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blackrosesandwhump · 5 months

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The Marvelous Resurrecting Boy, Part 12

Part 11

BTHB: Lacerations

Fandom: Original work

Synopsis: In the aftermath of his friend's attack, Bram repeats his performance of the dying swan...and something happens that he didn't expect.

CW: death, blood, suicide for convenience, drugging reference

“I-I’m so sorry…”

Kian lay in the cot next to Bram’s, staring at nothing, his hands folded across his chest. A white bandage wrapped up his left forearm, lightly tinged with fresh blood.

“I didn’t mean to, really…” Kian said, his voice breaking. “I couldn’t help it…it wasn’t me.”

“I know it wasn’t.” I know that now, anyway, Bram thought. He shifted in his own cot, turning to face the other boy. The motion sent little stabs of pain through the fresh lacerations raked across his torso and arms. “At least it was me and not Ester.”

A couple of tears leaked from Kian’s eyes. “I might’ve killed her. I can’t kill you.” He managed a shaky half-smile.

“True.”

But it hurt. The claw-marks burned. Bram was used to pain, even agony, but usually, he would die and resurrect, and the injuries would be gone. This time, he had to live with the aftermath of Kian’s wild attack.

It wasn’t Kian’s fault, not really. He couldn’t help the effect that the new moon had on him. It was just the type of creature he was: a cambion, a half-human half-demon creature that turned into a monster on the darkest night of every month.

No wonder Griffin wanted to drug him, Bram thought, then immediately hated himself for thinking it.

“All right, you’re both cleared to leave,” the medic announced, breaking through Bram’s thoughts. “Keep those injuries clean and bandaged, and you should both recover just fine.” He made a mark on his pad of paper. “Better get ready for your next performances.”

The next performance. Bram sat up wearily, swung his feet down, and followed Kian out of the medical tent.

The air was slightly warmer today, carrying the faintest hint of spring on a breeze that seemed to rise out of nowhere. Bram took a deep breath. He was alive (for now). And—his pulse sped up at the thought—he might see Violet again in the audience. She might be watching.

That is, if it really was her. His footsteps slowed. What if it wasn’t? What if all this time, she was only a hallucination, a figment of his nightmares?

Even if she is just a hallucination, he answered himself, I still love her.

He looked around and found he’d stopped outside the meal tent. The newest performers were clustered there, the group in which he’d seen the winged boy.

But the winged boy wasn’t there.

***

The Marvelous Resurrecting Boy’s performance of the dying swan garnered an even larger crowd the second time.

Bram shuffled back and forth backstage, sweating slightly under his layer of white feathers. He had a feeling, an unshakable feeling, that she would be there. And if she was, nothing else would matter.

The act before him ended--Kian and Ester together this time—and the audience applauded.

Thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump. His heart took off beating, pounding like it intended to throb itself right out of his chest.

Like last time, the spear pierced him through. He barely noticed the pain as he stepped onto the stage. He played the dying swan as dramatically as ever: the slow, melancholy dance; the blood crimsoning his wings; the tragic collapse as he died.

And as he died, he saw her. She was out there, in the audience, watching him die. Watching him come back to life.

And it looked like…it looked like she was crying—

The shipwreck again—the memory winked out and back—they were standing on a beach together, watching another ship approach the shore—

He came back to life and got shakily to his feet. The noise of the audience overwhelmed him: shouts and cries of acclamation and awe, thunderous applause, the soft pop of a camera close by. He looked around, startled. Someone had taken his photograph. A photograph of the dying swan, covered in his own blood.

Someone took his arm and guided him offstage.

“They shouldn’t make you do that act,” Kian said, still holding onto Bram as he helped him down the wooden steps. “That’s a lot of blood loss, even for you.”

“I guess it is,” Bram murmured, feeling a little dizzy. But it’s worth it. It’s always worth it, to see Violet again—

“Bram.” His handler stood in the way, a peculiar expression etched across his face. “Go clean yourself up, quick as you can, and get back here immediately.”

“Why?” Kian blurted, his eyes flashing yellow for just a moment. “Can’t you see he needs to recover—”

“He doesn’t have time for that,” Bram’s handler said. “Someone wants to buy him.”

@whumping-to-conclusions @whumping-out-of-time @forthetaintedsorrow-whump @whumpy-writings @afabulousmrtake @whither-wander-whump @whumpinthepot @silver-ink-iron-words @badthingshappenbingo

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goddesstrolls · 2 months

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"You have no idea how happy it makes me that we're finally alone together, Rhorim."

