Hi! I'm Ruth, they/them pronouns, 26, and I enjoy most types of whump! I do art, graphic design and writing.
I try my best to tag, but if I miss a content warning you'd like added, please just shoot me an ask! I won't tag lady whump as a content warning, but anything else I will if you ask.
Whump 2024 advent calendar
Favourite tropes:
RECOVERY WHUMP!!!
Found family
Gagging
Muzzles
Pet whump
Whumper pressing down on whumpee's back to keep them from getting up
Branding
Whipping
Caretaker turned whumpee/whumpee turned caretaker
Hero/villain whump
Tall whumpee/small caretaker (or vice versa)
Tall whumpee/small whumper
G/t whump
Whumpee thinks caretaker is their new whumper
Incompetent/clueless caretaker (they're trying their best but they have no idea they're doing)
General contents: pet whump, dehumanisation, amnesia, PTSD
Sam and Lucan 'verse
In a world where non-humans are enslaved, our characters are just trying to live out their lives in peace. And failing, mostly.
General contents: non-human characters, institutionalised slavery, fantasy racism, dehumanisation, PTSD
A Death in the Family
When his estranged father dies, Tristam, against his better judgement, attends the will reading, and ends up leaving with long-term bloodbag Sunday Afolayan and Eldrida, his father's former employee (and a terribly mistreated one at that, it turns out).
Even with Aileen and Evelyn's expert advice and friendship, it's tricky to bring Sunday back from the depths of his enthrallment, and Eldrida's struggling too. Six years under the cruel fist of Barnabas Sharpe was hard to survive.
It's a difficult recovery for both of them. But surely, things can't get worse now.
Contains: vampire whumper, non-human whumpee (vampire), lady whump, conditioned whumpee, disabled characters (Tristam has ADHD, Eldrida has anophthalmia, and Sunday has joint problems, a badly-healed arm, and an absence epilepsy-like condition), recovery whump, multiple whumpees
Botanist Whumpee
When the rich and powerful Sebastian Beaumont offers Alyssa a place to stay, she doesn’t expect to become his captive for three years. And when Silver rescues her at a party… well, the only thing she’s absolutely sure is better is that they don’t have a basement. They don’t have much of anything, actually. And she doesn’t know whether she can trust them or not, but she stays anyway. With no-one left to care about her, and Beaumont using all his money and connections to search for the pair of them, where else is she supposed to go?
Contains: recovery whump, captivity, lady whump, somewhat defiant whumpee, found family, intimate whumper
Cian and Row
In a world where superpowers are real, heroes and villains exist, and there's a large black market in powered people, Rowan's been enslaved for as long as they can remember. They're befriended when they're three by Cian Sinclair, a local empathic five year old, and at the age of eleven is rescued and adopted by the Sinclairs. Years later they become a supervillain, disappear for five years and reappear to reunite with their family, and attract another enemy, one far more powerful than their previous captors and obsessed with their healing powers.
Contains: slavery, PTSD, minor whump, past minor whump, immortal whumpee, discrimination, villain whump
Immortal Cannon Fodder
Masterlist part 2 - character profiles, character asks
Phoenix, an immortal hero, joins a team that hurts them and uses them as cannon fodder. But their teammates are only doing what's necessary to help them all survive. Phoenix's regular sacrifices are necessary. And it's not like they've got anywhere else to go anyway.
It takes the arrival of Kai, a wolf-shifter and telekinetic, to help them see what's going on. But a friendship and a promised eventual transfer can't fix everything.
Contains: hero whump, abuse, past abuse, immortal whumpee
MD-264N
When MD-264N, the government's best weapon, runs to avoid being decommissioned and collapses on the doorstep of a small ragtag team of rebels, it's a surprise to everyone. But despite resistance, the weapon, now known as Morgan, starts to find their place, and the rebels soon find that they'll do anything to keep them free.
Contains: living weapon, found family, dehumanisation/self dehumanisation, team dynamics, reluctant caretaker (not the main caretaker), recovery whump, caretaker whump, disabled caretaker (forearm amputee)
Operation Badger
In the year 2037, Earth is invaded by the Stex. 14 years later, superpowers start appearing in teenagers, and are apparently humanity's best defence against the aliens. What is Earth Security to do but train these people up as weapons?
Contains: sci-fi, living weapons, team whump, multiple whumpees, minor whump, aliens, disabled character
Out of the Frying Pan
Five years ago Elis, former bodyguard and weapon of Lord Wulfric, was rescued from a fiery death by Col and Sæwin. He now lives in relative peace with them in Sorestan, a peace that's abruptly disrupted after an unwelcome visitor brings his past colliding with the present.
Contains: medieval whump, fantasy elements, living weapon
Out of the Water
Túathal, a merman, is captured and kept prisoner by pirates for his valuable scales. While Robyn, the youngest of the crew and not very popular, takes care of him, the others only bother with his scales (and anything that makes their extraction easier). Especially James. And once the rest of the pirates discover that Robyn and Túathal have become fond of each other, things only get worse.
Whumpee is captured by a Whumper who wants to teach them survival skills. Painfully.
Contains: survival skills whump, sadistic whumper
The Greatest Show on Earth
Damon and Pythias are an unwilling two-person sideshow act in The Greatest Show on Earth, Pythias forced to kill Damon multiple times a day for the entertainment of paying circus patrons. Damon has been in captivity since birth, Pythias not quite so long (although certainly long enough), and they're both ready to get out.
But the outside world is even trickier to navigate than they imagined.
Contains: non-human whumpees, multiple whumpees, immortal whumpee, lady whump, circus whump, public whump, captivity, recovery whump, temporary character death (both implied and shown at times), guilty whumpee, whumpee as caretaker
Other writing:
Non-series whump masterlist
Miscellaneous writing, art and graphics
Fanfic/fanart (AO3)
BBC Merlin, Good Omens, Doctor Who, The Sandman, The Murderbot Diaries
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
whumper who has the power to control and enter dreams. they rape whumpee every night, but theres no evidence of it. the marks, the physical pain don't carry over when they wake up. whumpee looks in the mirror every morning, feeling the ghosting of hands around their neck with not a bruise on them. wishing there was SOME kind of physical proof of their suffering and then feeling disgusted with themself for even thinking that.
whumpee knows that people are noticing. how could they not? whumpee is exhausted and it’s getting worse. they dread going to sleep at night, and they avoid it as much as they can. they know that every night is going to bring a new violation, a new round of horrifying, painful abuse. even when they do sleep, they don’t get any rest. they’re getting irritable, jumpy, they’re fraying to the point that they don’t know how much longer they can keep going before they’re going to break.
and every day they look at their friends, the people around them, and they want so badly to say something. they want to tell someone what’s being done to them, but the thought of what they would actually say makes them choke on shame and fear. what would they say? nothing is even happening, nothing real. how are they supposed to whine and cry about abuse that doesn’t exist? they can feel hands on them but their body was never touched. every night they’re raped, brutally and violently, and every morning they wake up to phantom pain in a body without a mark on it.
if there was something they could point to, something that they could do to show what was happening was real, maybe it would be different. but even the thought of wanting that makes them feel sick. maybe they’re dreaming. maybe it isn’t whumper at all, and they want to be raped. (maybe their friends will all know that immediately, as soon as they try to explain.)
I like this idea especially if Whumper is part of the friend group and acts COMPLETELY different in the real world. They’re a sweetheart, could do no wrong, no one would ever suspect them to hurt a fly, let alone abuse somebody.
The switch completely flips in the dreams, though, and Whumper acts like a fully different person. This makes it even harder for Whumpee to even convince themselves that it’s real, because how could someone like Whumper really be like that? Maybe it’s just their imagination, some strange subconscious part of them that fears Whumper to that level.
