#Febuwhumpday1

[cupcakeslushie]

Trying @Febuwhump!

Day 1: Helpless

[checkeredflagggs]

Febuwhump Day 1: Vocal Cords

pairings: gen

summary: a story about y/n, Redbull’s new second driver, told in non-sequential order

a/n: I love febuwhump and have participated before for other fandoms but this is a first for me — attempting to compete it via smau only. Hopefully I can write a complete story eventually and I will be posting it on its own masterlist in the correct order to read but it’ll be written based on the febuwhump prompt list! @febuwhump

a/n2: based on the 2024 year; sorry checo but you got replaced earlier!

y/n_rb

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, and 1,183,932 others

y/n_rb: Bahrain here we come! This is gonna be our season!

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user1: you’ve got this girl!

↳user2: represent! So incredibly proud to be able to support a woman in f1!

↳user1: it’s been so long…

oscarpiastri: glad to have you here!

↳logansargeant: not sure I’d go so far…

↳y/n_rb: wow logie just say you hate women then!

↳oscarpiastri: yeah that’s not very feminist of you

↳logansargeant: I’ve been cursed by the universe

↳logansargeant: LET ME BE CLEAR — I DO NOT HATE WOMEN

↳logansargeant: it’s just y/n_rb is every intrusive thought you’ve ever had with a dash of no impulse control or thought-to-mouth filter

↳y/n_rb: hey!

↳oscarpiastri: no that sounds about right — just add a dash of no media training too

↳redbullracing: oh no…

↳y/n_rb: I have a contract! You ain’t getting rid of me so easily!

↳redbullracing: we’re scheduling media training sessions right away

↳logansargeant: good luck!

maxverstappen1: it’s great to have you on the team!

↳y/n_rb: oh my god it’s Max Verstappen!!

↳maxverstappen1: …we’ve met before?

↳y/n_rb: still!

↳user3: it’s not even the start of the season and she’s already bullying both her old F2 competitors and her teammate 😆😆

user4: proud y/n fan here! Having followed her since her F3 days I can say with full confidence that I’m so glad we’re gonna have a new grid terrorist again!

↳fernandoalo_oficial: 🤨🤨🤨

↳user4: besides you of course Mr Rookie sir

fernandoalo_oficial: ¡Hola! ¡Me alegro de verte finalmente aquí! hello! glad to finally see you here!

↳y/n_rb: Mr Fernando sir I’m a big fan! Do you have a couple of minutes to answer a few questions?

↳fernandoalo_oficial: Sí?

↳y/n_rb: score!

↳maxverstappen1: oh no

↳logansargeant: no no no

↳oscarpiastri: please don’t

↳redbullracing: the training book doesn’t have a chapter on what to do now…

↳y/n_rb: smile and wave boys. Just smile and wave

f1

liked by logansargeant, maxverstappen1, liamlawson30, and 2,197,284 others

tagged: y/n_rb, redbullracing, pierregasly, alpinef1team

f1: contact between redbullracing’s y/n_rb and alpinef1team’s pierregasly turned dangerous when y/n flipped! She was quickly freed from her car and airlifted to the nearest hospital. Still conscious during the crash and waving to the fans while taken to the helicopter, no further information is known on her injuries.

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user5: oh my god that was so awful

user6: I’m still sat in shock

maxverstappen1: Based on the text messages I’ve received in the last 10 minutes, she’s fine.

↳logansargeant: how many did you get? Cause I’ve gotten 82 in the last 3

↳maxverstappen1: 187 in 10 minutes

↳oscarpiastri: 23 in the last minute

↳liamlawson30: too many for the group chat. It broke my phone

↳user7: not even on the grid and still terrorizing them 😂 liked by y/n_rb

user8: why did they have to play her radio though…

↳user9: no that was fucking awful

↳user10: I don’t think I’ll be able to forget her screams

↳y/n_rb: skk food bsny!!

↳logansargeant: and that’s the concussion typing 😆

logansargeant

liked by maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc, pierregasly, oscarpiastri, 2,284,469 others

logansargeant: “Tell that frenchie that I lived bitch!”

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user11: oh thank god

↳user12: that was one of the most harrowing crashes I’ve seen

user13: if that’s not a Gen-z response I don’t know what is

↳user14: I’m just glad she’s ok

pierregasly: 😑😑

↳pierregasly: well I guess I’m glad she’s ok

↳logansargeant: “JUST SAY YOU DONT LIKE WOMEN FRENCHIE!”

↳pierregasly: I LIKE WOMEN

↳y/n_rb: qe kniw TROPID$$$ SHIILS CSKL TJE PILICE ON U

↳logansargeant: I’ve taken her phone again but she meant “we know TRIPOD!!! SHOULD CALL THE POLICE ON YOU”

↳pierregasly: oh so she’s good

↳logansargeant: as good as she’s ever been

oscarpiastri: glad to see she’s ok!

↳logansargeant: some pretty shredded vocal cords and a nasty concussion but yeah she’s fine

↳oscarpiastri: ouch! Sending a gift basket!

↳logansargeant: “if that thing has a stupid apple in it I’m gonna save it and stuff it down your throat you stupid Aussie!”

↳oscarpiastri:…🫣🫣

↳maxverstappen1: apples?

↳oscarpiastri: don’t ask

↳logansargeant: don’t

↳liamlawson30: do not bring up that trauma again

↳logansargeant: “🖕🏻🖕🏻🖕🏻”

Taglist

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @coral7161 @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby @freyathehuntress @nichmeddar @mxm47max @angelluv16 @voidvannie @justaf1girl

[serickswrites]

Chords

Warnings: captivity, torture, medical whump, cruel whumper, body modification

Whumpee came to slowly and then all at once. They were groggy, but strangely not in pain. They knew they should be in pain. But they weren't.

The realization panicked them. What had Whumper done to them? Whumpee tried to scream, but no sound came out. Bile crept up their throat as they tried to scream again, but only a rasping breath of air escaped their lips.

"Ah, this is my most successful surgery to date." Whumper said as they peered over a surgical mask at Whumpee. "You have healed beautifully. And the surgery achieved the desired results."

Whumpee's heart threatened to pound out of their chest. "What have you done to me?" Whumpee tried to scream, but only rasping bits of air came.

"I think it's pretty obvious I surgically removed your vocal chords, Whumpee." Whumper stared down their nose at Whumpee. "So now I can do all the surgeries I want while you're awake and the noise of your screaming won't distract me."

Whumpee's blood ran cold. Whumper was going to do surgery while they were awake? "Please!" They rasped.

Whumper frowned. "This is more enjoyable for me this way. I can listen to my music while I work. I do my best work while I listen to music. Don't you want me to do my best work?"

Whumpee closed their eyes as the tears that had been building threatened to flow. Whumper was going to do surgeries on them while they were awake. Whumper had removed their vocal chords. There was nothing they could do to cry for help. To get attention. They just had to hold onto the hope that Caretaker would find them sooner rather than later.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat

[alicewritingstories]

Febuwhump Day 1: Vocal Chords

Central Character: Wild

Warnings: Injury

---

With the last of the monsters dead, Time ran over and dropped to his knees next to Twilight and Wild. He didn't know how the champion had been hurt, but he was clutching frantically at his throat, curled up in a ball on the grass.

"Wild!" cried Twilight, trying to pull his mentee onto his back. "What's wrong?"

Hyrule and Warriors had also run over. At a word from Warriors, Sky started to pull Twilight aside.

"Let them work," he said softly. "Come on, just give them some space."

Hyule slipped a glowing hand between Wild's hunched shoulder and his jaw and for a moment everything was still. Then Hyrule relaxed with something between a sigh and a grimace.

"Wild, it's just a bruise!" he exclaimed.

"It can't be just a bruise," said Twilight, glaring sidelong at Hyrule. "Wild, what's wrong?"

Wild let out a panicked whimper. His breathing was quick and frantic.

"OK, Wild, calm down, it's OK," said Time. "Let Warriors take a look at your throat."

Gradually, between them, they got Wild to uncurl enough for Warriors to pry his hands clear and look at his throat. Time tilted his head to see and winced in sympathy as he saw the dark, bruised line across Wild's throat. The teen's breathing was still panicked and there were tears spilling from under his tightly-closed eyelids as he clutched at the bruise again.

"I need to see it, Wild," said Warriors, once again pulling his hand away and feeling at the discolored flesh.

"Wild, it's OK," said Twilight gently, exchanging a confused look with Time and Warriors. "Breathe, OK?" He helped Wild sit up, propped against his chest. "Breathe with me."

"Hyrule, can you heal that?" asked Warriors, nodding at the bruise. "You're right; it is just a bruise, but it's deep and we don't want it to swell any more than it already has."

Hyrule was also looking more serious as it became clear just how much distress Wild was in and he carefully laid a softly-glowing hand on Wild's bruised throat. After a moment, he frowned and leaned in a little, focussing a little more, and a moment later Wild took a deeper, easier breath.

Hyrule drew back with a wince. "Sorry," he said. "It was deep; that must have hurt."

Wild was starting to calm down as Twilight continued to coach his breathing and he said, "Thanks," and let out a quick, uneasy sob.

"You're OK," said Twilight, looking at Time with clear confusion.

Time was confused too. This wasn't just pain or even the panic of finding himself unable to breathe cleanly; this was real fear.

"Wild," he said, kneeling down next to the others. "Wild, what happened? What's wrong?"

Wild took another shuddering breath. "I… thought I'd lost… my voice again."

"Again?" echoed Twilight.

