I won't - " Maia tried, but the woman turned away again.
Maia flinched as she picked up a serrated bread knife and started sawing away the bristle end of the broom.
"I watched every breath she took. I watched her body shut down. And right...before..." the woman let out a wailing groan, and swung the broom against the edge of the counter, snapping the bristle off with an explosion of wood, "...right before she died...she managed to say something. Not 'mom'...not 'I love you'...not even 'I don't want to die'...A name. Just a name."
Mrs. Collins turned around again, wielding the long wooden handle of the broom like a weapon.
"No - no, please -! The police - the police said -!"
"I know what the police said!" The woman shrieked, tendrils of greasy hair swinging into her face as she stalked forward, "She got too drunk, got lost in the woods, it was just an accident...they made it her fault...how could they do that?"
"M - Mrs. Collins, please - I need you to listen to me!"
"How could they do that?!" The woman repeated, her voice breaking in an anguished screech as she swung the broom wildly and nearly hit Maia in the head, "How could they blame her?! When it was your evil fucking father who beat her, and raped her, and killed her?!"
A jolt went through Maia.
Something almost greater than fear.
"Wh...what...?"
"His alibi..." Mrs Collins mumbled, her grip on the broom handle squeaking as she clenched her fist, "...coworkers willing to lie for him, and even your bitch mother! So what else could I do!? What else is there to do..."
Maia's mind zipped back to that night, the flashing lights from the party burst on the back of her eyelids as she screwed them closed.
Her mom had gone out of town earlier that week.
And her dad was...
No, her dad wasn't home that night.
"W...wait, wait, no, that's not possible, please - "
"I thought about it for so long...how could I make him suffer? Killing him wasn't enough...but I...I didn't know if I could go through with it...I swore I would do it myself...I have to do it all myself..."
"Please, Mrs. Collins, even if - if he - but it - it's not my fault -!"
"I know. And I'm sorry, I'm not as creative as your father," the woman said, a bitter twinge of sarcasm poisoning her voice, "Or as fast. It only took him a few hours. I'm going to need at least 12."
"No -!" Maia sobbed, "Please, don't do this! Please!"
"When he sees your broken body dumped on his front step..."
"Mrs. Collins! I'm Maia, I was Becka's friend! No, st - stay away - !"
The woman swung back wide with her wooden broom handle.
"...I hope he regrets it. I hope he suffers."
"No! No no, st -!"
A winding blow sank into Maia's stomach, sending an explosion of pain up through her chest and wringing a strangled scream from her throat.
"I'm sorry," Mrs. Collins mumbled, swinging again and cracking Maia in the ribs, "I'm sorry."
Another swing caught her in the hip. Another in the side.
The pain burned through her body like a fever; sweat poured down her back and neck as she wrestled desperately against her handcuffs
"I'm sorry."
Each hit of the broomstick ripped a scream from her throat.
And every time she blinked, flashing party lights exploded in her head.
He was working late -
"I'm sorry."
Her dad always worked late on a Friday -
And Becka - at the party, she -
"I'm sorry."
Maia heaved with nauseous breath, tears mixing into saliva and dripping down her chin.
At some point, Becka had disappeared.
And the lights were flashing, too bright, blinding her.
Or was it the light of a car on the driveway?
The broomstick cracked against her arm with a sickening snap.
As if she were being electrocuted, her body jolted violently.
The pain didn't register until she saw it.
Her arm was bent the wrong way at the elbow.
A grotesque bulge pressed from under her skin.
And she screamed. She screamed, and sobbed, and begged for help.
But it wasn't just her screaming, Mrs. Collins was screaming too.
She must have been panicking.
Because the next swing was wild with a manic sort of speed; it hit Maia in the head and sent the room around her spinning, then blurring harshly against the low light of dusk, and then finally it all went dark.
