Whumpee unclenches their jaw, sighing into the fragrant steam.
Too-hot water pounds down on them, slowly unknotting their shoulders. With their eyes closed and the sharp florals of Caretaker's fancy shampoo filling the shower, Whumpee feels almost peaceful.
Then the light flickers on, bright behind their eyelids, and the door opens, and—
"Why's the—" Caretaker mumbles, cutting themself off with a yelp.
"Whumpee?" they ask, sounding much more awake.
"Yeah." Whumpee stares at the pink-tinged water pouring off them, grateful for the flimsy barrier of the shower curtain.
"Why was the light—never mind, priorities. Come out of there, I'll get the first aid kit."
"I'm not hurt." Whumpee cups water in their hands, splashing at a stubborn blood smear on the wall.
"Your clothes..."
"It's not my blood."
"That's better, I guess, but. Uh." Caretaker sounds worried, but not scared. Not yet.
"Whumper called me," Whumpee grits out. The water at their feet is mostly clear, now. "They knew where we are."
"Whumpee..." Caretaker's voice shakes with some emotion that Whumpee can't unpack, not right now. "You're killing for them again?"
Whumpee laughs, a short bark of a thing that startles themself as much as it seems to startle caretaker.
"Not for them, no." In the pause, Whumpee sticks their hand out, and Caretaker passes them a towel obligingly. Whumpee wraps themself up and leaves the safety of the shower, bringing a cloud of copper-scented steam with them. They meet Caretaker's worried gaze head-on. "I handled it. They won't hurt us ever again. We're safe."
the numbing pain beneath their skin feels like being boiled alive in their bones. "please, don't go," they plead. they don't want caretaker to go, even if it would be so boring for them to sit near and just. do nothing. and take care of them, when they could be making a better use of their time.
whumpee is delirious from the fever, sweating and shaking and shivering. caretaker smooths a chilly hand over their clammy skin. whumpee keens low in their throat, curling towards the touch like a sunflower following sunlight. the touch leaves. it is immediately replaced by a cold compress.
even as caretaker feels strangely upset, they watch as whumpee falls asleep and change the compresses all night, boil then some soup, give them a gentle scrub down.
"I'm not going anywhere," they promise whumpee. and they don't, staying right by whumpee's side.
This is absolutely not pointed at anybody in particular, so if you read this and think it was inspired by you... um, don't :)
Whumpee winced as Whumper started setting up the chess board again. “No,” Whumpee mumbled weakly. Whumper paused, glanced at Whumpee on their mattress on the floor and grinned.
“Good morning, Whumpee. What exactly are you protesting today?”
“No chess,” they begged, their voice croaking from sleep.
Whumper straightened and stepped around the table, walking towards Whumpee slowly. Giving Whumpee enough time to fear his advances and back up on the flimsy mattress, cornering themselves against the wall. Whumper kept coming and stopped at the edge of the bed. He crouched and grabbed the chain that attached to Whumpee’s ankle cuff. Whumpee’s heart raced as they stared wide eyed at the monster.
Whumper clicked his fingers and pointed at his feet. He curled the chain around his hand in warning, come here or be dragged here. So Whumpee bit back a whimper as they crawled towards Whumper’s feet and sat back on their heels, kneeling before him, head bowed. Whumper kept wrapping the chain around his fist so Whumpee couldn’t get away as he leaned a hand down and tapped two fingers under Whumpee’s chin.
Whumpee bunched their hands into fists as they turned their head up to meet Whumper’s almost fond expression that curled their stomach.
“Now, pet, what was that no about?”
Whumpee trembled as they stared at Whumper. They swallowed to try and clear their throat but they were scared to speak so boldly with Whumper this close. They looked away but flinched when Whumper clucked his tongue twice and looked up at him with pleading eyes.
He put his hand under their chin again to make sure they couldn’t look away. “Come on, darling. You know I don’t ask twice,” he purred. Whumpee’s heart raced against their chest. “Are you going to make me ask twice?”
“N-no! No, sir. I just… please, no chess today.”
Whumper’s horrible blue eyes looked concerned as if Whumpee was a child who had fallen during play time. “Why, pet?”
