#winded

MY ART AS SOMEONES PFP WHO I FOLLOW??? THE SAME ART I RAN INTO ON PINTEREST????

Chat am I making it

- Whumpee’s stomach rolled violently along with the barrel, and they groaned in discomfort as the movement finally stopped.

 “Have you thrown up yet?” Whumper asked, voice disgustingly amused. 

“Please let me out!” They moaned in reply and whumper sighed exasperatedly. 

“Ew.” 

They kicked the barrel again and whumpee was sent rocketing down a hill. As the speed picked up they began whimpering in fear, waiting for the rumbling to finally stop as they bounced over rocks and tilted into holes. Suddenly there wasn’t ground beneath them and they screeched in fear before the barrel landed heavily back onto the dirt. 

They gasped desperately for the air struck from their lungs and retched as their stomach lurched violently. 

“I hope you learn not to disobey your master after this,” They heard whumper through the thick plastic walls around them. “But then again, if you don’t, it probably won’t matter anyway.” 

There was a strange rattling sound above them and whumpee shifted nervously, as the sound continued they realised in horror that it was the sound of dirt being thrown on top of them, and that the brief terrifying moment they were airborne was when they rolled into the hole they would be buried in. 

“No! No, please! Whumper, please, I’ll behave!” They begged, striking the roof of their prison. “Anything, please! Don’t do this! Please, don’t do this!” 

An elite Whumper decides to host a part with their Associates and fellow Whumpers in order to show off their new toy, the Whumpee.

The Whumpee is paraded around as if they were a show pony, being led around on a leash as they’re degraded by the “admiration” of the partygoers.

At one point, Whumper leaves the Whumpee with a group of colleagues in order to deal with other business. One of the people decides to take advantage of the situation, mocking the Whumpee and invading their person space.

The Whumpee, though, is defiant. They snap back at the random person, insulting them and even attempting to lunge at them.

But right as they do so, they’re momentarily choked as the Whumper comes back and pulls their leash. The Whumper silently reprimands them for their behavior before turning back to their guests, apologizing for the issue.

The Whumper was embarrassed by the Whumpee, so now they’ll return the favor.

They punch Whumpee in the gut, causing them to double over, winded, and fall to their knees as the Whumper lets go of their leash. The keep their head down as the people around them laugh at them.

They hear the Whumper apologize again to their guests.

I’m away for the weekend so I wrote a combo fic again, to make up for being away. I didn’t like two of the prompts so I used substitutes from this year’s alternate list. 

Day 17: “Stay with me”

Day 18: Winded (alternate for muffled scream)

Day 19: Broken voice (alternate to Asphyxiation)

Day 20: Trembling

Simon

I don’t know why I do it. I should know better than to follow Baz over the drawbridge, especially so close to dusk.

But I can’t seem to help myself.

I caught sight of him when I opened the window in our room after dinner. Saw him hurrying towards the drawbridge, shoulders hunched against the wind.

Baz hates being cold. So why is he going out the gate?

Without a coat. Without his scarf.

He must be up to something.

I’m slamming the door behind me an instant later, buttoning my coat as I pound down the stairs at top speed. I nearly run into Dev as he’s on his way up.

“What’s the rush, Snow? It’s not like Cook Pritchard’s serving a second dinner.”

“Fuck off.”

“You’re slacking on creativity, Snow. You can’t say that to me every time.”

“It works. It’s short and simple.” I narrow my eyes. “Just like you.” I sidestep him, purposefully knocking his shoulder with mine, and then rush down the rest of the stairs and out the entrance of Mummer’s.

There’s no sign of Baz.

Doesn’t matter. I saw him heading towards the gate so that’s where I go.

I’m over the moat and onto the Great Lawn. I catch sight of Baz then—he’s almost to the small patch of trees that mark the start of the Wavering Wood.

Maybe he’s going to the football pitch.  

Coach Mac hasn’t let him play since he’s been back. And he’s still got a limp. He does a fair job of hiding it most of the time but I can see it. I’ve watched him enough to know how he walks, how he moves.

Baz doesn’t walk like anyone else I’ve ever seen. He’s smooth and confident, but it’s more than that. He’s so fucking graceful. Smooth.

Baz glides.

It’s uncanny.

But it’s not how he’s walking now.

It’s more noticeable out here, on the uneven ground.

It looks all wrong. That bothers me. Baz shouldn’t be walking like that.

