Enter the Void

Vale set the shackles aside and slipped his shirt off. He climbed onto the red silk bedcover, settling himself atop the boy that lay bound and helpless beneath him. He slid his broad hands down Jonah’s slender torso, feeling the way his skin stretched over his ribs, the dip of his naval, the way his little hipbones jutted out just a bit. Jonah twitched and hissed as he touched him there. One of Vale’s hands rose to pinch lightly at one of his nipples and Jonah let out a small gasp. Vale smiled down at him. 

“Oh, pretty thing,” Sebástian mused. “You’re going to be so much fun to play with, I can already tell.” Jonah merely winced in response, trying to turn his head away. He didn’t want to have to see the Captain’s smug expression.

Sebástian kept working at him, rubbing his nipples between his fingers and tugging at them ever so slightly, relishing in the way Jonah’s back arched up into it. He thumbed at his hipbone with his other hand, rubbing slow circles on the peak of it, before replacing it with a fingernail, dragging it along his skin. Jonah’s eyes widened and he gasped in shock at the feeling—Sebástian didn’t miss the way the boy’s hips twitched upward to meet his touch. 

“Oh, so you do like a little pain,” Vale commented smugly, deepening the gesture and digging his nail in a bit harder into the dip just above the boy’s hipbone. His other hand tugged at Jonah’s nipple sharply, and the motions forced an embarrassing moan out of the boy. 

Fuck—he was giving Vale exactly what he wanted, again. Jonah bit his lip to try and hold back his reactions, but Sebástian seemed to play his body like an instrument, quickly figuring out his most sensitive areas and thoroughly exploiting them. 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Vale cooed. “How pretty and delicate you are…” 

The Captain slowly raked his nails down Jonah’s torso, from his chest down to his naval, and smiled wide when the boy’s eyes rolled back a bit and he fucking groaned.

Jonah’s head was spinning—from the pain, from the exhaustion, he didn’t know which—but the way the Captain was touching him now was electrifying in a way he loathed. It was gentle, but dappled with just enough pain to make his body light up with little electric sparks that made it so hard to think. He wanted to resist, deep down he wanted to, but he neither had the strength left to put up a good fight nor the bravery to face the consequences of doing so. He writhed on the bed as the Captain tormented his body, wishing he could move his hands to at least cover his face and stifle the embarrassing, pathetic noises Vale was forcing out of him. 

Vale took his time exploring the boy’s reactions. He parted Jonah’s legs, spreading his knees wide and settling himself between them. Jonah’s exposed body trembled beneath him, and Vale almost laughed when the boy started whimpering.

“Wa-Wait— N-no, please— Master—“

“Sweet little stupid thing…” Vale’s voice was blissful, soft as the silk beneath Jonah’s skin. “It’s adorable you still think you have a say in anything that happens now,” Sebástian cooed, stroking his slave’s inner thighs. He started with his fingertips, so gentle it raised goosebumps over the boy’s skin. 

Gradually, he shifted to using his nails, dragging them closer and closer to that sensitive place between the boy’s thighs. Jonah’s legs were shaking harder now. Vale smiled smugly when he saw the effect he was having on his little slave’s trembling, helpless body. Jonah whined as he slowly began to harden against his will, his body was betraying him again—giving in to exactly what Vale wanted. 

“Oh my,” Sebástian remarked, feigning surprise. “Seems you really like this, don’t you. And I haven’t even touched you there yet, pretty thing.” 

He leaned down over Jonah, his long honey-colored hair cascading like silk over the boy’s chest. 

“Would you like me to?” 

Jonah froze. Vale was really going to make him beg for it, wasn’t he. The bastard—he seemed hell bent on making Jonah not just an endurer, but an active participant in his own undoing, his own molestation. 

He wanted to plead with the Captain to stop—he’d already tried it so many times, but it only seemed to invigorate him further. Vale continued his ministrations over Jonah’s body as he waited patiently for an answer, twisting at the sensitive nipples on his chest and dragging slow fingernails up his inner thighs. Jonah was far from immune to it—he was panting now, the blood was rushing to his groin rapidly, and he could feel how hard he was even without seeing it. 

He felt frozen, staring wide eyed at Vale’s warm, expectant expression. Suddenly, he felt Vale’s fingers dig into the sensitive spot where his leg met his torso, tantalizingly close to his now twitching erection. He gasped and his hips jutted upward, chasing friction where there was nothing but thin air. 

Jonah’s mind flashed with the thought of what it might feel like to have the Captain’s hands wrapped around him, stroking him and playing with him until he finally released. Jonah wanted to feel good—he deserved this, right? Fuck it—maybe—

“Please!” Jonah cried—he couldn’t take the relentless teasing any longer. “Please, please, t-touch me there, Master..”

Sebástian chuckled darkly above him, his eyes narrowing with satisfaction. He wrapped a hand gently around Jonah’s length and gave him a light squeeze, delighting in the gasped moan it drew from the boy as his hips twitched up into his Master’s hand, chasing moremoremore— Oh, he was coming undone now, right into the Captain’s hands. 

One hand stayed wrapped around the boy’s pulsing erection, the other delicately pressing a fingertip up against his entrance. 

“W-wait—!” Jonah cried out. “Master, master, I, I—“ He couldn’t even think of what to say that would stop this from happening. He’d just wanted to feel good, if only for a brief moment—he’d stupidly hoped the Captain would just touch him, that he was rewarding Jonah for taking him down his throat so well. He should’ve known better. This night was always going to be about the Captain’s pleasure, nothing else. Jonah crashed back down to his place, at the lowest rung imaginable. He was a slave—he was here to please Vale, nothing more. If Jonah felt good too in the process, it was merely an accidental byproduct. 

“Oh, dear boy,” Vale pressed a little harder, smiling down at him with a mockery of gentleness. “What did I say about you having a choice?” 

Jonah blinked up at him, tears in his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that night. Vale prodded at his entrance again—he wanted him to answer.

“Th-that I, I d-don’t— I don’t get w- one, Master,” Jonah whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to resign himself to it. This was always going to happen. There was nothing Jonah could do about it. Just be good, just be good justbegood— Just be good, and maybe he’ll be gentle.

Jonah’s lip quivered in despair as Vale reached up to grab something off of the nightstand. He held it up, and Jonah identified the object as a small bottle of oil. He felt a flicker of relief at the sight of it, despite himself. At least Vale wouldn’t try to fuck him dry. That would be infinitely worse. Jonah knew from experience that it could always be so much worse. 

Jonah watched in trepidation as Vale uncorked the bottle and poured out a little bit into the palm of his hand. He resealed the cork, settling the bottle aside before lowering his hand to stroke himself. He was already back at nearly full mast just from playing with Jonah’s body, pulling those gorgeous reactions from the boy’s tender pink lips. 

Sebástian swiped his slicked fingers across the puckered skin of Jonah’s entrance, before teasing in a fingertip past the tight ring of muscle. Jonah’s breath caught in his chest—he let out a little shocked gasp at the feeling, even though he knew it was coming. Sebástian slid his finger further, wiggling it a bit to loosen up the taut muscles inside him. Jonah gasped when he felt a second finger slide in, stretching him open and slickening his insides. 

“Aren’t you grateful I’m taking the time to do this for you, pet?” Sebástian mused, beginning to slide his fingers back and forth and teasing the boy open. 

“Hnnhhyyes, Master,” Jonah whined, his head fuzzy with the sensation. “Th-thank you, Master,” he knew what Sebástian was really asking for. He felt lightheaded, the pulsing feeling in his erection growing more and more urgent as the Captain continued to open him up. Carlisle was never this patient, Jonah truly was grateful that he was at least getting prepped first. Carlisle would just shove right into him half the time, hardly caring if his slave tore and bled and cried as he used him. Vale was being so gentle, trying to make Jonah feel good. Jonah knew he should be grateful, all things considered. It could be so much worse, he reminded himself. 

Vale had managed to work his fingers in up to the knuckles now, the rest of his hand now pressing flush up against Jonah’s skin.  He twisted his fingers a bit, looking for that one special little place that would—

“Aaahh!”  Jonah gasped suddenly when Vale’s fingertips brushed up against it, his hips twitching automatically and his hips nearly rising off the bed. 

“Mmnn, there we go,” Sebástian mused, pulling back just a bit before pressing into that spot again. 

“Hnnngaahh!—“ Jonah cried out, panting hard now as he tried to get his head to stop spinning. 

Vale jabbed at the spot again, and again, and Jonah was writhing and coming undone beneath him. 

“Haah.. hh-haah..” he panted under Vale’s fingers, his eyes lidded and glazed over. “P-please,” Jonah was far past maintaining pride now. He had none left to protect. “Please S-sir—Master!” Jonah corrected himself quickly—he was losing the ability to think around the heavy waves of electricity being forced up through his delicate body. 

“Tell me, what is it you want now, darling?” Sebástian’s voice was dripping, sickeningly sweet. 

He wanted Jonah to beg for it. An active participant. Jonah didn’t even have to think about it. 

“P-please!” He cried. “Please, M-master please, please fuck me, Master, pleease—“

Jonah’s tears streaked down his cheeks at the sheer humiliation. He didn’t want this—he didn’t—but Vale was playing his body like a violin and he was losing himself to the sensations forced upon him. 

“Mmn,” Vale hummed, more than pleased at the way his little toy was coming apart in his hands. “Good boy.. I suppose you deserve a reward after all.” 

Jonah felt the fingers slip out of him, and he felt agonizingly empty in the moments it took the Captain to wipe his fingers off on a spare handkerchief. 

Vale took a moment to lower his cock down over the boy’s stomach, smiling to himself when he saw how far it would press up inside of him once he was all the way in. It looked huge up against Jonah’s petite proportions, and it only made him all the more hungry to be inside him now. 

Jonah squirmed as Sebástian drew his tip downwards to press against his entrance. The boy’s body was slick and malleable now, and Vale bit his lip and groaned as he pressed the tip inside. 

“Haah!—” Jonah gasped sharply as Sebástian slowly pushed himself inside him. Vale breathed in deeply and relished in the tight heat, taking his time to feel Jonah’s walls clench around every inch as he invaded the boy’s body. 

“H-hurts!” Jonah cried when Vale pressed impossibly deep inside him. “M-master, it hurts— please—“ 

“Sh, shhh,” Vale hushed him, pausing his movements for a moment to stroke Jonah’s face with his hand. “It’ll be okay, you’ll be okay. Just relax for me darling, and it will feel good soon. I promise.” 

Sebástian’s voice was like thick, sweet honey in Jonah’s ears, and he whined in protest but knew he couldn’t do anything to stop his Master. He squirmed at the intrusion as Vale began to press in further, wincing at the impossible stretch he felt inside. 

Jonah’s gasping breaths were rising into higher-pitched keens as Vale slowly forced himself all the way in to the hilt. The Captain loomed over Jonah, his hands on either side of the boy’s head, and they both panted heavily now, breathing each other's air as Vale let Jonah’s body adjust to the feeling of being so achingly full. 

“Please— pleeease,” Jonah whimpered. “Can’t— can’t take it— please, Master I—“

“Oh, but you can, my dear.” Vale lovingly wiped Jonah’s bangs from his sweat slicked forehead. “You’re already doing it, and you feel fucking amazing squeezing around me like this.” 

Jonah only let out a pathetic-sounding whine in response, knowing there was nothing he could say to get through to the man that towered over him, that forced his way in. Vale controlled everything about this moment, and every moment that would come afterwards.

“Now,” Vale said, lightly panting, his eyes lidded with lust. “Be a good boy, and keep taking it for me.”

“Nonono—wait!” Jonah wailed as the Captain started to move his hips again. Vale simply ignored him, pulling backwards and drawing a gorgeous moan from his slave before pressing back into his boy’s tight insides once more. Jonah cried out and weakly kicked his legs around him, but he was so exhausted, so hazy between the jolts of pain and waves of pleasure, that it didn’t do much of anything at all. 

Vale chuckled at the boy’s weak struggling, he found it unbelievably cute. He was so bad at it, he was so small, there was absolutely nothing he could do. Vale would have his way with him like this time and time again, whenever he wanted for the rest of his life. The thought of it—that this boy was his forever—sent a thrill sparking through his chest, and he slid himself out and shoved himself back in a little rougher this time. 

Jonah cried out at the feeling—too full too full—he was impossibly full— He was sure he couldn’t take it, but his body was doing it anyway. He felt as though his organs were being shoved around to accommodate the impossible stretch. 

He bit his lip and whined pitifully as Vale slowly stretched him out over and over, taking his sweet time to savor the way Jonah’s muscles spasmed around him as he pushed the boy’s body further than what should’ve been anatomically possible. 

All of a sudden, sparks lit up Jonah’s torso and gasped sharply, feeling his head spin. Oh fuckfuck— He moaned in pleasure as the head of Vale’s cock brushed up against that spot he had pressed on earlier. Vale snickered, then did it again. Fireworks flashed in Jonah’s vision, and he cried out, his back arching up into the motion on pure instinct. 

“Oh god—fuck—! Fuckfuck— Master please!” Jonah was falling apart at the seams now, crumbling at the force of the sensation being pressed up into his body with every push of the Captain’s hips. 

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” He heard Vale coo from somewhere above him. He could barely see, white was edging at the corners of his vision—everything was growing fuzzy and all he could focus on was the stretch and that spot the Captain kept hitting. 