“I never win,” Whumpee replied mutinously. “It’s— it’s not fair. I don’t- I never played before you—“”
“I taught you the rules,” Whumper supplied.
“The rules, but not plays. And everyday it seems you use a different one and I can’t adapt and—”
Something simmered under Whumper’s skin that terrified Whumpee and they quickly tried to appease their kidnapper. “I mean, I am grateful you taught me, sir, it’s just— I can’t— it’s frustrating.”
“Hm.” Whumper’s hand moved to Whumpee’s head and patted it lightly. Whumpee struggled to repress the shiver dancing down their spine. “So you want to forfeit your chance at freedom today?”
“No!”
“But you know the rules.”
Whumpee knew the rules. They knew the rules alright. They knew that everyday Whumper would come down and set up the chess board and they would play. If Whumper won, he got to do whatever horrible torture he thought up to Whumpee that day, and if Whumpee won they’d be granted their freedom. Which was a sick twisted game in and of itself because Whumpee didn’t play chess.
“I do, but I—”
“And now you’re interrupting me, pet. My, my, you really have woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Perhaps it’s the mattress. Perhaps, I’ve treated you too well.”
“No! Sir, no, please sir. I’m sorry.”
“I like playing chess with you everyday, pet. You’re improving so quickly.” Probably because torture’s a great motivator, Whumpee thought dismally.
“What’s the point if I can’t win?!” Whumpee snapped. The words flew out of their mouth in pure frustration, their hands coming off their lap in a helpless gesture at the futility of it all. It was cruel. That with every move Whumpee thought that maybe, maybe, they could win and go home today.
They realised their mistake as soon as the words left their lips. Terrified eyes went to Whumper’s face, which had lost all softness and warmth, replaced with a cold fury.
“I’m sorry sir. Please. I’m— please sir—”
“We will play chess today,” Whumper said, grabbing Whumpee under their arm and pulling them to their feet roughly. “We will play multiple games, to help improve your skills.”
Whumpee blanched. “M-multiple games?”
“Yes!” Whumper replied brightly. “I may even teach you an opening.”
Multiple games meant multiple losses. Whumpee dug their heels into the ground, resisting. “But, sir if I lose more than one game, do I get punished t-twice?”
The question nearly stole the air from their lungs as Whumper stopped by the table and grinned at Whumpee who shrunk back.
“I think that’s only fair, don’t you? Considering you’re getting multiple chances at freedom.”
And Whumpee had the sudden, awful feeling that even if they won, Whumper would never let them go in that moment. His eyes were too bright, his smile too twisted. Helpless anger bubbled up inside them as they spat, “none of this is fair!”
Whumper raised their hand and Whumpee’s head whipped to the side with a soft gasp. Gentle fingers turned Whumpee’s cheek to face him again, his expression sympathetic, his eyes anything but.
“Let’s play.”
***
Commander Tag-list - get it instead of general hehehe *clears throat* ahem, anyways: @sunflower1000 @scoundrelwithboba @distinguished-ruler
"Ready?" Medic's hands rested on Whumpee's leg, around the visibly misaligned kneecap.
"No," Whumpee was half-lying down, their upper body leaning on Caretaker's chest. "No… please… it's gonna hurt."
"You're in pain now," Caretaker reasoned. "It'll hurt, but then it'll be better…"
"No! Wait!" Whumpee looked up at Caretaker's face. "Can't I have, like, anaesthesia..?"
"Sure," Medic said dryly. "Just let me go get it."
Medic moved their hands, the motion quick and calculated, and Whumpee screamed, fingernails digging into Caretaker's palm. They gasped, a tear rolling down their cheek, eyes reflecting betrayal.
Whumpee barely reacted, their eyes fully closed now, though their sleep was not restful, head tossing back and forth.
Caretaker bit their lip and quickly resumed their position at Whumpee's bedside, small bowl of water and towel in hand. Soaking the cloth in the cool water, Caretaker gently dabbed it against Whumpee's forehead, washing away the sweat from their brow.
At their touch, Whumpee relaxed, eyelids fluttering in the throes of the fever.
Caretaker draped the cloth over their forehead in the hopes that the cool cloth might curb the fever.
Less angsty, but more in the spirit of the show with angst and humor.
