#febuwhumpday11

[linecrosser]

Febuwhump 2026 - Day 11 - Broken Fingers

Jean and Kevin at the Nest.

Jean after Kevins departure at the Nest.

Jean in California, with Jeremy.

[b0amagination]

“I swear to god, you’d better hold still before I change my mind about this.”

Febuwhump 2026 | Day 11 | Broken Fingers

Febuwhump tag list: @chaotic-orphan

[tricksterdraws]

Febuwhump 2026 Day 11 - Broken Fingers

Alt 9 - You would have loved this

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[corvidscreams]

Febuwhump Day 11: Broken Fingers

The closest he's known to parental affection in a very long time.

[checkeredflagggs]

Febuwhump Day 11: Demonic Possession

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!

a/n3: I don’t know medicine or allergic reactions so if it sounds far fetched — maybe the group is lying , maybe they misremembered, maybe you just accept it 😂

Masterlist | Taglist

Private Messages, Unprofessional Group Chat

Taglist

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @coral7161 @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @nichmeddar @mxm47max @Voidvannie @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @tallrock35 @elizamoe133 @yawn-zi @imlonelydontsendhelp @jessica3478 @il0vereadingstuff

[alicewritingstories]

Febuwhump Day 11: Broken Fingers

Continuation of Day 7

Fandom: Linked Universe

Warnings: Injury

----

Wild tried to keep his focus on Twilight, ignoring what Warriors was doing behind him. He tried not to feel the horror of watching how much pain his friend was in, reminding himself that this was helping. That Warriors knew what he was doing and it would be all right.

"Hey, Twilight, breathe," he said softly, gently squeezing Twilight's hand as another cry ground its way out around the belt clenched between the rancher's teeth. "I'm here. It's OK."

Twilight jolted, almost throwing Wild off, but even as he caught himself and managed to keep his balance Twilight's grip on his hand spasmed, grinding the bones of his fingers together. Wild grimaced, swallowing a hiss of pain and instinctively twisting his hand in Twilight's grip.

The hiss turned into a cry as Twilight spasmed again. Wild's fingers were twisted now and he felt something snap in the rancher's powerful grip.

"Wild?" blurted Warriors.

"I'm fine," said Wild, though Twilight was still squeezing the now-broken finger. He didn't want to distract Warriors from what he was doing. "Keep going."

He didn't look round, but judging by the fact that Twilight cried out again Warriors had presumably gone back to his work.

Wild gritted his teeth, tried to sniff back a tear, and tried to ignore the pain and keep supporting his brother.

[cepheusgalaxy]

febuwhump day 11: "broken fingers"

Hi Espa ^^ hi how's it going. Pre-canon <3 whumper espa i missed you.

-> Espada Masterlist

[CWs: Broken bones (you can guess), violence, whumperee, living weapon whumpee, dehumanization, child whump, stoic whump(er)ee, the dove is fucked up again, lmk if I missed anything!]

It usually didn’t take one.

For outsiders, that is. For outsiders—it usually didn’t take one before they started screaming. Espa hadn’t been used as much to assist training as it had been for standard missions, but it still had its fair share of experience. It meant it had a decent notion of what the parameters were. Usually, it didn’t take one.

So for a newbie, two was pretty good.

The wail rang between the concrete walls, tearing through the air. Espa pretended it didn’t affect her. The kid—the potential weapon, the fledgling—squirmed, too out of it and too young to know better, but she didn’t flee its grasp. The weapon's hands remained gently wrapped around hers over the table, poised to quickly snap another bend as soon as it was called for. It was loud, and high-pitched. Panting followed, interlaced with pained whimpers and sniffing and honest-to-god crying. It hurt. It was meant to hurt.

Espa subtly breathed in.

“I’m—I’m s-sorry,” she was babbling, a good sign. She knew she wasn’t supposed to scream. She wasn’t expected not to at this point in time, but she did not know that. They weren’t gonna tell. The girl curled over the table, arm twitching but not consciously attempting to pry her hand out of Espa’s grip. Her nose was snotty. Two of her twisted, swelling fingers throbbed intertwined in theirs, the little room’s camera in the corner the only other witness. For now. The assigned handler, Mr. X, would be reviewing it later. The thought sent a wave of cold through its body.

“5T87,” it called, because it was not supposed to acknowledge just mindset when there weren’t results, not when that handler was watching. She flinched. Her breathing pattern was uneven, ragged. Whatever pace she was getting started on calming-down exercises at, they weren’t just bearing fruit yet. She was hyperventilating. At her number—her number, because she had not yet earned herself a name—she snapped her head up, trying to blink away the stream of water blurring her vision.