Wild nodded, rubbing tears from his eyes. "I… in all my memories… I never talked. Zelda says… I did sometimes… but… I just remember…" He was calming down now and looked down, starting to go red. "Sorry, I… it was just… a spear shaft across the throat. Not actually that bad."

"But you thought your vocal chords were ruined?" guessed Time.

"I couldn't talk," murmured Wild. "And… I got really scared for a moment…" His breath hiccupped and he hunched down. "Sorry."

[stylesluxx]

vocal cords – a. hotchner

[warnings: sad hotch but that's it]

summary: in which y/n encourages aaron to talk about his feelings – inspired by day one of febuwhump

word count: 866

main masterlist

You sang softly as you stirred the pasta on the stove. You weren't belting, just humming quietly, lost in the simple rhythm of it, too happy that Aaron was finally coming home after a week away on a case in Wyoming.

You didn't notice the grim look on his face—sunken eyes, hollow cheeks—until it was too late. You were too caught up in the thought of him walking through the door to realize that he had already walked in.

But when you saw him, you saw him. Everything else fell away. You dropped the spoon and rushed to where he stood in the doorway, his shoulders heavy with something unspoken.

"Aar..." you mumbled, cupping his face. "Hey, what's wrong?"

You gently took his bag from his hand and guided him to the kitchen island. As he sat down, he pressed his head into his hands, and the tension in his posture was enough to make your heart ache.

"What's wrong? What happened?" you asked, more insistently this time.

He didn’t answer; just sat there, his hands hiding his face. You stood there for a moment, watching him, before gently running your fingers through his hair.

"You have a beautiful voice," he mumbled, deflecting, avoiding the question.

"You're too kind," you replied, the edge of sarcasm softening the concern in your voice. "Now tell me, are you okay?"

He sighs and is quiet for a moment. He picks his head out of his hands and looks over at me, letting me take in how disheveled he looked. "I'm fine," He nods and rests his hands on the island. You roll your eyes and cross your arms, giving him the look—the one that says you both know what's going on here. He knows, and you know. The crack in his voice betrays the mask he's desperately trying to hold up. The way he avoids eye contact with you and shakes his head so you can no longer get a clear look at him. You wouldn't say he was closed off. When he was happy or surprised or even nervous, he expressed himself with you. You were the first person he thought of when it came to expressing himself. "I can't wait to tell her about this." "I'm so nervous, I wonder if she'll be happy." But when it came to more negative emotions such as envy, anger, or sadness, he was quiet. He shut down completely but you were slowly breaking into his vault. You could always tell by his voice or the look in his eyes, which is exactly why he looked away from you. His eyes were his tell when it came to you. You always knew. "Why do you hide your sadness from me? You know and I know and I'll always find out." You sighed and rested your hands on top of his large, warm ones. "I don't want to spread it to you." You were quick the shake your head and shushed him, not wanting to hear that nonsense. "Oh stop it." He's slow to look up but when he does, you see it all. All the tension, anger, and sadness, warring in his eyes as he looks at you. None of these emotions are toward you but it's as if he can express them as he looks at you. "I'm just not used to it. I have to be a calm, levelheaded leader at work," He admits. You nodded and gently rubbed his hands. "But when you get home, you don't have to be that. So, why? Why hide yourself from me? You don't have to. You can use your vocal cords and talk to me." "Like I said, I'm not used to it." You nodded as you took a seat next to him. "You've met my dad. You see how I have to practically tie him down to get a hug. Or how I won't let him leave the house without him saying he loves me back. You see how... how he doesn't express himself well," You said softly. Aaron takes a minute, but he nods. He knows how closed off your family was to affection and sharing it. Your family loved you immensely but it wasn't in their nature to say it often and show expressions of it. "Yeah, how he pretends he doesn't like when you hug him..." Aaron chuckled, followed by you. "Yeah... Well, I was just like him. But then I went to therapy and realized how much I needed these things; I needed to hear my dad say that he loved me. I needed his hugs. I'm no profiler, Aar, but this is likely a result of your environment growing up. You're still strong even when you're sad. You're still a 'man' if you're giddy and happy. You're still a good leader if you break down sometimes. And if you can't do it at work, you can always do it with me. Do you understand?" His brown eyes shifted to look into yours and he nodded. "Thank you," He said quietly. His eyes were now relaxed and full of sadness and anger. "Always," You beamed at him and patted his hands. "How about I make you some tea while I finish cooking?" He nodded, causing you to back away from him, and walked to the cabinet and fixed him a cup of tea. He watched on, grateful for you and grateful for his voice.

[AN: day one done :) taglist and ko-fi]

[kabie-whump]

‪‪‪♡‬Febuwhump 2025 Day 1: Vocal Chords ♡

Content: hospital setting, torture aftermath

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

"Hey, Caretaker, listen."

Caretaker stops, turning back to face Leader. They have no idea what they could have to tell them that's more important than the matter at hand. Whumpee is back. Safe in the infirmary after being missing for a week. Caretaker doesn't want to spend another second doing anything but hovering by their bedside, listening to that 24/7 jabbering that used to be irritating but God, it's been so quiet without them and Caretaker just wants to hear that voice again.

But they can't just ignore Leader, so...

"I'm listening."

"Whumpee... They had a hard week, alright? They're going to be a little different. Just don't push them too hard."

That's it? Whumpee was kidnapped by Villian. Caretaker could have guessed that it's been more than just a hard week, thank you.

"I understand."

Leader's gaze searches Caretaker's face for a moment before they sigh and wave a hand, dismissing them.

The walk to the infirmary is a blur, and Caretaker is panting by the time they arrive, having been unknowingly jogging the whole way.

Whumpee has a bed in a little private room, away from the prying eyes of others in the facility. Medic is there, injecting something into an IV. Their eyes crinkle around the corners when Caretaker enters, and Caretaker imagines that under that pale blue mask they're giving a sympathetic smile.

"Whumpee's going to be fine," Medic assures them before they can open their mouth. "They're on a lot of medicine right now, so they're going to seem pretty out of it, but they're okay. Breathe."

Caretaker releases the breath they hadn't realized they'd been holding. "Thank you, Medic."

"Any time. I'll give you two some privacy." Medic moves to leave, then pauses when they're right next to Caretaker and leans in close, their voice quiet. "Don't press them to talk, okay? Their vocal chords took a lot of damage."

Caretaker's heart jumps in their chest, a frantic, fluttery sort of feelig. "How? What happened?"

Medic just sighs, pats Caretaker on the shoulder, and leaves.

Caretaker turns their attention to the bed then, taking in the sight of Whumpee laying there, washed out in the whites and blues of the linens. Whumpee's skin is pale, dark bruises peeking out from under their paper gown. One arm is in a cast, the other tangled in a maze of tubes and wires. Their head lolls back against the thin pillows, eyes half closed.

Caretaker half expects some kind of grizzly damage to their neck, some kind of indication of what Medic had been referring to. But no, aside from some suspiciously hand-shaped bruises Whumpee's neck is fine. No cast, no stitches, nothing.

They probably screamed themselves mute, Caretaker's brain supplied helpfully.

Caretaker took one deep breath, steeling themselves, then approched Whumpee's bedside.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

@febuwhump

[adrift-in-thyme]

Febuwhump Day 1: Vocal Chords (Wild & Twilight)

Read on Ao3

I didn't get a chance to hop on Tumblr for the last few days so I'm posting these now to catch up!

CW for burn wounds, axe wounds, and a spell taking away a character's voice

----------------------------------------------------------------

The forest is quiet, save for the soft hoots of owls and far off chirps of keese. Wild walks on silent feet, careful to avoid fallen branches and piles of decaying leaves. Autumn remains year round in the Akkala region. The air is forever seized with a damp chill, the earth forever laden with the burden of fiery foliage.

Its beauty cloaks danger as the hills of Faron hide flashes of distant lightning. 

In this moment, that danger feels closer at hand than usual. 

No sooner had the Shadow’s latest portal deposited the heroes in Wild’s time, than the reports had begun pouring forth. 

“Monsters!” One positively petrified looking man at the stable had cried, wringing his hands. “Mysterious and horrible! They twist the mind and take what they cannot return!”

“No one’s seen anything like it before!” Said a woman, running a comb through a horse’s silken mane. “We’ve always dealt with monsters around here — you know that better than anyone, Link — but these…these don’t belong to our world.”

And so, the heroes had split up into groups of twos and threes and began their journey to the very corners of Akkala’s wild woods. None had been able to guess what exactly they were looking for or what they would face in the end. But such mystery was nothing new to any of them. And it had never stopped them before. 

The prospect of the discovery had been a bit exciting at first, if also tinged with fear. Now, however, Wild finds that his eagerness has diminished. In this place peppered with the fallen corpses of guardians, freckled with water settled long enough to attract bothersome clusters of mosquitoes and gnats, it feels as though the world holds its breath.

He walks forward, Twilight by his side, padding softly upon giant paws, and the beasts and creatures of his overgrown land watch with bated breath. Awaiting the imminent crash of thunder.

Wild reaches out, places a gentle hand on Twilight’s back. Upon his fur, droplets of suspended water have fallen, turning the thick, dark layers cold and damp. A huff of breath through the chilled nose that nuzzles him creates a wisp of fog that takes its time dissipating.

“They’re here.” 

It is a murmur, almost a whisper. Wild is no stranger to the feeling that the disturbing of a quiet place is a sin most severe. Many a time he has hardly dared to breathe lest he awaken some monstrosity, harm some delicate beauty. But the sensation now is different. The air is electric. To speak aloud, to shout, would be to invite death.