Maybe, one day while hanging out with the group of friends, Whumper says something offhandedly. A phrase they said in the dream, while they were on top of Whumpee. Whumpee’s eyes widen, and when they look at Whumper, there’s a knowing gleam in their eyes.
whumpee who should be getting better, yet theyre getting worse. theyre safe now. they should be recovering. but their panic attacks just get more frequent. their paranoia is through the roof for no reason. and caretaker has no idea how to fix it.
i love the forced to watch trope in whump where being forced to watch is literally the only punishment one of the characters is receiving
like
both whumpees are captives. both are entirely at the mercy of their captors.
but only one of them is beaten, tortured, assaulted, degraded, ground into the dirt until they’re a shattered mess of themself
while the other one is only ever forced to stand by and watch it happen
and yet somehow, that still makes the watcher all the more likely to break entirely - to give in to whatever their captors want, if that would just make it stop
WARNING: Unauthorized access, reproduction, disclosure, or removal of this document is grounds for immediate termination, civil action, and criminal referral.
ASSOCIATED ENTITY ASSESSMENT
ENTITY: The Wickham Foundation
PUBLIC DESIGNATION: Private charitable foundation
PUBLICLY STATED FUNCTIONS: Housing assistance; medical aid; legal advocacy; trauma services; community support
ASSESSED OPERATIONAL FUNCTION: Coordinated obstruction of contracted-person recovery operations
SUSPECTED ACTIVITIES
Concealment and relocation of contracted persons
Interference with lawful recovery personnel
Destruction, alteration, or suppression of ownership documentation
Procurement of fraudulent or obstructive medical classifications
Emergency hospitalization of persons subject to active recovery orders
Financing of unlicensed shelters and covert residential facilities
Transportation across state and international jurisdictions
Legal harassment of owners, vendors, and WRU affiliates
Disruption of WRU pharmaceutical, medical, and supply contracts
Training of civilian personnel to recognize and counter conditioning protocols
ANALYTIC JUDGMENT
The Wickham Foundation must not be classified as a conventional activist organization.
Foundation leadership has direct or indirect access to:
Private hospital systems
Pharmaceutical manufacturing and distribution networks
Corporate counsel
Emergency medical personnel
Trained armed security
Restricted transportation
International financial infrastructure
Individuals capable of identifying WRU conditioning without access to official records
The Foundation does not issue public admissions of involvement. Its representatives do not acknowledge custody of missing assets. They do not disclose shelter locations. They do not confirm transportation, treatment, or legal representation. They avoid terminology associated with organized recovery interference.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
WARNING: Unauthorized access, reproduction, disclosure, or removal of this document is grounds for immediate termination, civil action, and criminal referral.
ASSOCIATED ENTITY ASSESSMENT
ENTITY: The Wickham Foundation
PUBLIC DESIGNATION: Private charitable foundation
PUBLICLY STATED FUNCTIONS: Housing assistance; medical aid; legal advocacy; trauma services; community support
ASSESSED OPERATIONAL FUNCTION: Coordinated obstruction of contracted-person recovery operations
SUSPECTED ACTIVITIES
Concealment and relocation of contracted persons
Interference with lawful recovery personnel
Destruction, alteration, or suppression of ownership documentation
Procurement of fraudulent or obstructive medical classifications
Emergency hospitalization of persons subject to active recovery orders
Financing of unlicensed shelters and covert residential facilities
Transportation across state and international jurisdictions
Legal harassment of owners, vendors, and WRU affiliates
Disruption of WRU pharmaceutical, medical, and supply contracts
Training of civilian personnel to recognize and counter conditioning protocols
ANALYTIC JUDGMENT
The Wickham Foundation must not be classified as a conventional activist organization.
Foundation leadership has direct or indirect access to:
Private hospital systems
Pharmaceutical manufacturing and distribution networks
Corporate counsel
Emergency medical personnel
Trained armed security
Restricted transportation
International financial infrastructure
Individuals capable of identifying WRU conditioning without access to official records
The Foundation does not issue public admissions of involvement. Its representatives do not acknowledge custody of missing assets. They do not disclose shelter locations. They do not confirm transportation, treatment, or legal representation. They avoid terminology associated with organized recovery interference.
another trope i love is SHAPESHIFTER VILLAIN. and now i'm going to go on and on because I DON'T SEE THIS ENOUGH. imagine villain who doesn't remember their own face, villain who grew up in an orphanage learning that the tall boys got fed first and the pretty girls got adopted and so they changed, shifted, became whatever the room needed them to be, became the strong one and the sweet one and the invisible one and the loud one, became so many people that the mirror stopped showing anyone back, and as they got older the shifts got faster, hair flicking through colors, eyes changing at will, skin tone rising and falling, and sometimes the world gets too loud, too demanding, too full of faces they have to wear, and they shift and shift and shift until their body can't keep up, and some days they stand there with their face still trying to settle, still searching for something that feels like home, and it just never works, never never never...
one day villain escapes from hero again, heart hammering, and the moment they think they're safe their body betrays them, starts cycling through faces faster and faster and faster, hair bleeding from black to blonde to red to nothing, eyes shifting from brown to green to gray to gold, skin flickering through every tone they've ever worn, every person they've ever been, and they press their hands to their own cheeks trying to hold something still but their fingers sink into features that are already changing, already becoming someone else, becoming the orphanage bully and the kindly nurse and the hero's mother and the hero themself, faces layering over each other like ghosts fighting for the same body, and they can't breathe, can't think, can't find the off switch because there never was one, there was only performance and survival and becoming whatever kept them alive one more day, and now they're alone in the dark with no audience, no threat, no reason to be anyone, and the faces keep coming, keep blurring, keep cycling through strangers they've used and discarded and forgotten until there's nothing left but static, nothing left but the raw terrified animal underneath all the masks, gasping and shaking and wishing for a face that won't run away from them.
and then, in the middle of the chaos, in the middle of the blur, a thought cuts through like a blade: the hero, the hero who finally caught them, who tore off their mask and saw someone, who looked at them with something that wasn't fear or hatred but confusion, and the villain's shifting slows, just for a second, because they remember how the hero is loved, how the hero is held, how people reach for the hero like they're something worth keeping, and the villain thinks, what if, what if they stopped running, what if they stopped being the monster everyone expects, what if they built a face so good, so bright, so heroic that no one would ever look away, that no one would ever leave, that the hero themself would reach out and pull them close and say stay, and the shifting slows more, settles more, features locking into place one by one, not the face of a stranger this time but something calculated, something chosen, something with kind eyes and a soft smile and the exact bone structure that makes people trust before they think, and the villain looks in a window reflection and sees not a villain, not a victim, but a hero, a face that could be loved, that will be loved, because they will make it so, they will wear it so perfectly that no one will ever know the difference.
and the worst part is they almost believe it themselves, almost feel the warmth of it, almost forget that underneath this beautiful borrowed goodness is the same hollow thing that learned long ago that love is just another mask you put on, another face you perform until the audience stops clapping, and they step out of the alley with their new face and their old hunger and they don't know yet whether they're going to save the hero or consume them, whether this is redemption or the most elaborate trap they've ever built, and maybe, in the end, even they won't be able to tell the difference-
He changed after that. Almost immediately. He became the son and heir Malcolm always wanted. His nose stayed clean and his mind stayed on the business. He learned everything he was supposed to when he'd been busy gallivanting around and avoiding his responsibilities.
He ran himself ragged and pushed them both to the brink of exhaustion. Kestrel found him sometimes, half-asleep on the couch trying his hardest to read over reports, and ushered him to the privacy of his own room and to bed.
He, and she in turn, attended every gala, fundraiser, and conference they could manage with warm smiles and eager handshakes for old friends and new partners. Everyone remarked on how charming the younger Wickham was. Kestrel didn't miss the flash of rage or how his smile stiffened when someone commented how much he resembled his father.
He always kept his cool.
Almost a year passed since he’d walked in on her and Malcolm. Neither of them talked about what he'd seen that day and Wick did everything in his power to avoid his father. And even though he could barely look her in the eye, he tried his best to be a buffer between her and Malcolm. She tried not to let the distance between them bother her, telling herself it only helped her do her job, but the shame and embarrassment continued to eat at her from the inside.
If she were being honest, if she were allowed to be, she missed him. She missed bantering with him, teasing him, being more his friend than a bodyguard and servant. There was a wall between them, a chasm, Wick wasn't willing to cross anymore.
Even though it made her ache, it was for the best. She would do her job and she would do it well. She would take the discipline Malcolm handed out for her mistakes.
Everything would be okay.
Her hand hovered over Wick’s bedroom door, ready to knock. It opened before she could. Her charge exited a few seconds later dressed in a dark suit she remembered seeing in the back of his closet. Charlotte had ordered it for him for a gala he’d been in too much pain to attend.