#bastcribbles #blood #lacerations #i was debating on a drabble and this #and settled on this lol #rhorim art #rhorim izaril #the inkblood

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ronanziriano · 4 months

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Revenge by kourinthellama

#kourinthellama #whump #whump art #blood #gore #lacerations #gagged whumpee

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ragtimeboy · 3 months

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Those lights, do they hurt

Redraw 2009-2024

#my art #redraw #pit #kid icarus #kiu #watercolor #painting #mixed media #pencil #ink #gore #guro #blood #tw gore #lacerations

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chicgeekgirl89 · 10 months

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Saturday Night’s All Right for Fighting

Fandom: 911 Lone Star

Characters: Carlos Reyes, T.K. Strand, Gabriel Reyes, Andrea Reyes

Rating: T

CW: Blood

Summary: When Carlos responds to a call involving a bar brawl, he's surprised to find his fiancé injured and in the middle of it. But that's not the only surprise waiting for him...

For the @badthingshappenbingo prompt: Lacerations

For @bluenet13

Read on AO3

Carlos doesn’t want to be at yet another bar brawl. They’re messy and loud and chaotic and they take forever because everyone is drunk and angry and it’s impossible to get a straight story out of them.

He’s been watching the minutes tick by ever since a call for assistance at The Driskill Bar came in. A couple other units had responded immediately, but if they need back up, he’s the next closest one. His shift is so close to over, he can practically taste freedom. If he can just make it a few more minutes he can head back to the station and clock out without having any part of tonight’s drunken revelry.

Ten minutes.

Nine minutes.

Eight minutes.

“Three-six-three H-20 this is dispatch, please respond.”

He sighs and clicks on his radio. “Dispatch, three-six-three H-20.”

“Three-six-three H-20 please respond to a disturbance at 604 Brazos Street,” the dispatcher says.

Damn it. Carlos allows himself a half a second to let his head thunk back against the headrest in defeat. He was so close.

“Three-six-three H-20 responding,” he says, flipping on the lights and sirens as he hits the gas and speeds along through the rapidly darkening streets of Austin.

There are five other cruisers already at the Driskill when he pulls up and an ambulance is rolling in behind him. Shit. This is a big one. He double checks that everything is secure on his belt as he heads inside Drunk people are sometimes more crafty than they look, and he doesn’t want anybody grabbing something they shouldn’t.

The Driskill isn’t what he expected. It’s clearly not some dive bar where drunken locals go to drown their sorrows after a long day. The place is posh and polished, all gleaming wood paneling, leather booth seats, and the floor isn’t even the slightest bit sticky.

That being said, it’s is a disaster. Tables on their sides, drinks and food all over, and people everywhere in varying states of distress. A couple officers are still wrestling with unruly patrons while others are doing cursory checks of anybody who might be injured.

He goes to help a woman who is lying on the ground, her blonde hair all a mess. “Are you hurt?” Carlos asks as he pulls her to her feet.

“No, no I think I’m okay. Thank you,” she says, straightening out her dress.

“I’m going to ask you to take a seat over there until an officer can talk to you,” he tells her, holding out a hand in the direction of a couple of booths that are untouched by tonight’s violence. “If you find you’re in any pain flag down an officer or a paramedic.”

She nods and carefully picks her way over to the seats as he turns and looks for another place to be useful.

There’s an officer near him struggling to cuff a burly man who keeps yelling something about, “That little bitch!” so Carlos lends a hand.

“That little bitch! He’s gonna pay for this!” the man continues to yell as they get him to his feet.

“Sir!” Carlos says sternly. “You need to calm down!”

“I’m not gonna calm down! He nearly strangled me!”

Carlos looks at the man’s massive neck and finds that a little hard to believe. “Who?” he asks. “Can you identify your assailant?”

The guy glares at him. “Yeah. It was that little bitch right over there.”

Carlos follows the line of his gaze and feels his stomach drop as he takes in a familiar tousle of brown hair. “Oh…no,” he says slowly.

“What’s wrong?” the other officer asks.

“That’s my little bitch,” he says and then quickly corrects himself. “I mean, my fiancé.”

As if he can feel the weight of Carlos’ gaze, T.K.’s grey eyes snap up and lock on Carlos’, relief flickering through them.

“You can go,” the officer tells him. “I got this.”

“Thanks.”

Carlos strides across the room, broken glass crunching under his shoes, heart beating rapidly in his chest. When he reaches T.K. he’s shocked by what he finds.

His lip is bleeding, his left cheekbone red and swollen.“T.K. oh my god,” is all Carlos can manage as he gawps at the damage to his fiancé’s face.

“Hey babe.” The words are tired and maybe a little embarrassed.

Carlos reaches out and gently cups T.K.’s chin, trying to get a closer look at his injuries. Despite his care, T.K. winces in pain and Carlos recoils immediately. “I’m sorry. T.K., I—are you okay?”