“I don’t know what they are, but I can feel them. Can you smell anything, Twi?”

The rancher lifts his nose to the air, takes a few audible inhales. Then, to the ground he goes, nostrils blowing small bubbles in the puddles beneath their feet.

He walks forward several more steps before his ears prick up. 

Wild’s breath catches. “Did you find something?”

Twilight ducks his head in the affirmative. Wild draws his sword, hefts his shield firmly into his grasp. Together, they start forward. 

For what seems an eternity, all is quiet. Not so much as a squirrel or a fox dares to raise their head above the waving grass. Birds do not sing in the trees. Even the Guardians, often prone to rising revitalized from their shallow graves, remain still as the death that binds them. 

Perhaps, that is why, when the sound finally comes, it is deafening. 

It explodes from behind the two heroes in tongues of ravenous blue-white flame. Pain accompanies them, so cold it sears. 

With a shout, Wild tries to lunge sideways. But his foot catches on a smoking log. He stumbles over it and his own feet, lands with a sodden, sorrowful splash. 

Quickly, he shoves himself upward on arms that tremble. His back burns. The smell of burnt flesh and charred hair wafts nauseatingly.

Somewhere, someone is crying. Their anguished sobbing fills in his ears, mingling with screams so terrible he feels their echoes in his soul. 

The hairs on the back of his neck rise as Wild does. Wiping tears born of smoldering foliage and pain, he stumbles forward. Already, flames have begun to surround him. Even the rampant puddles cannot douse them. 

He cannot see their attacker. He cannot see Twilight.

But he can hear him. Over the sobbing, over the screams, is a distinctively sharp yelp. 

Laughter splits the air like a cleaving axe. 

“Twilight!”

Wild tries to say his name, tries to shout it. His lips form the word, his tongue moves to push it forth. Yet nothing escapes. No sound of his own pierces aching ears. 

Already raging panic shoots up to a fever pitch.

He begins to run. 

“Twilight! Twilight!”

Speech is an art he can no longer perform. His body is uncooperative. His breath comes so fast it escapes in hiccups. 

Eyes glare from the cerulean gloom, eyes that see too much but lack the means to do so. A dark hood, a gown of splotchy gray, a lantern that swings like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. The figure comes forth as though from nothing and drags its claws across his face. 

Wild backs up, spluttering, tasting iron. Behind him, someone giggles and it sounds like the cry of one in the throes of death. He does not have time to turn. Something sharp slices through bone and sinew, muscle and veins, and nestles mercilessly into his shoulder blade.

His mouth opens in a scream from which there is no sound. Wild whirls, slashes blindly. The axe falls and slices further as it does so. The ground tilts beneath him. His strikes do not make their desired contact. Air meets them, air thick with smoke and flame.

And from it come countless other lanterns. They bob like barrels on the turbulent waters, approaching with relentless determination.

Any emotion he had harbored before is gone now. Terror is all that is left. 

Wild throws himself into a spin attack. His surroundings blur. Heat eats at his face, his body. Fire licks at the edges of his cloak. 

The lanterns retreat slightly. 

Again, laughter sounds. 

Again, pain splinters through him. 

Wild crumples with an axe in his thigh. 

Find Twilight. 

It is all he can do now, the only command he can give himself. It is enough to make him rise, enough to make him draw his own weapon of flame. Balls of fire surge forth, bouncing gallantly in every direction. Their searing crimson is welcome in a sea of cold. 

They must hit something, because a screech splits the air. Encouraged, Wild swings again. 

This time, he sees it hit. From the hands of a creature sewn like a haunted doll,

drops the axe that had very nearly relieved him of his head. 

He flings more flame, sees an opening, and moves towards it as fast as his shredded leg will allow. 

Blood rains in his wake, replacing the vibrant crimson of the leaves that have long since turned to ash. Agony lights up his every motion. There are tears in his eyes, pounding in his head. Still, the creatures come. Their lanterns converge, signaling their surrounding him on all sides. With reckless abandon, Wild swings at them.

“Twilight!” It would sound like a sob if it was able. Yet, still no sound escapes.

A spell of some sort, it must be. His jaw aches from its bindings.

Where…where is he?

He does not want to imagine the rancher lying limp in a bed of flame. He does not want to think of him suffocating on smoke. He cannot entertain the idea that Twilight has perished amongst the very stuff that sends him into a panic. 

Gasping, Wild stumbles, falls. Claws find him instantly, ruthless in the way they pierce him. They scrape his flesh, expose his bones. He chokes. His weapon falls from his hand. Just as fast, their nails are in the back of his hand, digging through and into the mud beneath. 

He looks up into the endless darkness of their gaping eye holes and sees death. There is no escape from it. He wants to run, wants to fight. But no strength surges miraculously within him. No salvation flits down from the heavens in hues of gentle, glittering pink. Nothing arrives to shatter the spell that holds him speechless.

Wild closes his eyes, grits his teeth. He begins to drag his hand through the claws, ripping through his palm. Spots of deepest black and brightest white explode against his eyelids. He opens his mouth and…

Screams. 

His eyes fly open. His breath sticks in his throat. Through the stars exploding in his vision, through the tears and ash, dirt and blood, he sees him.

Twilight lunges in a blur of gray, stark against the pearly flame. Jaw wide, eyes flashing, he leaps at the creatures. Blood spurts through the air in furtive arcs, rising from the torn throats of the dead. It drips from his maw as he whirls on them like a beast possessed. 

Though they try to tear at him with claw and axe, he is far faster. He weaves between them with expert precision. One after another they fall until all that remains of them are their lanterns and the crackling flames. And even these are smothered by the sudden coming of rain.

Dismal drizzles transform into a true Akkala onslaught within seconds. Smoke rises in graceful plumes. The scent of it melds with moisture and blood. It burns Wild’s throat and eyes.

Twilight limps towards him. The wounds he had fought through before now weigh heavily upon him. When he transforms in a cloud of shadow, he nearly collapses.

But he manages to make it to Wild’s side, to kneel beside him. What little energy the champion had clung to flees so quickly he practically falls into Twilight’s waiting arms. The steady beat of the rancher’s heart fills his ears. Relief floods in, turning leaden limbs weightless. It is almost enough to push aside the nauseating cacophony of screeching pain.

Almost.

“You’re alive,” he croaks, and the relief increases so much that it is dizzying. His lips form the words, his tongue pushes them forth, and they fall audibly upon the smoldering remains of their battle. 

The spell, it seems, has broken with the collapse of the last opponent.

“Oh, cub.” Gentle fingers brush back wayward strands of hair. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize they were behind us. They must have cloaked themselves. And then I tried to find you, but with all the smoke I couldn’t smell you and I couldn’t hear anything and…”

His next inhale hitches. He holds him tighter. 

“I thought I’d lost you.”

Wild presses his face into the rancher’s chest and tries to drown out the agony. 

“I thought I’d lost you too,” he breathes. “I tried to call for you and I-I couldn’t. Twi, I couldn’t speak.”

He doesn’t mean for it to escape as a choked sob, and yet, it does. The pain pulsing through him, the remnant screams of his terror — it is all too much. 

“I know those monsters,” Twilight says, voice hoarse and unsteady. “They’re from my time.  But they’ve never been that powerful before. They’ve never had spells. The Shadow must’ve enhanced their abilities.

“But to have taken your voice…oh, cub. I’m so, so sorry.”

A tear slithers down Wild’s cheek, nudging aside dirt and grime to make its way to his neck. It joins the blood pooled in dark splotches upon his tunic. He clings to Twilight as his consciousness slips through clawing fingers.

“It’s not your fault,” he whispers, words slurring as he begins his descent. “I’m just glad…that you’re here now.”

[pretentious-reindeer]

Vocal Cords / Febuwhump Day 1

CW: whipping, blood, loss of voice, female whumpee, female whumper (please tell me if there's anything else I need to tag!) Word Count: 2k

Deep eye bags sagged underneath Whumpee's eyes as she tinkered with the toaster on the cool marble surface. She stood over the dining room table, peering inside the machine. The darn thing refused to properly do its job:

Toast.

Well, it toasted, but it toasted too much.

After a week of Whumpee bringing Whumper bagels (she always brought Whumper breakfast every morning) that turned out burnt and black, Whumper finally put Whumpee up to the task of fixing the kitchen appliance. 

Whumpee’s conclusion laid on there being a problem with the timer. The toaster did its job, but Whumpee had noticed that it exceeded a considerable amount of time for a simple toasting. Whumper craved a precisely crispy bagel every morning, and she’d become grumpier and grumpier throughout the days without her bagels. 

With the timer decided upon as the problem, Whumpee set on tweaking the wires inside of the toaster. She wanted to figure out what was happening on the sensory side of things, first, before she moved onto actually moving the wires around. 

She felt like she was making headway, that is until a pair of polished black shoes made a slow entrance into the kitchen doorway. Whumpee didn’t need to look up to know who it was. She could smell his cologne from where she stood.

“Mornin’ Whumpee,” Villain yawned, stretching his arms over his head. 

Whumpee barely offered him the incline of her head as a response, and Villain frowned at the lack of reaction. 

“Bad mood?” He asked, casually—walking, with all the swagger in the world—as he opened up the cabinet and pulled out a glass.

He swung the fridge open, his eyes searching for the orange juice. He tsked under his breath. “Are we out of OJ already? I could’ve sworn…” He let out an aggravated sigh, before pulling out the milk instead.

“It’ll have to do,” he muttered, almost mournfully. He glanced at Whumpee as he poured the liquid into the glass. “How come you aren’t in a good mood today?” 