WoW Birthday Whump Event Day 9: "I'm Sorry"
[General Tag List]: @acelightningwhumper @blood-and-regrets @chaotic-orphan
➤ CONTENT WARNING: Noncon touching, noncon mention, enslavement, dehumanisation, bound and gagged, blood, violence and threat of violence
"You blood slaves are so impatient," Lowerniel sighed, reaching into the wardrobe to strum his claws up her neck and through the tangled curls of her hair, "you especially, little toy. What a cute plan you had, and yet how unimpressive. As always, you lack the fire to see a thing through."
Her escape attempt had failed.
Five years she had been trapped in Castle Drakan.
Five years spent fought over, played with, passed between vampyre lords.
And as Isolde balanced on weak legs - clinging, hanging all of her weight on the ropes which bound her to the inside of her cramped, wooden prison - she couldn't even bring herself to pray to the gods that had abandoned her.
Her only glimmer of hope was that Vannescula came for her.
Otherwise, surely her death was guaranteed.
But, she supposed that wasn't such a bad thing either.
It didn't even matter if her death was quick and painless, or the slow, torturous affair of being a rat toyed with by a cat.
Just that it was finally over.
Somewhere outside her prison a light burst into life, flooding through the cracks in the wood and making Isolde wince.
The light drew nearer, a lantern carried by a slave, being used to light sconces in the room.
And through a knot in the woodwork, once her vision had adjusted, she saw him. The smooth, grey skin of his bare chest and the long stretch of veins as he reached out and pulled open the door of what she now realised was an empty wardrobe.
Lank and sallow, with sunken eyes and a skeletal grin that pulled taught against what passed for his skin, Lowerniel Drakan stood some height taller than the wardrobe itself; so tall that he had to lean forward on a casual arm to come face-to-face with her.
"Hello, little toy." He said.
"Hello, Lowerniel," Isolde rasped, turning away from him.
"How refreshingly bold. Even after all this time, you entice me."
Isolde wanted to close her eyes. Exhaustion hung heavy on her, heavier than her own slumped shoulders and the weight of her sins.
But she didn't want her death to be a surprise, either.
"Do we have to do this?" She asked, leaning her head against an arm, straining her raw wrists even further against the rope bindings, "It's in a caged animal's nature to escape, it's in the predator to hunt, etcetera etcetera, can't we just skip to the part where you kill me?"
Lowerniel's grin quirked at the corners, his bald head lit eerily by the flickering candlelight of the room. His own room, Isolde recognised.
The slave he'd brought with him was gone, and all that remained was a sparsely decorated room with the curved stone walls of a tower; she had become well acquainted with it.
"You blood slaves are so impatient," Lowerniel sighed, reaching into the wardrobe to strum his claws up her neck and through the tangled curls of her hair, "you especially, little toy. What a cute plan you had, and yet how unimpressive. As always, you lack the fire to see a thing through."
"You're right," Isolde agreed distantly, her body shuddering at his cold touch when it whispered back across her cheek, down past her shoulders, and danced on the low, ripped-away collar of her dirty nightgown.
Her skin crawled, her stomach burned; a scream wanted to rip its way out of her throat. But reaction is what he wanted. Five long years had taught her that much at least.
Lowerniel leaned slightly further into the wardrobe, and his hairless browline furrowed, wrinkling the grey skin on the bridge of his nose.
Isolde took in a short breath, feeling his claws pinprick against the soft of her breasts and ready to dole out punishment - and then he stopped short.
He turned his head away from her, and she followed his eyeline.
She couldn't hear whatever it was he was hearing.
But she could guess.
"How quickly she comes in search of her favourite toy," Lowerniel sighed through a laugh.
Vannescula was on her way.
A spark of hope set Isolde's heart to pounding.
"You'd better let me down," she warned, "if she catches you with me again, she'll -"
Lowerniel swung around and raked his claws across her face.
Thin lines of blood boiled up and burned from her temple all the way down through her lips. Isolde took in a sharp breath and let out a groan of pain, sputtering on the sharp taste of blood in her mouth.
And yet he hadn't cut her so deeply as to terribly mar her face.
"Don't overstep," he growled, letting a moment of annoyance play on his features before the calm grin slowly returned, "do you suppose you know my sister better than me?"
Isolde let out a long, ragged breath, catching the vampyre lord's dead black eyes and holding them with baseless, furious confidence, despite the tremor in her legs.