I want to know what happened to him. Where he’s been. Why he’s limping, why’s he’s so grey, why he looks so exhausted all the time.

All I have are questions.

Baz never gives me answers.

I’m trying to be as quiet as I can but there’s no cover on the Great Lawn. I wonder if he’s seen me.

Or caught wind of me with his vampire super senses.

That’s uncanny too. How he always knows when I’m following him or lurking in the stacks at the library or chasing him down in the Catacombs.

I don’t go to the Catacombs anymore.

He deserves that undisturbed time with his mother, even if he’s draining rats while he’s there. I’ll not mess with that again. I have some decency.

He is going to the pitch, the tosser.

There are trees near the pitch. I used to sit under them when I’d follow Baz to practice or matches.

I make my way to the small clump of them nearby. It’s getting dark and I’m in the shadows. Maybe Baz hasn’t seen me. He’s not turned around or looked over his shoulder, not as far as I can tell.

I settle down under the nearest tree, right at the edge of the pitch. I don’t really care if Baz sees me.

He should know I’ve got my eye on him. It’s what I do—keep tabs on Baz.

He’s all the way at the far end now—standing in front of the goal, hands in his pockets, head down, shoulders slumped, his hair whipping around in the brisk breeze.

It’s unnerving to see Baz like this. The veneer of arrogance swept away. The swagger muted. His proud posture diminished.

I’m holding my breath as I watch him, not even realizing I’ve scrambled up onto my knees in the grass until I feel the damp settling into the fabric of my trousers.

Baz walks right up to the goal and comes back out dribbling a ball. I hadn’t noticed it. Someone must have forgotten it after practice.

He veers across the far end of the pitch, bouncing the football off his knee, shifting direction as the ball drops to his feet again, squaring up, and then pounding the ball into the goal.  

He retrieves it and does it again. And again.

He’s not even in his football kit. He’s in his coat and tie, with his school shoes on.

He still manages to look strong. Graceful. Fucking ruthless.

Baz must have seen me by now. I’ve moved until I’m standing at the edge of the pitch, watching him. He doesn’t stop.

I drop my coat on the sideline and jog across the grass until I’m just in front of the goal. I nod at Baz. “Try to get it past me.”

He stops, foot on the ball, eyes narrowed. “Don’t tempt me, Snow. There are more satisfying ways of hurting you. This is too easy.”

I take a step forward. “Fine, then.” I run at him and kick the ball away, chasing it down the field.

He snarls and speeds after me. He’s usually devastatingly fast but his leg is slowing him down tonight so I might have a chance. I’m almost clear to the far goal when he catches up, crowding right into me, thumping my shoulder hard, and stealing the ball.

It’s my turn to roar as I race after him.

The pitch is one of my favorite places at Watford. I don’t get to play enough football. Just pick up games from time to time with Gareth and some of the other boys in my year.

It’s dark now but the moon is up and Baz has done something to the football to make it glow. We’re tearing up and down the field, crashing into each other, struggling for possession, banging knees and arms and shoulders.

I’m sweating.

We’ve never done anything like this before. And it’s good. It’s really good. I’m grinning and I can see the flash of an answering smirk on Baz’s face when I get close.

It’s not his usual smirk. It’s actually more of a smile.

I’ve not seen that before. Not directed at me.

Baz gets a clear shot on goal and I take a break, hands on my knees as I catch my breath.

I’m winded. I may be in shape from all the sword work I do, but I’m not used to running like this.

“Had enough then, Snow?”

I take another deep breath and stand up straight. “I could have another go.” It would sound more sincere if my voice didn’t break as I speak.

Baz laughs. He’s holding the ball under his arm and I can see his chest rise and fall from the exertion. That’s not typical either. I’ve rarely ever seen him pause to catch his breath.

The need to ask him where he’s been comes over me again. To ask why he’s so thin, so gaunt. So grey.

I tamp my curiosity down.  This moment—it’s fragile I think. I could break it with a wrong word or an offhand comment.

I don’t want to do that. It’s too important, whatever this is.

“Maybe next time,” Baz says, as if there actually might be a next time. Another night when we put aside our mutual hostility and actually indulge in something like this again.

He drops the ball and kicks it into the goal, gently this time, the glow fading from it as it rolls away. Then he straightens his suit coat and adjusts his cuffs.

“Call it a night then, shall we, Snow?”