Whumpee shrugged, keeping her eyes focused on the contents of the microwave, and her hands steady with tweezers as she gently scooted one of the wires over to the side.

Villain’s lips pursed, turning into a pout. “Oh, come on. Did I do something? I have no idea what. I’ve only dropped by twice this week.”

Still no response and Villain’s prodding continued, “I can’t imagine how my two visits this week provoked you.”

Villain walked to the other side of the counter, near the doorway, and leaned onto the marble surface. His elbows propped up on the table as he lazily dangled his glass in one hand. “What’s the matter?” 

Whumpee heard the faint tap of the floorboard and made sure to keep her head down. 

“She can’t talk.” Whumper’s leaning form said from the doorway. Her arms were crossed over her chest as she lazily tilted her head back.

Villain turned his head towards her and smiled in greeting.

“Hello, Whumper. Is she not allowed to talk right now?” He asked, politely. Always polite with Whumper.

Villain might’ve not been Whumpee’s hope and savior in getting her out of Whumper’s claws, but he never expressed pleasure at her suffering—sometimes he’d even go out of his way to minimize it, sweet talking Whumper his specialty. 

Of course. Villain only dropped by a few times a week, he wasn’t always there to calm Whumper and her anger. 

Not last night, at least.

The basement’s jagged floor dug into Whumpee’s knees, as she cowered from the monstrosity in front of them. The whip brushed against the ground, and dread filled every bone in Whumpee's body. Bile clawed up her throat, and she had to force herself to swallow repeatedly to keep the nasty taste down.

Whumper rolled her shoulders, tilting her head up at the ceiling. “Mm… I really need to stretch my muscles out.” She murmured, as her eyes landed on Whumpee’s quivering form below her. “And aren’t you just the most considerately relieving option for me?”

Whumpee didn’t respond, and Whumper cracked the whip down beside her, almost striking her. She flinched, hard. “Y-Yes…” Whumpee hurriedly agreed. 

Whumper’s eyes narrowed, “I think this session will be particularly refreshing for me.” She said, matter-of-fact.

She placed the whip between her thighs, and picked up her noise-cancelling headphones from the singular square table in the corner. Slipping them on, she then fished her phone out of her jean pocket and picked out a song from her Spotify playlist. She held the volume button until Whumpee could hear the faint beat of The Neighborhood playing from the headphones. 

Despite Whumpee’s current, distasteful position, she still questioned Whumper’s music taste. She’d never expected Whumper to be the “Sweater Weather” and “Reflections” type. Actually, she’d never expected Whumper to torture her to the two songs. It almost felt... laughable, in a way. Unserious. Sadistic tendencies paired with indie-extravaganza? This whole situation all felt so wrong to Whumpee. All so horribly wrong.

When Whumper spoke, Whumpee could tell she couldn’t quite hear herself over the headphones by the way her voice pitched upwards, louder. Not yelling, but not her usual medium. “How about we see if I can hear your screams through my headphones, hm? Maybe I’ll stop if your begs are loud enough to reach my ears.” 

She snapped the whip, and smiled darkly—relishing in the way Whumpee jolted.

Whumpee’s stomach flipped with anticipation.  

She knew a long session awaited her. 

Whumpee’s fingers twitched as the unwanted memory forced its way into her mind.

“Oh, she can't physically talk at the moment. Lost her voice after last night."

Villain blinked, and Whumper's smile turned razor sharp. "She begged so beautifully. I wish you would’ve been there to hear her.” Whumper mused. “There were times I could actually hear her through the music.” Villain hesitated. “Music?” Whumpee felt the quick glance he shot at her. She averted her gaze though, perhaps to save herself the embarrassment of meeting his eyes. 

“Oh, yes.” Whumper said. “It was playing quite loudly in my ears. A little flair to our little session, you know?” 

Villain nodded, though the smile he shot her didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah… Flair and all that.”

Whumper smiled pleasantly in response, before her gaze landed on Whumpee. 

Whumpee could feel the heat of her gaze piercing into her very skull. She didn’t dare look up, she wasn’t sure she could with Whumper’s gaze on her like that.

“Whumpee,” Whumper addressed, and Whumpee froze. “Take off your shirt. I want you to show Villain your back.” 

Villain half-expected Whumpee to object—be it silently—but, to his utter surprise, the usually oh-so-defiant Whumpee turned so her back faced Villain and brought her hands into a downward X as both sides grabbed the hem of her hoodie. She hesitated—pausing. Whumper tapped her foot against the floor, impatient at Whumpee’s reluctance.

A memory flashed in Whumpee’s mind.

With the sharp crack of the whip against her skin, Wumpee’s vision leaked black at the edges. 

An icy wave of water poured down on her and she came up sputtering and coughing. Her arms pushed her back up on her knees. Had she passed out?

Her back stung. It stung so bad.

The water reopened the delicate wounds on her back and blood dripped down into the drain beneath her.

Whumper tossed the bucket to the side, the bang it made against the wall resulted in a flinch from Whumpee. It rolled to a standstill, now discarded to the side. 

Whumpee turned her head to find Whumper running her hands through the rough texture of the whip, folding it. Her dark eyes settled onto Whumpee’s trembling form. The music blasting through her headphones all too loud in Whumpee’s ringing ears. 

It felt like an anchor had just hooked around Whumpee’s stomach and was trying to pull Whumpee under, trying to drag her to a pit of despair.

Whumper wasn’t done yet.

Even though she’d passed out. Whumper always stopped after she passed out!

But… she wasn’t done.

How long would Whumper keep this up? What would happen when Whumpee didn’t have a voice to beg anymore?

With that dreadful thought in mind, Whumper spoke, her tone surprisingly even—leveled—not too high, not too low. “Shall we continue, then? You’ve only taken, maybe, fifteen lashes so far… If that." She pondered something for a moment. "Perhaps, you should count? Hm... I think you should. And be loud about it, okay? If I can’t hear you then I can’t know if you’ve counted correctly.”

The anchor pulled Whumpee’s stomach even lower, and Whumper continued speaking, "I barely heard you last round. And you know I like you vocal. So, try to be better for me. Alright, darling?”

Whumper smiled a cold smile down at Whumpee, her eyes glinting with something cruel and sadistic as she stared into Whumpee’s wide eyes. She took note of Whumpee's speechlessness, the way her lips parted halfway.

“Let’s start again.”

Whumpee’s mouth went dry, the anchor dropping her stomach impossibly lower. “Wait, wait, Whumper-” 

With a hard flick of her wrist, Whumper uncoiled the whip. “Whumper, please! D-Don’t- UGH!” The whip cracked against Whumpee's spine, and her back arched against the pain. Blood splattered on the floor and wall next to Whumpee. Her eyes watered as she focused on the built-in drain in front of her. Her blood would soon be flowing down its pipe. The thought made her stomach churn. “Count.” Whumper commanded, and Whumpee rushed to obey. 

“One!” 

But Whumper just whipped her again. “I can’t hear you, Whumpee. Again. Count.”

“Whumper, please-” She begged, but to no avail. Because as the whip snapped against her back once more, eliciting a strangled scream from Whumpee’s lips, she knew it was no use. 

Whumper couldn’t hear her. 

Whumpee blinked, the fresh memory fading. Her fingers twitched at the hem of her sweatshirt, her hand trembling in anticipation. She bit the inside of her cheek, before pulling her sweatshirt over her head—her criss-crossed arms coming up from their intersecting X-shape and vertically parallel over her head. 

She lowered her hands at her sides, hoodie held in one hand—letting it partially drape over the floor. Whumpee’s grip tightened on the hoodie when she heard the barely-audible gasp escape Villain’s lips.

Whumpee hadn’t gotten the honor of seeing the massacre done on her back, but she already knew it was bad. Flesh still torn and mangled—raw. She couldn’t even sit down in a chair, or put any pressure on her back without the risk of the tender wounds opening back up again. Her back throbbed constantly. If it weren’t for the painkillers pumping in her system at that moment, she could confidently say she wouldn’t be standing at that moment.

If she moved too much the wounds would reopen and bleed. After all, the only treatment Whumpee had done was standing with her back to the shower as the water poured down on her at the lowest possible setting. The blood had been endless, running down her body and into the drain. 

Villain cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I wonder… What Whumpee could have possibly done? To… deserve this.” 

Whumper shrugged. “I just felt like it.” 

Whumpee’s hand, holding her hoodie, twisted into a fist.

Whumper waved a dismissive hand at Villain’s silence. “Whumpee has a tendency for talking too much, wouldn’t you agree? And after my session with her, it’s a guarantee that her voice won’t be coming back anytime soon. So, honestly, just enjoy the silence while it lasts. It's a blessing, really.”

Villain forced a smile, keeping his voice light. “Right. Peace and quiet.”

“Right.” Whumper said, pleasantly. “Right, Whumpee?” She added, and Villain’s smile twitched. Whumpee just nodded in response.

That’s all she could do, right? 

The silence was deafening. 

“Well,” Whumper wiped at invisible dust on her pants. “I’m heading to the store. Is there anything you need, Villain?” 

“OJ, please.” He requested, politely. 

Whumper nodded, slipping her coat on and grabbing her purse from the dining room table—placed next to the broken toaster.

“Alright,” She grabbed her keys off the hook, “see you in twenty.” 

The click of the door sounded and for a long moment Villain and Whumpee just stood there. After a minute, though, Whumpee went to put her hoodie back on, lifting it over he head. Villain stopped her.

“Hey…" He started, surprisingly gently. He cleared his throat, "what if I bandage that up for you?” The offer was... unexpected.