Jack found it moderately hilarious how many people thought of Daniel as small. Perhaps it was the bulky uniform jackets that never seemed to fit quite right (because Daniel never paid attention to the sizing), or the fact that he stood next to Teal’c and Jack, or maybe the glasses distracted them from the fact that Daniel was six feet tall and arguably in better shape than most.
Clearly, they had never dragged a semi-conscious Daniel through a jungle planet.
“You’re lucky you’re my favorite, Daniel,” Jack grumbled, stumbling over another root. “Or I’d be coming back for you later.”
Contains: Captivity, failed escape attempt, multiple whumpers (mentioned), whump aftermath, immortal whumpee, caretaker* in alliance with whumper
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—> —> —> —> —> —>
The door rang not long after. She didn't live too far away, after all; one of their many, stupid promises they'd made over pinkies and drags of cigarettes. Foster both wished they could return to those simpler years, and that they never existed in the first place. After all, one of the many catalysts as to the way they are now came from such a bittersweet time.
Standing with a grunt, Foster moved to answer the door. They unlocked it with a steady hand, and it opened. Scrunched up in a bright smile, her eyes greeted theirs. Bright, curly blue hair tied into a loose ponytail framed a face ever so familiar.
Foster couldn't bite back a rare smile of their own, as small as it was. “Hi, Ivy.”
—> —> —>
Rayan felt something in the air change. He had initially perceived his captor as someone who'd prefer solitude over company; from what he saw previously, they lived completely alone, each room devoid of life and welcoming. In the vague silence, the sound of the door opening above seemed far too loud. Then, a muffled greeting, answered by another.
They had company. His captor was surely full of surprises.
This time, he heard a second pair of footsteps, light and smooth; a drastic difference from Foster's own thumping, quick footfalls. Rayan couldn't help but wince: both due to his wounds, but also due to the fact this poor, innocent companion of theirs was unbeknownst to what — who — was trapped under their nose. Dirt under their fingernails. So close, and yet so far away.
Rayan stared, listless, at the door. He paid acute attention to their footsteps. Guessing where they were going, wondering what they were doing when the footfalls ceased. The wound in his side was, no doubt, healing now; he no longer minded the tingling sensation that came along with it.
In the dim light, he vaguely saw what damage the bat had done: sickly bruises painted the skin on his arms, but most wounds were either under his clothes or under the blood. It'd crusted over by now. Good. He didn't want to see.
Sitting up, even as his aching limbs and the prickling pain in his side screamed in protest, Rayan crawled to the door. His legs trailed behind.
This was his only chance. Foster's visitor was the only outside contact he could have after days. They just might be the key to getting out of this hell.
His fist pounded on the door in quick succession, in rhythmic strikes that Rayan prayed they could hear. Whoever they were, he didn't care. As long as someone, anyone, heard him.
“HELP!” A shrill, raw cry ripped from his throat, hands striking the door quicker. His voice was brittle, but he continued to fruitlessly plead nonetheless. “HELP! HELP, PLEASE!”
After a while, the sickening realisation that his attempts were in vain dawned on Rayan. And yet, for some reason, he kept banging. Perhaps he still clung to the sliver of hope he had left of rescue.
Rayan felt like a ghost. An unwilling spectator, an invisible onlooker in the background, confined to a cold, empty existence with freedom right at his fingertips, yet nowhere near at the same time. He rested his head against the door, fists absently striking; the wound in his side jostled with the movement as he slumped down. Perhaps it wasn't healing in the first place. The thought alone was enough to elicit a dry and feeble chuckle.
He wanted to go home. To see Madeline. He wanted to exist without the fear of doing something wrong in his captor’s eyes and earning another gruelling beating. He wanted to feel something other than the unforgiving coldness of a blade, or aching remnants of wounds he shouldn't be able to heal from.
—> —> —>
Ivy whistled, letting herself in with a gentle bump to their shoulder. Foster let her waltz past, but not without an exasperated glare. “You're a sight for sore eyes today,” She teased.
“Piss off.”
“I'll have a tea. Two sugars, not too much milk, as usual.”
Foster's scowl hardened, shutting the door and crossing their arms. “What the hell is wrong with you today? Not even a ‘good afternoon’?”
