#wij23day15
Text
Petrichor #1
Writing Masterlist
content: vampire whumpee, buried alive, begging, rescue, asphyxiation, religious whump, death wish, starvation, claustrophobia, sensory deprivation, touch starvation, comfort, harming self for vampire feeding purposes, possible historical inaccuracies
Whumpmas in July Day 15: Buried
Two Weeks of Whump Day 14: Coffin
this is vampire whump, but it does NOT take place in the K&J universe! i wanted to play around with some vampire mythology that i chose not to incorporate into K&J lore.
thank you to @lost-in-labradorite-halls for beta-reading and helping my clueless jewish ass with the christian bits and generally inspiring this piece via the wonderful vampire torture you regularly concoct!!
also have a song:
-
Petrichor's endless, airless torment was punctuated once again by the sound of a shovel entering the earth.
It was worth noting strictly because anything was worth noting down here. The digging wasn't out of the ordinary: it was a cemetery, of course.
This time, it sounded close. Every time it sounded near, Petrichor dared let himself hope it might reach him, though he knew such a thing was absolutely ridiculous. People dug graves to bury bodies, not exhume them.
It was utterly maddening. Someone was so close, another soul- a soul, rather, given he did not possess one any longer- and he was unable to make even the slightest peep to alert them to his distress, all oxygen having vacated his tiny box what must have been decades ago, if not centuries. At least he didn't require air anymore.
A tear rolled down his cheek at the thought, his body unable to conjure up more than that. He could not even raise an arm to tap on the wood of the coffin, the weakness having deprived him so effectively. Petrichor listened to the digging longingly, laid still and silent in his grave, the corpse he was.
I'm here. I'm still here, after all this time. Please, it can't be like this forever. I care not whether I'm rescued or slain, but please, someone put an end to it. Dear Lord, I know I'm not one of Your creatures any longer, but please help me.
As if answering his prayer, the digging slowly grew closer as the hours passed. It was odd: usually there would be a bustle of people around, and only one grave would be dug. But he could hear nothing but the digging, and it almost sounded like multiple graves. Perhaps some tragedy had befallen the family owning the plot next to his.
It was disappointing, in a way. The voices, though he could hardly make them out from under the earth, were the only human connection he had left in his horrible fate. Sometimes, he could even make out bits and pieces of the priest's sermon, which never failed to make him cry. He could not even utter a prayer aloud in his wretched state, if the Lord would even have him as he now was. And clearly, He wouldn't.
Petrichor's melancholy thoughts were swiftly interrupted when the sound of digging grew yet closer. Much closer.
As if it were right above him.
Oh dear Lord, please. This could finally be it, couldn't it? If his grave were to be exhumed, for some odd reason?
The shovel knocked against wood. Petrichor could feel it reverberate through the coffin, the first physical sensation interrupting the suffocating stillness in longer than he could know.
He wanted to weep for joy. It was finally happening, it was over. His prayers had finally been answered!
Someone opened the coffin, trading the wooden finish he'd stared at for so long for a starry sky.
Petrichor gasped for breath, his first in what may as well have been lifetimes, smelling of freshly-turned earth. It was nearly impossible to move, his muscles stiff and dry, but he was able to breathe through his nose, and open his mouth just a small amount. It was more than enough: he had air, his lungs no longer drowning.
"Holy fucking shit!" His rescuer tried to jump back, but they were inside his grave with him, and space was sparse.
It was difficult to move his eyes, but he managed it, fixing them on the first person he'd seen since his funeral. They looked young, around his age when he'd been buried or perhaps younger, dressed in an androgynous black cloak. Their clothes and face all ranged from speckled with dirt to absolutely caked in it.
Petrichor stared at them with wild, desperate eyes, and with fresh air in his lungs, made what little sound he could manage: a strangled, pleading cry.
"Oh my god. Oh my fucking god." His rescuer continued to take the Lord's name in vain and spew profanities, but Petrichor couldn't bring himself much to care. All that mattered was getting out of his coffin, the end of his suffering. But he was unable to move.