He’s glad those are the words that come out because what he’s thinking is, “What the fuck is going on and why are you in the middle of it?”

“I’ve been better,” T.K. says wanly, shifting uncomfortably on the barstool he’s sitting on, and it’s then that Carlos realizes he’s cuffed. And also covered in blood.

“Are you bleeding?” he asks, panic ripping through him, his hands going to T.K.’s shirt, searching for injuries.

“Just a little.” T.K. lifts his right shoulder a bit and Carlos walks behind his back to find deep lacerations slicing their way up his right arm. He swears and fumbles for the key on his belt, hands slipping as he tries to get it into the slot, a combination of nerves and the blood that is oozing from all the cuts.

“Are you allowed to do that?” T.K. asks.

“Shut up,” Carlos growls at him, too frantic to think about things like procedure. Right now he needs to figure out how bad this bleeding is and get it stopped.

He finally gets the cuffs off and tosses them to the floor. T.K. brings his hands around to his front, grimacing as he takes in the damage. “That actually looks worse than I thought it would,” he says, examining his arm. “I don’t think it hit an artery though. Bleeding’s too slow.”

“Who cuffed you like this?” Carlos asks, anger lacing his tone. Because whoever it is, he’s going to rip them a new one. There’s procedure and then there’s common sense. And cuffing a guy who is bleeding this badly is not common sense.

“Babe, it’s okay,” T.K. says as Carlos searches for something to staunch the bleeding.

He finds a pile of rags behind the bar that appear clean and uses one to firmly apply pressure. T.K. makes a strangled noise of pain. “Sorry, sorry,” Carlos says. “Paramedics should be in here any minute.”

“Great. I was hoping everyone we know would find out about this in the next hour,” T.K. says, his joke about the rampant gossip mill in the AFD falling flat since Carlos is really concerned about the amount of blood he’s losing.

“T.K. what are you doing here?” Carlos asks.

“Not what it looks like.”

“I am…trying to believe that,” Carlos says, even as images of the last time he saw T.K. looking like this in police issued handcuffs flashes through his mind. “I thought you were going to dinner at your dad’s?”

“Right,” T.K. says, looking cagey. “What I said was I was going to dinner with Dad. I just…didn’t specify whose.”

Carlos is beyond confused. “You only have one dad, T.K.”

“Son, I am telling you, that is not proper cuffing procedure.”

The voice, that combination of outrage and annoyance, that’s the voice that cheered at his baseball games, taught him how to fix a fence post, and bemoaned the Astro’s fate at the breakfast table. Carlos turns around, his already frayed nerves feeling like they’ve caught on fire. “Dad?!”

“Oh, Carlos, hello!” his dad calls from across the room. He’s sporting the beginnings of a black eye and looks like he’s trying to take shallow breaths. “Can you please tell this probie to stop cuffing me for half a second so I can show him how to do it the right way?”

The officer dealing with his father looks young and is clearly nervous. “It’s okay,” Carlos says, suddenly feeling weary. “I’ve got him.”

The officer bolts, probably to find someone who won’t give him an earful about doing his job correctly. Carlos grabs his dad by the arm and pulls him over to T.K. “Okay,” he says, officer persona sliding back into place as tries to get a grip on what he’s seeing. “What is going on here?”

Gabriel frowns at his son. “Aren’t you going to uncuff me?”

“Not until I get some answers.” His dad thinks he’s too soft? He’s about to find out just how not soft Carlos can be when he’s pissed.

T.K. and his dad exchange looks. “We were having a drink,” his dad starts.

“I was having a club soda,” T.K. says quickly.

“Yes, right,” Gabriel says with a nod. “And then that animal over there,” he nods toward the burly man Carlos had helped take down moments ago, “started making some…rather indelicate comments. So I politely suggested he stop.”

“Politely?” Carlos asks skeptically.

Gabriel looks offended. “Of course politely! Unfortunately he didn’t appreciate it.”

“So I, also politely, told him where he could go if he wanted to keep making comments like that,” T.K. says.

Carlos can feel his resolve slipping as he watches the two of them concoct their story. He’s not going to go soft though. No, he’s going to go ballistic.

“Well he didn’t appreciate that either,” Gabriel says with a chuckle. “So he threw a punch. And we punched back.”

“In self defense,” T.K. says quickly. “We didn’t start it. But then a few other people got involved too and then…you can figure out the rest.”

“How did this happen?” Carlos asks, indicating the deep wounds on T.K.’s arm.

T.K. grimaces. “Once things really started popping off, big boy got a little feisty. He smashed a bottle and came at me.”