“Tooslowtooslowtooslow!” Jonah whined. It was agonizing now—Vale was toying with him, seeing how long he could tease him before the boy cracked and begged to be fucked relentlessly into the mattress. 

“What do you want, dear?” Vale prompted, a satisfied smile on his face. Everything was going exactly as he’d wanted. 

“Please—! M-master—fuck me, p-please, please fuck me Master please—-!!!” Jonah wailed, squeezing his eyes shut and straining his body to rut back up into Sebástian’s hungry cock. 

“That’s what I wanted to hear, sweetheart,” Vale smiled, before pulling back his hips and thrusting into the boy with vigor. Jonah cried out at the feeling, spurting precum from the tip of his little cock now as it twitched, untouched and aching against his stomach. 

Jonah gasped and sobbed as Vale punished him relentlessly, fucking into him like he was starving and Jonah was the wettest, tightest thing he’d ever felt in his life. God, he really might be. Vale loved how he squeezed around him, how tiny he was compared to himself. And he took him so well—he was so needy—and his sounds, God, fuck—

Vale was losing it along with Jonah, jabbing into the boy’s prostate over and over and gripping his slender waist for better leverage. 

The room was filled now with the sounds of both of them, the thumping of the mattress a steady beat against Jonah’s whines and gasps and Vale’s blissful groans. 

All of a sudden, Vale lowered himself to meet Jonah’s open, panting mouth with his own. He tasted divine, and Jonah moaned into his master’s mouth so willingly as he returned the kiss. 

Sebástian slipped his tongue past Jonah’s soft lips, letting it explore his mouth and slide as far in as he could towards the back of the boy’s throat. It was intrusive, invasive—it would’ve been so revolting to Jonah in any other moment, if he hadn’t been getting split open in the best way on his Master’s cock in that very moment. Instead, he could only groan around Vale’s tongue, panting hard through his nose and bucking his hips up against the man above him to try and get some friction against his leaking erection. 

Vale explored Jonah’s mouth as he ravaged his boy’s body, thoroughly dazed at the feeling of filling both of Jonah’s holes at once. He was perfect like this. Vale wanted him like this every night for the rest of his life. 

At last, Vale pulled back, separating their lips once more with a thin, wet string of saliva hanging between them as they panted the same air. 

Vale painted open mouthed kisses down Jonah’s neck, tonguing at the red lines left behind by the knife before biting down and sucking bruises into his neck, drawing pained gasps and beautiful cries from the trembling boy beneath him. He worked his way down to Jonah’s collarbones, biting down once more and relishing at the feeling of gnawing the bone between his jaws. So delicate… He bit down on the space where Jonah’s neck and shoulder met, sucking deep bruises into the boy’s flesh. He wanted him all nice and marked up, so that everyone who saw the slave would know he was claimed and owned. Vale alternated between kissing and biting at Jonah’s skin, swirling his tongue along the boy’s flesh before gnawing at it with his teeth. It was a kaleidoscope of sensations for Jonah, who couldn’t think at all now—he could only lie there and take it, twitching up into the empty space between them, dizzy to near delirium now with everything he was forced to feel.

“Fuck, fuck fuck—-“ Jonah whimpered. “Master, please! Please touch me, Master, please—!” 

Well, Vale thought, if he was going to beg like that— He smiled and indulged him, reaching a hand down and wrapping his fingers around the boy’s aching length. He slowly squeezed him, with just enough pressure to make Jonah’s eyes roll back in pleasure, before beginning to slide his hand up and down. 

He’d only done it a couple of times—Jonah’s voice rose higher and higher as he moaned against him, until it reached a fever pitch and the boy threw his head back. His voice cracked sharply as he moaned, all his muscles tensed up so hard Vale felt as though the boy might snap in half. Jonah’s back arched up off the mattress and his hips spasmed up into Vale’s hand as he began to shoot his release all over his own stomach. 

Vale kept fucking him the whole time, stroking and squeezing him with his hand until he was sure he’d wrung every last drop from the boy’s body. After several long moments, Jonah went limp, collapsing back to the silken sheets and gasping for air. 

Fuck— The sight of him like that— it was driving Vale over the edge— Fuck— He drove into him harder, picking up the pace and fucking in and out of him even faster. Jonah started whining at the overstimulation, wriggling beneath him as his muscles twitched and spasmed around Vale’s cock. 

Vale drove deep into Jonah as he came, groaning against the boy’s carved up throat as he shot into him as far as he could. He saw white as he fucked him through his orgasm, and it was the best thing he’d ever felt—even better than Jonah’s mouth. Jonah could feel it gushing out of Vale’s tip, liquid heat coating his insides and he cried out—it was too much—his nerves were on fire—it was too much—

Finally, Vale collapsed onto his elbows over Jonah’s trembling body, completely spent. He panted deeply, trying to catch his breath, still lightly thrusting up inside of Jonah to fuck it deeper as he slowly went soft inside of him. 

Jonah couldn’t feel his legs. It was almost as though he was floating, somewhere high above where his body lay. In the dark, misty clouds above the ship, perhaps, lifted by a midnight wind. 

Eventually, Vale climbed off of Jonah to get himself cleaned up, though Jonah hardly registered it through his haze. He felt a cool wet cloth swiping down his skin—Vale was wiping the remnants of his release from his torso. Jonah lay there limply, his arms still trapped beneath him, still bound in the red silk ribbon. 

At some point, Jonah felt himself being rolled over onto his front. He groaned lightly at the motion as Vale worked at the knotted ribbon to free his hands at last. For the first time in hours, Jonah flexed his arms, drawing them in front of him and hissing in pain as his sore muscles clenched. Vale slid onto the bed beside him, taking the boy in his arms. 

“You did so well for me, sweetheart,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of Jonah’s head. 

Jonah made a small, muffled sound against the pillow, content to lie here for now. Peace at last. Vale slid an arm beneath his neck and wrapped another around the boy’s torso, pulling him in close. Jonah could feel the Captain’s bare chest rising with his breath, pressing warmly against his back. 

In the afterglow of the praise, Jonah didn’t think at all about what would come in the morning. He rested in the present, between Sebástian’s arms in the dimming lantern light. He’d done well. He’d pleased his new master. He wouldn’t be punished any more tonight. Jonah let that thought reassure him as he drifted off into a blissful sleep. 

༻✦༺

First night with the Captain is officially complete! Yay we did it folks. Thanks for reading my porn uwu. Stay tuned next for some actual plot!

LA SIRENA DE SANGRE TAGLIST

@spookyboywhump @livelaughwhump @phoenixpromptsandstuff @unforgivenn @befuddled-calico-whump

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@victimeyez @veilofvoices @the-scrapegoat @ladygwennn @atomicsandwichprince 

@hueningplushie @girlsdogmotif @hikari-hat @whumpedydump @morning-star-whump 

@whumpwhittler @thegravylady @ilyaswife @pigeons-are-cool @whump-slump 

Jonah let the light blue chiffon slide down his back, turning slightly and allowing his hips to sway with the motion. He was so deeply uncomfortable, mimicking the body language of some tavern dancer, but Vale seemed to be enjoying it—Jonah could see the slight curl in his lips and the hunger in his eyes. Jonah slid the fabric down to expose his hipbones, and tried not to visibly react when he saw the Captain lower a hand to palm himself over the fabric of his pants. Just like Jaxon had done, only slower, merely teasing himself the way a lover might. Unlike Jaxon, though, Sebástian had all the time in the world. And Jonah was certain that he would drag this out until—

The inevitable. 

“Turn around for me, muñequito,” the Captain ordered, his voice smooth like molten caramel. Jonah’s heart raced in his chest. He’d been trying his hardest to please Captain Vale—it had been working—but this was the moment it would all fall apart. Any hope for a peaceful, non-violent evening would end after this. 

Jonah stood frozen for a moment, but when Vale cocked an eyebrow at him impatiently, he knew he had no choice. This would end badly either way—it was better to just obey. He was bound to see it eventually. Just get it over with.

Jonah grit his teeth and forced himself to turn, the fabric slipping down below his hip bones and exposing the dip of his spine. 

With his back to the Captain, Jonah stared at the floor. 

“What on earth is that?” Vale growled. Jonah heard him rise to his feet, then he felt a hand gripping the back of his neck. Vale’s other hand jabbed at the initials burned into the right side of Jonah’s lower back, just over his kidney. CM. Carlisle Montague. 

Tears were streaking down Jonah’s face now, and he was shuddering horribly. “A—” Jonah’s voice cracked. “A, a b-brand, M-master,” he whimpered. He hated this. He wanted to disappear. Vale was just as angry as he’d expected him to be. 

Vale’s hand twisted up into Jonah’s hair, and the boy yelped when he felt himself being yanked harshly from the bedroom, back into the main living room.

Jonah sobbed as the Captain dragged him back to the entrance of the quarters, unlocking the door and calling out across the deck. 

“Voss!” Sebástian’s voice boomed out over the deck of the ship. “Get in here now.”

Jonah shook in his grasp, trying and failing to stifle his panicked crying. He was going to be punished for something he hadn't even wanted. He’d screamed the whole way through the branding, that fateful day back in Carlisle’s workshop. Carlisle had only laughed as he pressed the burning metal to the boy’s tender flesh.

Voss arrived in less than a minute, “Captain, what seems to be the—“ Vale gripped Voss’ shoulder with his other hand and pulled him inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Why the fuck wasn’t I notified about this?” Vale hissed, abruptly spinning Jonah around and pointing to the brand, accusingly pressing down on the initials with his finger. 

“Oh my—“ Voss said. “Frankly, I didn’t see it earlier. The boy was facing me front ways and—“

“Well we have to do something about this, don’t we,” the Captain snapped. 

“Of course,” Voss agreed. His voice was calm and cool in the face of the Captain’s ire, like he was used to it. “I can have the brand heated up tomorrow and we can give him a nice new one to match the mutt,” Voss punctuated his words with a toothy grin. 

Jonah felt the world fall out from beneath his feet. He bit down on his hand and sobbed around his fist. It was going to happen again—again. Jonah wanted to wake up from this—he’d do anything to avoid this fate. His branding with Carlisle still played over and over in his nightmares. He couldn’t imagine going through that a second time. 

Vale, on the other hand, seemed reassured at the promise of a new brand. 

“Very well,” Vale said, past the peak of his anger now and descending down the crest of it. “A new brand in the morning. And I'm going to slice this one up tonight so it’s clear which one stands.” 

Jonah felt his vision wavering, black was closing in around the edges. Everything in him was buzzing with panic—he wanted to sink into the floor, to curl into a ball and sob until he disappeared, but the Captain’s tight grip in his hair kept him miserably upright. 

“Very good, Captain,” Voss agreed, ignoring Jonah’s stifled sobbing, his voice steady and businesslike as ever. “Is that all then?”

Vale sighed. “Yes, yes. I just wanted you to be aware of our little… situation so we can make proper arrangements.”

“Consider it done, Sir,” Voss flashed a smile—perhaps it was meant to be reassuring to the Captain, but it just looked sinister when Jonah peaked a teary glance in his direction. He regretted it almost immediately, and hid his face in his hands. 

“Very well,” Vale said, and Jonah felt so invisible standing there between them. Though he’d cried through their whole conversation, it was as though he weren’t in the room at all while they discussed his fate. 

“That is all,” Sebástian said. “You may return to your station.” 

“Can’t let these idiots go unsupervised for too long. You know how it gets,” Voss said. “Sir,” he addressed the Captain with a nod of his head, then slipped back out into the night. 

Vale abruptly shook Jonah’s head around by the fist in his hair, “it’s alright, pretty thing,” he said it with a menacingly sweet tone, but Jonah still heard that fervent intensity buzzing through his every word. “We’ll get that nasty old brand all fixed up for you.” 

Jonah was inconsolable, crying into his hands as he was dragged back into the bedroom. 

Was there even any use in begging at this point? He was terrified of making the Captain any more angry than he already was. 

“I’m so- sorry,” he said instead, his breath hitching as he choked out a sob. “I’m sorry, M-master,” the apologies were bubbling out of him like water from a hot spring, pouring out of him fresh and hot like the tears from his eyes. 

“It’s alright, dear boy,” Vale’s words would seem comforting if he weren’t gritting his teeth as he said them. “We’ll get you all fixed up now, won’t we.” 

Vale shoved Jonah face down on the bed so he was bent over the side of it. Sebástian yanked the chiffon dress the rest of the way down, letting it pool at his slave’s feet. Jonah trembled against the plush comforter, tears streaking the silken cover as he heard the metallic shing that meant the knife had been drawn once more. Jonah tried to stay still, terror freezing in his chest, when he felt Vale’s left hand grip him fiercely on the back of his neck, pinning him down against the mattress. 

“P-please, Master—” Jonah pleaded through broken sobs. “Please don’t—”

Jonah screamed as the dagger dug in, gripping the comforter until his knuckles turned white as the knife twisted deeper into his flesh. It hurt almost as badly as getting the brand itself, though Jonah was sure nothing was as painful. And he had another one tomorrow. Jonah’s heart careened down a pit of hopelessness, dropping further and further into a dark cavern in which no light could reach. 