His rescuer seemed to recognize this as well, their string of expletives tapering off as they tilted their head, staring back.
They glanced up at his gravestone. "Here lies Petrichor Adams," they read out. "1797 to 1820."
They looked back down at him, squinting. "What the hell are you?"
Petrichor whined again, a tear making its way down his face once more.
His rescuer leaned in, their initial shock having given way to a surprising lack of fear. They knelt beside him, peering at his face. "You sure got some chompers in there, huh? What, like...?" They looked out over the edge of the hole, like someone would come out and announce it was all a trick, but no one did.
Petrichor could do nothing but stare pleadingly.
His rescuer tapped him on the cheek. The first touch he'd felt in forever, it almost tingled. They tilted his head to the side, exposing the scars he supposed must still mark his neck: the fangs that had condemned him to this fate.
"You supposed to be a vampire or something?" they asked, incredulous. Having picked up that he could not reply, they continued on. "Well, fuck. What, you need blood or something, is that it? Oh, no no no. I've seen the movies, I've played the video games, alright? I am not fucking with this." They produced a small rectangular object from their pocket, angling it at him in various positions and tapping it oddly before replacing it in their cloak.
The soaring hope in Petrichor's long-dead heart crashed against the rocks. He could not understand some of what the digger said, but the sentiment was clear: he would receive no help.
He would remain locked in his prison.
Petrichor's chest quaked with dry sobs. He trained his eyes upward, thankful that his wretched body could not produce tears very quickly, as his vision remained unblurred when he took in the stars. The sight of something beautiful, one last time.
The digger sighed, glancing at his headstone once more.
"Well. It does say you were beloved," they remarked. "Beloved son. They wouldn't've put that there if you were some bloodsuckin' serial killer, huh?"
Petrichor made no further attempt to look away from the stars, but allowed himself to hope again. Perhaps he would be allowed out, if the digger would take pity on him.
His rescuer shook their head. "I can't believe I'm doing this."
They produced a small blade, rolled up their sleeve, and sliced themself across the back of the arm. They positioned the wound just above his mouth, allowing their blood to drain across his tongue.
Petrichor had never tasted blood before- not posthumously, that was. He had been buried shortly after his death, without time to fall prey to his new, monstrous nature. It was nothing like blood had been as a human: the coppery taste when he'd split his lip roughhousing as a child. This, this was everything. It was the sweetest honey, it was the finest glass of red wine, it was the flavorful broth of his mother's pot roast, it was life itself flowing into his veins.
Slowly, the muscles in his body lost their stiffness, and he could move once more. He raised his head up toward the source of the lifeblood, but his savior placed their boot firmly on his chest, keeping him pinned to the floor of his coffin.
"Think that's enough for now. Don't wanna get woozy." They tore a piece of cloth from their cloak, wrapping the wound. "Cat still got your tongue, buddy?"
"P-please," Petrichor rasped, his voice weak from disuse, "Kind... sir? I cannot go on like this. Whatever fate you'd bestow upon me, I care not, so long as I'm not forced to remain inside this box. I am a vampire, it's true, but I had never consumed even a drop of blood before tonight. I mean no harm. Please allow me to leave this coffin." His voice broke, his words coming out squeaky. "I was human once, too."
Desperate begging. He'd never thought his life would come to this, but he supposed it never had. His life had ended long ago.
The boot was removed from his chest.
"Alright, Petrichor Adams, take it easy," his rescuer said. "I'm not gonna leave you down here no matter what you are. That'd be crazy fucked up." They extended a hand. "Robin."
Petrichor took their hand, his own shaking. "Thank you so very, very much. You've saved me from an unbearable fate."
Robin pulled him up to standing, his bones creaking with the unfamiliarity of movement. "Huh. It's almost like you time traveled or something. Says you died when you were 23, that's like, practically my age. Guess the 200 years in between don't really count."
Petrichor wasn't sure what came over him, but he burst into tears instantly. His body had no trouble with it now, two centuries' worth of crying flowing forth all at once as he bawled.