“That was a close one,” Gabriel says, his face serious now.

Carlos closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath so he won’t scream. “How did you get him off of you?”

T.K. immediately starts looking shifty again. “Um…your dad wasn’t the only one I was meeting tonight.”

He nods at something over Carlos’ shoulder and Carlos is afraid to turn around and look. When he finally does, he feels whatever shreds of police officer persona he was still holding onto evaporate. In fact, his cop swagger dries up so fast he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to get it back.

“Mama?” he says weakly.

She’s sitting with another officer, her hand on his knee, eyes intent on his face.

“She broke a pool cue over that guy’s head,” Gabriel says, his eyes shining with pride. “Saved T.K.’s life.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Carlos mutters. He turns and looks at the two of them. “Stay here. Do not move.” Then he walks across the room until he’s standing directly next to his mother.

“You just have to tell her how you feel,” she’s telling the officer. “You can’t expect her to try and figure it out for herself.”

“But what if she doesn’t feel the same way?” the officer asks.

“Well then at least you’ll know.” She pats his knee gently. “And then you can move forward either way.”

This is too much. “Mom.”

She looks up, a smile blossoming on her face as she sees Carlos standing there. “Carlitos! What are you doing here?”

“My job Mom,” he says.

“This is your mom?” the officer asks, clearly confused.

“Yes,” Carlos says. “Apparently it was family night at the bar and no one invited me.”

“Okay, I’ll just…leave you to it then?” the office asks, clearly realizing he’s now in the middle of something.

“That would be great, thank you,” Carlos says.

Andrea gets to her feet as the officer wanders away. “Is T.K. all right?” she asks. “They’ve kept us all separated.”

“He’s hurt, but he’s okay. Are you all right?” Carlos asks, visually searching her for injuries. Unlike his father and T.K., she doesn’t seem to have a scratch on her.

“Oh yes, I’m fine,” she says, waving him off. “Not my first bar fight.”

Her response spawns more questions than answers, but now isn’t the time. That’s when she finally spots T.K. and her husband. “Oh there they are!”

She walks toward them, forcing Carlos to follow. “Ay Dios mío, you both look terrible,” she says when she reaches them.

“It would have been worse if not for you,” T.K. says, even though the blood seeping through the rag on his arm indicates it’s pretty bad.

Carlos is reaching for another rag when the front doors open and paramedics finally start flooding in.

He waits, holding his tongue as the medics examine his father and wrap up T.K.’s arm with something better and more sanitary than threadbare bar rags. “We’ll be ready to transport in a little bit,” the paramedic says as he packs up his things and moves onto the next patient down the line.

“Okay,” Carlos says now that they have some space. “I need someone to explain to me what’s going on here.”

The three of them look at each other and Carlos crosses his arms over his chest. “Anytime now.”

“Your parents invited me to dinner,” T.K. finally says. “We had just gotten to the restaurant when the power went out.”

“We didn’t want to miss out on our time together, so we came here instead,” Andrea tells him.

“We made sure it was all right with T.K. first,” Gabriel says quickly. “We know about his recovery and we would never want to do anything to jeopardize it.”

“I still don’t understand why the three of you were together in the first place,” Carlos says.

“Can’t your parents spend time with your future husband?” Andrea says a little too innocently. “He’s family. We’re allowed.”

It would be sweet if Carlos couldn’t see right through it. He spears all of them with a look. Surprisingly, it’s Gabriel who breaks first. “Just tell him Andrea. He’s not going to let it go. That’s the same look he had on his face every time he wanted ice cream after dinner.”

Carlos does not appreciate his childhood being dragged into whatever scheming these three are up to, but he ignores the comment for now.

Andrea sighs. “We were meeting to talk about your birthday.”

“Your mother wants to have a party,” Gabriel says. “We were having dinner to plan it together.”

When he’s in less of a state of shock he’s going to appreciate that his parents wanted his future husband’s input and took him to dinner to get it. But right now, all he feels is anxious and mad. “My birthday,” he says slowly, eyes going to T.K., searching for the truth.

“Your birthday,” T.K. confirms.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Andrea says.

Carlos lets out a startled laugh. “Well I am surprised.” His mind is still struggling to put everything together. Half an hour ago he’d been mentally headed home. And now he’s stuck with this mess. “The three of you ended up in a bar brawl because of my birthday.”

“As previously stated, the bar brawl wasn’t intentional,” Gabriel says.

“Okay,” Carlos says, running a hand through his hair, then grimacing when his fingers catch awkwardly on the gelled down strands. “I’m going to go try and sort this out with the officer in charge. Don’t say anything. Don’t go anywhere.”