On normal circumstances, Whumpee would’ve refused his help. But… She couldn’t bandage herself up. So, instead…

She nodded.

---------------

@febuwhump

[leaperfr0gg]

Febuwhump Day 1, Vocal Cords

@febuwhump

Master List

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Side note,

I struggled quite a bit to get this piece to look like how I wanted and envisioned. But I'm pretty satisfied with how it turned out! I wanted to try and show the stress that BotW Link felt from all the pressure and eyes on him since he's the hero chosen by the Goddess. In game it is shown that he doesn't speak as to uphold his image of the stoic knight that fears nothing. I can't image the amount of stress he must of been feeling throughout it all even up to the day of the Calmity's return.

[callaeidae3]

Febuwhump2025 Day 1: Vocal chords

Mer whumpee perhaps wished for too much, or sang a siren song too intense for their own voice to sustain...

[linecrosser]

Febwhump 2024 - Day 1 - Helpless

- unable to help -

[kybercrystals94]

The Defender (CH. # 1)

Febuwhump 2025 | Day 1 | Prompt: Vocal Cords

Read here on Ao3

<< Master Post | Next Chapter >>

Rated: G | Words: 479

Character Ages

Omega (3 - 4.5)

The Batch (Chronological: 0 - 1.5 / Biological: 0 - 3)

These babies are loud. 

But loud babies are strong babies, Omega reminds herself. So she doesn’t mind when they scream and cry, even when it hurts her ears. At least they are able to communicate, unlike the other babies that have come into Nala Se’s lab. Those babies only stayed for a few days before they stopped moving and were taken away. 

But 9901, 9902, 9903, and 9904 – they are loud babies, strong babies…alive babies. 

And Omega is their sister, their big sister, and she helps take care of them when they cry and fuss. Even when they pull her hair or spit up formula on her uniform. Only alive babies pull hair and spit up, so Omega doesn’t mind. 

She wishes her brothers had real names, but Nala Se said that they do not require any other form of identification. It would clutter their charts, she said, and would be confusing. 

Omega doesn’t think so, but Omega is still little herself, and Nala Se knows far more than her little mind knows yet. Maybe, someday, Omega will know and understand as much as Nala Se; however, for now, she will listen.

Omega does shorten their numbers when she speaks to her brothers. Oh-one, Oh-two, Oh-three, and Oh-four. And, besides, if she says the numbers fast enough, they almost sound like real names.

“Do not get attached, Omega,” Nala Se tells her almost everyday. “They will not be staying in the lab once their enhancements have stabilized.” 

Omega tries to follow instructions, but whenever she holds one of the babies in her lap while Nala Se checks their vitals, or when they wrap tiny fingers around her own…the feeling grows and grows and grows. She can’t stop it, that feeling that glows warmly in her chest. Right in the place where Nala Se said her heart is. The heart is a muscle, Nala Se said, and it pumps blood through her whole body. And just like her blood, her heart pumps that wonderful feeling. She doesn’t know the word for it. Nala Se says that feelings are irrelevant to facts. 

Facts are important, feelings are obstacles. 

So Omega will keep this feeling to herself. She will let it grow when the babies cry loudly and she comforts them. She will let it grow when they smile at her when she makes silly faces at them. She will let it grow when she worries about what will happen when they leave the lab. 

She will let it grow when they leave. 

And when the feeling is all she has left, because the babies are gone, she will keep it hidden and safe until she finds them again. 

Because this feeling, like babies, is loud. 

But she thinks it is what it means to feel alive. 

And holding onto it even when it hurts is what it means to be strong.

Up Next...

Prompt: Holding Back Tears

Let me know if you'd like to be added to my tag list!

Tag List: @arctrooper69 @groguandthebadbatch @ezras-left-thumb @maeashryver @baddest-batchers @laughhardrunfastbekindsblog @omegafett99 @heidnspeak @fionas-frenzy @dreamsight73 @royallykt @blackseafoam @skellymom

[ghostf1ux]

Going for the Throat

Day 1: Vocal Cords

Word Count: 3.4k

TW/CWs: Bad Dad!Bruce, me projecting onto Jason and Bruce's relationship

Part 1 || Part 2 (here)

-------------------------------------------------------

Rain and thunder pound against the abandoned apartment building where two men face off.

“It's me or him. You have to choose!”

Jason watches with wide eyes as Bruce– no, Batman– turns around, as if he's ignoring a petulant child. He turns his gun from the Joker's head to Batman's.

“Choose!”

In a whirl of motion, he turns and flings his arm out. Laughter– maniacal, cackling laughter– echoes in Jason's ears. A bolt of lightning reflects off a dark, moving shape, the metal glinting dangerously.

He watches it fly towards him in slow motion.

He's too slow.

Too slow to move out of the way– to slow to process– 

Before that batarang is slicing his throat open into a cavernous ravine. 

He drops the Joker. The Joker laughs. Jason clutches at his throat– rivers of blood slipping between his fingers, filling up his throat, and he gasps but no air comes. 

He stumbles back, hand slipping off the wall, slick with his own blood. It pitter-patters against the ground in time with the rain. Green light– the color of Joker’s hair, the color of acid, the color of toxicity and pain– filters in through the windows, the little room where Jason drowns in his own blood starts to fill up with it. It pulls his limbs down, tearing and scratching and burning–

Jason shoots up with a choked gasp, skin slick with sweat. His blankets are strewn haphazardly around him, twisted in his limbs. His breathing is heavy and labored, heartbeat pounding in his ears as he takes in the unfamiliar dark room.

Right. 

He’s hiding out in a club’s back room while Bruce is conducting his investigation or whatever.

More accurately, he’s hunting Jason down while Tim does the actual investigation.

He drags his hand down his face as he gets his breathing back under control, scrubbing the last dredges of sleep from his eyes before rolling over to sit on the edge of the bed. He rests his elbows heavily on his knees, rubbing at the new scratches he’s made over the scar on his neck. Swallowing feels like rubbing sandpaper over a road rash, so he opts to stop doing that.

Only a moment later, there’s a soft knocking on his door. His immediate reaction is to point the gun he keeps under his pillow at it, slowly, soundlessly prowling closer. It’s probably just one of the girls, but his paranoia has been at an all time high these past few days he’s been staying here.

He cracks open the door, body taut with anticipation.

The soft, makeup-painted face of Kat looks back at him, those doe-eyes that make her customers swoon glancing over him. He sighs, leaning against the doorframe and opening the door a little wider.

“What’s up, Kat?” Jason asks tiredly, scratching his forehead with the back of his gun. She raises an eyebrow, though whether it’s because of the gun or because his voice sounds like it’s been through a paper shredder, he doesn’t know.

“The little one came back. Said the Bat has requested your presence.” She toes the door open a little further, just the few inches Jason will allow her to before stopping it with his foot. “Are you okay?”

Jason just grunts a vague affirmative, not quite meeting her eyes. She watches him idly rub at his neck, covering the raised scar standing out against his tan skin.

“Right, well, if you’re going to go, take a shower first. And leave the door unlocked so we know. He said he’d be waiting in the back.”

With that, she casts one last glance back at him before he shuts the door and she leaves. He sighs, the sound coming out more clipped and rough than normal.

Fuck. Of course this is the day this shit decides to act up.

Begrudgingly, he cleans up the room from his stay. He has half a mind to just let the little demon wait outside and never go to meet him, but that would just lead to him being annoyed by his siblings until he finally did listen, so it’s best to just get it over with now. The faster he can get Bruce off his back and go back to patrols, the better.

Over the next half hour, he takes his time putting the room back together, taking a shower per Kat’s suggestion, and getting back into his suit, sans helmet or domino, seeing as he hasn't been to any of his safehouses since B started hunting him.

He takes the back exit, avoiding anyone who may question why the Red Hood is in the back of a strip club without all of his gear on.

Then again, pretty much anyone who’s here knows the vague idea of what’s been happening the past few days so they probably wouldn’t question it all that much actually. 

As soon as he pushes the door open he sees Damian waiting, passively listening to the girls on break with his arms crossed, resolutely ignoring the way they’re clearly whispering about him. 

He snaps to attention when he sees Jason, straightening up. “Akhi. Father has–”

“Requested my presence, yes,” Jason finishes dryly, muttering the words once he’s closer so he doesn’t have to irritate his throat any more than needed. Damian still pauses when he hears the words, squinting at him.

“What is the matter with your voice?” He asks sharply. Jason brushes past him, waving the girls off as he takes the tarp off his motorcycle he retrieved yesterday. They head back inside, leaving the two vigilantes alone. “Answer me.”

“Nothing's wrong,” Jason huffs, wincing slightly at how the words crackle in his throat. Damian stares at him pointedly.

“Tt. You can't truly expect me to believe such an obvious lie–”

“Just drop it, Damian!” He finally snaps, taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of his nose while resolutely ignoring the stab of guilt in his gut. “...Bad day.”

“I… see.” Damian turns to his own bike, throwing his leg over. Jason takes a moment to steel himself before doing the same, pushing through every instinct and every thought protesting the idea of returning to the manor to do just that.

The ride there is hot and dry, even with the summer wind whipping Jason's face. It almost feels dusty, or maybe ashy? There was a big fire somewhere in the city the night prior– not anywhere close to the club he was laying low at– but the effects from a fire like that would be felt city-wide. Must've been put out, if Damian is here to pick him up and now that he thinks about it, was definitely smelling of smoke. Really, the whole city does right now. 

Aka, literally everything terrible for his throat that can happen right now is happening right now. All he's missing is actually being in the fire.