"They count!" he wept. "I was down there, I- I was down there the entire time! I did not sleep!"
"Alright!" Robin agreed with haste. "Okay, grandpa, you're 226 then, whatever's good. Jeez, c'mon, you don't gotta cry. It's gonna be okay."
They rubbed their thumb over his hand, and he gasped from the sensation. After so long, every touch felt one thousand times stronger than it was.
Petrichor attempted to pull himself together. "Yes, yes of- of course."
"And listen, you gotta be quieter. We're reeeeally not supposed to be out here right now." Robin hopped up, pulling Petrichor up with them.
A knapsack laid at the foot of his grave, varied pieces of jewelry and a few golden teeth visible from the top.
His rescuer was a graverobber and a thief. But Petrichor knew his situation was desperate, and chose to say nothing. He was no better, given what he was now.
Robin noticed the direction of his gaze nonetheless, offering him a mischievous smirk. "Yeah, Graverobbin' Robin, that's what they call me. And by they I mean me, 'cause no one knows I do this." They began shoveling dirt back into his grave. "Good thing I do, though. Never thought I'd save a vampire on my side hustle, but life throws you curveballs, I guess. You know baseball?"
"I do not, I'm afraid," Petrichor replied, watching mesmerized as his coffin became entombed once more.
"Bro, how are you gonna die in Boston and not know baseball? I gotta take you to a game sometime. Literally first order of business, now that I've got money for tix!"
None of it felt real. He was finally out, but two hundred years had passed. Everyone he'd ever known and loved was long-dead.
He turned, looking to his family plot, but his eyes instantly caught a horrible burning sensation. A headstone in the shape of a cross.
Petrichor averted his gaze. Of course: he'd almost forgotten. He was no longer one of The Lord's creatures.
Robin finished, slung their pack over their shoulder, and motioned him to follow. "You can crash at my apartment while you figure your shit out. I'll grab you some more blood from the butcher's once the T starts running. That's like the subway. Uh, I mean- never mind, not important. Hope pig's blood's enough for you, 'cause I can't do that every day."
At the very least, he had Robin.
"That sounds lovely."
-
this was originally gonna be a one-shot but i think i might write more? oh god, am i really starting another vampire series? THIS ONE WILL BE SHORTER. A MINISERIES.
if you liked this but want something a more hurt/no-comfort flavored i recommend Our Man Flint by @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night!!
tune in on tuesday for some kane & jim!
everything taglist:
@lilac-and-lemon-whumps
@t0rture-me
@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump
@dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night
@whumpshaped
@pigeonwhumps
@the-scrapegoat
one-shots taglist (this is only gonna have 3-4 chapters max so im lumping it in with the one-shots):
@icyheart-and-friends
@kira-the-whump-enthusiast
@whuarri
@whumpycries
@reborrowing
event: @whumpmasinjuly @promptsforyourwhumpfic
#twoweeksofwhump#twow#whumpmasinjuly2023#wij23day15#whump#my writing#coffin#buried#vampire whumpee#vampire whump#buried alive#begging#rescue#religious whump#in container#claustrophobia#death wish#starvation#sensory deprivation#comfort#petrichor#whump writing
141 notes
·
View notes
Text
- Whumpmas in July -
-Day 15 -
Prompt: Buried
---
this was a bit of a challenge but i couldn't pass up a chance to draw Cutter under some rubble (◡‿◡) some (old) writing to accompany it here and here
[ID in alt, click for quality]
#wij23day15#whumpmasinjuly2023#whumpmas in july#whump#whump art#whump blog#whump community#oc whump#buried#buried in rubble#captain's stuff#captain's ocs#ghost ambulance#i had so much fun with this actually#chllenged myself a bit with the geometry and all that but then went back to my comfort zone for colouring#u may notice cutter doesn't have any of his scars#thats bc this is the very start of his Bad Luck and he hasn't got them yet#but that cut on his face is there to stay (◡‿◡)
33 notes
·
View notes
Text
@whumpmasinjuly 2023 day 15. Buried.