Ivy grinned, turning to face them. “You were about to ask me, Cian—”
“It's Foster now,” They hissed.
“...Foster, sorry. You were gonna ask, like always. I know you like the back of my hand. It's called being a friend.” She patted their shoulder and her smile widened in a vain attempt to make them do the same. Suffice to say it hadn't worked, but Ivy wasn't deterred; as she walked to the kitchen, Foster sighed and trailed behind.
“What mug do you want?” As Ivy made herself comfortable at the kitchen table, Foster marched to the kettle.
“Any. I'm not fussed.”
Tea was made in quick succession, with sparse conversation in-between. Foster could feel her gaze boring into their back. It was nothing intimidating — she was simply observing — but a bothersome thought in the back of Foster's mind told them she knew why she was here.
As the kettle finally quietened its insistent shriek, Foster poured the water into a randomly chosen mug. Steam swirled up, weaving and tangling in the air, like ghostly branches. Almost absentmindedly, they turned to look over their shoulder at Ivy.
With a smile, Ivy leaned back in her chair, pushing an adjacent stool out from the table with her foot: a silent invitation for them to sit with her. It was strange, her ordering Foster around in their own house, but it was simply what they had been doing for years prior.
They sighed. Conversation seemed better than watching the tea as it brewed. “How’ve you been?” Foster walked over and sat down with a sigh, crossing their arms.
“Decent,” Resting her chin in her hand, she continued: “It’s been boring, sure, but decent. How about you?”
“...Fine.”
Silence followed. Foster seemed on edge — their eyes, always so keen and attentive, drifted constantly to the hallway, as if checking to ensure nothing was out of place. White-knuckled and clenched, their hands sat tensely in their lap.
“So,” Ivy drawled; an attempt to ease the heaviness in the air, “why am I here again?”
“I need help. There's, um—”
Before Foster could continue, a muffled cry was heard from the basement; a quick banging sound followed the noises. Their eyes flickered to the hall, jaw clenching in what seemed to be annoyance. Ivy followed their gaze, and something dawned on her at that moment…
“Foster. Who was that?”
They bit back a wince. Another shriek, another pound on the door. Bastard. “It's nothing, Ivy, I promise you—”
But already, Ivy had shot up out of her seat, taking long strides out of the kitchen. Despite the lingering realisation that their cover had been blown — all because of a stupid man’s inability to just be quiet — Foster was adamant on keeping the wool pulled over her eyes. If not only temporarily. If not only for a few extra, fleeting moments.
“Ivy—” They called, following at her heels as they descended the steps to the basement. “Ivy, listen to me—”
“No!” She turned to face them, a sudden distrust glistening in her eye. Another bang. And then silence. “What the fuck was that? No— Who the fuck was that, Foster?”
“Ivy, just listen to me. I made a mistake, that's all. I just need your help, I don't know what to do with it.”
She scowled, rattling the doorknob. It didn't budge. Somewhere inside, she heard shuffling. “Foster. Where are the damn keys?”
“I'm not—”
“Give me the fucking keys!”
Foster sucked in a breath, hasting up the stairs once more to fetch the keys to the basement. They did so begrudgingly, a knot forming in their stomach. After all, they'd just been outed as a kidnapper to their best friend.
They returned with the keys; Ivy snatched them without a second thought, unlocking the door quickly. Foster attempted to pull her back, the smell of old blood permeating the air, but she pushed their hand away.
Inside, Ivy grew stiff at the sight of a figure slowly retreating into the corner. She turned to Foster, demanding an answer. “Who is that?”
Foster remained stubbornly silent.
“Foster, who the fuck is that?”
“I… don't know,” They relented, sighing. Hands balling up into fists, they looked away. “I'm digging. Looking for what I can. It's name—”
“They aren't an it, for god’s sake.”
“...His name is Rayan.”
Ivy returned her attention to Rayan, who sat cowering like an injured puppy. She pinched the bridge of her nose in evident exasperation, turning the light on with her other hand.
Light flooded into the room, and Rayan squinted and shielded his eyes with his hand. Etched into his palm was the vague outline of an infinity symbol.
“For fuck’s sake,” She growled, “what the hell is wrong with you? An Immortal rando?”