"I suppose every slave in the castle knows her better than you," she whispered, flinching away from another half-realised swipe at her, "don't you know she cares more about us than about you, or your brothers? Don't you know she fights on our side of the rebellion?"
Lowerniel's claws closed around Isolde's throat, squeezing tight and silencing her to weak, wheezing gasps for breath.
"My sister's interest in her slaves is a curiosity," he sighed in the long-suffering way a father might lament the behaviour of his mischievous daughter, "but, do you think she is your saviour? Do you think her good will is genuine? She has kept you as a good little toy for years -"
"Sh - she -!" Isolde hissed desperately, "She's the one who - enabled my es - escape -!"
"Oh, you sweet fool," Lowerniel murmured, releasing her throat and shaking his bald head as she heaved for breath.
He tapped one of his claws on her lips with a flash of sickly grey magic.
The light curled around her head like a snake, locking the magic into place with glowing runes and locking her lips shut tight.
"M - Mmmph!"
Whatever magic it was silenced her mumbles to a barely-there whisper.
"I'll make a wager with you. If you cry out loud enough against my spell, it will break, and your saviour will hear you and come rescue you, and free you at last."
"M...Mmm -"
"But," Lowerniel continued, "if you stay quiet in here until she goes, I will send you away from the castle just as you wish."
Isolde's breathing steadied, her brows furrowed hard and she glared hard at the vampyre lord. It must have been easy to read the distrust in her eyes.
"Mmm..."
"I was hoping to keep you. But, since you crave the truth against your best interests, here it is. I blame you for my sister losing her edge. You have made her soft, because your blood is sweet and your body is warm, and you have a pleasing enough temperament."
"Mmmgh - " Isolde strained away as Lowerniel reached in one last time to stroke her bloodied cheek.
"But still, I would have rid of you," he sighed, "It's my sister who aims to keep you here. I will show you the truth of her, the truth of the thorns beneath her roses."
Isolde felt a cold sting of doubt in her chest as the click of heels tapped up the stairs towards them at some great pace.
The door of the wardrobe closed again, Lowerniel flashing her a knowing smirk before sprawling himself out on the silk lounge and pouring himself a glass of blood wine.
A moment later, his bedroom door slammed open.
And there she was, Vannescula Drakan, just as tall and imposing as her brother but cutting a vastly different silhouette with warm skin the colour of mahogany and smooth raven waves that framed her slender face.
In the low light of the bedroom, the fury of her handsome features helped to replace what little doubt had begun to grow.
Vampyres were inherent liars, they couldn't be trusted. And not the Drakans, that she knew for a fact - but Vannescula was different, she had always been said to be helping the rebellion. She treated her slaves well, gave them what little comforts she could, and -
"Where is she?" Vannescula asked, interrupting Isolde's thoughts.
"Good evening, sweet sister."
"Where is she, Lowerniel?" She asked again, slamming the door behind her.
"Who?"
"You know damn well who!" Vannescula roared, storming towards him across the room, "Where is she?! What did you do with Isolde?!"
"Mmmmph!" Isolde strained against the magic that bound her; she beat her fists against the walls of the wardrobe and kicked at the locked door, but it seemed that no sound escaped because neither of the vampyres looked her way.
"Have you lost your favourite toy?" Lowerniel mused, swirling the wine in his cup.
"Lowerniel!" Vannescula shouted, "Don't fuck with me!"
Her human form was beautiful, smooth bare shoulders raised around her neck and her amber eyes shining with fury, but there was an eerie lack of flush in her cheeks.
"Must you yell? If you're careless with your belongings, don't blame me. Perhaps the little rat found its way out of the castle."
"Mmmm -! Mmph!" Isolde pulled at her mouth, her fingers sliding along her cheeks and drawing more blood, but not able to open her mouth.