Credit goes to @zobodahobo
32 notes
·
View notes
Text
Day 15 - Buried
Synopsis: Valentine rots in solitary confinement.
Content: Well solitary confinement as you would guess, and the fucked up mindset that comes with it, a lot of angsting, also a mention of mouth whump (being sewn shut) <2
Btw this is fanfic for @eric-the-bmo’s OC Valentine!! He is my favorite :D
Tagging: @whump-in-the-closet @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @befuddled-calico-whump
—
The days are longer now, so he counts the seconds as if they’re hours.
Tick tick.
He imagines a clock, the hands counting hours and minutes and seconds away, tracking time lost and wasted.
Tick tick.
He used to be something, he remembers. He had dreams, once. Of being a king. Of being something more.
He is nothing now.
And there is nothing he can do about that.
Tick tick.
He’s not sure if he can be anything else.
They took his voice, his freedom, his everything, and he is left with walls to stare at and chains to drag around.
Tick.
But he will be something. He swears it to the silence. He will find a way.
He remembers how he tried to escape in the beginning. Back when he could remember, when his memories were sharp and clear.
When his name was something worth going by.
He has no memories now. Does he have a real reason to escape?
Tick tick.
Well, that’s partially a lie. He remembers, in hazy and warped images, the people, the sounds, the dazzling colors. The power, the honor, the simple dignities. Like being able to look out the window, feel the sunlight on your face, and speak with a mouth not sewn shut.
He could try to escape, if he wanted to.
He no longer trusts that he’s capable of that.
Tick.
As much as he hates to admit it, he’s terrified of going back to the world outside his cell. Even in his half-gone memories, he knows just how much everything is.
Not like here. Here, there is only the silence.
And he’s grown to like that, in a way.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The walls are almost like a friend to him. And a horrible enemy. A silent audience. Everything he’s ever needed because there is nothing else in this cell to rely on.
More than anything, he knows that the walls watch him.
He hates it. More than anything. They watch him and they watch him and they say nothing as he suffers. They're too close. Suffocating, like a tomb. But now, they're all he knows.
Outside… there’s nothing. Nothing like that at all. There are no walls and no gods to set their eyes on him.
Tick.
He wants to see the sun again.
Tick tick tick.
He will die before he sees the sun again.
Tick. Tick.
And is that okay with him?
That’s the question he asks himself before he collapses onto the floor, exhausted from doing nothing all the time. He curls up like the corpse he is to the outside world.
Tick tick.
He hopes that one day, the answer will matter.
—
A/N: Here’s some doodles Eric made to along with this!!! I love it :D
#look at this incredibly normal man#he is not having a bad time at all#he’s having an extremely normal time very normally#whump#whump writing#isolation whump#prison whump#mouth whump#whumpmasinjuly2023#wij23day15#hehehe Valentine my beloved#my writing
28 notes
·
View notes
Text
WiJ 2023 - 15: Buried (3/10)
WiJ 2023 Navigation Post
My eyes are legit falling shut rn ^-^' I have barely even edited this, I just want to sleep lol but I wanna get this segment up so...
Que sera sera lmao have fun XD (this is technically a first draft divided up, it's fine, it's fiiiiinneeeeee 8) )
Beginning | Previous | Next
CONTENT and WARNINGS: Broken bones, implied/discovering spinal injury causing partial paralysis, multiple whumpees, nonhuman whumpees, building collapse, the start of some tasty tasty trauma panic
wc: ~0.5k
When Cole woke, he wished he didn’t.
There was nothing in this world that could hold even a candle to the fresh, fiery agony that erupted in Cole’s body in the seconds before he roused his ability from its dormancy with every ounce of will he had. The effort Cole poured into maintaining the steady flood of power to wash away his pain but even the slightest slip made him yell out and dig deeper for more.
Confusion surfaced in the back of his mind; no matter how hard he reached he couldn’t pull more to the surface; the effort left him exhausted and breathless.
His lungs burnt. They ached. They quivered and begged for air that he couldn’t give them from under a crushing weight that cut his gasps short.