Well, the day's still young, the sun just barely cresting the horizon. There's a nonzero chance he ends up in one.

This is Gotham, after all.

Anxiety twists his stomach into knots as they roll into the secret entrance to the Cave, motorcycle engines roaring quite a bit louder now that he doesn't have the helmet to muffle the sound echoing in the tunnel. Once it opens into the cave, he's almost surprised to see the whole family there until he remembers they probably just returned from patrol. Based on the fact that everyone's still in their suits, he'd wager he's right.

Jason parks his bike in his usual spot, which also happens to be the closest spot to the entrance. The Cave, usually smelling of bat shit and the cold, thick scent of cave water, now seems to be choked with the residual smells of the fire they were surely fighting just an hour prior.

Awesome. Great. Amazing. He can already feel it clogging the back of his throat, sending his ability to speak even further out of reach.

Surely he won't need it for a fucking conversation, right?

Right.

Jason struts over before Damian can, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow expectantly at the various sets of eyes on him.

“Well, I think it's clear we found the culprit–” Tim starts, before Jason raises a hand, turning his glare to the group of Bruce, Dick, and Cass.

Dick clears his throat. “I think it's safe to say an apology is in order,” he begins. “I'm sorry for jumping the gun, little wing. We should have listened to you.”

Cass nods in agreement. “Yes. I am sorry. Too fast. Ignored words.”

Jason watched with scrutiny, looking for any sign of a lie. When he finds none, he turns his glare to Bruce…

…who isn't even facing him. He's faced towards the Bat Computer, typing away at something on the screen. Jason's jaw ticks, watching the man quietly click away with laser-like focus for a solid thirty seconds before he turns to the rest of his family incredulously. Sparks of anger start to overpower the nauseous anxiety from before.

After another bit of waiting Jason loses his patience and flicks the gun with live ammo out of its holster– levels it at the screen– and fires off a shot. Cracks spider web across the monitor and it goes out, the lack of blue glow making the cave that much darker.

All this before anyone can move fast enough to stop him.

The silence of the normally cacophanous family following the resounding gunshot is heavy. Bats flutter and chitter overhead, leathery wings flapping indistinctly. Steph, Tim, and Dick watch with wide eyes as Bruce spins slowly in the chair. Cass and Alfred watch impassively, seeming unfazed, or, more likely, too good at hiding their true feelings. Damian is the same, but Jason doesn't miss the way his shoulders stiffen and his posture straightens. Everyone is tense, ready to interfere if necessary.

Maybe that should say something about the situation.

Jason dismisses it, just like he dismisses the lingering pain from the injuries he got during that chase and the way his heart climbs into his throat as Bruce slowly stands, glaring at him.

“That was an expensive monitor,” Bruce growls, all Batman in anything but mask. Jason just scoffs, holstering the gun and resuming his previous stance, keeping most of his weight on his toes, just in case. “You will pay for the replacement.”

Jason just raises an eyebrow, humming a sarcastic agreement that makes it very clear he will be doing no such thing. Hums are safe enough, he thinks. They hurt his throat like hell but they sound normal enough.

Bruce seems to accept it, because he continues to talk. “With the chaos of the fire, Firefly got away. You will be relegated to finding her. Once you do, call for backup prior to engaging so we can ensure another large fire is started before she is apprehended.”

Jason blinks.

Blinks again.

Then barks out a laugh. 

It's loud, and painful, and cracking, and doesn't carry a single ounce of humor. He doesn't miss the way several of the surrounding audience members flinch at the sudden 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jason practically wheezes, barely louder than a whisper in his bafflement.

“What was that?”

Bruce's voice distracts him from his moment of sheer incredulity. 

“I said, are you fucking kidding me?” Jason repeats louder, forcing the words out despite how it sends stabs of pain through his throat. His scar itches uncomfortably under the skin-tight turtleneck shirt he wears.

Bruce's eyes furrow, but it's Dick who speaks up. “Are you okay?”

“Fucking peachy,” Jason grinds out. “I'm here for the apology, old man. Get it over with so I can leave.”

“I summoned you here to coordinate your efforts to help the city with ours seeing as the suspect proving your innocence was apprehended.”

“Oh, that's just fucking rich.” His head snaps to Steph, who approaches him with a water bottle like she'd approach a wounded animal on the streets. He glances down at it, then at her, before forcefully relaxing his shoulders and taking it with a grunt of thanks. She nods, clearly trying to hide her concern and failing miserably. He appreciates it nonetheless.

Bruce turns back to the Computer, looking at all the other monitors. “I recommend starting in the Diamond District. That's where she was last seen. Oracle will send you the coordinates.”

Jason savors the last sip he takes before responding.

“No.”

Even the bats go quiet. The silence grows heavier, tension so thick you could cut it with a fucking butter knife.

“I gave you an order,” Bruce growls. Jason bristles, hands clenching at his side instead of twitching for his trigger like they want to.

“I'm not your good little soldier, B! I'll do what I want, whenever the fuck I want, because you don't fucking control me and you need to get it through your thick fucking skull!”

His voice grows to a hoarse, crackling crescendo before it finally breaks and sends Jason into a violent coughing fit that wracks his body, pulling at the stitches he so carefully sewed into himself. At some point someone– Steph, he thinks, by the purple fabric swaying on the edges of his vision– comes over to rub his back and takes the water out of his hand so he can rub his scrubbed-raw throat.

“Okay, I think we need to bench this conversation for today,” Tim cuts in, closer than Jason last remembered. Huh.

“No,” Jason croaks, glaring briefly at the small splatter of blood on his hand before wiping it away.

“Seriously, Jay, I think we need to get your throat looked at–”

Jason just growls his dissent, and woo that did not help.

“If you are to work with this team, you will listen to the orders you are given.”

“Fat fucking chance,” he hisses, something metallic making a small pool below his tongue.

“Okay, no, you're getting your throat checked out,” Dick cuts in, getting between Jason and Bruce to put his hands on the farmer's shoulders. “Little wing, what happened? I know we didn't do that.”

Jason laughs, the sound grating on his throat until a little blood dribbles out from his lips. “You wanna know what fucking happened? He slit my fucking throat, that's what happened, Dick! He slit my throat with a goddamn batarang and he left me to fucking die! He took the Joker and he ran without so much as a glimpse back at his supposed “son”!”

He falls into another coughing fit after that outburst that makes him fully double over, various bodies helping keep him up while trying not to encroach too far into his personal space. He takes the water from Steph's stiff hand, chugging it once he has the breath to do so. 

“I'm done, Bruce. I'm done with you. So you can fuck right off with your orders and all that bullshit. From now on, I'm cleaning up Gotham in a way that actually fucking works.”

There are a few moments of silence, where no one seems to know what to say.

“...Is that true?” Tim finally asks quietly, so painfully genuine and so close to the edge of scared. It almost makes Jason regret saying what he did.

“Father?” Damian prompts, voice so steely he knows the boy is hiding his true emotions behind a well-built wall around his heart.

Jason glares at Bruce, who simply looks back with a stone-cold expression of… disappointment? The resounding silence is telling.

“Babs, find the cowl footage,” Dick orders, grip turning tight on Jason's shoulders. Whether that's in an effort to keep Jason there or to keep himself there, he doesn't know. “Sound off.”

It's only a minute or so later the video is pulled up on the second biggest monitor (seeing as Jason shot the first one). Jason keeps his (no doubt glowing) gaze on Bruce, watching for any sort of tell, any sort of twitch that betrays his emotions.

It's also so he doesn't have to see the Joker or his own pathetic face staring back at him. He doesn't want to know what Bruce saw.

When the others gasp, stiffen, or have some other sort of outward reaction, he knows they've seen it. The moment Jason still has nightmares about and is the predominant reason he wears turtlenecks whenever he goes out.

Meanwhile, Bruce remains stoic. Silent. Stony, cold, and not a hint of fucking remorse.

Dick shakes, Jason suddenly notices. Not with fear, not with sobs, but with rage. A type of rage Jason has seldom seen on his golden-boy face. His breaths are controlled, but heavy, and– oh shit.

In a flash of movement, Dick is in front of Bruce and cracking his knuckles across the man's jaw– no one moves to intercept him. Bruce crashes to the ground under the force of that one hit.

“You could have killed him! You nearly did!” Dick shouts, all rage in his taut-as-a-bowstring form. “He is your son! I know you're an emotionally repressed piece of shit but what the absolute fuck was going through your head?!”

Bruce rubs his jaw before answering. “He was supposed to drop the Joker to move out of the way, so I had the opportunity to catch him off guard to apprehend him.”

Dick takes a deep breath. “What then, Bruce? You just cart your own son off to Blackgate? Arkham? Would you stick them in the same transport truck too? Just put your son– my little brother in the same place as his killer?” He scoffs out a laugh, more out of disbelief than anything else. “Of course you would. Because the mission always comes first. I should have fucking guessed something happened that night when you came here and scrubbed the footage from the main uploads.”

Jason watches the interaction with wide eyes, something warm curling inside him. Shit, maybe Dick actually did mean what he said before.

“I do not wish to reside here any longer,” Damian announces, though not nearly as dramatic as he usually would. He sounds disappointed. He sounds betrayed. He sounds a little more like the kid he should sound like at his age. “Someone who would so callously throw away the life of his son is not one I can trust in the field or in my own home any longer. Thus, my home shall be elsewhere.”

“Yes. You have broken trust,” Cass finally pipes up, looking down at Bruce from her perch.

“Yeahhh! Fuck Batman!” Steph cheers in vindication. “You always were an asshole, old man.”