"I've already had my personal guard sweep the woods, I know she's not out there -
"How thorough. Well, that's a shame. There are plenty of slaves to choose from -"
"- Lowerniel, I'm warning you -"
"- Or, you can call for them to bring a new batch to the castle -"
"- Stop it! You bastard, stop -"
"- What does one slave matter? Aren't you always crying for us to treat them more civilly? Surely if one escaped, you should be thrilled! In fact, perhaps you should thank me!"
Vannescula let out an animalistic growl that raised in pitch to a feral scream as she swept both her arms out across the side table and sent the flask of wine and the silver tray it was on crashing to the floor.
"She's mine, Lowerniel!" Vannescula shrieked, her human form bursting away to reveal her grey-skinned, winged vampyre form out of sheer fury; "She belongs to me! You can't have her! No one can have her except me!"
In an instant Isolde's struggles came to a stop.
A growing pool of dark wine seeped into the floorboards, and stained the hem of the vampyre woman's gown as she stepped onto the shattered glass, closing what little distance there was left between her and her brother.
"Look what you've done, what a mess." Lowerniel said, a cold smirk creasing the corners of his mouth.
"Give her back, Lowerniel. I don't care what you've done to her, just give her back to me," Vannescula snarled, "I'm not going to ask you again."
The bitter cold dawning of new dread twisted around Isolde's heart.
Part of her - though, admittedly a small part - had always kept a secret doubt, the seed of mistrust for Vannescula. For any vampyre who claimed to care about the humans they fed from, but even so...
And she knew, she knew the woman had a temper...
But somehow, despite all of that, she...
"What a frightening thing to behold," Lowerniel teased with casual indifference, for a moment seeming to catch Isolde's eye through the peep hole of the wardrobe, "You truly want this one slave back? Even if she's scampered away to freedom? I can send my Vyrewatch to go and find her - they'll find her no matter where she might be hiding."
A weak groan of sorrow tried to force its way out of Isolde's throat, and tears stung at her tired eyes.
How could she have been stupid enough to believe? To trust a vampyre?
If the Vyrewatch were sent out to find her, even if Lowerniel did let her go, even if she could somehow escape again - she would be hunted forever!
There was a short moment, no more than a second or two, where Vannescula stood rooted to the spot. Nothing moving except the shivering of her great bat-like wings.
"Find her, then."
All of the strength went out of Isolde's legs.
She fell against the wardrobe, coarse rope catching at her bruised wrists, heat in her face making the fresh claw marks throb.
Idiot, her mind was screaming at her. What an idiot you are.
"Very well. It will be done."
Without another word Vannescula turned away from her brother, and stormed back across the room. And Isolde saw, in that moment, just how much she looked like her brother - grey skin, dark horns, wings and all.
Once she was gone, and gone far enough out of earshot for Lowerniel to feel satisfied, he raised himself up from the lounge and levelled a cool stare directly at Isolde.
"How cruel fate is, little toy. Perhaps she hasn't lost her edge after all..."
Then, he snapped his fingers.
On the balcony outside his window, a leather-clad vampyre wielding a spear - one of the elite guard known as the Vyrewatch - landed swiftly in an obedient kneel.
"Yes, Vyre Lord?"
"A blood slave has escaped the castle," Lowerniel said, his gaze still on the wardrobe; "Its name is 'Isolde', a short, soft body with curves, a mane of copper hair, fresh claw marks on its face - a handsome specimen, to be sure. Find it, and return it to my sister."
"Yes, Vyre Lord."
The Vyrewatch guard took off again, and Isolde could hear in the sky beyond the castle, the telltale sound of dozens of flapping vampyre wings as the guards gathered for the hunt.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, stinging the fresh wounds.
Lowerniel returned to the wardrobe and unlocked it, his shadow looming over her, triumphant, almost euphoric as a shudder went through him and he smoothed his claws up his chest.
"Your suffering," he moaned, "the smell of it is absolutely intoxicating..."
"M - mmmgh - mmm!"
Isolde tried to pull away as Lowerniel crawled into the wardrobe with her, pressing in against every inch of her, too tall to fit comfortably. His knees came up behind her, and his arms encircled her, pulling her into his lap.
She shook her head wildly, straining as far back as she could even as he leaned into her - his lips and tongue trailing over her neck, taking her scent in with deep breaths.