A thin, drawn out cry sounded at his side.
That sounded like Pete.
Cole opened his eyes and found darkness. Blinking away the tears and dust that blinded him, he tried to turn his head and find him, but the slight movement brought pain too great for his ability to suppress.
Another whine came, punctuated by deep, shaky breaths.
“C—C—Cole,” Pete wheezed, “C—whe—"
Beyond the faint wail of sirens and shouting, Cole could hear shuffling, rocks clicking against metal and stone, and streams of sand falling through crevices and onto his face and neck. It sounded like debris, and from the way the sounds fell around him, Cole could tell the space they were in was tiny and far from fresh air.
They were trapped, but by some miracle, bigger chunks of building had must have fallen around them and created a small pocket. They were alive. And Pete was moving. That was good.
Cole tried to focus on that between the short, sharp gasps that sent stabbing pains through his chest.
We’re alive.
I can heal. I can always heal.
“C—Cole, -re ye—are y’alrigh—” a loud groan suddenly interrupted Pete, leaving him huffing and once again scraping across the ground, curling in on himself until whatever wave of pain he felt receded. He didn’t speak again, not until his ragged, panting breaths finally slowed. “Please—please b-be alr—alright,” he breathed.
Oh...
He wanted an answer...
He could barely get any sound from his lips. “P—”
The minute movement of his of his chest jabbed knives into his chest.
Not enough.
“Pete...” he rasped, voice slow and low. I’m here. I’m awake.
The need to ensure Pete was alright overtook Cole in a heavy rush, completely overtaking any other thoughts. Was something hurting him? Pinning him? He had to get them out of here, he needed to take Pete back home and keep him away from that wretch who called herself his mother.
His legs didn’t hurt; he could use them to relieve the pressure from his chest. He could get them out. He was more than strong enough to dig their way out and use his body as a shield for the young belunae, but when he experimentally twitched his toes and move his legs, there was no response.
He called on his legs again and again, channeling the strength his ability lent him the strength to even move, but there was no response. Nothing happened, he couldn’t even feel the pain of moving them—he couldn’t feel them!
Cole’s tight breaths grew quicker and adrenaline flooded his veins. “No, no, n—nn—!” he cried, “NO!”
Beginning | Previous | Next
Taglist:
@a-crumb-of-whump
@dang-i-like-whump
@gem2117
@nowjustanothermain2notjudge
@painful-pooch
@pigeonwhumps
@whump-cravings
@whumplovers-collaborate
@willowtreewhump
If you would like to be added or removed, please let me know <3 More info [here]
#wij23day15#whumpmas in july 2023#wij#wij 2023#whumpmas in july#whump#whump writing#emc's writing#original whump#nonhuman whumpee#multiple whumpees#environmental whump#building collapse whump#Pete Spencer#Cole Nelson#whump community#whumpblr
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
Day 15: Buried
some more prompts for today ft. a variety of types of burial
buried alive: are they in a coffin? steadily getting more and more panicked with the sound of dirt raining down on them, slowly coming through cracks in the wood, banging on the lid with desperate fists, the fear of knowing their air will run out eventually, screams that go unheard. or are they just in the dirt? they can’t breathe at all, dirt in their mouth and nose, eyes clamped shut, fighting to climb out as more and more dirt comes down on top of them. and the rescue - gasping breaths like they’ll never get enough air again, clinging to their rescuer, squinting in the sudden brightness, lingering claustrophobia, not wanting to be alone in the dark.
buried by debris: were they caught in a building collapse? a landslide or avalanche? was there an explosion? a natural disaster? heavy weight pressing down on top of them, not knowing which way is up, feeling the debris shifting above them and holding their breath, screaming for help, trying to dig themselves out, finally scrambling out from beneath the wreckage, scraped and bruised and bloody and dirty, wariness in the same setting in the future (big building, mountain, etc).