She’d spent an hour in Malcolm’s study because of it.
He’d finally taken it out of the plastic. The tie, hanging neatly with a tie pin, around his neck, matched his eyes almost perfectly. His usual nest of curls had been carefully wrangled back and out of his face, swept into an up-do and make-up was well applied.
He smelled good too. She couldn't quite place the scent. It reminded her of something citrusy but sweeter.
Maybe pineapple?
She took another sniff, breathing him in, unable to take her eyes off of him. He looked good - older and more serious than she’d ever seen him but he wore it like a second skin.
Her stomach flipped uneasily but her hand fell to her side.
“Good morning, Leigh,” He greeted her with a nod, pulling his door closed, and steadying himself on his crutches. He cleared his throat, eyebrow raised. A small small stretched his lips, light and teasing. With a slight blush, she smiled back and snapped to attention. She moved aside, allowing him to pass and quickly fell into step behind him, hands clasped behind her back.
“Good morning, Mx,” she replied. She hesitated and then took two steps to his one to keep up. “I thought I would have to wake you up.”
She usually did. Wick wasn't a morning person and with the hours he’d been keeping lately, she’d been sure she was going to have to fight to get him to the table with his parents.
“I set an alarm.” He smiled but something about it was off.
Her uneasy feeling returned.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked, sure she already knew the answer. She hadn't missed the dark circles under his eyes. They stood out, stark and apparent, on his already pale face. He’d dismissed her at 12. She'd stayed outside the door until his light turned off at 3.
“I slept enough,” he replied easily.
She frowned. That wasn't an answer.
“Three hours isn't enough, Wick.”
He grinned faintly and waved the admonishment away. "I've worked off of less. If it, it makes you feel better, I'll take a nap today."
She didn't argue.
“Yes, Mx.”
She paused at the doorway, letting her eyes roam the room before anyone noticed she was there. She'd have to go in, she knew she would, but at least this way her mind had a few moments longer to prepare. From the floor to window ceilings there was a great panoramic view of the streetlights on the path to the beach. Savanna had added some floral touches around the dining table and the verdant foliage brought to mind the bright, cheerful days of spring. Oslo was setting a table already laden with buttery croissants, scrambled eggs, a short stack of banana pancakes and syrup on the table.
It was a very American breakfast which meant Charlotte Wickham was finally home. She’d been in Paris for the last three months checking on the hotels the Wickhams owned there and helping them get ready for the influx of guests they’d receive during Fashion Week.
Kestrel tensed. It showed.
Charlotte appeared a few moments later, sweeping down the stairs with bracelets jangling on her wrist and diamond earrings dangling from her ears. Her white skirt swirled around her. Midas trailed three steps behind her. Her face broke into a warm smile, arm stretched wide, when she spotted them. She didn't spare Kestrel a glance. Her nude Louboutins, ordered and (eagerly customized by the company) to match the dark richness of her skin, clicked against the floor as she strode forward.
“Goodness,” she exclaimed, “that cannot possibly be my little boy. Look at you, Christopher, my darling.”
She pulled him for a hug, arms wrapped around his waist. Even in heels, she barely came up to his shoulders.
“Good morning to, to, to you too, Mama.”
“Tell me you have a date today, chou-chou. Are perhaps proposing to someone? Max Chamberlain maybe?"
The teasing brought another smile to Wick’s face and he turned to properly face his mother.
She reached up to tuck away a stray strand of hair from his face. Her smile faltered ever so slightly. He stiffened, hand on her elbow, and Kestrel alerted. She scanned the room again but relaxed when Malcolm joined his family a moment later.
"Good morning. Christopher. Midas, Leigh. Charlotte," He wrapped around her waist and kissed her with a dip, “I missed you.”
Wick rolled his eyes.
"Father."
Malcolm didn't seem put off by his son’s cool demeanor in the slightest but Charlotte did. She blinked, looking between the two.
Savanna grabbed two mugs and poured a generous amount of coffee into each. Charlotte didn't even look at her. The girl stepped aside and Kestrel offered her a small smile. It was ignored as Savanna disappeared into the background - part of the scenery once more.
After a few seconds Charlotte pulled back from their hug. Oslo placed a bowl of fruit and large glass of milk in front of Wick’s place setting - a cue that breakfast was ready and the family should be seated. Kestrel took her position a few steps behind Wick’s chair. He was seated across from his mother, who gave him a look, telling him to eat the fruit and drink the milk. He laughed off her admonishment about him being too skinny. It didn't take him long to dive into the counter-argument (one they’d been having for most of his life) that being a vegetarian was actually better and healthier for him in the long run.
Charlotte didn't buy it, she never did, and she rolled her eyes at her child with a motherly scoff. It didn't last long. She smiled and dropped another banana nut pancake onto his plate.
A sharp ache crackled in Kestrel’s chest. Pain pressed against her heart. Relief almost brought tears to her eyes. It was such a normal interaction, she could almost pretend the events of the last few months hadn't happened. This was still her family. She was still their shield and she would do her duty to them until her dying day.
Quietly, she sighed.
Perhaps the saying was true: the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. She would be grateful for it. She stayed at rest and looked out the window to the muted ocean below. The waves danced in the sun, the golden sand shimmered, and distantly she heard the sharp cry of gulls searching for their own breakfast. Over the sparkling blue sea, two sailboats sailed together.
She kept one eye on her charge and another on the room, scanning their surroundings for non-existent threats. The uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach persisted. It sat heavily, like a lodestone, on her chest and she flexed her fingers behind her back. There was danger. Just because she couldn't see the threat yet didn't mean it wasn't there. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
The chatter stayed on the quieter side. They always talked about different things, the business, what they were doing for the day, strategic plans to get things done.
Wick's fingers twitched. He flexed his shoulders as discreetly as he could, glancing around the dining room even as he spoke. He ran a finger around the cuff of his suit jacket. He frowned in concentration, lifting a spoon to his mouth. She stifled a smile when he grimaced after biting down on steel. He was hopeless.
He tapped on the table, his attention mostly on his parents. He barely noticed the movement of his hand, or the surface he was tapping.
He placed his spoon and paper down, then pushed the plate away from him. He pursed his lips.
"Mama, Papa," he announced quietly, "I'm moving to New York."
For a moment, neither of them moved. Kestrel wasn't sure they'd heard him, she wasn't certain she'd heard him correctly either, as they looked at him as if he were a radio and not a person who to be interacted with. It was as if the words were still circulating their mind and not yet allowed to flow outward into the world.
The ship had yet to crash into the harbor. Silently, she begged Wick to take the words back.
Malcolm set aside his paper and Charlotte frowned.
"No," he said coldly, "You're not."
"I am. The, the, the board offered a position there." His chin jutted out. He stared his father down, daring them both to challenge his next statement. "I'm taking Leigh with me."
Kestrel tried not to shrink back.
Charlotte blinked. Her lips curled. She speared Kestrel with a look. "What have you been saying to him, you little whore?"
"Nothing, Ma'am."
Charlotte slammed her hand down. The cutlery rattled. Kestrel flinched. Behind Charlotte, Midas looked at her. He said nothing but concern shone in his eyes. His brow furrowed. When their eyes met, he lifted his head, just slightly, and then lowered it.
Breathe. A reminder.
She did so. Gratefully.
"You obviously said something, you stupid slut," Charlotte snapped, "Christopher wouldn't have come up with this on his own. He's happy here. He doesn't know anyone or anything in New York."
Neither did she. She bit her tongue and looked at the floor. Arguing with Charlotte wouldn’t do her any good. Not when the woman hated her with a passion that burned hotter than Malcolm's cigars.
"Leigh belongs to Asryn," Malcolm said, “She can’t leave. She has a contract.”
"She's an Asryn employee. That's, that's that's what you meant, right, Papa? Because if she were property of the, the company, that would be, be, be slavery and trafficking and, and, and pet ownership which is, is illegal in Basque."
Malcolm waved the assertion away. Kestrel's breath hitched, heart skipping a beat when he looked at her. If only the floor were quicksand and she could sink into it.