It takes a long conversation with the commander on the scene, a call to his boss, a call to his dad’s boss, and a chat with the owner of the bar who has shown up to survey the damage, for Carlos to get things straightened out. His dad’s good standing with the rangers and his own good standing with the APD work in his favor tonight, and he promises to have everyone come by the station in the morning to give their statements.

He’d thought that would be the biggest hurdle of the night. He was wrong.

“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” Gabriel protests as the paramedics stand by, waiting to find out who’s riding in their ambulance and who’s not. “It’s just some bruised ribs and a black eye. I’ve had worse from playing with the grandkids.”

“Your ribs could be broken,” Carlos argues. “You need to see a doctor.”

“Boys stop arguing,” Andrea chastises. “You will go to the hospital and I will follow behind in the car.”

“You are also getting in the ambulance,” Carlos tells her.

“What? Me?” She laughs. “No, I don’t think so. The car is fine. Someone will need to drive it there anyway.”

“Okay, to be clear, I am the one in charge right now,” Carlos says, feeling like he’s about to snap. “If you don’t do what I’m asking you to do, I’m going to leave you here with all these other officers to fend for yourselves. Your options are to go sit in a cell for the night or to go to the hospital.”

“I think it’s a good idea if everyone gets checked out,” T.K. says softly.

Carlos can see pain in his eyes, the way his body is sagging a little on the barstool, and he feels a renewed urgency to get his fiancé taken care of as soon as humanly possible.

“Fine,” Andrea say shortly. “But I am not putting on one of those terrible hospital gowns.”

Carlos bundles them all into an ambulance and follows along behind in his cruiser. There are no lights and sirens necessary, and Carlos can’t decide if the silence is better or worse. It’s forcing him to sit in his anger and worry and exhaustion for far longer than he’d like, and he is not in a good mood by the time they get to the hospital.

His mom is completely fine, thank god. His dad does have a broken rib and a minor concussion, but no facial fractures. They’re both seen and cleared quickly and Carlos bids them a somewhat curt goodnight before going back to his fiancé, who is being sewn back together with thirty-four stitches. The wounds are deep and jagged and it takes a long time for the resident to get them all done.

Carlos holds T.K.’s good hand and wonders for how long this fresh image of T.K. on a gurney is going to haunt his nightmares this time. They’ve been through enough hospital trauma for him to know sleep is going to be hard to come by for a while. He consoles himself with the fact that at least this time his fiancé is conscious.

“I was going to tell you,” T.K. says as the last few stitches are finally going in, “about the surprise party. I knew you wouldn’t want it, so I was going to tell you and have you pretend to be surprised.”

“It’s crazy that the people that raised me still think surprising me is a good idea,” Carlos says ruefully.

“They’re just excited,” T.K. says. “And I think they’re trying a little extra hard to show that they’re supportive of the two of us. Of the engagement.”

“Well maybe next time they could show their support with a little less violence,” Carlos says, forcing a smile as he rubs his thumb soothingly over the back of T.K.’s free hand.

“Your mom probably saved my life tonight,” T.K. says. “At the very least she saved my face.” A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Which is the second best part of me.”

Carlos knows when he’s being goaded, he can see the sparkle in T.K.’s eyes. “I’m not going to ask you what the other one is. There are people around.”

T.K. bites his lip. “He’s a doctor. He knows things. It won’t bother him. Right doc?”

“I have learned not to get in the middle of this kind of conversation,” the doctor says diplomatically as he snips the last thread. “You’re all set T.K. I’m going to get a nurse to come in and go over the wound care instructions with you, all right?”

“Thank you,” T.K. says, turning his arm this way and that to examine the stitching. He waits until the curtain has closed behind the doctor before looking up at Carlos, eyes full of mischief. “The best part of me is my—“

Carlos quickly puts a finger over his lips. “I know what you think your best assets are,” he says, an amused smile on his face. “You don’t have to tell me.”

T.K. pulls back, uncowed. “Can I tell you yours then? It’s your d—“

“T.K. stop!” Carlos says, full on laughing now even as he nervously looks around to make sure nobody is in earshot.

“There you are,” T.K. says. “You’ve looked so stressed all night I thought maybe you’d forgotten how to laugh.”

“This was…not how I thought my evening would go,” Carlos says, reaching over and brushing T.K.’s hair away from his forehead. “And you know I’m not good at changing plans on the fly.”

“Well if it’s any consolation, it’s not how I saw my night going either,” T.K. says. He looks at Carlos intently. “Are you mad at me?”

Carlos does an emotional inspection of himself. “No,” he sighs. “No I don’t think so. Concerned about how many punches you have on your hospital rewards card. But not mad.”