buried feelings: what are they burying? is it anger? bubbling under their skin, building and building, snapping at the people around them and feeling terrible about it, all of the anger finally coming out of them in a fit of rage, breaking things, screaming, feeling empty when it’s over - do they feel better? surrounded by wreckage but finally not angry anymore? or are they burying sadness? grief? crying into their pillow alone at night, biting their lip and squeezing their eyes shut to keep from losing it in public, insisting to loved ones that they’re alright and managing it, and then just. breaking. sobbing into someone’s arms, held up by that embrace alone, red eyes and a runny nose.
buried by work: maybe there’s a deadline to meet, maybe there’s no one else to do a big job, maybe they’re a perfectionist and the work isn’t ever good enough, maybe their boss is a perfectionist and the work isn’t ever good enough. complete exhaustion, constant intense pressure and stress, dark circles under their eyes, an unhealthy amount of caffeine, forcing themselves to stay awake when all they want to do is sleep, not taking the time to eat or drink, absolutely collapsing after the work is finally done, sleeping for hours on end.
#whumpmasinjuly2023#wij23day15#i say things#whump prompts#whump prompts/tropes#buried#sorry there’s no fic I’m on day 8 of 12 straight days of work and I am so so tired lol
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
Fandom: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Riley Davis & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Characters: Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2016), Riley Davis
Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Buried Alive, Friendship, mac has a bit of a mental breakdown but he deserves it, Salt and Light
Summary:
Slowly, with his heart in his throat, Mac’s hands moved along the flat surface in front of him until they reached the narrow sides next to him, and panic nearly choked him.
A coffin.
He was in a coffin.
Written for Whumpmas in July Day 15: buried
#wij23day15#whumpmasinjuly2023#macgyver#angus macgyver#jack dalton#riley davis#whump#fics#my writing
6 notes
·
View notes
Text
Day 15: Buried
It’s time to hurt your favorite canon characters or OC’s! Are they being buried alive, screaming for someone to help? Are they burying someone, something, finally putting it away for good? Or are they burying their true thoughts and feelings, hiding the pain they feel behind a mask? The possibilities are endless!
Write, draw, create—and don’t forget to use the tags #whumpmasinjuly2023 and #wij23day15 so that others can enjoy your awesome creations too! Make sure to tag @whumpmasinjuly-archive so your works can be featured on our official archive blog!
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
Whumpmas in July Day 15: Buried
All these knuckleheads buried in their books. Andy thought, when he stepped foot into the public library. Maybe, he should have done that too, when he was their age. Maybe, he should have made a better graduation and then haven't have to live in a spare room under the watchful eye of his little sister and her partner. Maybe then, he didn't need to get his hands dirty, washing cars and scrubbing god knows what from car seats every other day.
That was a thought he could hunt down, when he got depressed. Today was a good day. He was on an errand for said sister. She sprained her ankle and asked Adam, if he could go down to the library to return her borrowed books and get some new ones. She was writing some kind of paper, he hadn't giving it much attention. Biology, genetics or something. She constantly joked about that topic though, explaining how it was even possible, that they could be so differently equipped dispite having the same genes. While she was the clever one, he was often refereed to as 2 sandwiches short of a picnic. Their parents lovingly called them “brain” and “muscle”.
Today Adam was happy to run that errand for Sandy giving him the chance to give something back, while she mostly was the one to help him out.
Yeah, all of these busy kids spending their Saturday morning absorbed in specialised books were actually the opposite of knuckleheads, what made Adam feel even more out of place by every minute passing. The librarian already gave him a look, like she doubted he wasn't going to hold a book upside down. Actually he was even a bit fond of reading, but he was working since school, to keep his head above water and be independent from their parents wallet. So most days he fell into bed dead tired. When he found a few minutes to spare, he would rather touch a novel, that some deep shit reading.
For normally being a silent and kind person to be around, he loved to dive into stories, where the hero and villain beat the shit out of each other.
“Ok honey, that's row 26, shelf 4, Gbrq, green book, as thick as a beer bottle.” A blink from the woman behind the counter. The librarian must surely think him bloody stupid. Probably because he wasn't wearing glasses and a turtle-neck during the warmest days of summer.