“Yeah.”

We turn to walk back to the gate, shoulder to shoulder, feet in sync as we trudge across the lawn. I stoop to grab my coat from the side of the pitch and I hear Baz curse under his breath. “Bloody hell.”

My head snaps up at the tone of his voice and I follow his gaze to the drawbridge.

Fuck. It’s up.

“I didn’t think we were out here that long.”

“Neither did I.” Baz has his hands in his pockets and his shoulders are hunched once more. The wind’s picked up. It’s getting colder by the minute.

“What now, then?” I ask.

“You know your Mage has the drawbridge magicked. I can’t open it, not even with an “Open sesame.” His eyebrows come together. “I suppose I could try to get across the moat and over the walls somehow.”

“What, magic yourself a pair of wings?”

Baz rolls his eyes. “I could probably do something with a bit more finesse than that.”

I think back to the bony, misshapen wings I’d magicked up when the Humdrum snatched me at the end of last term. I’m certain Baz could manage something far better.

“Well, it’s not fair for you to rescue yourself and leave me out here on my own again.”

“Are you asking me to stay with you, Snow?”

I don’t answer him. Because, yeah, I am asking him to do just that. Stay with me. I may not say the words but I’m thinking them.

“It’s alright, Snow” Baz arches his eyebrow again. “I won’t abandon you to your fate.”

“How sporting of you.”

“It’s mostly because I can’t think of a spell to use to get over the wall.”

I sigh. “At least it’s not as cold as the last time you made me spend the night out here.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re referring to, Snow.”

“That’s rot and you know it.” I look around us. “At least it’s too early in the season for the snow devils.”

Baz snorts and I dart a glance at him. “It was you,” I say. “Just admit it.”

He smirks.

“Oh fuck off, Baz. I know it was you. No one else would pull a trick like that.”

No one else would have managed it.

Both of his eyebrows go up. “Maybe it was the Humdrum.”

It’s my turn to snort. “Right. Like the Humdrum doesn’t have better things to do than forge my girlfriend’s handwriting just to get me to freeze my arse off.”

Ex-girlfriend, I remind myself.

“Did the snow devils really chuck chestnuts at your head?” There’s an amused tone to Baz’s voice, the wanker.

“Yes. I couldn’t even blast the bastards.”

“Protected species.” He gives a snort again.

“You are a complete wanker, you know that?”

He waves a hand at me dismissively. “It wasn’t one of my better plans.”

“Ha! It was you!”

“Really, Snow, it’s not like it was such a great mystery. Who else could it have been?”

“But you’re admitting it!”

He shakes his head. “I’m stuck out here with you tonight. You are obviously not going to stop yammering on about it until I claim responsibility.” Baz tilts his head at me. “This time you have only yourself to blame though. I didn’t ask you to follow me tonight. You did that on your own.”

“And I’m going to freeze my arse off again, by the looks of it.”

“There are warming spells, you know.”

We bicker for a few moments as we try to find a spot out of the wind. We finally settle under the yew trees, resting shoulder to shoulder against the wide trunk.

I hear Baz cast a “snug as a bug in a rug” but it doesn’t work so well without a blanket. I can feel him trembling from the cold, arms wrapped across his chest, hands tucked under his arms.

I’ve got my duffle coat. I can still feel the wind but I’m a sight warmer than he is. And I usually run hot.

I slide my left arm out of my coat, the arm that’s flush with Baz’s shoulder. “Here,” I say.

“I’m not taking your coat, Snow.”

“I’m not giving it to you.” I turn so my back is to him, giving him more room to slide his arm in the empty sleeve. “We can share if you cast a “custom fit” on it.”

I’ve done that spell before. Or rather Penny has.

Baz gives me a dubious look but he’s pulling his wand out. He places his back against mine and slides his arm into the sleeve as he casts the spell.

My coat stretches between us, widening enough to accommodate both of us until we can sit side by side again. The front billows, the excess fabric bunching up until I do up the toggles.

“This is ludicrous.” Baz is frowning. “Simply ridiculous. Where do you come up with these ideas?”

“Penny,” I say truthfully.

“Of course. The ever-resourceful Bunce.”

I bump his shoulder. “You’re warmer now, aren’t you?”

Baz sighs. “Yes, Snow, I’m warmer.” I’m not sure if I’m imagining it but it almost feels as if he’s moved closer, leaning into me now. “But I swear I will burn you at the stake if you tell anyone about this.”