She was failing.

Espa lightly traced over her middle finger with the tip of theirs. The flinch was deeper, this time. More violent. Espa did not react. Because they were a Vulture. Because they were her example today. Because they were a weapon. Because Mr. X was watching. The finger was intact. Her job was to make it stay that way. It was obvious she would not succeed, so Espa was here. And its job was to make it break.

Its voice was even, controlled when it continued, “Recite your first directive.” Espa had, give or take, seven years of practice at maintaining proper cadence. If the trainee had even been alive for this long it would already be a stretch. She was gonna fail. She knew that. She was still trying; It was her job. 5T87 trembled in her seat across the table. A hiccup shook her from inside. It hurt. She sniffed, tried to muster up words. Good. She was doing good.

Main-int-tain intreg—itty of t-the, she managed to say before a preemptive flinch got it stuck on her throat. Even though Espa hadn’t moved yet. She was afraid. Fear was good. It meant it was working. It meant that now she only had to learn how to push through it.

She was doing good.

Maintain the family’s integrity, it could recite, if it was the one being asked instead. Some of the syllables were hard for her to utter. They were harder, with the sustained damage. Her heavy breathing filled the room again. The first directive, the second, and the third. They were supposed to be burned into a weapon’s heart from the moment they became one.

Her breath hitched when Espa looked up, into her eyes. Blown wide, terrified and—a little light. Not quite green, maybe closer to hazel or just some brown. They were nothing like its. Practiced. Composed. Proper.

She scrambled over herself to repeat the first directory, the next two, in a squeaky voice. Maintain the family’s integrity. Even if it means giving up on your own. That’s what you exist for. Fulfill the family’s demands. Orders. Rules. Missions. All of them. No matter what the cost. Respect the order of the family. Because without order, they were not anything. Without order, they were not weapons. If not weapons, they were no better than dead beetles on the ground.

Espa waited for her to finish. She had done a good job. Mostly understandable, the stuttering and whining and crying was significantly lesser, considering the results of the outsiders in her age range. She remembered most of the exact wording of the lines. The breathing had gotten louder and more obnoxious as well, but that was clearly an attempt to muffle the other sounds. She was inhaling a lot. The tears still fell, she still shook as if caught in a storm, and little noises that were painful on its ears still got away. She was trying to keep them in. For a fledgling, she was doing a good job.

They looked down at her hands again.

“I said first directive,” they reminded. “Not second. Not third.”

It felt it when she stilled. When it sunk in. Her mistake.

She tried to hold herself in place, despite the shaking that was quick to resume. She was trying to take it. She accepted it, and she wasn’t going to run.

She was doing a good job.

The crack of the finger was not nearly as loud as the piercing, childish scream that followed.

———

febuwhump taglist: @mxrr0rball @aromanticsky @oros-ash3s @painwithoutplot

[aquinnix]

Febuwhump 2026 Day 11 - Broken Fingers

Pyro admitted it, he had lost control. He had been swept up in it all, in the hunger of the moment. And the smell of Shelby’s blood had been so overwhelmingly sweet. Pyro had wanted. Pyro had wanted so desperately and his body had moved before his mind was fully aware of his own actions. 

But now Pyro felt so much better. Pyro felt truly satisfied. The hunger had finally subsided…

Then something shifted inside of him, a new strength flooding through him with the warmth of blood. 

And then a sharp, burning pain in his hand. He didn’t have a chance to think about it before Scott was tearing into him and Pyro realized his mistake. He had taken something that belonged to his sire. 

Apologies fell from his lips in a desperate river. He was running before he realized it, feet wet and splashing into the river and suddenly Pyro saw flashes of something he couldn't remember… 

They were distracted now, with Shelby. With Shelby who was happy? How could she be…? No, of course she was, this was so much better.

Pyro looked down at his hand, a small and searing pain bringing him back into himself. His pinky finger wasn’t there anymore, a blistering stump left in its place. His ring. The ring his father had given him back when he still called Pyro his son. A plain, silver, band. 

It was gone, lost somewhere in the river if Pyro were to take a guess. 

The pain was already growing numb, half dead skin beginning to heal over the wound. But his finger was still gone. His ring, the last thing he had from his parents besides his name, gone. Even if he found it, it wasn’t like he would be able to wear it again, or even touch it at all. 

Better that way anyway, not like it had even been something worth holding onto.