Vale chuckled darkly, a deep satisfaction swelling within him as he carved through Carlisle’s brand. He dug the knife in deep enough to scar—he would mar this brand like his life depended on it, and then after tomorrow, there would be no question who Jonah belonged to. 

Jonah wailed like a banshee while Sebástian dug the blade in and dragged it through his flesh, carving a wide red X over the face of those wretched initials. Blood ran in scarlet streaks down Jonah’s lower back, sprung free from the confines of his skin to ink red rivers down the boy’s tanned body. 

“Please!” Jonah wailed, wishing he would pass out instead of being forced to endure another second of this. “Please— Master please st- stop! Pleease!”

Vale ignored him, eager to keep drawing more beautiful noises from his new slave. He could feel himself stiffening once again at the boy’s screams. It was a reaction beyond his control, but it was welcome. He relished in Jonah’s little shocked gasp when he pressed his clothed groin flush to the curve of the boy’s behind. Vale knew Jonah could feel how this was affecting him. In response, Jonah sobbed even harder—his throat was starting to get hoarse from all the screaming shredding his vocal chords. 

When he deemed the bloody X deep enough, Sebástian withdrew the knife from the wound and twisted his other hand into Jonah’s hair again. He yanked the boy’s head back and grinned at the startled cry it drew out of him. Vale leaned down and held the blade of the knife right in front of the boy’s face. 

“Lick. It. Clean,” he commanded, a new type of frenzy electrified his voice now. It all made his heart pound with excitement—the sheer thrill of it—he was delighted with the way his toy reacted.

Jonah cried the whole time, but forced himself to open his mouth and slide his tongue along the flat surface of the knife. He tried to be careful not to cut his tongue, but he was shaking so badly he was relieved he managed it. He panted, open mouthed, as he lapped up the blood, his head still dizzy with the pain radiating from that spot on his back.

Vale pulled the knife back once he was satisfied, tucking it back into its sheath at his hip once more. He wanted to flip Jonah over right then and there—to shove all the way inside him and see how far he could push his tongue down the boy’s throat—but he didn’t want to get blood all over the bed covers. It almost pained him to withdraw at a moment like this, but he managed it, ordering the boy to stay while he retrieved some bandages from the adjacent bathroom. 

Jonah didn’t have the strength left in him to move, even if he wanted to. The silk of the bedspread felt wet beneath his face as he collapsed back down upon it. Tears still slid down his cheeks, and he panted and gasped between shuddering exhales, trying to catch his breath, to stop crying, anything to regain some semblance of composure before the inevitable happened. He hated the way he always cried like this whenever he was in pain.

Jonah felt limp, ragged, spent, as he came down from the panicked adrenaline and settled into a wave of exhaustion. Vale returned to patch the wound with gauze, and Jonah’s limbs felt heavy, sprawled out there on the silk. Vale applied a thick gauze pad to catch the bleeding, before reaching an arm beneath Jonah’s slender torso to haul him up a bit. Jonah let him, didn’t fight it, and he obediently held the position so Vale could wrap the gauze strip around his body and tie it in place. He didn’t want to find out what Vale would do if he were to get his blood all over the man’s expensive bedcovers.

When Vale was finished, Jonah slumped down into the bed again, saying nothing. He felt almost numb now, the pain dulling his senses as it reverberated from the brand on his lower back. Vale lowered his hand to slowly pet Jonah’s hair in what might have been intended as a calming gesture. 

“There you are. You’re okay, pretty thing,” Vale cooed. “I’m making you better for me. Aren’t you lucky? You’re already so much better now.” Vale leaned in close, his voice low against Jonah’s ear. “I’m proud of you,” he said, and Jonah felt as though he would start crying again. He hated that he felt it, but his heart clung to the praise like a lifeline. He’d do anything to keep this man happy with him. 

“Now, be a good boy while I play with you,” Vale said into his ear, and Jonah only let out a weak moan. He couldn’t get his tongue to form words. Everything felt too heavy.

Vale stepped back momentarily to retrieve a long, silk red ribbon from a drawer behind Jonah. He pulled Jonah’s limp arms behind him and began to wind the strip of fabric around the boy’s thin wrists. He cinched it tightly, tying a sturdy knot to keep Jonah’s hands in place at the small of his back. Jonah let him, a despairing resignation weighing him down. 

Sebástian tugged Jonah up by his hair and dragged him back over to the dressing bench. Jonah only let out a morose whimper at the pain in his scalp, but allowed himself to be maneuvered, his legs shaking and unsteady. When he reached it, Vale gave Jonah’s head a forceful shove downwards, dropping the boy to his knees. Settling himself atop the bench’s plush velvet surface, the Captain ran his hands through Jonah’s hair. His touch felt almost loving, and Jonah instinctively leaned into it before his hazy mind could process it. 

Vale could feel the blood pooling low in his abdomen, tugging his attention downwards incessantly. “I’ve taken such good care of you, my pet—relieving you of that distasteful symbol.” His voice was sweet yet dangerous, as if every word were dripping with poisoned honey. “Now it’s your turn to take care of me.”

Jonah flicked his reddened eyes up to Sebástian’s face, with an expression that looked downright pitiful. His eyes were wide and wet, his lip wobbled, like he was trying not to cry again. Vale felt himself twitch again between his legs. Oh, he was going to enjoy this. 

Now that the boy was clearly out of it from all the pain, Sebástian knew he could use Jonah’s mouth without much resistance. His throat would be nice and pliable for him to mold.

“It’s important for a slave to learn how to please its master, is it not?” Vale said, freeing his leather belt from its buckle and working the button on his pants open. 

“Y-yes, Master,” Jonah felt the blood drain from his face—he knew what came next. 

“And you’ve just got such a pretty face, dear, it's only right that I use it, don’t you agree?”

Jonah felt a tug at his hair, before uttering another miserable ‘Yes, Master’ as he felt his head pulled forward. He tried to close his eyes and imagine he was somewhere, anywhere else. On a beach, on the sand, resting somewhere warm. Vale pressed the boy’s face up against his clothed bulge, feeling himself twitch against the heat of Jonah’s breath. 

“I’ll teach you to worship me properly,” Vale promised, that sickening warmth ever present in his voice. “It starts here.”

Jonah played along, eager to keep the dagger in its sheath and away from his skin for the rest of the night. He could feel tears rising once more, a lump forming in his throat. But he played along just as he was supposed to, mouthing and panting against the fabric between the Captain’s parted knees. He choked back a small sob, and that seemed to drive the Captain further—he gave Jonah’s hair a small tug, before unwrapping the seam of his pants and freeing the hardened length that had been trapped beneath. Jonah winced when he saw the size of it—he knew his throat would be hurting in the morning, from more than just his screams. 

“Look at me, darling boy,” the Captain ordered, and Jonah’s eyelashes fluttered as he gazed up at him. Vale could see the tears welling in the corners of his slave’s eyes, and knew that they could be spilled at any moment, if Jonah blinked too hard. He looked forward to watching them fall once more. 

Vale began by simply toying with the boy’s mouth with his fingers. He slipped a thumb past Jonah’s pink lips and slid it over his tongue. He pressed down on it, experimentally. Jonah gave a weak little moan, and that went straight to Vale’s aching length. He wrapped his other hand around it, stroking himself as he swapped his thumb for two fingers. He lazily fucked the boy’s mouth with his fingers, feeling himself grow and stiffen even further in his other hand. 

“No, no. Keep your eyes on me,” Vale corrected when Jonah tried to look away in shame. “I want to see your pretty face while I use you, dear.”

Vale pressed in further, forcing Jonah’s mouth open wider until his fingers hit the back of his throat. He felt the muscles therein spasm as Jonah choked at the intrusion—he was pleased the boy knew better than to try and pull away. Beads of moisture leaked from his tip now as he invaded Jonah’s mouth, and above all else, Sebástian knew he had to have that gorgeous, tight throat wrapped around him immediately. 

At last, he withdrew his hand slowly, letting the string of saliva lengthen from his fingertips to the boy’s glossy lips. 

“Now, querida,” Sebåstian smiled. “I want you to worship me.”

Jonah felt Vale’s hand at the back of his neck, slowly, eagerly, drawing his mouth forward towards the tip of his now leaking erection. 

“And If I fucking feel teeth,” he warned, “I will pull them out myself.”

Jonah shivered at the threat. “Yes, Master,” he nearly whispered. He blinked up at Vale, half-cocking his head to the side, expecting further instructions, but the Captain just returned his gaze, waiting expectantly. Vale wanted to see what his new pet already had trained into him. 

Jonah felt terror grip his chest and bubble up his throat—he was nothing without instructions, without force. He was terrified of upsetting his new master, and he only knew what Carlisle had enjoyed—usually taking him forcefully and fucking his mouth like a fleshlight, or lying back in a drunken haze and dragging Jonah’s face up and down on his cock with a fierce grip in his hair.

Nearly spilling tears once more, Jonah let his jaw go slack and pushed his tongue out from between his bitten lips, just the way he was trained to. He shuffled forward a bit on his knees so he wouldn’t have to lean over so far—his balance was offset with his hands tied behind him.

It was a whole different territory now, here, between the Captain’s knees. Jonah wasn’t used to being given the reins like this, to taking initiative on his own. Usually his job was just to endure, to take whatever Carlisle wanted to do to him without complaint. But he knew Vale wanted a show. He vowed to himself, for his own good, not to disappoint him. 

Ever so slowly, Jonah brought his lips forward until their skin touched, and he began kissing and mouthing up Vale’s length, ignoring how his owner’s precum dripped down onto his cheek, mingling with his tears. The tightness in his chest only gripped him more sharply as he continued. He was so not used to doing it like this—he felt so observed, like hot stagelights were burning up his cheeks.

Once he reached the tip, Jonah remembered what Vale had said about eye contact. Fearing having to be reminded, he blinked up at him through his blonde eyelashes and gingerly wrapped his lips around the Captain’s tip. Jonah forced his eyes to unfocus a bit, so he wouldn’t have to see the look on Vale’s face as he nursed the tip in worshipful, open-mouthed kisses. 

Vale gazed down at him almost lovingly, a heat behind his eyes and a slight flush to his cheeks.

“Take it now, dear,” Sebástian instructed, and Jonah obeyed, feeling a tinge of gratitude to be told what to do for a moment. Slowly, he lowered his head, taking inch upon inch into his mouth until Sebástian’s tip jabbed at the back of his throat. He gagged when he felt the man’s hips twitch upwards, pushing himself in even further back. Tears were leaking from the boy’s eyes as he tried not to keep choking around the intrusion, but that was made all the more difficult with what the Captain demanded of him next. 

“Good boy,” Vale stroked his hair fondly. “Come on, little thing, take it all now.” 

Jonah whined around him—for all his efforts, he still hadn’t fully fit his master’s length all the way inside his mouth, and he balled his hands into fists behind his back and forced his head down ever further, pushing the tip of his owner’s cock past the wall of muscle at his uvula and down into his throat. 

“Mmhnn, good boy,” Vale moaned, “Now stay there—hold it—just like that.” He let his hips twitch upward again and felt Jonah gag around him, the muscles in his slave’s throat spasming and squeezing him so perfectly. 

Jonah couldn’t breathe—the width of it filled every centimeter of space in his throat, nothing could get past the intrusion. He tried breathing through his nose, focusing on drawing in little pockets of air as best he could. He was getting lightheaded, and he couldn’t stop gagging. He was semi-decent at controlling it, most of the time, but for all Carlisle’s years of abuse, he still hadn’t managed to train Jonah’s gag reflex entirely out of him. Jonah was worried Sebástian would punish him for it, but truthfully the man seemed to be taking great pleasure in it, letting out low, pleased moans whenever Jonah’s throat spasmed around his length. 

“God, yeah that’s good—you feel amazing, pet,” Vale leaned his head back and relished in the feeling of that tight heat pressing in around him. He fit down Jonah’s throat like a puzzle piece—it was just snug enough to feel amazing. 

Sebástian floated there for a while, nestled in the taut muscles of Jonah’s throat, imagining the boy warming him beneath his desk. He looked forward to having the little thing present and bowing at his feet to keep his cock warm while he filled out innocuous paperwork. 

At last, Sebástian spoke. “Alright, you can move now, little pet.” Jonah groaned in response, and the vibrations sent jolts of pleasure up Vale’s length. Tears streaming down his face. Jonah began to pull his head back up, choking a bit as the Captain’s tip slid out from the back of his throat and onto his tongue once again. His mouth opened against it and he panted desperately, sucking in as much air as he could, feeling the weight of his master’s cock weighing down on the surface of his tongue. 

From here, Jonah started to feel a bit more confident. He knew how to make a man feel good. Maybe, if he pleased his Master well now, this night wouldn’t have to go any further. He dutifully wrapped his lips around him once more and pushed his head back down, sliding him in and out of his throat and finding a slow, steady rhythm that sent pulsing waves of electric pleasure through the Captain’s groin. 

Jonah slipped his tongue over the tip each time he pulled his head up, lapping at the precum that beaded out like glue. He could taste it—bitter and somewhat salty, but different from Carlisle. Jonah’s face was hot with humiliation, bound hand and foot and forced to pleasure the Captain on his knees—but some part of him still clung desperately to a silver lining, and he told himself that he didn’t mind this quite as much compared to getting face-fucked mercilessly. It wasn’t so bad, he told himself. He could do this. He just had to be good. 