"Shield-"
"Don't talk to her," Wick snarled. His water glass shook as his hand came down with a sharp sound. Condensation beaded on the outside, dripping slowly onto the white tablecloth. It melted and left an off-color stain.
“Christopher-”
"Be quiet, Christopher. Shield," Malcolm ordered. His eyes pinned her once more. She tried not to shiver. "Answer me."
She shifted, shoulders aching. The burns across her body seemed to flare, itching and itching and itching. She didn't dare scratch. Her mouth felt dryer than a sandbox in the middle of summer.
"Are you a pet?"
"No Sir. I am a Shield. My duty and pleasure is to serve the family I have been assigned to. Currently, I am an employee of Asryn Pharmaceutical. I receive full benefits and I am paid in accordance with my labor."
A comfort, the words came easily and she silently breathed out when Malcolm nodded. She tried to ignore the disappointment on Wick's face, feeling a flicker of anger herself. Why hadn't he told her about this plan?
The anger didn't last long. She stuffed it down and packed it away when Wick opened his mouth again.
Determined.
Malcolm cut him off.
"That's enough, Christopher. I've tolerated your behavior and resentment up to this point but I won't any longer. You're spoiled. You don't know anything about the real world. You haven't worked a day in your life. Everything you have has been given to you by your mother and I.”
“Like Leigh?” Wick snapped, “You gave me a, a, a whole person. How would you like me to, to, to thank you, Papa? On my knees? With my, my, my mouth open?”
"Christopher!"
Malcolm's jaw clenched. Wick watched him, fists clenched as well, knuckles whitened. They stared each other down, both of them unwilling to budge. It was lightning and thunder clashing, fire and ice trying to overpower the other.
Kestrel swallowed hard, shifting again from one foot to the other. She kept her expression docile, placid, and released a slow, controlled breath. She kept her gaze fixed on the window and the glimmering sea beyond it. Her hands remained clenched at her sides. It didn't stop her chest from tightening. Charlotte’s heavy glare stayed on her, landing on her chest and settling there like a boulder. Kestrel’s stomach flipped as the woman’s earlier accusation reverberated in her brain. Her insides twisted as if someone had thrust a corkscrew through her and kept turning it with every intention of making her scream and pop.
She wished she could disappear like Savanna and Oslo. Both of the servants had had the good sense to quietly leave the room as soon as Wick’s announcement had been said.
They all sat in knee deep silence. The faint crashing of the waves was the only sound.
Finally, Malcolm spoke.
“You will talk to the board and tell them that you're no longer interested -"
"I won't."
Malcolm’s eyes narrowed.
"You will," he said firmly.
Wick set his jaw.
"No," he said again. He pushed away from the table. The scrape and squeal of his chair against the floor made her wince. He crutches underneath him. "I won't. I've already accepted a sign-on bonus. I'm also old enough to, to access my trust."
He dug into his pocket and pulled out a check. It fluttered a bit before he set it on the table.
"I looked at our, our books, Papa. I won't say what I found. You and I both know. I'm sure Mama knows as well. This is a way to, to, to make it right. It'll be the, the first payment for Leigh's freedom, for her "contract". I'll send the rest when we get to New York. Leigh?"
She snapped to attention and stepped forward. He smiled at her. Squeezed her arm as he passed.
"We have work to, to, to do."
"Shield."
She paused.
"Ma'am."
Charlotte glared at her, hand on Malcolm's arm. He stared at the check with an almost perplexed expression.
"It would be in your best interest to dissuade my son."
She didn't say it. She didn't need to. The threat hung in the air.
A promise and a reminder of every Shield’s worst nightmare. She couldn't afford another mark on her name.
"Ma'am." She bowed her head.
Once she was out of the room and out of earshot, a few steps behind Wick, she cursed. He was waiting for her by the elevator and she whirled on him, fists clenched. They trembled. Her whole body was trembling with fear, anger, anxiety - she wasn't sure what - it made her sick. She whirled on him and clenched her fists. They shook. Her whole body shook. Fear, anger, anxiety, she wasn't sure but it all made her sick. It made sense now. The late nights, the almost silent treatment, the focus on his family's business, it all made horrible, terrible sense.
He glanced at her.
"You idiot," she hissed. He blinked. "Setting off a bomb would've been safer, Wick."
"Sorry for not, not, not telling you," he said. "You would've talked me out of, out of it. Couldn't let you."
"Damn right I would have. Your father is right. You have no idea how the world works. I am happy here."
"You're happy being raped-" he hissed back. She flinched, scratching her arms, "and abused by my father? Stop, stop lying to me, Leigh, and stop, stop lying to yourself."
He stepped closer. His face was hard and angry. She held still, looking up and fighting the urge to step back. Every muscle in her body tensed. They screamed at her to fall to her knees and show him respect.
She stayed standing. Somehow, she stayed standing.
"You deserve better than that and I'm going to, to, to give it to you. I'm going to, to New York. And you're coming with me. That's, that's an order."
“I expect more from you than this, Leigh.” He took another long drag from his cigar and blew the smoke into her face. “I don't ask that you anticipate my needs. That’s not your job. I have Oslo or Savanna for that. All I ask is that you anticipate Christopher’s needs and actions.”
Stargazing
CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, LADY WHUMP, SETTING THE STAGE, SLIGHT DUBCON IF YOU SQUINT AND TWIRL AROUND THREE TIMES, CONDITIONED WHUMPEE, MENTIONS OF RACISM AND ABLELISM, GUN
She nodded. They rivaled the sea, seemingly endless, spreading far beyond the horizon, gently twinkling one at time as if to say hello.
Air, blessed air. She sucked it in greedily, clearing the blackness from her eyes and the ringing from her ears. She'd been drowning once again, but not any more. They had seen sense, let her breathe, let her live…
Pray For Us Sinners
CW: LADY WHUMP, BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, BROKEN BONES, DEATH THREATS, DEHUMANIZATION, RECORDED TORTURE, RANSOM VIDEO
“Smile for the camera!” Shorty chirped.
Rule 1: Desire to Live
CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, RESCUE, GUN VIOLENCE, LADY WHUMP, PASSING OUT, CONDITIONED WHUMPEE, MENTIONS OF TORTURE AND DEATH (NOT MAIN CHARACTERS)
I am already dead. I don't want to die. I'm not going to die. I'm not going to die.
CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, REFERENCED TRAFFICKING, REFERENCED SLAVERY, REFERENCED AND IMPLIED NONCON, FAMILIAL CONFLICT, ABLELISM (IF YOU SQUINT), LADY WHUMP
"Mama, Papa," he announced quietly, "I'm moving to New York."
Cool Title Here
CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, NUDITY, IMPLIED NONCON (PAST AND PRESENT), DEHUMANIZATION, INSTITUTIONALIZED DEHUMANIZATION, NONCON TOUCHING, LADY WHUMP, PTSD
“Whatever happens, don't, don't, don't leave my side.”
Deal With Devils - written by @wildfae-afterdark
"Deal," Peyton agrees mildly. "If you ruin that lipstick on my cock, too."
Fuck You Mx.
CW: AFTERMATH OF NONCON, VICTIM BLAMING, BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, REFERENCED NONCON, ABLELISM, WICK IS A DUMBASS HERE AND A JERK
She walked, heels clicking, staccato tapping on the pavement, and didn't look back.
He's Not My Owner
CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, ABUSE DYNAMICS, SURVIVORS NAVIGATING RECOVERY, GROUP THERAPY SETTING, CONDITIONED WHUMPEES, DEGRADING LANGUAGE
“I… I’m not sure if I really belong here,” she finally admitted. “I mean, I don’t….I'm just… me. I wasn't a…wasn't from WRU. I'm not a pet.”
Safety
CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, PAST REFERENCED NONCON, VICTIM BLAMING, RECOVERY WHUMP, REFERENCED BURNS, PAST REFERENCED NUDITY, COMPLICATED FEELINGS ABOUT AN ABUSER
“Why can’t you….why can’t you feel safe with, with, with me?” He sounded like a child who’d just lost his favorite toy. “I can, can change. I can do, do, do better. I promise.”
I Don't Have Those
CW: LADY WHUMP, PTSD, PANIC ATTACK, BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, RECOVERY WHUMP
She shakes her head and clutches her stomach. It aches and the nausea doesn't abate. It only seems to get worse, eclipsing the throbbing pain in her wrapped - when had Charity done that?- foot. That's secondary to everything else. "I don't ge-et those."