Tim shoots her a little grin, before turning back to Bruce. “This isn't your city anymore, Bruce. I don't think it ever really was. Not after this.”

Jason looks around in wonder at his siblings all standing with him. Tears prick the corner of his eyes. He looks back down at Bruce, who, with the threat of Dick Grayson still standing over him, hasn't moved to get up. Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to stop him from speaking.

“Operating outside my purview will be grounds for me to apprehend you,” he warns. Jason grins, all sharp teeth and malice.

“I ran circles around you for months back when I was seventeen. Between all of us, you'll be lucky if you even get a glimpse.”

“And don't think I'm on your side with this either,” Babs chimes in from the Bat Computer speakers. “This is vile, Bruce. You broke your rule on your own son. Good luck attempting to even leave your cave.”

“I'll be back to pick up Dami's and Tim's things. If you want to walk around with that playboy face you so cherish, I don't suggest showing it while I'm here,” Dick snarls before turning around. “Alright, everyone, let's get going.”

Together, they pile onto their various vehicles, but Jason hesitates when he sees Alfred waiting by his bike.

“I am sorry, my boy. I… I was not aware of what had occurred that night,” Alfred murmurs. “To think we came so close to losing you again…”

“It's– it's fine, Alfie,” Jason whispers, no longer willing to force his voice into anything louder. Alfred offers him a small, pained smile, handing him a small box.

“Drink this when you return home. It will help your throat.”

Jason smiles something genuine at that, nodding. “I'll keep in touch.”

“Indeed. I would expect nothing less.”

[oros-ash3s]

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⋆ Febuwhump 2025 ⋆˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊

Day 1 || “Vocal Chords”

Eden had taken everything. 

He had always known it would come to this, had always known they’d get him. From the minute he had stepped into that worn-down van with the white paint peeling off the doors, the alleyway dank and grim, smelling faintly of algae, the child in front of him so pitiful and small, he had known for certain: There was no escape. 

It was inevitable, and he knew it.

He was made to live in the warehouse. They had molded him, through long-winded lessons and strenuous physical tests, through lectures and speeches and mantras, and whatever other propaganda they could cram into his head. All of it, every single personality trait and personal moral and principle he had gained, it was all because of them. They had created him. 

He had no semblance of a life before this, before all the rules and regulations, the careful schedules and training. He was nothing; no more than a little boy with no name, no identity, no home. Running away was nothing more than a fantasy, a silly dream to be somebody else. He was Eden’s property: he’d always belong here. All of his attempts to escape it, this destiny they had bestowed upon him, was futile. 

He was never going to make it out. They’d made sure of it. 

From trackers to surveillance cameras to the fucking shock collar that ruined it all, they always had him in their sight. Thoughts of how maybe being a better soldier could have gotten him out were useless. Nothing would have worked. Even if he was somehow more resourceful, more calculative, more capable – it still would have been for naught. Eden was too great, a company that had eyes everywhere, spies planted on every street. A life of endless running would have awaited him, danger in every corner he turned. 

The truth was, he was just one orphaned, teenage boy, who had thought that maybe he could escape the future that had been set out in stone for him. He was insignificant, compared to them. 

Eden was eternal. Eden was endless.

He knew it. 

As he paced the grungy, metal-plated cell, his body alight in pain, mind twisted and warped by the time in captivity, he knew it. 

Escape was no longer an option. 

But giving up wasn’t one either. Because despite everything Eden had, despite the hoards of soldiers, new and old, undyingly loyal to the cause, despite the cameras and careful control they had over every city in the country, despite the government working closely beside them to shut up anyone defiant – anyone like him – he had something that they did not. 

He had a will. 

Although most people didn’t know it, all those inside Eden — they were scared. They were scared of change, scared of evolving, scared of the future. Scared of what Magicae represented, what co-existing meant for the rest of them. They were stuck in their ways; rigid. 

He had been rigid. For a long time, he’d been unable to see any other way than his own, too busy stuck up his own ass to see the answers right in front of him. But change, adapting, it wasn’t something to be afraid of. No, change brought just as much good as it did bad. Everything good about his life, everything he loved, it had all come from accepting change, from accepting others. 

And so, as he paced his cell, his mind racing, the eyes of the others drilling into his shivering, shaky figure, one thing was clear. He was going to make a change. 

See, Eden had underestimated him. They thought he would fall in line like he was supposed to, thought that if they beat it into him enough then he’d listen. That he’d be a good little boy like he had been trained to.  

They thought he was like the rest of them, just another faceless soldier, a toy for them to use and then discard. They thought if they trapped him by himself, took away his autonomy, pumped him with enough drugs to keep him complacent, stole his friends, his name, his identity, that he’d forget to fight. 

Well, they were wrong. 

He would scream. He’d scream until he couldn’t anymore, until his throat was raw and coated with blood. He would scream until the echoes of his ragged voice were all those filthy guards could hear. He would scream until they ripped out his fucking vocal chords, if it came to it. He’d do anything, anything, but he was not going to sit and act proper no longer. 

He was a fucking person, and they were going to treat him like it. He wasn’t some thing that they could just throw into the darkness, forget about, when he displeased them. He wasn’t going to lose himself to their control, not as much as they tried. They could mix up his memories, brainwash him and feed him lies about what he was, who he was, but none of it was going to work. 

He wasn’t going to ever stop fighting them. 

And so the boy screamed, and screamed, and screamed. If they thought he would go down so easily, they were painfully wrong. He did not care how long it took. He didn’t care what he had to do. Didn’t care what it cost him. He was going to be heard. 

They were going to listen.

masterlist // next

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[corazondebeskar-reads]

I'll take care of you

dark!Din Djarin x gn!reader

originally for Febuwhump 2024 Day 1 - helpless | Febuwhump masterlist

words: 882

summary: Din takes care of you after a head injury leaves you helpless.

warnings: dark, dark!Din, gaslighting, graphic descriptions of injury, restraints, manipulation, violence, no y/n, reader has hair of unspecified length and no other description

dividers by @saradika-graphics

It’s blurry. Everything, that is. You try to reach to rub your eyes, but the cuff jerks you still. 

Same shit, different day. You wish you’d start remembering faster when you wake up. 

The mornings you do wake up, that is. 

You know you’re missing days. It’s hard, with how the room spins, to keep track of anything. 

“Good morning, cyar’ika. How do you feel?” says the smooth baritone, like fresh caramel dripping onto a sundae. It’s a warm comfort.

Until it grows cold and hardens, that is. His hand shoots out and grips your jaw. “What have I said about answering me when I speak to you?” 

He’s quick to anger today. So you’ll likely be bed-bound again. 

“Sorry, cyare,” you mumble. Using the pet name placates him, and his hand relaxes but doesn’t leave you, gloved thumb brushing your bottom lip. 

You don’t even know if he’s flesh and bone. His cock would lead you to believe so, but the rest of him is cold metal, and they make good synthetics nowadays. 

You don’t want to ask. It’s something you’re sure you should know, and sometimes, the things you’ve forgotten upset him. You guess you’d be upset, too, if your spouse forgot you. 

“It’s okay. I know it’s hard when you’re still all scrambled.” He moves like he’s going to ruffle your hair, but all you feel is the grinding, bruising pain as his hand grips and jostles your head. 

He’s rustling with the restraints, and you try to tamp down any and all emotion. He says it’s okay, that it’s normal for you to have intense feelings, all things considered. 

But sometimes you seem to have the wrong feeling, and he doesn’t like that very much. 

Once your wrists are unhooked, he helps you to stand on trembling legs. Walking makes you so dizzy, so he always makes sure he can support you. 

That’s one thing you can’t deny despite the pain and forgetfulness. He’s so attentive while you’re helpless. He never leaves you to struggle. It’s obvious he’s a good husband—maybe even the romantic type, doting and considerate. 

He lets you use the fresher by yourself but helps you stand up and settle the tunic back down around your body. It’s the only clothing you have on. Other than thick wool socks with rubber grips, that is. He says it’s not safe to walk without them. 

You’re sad to be led back to bed, and it must show. 

“How about I stay for a while, and you can have a break from the cuffs?” he offers. 

It works, and you brighten up a little. “Thank you, Din.”

He still makes you sit in bed, but you can hardly be cross. He’s sitting with you and keeping you safe. 

After all, that’s how you got hurt in the first place, he said. Falling off the bed like a silly little thing and cracking your head. 

Your dreams recall it quite differently. When you do dream, he’s there too. But he’s bigger. Scarier. And so angry. So, so angry. 

You always wake up before your head collides with the wall. 

Here, in the waking world, he holds you against his cold steel body. You’re inclined again to think he’s flesh underneath as warmth radiates from the leather and duraweave between the plates. He’s reading to you softly from a datapad since it still makes your head hurt when you try.

Which means he’s right there against you when it happens. You sit up, clutching your forehead. 

“What’s wrong?” he says.

“I don’t know,” you say through a dry, tacky mouth. Your head is pounding, and when you look at him, so is your heart. Not with love, that is, but with terror.

It must be written across your face because he stiffens.

“Who are you?” you whisper.

“Cyar’ika,” he says carefully, raising both hands as if he means no harm. “You had an accident. You’ve had a severe head injury. Your memories keep coming and going.”

You’ve heard this before. You don’t believe him this time.

“You know me. I’m your husband, Din.”

You shake your head, wincing. “I want the truth.” Because what’s undeniable now is that it wasn’t a dream. This bulking beast of a man had cornered you in an alley behind the cantina after your shift. 

He sighs, but there’s a new placating lilt to his voice when he responds. “Fine,” he murmurs, standing up. He comes around the bed and you back into the wall. Trapped. 