Dutifully bobbing his head up and down the Captain’s shaft, Jonah internally grimaced when he felt Vale’s hand curling and twitching in his hair—he knew his Master was drawing closer. He chased it—shoving down the agony and the disgust and the self-pity. Now was his chance—make him feel good now and get sent away and you won’t have to do anything else. The tears never stopped flowing, but the Captain only seemed turned on by his little slave’s misery. 

Jonah felt some sickening mixture of anticipation and dread when Vale’s hand twisted in his hair and he roughly shoved the boy’s head all the way down, only to drag him back up again. Fuckfuck—it fucking hurt—Jonah had started audibly crying again, more than just tears—muffled little choked cries were forced out as the Captain ravaged his face. Vale repeated the motion again and again while Jonah gagged and sobbed brokenly around him. 

“Fuck, so fucking good for me,” Sebástian groaned, gripping the boy’s hair with both hands now and fucking his mouth at a relentless pace. 

At last, just when Jonah thought he’d lose consciousness entirely, he felt the Captain shove himself all the way down his throat as far as he could go—nose pressed to skin—before hot liquid came spurting out of his tip and shot straight down into Jonah’s esophagus. The way the boy’s throat spasmed around him as he choked and cried was heaven, and Vale saw white as he pressed his hips forward. He threw his head back and moaned loudly, his eyes squeezed shut. Jonah didn’t even have a choice in whether to swallow—Vale had pressed in deep enough to shoot it directly down his throat.

Sebástian slowly rode out his pleasure, twitching deep inside the boy, before panting heavily as he came down and slowly slid himself back out. Jonah nearly collapsed when his mouth was finally empty again, and he crumpled on his knees and gasped furiously for air—unobstructed, sacred air.

Vale chuckled breathlessly, beyond pleased with his new toy’s performance. “God, pet,” he mused. “With you on your knees in my quarters, at my command, how on earth will I get anything done?” 

Jonah barely heard what he’d said—he was too busy trying to catch his breath and still the thundering heartbeat in his ears. He rested his forehead against the Captain’s thigh unconsciously, clinging to any scrap of relief he could get. 

They sat there together for a few moments, both trying to catch their breath. Vale, emboldened and delighted—Jonah, dismayed and thoroughly humiliated, yet relieved it was finally over. He’d done it. He’d pleased the Captain, and now maybe he would even be allowed to sleep. His limbs felt so heavy. His throat ached from the screaming and the abuse. He was so tired. He wouldn’t dare ask it, but he wanted so badly to be dismissed. 

As though he’d jinxed his fate with the mere thought of a merciful end to the evening, the Captain’s fingers returned to comb through Jonah’s hair and he spoke down to him once more in that voice that oozed like warm honey.

“You did such a good job, pet. Such a good boy for me,” he said, and Jonah let the praise wash over him, taking it wherever he could get it. “But don’t delude yourself into thinking I've finished with you.” 

Jonah’s blood froze. 

“No no, pet,” Vale cooed, an amusement in his voice now at the boy’s panicked reaction. “I intend to thoroughly enjoy you tonight, and we’ve still got a long night ahead of us.” 

༻✦༺

Yes that’s right this also got long so it will be extended into a part 3! 

LA SIRENA DE SANGRE TAGLIST

@spookyboywhump @livelaughwhump @phoenixpromptsandstuff @unforgivenn @befuddled-calico-whump

@bloodthirsty-squirrel @writing-for-gold @thesecretgardenofmymind @unorganisedalienrubbish @thekneelingdoll

@victimeyez @veilofvoices @the-scrapegoat @ladygwennn @atomicsandwichprince 

@hueningplushie @girlsdogmotif @hikari-hat @whumpedydump @morning-star-whump 

The Captain’s face slid into view when the doorway was ajar, and Jonah’s eyes widened at the way the light of the lanterns seemed to lavish the man’s features in their orange glow. He had changed his earlier light-colored tunic for a dark midnight-blue garment with ruffles down the sides that lay unbuttoned down his torso. His face was all sharp, dramatic angles—shadows cast across his forehead and the light seemed to cling to the tip of his nose and the top of his cheekbones. His skin looked dewy and youthful in the golden glow, and Jonah found himself briefly wondering how old he was, and what someone so young would’ve had to do to become captain of his own ship—a ship like this nonetheless. 

“Evening, Captain, Sir,” Crowe addressed the man. Sebástian gave a polite nod to Crowe before fixating his gaze on Jonah. 

“Oh my..” he mused, reaching a hand out to cup Jonah’s face. “You are just breathtaking like this.” The Captain smiled, as if listless, and his hazel eyes nearly sparkled as he gazed down at the shivering boy. 

Jonah felt frozen in place. He didn’t speak, only returned the Captain’s gaze and tried not to pass out from trepidation alone.

“Alejandro really did ‘im up nicely, eh Sir?” Crowe commented. 

“Indeed, such a little treat,” Sebástian smiled. “I look forward to finding out how he tastes.” 

Jonah gulped, the shiver that ran through him was from much more than the cold now. 

“Well, he’s all yours Captain,” Crowe said, giving a little shove to the back of Jonah’s neck. The Captain reached out and took Jonah’s hand, leading him inside the chamber. Captain Vale’s hands were smooth and soft, not quite what Jonah would have expected from a pirate captain. Though, he supposed, nothing about this place seemed to be what Jonah would have expected. 

The doorway opened up to a large central chamber. There was a large mahogany desk on one side of the room, a lounge area with a sofa and a few chairs arranged around a wooden coffee table. Shelves and glass cabinets lined the walls, filled with an array of treasures—ornate plates and goblets shone brightly in the lantern light, necklaces, pendants, and rings rested upon plush black velvet stands. A large piano stood on the far side of the room beneath a wide bay-style window that looked out onto the starry seascape. It looked truly glamorous—befitting of someone like Captain Vale. Jonah could see another open doorway to the right side of the room, which seemed to lead into a bedroom. Jonah could glimpse the edge of a large, luxurious-looking bed through the threshold. 

“Welcome to my chambers, dear Jonah,” the Captain said, a warmth in his voice that reminded Jonah of Alejandro in a way he found deeply unsettling. Alejandro had seemed ever so pleasant, so warm—until he wasn’t. Alejandro had nearly drowned Jonah for daring to resist him, and Jonah would hate to find out what awful punishment would befall him if he were to disappoint or, god forbid, anger the Captain of all people. 

Jonah didn’t know what to say. He knew why he was here. He knew it wasn’t for a friendly conversation over tea. 

“It’s very nice, Sir,” Jonah said nervously. Suddenly, there was a hand in his hair and he was being shoved back until his head hit the now closed door. Jonah gasped at the impact—he’d hit his head way too many times today and was starting to feel concussed.

“First rule, dear boy,” hissed the Captain, his voice suddenly low and menacing. “Do recall what I reminded you of this morning. I’ll give you one chance to fix it. How are you to address me, slave?”

“M-master! I’m sorry—! It, it w-won’t happen again, Master,” Jonah was close to tears out of sheer panic alone.  

The fist in his hair relented as quickly as it came, and the Captain let his fingers relax as he gently petted Jonah’s hair. 

“There, that’s better isn’t it?” Vale said, almost too gently. “Isn’t it better to do as I say and keep me happy?” There was a heavy condescension in his voice, and though he loathed it, Jonah hated to admit he was somewhat getting used to being talked to this way.

“Y-yes, Master,” Jonah panted, leaning back against the door. “Thank you, Master.” He wasn’t sure why he said it, it was pure instinct and panic—but he really was grateful to be given a chance to correct himself. 

“If I have to remind you again,” the Captain warned, “Let’s just say I might have to open up a few new scars on your body.”

Jonah paled, squeezing his eyes shut at the threat. ‘Yes, Master,” he squeaked, too afraid to say anything else. 

“Now then,” Sebástian seemed to recover instantly. “Let’s have a good look at you, shall we?” Jonah nodded, trying to still the trembling in his hands. The Captain led him back into the center of that grand room and positioned him facing the large window. 

“Stay,” came the order, and Jonah obeyed. Sebástian circled him slowly, like a lioness looking for the best angle to pounce, and Jonah could feel those sharp hazel eyes raking up and down his skin. The Captain’s hand traced up Jonah’s torso, gliding smooth fingertips over the lines of gold chain that held the thin pieces of sheer fabric to his body. The Captain stepped around him and that same hand slid down his back, so slowly that Jonah had to clench his hands into fists to suppress the urge to flinch. 

“My, my..” Sebástian’s voice dipped and he tutted his tongue down at Jonah, pausing his prowl to further study his back. “Badly behaved for your old master, weren’t you?” He’d already assumed. The tendons in Jonah’s neck tightened like strings on a violin bow. It wasn’t true.

“N-no! Master..” Jonah fought to keep his voice steady amid the rush of panic. “I- I wasn’t! I mean— I,” he was scrambling for the right words. “I always tried t-to be good, M-master,” he said a bit more quietly, a sheepishness lacing his tone as his face reddened in shame. He knew how this looked—all the years worth of whip scars layered over one another like brushstrokes on a bloody painting. The evidence was damning—and the Captain hadn’t even seen the brand yet—oh, Jonah loathed to have to live through the moment when he did. But for now, the pale chiffon seemed to just barely obscure the spot where it sat on his lower back. 

“Well, don’t worry, my darling,” Sebástian leaned in, wrapping his hands across Jonah’s torso and bringing his lips close enough to the boy to murmur into his ear. Jonah felt the Captain’s long hair sliding down his skin at their close proximity.

“I’ll simply paint over it,” Sebástian said, and Jonah could hear the dark smile lacing every word. “Just have to give you another few layers of lashes—really make sure that the marks you bear for the world to see are the marks given to you at my hand, at my command.” 

Jonah shivered against the Captain’s breath—hot on his neck, in the shell of his ear. He could feel the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Moisture was building behind his eyelids, and he bit his lip to ensure he didn’t react. 

It wasn’t even a threat—it was a promise. 

That perhaps stung worst of all—that even if Jonah behaved perfectly aboard the ship, he still had to suffer, just for what had been done to him by another man, his former master. Carlisle didn’t own him anymore, but he felt stupid for holding onto the hope that something here would be better. 

His mind returned once again to the brand. He didn’t want to think about what the Captain would say when he saw the brand. Don’t think about it.

Sebástian clicked his tongue, a short hiss of irritation, and Jonah instantly knew what it meant. He was supposed to answer. 

“Y-yes, Master,” he said morosely, trying not to start crying again. Fuck—why was he always crying. He loathed that part of himself—that it always seemed to be his automatic reaction. Why couldn’t he bite back like Sawyer? Though, then again, a lot of good it seemed to do Sawyer, whose back was in an even worse state than his own, by a long shot. 

“Good boy,” Sebástian cooed, running a hand through Jonah’s sandy hair and bringing his other hand up to cup the boy’s face. “I will make you completely mine. Every mark on your body will belong to me. Your every reaction, every word or sound you utter, will be only for me.”

Jonah wasn’t sure if he was supposed to answer that, but he did anyway, just to be safe. Anything to be a little bit safer than he would otherwise be if he didn’t give this man exactly what he wanted. 

“Yes, Master,” Jonah said it like a promise, breathless words against his tongue. 

༻✦༺

Vale gave a practiced swish of his wrist, drawing a long dagger out from its sheath at his belt. Jonah winced when he saw the flash of the blade against the flickering light of the lanterns—he hadn’t even realized it was there. In an instant, Jonah blinked and Vale was holding it up against Jonah’s back, pressing the tip of the knife into the dip of the boy’s spine. Jonah’s heart beat like a racehorse running at breakneck speed, and he instinctively raised his hands above his shoulders in surrender. 

“Walk,” came the Captain’s order, and Jonah obeyed with a squeak of fear, allowing himself to be steered towards the doorway that he knew led to the bedroom. 

Inside was a slightly less large but nonetheless luxuriously designed room. A large bed sat on one side of it, covered with a plush, red satin comforter and adorned with a plethora of decorative pillows. The bed was flanked by intricately carved dual nightstands, atop which rested two hand-blown glass oil lamps—the glass had been blown in such a way to create the image of two birds taking flight. Jonah took note of how expensive they must have been. The whole room frightened him with how easy delicate things like the lamps would be to break. If he were to tip one over— Stop. Don’t think about it. He had to shove the thought of it away—he was only scaring himself with hypotheticals. He needed to take in his surroundings while he still could.

A long dressing bench, plush and upholstered, rested at the foot of the bed. On the other side of the room stood a large wardrobe and a tall, ornate mirror, its frame adorned with gold and jewels. It felt like the room would belong to a king or a prince of one of the many kingdoms beyond the great Atlantic. Jonah had only read of them in books before. He’d never been anywhere half as nice as this, and was afraid to touch anything at all. 

But the tip of the knife pressed him forward. His body obeyed the knife’s edge almost eagerly, melting into something malleable and moldable with its every movement. With every bit of pressure, the knife easily pushed him forward as if its wielder were a puppeteer, holding Jonah’s limp body aloft on tiny strings. 

“Sit,” Vale ordered when Jonah had been pushed up to the dressing bench. Jonah waited until the tip of the blade no longer pressed into his skin before he slowly turned. He sat obediently, trying and failing not to fidget with the hem of the dress. It was far too short—he was still clinging for any scrap of modesty he could get. 