Kestrel Discovers Asexuality
CW: IMPLIED PAST NONCON, NUDITY, SURVIVORS NAVIGATING CONSENT, INTERNALIZED ACEPHOBIA
"No. Um….Red." She pushed them away, wiping a hand across her mouth as she stared them down. "Red, please. S-sorry. Sorry, Dami. I'm sorry."
CW: LADY WHUMP, PTSD, PANIC ATTACK, BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, RECOVERY WHUMP
She turns to grab her cup but the fuzziness in her brain has it slipping from her fingers. Almost in slow motion, she watches herself attempt to catch it, arms failing, hands grasping, fingers desperately stretching and clasping. She's not quick enough. She fails and the cup hits the floor. It shatters on the tile.
If that isn't a great example of how her life is turning out, then she's not sure what is.
She needs to find a broom and pray to God that no one woke up from the noise. There's one in the closet by the sink.
Foolishly, she takes a step, trying to avoid the glass. She's instantly met with a sharp, stabbing pain in the bottom of his foot. She slaps a hand over her mouth just in time as she yells, tears gathering in her eyes, her other hand holding her leg. She hops and stumbles back into the cabinet.
Shit. Shit. Shit. That hurts.
There's blood under her foot. She can see it swirling and slowly mixing with the water she's spilled. She's never been this clumsy. She isn’t sure what it is. The pain in her foot, the knowledge that she's bleeding, or Wick-sized hole she's carved into her life, but the tears slip out anyway, one after another until they're a steady stream and she can barely see the glass on the floor or the two women drawn to the kitchen by the noise.
And Griffin. Griffin is there too.
Her ears work just fine and Charity's soft "Oh dear," reaches her. She recoils and crashes into the cabinet again. She hears herself murmur a faint apology and promises that she's not this clumsy usually. She stutters out that she can clean it up. She has first aid training. She can give herself stitches.
Her promises seem to fall on deaf ears. Charity waves a hand and winks.
"Don't worry," she says with the warm smile Kestrel is already starting to associate with safety, "I paid a fortune to have steady hands. Rho, if you could-"
The other woman has already taken her 6ft frame through the door, ducking out and back in in less than a second with the broom and a dustpan. Griffin comes back with the first aid kit in her hands.
Charity gives her wife a smile when she hands the kit over and it sends Rho blushing even as she starts sweeping the glass away.
She's careful not to step on it. Kestrel is careful not to look anyone in the eye. She's made a mess, woken these two hardworking women from their much-needed sleep, and cried about something as simple as glass in her foot.
Thankfully, the tears have stopped. It doesn't take long for Rho to sweep up her mess and after giving her a gentle warning, she sweeps Kestrel up to and carries her to the kitchen table. Charity sits opposite of her and bends over, carefully lifting and peering at the sole of her foot.
"I can stitch myself up," she whispers, offering again, "You don't have to-"
“Is the glass still in your foot?" Charity asks and frowns. She looks up and Kestrel shakes her head, holding her breath. Right, this isn't the time to talk. Charity is in charge of this house. Of course she'd want to make sure everyone is healthy herself.
"No ma'am." It just hurts. Everything hurts. Being here hurts. Sending Wick away hurts. Staying with him hurts.
She doesn't say that.
“Fuck…” she hears herself say instead. It slips out. It's not supposed to but it does. It slips out and she's too tired to force it back down her throat and her hands are too busy clawing at her chest to cover her mouth. Her eyes burn with tears once again. She closes her eyes and tries to keep them from falling.
Heat escapes her as she sits there, a shivering, wobbly mess with no idea what to do except cry. The pain, familiar and unfamiliar, mental and physical, makes her feel like vomiting. Is this how people felt before they died of something really terrible?
She doesn't want to die. Is this what Charlotte has meant? Is this why she's never supposed to leave Wick? They'd put something in her, they'd done something to her to make sure she wouldn't or make sure she'd suffer the consequences if she did.
She's heard of it happening before. She knows people with chips in them, tracking their location, their temperature, their vitals, controlling those things. Wick controls those things. Charlotte controls those things. Mal….Malcolm….
It hurts. It's not paranoia if you know it's true.
“M-make it stop.”
"Kestrel." Charity. Again. Her hands are so soft. So warm. Like Malcolm's. She doesn't smell like cigars but Kestrel still pulls away. "Leigh baby, I've been calling you for a minute now. I need you to breathe for me. Are you having a panic attack?"
She shakes her head and clutches her stomach. It aches and the nausea doesn't abate. It only seems to get worse, eclipsing the throbbing pain in her wrapped - when had Charity done that?- foot. That's secondary to everything else. "I don't ge-et those."
They all give her a look.
"W…Wick gets them…I….I don't."
"You don't or you're not allowed to?" Griffin doesn't wait for her to answer, exchanging another look with Rho.
"Griffin," Charity cuts in, "Why don't you head back to bed? We'll talk about curfew again tomorrow. Thanks for your help."
"Fine," they sigh but they pause at the door, turning around for a moment to look at her, "You're not going to die, okay? You're going to be fine."
"Kestrel, open your mouth for me?"
She obeys and something wet hits her tongue, something sharp.
Cold.
It sends chills through her. Her body trembles.
“It's just ice. Keep sucking on it."
She obeys and shivers and sucks until the ice is gone. Until she swallows and it hits her stomach. Her foot throbs. Her stomach grumbles but that's all it does. The nausea seems to go away but it leaves her wrung out. She could sink to the floor and never get up again. It's a fight to hold her head up but she does.
“I’m so-orry.” She doesn't meet Charity's eyes, hugging herself. Thankfully, the other woman doesn't touch her.
"There's no need to apologize, baby, this isn't your fault. Anyone can get panic attacks," she adds softly, "Especially if you've been through the things you've been through. You did…a really hard thing tonight but it was really brave."
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, PAST REFERENCED NONCON, VICTIM BLAMING, RECOVERY WHUMP, REFERENCED BURNS, PAST REFERENCED NUDITY, COMPLICATED FEELINGS ABOUT AN ABUSER
@bbu-on-the-side prompt "safety"
"They, they, they hate me," Wick groaned. Their head landed on the table with a soft thud. He turned to look at Leigh and glared at the small smile she was wearing. She stayed seated, hands in her lap, shaking her head. She didn't make any moves to comfort him, no pat on the back, no reassurances, no apologies for some of the (unearned) vitriol he'd gotten tonight - not that he was expecting any. That wasn't her job. It was no longer her duty to absolve him of his guilt - not that it should have ever been.
"Yes," she answered. Again, he groaned.
"Why?" He was whining and he knew he sounded pathetic but it didn't matter. He was exhausted and getting yelled at for things he hadn't done was stupid. "I, I, I didn't do anything."
"Exactly."
Exactly.
He blinked up at her. His eyes dimmed as her smile gentled. Even now, she was holding space for him when he didn't deserve it. He replayed the memory over and over again in his head. The image of her horrified face staring up at his, haunted, fingers scrambling to gather up her clothes, unable to actually look him in the eyes. The angry red marks swirling around her naked body like grotesque tattoos, the smell of cigars.
"I'm….I'm sorry,” he whispered.
She stayed quiet and he sighed softly and sat up. He wasn't here to throw himself a pity party and replaying the memory of Leigh in one of her most vulnerable moments wouldn’t help either of them. He was doing okay, physically, but this separation was killing him. It hadn't taken long for what he’d thought had been a close friendship to fall apart. He wanted Leigh to come home. He wanted things to return to normal.
He wanted this behind them. He needed to feel safe.
“You’re not special,” she teased lightly. It didn't help. He looked away. She wasn't supposed to be making him feel better. “You’re one of the only owners that’s brave enough to come here. Everyone is mad and it all gets dumped on you. You're lucky Griffin wasn't here. I don't think they would've let you step in the door."
He bit his tongue before he complained that it wasn't fair. He was here. He was trying. He was doing his best. Why couldn't they acknowledge that?