Adam approached said shelf, when a young, pretty nervous guy stepped beside him. He looked to the side, as if making sure no one else was there. But his attempt was more than conspicuous.
“Didn't you say to meet in the section of medical plants?” The kids voice was shaking, he made the impression, as if he had touched an electric fence shortly. Adam didn't understand. “What?”
On the other side of the shelf there were standing, someone whispered. “Over here, idiot.”
The nervous wrack looked through the books. There was some movement on the other side. He threw Adam an apologising look. “Ah, never mind. Sorry.” And circled the shelf in long strides.
Maybe Adam would have been puzzled, if he had cared at all. But he was back counting letters. Gbm. Gbo. Gbr... Gbrb.
Even being in thought about the searched book, he couldn't ignore the conversation on the other side. That nerd definitely was an idiot, that was for sure. If someone else would have been near by, the whole library would be informed about the drug deal, that was taking place at this very moment. “Keep your pie hole shut, dammit.” An angry voice came through from the other side.
Gbrq, ah green book. Ok, it was as thick as a beer bottle. Adam smiled for a second. He extracted the book from its lawful place and suddenly made direct eye contact with the owner of that deep and angry voice. Dark and vicious eyes fixated on him.
As little as he could see through that tiny window, he had just created, that guy didn't look like he belonged into the library either. He looked like someone you see on a mugshot for a homicide. He knew that face, but couldn't place it at the moment. But his subconscious knew more, than it was about the share and his heart started racing. Instantly fear crept up his spin. That face mend trouble, that was for sure.
Adam made an unconscious step backwarts. His instincts screamed at him, to get his feet under him and run, but he was paralysed at the same time. Why wouldn't his muscles obey?
The shelf between them was no obstacle. The guy had circled it in a matter of seconds. He hadn't only had a mug like a murderer, he was big like a bodybuilder too. Where did he know him from? And what had he done to piss him off? Adam couldn't make heads or tails of it.
Finally his feet obeyed his desperate plea to move, but the impulse came a second too late. A blood curling gut punch almost swept him of his feet. All air left his lungs spontaneously and agonising pain exploded in his abdomen, running from every nerve ending right into his head. He doubled over, but kept standing, while the aftermath of that punch throbbed through his whole body. The pain was so overwhelming, he couldn't suck in an all so needed breath for a moment. White dots danced over his vision.
With the next heartbeat adrenaline kicked in. It seemed every pain receptor was blocked and Adams survival instincts took the upper hand. If he had tried to think about it, he hadn't known what to do, but his body just reacted.
Everything happened in a matter of milliseconds. That guy was still there, his hand had hardly separated from his body, when Adams arms went up. The green book, thick as a beer bottle, connected with the bodybuilders face with a cracking noise. He stumbled back, while Adam was swept of his feet by his own swift motion. The book flipped out of his hands and ended up on the floor. While Adam broke his fall, trying to get the now empty hands in front of him, he caught a glimps of red stains on the green cover.
He was still riding on his adrenaline rush and hardly noticed the stab of pain, that ran through his belly, when his arms took most of his weight to prevent him from falling down completely. Adam was back on his feet a moment later. Blood rushing through his ears, he couldn't hear anything other than his own frantic heartbeat hammering inside his scull. His stomach felt hot from that punch and pulsed in unison with every beat of his heart.
Satisfied he saw, red dripping down his opponents face. It seemed heavy science didn't connect too well with the fork in that guys face. Adam felt on top of the world, all the overwhelming reactions of his body were suppressed from the highly concentrated adrenaline, making him high like a kite.
Unfortunately Adams intervention hadn't any other effect on the man, than that bleeding nose. A big paw lunged at him, but Adam easily dogged it and got the opportunity to return the favour of a gut punch. The big guy hardly moved.
Despite his body on high alert, it suddenly felt like someone had opened a drain. Adam could feel the adrenaline subsiding with every second. It felt like the big one had punched him into his gut again. The feeling was so overwhelming, that he almost lost his footing. But Adam could see both of those big paws. That guy couldn't have just punched him again. One hand had gone over the man's bleeding nose and the other one was suddenly rushing in on him from the left.