The way Sebástian’s eyes slid over his body as he loomed down over the boy promised anything but modesty. The Captain held his hand out to run the blade up Jonah’s exposed chest. He slid it upwards, and Jonah let out a tiny gasp when the dagger’s edge caught on the boy’s sharp collarbone and left trickling beads of blood in its wake, before rising to tilt Jonah’s chin up to force him to look up into his master’s hungry visage. Jonah clenched his fists into the fabric of the dress and tried not to move—not to breathe—as the knife’s point slowly pressed against the thin layers of skin beneath his jawline. 

“I collect all sorts of treasures here, as you can see,” Vale mused, playing with the dagger’s edge and forcing Jonah’s head back as far as it would go. “You, my dear, shall be my prized possession.” His voice was a low, pleased hum as he slid the tip of the knife up and down Jonah’s neck. Jonah kept his head all the way back, terrified of moving suddenly and causing the knife to slice up his throat. The boy shook in place as he drew in a slow, cautious breath, trying to stay as frozen as a statue as the Captain played with the dagger. 

The tip pressed in deeper, and Jonah bit back a small, shocked cry—that had definitely broken skin, he thought miserably. He grit his teeth and hissed as the Captain dragged the blade of the dagger down, down, to his collarbone again, before suddenly swiping to the side like the stroke of a paintbrush, leaving another thin, bloody slice across the dip in his collarbone. 

Jonah didn’t dare move, didn’t dare crane his head down to try and look at it, to see whether that slow, warm trickle he felt was indeed his own blood. He kept his head back, neck bared submissively, and let the Captain slice him open—and slice him he did. Vale left long, decorative lines down both sides of Jonah’s neck, just deep enough to get a nice trickle of blood from each of the wounds. 

Jonah was shaking in fear, tensing every muscle in his body to avoid twitching into the blade. A pained, terrified whimper escaped his bitten lips at one particularly agonizing slice, and he nearly winced when he anticipated the Captain’s ire at his reaction. 

“Oh now, don’t be scared little one,” Vale cooed, his smile all teeth, like that of a wolf discovering a rabbit in a trap. “I like the little sounds you make.” 

Jonah whined in fear at that—he wasn’t even trying to give the Captain what he wanted, it just seemed to happen anyway. Vale gave a low chuckle, seemingly pleased with the way his new slave boy was responding. 

At last, the knife left his throat, and Jonah finally, tentatively, allowed himself to draw a full breath. Vale loomed down over him, leaning forward until he was in the boy’s line of sight. He worried the tip of the dagger against Jonah’s bottom lip, using a downward motion to pry the boy’s mouth open and lower his head a bit. Jonah panted against the blade now, his head dizzy with fear. The tears in his eyes made the Captain’s face waver above him as if he were gazing up at him from beneath the surface of a pool. He blinked, and a droplet broke the confines of his eyelids and slid down his cheek. He didn’t risk raising a hand to wipe it away. 

Sebástian held the knife sideways at the entrance to Jonah’s mouth, laying the metal surface across the boy’s bottom lip. 

“Lick it clean, now, slave,” Vale ordered, his smile wide and his voice smooth like the dark velvet beneath Jonah’s thighs. 

Like a horse that could be spooked by the snapping of a mere twig, Jonah tentatively pushed his tongue out of his mouth to lick at the tip of the dagger. It tasted metallic, like iron, as he lapped at his own blood. When the blood had been licked away, Jonah carefully wound his tongue beneath the blade to polish its underside with his saliva. More tears were falling now. He just wanted the knife to be put away. He could still feel blood running slowly down his neck, mixed now with the saltiness of tears that ran unburdened down the sides of his face.

When Vale was satisfied at last, the dagger was pulled away and sheathed back into its holster, and Jonah began panting hard—realizing only now how little he’d allowed himself to breathe throughout the entire time he’d been held at knifepoint. He felt so lightheaded—perhaps from the sudden rush of oxygen after what felt like ages of partial deprivation, or perhaps from the sheer terror of how close he’d come to getting fatally sliced open—likely a mix of both.

“That really is a lovely little number they’ve put you in,” Sebástian commented, trailing his fingers down the fabric that barely clung to the edge of Jonah’s shoulder. “It looks so nice on you. In fact, I think I’ve decided not to slice it off of you this time, just so you can wear it again for me.” 

“Um, thank you M-master,” Jonah whispered, still trying to get his head to stop spinning, trying to will away that nauseating feeling—all his fear and adrenaline had mixed now with the relief that the dagger was no longer being pressed up against his skin.

“Now, let’s get you out of that so I can fully enjoy you,” Vale smiled as he said it, beginning to unwrap the chain from the fabric loops at Jonah’s torso. 

Jonah tried to gulp down the heavy lump that trapped itself in his throat—there really was no getting out of this. This was going to happen. The man was armed and he would see the brand and he would— he would— 

There was nothing Jonah could do to stop whatever happened next. 

༻✦༺

First night with the Captain will be split into multiple parts! I was having so much fun I got carried away with just the foreplay! Actual noncon will start in the next part, stay tuned <33

LA SIRENA TAGLIST

@spookyboywhump @livelaughwhump @phoenixpromptsandstuff @unforgivenn @befuddled-calico-whump

@bloodthirsty-squirrel @writing-for-gold @thesecretgardenofmymind @unorganisedalienrubbish @thekneelingdoll

@victimeyez @veilofvoices @the-scrapegoat @ladygwennn @atomicsandwichprince 

@hueningplushie @girlsdogmotif @hikari-hat @whumpedydump @morning-star-whump 

“Alejandro,” Crowe greeted the man with a friendly tone and a nod of his head. “I’ve brought you the new little plaything.” Jonah winced. He didn’t like the implications of that word one bit. 

Crowe gave Jonah a shove from behind, causing him to nearly trip in the chains as he stumbled forward to catch himself. 

“Ah, so good of you to deliver him,” Alejandro’s voice was smooth and warm, almost too warm. He stepped closer, and Jonah felt his cheeks flush at the way the lantern-light illuminated the man’s face. 

Alejandro was stupidly beautiful—with caramel skin that seemed to glow in the golden gleam of the lanterns, brows that arched in perfect symmetry, and long, dark eyelashes that fluttered when he blinked down at Jonah and let his lips curl up into what Jonah might have interpreted as a comforting smile, had it not been for the devilish twinkle in his brown eyes. His hair was long, down to the middle of his spine, and he let it hang freely without the use of a ribbon to hold it back. The man’s cream-colored tunic hung loosely off his shoulders, unbuttoned down to his mid-torso. His sleeves had been rolled up to just above his elbows, revealing several gold bracelets around his wrists.

“Hello, dear Jonah,” Alejandro purred, and Jonah felt a chill run up his spine for a reason he couldn’t pin down. Perhaps it was the surprise that someone had actually addressed him by name. 

Jonah had to crane his head upwards as the man approached him, and he fidgeted with his hands, nervous to be essentially trapped between the two men who were exchanging him like he was a parcel at a postage station. Alejandro extended a hand and slowly trailed a tanned finger down the side of Jonah’s face, and Jonah felt himself shake a little as he tried not to move. He flicked his eyes down, suddenly more nervous than before. He had no idea what kind of man he would be dealing with now, and he did not want to anger him so soon. 

“Ay.. Que bonito..” the man hummed, and Jonah felt his face redden deeper as that single finger lifted beneath his chin. 

“Mírame, amor,” Alejandro said, and Jonah knew it was an order, despite the smooth and almost gentle way the man had said it. ‘Look at me,’ and Jonah did, lifting eyes to meet Alejandro’s dewy brown gaze.

Suddenly, Aljenadro broke their eye contact to look behind Jonah at Crowe, and his expression instantly narrowed to something bordering on irritation. 

“He reeks of sex, Crowe,” Alejandro said, his tone flat when he addressed the other man. “Why is that?” There was a hint of accusation in his voice now. “You know he’s not to be—”

“Yeahh, yeah,” Crowe cut him off impatiently, as if he’d been expecting this very question. “Don’t look at me. He only got that way after I left him with Jaxon,” he said, rolling his eyes. 

“Pinche cabrón..” Alejandro muttered. “Can’t he fucking keep his hands to himself for once?” There was annoyance in his tone, but the warmth returned to his eyes when he looked back at Jonah. 

Alejandro’s finger traced Jonah’s jawline. “Though,” he mused, “Seeing the little thing in person, I can see why he wanted to sample a taste..”

“Yes, yes, he’s very pretty,” said Crowe, who seemed keen on rushing the interaction. Alejandro, on the other hand, took his sweet time, touching Jonah’s face before sliding his fingers down to the bruises on his neck. 

“Hm,” Alejandro frowned. “Captain won’t like this,” he said, tapping at the quickly darkening bruises on Jonah’s neck. “Don’t suppose you know anything about these finger marks do you?” Alejandro quirked an eyebrow at Crowe. 

“It’s as I said. You can fucking ask Jaxon.” Crowe gritted out. “I’ve hardly touched the brat.” Jonah might’ve laughed at the irony if he weren’t so unsettled—he was still sore from Crowe kicking him into the floor.

“And the bruise on his cheekbone?” Alejandro questioned, like a detective investigating every little clue at a crime scene.

“Ahh.. Ahah..” Crowe chuckled a bit nervously, scratching at the back of his head. “That might’ve been my doin’. But Graves an’ I had to get the little rat to stop thrashing so we could restrain him this morning. I’m sure you understand.”

“Hmn,” Alejandro gave a less-than-enthused, flat hum at the confession, but didn’t push it further. 

“Well, nothing a little touching up won’t fix,” his voice ricocheted back into warmth and he smiled back at Jonah, as if to reassure him. “Sí, mi amor?” 

Jonah was more than willing to let them talk over him, it nearly surprised him that he was being directly addressed. 

“Um, y-yes, Sir,” he said quietly, hoping that was the correct answer. 

“Good boy,” Aljenadro cooed, petting Jonah’s hair with his hand.

Jonah’s shoulders slumped just slightly in relief. Despite his slight invasiveness, this man was being nice to him so far, and Jonah hoped things would stay that way. As long as he obeyed perfectly. He would. He’d be perfect. He swore it to himself. 

“Look, I’ve got shit to do,” Crowe said abruptly, cutting through the moment of silence. “So if you don’t mind—”

“Sí, sí,” Alejandro said, waving him out with his hand. “Puedes ir, por Dios.” 

Crowe exhaled sharply and handed something small over to Alehandro, who took it in his hand. Jonah didn’t see what it was, but he saw Alejandro slip the object into his pocket. 

Then, Jonah heard Crowe’s impatient footsteps as he exited through the door, sliding it shut behind him. Alejandro’s eyes watched the door close over Jonah’s shoulder, before looking down at the little slave once more. 

The smile crept back onto his face—it looked warm, encouraging even, if Jonah pretended not to notice the mischief in his eyes. Perhaps Jonah was only imagining it—he wanted to be so lucky. At the very least, Jonah was hoping he’d get a bath. The idea of it sparked hope in his chest—he so desperately wanted to get clean after everything that had happened with Jaxon. 

“Now then, cariño,” Alejandro was cooing at him again. “Let’s get you all cleaned up for the Captain, shall we?” 

“Yes, Sir! Th-thank you, Sir,” Jonah exclaimed, thrilled at the prospect of a bath. He was so beyond grateful to hear it that his brain seemed to filter out the second half of that sentence—’for the Capitan.’ He just truly couldn’t believe he was about to be able to bathe in that glamorous tub. 

Shoving down the thought of his inevitable fate, his heart filled with hope so quickly he felt as if it might spill over, and he let Alejandro take his hand in his and lead him over to a changing area behind a folding paper curtain. 

Alejandro positioned Jonah and circled him slowly, his hand on his chin, as if appraising him. Jonah didn’t take his eyes off the bathtub, hungrily eyeing the clear water within.

“You’re in quite a state, amor,” Alejandro commented, running a finger down the lash scars on Jonah’s back. “I’d almost hate to see if what’s beneath the trousers is worse.” Jonah felt chills rise to the surface of his skin. It sounded like a warning. 

“It's, it’s not as bad.. Sir..” Jonah promised sheepishly. It was true, the state of his torso and back really was the worst of it. Between all the burns, the whip scars, and the brand, Carlisle had really done a number on him over the years. 

“You’re lucky you’ve got a pretty face,” Alejandro remarked, his voice warm once again, as though it were a simple compliment and not laced heavily with implication. He ran his hand down Jonah’s front as he walked around him, until they stood face to face once more. 

“I’m going to need you to strip for me, pretty.” There was the order, Jonah thought. He should’ve expected it. Although the purpose of the folding curtain seemed lost on him now, if Alejandro was just going to stand there and watch him change. He’d been hoping he’d get some time alone in the bath, though in hindsight that dream felt rather stupid. He should’ve known they wouldn’t just leave him alone unsupervised, especially in a room like this. 

“Sir..” Jonah said quietly, desperately not wanting to anger him—he didn’t know Alejandro well enough yet to know the limits of his temper. ”How should I.. Um, the, the chains, Sir, um.. They’ll catch on the fabric..” Please don’t snap please don’t snap please don’t—

Alejandro just gave a small hum. “I’ve got just the thing for that, but you’re going to have to be very good for me and do just as I say.” Jonah nodded eagerly, and Alejandro reached into his pocket and withdrew a small key. Jonah’s heart leapt—so there was a key—the chains could be removed.