“Should’ve reminded them who got you, got you out of there,” he muttered. Kestrel paused and he knew the minute it’d left his mouth it was the wrong thing to say. He tried to take it back and looked at her, biting his tongue when she placed a hand on his arm.
“I will always be grateful you believed me,” she said quietly. It was so quiet he almost missed it. He didn't. He couldn't pretend that he didn't - not with the way his stomach bottomed out and the nausea whirled around it like he was on a water slide at an amusement park. “But I was your Shield for six years, Wick. You and I both know that wasn't the first time he’d done that to me."
She didn't let go. He didn't dare look away. Not this time. She smiled grimly at him. He swallowed, fidgeting with his fingers. He owed her so much. A dinner with ex-pets bitching at him wasn't going to kill him. A dinner acknowledging that maybe he was one of the bad guys here wasn't going to kill him. He could take this. He would if it meant Kestrel would come home with him.
“You can….you can tell me. If you, you, you need to.”
She shook her head. Her grim smile never faded. “Neither of us need to relive that.”
Was it wrong to be relieved? Was it wrong he didn't want to hear how his father had hurt her? He believed her. He believed his own eyes but taking his father off of the pedestal he’d always been on was another hurdle he wasn't sure he was ready to climb. Malcolm Wickham, loving, supportive father. The first person Wick had come out to. The first person he’d talked to about transitioning. The man who’d read to him, hugged him, kissed him goodnight.
I'm sorry, Wick. I messed up. Your father was just…he was protecting you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please don't…He, um, he loves you.
The words haunted him, ringing in his ears every night, mingling with memories (I’m sorry, Wick) and nightmares until there were times he wasn’t sure he knew what was real.
Malcolm Wickham, the rapist. The human trafficker. The abuser. The adulterer.
Malcolm deserved to fall from his pedestal, he deserved to be torn down. He deserved to fall forever. He deserved to be estranged from peace. But how do you grieve someone who doesn't deserve it? Do you mourn yourself? Do you mourn the relationship? Was that even right?
“You’re right,” he finally said. “You're right. I, I, I spent too long not, not, not listening. Letting, letting, letting everything be…sanitized for me. I know it’s not - that I can’t ever make up for it or anything, but for what it’s worth... I’m sorry. If you ever need to, to make me pay for it...” He took a careful breath.
She winced. “No. I wasn't made to hate you, Wick. I wasn't made to hurt you. Hurting you wouldn’t do anything for me.” She sighed. “And I don't hate you, Wick, I love you. I love you so much but I don't feel safe with you. I know you wouldn’t protect me. Not like they do. Safety is what I need right now. It's what….it's what I want.”
“Why can’t you….why can’t you feel safe with, with, with me?” He sounded like a child who’d just lost his favorite toy. “I can, can change. I can do, do, do better. I promise.”
"I can't. I don't know what safety looks like yet and-" she nervously tapped on the table, looking down, "I won't if I'm thinking about you."
You're supposed to think about me, he wanted to snap, that's your job.
He swallowed the words instead.
"Can you forgive me?" Perhaps it was selfish of him to ask but he did so anyway. It was worth a shot and maybe it would keep his heart from shattering even more. He could almost hear it. Clear glass dropping to the floor, sharply cracking and splintering and dashing into a million pieces.
Forgive me, Leigh. Please forgive me.
"No. No, I've always forgiven you. You don't need my forgiveness right now." She shook her head. "I'm not mad at you, Wick. I just want to feel safe and…loved."
But I do love you.
“Okay,” he said instead and slumped, making a discontented noise in the back of his throat. His voice cracked, breaking the word into two syllables. He stared at her for a minute before looking down and to his right. "So you're, you're staying."
"I'm staying."
"Okay." What else was he supposed to say? His breath came out in a shuddering gasp, and he set his jaw. He knew he was going to say something he regretted. He reached for the brakes with trembling hands. Tears welled up in his eyes. "Should I….should I send your, your, your stuff here then?"
The silence that followed did little to calm his nerves. A mixture of emotions raced through in his heart.
"No. You don't have to."
"Can I, I, I call you?"
"Charity asks that we don't do that. Not for awhile. I think it's a good idea."
Fuck Charity.
"Fine."
His hope deflated. He stubbornly held the tears at bay. What else did he need to do? What else was there to do but leave?
"Okay," he repeated, "Goodbye then."
"Bye, Wick."
There were no hugs between them. No kisses. No handshakes. Nothing. Nothing but her silence and his anger and despite the fury he felt, her words and his lack of response to them, still echoed in his mind as bright and clear as a bell ringing for Sunday mass.
I don't feel safe with you. I've never felt safe with you.
Publicly, the Bartlett House Grant funded domestic violence transitional housing.
That was what the brochures said. That was what the auditors saw. That was what city offices, nonprofit boards, and respectable donors could understand without choking on the truth.
In reality, the Bartlett House Grant funded illegal personhood infrastructure.
It paid for papers that could survive a traffic stop. It paid for doctors who knew when not to enter something into a searchable system. It paid for burner phones, back exits, quiet vans, changed locks, dental work, scar treatment, GED fees, forged employment histories, and enough cash to get someone across three county lines before a retrieval team knew they were gone.
It paid for soup. Socks. Coats. Bus tickets. Glasses. Tampons. Compression braces. A mattress in a room with a door that locked from the inside.
It paid for people to learn, slowly and badly and painfully, that they were allowed to close that door.
The public story was clean.
The truth had teeth.
Kestrel knew that better than anyone.
Before Asryn Pharmaceutical. Before the Wickham Foundation. Before boardrooms and gala lights and the particular violence of being called Mrs. Wickham by people who would have once called her property without blinking.
Before all of that, there had been Charity and Rho’s first safehouse.
Not the network. Not the grant. Not the carefully layered shell organizations with respectable names and unremarkable tax filings.
Just a house.
A stubborn, drafty, underfunded house with bad plumbing, mismatched mugs, a back door that stuck in winter, and a kitchen table scarred by years of elbows, pill bottles, paperwork, and people learning how to eat without permission.
Kestrel had lived there.
She had arrived with no idea what to do with her hands when no one was giving orders. She had slept badly. She had catalogued exits. She had flinched at kindness and gone silent at questions that were too gentle because gentleness felt like a trap with better manners.
Charity had not tried to save her.
Rho had not tried to own her recovery.
They had given her a room. Food. A schedule that could be ignored. Rules that existed to protect people instead of discipline them. A place at the table even when she stood in the doorway like a threat no one had activated yet.
They had taught her the shape of freedom by refusing to make it pretty.
Freedom was not a speech.
It was not a hand on her shoulder and someone saying she was safe now.
Freedom was Charity saying, “You can answer or you can not answer.”
It was Rho saying, “Door locks from your side.”
It was a donated sweatshirt with the tag already cut out.
It was being allowed to hate oatmeal.
It was being allowed to say no and not be punished for the pause before it.
So when Kestrel built the Bartlett House Grant years later, she did not build it as charity.
She built it as repayment.
No, not repayment.
Repayment implied a debt Charity and Rho had never claimed.
She built it as continuity.
A way to make sure the first house did not have to stay one house. A way to make sure the work did not depend on whether Charity could shame a pharmacist into donating antibiotics or whether Rho could stretch one grocery run across twelve people and a dog that technically belonged to no one.
Kestrel did not micromanage Charity and Rho.
She knew better.
She had once been the person in the upstairs bedroom listening to adults discuss money in low voices and understanding, with the cold clarity of the newly rescued, that safety could be interrupted by a broken furnace.
She knew what it did to a house when the people running it had to beg.
She knew what it did to residents when survival came with visible strain.
So she made sure Charity never had to ask twice.
Sometimes not even once.
A quarterly report would arrive.
Beds full.
Two new intakes.
One compromised route.
Need pediatric optometry.
Boiler failing.
Rho says the western house needs exterior cameras.
Kestrel would read it.
Then money would move.
Not always from the same account. Not always through the same arm of the Foundation. Sometimes it came as a maintenance grant. Sometimes as rural health outreach. Sometimes as domestic violence emergency support. Sometimes as anonymous donor matching because Wick had smiled at someone over champagne and made them believe compassion had been their idea.
Sometimes it came in cash.
Charity always knew that meant the situation was worse than the paperwork could say.
A sealed envelope under a vending machine at Falwell Memorial.