Hopelessness had overcome her, fear and panic filled her up, and she knew Lowerniel could smell it.
So close! She had been so close to freedom!
His lips and cheek, icy cold against her hot skin, found the throbbing vein with practiced ease and sank into her neck
She couldn't bear it - the sorrow burst up from her like an explosion and shattered the magic barrier gagging her - a wail of despair like a scream filled the wardrobe as Lowerniel kept her trapped there, eager and greedy to take back every single part that had once dreamed of leaving.
WOW BIRTHDAY WHUMP EVENT // DAY 2: "Gagged"
[General Tag List]: @acelightningwhumper @blood-and-regrets @chaotic-orphan
What if you take fan submissions for art? Could be a nice compromise for your usual style of post. You could either post the writing and see if someone draws anything afterwards and then edit the post, or make a description post of the type of art (pose, character refs, etc) and pick your favorite?
Of course, we’re all fans of your writing with or without the art, so if it’s stressing you out too much then do whatever the hell ya want! We’ll love it anyway! 💖
thank you this is a very sweet suggestion, though i dont really know if folks would want to do something like that. i appreciate yhe suggestion 🦎
ive been struggling quite badly with my health recently and drawing has been difficult.
writing is easier, but part of me worries about posting writing without art accompanying it, since that's kind of been my whole thing. though i know there are plenty of whump blogs that dont post art with their stories.
for those who have an opinion, how do you feel about me posting my writing sans art for a while? i would feel less pressure, and would hopefully be able to update stories more regularly, but its also understandable that people want what i usually post even if it takes longer.
I’ve been drooling over your writing these past few days omg… do you have plans to elaborate on Summer, Jaye, and Horatio, or was that just a one and done thing? No pressure either way, I just found it rly interesting and had to ask
hey there, thank you! im always so glad to hear people enjoying my writing! i do in fact have plans to write more of that story, at least two maybe three more parts! things have been taking me a lot longer these days (im a lizard with health issues haha) but there will eventually be more!
This raffle has been a long time coming as a late celebration of 500 followers and general gift to the whump community.
What's being raffled?
A waist-up greyscale sketch commission of a single character.
Any character, any pose, any whump.
Rules:
To enter, please reblog this post. That's all!
You don't have to be following me to enter (but I mean you could be that would be very cool of you.)
The raffle will end on March 20th, and one winner will be drawn via a random name picker. The draw will happen around 4pm GMT (10am CST).
I will DM / send an ask to the winner to let them know they've won. They then have 24 hours to confirm, or I'll pick a new name.
[Optional] Add in your reblog tags which character you would want drawn in a precarious situation :V
Thank you to everyone out there for sticking with me (and my un-knowable, unstable schedule of posting things) I read every comment and every tag, and I'm very grateful to everyone who enjoys my blog in the open or in the shadows.
Good luck to everyone who enters! 🦎
This raffle has been a long time coming as a late celebration of 500 followers and general gift to the whump community.
What's being raffled?
A waist-up greyscale sketch commission of a single character.
Any character, any pose, any whump.
Rules:
To enter, please reblog this post. That's all!
You don't have to be following me to enter (but I mean you could be that would be very cool of you.)
The raffle will end on March 20th, and one winner will be drawn via a random name picker. The draw will happen around 4pm GMT (10am CST).
I will DM / send an ask to the winner to let them know they've won. They then have 24 hours to confirm, or I'll pick a new name.
[Optional] Add in your reblog tags which character you would want drawn in a precarious situation :V
Thank you to everyone out there for sticking with me (and my un-knowable, unstable schedule of posting things) I read every comment and every tag, and I'm very grateful to everyone who enjoys my blog in the open or in the shadows.
Good luck to everyone who enters! 🦎
hey wow, what rough timing for this right as tumblr attempts to nuke its website with this new reblog chains update.
just to let everyone know, for my raffles unfortunately it would be really difficult for me to track down reblogs that aren't directly from my original post - so for the time being, if you'd like to enter, please make sure to reblog this post directly from my blog.