“Try anything stupid, and I will make you instantly regret it,” Alejandro warned, bending down to unlock one of the padlocks on Jonah’s right ankle. Jonah flexed the joint when the shackle was removed, grateful for the moments of freedom from the bite of the metal. Jonah’s heart sank a bit when Alejandro didn’t undo the other side, and simply stood up once more, pocketing the key. 

“Off,” he ordered, gesturing to Jonah’s trousers. Jonah turned around, shuffling awkwardly as he maneuvered himself with the chain dragging from his left foot.

Alejandro chuckled behind him. “You can go ahead and turn around, but you won’t have any modesty to protect here.”

Jonah didn’t say anything, trying to ignore the heat of embarrassment rising in his cheeks as he slid his trousers and boxers from his thin waist to the floor. Balancing on his right foot, he pulled the fabric free from the chain, and tried to ignore the feeling of Alejandro’s eyes on his bare body as he folded the pieces of fabric and set them on the nearby dressing stool.

“Look at me,” came Alejandro’s order, and Jonah bit his lip as he turned back around, instinctively bringing his hands down between his legs to try and retain even an ounce of dignity. Alejandro knelt once more and re-fastened the shackle around his right ankle, locking the padlock into place, and Jonah felt a pang of dismay when he realized he wouldn’t even be allowed to bathe with his ankles free of the chains. 

“These stay on as a safety measure,” Alejandro warned, flicking his eyes up to Jonah’s disappointed expression. The taller man stood and slid his fingers fondly through Jonah’s hair. “I’m sure you understand, mi amor,” he cooed warmly, in a way that made Jonah want to agree with everything the man said.

“Yes, Sir,” Jonah said quietly, trying not to look too disappointed. He felt foolish. He shouldn’t have expected it in the first place. 

“Now, ven acá,” he said, like he was luring a small animal out from its hiding place. Alejandro brought a gentle hand to the back of Jonah’s neck and led him over to the edge of the tub. Jonah was suddenly fine with the presence of the shackles. Anything if it meant he got to sink into the water that filled that luxurious bathtub.

With the chain fastened to his ankles, Jonah couldn’t lift his foot high enough to clear the edge of the tub, so Alejandro lifted him into a bridal-style carry and set him down into the water below. Jonah tried and failed to suppress a sigh of relief when he felt himself engulfed in the cool, clear water. 

Alejandro left him there to go rummage through the many bottles and jars that lined the shelves along the wall, and Jonah took the chance to sink all the way in, closing his eyes and sliding himself down until his head slipped below the surface. He let the water engulf his face and soak his hair, enjoying a few moments of true peace and silence before he rose back up to breathe. It was the first good feeling he’d felt since he’d woken up in that barrel.

Alejandro had lined up several products on the little side table beside the tub, and was already uncorking one of the bottles. He tipped it into his hand and let a decent amount of the shimmering pinkish soap fill his palm, before he set it back down on the table. 

It was at this point that Jonah realized he wasn’t just going to be given soaps and left to his own devices. Of course not. Alejandro reached his hands out and began to rub the soap into the boy’s hair. Jonah didn’t protest, and when he let it happen, it actually felt kind of nice. 

Alejandro had Jonah dunk his head once more so he could rinse the soap out of his hair, and when he resurfaced, he saw Alejandro sitting back on the small stool, pouring a second liquid—light blue this time–into the palm of his hand. 

“I’m going to ask you to stand up now, cariño.”

“W-wait,” Jonah paled. “I— I can wash myself, I can d-do it myself, Sir, please—”

Alejandro’s eyes snapped up at him, suddenly narrowed and stern. Jonah let out a tiny fearful squeak at the look alone—it scared him to be so vulnerable with someone that was angry. He didn’t want Alejandro to be angry. 

“S-sorry, I’m sorry, Sir—” Jonah immediately pivoted into damage control, and the apology seemed to melt the irritation from Alejandro’s eyes. His brow unfurrowed, and he gave a small smile in its stead. 

“That’s better,” he hummed, standing along with the boy and beginning to rub the soap into Jonah’s chest. 

Jonah swallowed the lump in his throat and flicked his eyes away, trying to pretend there weren’t hands on him right now, trying to mentally sink back into the water where he could float in peace. 

“Arms up,” Alejandro ordered, a level of sternness back in his voice that made Jonah obey immediately. Jonah could smell the fruity scent wafting through the air as Alejandro spread it along his skin. He ran the soap down Jonah’s arms, neck, face, and torso, scrubbing away at every inch of skin, before circling behind him and repeating the motion on his scarred back. 

“The captain has an affinity for luxury soaps—you’re lucky he’s letting me use them on you. Probably more expensive than any you’ve used in your life.” 

“Thank you, Sir,” Jonah said timidly, hoping that was the correct response.

“He’s truly a man of taste, you should know. Enjoys the finer things,” Alejandro spoke as he scrubbed, his voice smooth as the scented soaps he lathered over Jonah’s scarred back. “I suppose he’s a lot like me, in that regard,” Alejandro mused. 

“Perhaps that’s what drew him to recruit me in the first place.. Though I’m not like you,” Alejandro said with an audible smirk. “You’re… special. And we’re going to make you shine for the Captain.” 

The lump his throat seemed to double in size at the implication, and Jonah said nothing at first, but when a moment of silence extended between them, he murmured a “Yes, Sir,” just to be safe, in case Alejandro wanted a response. 

He heard Alejandro’s pleased hum from behind him, the low vibration in his chest was audible to Jonah in their too-close proximity. He could feel Alejandro’s breath on the back of his neck. 

Jonah lowered his arms when Alejandro instructed him to. He was being the perfect doll. His heart froze for a moment when he saw Alejandro pour more of the blue soap into his hands and he realized what came next.

“Sir, c-can I— please—”

“Ay, don’t test me, niño,” Alejandro hissed, his eyes narrowed to serpentine slits, and Jonah snapped back into obedient silence once more. 

The pleasant expression was back on Alejandro’s face the moment Jonah obeyed, and Jonah felt he was going to get whiplash with the speed at which the man’s demeanor seemed to change. Just be good, just be good, Jonah repeated in his mind, and he squeezed his eyes shut when he felt Alejandro’s hands sliding down to his lower body. 

Jonah balled his fingers into fists until he felt his nails digging into his palms. Alejandro was in no rush, it seemed, and he took his time feeling Jonah’s skin between his legs, rubbing the soap in little circles against his most sensitive areas. Jonah bit his lip and bit back a whine—he couldn’t help the way his body reacted to the stimulation. He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until Alejandro’s hands finally pulled away, and Jonah found himself panting slightly, his head spinning a bit when he allowed himself to reopen his eyes. 

“Sit, mi amor,” Alejandro instructed, and Jonah obeyed, grateful to sink back into the water. Alejandro sat upon the low stool and rinsed his hands in the bath, before taking one of Jonah’s arms and scrubbing his skin beneath the surface of the water to get all the soap off. 

Jonah supposed there was no point in insisting again that he could do it himself. He’d accepted, with a healthy layer of dismay, that that wasn’t the point. Alejandro was to do it, and to make sure it was done perfectly. 

When he’d rinsed the boy’s upper body, he slid his hands even lower until he was rubbing Jonah between his legs beneath the surface of the water. Jonah’s eyes squeezed shut again—Alejandro’s nimble fingers forced a small gasp and an embarrassing whine out of the boy before Jonah could catch it, and he quickly held his breath again, gripping the sides of his legs with his hands.

Suddenly, Jonah felt Alejandro’s fingers probing at his entrance. He whimpered uncontrollably, but when those fingertips started pressing inside him, he gasped, panic gripping at his chest like the claws of a tiger, and his hands snapped up and seized Alejandro’s wrist fiercely. Jonah cried out and shoved his hand away furiously—not even thinking—just running on sheer frantic panic at the way he did not want those fingers probing through his insides—

Alejandro’s hand shot up and fisted into Jonah’s hair. Without warning, Alejandro shoved Jonah’s head down hard, down beneath the surface of the water and held him there. Jonah thrashed as he was forced underwater, his hands clawing and scratching frantically at Alejandro’s arm, trying to free himself. Jonah breathed in a gulp of water in sheer shock—fuckfuckfuckfuck—- His fingernails tore at the other man’s skin, desperate to free himself from Alejandro’s vice grip. 

Alejandro added a second hand, pressing down on Jonah’s face to bolster the grip in his hair. He held him all the way under, gritting his teeth and cursing under his breath as the boy thrashed and kicked and scratched against him. The water Jonah kicked up splashed on Alejandro’s tunic until it was soaked, and Alejandro growled as he shoved Jonah’s head down harder until it slammed against the base of the tub. He dragged him up a few inches and slammed him down again, and again, and again, until finally, Jonah went limp beneath him. 

At last, Alejandro dragged Jonah’s head back above the surface. The boy heaved and wretched, coughing up mouthfuls of water and letting out rough, full-body sobs that shook his entire form as he shuddered in Alejandro’s grip. At last, Alejandro released him, and Jonah continued to cough and gasp for several more long moments, tears running down his face to greet the bath water that soaked him. 

“You stupid fucking mutt,” Alejandro snapped, every ounce of vitriol he had layered thick in his voice. “How dare you. I fucking warned you what would happen.” 

Jonah sobbed into his hands. “I’msorry—“ he slurred. “I’msorry I’msorry—hiic— I’msorry, Sir—“  his voice cracked into another broken cry. 

Alejandro only huffed a breath of irritation. Giving Jonah almost no time to recover from his near-drowning, Alejandro suddenly reached into the water and gripped the chain that bound Jonah’s ankles together. Jonah gasped, still breathless, as Alejandro tugged the chain upwards and dragged Jonah’s body forward until he could prop the boy’s feet up on the edge of the bathtub. Jonah really did feel like a doll—being touched and shoved and posed and manipulated like he couldn't do a damned thing on his own. He hated the feeling, but his head was still spinning, and he feared Alejandro’s wrath enough not to try to resist again. 

More soap in his hands, and Alejandro was rubbing circles into the skin on Jonah’s legs, making his way down to the boy’s feet. Jonah tried not to twitch too much when he felt the man’s fingers between his toes, but it was weirdly sensitive there in a way that almost felt ticklish. It was still a thousand times better than feeling Alejandro’s fingers molesting him between his legs, or shoving his head underwater, so he endured it without a word, only sniffling and trying to suppress the tears that still leaked stubbornly from his eyes.

Eventually, his crying gave way to a sort of numbness, and Jonah felt himself zone out as Alejandro lay his legs back beneath the water once more and scrubbed the soap from his skin. He let himself drift away in his mind, to a calming seashore, the waves lapping and kissing at the white sand, a serene sunset overhead dappling the clouds with shades of pink and orange. 

He let himself float there, drifting somewhere in the seafoam, until he felt a sharp tug in his hair and heard an audible snap that yanked him away and shoved him back into reality—back into the ornate bathtub, deep below the decks of the ship. 

“Oye, niño,” Alejandro said sharply, snapping his fingers in front of Jonah’s face. “Parate,” he ordered, and Jonah obeyed numbly, standing on shaking legs and trying to stop the room from swimming around him. 

Alejandro stood and walked to retrieve a large towel from a nearby cabinet. He wrapped it around Jonah and worked the fabric into Jonah’s soaking wet hair before drying the rest of his upper body. With no warning, Alejandro scooped Jonah up into a bridal carry and set him down on a mat on the floor beside the edge of the tub, and when Jonah caught his balance, the man dragged the towel down his legs before wrapping it around his shoulders and releasing him. Jonah gleaned that Alejandro was finished drying him, and he reached up to grip the edges of the towel now and hold it tightly around himself, eager to recover some semblance of modesty in the presence of the man who controlled everything in his life right now. 

Jonah’s eyes flickered up to the man’s face to assess whether this was allowed, and was surprised when he was once again met with a warm dewy gaze. 

“You’ll need to be better behaved with the Captain, you know. He won’t be as forgiving.” It was a terrifying warning, but he said it so pleasantly that his tone would’ve felt comforting if Jonah didn’t understand the meaning of the words. It was jarring to hear promises of pain presented with such warmth. 

“Ven, cariño,” Alejandro said, leading Jonah over to the vanity to sit upon the stool that rested in front of it. 

Joanh stayed very quiet and very still, save for the little “Yes, Sir,” he uttered automatically out of force of habit. 

Alejandro busied himself with touching up the bruising on Jonah’s face and neck, dabbing a bit of skin-colored cream on with a sponge and dusting it with a thin layer of powder.

“There, that’s much better, don’t you think?” Alejandro mused, and Jonah glanced into the mirror. Indeed, the bruises had virtually disappeared, though the makeup did nothing for the dull pain he still felt throbbing in his neck where Jaxon’s hands had nearly squeezed him into unconsciousness. 

Jonah watched, still and pliant, as Alejandro retrieved a bundle of sheer fabric from a trunk on the other side of the room. When the man unfolded it and held it out, Jonah felt a spike of dread in his chest and a flash of heat beneath the skin of his cheeks. 