A duffel in Lucky Johnson’s trunk.
A cashier’s check folded into an aggressively dull zoning report.
Once, twenty thousand dollars in a diaper bag with yellow ducks on it.
Charity called immediately.
“A diaper bag?”
“It was available,” Kestrel said.
“It says Mommy’s Little Miracle.”
“No one searched it.”
“That is not a defense.”
“It appears to be one.”
Rho laughed so hard in the background that Charity had to put the phone down.
Kestrel sat at her desk afterward with the receiver still warm in her hand and let herself feel pleased for exactly four seconds.
Then another message came in.
Need to move someone tonight. Owner is connected.
The pleasure vanished.
Kestrel answered before her pulse could change.
Done.
That was the rule of Bartlett House.
No one begged.
No one performed gratitude.
No resident stood in front of donors and turned their worst days into proof of the Foundation’s goodness.
Kestrel had written that clause herself.
Resident privacy shall supersede promotional interest in all cases.
Wick had read it over her shoulder and said, “That’s almost tender.”
“It’s policy.”
“Your version of a love letter.”
She had ignored him because he was smiling and because he was right.
Charity never thanked her in the polished voice people used at galas.
Rho never treated the money like benevolence.
They used it.
That was the point.
They replaced locks. They bought groceries. They paid doctors. They moved runaways through rain and snow and three a.m. silence. They kept the houses warm. They kept the exits clear. They kept people alive long enough for personhood to stop feeling like a story other people got to have.
The first time Charity said, “You understand I don’t work for you,” Kestrel had gone very still.
They were sitting at the old kitchen table in the first house.
The same table.
Different decade. Same scars.
Kestrel looked at the burn mark near the corner where Rho had once set down a pan too fast because someone screamed upstairs. She remembered sitting at that table with both hands wrapped around a mug she had not chosen, learning that nobody would take it away if she did not drink quickly enough.
“Yes,” Kestrel said.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“If this becomes yours, I burn the stream and start over.”
Kestrel looked up.
Most people stepped back when she looked at them like that.
Charity did not.
Charity Bartlett had met Kestrel before Kestrel had learned how to make her stillness look civilized.
“If I ever try,” Kestrel said, “I expect you to.”
Charity watched her for a long moment.
Then she nodded once.
“Fine. The south house needs a new roof.”
Kestrel opened her laptop.
“How soon?”
“Before the next storm.”
Kestrel began typing.
Outside, the old safehouse creaked in the wind.
The first house.
The beginning of everything.
The place where Kestrel had learned that rescue was not the same as ownership wearing a softer face.
The Bartlett House Grant was not mercy from a distance.
It was a door held open by someone who remembered exactly what it cost to walk through.
Hello fellow artists!
Here's a quick survey about all the tools we're bound to use as independent artists these days.
My brother is thinking about maybe making a service that would centralise tools for artists.
If you have time to fill or share it would be greatly appreciated.
A few questions regarding your everyday use of online tools [website, socials, shops, forms, commissions...], and associated satisfactions a
The summer between the end of high school and the start of college, I wrote a ridiculous play about pirates and put on a staged reading with some friends at an amphitheatre at a local park before a small audience of friends and family. It was never published or staged again. But I just got a message from an old high school friend I haven’t seen in years. He accidentally quoted the play in a conversation with friends, was asked what he was quoting, he couldn’t remember either, and wracked his brain until he finally remembered it was that silly play reading that we did one day in the park over 10 years ago. It made me happy. (The line was, “Huzzah for mercantilism!” by the way.)
A very tiny percentage of creators go on to be famous, but that doesn’t mean that people don’t remember little things you did for years and years. Who came up with most of the world’s most famous jump rope rhymes? Who coined some of the famous idioms we use in daily speech? Who made up ‘Jingle Bells, Batman Smells?” Somehow, all of these things stuck and spread around.
When I was a small child, I saw a high school put on a production of the musical HONK. In one song, the mother duck describes various dangers that her baby should avoid in the water, including fishing line, which could strangle him. A member of the ensemble played the role of fishing line, doing a maniacal laugh and over-the-top strangling motions, and I found it hilarious– and to this day, that’s an example I often think of when talking about how ensemble members can still stand out in theatre. The guy who played the role might not even remember that he did that, but I do.
I took Suzuki violin lessons as a kid. The teacher made up lyrics to some of the songs, and she let her students make some up, too. Now whenever I hear the instrumental of one of those pieces, I always remember these ridiculous lyrics about a skunk that we sang in violin class. I don’t even know which student invented them!
In middle school, I found a video about atoms parodying Bill Nye made by some kids for a school product. It probably had less than 1,000 views, but I think of quotes from that video all the time. They had a parody of “We Will Rock You” with the chorus, “Protons, neutrons, electrons” that I think about a lot.
I just love that this is part of human life. Our memories don’t just pick up quotes from great art, literature, and music, but little things, too.
Aug 20XX - WRU issued a sharply worded statement Monday condemning Asryn Pharmaceutical’s decision to end business relationships with pet facilities and related corporate entities.
The company called Christopher Wickham’s remarks “irresponsible, defamatory, and motivated by personal distress rather than regulatory fact.”
WRU emphasized that its facilities operate within existing legal frameworks and maintain “rigorous standards for training, placement, behavioral management, and owner satisfaction.”
The statement also rejected Wickham’s description of pets as people, saying, “WRU recognizes the legal status of all contracted assets and remains committed to humane, efficient, and compliant ownership support.”
The sentence drew immediate backlash online.
A spokesperson for Asryn declined to respond directly to WRU’s statement but confirmed that the company’s audit has already begun.
Multiple smaller biomedical suppliers have reportedly paused pending contracts with WRU-affiliated subsidiaries in the wake of Asryn’s announcement.
One executive, speaking anonymously, said, “Nobody wants to be the next company named in a press conference.”
A year after Asryn Pharmaceutical began its internal audit, Christopher Wickham announced the creation of The Wickham Foundation.
Not at a press conference.
Not beside Kestrel.
Not with WRU’s name anywhere in the prepared remarks.
The announcement appeared first as a filing.
Then as a clean, tasteful website.
Then as a brief statement released at seven forty-five on a Thursday morning, early enough to miss the breakfast shows and late enough that every corporate counsel in the sector would already be at their desks.
THE WICKHAM FOUNDATION TO EXPAND TRANSITIONAL HOUSING, COMMUNITY HEALTH ACCESS, AND LEGAL SUPPORT FOR VULNERABLE POPULATIONS.
There were no accusations. No mention of pets. No mention of ownership. No mention of WRU, its subsidiaries, its contractors, its “affiliated placement environments,” or any of the charming euphemisms its lawyers kept inventing as fast as the old ones began to rot in public.
The statement was beautiful in its restraint.
Kestrel read it twice from the kitchen table with a cup of coffee going cold between her hands. Beside her, Dami stood with their hip against the counter, scanning the text on Wick’s tablet.
“Vulnerable populations,” they said.
“Mm.”
“Community-based crisis response.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Legal support for persons experiencing coercive domestic instability.”
Kestrel’s mouth twitched.
Dami looked at her.
“Expensive way to say runaway pets.”
“No,” Kestrel said.
Dami blinked once.
Kestrel lifted her eyes from the statement. Her face was calm in the way that made most people in the house reconsider whatever they had been about to say.
“It’s a very expensive way to not say runaway pets.”
Dami considered that.
They nodded. “Better.”
Across the room, Wick sat in his chair near the windows, wearing a suit he didn't needed to wear and had insisted on wearing anyway. His crutch rested against the arm of the chair. His hands were folded too carefully in his lap, the left thumb pressed hard into the right palm.
The statement had already gone out. The accountants had signed. The board had been seated.
The lawyers had built walls around every word until the whole thing looked charitable, boring, defensible, and nearly bulletproof.
He still looked like a man waiting for a door to break open.
Kestrel watched him over the top of her tablet.
“You don’t have to look like you’re about to be cross-examined in our kitchen.”
Wick gave her a faint smile. He shrugged, trying to pass it off as unbothered.
“I don’t know. Our kitchen has, has, has seen worse proceedings.”
"That’s true," Dami said.
Kestrel glanced at them.
Dami shrugged. “Waffle maker.”