“He isn't— I swear, I recognize him from somewhere, and I don't fucking like it.”
Ivy grunted in frustration, leaving the basement and slamming the door closed. “Look. I know how you are with.. them, but you can't keep some random guy in your basement because he's one of them! Let him go.”
“I can't,” They hissed back, shoulders tensed. “It's too fucking late. Just.. help me get rid of him.”
“He's Immortal.”
“There has to be some way!”
“No, Foster. You dug this fucking hole for yourself, I'm not helping you out this time.”
Ivy shoved past them, like how she did as she'd entered the house. Foster let her go. Biting the inside of their cheek till they swore they could taste blood, Foster's eyes drifted momentarily to the cupboard — to the knives, and whatever dreaded things resided with them — and then back to Rayan. “I'm gonna fuckin’ kill you.”
“Good luck with that.”
Foster grunted out a wry laugh, walking in and picking up their bat once more. The blood had dried by now, crusted over the wood and metal nails. The weight was a welcome sensation, as if it fit perfectly in their hands.
Rayan quietened once more as they strolled up, lifting his chin with the edge of the bat. Rayan unwillingly met their gaze.
“I'll figure out a way,” Foster guided his head up, up, before pulling the bat away as his head sagged back down. Instead, they lifted it over their head. “Now go back to sleep.”
—> —> —>
“Did you do anything to him?” Ivy was back in the kitchen, but the tea remained an afterthought. They were probably brewed now, but that didn't matter.
“No.”
“Sure,” Ivy leaned against the counter, fiddling with her earring. “Look, Foster. I know how much you've been through.”
“You don't know all of it—”
“Just let me speak,” She snapped. “I know enough. But I thought it was behind you now. You've been out of the ring for years now, I thought that was the end. But I was wrong.
“I also know how much I've been an alibi to you. And vice versa. We made a pact, if I remember correctly. So I'm not going to run off to the police, or anyone. I- I can promise you that, at least.”
Foster perked up, but she held up her other hand. They clenched their jaw and remained quiet.
“I have some.. friends of friends,” She continued, “who live not too far away. Met them in the ring. They know a bit about Immortals, unlike me.
“You're a stupid motherfucker, Foster. But I'm a good friend. So, if I can't help you, I'll lead you to others who will.”
Foster let out a breath they hadn't realized they'd been holding; a weight was lifted from their chest, and they could finally breathe again. “Thank you, Ivy.”
She nodded, sighing. “You've gotten yourself into a mess, Fos.”
“I know, but I can handle him with your help.”
“Their help,” She clarified. “I'm not getting my hands dirty again, Foster. I can't. That's why I'm getting them to help, not me. I'm sorry.”
“Ivy, come on—”
“No, Foster,” Ivy looked at them as if they were no more than a stranger. “No.”
Foster's eyebrows knitted together as Ivy walked out of the kitchen, trainers thudding against the floor. Foster trailed behind, meeting them at the door, where Ivy lightly nudged their shoulder.
“Good luck babysitting,” She said, eliciting a scoff from the other. But she looked less than pleased. “I'll call them when I get home. See if they can make it in a few days. I'll update you.”
“Thank you.”
She shrugged, opening the door, “It's just what I do best.”
Foster didn't close the door until Ivy's car sped off, to which their face fell as they locked it.
They'd bitten off more than they could chew, indeed. And, it might've just cost them their friendship, as fickle as it was.
—> —> —> —> —> —>
WE ARE SO BACK (I say once more). luckily I didn't spend half a year on this, I think I spent only 3 months??? yippee!!!!!!! anyhow I hope you lot like ivy (and, shock horror, foster does have friends. nothing is impossible!!!!) :333
(*I'm not really sure whether ivy is a caretaker or not???? she doesn't do any whumping and has some sort of care for rayan, but then again suggests some people to foster who make rayan's life MUCH worse)
TW: pet whump, captivity, intimate whumper, non/dubcon touching, dehumanisation
The pets head lolls back against it's owners chest, it's heart beating ten to the dozen, almost bursting through their ribcage. Whumper lets out a low hum, nuzzling the tip of their nose into the dip of the pets collarbone, arms hooked tight around it's belly.