The garment was barely something one might consider clothing. It was a short slip dress, with what looked to be large gaps on the front and back of it. When Jonah allowed it to be slipped over his head, the shape of the piece made his eyes widen at the way it hugged at his body. The pale fabric was practically see-through, and was almost completely backless. The front of it was cut so deep it didn’t even have a neckline, exposing his chest and torso all the way down to his waist. 

A series of small loops lined the hems at the front of it, and their presence began to make more sense when Alejandro produced a long length of the thinnest golden chain Jonah had ever seen. He watched, embarrassment and dread twisting like a python in his stomach, as Alejandro wove the delicate chain through the loops of the garment in a corset-like pattern. When he was finished, the gold decorated Jonah’s torso in long zig-zag stripes. 

Alejandro stepped back and hummed in approval. “Ay, que bonito.. It looks so beautiful on you, cariño,” he purred, running his fingers down Jonah’s exposed skin and cupping his thin waist.

Jonah felt like he’d been wrapped up like a present, designed to tempt and tantalize before finally being opened. His hips and lower regions were barely covered by the short dress, and he felt far more like an object than a person dressed in this ridiculous getup. He felt the tears returning to his eyes as he looked at himself in the mirror. He knew he was getting dressed up to be devoured. 

“Oh, I’ve really outdone myself this time, haven’t I,” Alejandro hummed, sliding a hand down Jonah’s bare back. “The Captain will love you like this.” Jonah felt the serpent in his stomach twist his insides around as the creeping dread spiked into a hopeless, humiliated terror.

“Please..” he said softly, though he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. He knew there was nothing he could do, nothing Alejandro would do, to stop what was about to happen to him. 

It would make what had happened with Jaxon seem like a sunny walk in the park. Jonah shook as tears streaked down his face, and choked back a small cry of despair when he saw Alejandro’s face twist into a frown of disapproval.

“Ay, don’t cry, niño,” Alejandro ordered, swiping away the droplets that ran down his cheeks. “You’ll mess up your makeup.”

Jonah sniffled and hiccuped, trying to stop the tears. “I— I’m s-sorry, Sir, I’m sorry—” he was feeling like a broken record again. 

Like the everchanging winds, Alejandro’s expression suddenly melted into that of sympathy. “Pobrecito..” he cooed, wrapping his arms around Jonah’s shoulders and guiding his head to rest on the man’s exposed chest. “You’ll be okay, amor. Just be a good little boy and obey, and it will all be okay.” 

Jonah hiccuped into the man’s chest, and tried desperately to convince himself that Alejandro was telling him the truth. 

༻✦༺

Ohhh poor baby Jonah’s really in it now…

LA SIRENA TAGLIST

@spookyboywhump @livelaughwhump @phoenixpromptsandstuff @unforgivenn @befuddled-calico-whump

@bloodthirsty-squirrel @writing-for-gold @thesecretgardenofmymind @unorganisedalienrubbish @thekneelingdoll

@victimeyez @veilofvoices @the-scrapegoat @ladygwennn @atomicsandwichprince 

“Yes, Sir,” his voice was nearly a whisper, and his breath caught in his throat when Jaxon started touching him again. He ran his hands up Jonah’s torso, before wrapping his fingers around Jonah’s neck and giving an experimental little squeeze. Jonah pleaded with his eyes for Jaxon to please not squeeze any tighter. He hated being choked. It reminded him of the way Carlisle would hold him down by the neck and squeeze his throat until he passed out, only to keep fucking him through his unconsciousness. When he finally decided to let go, Jonah would come slowly back to his surroundings, as if summoned from the throes of a nightmare, only to realize that he was still being pinned down and split open by his master. One nightmare for another. And Carlisle would do it again, and again, and again, thrusting Jonah in and out between realms until he couldn't form a single thought beyond ‘No, no, please— no—’

Perhaps Jaxon could see the panic in Jonah’s eyes, for his own gaze widened for just a split second before narrowing back into a nasty snicker. But Jaxon didn’t comment on it, and slid his hands down Jonah’s chest to tug at his nipples. 

“Aa—aah!” Jonah instantly tried to seal his lips shut the moment the sound was forced out, a fierce heat of embarrassment flushing his cheeks when he realized it had happened. He hadn’t meant to—he was always just so ridiculously sensitive there. Carlisle had taken advantage of it constantly. 

Jaxon let out a low chuckle, “My.. Sensitive little thing, aren’t you..” Another statement, phrased like a question. Jonah did not answer him this time, instead biting away at his lower lip to try and muffle any further sound that came out. 

Jaxon, as if taking it as a personal challenge, tugged and twisted sharply on both sides of his chest at once until Jonah’s back forcibly arched up into the motion and he cried out—tears welled up in his eyes at the sheer humiliation of it all. He did not want to be giving Jaxon what he wanted, but Jaxon’s thrilled expression told him that he—or rather, his body—was doing exactly that. 

Jonah let out pathetic, closed mouth whimpers as Jaxon continued his assault, raking nails down his scarred torso and tugging at the sensitive little buds on his chest. At some point, Jaxon’s hands had wound around Jonah’s throat again, and his body reacted automatically—he didn’t even think about it—his hands snapped up and he gripped Jaxon’s wrist, tugging at it to try and make him let go. 

“Please, Sir—” Jonah pleaded. “Please don’t—”

Jaxon cut him off with a fierce slap to the face with his other hand, and Jonah’s head snapped to the side. The force of the blow made his head spin—Jaxon had used the base of his palm for that, surely, for the pain of it reverberated through his cheekbone in a way that Jonah knew would leave a bruise. 

“You stupid fucking slut, don’t you dare try and stop me,” Jaxon spat venom down at Jonah, a previously unseen rage in his eyes. 

“That’s it, I won’t tolerate this,” Jaxon said decisively, before pushing up off of Jonah and climbing down off of the table.

For one brief, stupid moment, Jonah celebrated a small victory. He’d gotten Jaxon to stop.

He rode that high for a flash of a second, before his world came crashing down again when Jaxon reached for him once more and he felt himself being hauled over onto his front. 

“W-wait, Sir—” Jonah begged, no idea what was about to happen to him instead. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Sir, I won’t do it aga—”

“Shut up,” Jaxon growled, and Jonah’s blood ran cold when he felt Jaxon dragging his arms back behind him again.

Jonah tried to twist away—a stupid effort, really—for he paid for it instantly when Jaxon gripped his hair sharply and pulled back, forcing Jonah’s head to crane upwards painfully before Jaxon slammed his face back down into the table so hard Jonah saw stars. 

Jonah gasped at the shock of the impact, before Jaxon did it a second time, just for good measure. Sparks popped and danced in his vision, and Jonah moaned in pain against the wood. This had happened to him far too many times today—at this rate, he’d be well concussed before sundown. 

Jaxon slid his belt—Italian leather—off in one swift motion, making quick work of restraining the boy’s hands behind him. Jonah was still dazed, swimming in the sea of stars that flickered behind his eyelids, and he barely even registered what was happening before he felt a grip at his shoulder and realized he was being rolled back onto his front again.

He panted for air, still trying to recover from the pounding agony in his head, while Jaxon climbed back on top of him and gripped his hair in a fist. Jaxon leaned down to study Jonah’s face. The boy’s eyes were lidded and unfocused now, his lips were parted and wet with what was probably drool. He looked dizzy and pained and so fucking out of it—it was a beautiful sight in Jaxon’s eyes. 

Jaxon took advantage of the slave’s parted lips, lifting his other hand to shove two fingers into the boy’s panting mouth. Jonah’s eyes went wide with shock at the intrusion, and he almost bit down on instinct before his mind caught up with him and forced him to accept it without resistance. Don’t make it worse don’t make it worse don’t make it worse—

Jaxon slid his digits across Jonah’s teeth, along his tongue, giving the muscle a firm tug and pulling an embarrassing cry of pain from Jonah’s throat. Jaxon snickered, all too pleased with himself, and he drove his fingers in further to force them into the back of the boy’s throat. 

Jonah gagged harshly as Jaxon jabbed the back of his throat with his fingertips, causing the muscles within to spasm around the intrusion. Jonah twisted in his bindings, begging with choked gagging noises and tearful eyes for Jaxon to fucking stop already. He’d beg with words if he could—oh, he would beg so, so well—but there was nothing he could do but twitch against the belt and writhe beneath Jaxon’s hips as his mouth was invaded. 

Jonah, to his horror, could feel Jaxon stiffening over him. The gap between their hips was closing rapidly as Jaxon grew harder in his trousers until the shape of it was pressing down into Jonah’s pelvis.

“Oh, yeahh,” Jaxon nearly moaned. “I bet your throat would feel reeally nice..” 

Jonah’s eyes shot wide open, his chest spiking with dread. He tried to shake his head, whining out some desperate sound that might have meant “Stop,” or “Please don’t,” had he been able to speak. Jaxon simply ignored him, relishing in the fun he was having playing with the little slave boy’s mouth.

After what felt like a lifetime, Jaxon finally pulled his fingers from Jonah’s mouth, and Jonah panted hard as a string of drool stretched from his glistening lips to Jaxon’s now dripping fingers. Jonah closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recover. It was over. He’d endured it, and now it was over. 

Jonah tried to comfort himself with the thought, but his shred of hope was ripped away suddenly when he heard Jaxon’s zipper coming undone. Jonah’s eyes shot open in panic. Shit—he was really about to—

“No! Sir, please don’t— Please! I’ll, I’ll be good just, just please—”

“Oh, fucking relax,” Jaxon snapped, bringing his saliva-slicked fingers to his waist to wrap around his now exposed length. Jaxon groaned when his hand slid down, slickening the surface with Jonah’s drool, before sliding up again, causing Jaxon’s hips to twitch forward in pleasure as he chased it. 

Jonah was whimpering now, not sure what was about to happen, but sure it was absolutely nothing that would let him ‘fucking relax.’

“C’mon pup, don’t give me that look,” Jaxon had a smug, almost blissful smile back on his face. His eyes looked just a bit more lidded than usual now as he stroked himself against Jonah’s bare stomach. 

“It’s a real fucking shame you know,” Jaxon panted, “but I’m not going to fuck you, pet. At least, not today.” 

Jonah blinked up at him, not even sure if he believed him.

Jaxon chuckled at Jonah’s incredulous expression. “See, it's an awful shame, puppy, but we’re not allowed to shove into your pretty holes until the Captain has claimed you first.”

Jonah should have been relieved to hear it, that Jaxon wouldn’t fuck him like this—right there on the table, with Sawyer kneeling on the floor in the very same room. But Jonah felt a spike of horror instead at Jaxon’s words, for it meant his worst fears were confirmed—what the Captain would do to him—what he was there for—the real reason he’d been taken captive.

Jaxon just continued his musings like it was nothing. “But, I suppose I'll have to make do like this.. And besides, you’re so pretty when you’re in pain. I trust you’ll make those gorgeous noises for me until you get me off, yeah?” 

Jonah was trying and failing to hold back his tears. “P-please, Sir, just let me up— Please I, I want to be good, I don’t want to— I don’t want to— to do this— please, Sir—“ 

Jonah was cut off when Jaxon brought his free hand down hard on the side of Jonah’s face. He hit the boy savagely, once—twice—a third time—and Jonah cried out in pain and choked out a sob as his face was assaulted. Jaxon’s other hand never stopped stroking himself. His hips were twitching faster—he was getting closer now.

“Try again, puppy!” Jaxon called, projecting his voice so it boomed throughout the room. 

“AahHH—! I’m sorry I’m sorry!! I’msorry Sir!!” Jonah cried, sobbing through his words, desperate for the pain to stop. 

At last, Jaxon finally stopped hitting him, letting his hand hover in the air above Jonah’s face, poised to slap him again. 

“You gonna be good for me, then?” Jaxon challenged, daring Jonah to fuck this up again and give him another excuse to brutalize the boy. 

“Yes, Sir!” Jonah cried. “Yes Sir, Yes Sir!! Be good! I’ll— I’ll be, be good S-sir!” Jonah was fully sobbing now, as Jaxon’s free hand gripped his sore face and squeezed his cheeks harshly. Tears spilled down his cheeks and ran onto Jaxon’s fingers. 

Jaxon lifted his hand to lap at the tears on his own skin, before cracking a cruel smile and leaning down. Jaxon let his tongue slip out from between his lips and he slowly lapped at the fresh tear streaks that cascaded down Jonah’s reddened face. Jonah shuddered at the feeling of the man’s tongue on his face—as if this couldn’t get any more invasive and humiliating—

Then, to his horror, Jaxon’s free hand was back around his throat, squeezing tighter than before, and Jonah twisted around in vain, his arms still tied uselessly behind him. He gagged and spluttered against Jaxon’s fierce grip, until Jaxon’s fingers tightened even further and cut off Jonah’s breath entirely. At that point, the boy went silent, thrashing in Jaxon’s grip.

Sawyer hadn’t uttered a word this entire time, perhaps out of fear of facing the same treatment—and the only sounds left in the room were the wet sounds of Jaxon fucking into his own hand and his heavy shuddering breath as he lost himself in his own pleasure. 

“Fuck—I’m so close, puppy,” Jaxon panted. “Should I let you have some air?” 

In his rational mind, Jonah would probably rather be unconscious for this, but the process of getting there hurt so fucking much—every fiber of his being was screaming for air. Jonah opened his teary red eyes and pleaded wordlessly with his expression. 