“That wasn’t a proceeding.”
“It had witnesses.”
“It had smoke.”
“And testimony.”
Wick’s smile deepened for half a second, then faded when his phone began vibrating on the table.
None of them moved.
The phone kept going.
Kestrel looked down at the screen.
Unknown number.
Another call came in on Dami’s phone.
Charity texted Kestrel.
It’s live. We’re getting media requests. Rho says nobody say anything clever.
Tell Rho she’s no fun, she responded.
Rho replied a second later from Charity’s phone.
I’m fun when people aren’t building felony infrastructure before lunch.
Kestrel stared at the message. Then set the phone facedown.
Wick was watching her.
“Charity?” he asked.
“Rho.”
“Ah.” Wick exhaled through his nose. “Are we in, in, in trouble?”
“She’s charging us with felony infrastructure.”
“Not wrong,” Dami said.
“It’s not a, a, a felony.”
They both looked at him. Wick's jaw shifted.
“It’s probably not a, a, a felony.”
“That’s the spirit,” Kestrel said.
His laugh came out thin. He rubbed at his sternum once, then stopped when Kestrel’s attention dropped to the movement.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m operational.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Dami hummed. “You’re pale.”
Wick looked offended. “I’m always pale.”
“More pale.”
Kestrel rose before Wick could argue and crossed to him. He tried to compose himself before she reached him, which was stupid and tender and exactly like him. She laid her hand over his, not restraining. Just covering.
“You did the thing,” she said quietly.
Wick looked at their hands.
“No,” he said. “We did it. We made a, a, a door.”
Kestrel’s expression changed by a fraction.
Dami looked away first and Wick swallowed.
“A, A, A boring door,” he continued. “With nonprofit compliance and, and, and domestic violence grants and mobile legal clinics and, and, and an absolutely intolerable number of advisory committees.”
“Don’t forget housing insecurity,” Kestrel said.
“God forbid.”
“And community health access.”
“I may never recover.”
“And no mention of WRU.”
Wick’s mouth went still. The room softened around the absence of the name.
Outside, in a world that had paperwork and shareholders and courtroom language, The Wickham Foundation had nothing to do with WRU. It was a philanthropic organization focused on transitional housing, crisis medicine, survivors’ rights, and community reintegration.
Inside the room, it had everything to do with WRU.
It had everything to do with the person sleeping in Charity’s clinic under a false name because their owner had filed a missing property report.
It had everything to do with the girl who still ate under tables.
The man who cried when nobody praised him for kneeling.
The Romantic who kept asking whether kindness counted as permission.
The Guard Dog who would not enter a room until every exit had been counted.
The Shield who had once believed survival was the same thing as obedience.
Kestrel’s fingers tightened slightly over Wick’s. He looked up at her.
“Not in writing,” he said.
“No.”
“Not in speeches.”
“No.”
“Not where some smug bastard in a, a, a better suit can hold it up and, and, and call it conspiracy.”
Kestrel’s eyes sharpened at the stutter, but she didn't interrupt.
Wick breathed in once through his nose.
“We don’t say what, what it is,” he said. “We build it well enough that people can survive long enough to, to say it themselves.”
For a moment, no one answered.
Dami nodded. “That’s better too.”
Wick gave them a tired look. “You’re very generous with, with your reviews today.”
“Had coffee.”
Kestrel’s phone buzzed again.
This time, the alert came from a news app.
The headline was already live:
WICKHAM FOUNDATION LAUNCHES NATIONAL HOUSING AND LEGAL AID INITIATIVE
A second headline followed:
ASRYN HEIR FUNDS SURVIVOR SUPPORT NETWORK AFTER YEAR OF CORPORATE RESTRUCTURING
Then a third:
WRU DECLINES COMMENT ON NEW WICKHAM CHARITY
Kestrel read that one aloud. Wick closed his eyes.
There was a delicate pause. Dami hummed, rocking back on their heels. Their eyes never left the headlines.
“Commented by declining to comment.”
Kestrel hummed in response. “That’s usually how declining to comment works.”
“Wanted people to know they were declining.”
Wick opened one eye. “That is also how declining to, to comment works.”
Dami considered that.
“Corporate communication is inefficient.”
“Wildly,” Wick said.
His phone vibrated again.
This time, he picked it up, checked the screen, and froze.
Kestrel felt it through his hand.
“What?”
He turned the phone so she could see.
A message from an unknown number.
No greeting.
No signature.
Just six words.
Does this mean people can leave?
Kestrel stared at it.
The room disappeared for one breath. Then another.
Wick’s hand trembled under hers.
Dami came closer, silent now, all humor gone from their face.
Kestrel re-read the message again.
Does this mean people can leave?
Not pets.
Not assets.
Not contracted dependents.
People.
She took the phone carefully from Wick’s hand.
“Can’t answer that,” Dami said.
“I know.”
“Could be testing.”
“I know.”
“Could be WRU.”
“I know.”
Wick’s voice was rough. “It could also be someone who saw the website.”
Kestrel looked at him. The stutter was gone now. That was worse, sometimes. His voice went smooth when he was forcing himself not to break.
“It could be someone standing in a bathroom,” Wick said. “Or a pantry. Or a garage. Or wherever they get five seconds alone with a, a, a phone they aren’t supposed to have.”
Kestrel held the phone.
The safe answer was no answer. The legal answer was no answer. The strategic answer was to preserve the firewall, route everything through intake, never engage an unknown sender directly, never create discoverable material, never, never, never say enough to prove intent.
She knew all of that. So did Wick. So did Dami.
Kestrel set Wick’s phone on the table and opened her own.
She didn't reply to the message. Instead, she texted Charity.
The public intake number is already receiving risk signals. Make sure the script says people can request housing support without disclosing ownership status. No pet language. No rescue language. No promises over text.
The reply was almost immediate.
Already done.
Kestrel looked at Wick. Wick looked back at her. She leaned down and kissed his forehead.Wick closed his eyes under the kiss. When she pulled back, his face had changed.
It wasn't calmer, not exactly. It was set. Determined.
Kestrel knew that look. It had frightened her once, before she understood the difference between a man deciding what he owned and a man deciding what he would never allow himself to own again.
Wick opened his eyes.
“The first, first, first grant disbursement goes out today?”
Dami answered before Kestrel could.
“Yes. Bartlett House at noon. Three legal clinics by the end of today. Falwell Memorial gets new equipment from the Rural Health Initiative.” They frowned. “Not rural though.”
Wick looked at Kestrel.
Kestrel lifted one shoulder. “Words are flexible when rich people use them.”
“Of, of, of course. Hypothetical roofs are a, a, a serious public health concern.”
“Especially when hypothetical people are sleeping under them.”
Kestrel looked toward the window.
Morning had fully arrived while they weren’t paying attention. The city outside was bright and indifferent, traffic sliding along streets that had carried owners, handlers, contractors, runaways, and everyone who had learned to look away.
Somewhere, a statement was being read by men in expensive offices who knew exactly what it meant and couldn't say so.
Somewhere, WRU counsel was deciding whether outrage would look too defensive.
Somewhere, a person with a stolen phone might still be staring at six words and wondering whether the answer was yes.
Kestrel touched the edge of Wick’s phone once and stepped back.
“We don’t answer directly,” she said.
Wick nodded.
“No.”
“We don’t confirm anything.”
“No.”
“We don’t make promises we can’t protect.”
His throat moved.
“No.”
Dami’s gaze settled on the dark phone screen.
Kestrel looked at both of them.
“We make sure the door works.”
Wick’s smile was small, exhausted, and devastatingly polite.
“Mrs. Wickham,” he said, “that sounds like charitable programming.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
On paper, it runs shelters, soup kitchens, free clinics, crisis housing, and outreach programs for the desperate and forgotten.
Off paper, it funds illegal safehouses, launders runaway pets through false identities, burns ownership records, blackmails abusers, bribes officials, steals medical samples, and breaks every law written to keep people property.
At the center of it all is Leigh Kestrel-Wickham: former Shield, co-CEO, survivor, and the woman polite society keeps mistaking for a charitable wife with excellent manners.
The Foundation calls it aid.
The courts call it trafficking interference, theft, fraud, conspiracy, and obstruction.