It’s hard to be mad at T.K. He’s so sweet and soft and he looks at you with those Bambi eyes…and it’s extra hard to be mad at him when he’s hurt.

“Are you mad at your parents?”

That’s a more complicated question. “Maybe a little? They’re my parents. I expect better from them.”

“But not from me?” The sparkle is back.

“From you I expect chaos,” Carlos says, throwing T.K. a knowing look. “From them I expect…decorum.”

T.K. snorts. “Yeah I think decorum went out the window when your dad threw his beer across the bar and jumped on top of a six foot dude with skull tattoos.”

Carlos groans. “I’m going to be hearing about this night for the rest of my life.”

“Your mom is actually a lot more like Francesca than I would have thought,” T.K. says, referencing Carlos’ wild child sister.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Carlos says.

“Hey.” T.K.’s face softens. “Don’t be mad at them for too long, okay?”

The rest of his words remain unspoken, but Carlos can read them in his eyes anyway. You never know how long you have with them. His heart twinges painfully with the few memories that he has of Gwyn and T.K. together. He nods. “I won’t.”

The nurse arrives and Carlos listens intently to all her instructions since T.K.’s eyes are starting to droop a little, the adrenaline of the last few hours finally wearing off.

As they’re passing through the waiting room on the way out Carlos is surprised to see his parents sitting there. “I thought you were going home,” he says.

“We wanted to make sure T.K. was all right,” Andrea says as they both get to their feet. She turns her eyes to him. “How are you doing mijo?”

“All stitched up,” T.K. says. “A couple weeks and I’ll be back to normal.”

“I also wanted to…apologize.” Gabriel seems to struggle at getting the word past his lips. “For my part in what happened tonight. You’d think after all this time I’d learn to keep my mouth shut.”

T.K. shakes his head. “No one should have to deal with that kind of language. If you hadn’t started it, I would have.”

Something about the exchange flares warm in Carlos’ chest. The way his parents are caring for T.K., it’s the same way they’ve always cared for him and his sisters. It’s not perfect, but it’s full of love.

“Are you heading home now?” his mother asks.

“I have to take the cruiser back to the station first,” Carlos says. “We’ll pick up the Camaro there and then head back.”

“Oh that’s going to take too long!” Andrea says, worry furrowing her brow. “T.K. is practically dead on his feet. No, no. We can drive him back to your place.”

“Your car is at the bar,” Carlos points out.

“I had that nice young officer I was talking to drive it here,” Andrea says, as if this is completely normal. “You go take care of things at work and we’ll make sure T.K. gets home safely.”

Carlos looks at T.K. who seems to be waiting for his cue. “It would get you home faster,” he says.

“I don’t mind if they take me,” T.K. replies.

Carlos fixes his parents with a stern look. “No stopping anywhere along the way. Straight home.”

Andrea rolls her eyes. “You give the man a badge and he thinks he can boss his parents around.”

“Ma!”

“We’ll get him home safe and sound,” Gabriel assures him. “Scout’s honor.”

Carlos blows out a breath and turns so that he’s facing T.K. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I know,” T.K. says, closing his eyes as Carlos kisses his forehead.

“We’ll take good care of him,” Andrea says, gently putting an arm around T.K.’s shoulders and guiding him toward the door. “Tell me T.K., what kind of soup do you like? I will whip up a batch and bring it to you when we all meet at the station in the morning.”

How is it possible to feel like his parents are the most annoying people in the world right now, and also that T.K. is the safest he could possibly be with them by his side?

His father stops next to him. “He defended me tonight. He’s a good man.” He pats Carlos’ shoulder. “You made a good choice.”

T.K. has never felt like a choice. He’s fate. Destiny. All the dreams Carlos was too afraid to have, made incarnate. Slightly more of a chaos demon than Carlos would have imagined, but a dream come true nonetheless.

But that’s not something he can explain to his father. “He chose me too,” he says instead. “He chose you and mom, our family.” He looks up and meets his father’s gaze. “Thank you for choosing him back.”

His dad wordlessly squeezes his shoulder and follows the other two out the doors.

Carlos watches them go, three of the most important people in his world together and something inside of him cracks. Another little piece of the wall he built up so long ago, the one made of words like broken, unlovable, inadequate…the one he’d created to keep himself safe, falls away.

He’s making a family. And it’s good.

#911 Lone Star #Tarlos #Carlos Reyes #T.K. Strand #911lsfic #Tarlos Fic #TK Strand Whump #Lacerations #Bad Things Happen Bingo

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feedbackfuckshit · 1 year

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CUNTSURGERY

#cuntsurgery #gorefuck #feedbackfuckshit #gore #extreme gore #blood #extreme blood #lacerations #mutilation #nudity #guro

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clown-cutz · 1 year

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⸸⛧.𝖜𝖊𝖑𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊.⛧⸸

.i'm robbie nd this is where i post icky stuff.