I bump his shoulder again. I can feel the cool impression of his hand resting on the ground between us, brushing against my fingers.

I want to take it in mine, twine his chilled fingers between my own until they get warm.

I shake my head. I don’t know where that thought came from.

It’s just because I’m cold, I tell myself. That’s all it is.

Baz splutters next to me. I think he’s laughing.

“What are you on about?”

“Nothing.” A giggle escapes him. 

I don’t think I’ve ever heard Baz giggle. 

“Come on, Baz? What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know if you recall I have twin sisters. Younger than me.” I don’t think I know anything about his family other than his father is cold and distant and his aunt is scary as hell. He’s never mentioned sisters before.

“Ok.”

He giggles again. “They fight like crazy, especially since the baby arrived.”

So there’s a baby too. This is all new information. I’ve no idea what’s gotten into him tonight, to be sharing all this with me. Eight years I’ve lived with the jammy bastard and this is the first time I’ve heard anything about siblings.

“Alright.”

“My step-mother was at her wits end a few months ago. So my aunt Fiona bought an extra-large t-shirt and painted “our get along shirt” on the front and stuffed my two sisters into it. They each got one sleeve and had to basically be shackled together until they stopped fighting.”

I can’t help it. I start to laugh. That’s exactly what Baz and I must look like in this coat.

I’m spluttering as I try to get the words out. “Maybe this is how we finally stop the war.” 

Baz’s head is resting against the tree trunk and he’s laughing. “I can’t imagine why the Old Families didn’t think of this sooner.”

“They should have put us in a shirt like that years ago.”

“I’d have offed you if they’d done that, Snow. You have atrocious taste in clothes.”

“I’m not hearing any complaints from you at the moment.”

He doesn’t say anything and I’m pretty chuffed about it. It’s not often Baz Pitch is at a loss for words.

It doesn’t last long.

He clears his throat. “I suppose your taste in outerwear is tolerable.”

“So does this mean the next time you piss me off I just have to magic us into my coat?”

“It would confound the Anathema, that’s for certain.”

I’m still chortling about it a few moments later when I feel Baz’s hand again. His pinky finger brushes against mine.

I don’t hesitate this time. I place my hand over his gently, holding my breath, waiting for him to growl at me, snatch his hand away, blast me with a spell.

Baz silently turns his palm up, keeping his eyes trained on the sky above us, letting my fingers slide between his own and then his grip tightens on my hand.

I shift closer to him and tentatively drop my head on his shoulder. He’s tense, rigid for just a moment.

And then he sags against the tree, tilting his head to rest it on mine.

I should tell him. I should tell him now.

About his mother. About the Visiting.

But this . . . we’ve never had this. I don’t want to break whatever magic has come over us tonight.

I don’t know what we’re doing.

But this is so much better than fighting.

Baz

There are literally a half dozen spells I could have used to get myself over the walls. Snow doesn’t need to know that. 

I could have left him out here all night again. I should have. 

But I’m weak. I’ve missed him. 

And I'm starting to wonder if he didn’t miss me too.

Snow’s hand is warm against mine. I can feel his breath on my shoulder. 

Part three of the story I’ve been making with these prompts. Day 9 is part one, and Day 13 is part 2.

No warnings apply for this part. (That will change with part 4 though.)

16. Alt #7: Winded

Back in the day, his mother would have said something along the lines of him being in "quite the pickle". Stephen had absolutely no idea where the absurd saying came from, but it seemed an appropriate statement for the situation as he was trying to avoid the line of thinking that went to "completely fucked".

So. Quite the pickle.

A quick check to make sure that no one was prodding his mind (they weren't) later, Stephen set to mentally laying out the situation before him.

At the moment, he was more or less bound immobile, muted, and within a seal that made magic all the more difficult to do; he recognized some of the runes, even if they were laid out in a manner he was not entirely familiar with.

Not great, admittedly.

However, he had thought of something resembling a plan for getting help for himself before he submitted to the occultists. He knew the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj were good, but speeding the rescue process along was no bad thing. But with that threat made against his Earth, it was now rather imperative that he made his "something of a plan" work; it was not just his life on the line anymore.

And he needed to do it without drawing the attention of the two guards. The best way to do that, he supposed, was to appear as if he wasn't doing anything.

He could do that.