“You want the truth?” he says, voice low and sultry. Smug. His hand comes up to brush your cheek. “You need me, cyar’ika. You were out there all alone and scared. No one to care for you. No one to protect you.”

“You kidnapped me.”

“Hardly,” he scoffs. “You’ve always been mine. You just didn’t know it. But now that we’re together…”

He reaches into the many pouches around his waist and surfaces with a small syringe, the overhead light glinting off the needle’s shiny point. 

“We can do this one of two ways, cyar’ika. You can be good and do as I say. Or,” and he wiggles the needle in the air. “I can make sure you’re good. Either way, I promise I’ll take care of you.”

[wildyueblonder]

Febuwhump Day 1: Lost Voice

My first ever fic so please be kind! After watching all of slow horses I've been INFECTED and I can't get it out of my head, so 2000 words of River whump just fell out onto the page. No idea if I'll write any more although the Febuwhump prompts are gooood. May upload to AO3 if people like it (and once I have my account set up)

*****

River let out a long sigh as he eased himself down into his desk. Just that small rush of air made his throat burn, and he resisted the urge to drop his aching head into his hands.

He probably could have justified staying home today. It was a grey drizzly Monday morning in the streets of London, commuters going about their business with heads down and hoods up, trying to shelter from the ever-permeating English dampness. It was not the kind of weather that inspired action, and he couldn’t imagine even terrorists wanting to brave this when they could be sat at home with a cup of tea and some daytime telly. Nothing would be happening at Slough House today. Nothing ever happened at Slough House.

Despite it all, somehow River had dragged himself from his bed that morning, eyes sticky and head throbbing, with a throat like he had spent the night swallowing shards of glass. As a child, the O.B. had been strict on illness – the words ‘if you’re unwell enough to complain, then you’re unwell enough to stay in bed’ echoed through River’s mind. He had never been a patient child, and had usually been keen to avoid a day stuck in his bedroom. He had learnt to push through any signs of illness, and had noticed a glint of pride in the O.B.’s eyes whenever he did so. The old man had valued toughness. Even now, River couldn’t help but try and prove himself, although his grandfather was no longer in a fit state to recognise his efforts.

And so, here he was, at 9:07am, slumped in his desk chair at England’s most useless intelligence branch, staring with slightly glazed eyes at the loading screen of his computer, as Louisa noisily clattered her way into the office.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, out of breath, dropping her bag on the floor as she unwound a scarf from her neck. “Tube was rammed. Has Lamb noticed?”

River shook his head, doing his best to seem focused on his screen and hoping Louisa couldn’t see that all he was doing was entering his password. He really just needed to keep his head down and get through today, and Louisa had this annoying way of caring that threatened to throw off his composure.

(Briefly, his mind flashed back to memories of a cool hand on his forehead, an arm around his shoulders, a soft voice washing over him. His grandmother had not always agreed with the O.B.’s childrearing methods, and would go behind his back when he went to work, sneaking River ice cream and comfort. As he had gotten older, River had rebuffed these attempts at care, fearing that they would make him weak. But what he would give now for one more day with Grandma Rose, making him feel warm and cared for and loved.)

“Cup of tea?” Louisa asked. River grunted in affirmation, watching her make her way to the kitchen before turning his eyes back to his screen, where he had finally managed to pull up last week’s surveillance footage reports. Focusing on the numbers made his eyes feel hot and prickly, but he rubbed them with the heel of his hand before pressing on with his work.

He didn’t notice Louisa’s approach until a steaming mug thumped down onto his desk. He attempted to cover his flinch with a quick ‘thanks’ but all that came out was a croak.

Louisa turned on her way to her own desk, eyes narrowed and raking over his slightly slumped form. River made an effort to sit up straighter. “Everything okay?” Her voice was suspicious.

Attempting to clear his throat, River gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Fine,” he tried to say, although all that came out was a whisper. “Just a bit of a sore throat, nothing to worry about.”

Louisa still looked concerned, but made her way round to her chair and sat down. “You sound like you shouldn’t be here. Lamb wouldn’t mind, you know. Even slow horses are allowed sick days.”

River felt his shoulders tense, but forced himself to stay calm as he answered her. “Seriously, Louisa, it’s fine.” He instantly regretted the emphasis he put on the last word, as he felt it aggravate his already shredded throat. Grabbing the mug, he swallowed a large gulp, hoping it would soothe his voice.

It didn’t. Immediately his body rebelled at the scalding liquid and he began choking. Each cough bounced inside his head and made his eyes water. He blindly reached for his desk, needing some support to stay up, and he distantly heard something crash to the floor. Desperately he hacked and coughed, trying to bring air into his lungs, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t breathe, and his throat was on fire, and the world was fading to black at the edges…

A hand. A hand was gently rubbing at his back, and River focused on it, trying to slow down his heaving chest. He steadily became aware of a voice, murmuring “Easy, easy…” above his head. Louisa’s voice. When had Louisa made her way over to his desk?

Gradually, River’s breathing slowed, and he blinked away tears from his eyes. A droplet of cold sweat tracked a path between his shoulder blades, making him shiver, and Louisa hummed as she moved a hand from his back to his cheek.

“Jesus, River,” she muttered, crouching in front of him. “You don’t do things by halves, do you?”

River tried to answer, but this time when he opened his mouth, not even a whisper could make its way out. Worry danced in Louisa’s eyes. He looked around for the cup of tea, hoping to take a more measured gulp this time, but couldn’t see it. Casting his eyes around, he saw a flash of white on the ground, and peering under the desk revealed the mug upended, its contents soaking into the already stained carpet. River stared, eyes wet, feeling an inexplicable sense of loss for his traitorous beverage.

“Right, come on then,” Louisa said, interrupting his train of thought by slapping her thighs as she stood up. River tried to ask what she meant, but again when he opened his mouth no sound came out. He settled for a puzzled look up at her.

“I’m taking you home,” she said. “You need to be in bed, and it gets me out of work, even if only briefly. It’s a win-win.”

Now that she mentioned it, bed did sound nice. And truth be told, River really did feel rubbish today, didn’t he? The pain in his throat was steadily being outmatched by his headache, which had only worsened in intensity after his coughing fit. His face was burning, but there was a cold clamminess settling into the rest of his body, along with a heaviness in his limbs that made him want to curl up and never move again. But the thought of Lamb’s reaction to River’s weakness, along with the dark, empty flat waiting for him at home, was enough to steel him for one final fight.

He glared up at Louisa, then pulled out his phone, cold fingers stumbling over the keyboard. Louisa’s phone pinged, and she pulled it out, sighing at the message on screen.

Not going. Don’t need to.

And a second message, almost immediately after the first.

Please just leave me be

Louisa perched herself on the edge of his desk, exhaling heavily through her nose. “Fine,” she said. “I guess it’s your choice.”

River felt a flicker of hope, along with a treacherous sinking feeling of disappointment in his stomach that he instantly tried to smother. Maybe now he could-

“Of course,” Louisa continued, a hint of amusement in her eyes, “Catherine will be very upset to hear you’ve come in feeling so ill.”

River’s eyes flicked up to hers. She wouldn’t. She knew that was too far.

Catherine Standish was notorious at Slough House for her attitude towards injury and illness. She was keen to instill a sense of self-preservation in all the slow horses, a task which anyone could have told her was doomed to fail from the start. But River didn’t mind her intention. It was a perfectly noble, if ridiculous, thing to wish for.

No, what River couldn’t stand was the execution. Make no mistakes about it, Catherine liked to fuss. She would look at you with disappointed eyes, like each time you got in the path of a bullet, or got punched in the face, or picked up some bug from the cesspool that was the London public transport system, you had done it specifically to hurt her. And then she wouldn’t stop, offering you cups of tea and blankets and bandages, trying to do your shopping or drive you home. It was too much, and right now it sounded like more than River could deal with. If someone offered him that kind of care right now, the wateriness of his eyes might spill over into real tears, and he didn’t think he could get past the absolute mortification that would be crying at Slough House.

He scowled at Louisa. She allowed herself a small smile as River huffed and slowly, reluctantly nodded. He didn’t have much choice right now, and Louisa was preferable to Catherine. Pushing himself up from his desk, he wobbled slightly, waiting for the world to come back into the focus around him. When it did, Louisa was next to him holding his coat out.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go. Before Lamb decides to give me something pointless to do.”

They made their way together down the creaking metal steps outside Slough House, Louisa one step behind River, walking slowly as he held onto the railing with a tight grip. As they reached his car, Louisa held out a hand for his car keys. River opened his mouth as if to challenge her, then thought better of it, anticipating the pain and futility of trying to protest. He handed them over wordlessly then made his way round to the passenger seat.

Louisa got in and started the car, pulling a seatbelt on and turning on the radio to a low hum. As she drove off, the passing scenery set River’s stomach churning, and he closed his eyes, pulling his coat tighter around him as a shiver swept down his spine. He felt Louisa reach over to adjust something, and a blast of warm air began to fill the car. River sniffed, finally allowing himself to feel a bit miserable. He jumped a little as he felt a hand brush some sweaty hair of his forehead, and opening his eyes a crack showed Louisa breaking focus on the road for a second to glance warmly at him.

Smiling, River allowed his eyes to close again. Sure, it wasn’t Grandma Rose, but somehow, within Slough House’s motley crew of misfits, he’d managed to find some of that same love and care, just packaged up in a slightly less homely manner. The streets whizzed by outside the window as River, uncaring of his surroundings, drifted off, a warmth spreading through his chest.