♡ .tw: lacerations, sex, drugs. ♡

#bl00d #bloodcore #g0r3 #g0re #medical gore #lacerations #wound #bl00d play #gorewhore #horror #scream #terrifier #corpse

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heatherchasesyou · 8 months

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There's my dreams Bloody, dying, face down to the floor

Goretober Day 2 - Beaten/Bruised

lyrics from here

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thedo0zyslider · 7 months

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Goretober Day 20: Lacerations

#ron.art #oli theorionsound #theorionsound #theorionsound fanart #empires smp #empiresblr #lacerations #tw blood #tw wounds #cw wounds #cw blood #blood #goretober 2023 #goretober #goretober23 #inktober

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clickerflight · 2 months

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Clove: Part 17 - The Pit

Good news! I have finished my danny phantom fanfic so I can move Clove to the more active position in my writing rotation. So, this story will progress much faster (think one or two pieces of clove writing per week)

Masterlist

Part 16

Content: Fae whumpers, vampire whumpee, collared and bound, manhandling, lacerations around the mouth

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Ephraim sat against the cold pillar, arms wrapped around knees and his head down, toes curled into the strange grass. He shivered as the fog twisted around him, dampening his clothing and hair, leaving him to grow cold. He hadn’t thought about much of anything for the past few hours. What was there to think about? How he failed, again? Goldenrod gone into the mists of the fae wilds just like Benny? Ephraim’s own impending death?

Goldenrod had been so scared. Ephraim tried to keep his eyes wide open, staring at his tattered pants, because if he closed his eyes the only clear thought he would have would be the image of Goldenrod’s wide, fearful eyes.

Ephraim felt as though the fog had entered in through his ears and left him quiet and damp and miserable inside there too.

He hugged his knees closer, shifting his head for the hundredth time trying to get the collar to stop from cutting into his jaw. He had checked the collar earlier. No openings, no seam lines, nothing. Same with the chain. He was well and truly trapped.

A sudden wind picked up through the fog, chilling Ephraim so thoroughly he couldn’t help but gasp and it took him a moment to look up, shivering.

The fog was blowing back and away from him, showing him more of the cold, dreary landscape. There were no trees or buildings, just rolling blue hills as far as he was able to see.

Well, there was something else. Three figures striding towards him.

He should stand up, meet his death face to face, but he couldn’t bring himself to stand and expose himself to even more of that cold, cruel wind.

The three fae approached, chatting with one another and laughing. The leader looked to be the shortest, gossamer wings glimmering as though there were sunlight shining down on them. He was beautiful in the way that vampires were supposed to be, but didn’t quite manage, ethereal and uncanny.

The one walking on his right had an extra pair of arms, several fox tails waving around behind her, while the third looked like a bird of prey, his arms and wings the same limb and his face shaping into a beak which clacked gently as he spoke.

Ephraim could hear them speaking with one another, laughing softly, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying, their voices warbling and unclear to him.

Ephriam twitched when they looked directly at him, their gazes becoming something sharp and hungry.

“Oh, sweetheart!” the shortest called in a singsong voice, finally making sense to him. “Did you get lost?”

Ephraim shook his head a little.

“Foolish, then,” the bird of prey said. “To come here so boldly.”

“No,” Ephraim said, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. “There was a man I was following. He has my…. My son.”

“Son? Not fledgling?” the shortest asked, wings flickering. “Stealing children now, are we, experiment?”

He reached out a hand and Ephraim heard the chain come out of the stone. He tried to scramble to his feet, but the chain moved too quickly, jerking him forward to land sprawled at the feet of the three fae, the chain held in the shortest’s hand. The three of them laughed as he caught his breath, his chest aching with the impact.

“It’s funny every time,” the bird fae said, his beak clacking sharply, causing Ephraim to flinch as he started to get up.

The four armed fae put a foot on his back, keeping him from rising as his control over his breathing left him, tearing at the grass as adrenaline spiking in his tired, cold system.

“Tough luck about your son,” she said, crouching and grabbing his wrists. He yelled as she repositioned his arms behind his back, the chain forming solidly around them to hold them there. “We don’t allow freaks of nature to wander around our wilds, though,” she whispered.

She lifted Ephraim, putting him solidly on his feet before pushing him forward.

“Please, wait!” Ephraim said desperately as the three fae closed around him, dragging and pushing him forward. “Please! I have to save him! Jack’s going to-”

The four armed fae grabbed him by the hair, wrenching his head back as though he were a doll with no resisting force.