Ah shit. Was Adam's last thought before it connected with his temple. First came an explosion of pain from his left, darkness swept over him, his body was yanked in the same direction as the fist was going. His head connected with something unyielding on the other side. A dull thud was the result of his scull making painful contact with a metal part of the bookshelf. Another explosion on the right side of his head, then the darkness pulled him under completely.
He couldn't have blacked out too long, when someone shook him awake. He was sitting, his upper body slumped against the bookshelf. First indicator for a short time span was the feeling of adrenaline still leaving his body. He could still feel its remains, it wasn't gone completely by now. The second and even more distinct indicator was, that the big guy, was the one shaking him.
Adams hand started to search for any kind of weapon automatically, while a blurry face was talking to him. He couldn't make out any words, everything was too much all of a sudden. Energy leaving his body, pain resurfacing out of nowhere. His head hurt so much, his belly hurt so much. A hand was on his collar, diminishing his air support. He couldn't think. He didn't understand, what that guy wanted from him.
“...that's for making out with my sister, dumb-ass.” A firm slap to his cheek. Words making no sense. All he could hold onto now, was that book in his hand. He needed to summon all his strength to get a good grip on it. It was the biggest book in the lower shelf, he could get his hands on, his arm bend in an uncomfortable angle.
“You ever so much as lay eyes on her. I'm going to kill you for sure.” Adam had no idea, what he was talking about. He pulled the book from its place and rearranged his hand, to get a better grip on it. The hand by his neck was still pressing down slightly, breathing was hard, but manageable. His stomach hurt, he felt warm and the overwhelming feeling that he needed to release its contents was getting worse. But first he needed to get rid of his counterpart. He needed to get out of this situation.
His grip around that book tightened. Suddenly a new wave of pain exploded in his belly. The guy had his hand, where he punched him at first. “Need that back, though.” He growled.
There was an override of Adams rational thinking, his mind shut down and his reflexes took over. With all the strength he could summon, he leaned forward, that book went up and connected with his opponents head. The stabbing pain in his belly was cut in half, when the guy fell back and they were separated. Adam fell back against the shelf unconscious.
Pain was the first thing showing him, that he must have blacked out again, because it wasn't there for a blissful moment. He was still or again sitting slumped against that bookshelf. Breathing was hard and his back hurt. His head hurt, his knuckles, his stomach, everything hurt. He tried to move a bit, trying to take some strain from his body, but the tiny motion shot stabbing pain through his belly. A low groan escaped his lips, he wasn't able to stop.
A soothing voice was trying to talk to him, it seemed. “Don't move! Medics are on their way.” The next moment his eyes reluctantly opened, the librarian was next to him, but she was just a blurry motion of colors. The guy was gone.
Adam hadn't noticed his hands had gone up to the stabbing pain in his gut. And it was only now, that the sensation of something warm and sticky between his finger actually made its way to his brain.
His head was spinning, dots dancing and his vision was getting in and out of focus on it own account.
“You nee..st... awake.” He felt so tired, his lids wanted to close again. So many voices. He couldn't make out any words any more. But the tone was frighting and the atmosphere around kind of stressed.
“Plea... sta..a...ke.” It was no use, he hadn't had the strength to keep the unconsciousness pulling at him at bay. His head lolled forward, his neck suddenly made out of jelly.
He managed to keep his eyes open just a tiny bit longer. The last thing he saw, were his own hands, subconsciously pressed to his belly. They were covered in blood, that was still freely running through his fingers, which were curled around an object, that didn't belong there.
There was a knife sticking in his lower abdomen, buried up to its hilt in his flesh.
wij masterlist
1 note
·
View note
Last Seen Blogs
healthy-duniya
healthy-duniya
jirevafudov
Untitled
gogogadgetnikon-blog
Photographer
gogogadgetnikon-blog
Photographer
geefhead1
Doxies Gone Wild!