He cried out in pain, arched awkwardly as he tried to reach with hands bound behind his back to push her off.

“Shut it, vampire,” she hissed before releasing him, watching him stumble before grabbing him by the back of his tattered shirt to control him better.

The fog vanished before the three fae as they walked, and the low, rolling hills suddenly fell away.

There was a pit in the fog. It stretched on and on, blocks of reddish granite dotting the edge in intervals until it all disappeared into the mist.

And in the pit…..

There had been stories that things did not decay in the fae wilds. Not unless acted upon by an outside source. There were hundreds of bodies in the pit, all with gaping wounds in their chests, mouth open and bloody, fangs ripped out, all of them as fresh and pristine as the day they died, horror frozen on their dead faces.

A horrified sob ripped out of Ephraim as he searched the faces, looking for Benjamin’s. Is this what happened to his fledgling?

Before he could find anything, the four armed fae threw him down, back against the stone before grabbing him with all four hands to make sure he was laying flat on it.

“Give me the stake, Jokel,” she said to the bird fae, who reached into his bag to do so as Ephraim writhed, the chains digging into his wrists and back.

“Hold on,” the shortest fae said, sounding offended. “I want his fangs.”

The four armed fae huffed as the fae with gossamer wings stepped forward, his robes sweeping over the grass like a hiss of death.

He grabbed Ephraim’s jaw, despite Ephraim’s vain attempts to avoid his hand. His fingers were sharp, and cut shallow lines in Ephraim’s jaw and lips as he pried the vampire’s mouth open.

Ephraim stopped struggling as the sharp claws forced their way into his mouth, heavy on his tongue and gums. He closed his eyes tight, whimpering as he waited for the fae to take his fangs, mentally preparing himself for the sharp and terrible pain that was sure to come, but a silence fell, heavy and long.

He cracked an eye open to find all three of the fae staring at him.

The gossamer fae ran a thumb over his broken fang. “You’ve bitten something you shouldn’t have. What did you fight, vampire?”

The gossamer fae removed his fingers from Ephraim’s mouth and Ephraim licked his bloody lips quickly and nervously. “Fae,” he croaked. He was dead anyways. And if they did decide to torture him, perhaps that would provide him with an opportunity of escape. ”About half a century ago, I think.”

The fae all shared a look before sharp eyes turned to him again. “Where.”

“Quiet Brook,” Ephraim replied in a shaky tone.

That got a reaction. The four armed fae released him immediately like he’d burned her, and the bird and gossamer fae looked faintly disappointed.

“Right,” the gossamer fae sighed. “You’d better not be lying. The queen will want to meet you.”

“Queen? I don’t have time for that! I have to-”

Jokel grabbed him by the chain, close to the collar, and forced him up. “You have an audience with the queen. You will do as we say, and you might even live.”

Ephraim swallowed hard and nodded against the collar, holding his breath as it crushed his windpipe slightly. The pain didn’t really matter. He could barely feel it through the confusion, relief, and fear.

“Just our luck,” the gossamer fae sighed as Jokel released Ephraim’s collar and they all watched him stumble to keep upright. “I really wanted a couple more fangs for my collection.”

“How are you coming along with that, Kortop?” the four armed fae asked, walking beside him as Jokel took charge of walking Ephraim forward, much more gently now.

“Oh, I’m getting close. I want to have it done by the harvest festivals so I can wear them all out and about. It’s going to look incredible when it’s finished, but I think I might have to go vampire hunting if I want it done on time.”

“A trip to the human realm doesn’t sound too bad,” the four armed fae said thoughtfully. “I’d like to come if you do go.”

“Of course! We’ll make a vacation of it. Jokel, are you interested?”

“Not really.”

“Spoil sport.”

Ephraim looked back over his shoulder at the pit, blood dripping down and along his chin in cold, windswept lines. There were so many dead vampires there. So many slain when they could have just been sent back. But how many vampires avoided the pit for much worse fates in the courts?

Ephraim couldn’t stop shivering. He wished so badly to go home, to be in the garden, to hold Goldenrod. He wished it so badly his chest hurt and his eyes burned. He lowered his head, fighting back tears as he was escorted through the cold hills of the fae wilds.

Part 18

Clove Taglist: @wolfeyedwitch @the-blind-one-speaks @whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @inkkswhumpandstuff @honeycollectswhump @whump-blog-reblogs @pigeonwhumps @mj-or-say10 @percy-frayer

#whump #whump writing #clove #vampire whumpee #fae whumpers #collared and bound #manhandling #lacerations #Ephraim #Hehehehehehe #I'm excited to get this arc rolling!#I've been daydreaming this scene for a hot minute #This is all so fun!

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