Jaxon squeezed his throat a few moments longer, just to savor it, and when he saw Jonah’s eyes rolling back, his lips turning blue, Jaxon knew the boy was on the brink of unconsciousness—right about to pass out. Then, he finally released him, just seconds before the boy slipped beneath the waves.

The moment Jaxon let go, Jonah was gasping furiously, his lungs burning and straining to draw in as much air as possible. His neck throbbed as Jaxon drew his hand away, and Jonah heaved fresh sobs in its blessed absence. Perhaps it was the way Jonah sounded right then, or perhaps the way he looked up at Jaxon as he desperately cried and gasped for air, but it was all too much for Jaxon—he was losing it—it was driving him over the edge and—

Jaxon squeezed his eyes shut and let out a guttural moan, biting down on his lip and riding out his orgasm as he spilled hot ropes all over Jonah’s bare stomach and chest. Jonah sobbed harder when he felt the warm substance splash over his skin, and the sight of him like that made Jaxon thrust faster into his hand, painting white ribbons over the boy’s scarred flesh. 

Slowly, Jaxon’s breath slowed to deep, heavy exhales, and he chuckled with satisfaction at the way Jonah had come undone with horror and humiliation. 

“Good job, puppy,” Jaxon panted over him and smiled, still a little breathless as he came down from his high. “God, you made me feel so good, and I didn’t even have to fuck you for that. Imagine how much fun it’ll be next time when I take you properly.”

It was a praise Jonah didn’t want. A promise he dreaded. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want any of this. Jaxon hadn’t even fucked him, but Jonah still felt disgusting and awful and used. He thought of Carlisle. He didn’t want to think about Carlisle. 

Jonah squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to look at Jaxon anymore. He’d love to never have to see this man again for the rest of his life. He knew he wouldn’t get that wish. 

Jonah felt the smallest tinge of relief when he heard Jaxon’s zipper slide back up and felt the man climb off of him. He kept his eyes shut, wishing he didn’t have skin at all so he wouldn’t have to feel it— until he felt a cool rag being dragged down his now sticky torso.

He flickered his eyes open again. Jaxon was cleaning him off. Jaxon must have seen the brief flicker of unconscious gratitude in Jonah’s eyes, for he let out an amused little hum in the boy’s direction. 

“Well, yeah,” he said, as if it were obvious. “I wasn’t just gonna leave you like that.”

Jonah said nothing. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. His throat felt raw. He really was grateful he at least got somewhat cleaned up afterwards, although he didn’t feel Jaxon deserved to hear his thanks. He wouldn’t say it unless the man made him. 

Just then, Jaxon looked down at him, as if reading his mind. “What do you say, puppy?” 

Jonah sniffed, trying not to sob again. He knew his lines. He didn’t want to drag this out. He just wanted it to be over. 

“Th-thank, thank you, S-sir,” he whimpered. And Jaxon gave a hum in approval. 

“Good boy,” the blonde man said, turning to discard the dirty rag into the bucket on the floor. 

With his skin wiped as clean as it could get for now, Jonah felt himself being rolled over onto his side. Jaxon worked at the belt that bound his wrists behind him, and Jonah felt a pang of horror hit his chest when he spotted the mop of tousled black hair, still kneeling on the floor. Sawyer had been in the room the whole time. He’d been so quiet, Jonah had nearly forgotten. He felt another sob rise up his throat at the sheer humiliation that Sawyer, of all people, had just heard everything. He held his breath, trying to swallow it down as Jaxon finally pulled the belt free and released his wrists. 

Sawyer didn’t even look up, seemingly keen on staring down at some particular spot on the floor. He’d stopped scrubbing long ago, but hadn’t uttered a word, hadn’t made a sound, throughout Jaxon’s ‘private time’ with Jonah. Jonah supposed that made sense, if Sawyer didn’t want to bring that attention upon himself. Jonah supposed he probably got plenty of it—despite his clear lack of brain cells, Sawyer was quite good-looking. Jonah would never tell him that, of course, but he could reason that Sawyer was probably not starved for this particular type of attention aboard the vessel. Despite the fact that Sawyer seemed to be practically begging for a beating with every word out of his mouth, it made sense that he’d not be in the business of purposefully inviting more of this particular type of punishment. 

“Mutt,” Jaxon hissed, and when Sawyer finally looked up, Jonah could see that the young man’s face was beet red. 

“You fucking missed a spot.”

Sawyer, to Jonah’s surprise, didn’t bark out some sarcastic retort, he just resignedly crawled over to where Jaxon pointed and worked at the spot on the floor with the rag in his hand. Jonah did hear him mumbling under his breath, however—he caught the word ‘bastard’ somewhere in there.

Jonah just lay there on the table for a few moments, trying to get his head to stop fucking spinning. He knew he’d have finger-shaped bruises darkening around his neck by morning, if not even sooner.

Just then, as the silence hung in the air between the three men, there was a sudden thumping at the door. Jonah startled out of his daze, snapping up into a sitting position before instantly regretting it when a wave of vertigo caused the whole room to spin around him.

“Aye?” He heard Jaxon call out, and the door slid open to reveal Crowe’s sharp features. 

“I’m here for the boy,” Crowe said curtly. “Captain’s orders. He wants him ready for tonight.”

“He’s all yours,” said Jaxon, almost too casually, like what had just taken place was all just some horrible waking nightmare conjured up by Jonah’s overactive imagination.

“Wonderful,” said Crowe flatly, and the man stepped into the room towards the wooden table. He reached out and gripped Jonah’s arm. Jonah flinched back when he saw the hand coming for him, but didn’t pull away when Crowe’s fingers encircled his bicep and tugged him off the surface. 

He followed the motion as Crowe steered him out of the room, though his steps felt weak and awkward in the shackles. He was glad to be away from Jaxon, at least for now, and hoped whatever would happen to him next wouldn’t be worse. Though he did not like the implications of “the Captain” and “tonight.” 

As he was pushed through the wooden corridors, he tried not to think about it, and instead, he thought of Sawyer. Sawyer, who had been left behind, kneeling on the floor, in the room with that man, to be subjected to some unknown fate. Jonah hoped that Jaxon wouldn’t repeat his actions on Sawyer. He hoped Sawyer would keep his mouth shut for once, for his own good. He hoped they'd both make it through the night in one relative piece, without any more torture, if that was even possible for someone with a mouth like Sawyer’s.

Jonah wished he truly believed in God. 

It would be nice to pray to something that would actually listen. 

༻✦༺

Thanks for reading! More coming soon…

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The only sound Elliot was able to make in that moment was a pathetic, animalistic whine. The captain laughed. Or at least, Elliot thought he did. There was no way of knowing what, in Elliot's mind, was real anymore.

A hand on the back of Elliot's neck shoved him down and smashed his face into the splintered floor. The sheer quantity of alcohol in his system dulled the pain, but sparks danced along the edge of Elliot's distorted vision and he was sure he'd be feeling it in the morning.

“Bow to your Master, rat!” Someone shouted as the crew dissolved into laughter. The hand at the back of his neck disappeared and was quickly replaced by a leather boot on the side of his face. Tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes, pathetic whimpers taking the place of his usual begging and pleading.

Elliot squirmed in discomfort against his tight restraints, which earned him a sharp smack to his raised backside. Elliot yelped, the sound eliciting even more laughter from the crew.

“Did you hear that, boys?” Someone shouted. “I think he likes that.”

“What a little slut!”

“Make it beg!”

The pressure on the side of his face increased as the man above him kneeled down to his level. Elliot whimpered. There wasn't much else he could do save for lying there in a growing puddle of his own drool. “Hear that, bitch? You're gonna beg me to let you up. Maybe if you beg pretty enough, we'll let you off the hook for the night.”

Elliot didn't believe that for a second. At no point in his captivity did these horrible men ever grant him the respite they promised. Still, he needed to obey. He needed to keep them happy or things would only get worse for him.

But as Elliot opened his mouth to beg, nothing but incoherent babble came out. His mouth was full of cotton and his tongue felt three sizes too big. Any and all signals that his languid brain tried to send never reached their destination. Try as he did to obey his despicable tormentors, his drunken mind was incapable of cooperating.

Finally, the boot was lifted from his head, but the reprieve was short-lived as a hand tangled itself into Elliot's hair and yanked him back into a kneeling position. “What was that, slut? We couldn't understand you.”

Elliot's breath caught in his throat, restricting the path of another sob trying to break through.

“Aw, still a little fucked up? Here, I've got something that'll be sure to wake you up a little.” The man waved something in Elliot's face, and only when he brought it close enough were the boy's eyes finally able to adjust. It was another bottle.

Elliot squeaked, violently shaking his head as the man laughed and ripped the cork out with his teeth. Elliot clamped his eyes shut, preparing for the burn of stolen liquor on his tongue, but that never came. Instead, the bottle was tipped over the slave's head, the contents soaking into his scalp and trickling down his face. They released their grip on his hair, allowing him to bow his head forward as far as he could so as to avoid getting the sticky, pungent liquid in his eyes.

“That better, slave?” The grip on his hair returned, this time catching a fistful at the top of his head, which they used to forcefully bob his head up and down in a violent nod. “Good. Now the real fun can begin!”

Elliot didn't get the chance to contemplate what “the real fun” could mean before the hand in his hair dragged him onto his unsteady feet. Elliot whined, choking on the saliva building up in his half-open mouth. He forced himself to swallow, despite the way his throat burned.

The vice-like grip on his hair kept him standing upright all the way up until a loop of rope was thrown around his neck. Panic lit aflame in Elliot's gut as the noose was tightened to a nearly unbearable level. Oh god, they were gonna kill him.

It took all of Elliot's strength to remain upright on his own. The noose around his neck allowed just enough airflow to remain conscious, but the discomfort seemed to help rouse Elliot's sluggish brain, if only slightly.

“P-Please,” he choked out.

“Oh? What was that?” Said the man holding the other end of the noose. He tugged on it, dragging Elliot closer to him and squeezing a gasp out of the boy's rapidly constricting throat. “Did you say something, treasure?” Elliot blinked up at him, only then noticing who was holding his leash as the captain's face faded into relative clarity.

“P-Please,” Elliot said again. “P-Please don’t-don't k-kill me.” His words were slurred and his stutter was infinitely worse than normal. Even as a barmaid, Elliot hardly drank. His patrons often offered to buy him drinks, but he rarely accepted. Only during exceptionally long shifts did he ever have any desire to partake, but even then, he could only handle about one or two. He was much too small to stomach this amount of alcohol.

The captain chuckled and tugged his slave a little closer. “Listen to me, treasure,” he said, leaning forward so his face was level with Elliot's. “You are far too valuable to me to ever dispose of. Don't ever forget that.”

Elliot's mind struggled to process the words, but he felt the smallest sense of relief upon hearing that.

His relief was short-lived, however, because within moments of those words leaving his lips, the captain wrenched Elliot forward by his leash. Elliot gasped, the ropes pulling taut and restricting his airflow. He stumbled after the captain, but the abrupt movement didn't give Elliot much time to gather his bearings. His bare feet tangled themselves in the chain binding his ankles and sent him tumbling to the ground, unable to catch himself. He landed on his shoulder, but he hardly noticed the pain when the rope around his neck pulled even tighter upon his descent.

Alarm bells rang off in his head. He couldn't breathe. He couldn’t breathe! Black dots appeared at the edge of his vision and slowly began closing in around him. He instinctively wriggled against his restraints, desperate to claw at the noose around his throat.

It felt like eons before the pressure around his throat gave way to vital oxygen. Despite the ever-present aroma of salt in the air, Elliot had never tasted anything sweeter. He coughed and gasped, his lungs aching from disuse. But he was still denied the luxury of a full breath due to the boot that flew into his stomach. Elliot jerked and curled inward to protect his vital organs, but it did little to stop a second boot from kicking him in the ribs.

“Get up, mutt!” A voice shouted. He couldn't tell who's, but he'd have been a fool to disobey. With his hands tied and feet chained, it took Elliot several tries to push himself into a sitting position. He wiggled around the deck, moaning in pain, but was somehow able to use his bound hands to push himself upright. At least, he almost was, but the quick change in orientation made his head spin and he was just as swiftly on the ground again.

A chorus of laughter erupted all around him. “Stupid bitch can't even stand up by himself.”

“Think we should give him a hand?”

“Nah, just look at him. He belongs at our feet. Ain't that right, slave?”

Elliot's face was burning a humiliating shade of red. When he didn't answer quickly enough, the toe of another boot nudged him in his bruised ribs. Elliot whimpered.

“Answer me, slave!”

Tears oozed out of the corners of his eyes, despite how tightly he was clamping them shut. Elliot nodded. “Y-Yes, S-Sir,” he slurred.

There was another kick to his ribs, knocking the wind from the slave's lungs. “Say it!”

Elliot couldn't catch his breath. Every gasp of air hurt as his lungs expanded against his bruised ribcage. The rope around his chest only further hindered his desire for air.

“I-I b-belong at-at your f-feet, S-Sir,” Elliot choked out. He hoped that was what he'd said at least. His brain was mush at this point. It was a miracle he had enough awareness to form any coherent thought at all.

Suddenly, he was on his knees again. He didn't know how or when he'd gotten there. All he knew was the burning at his scalp.

Through his dizziness and overflowing well of tears, it was difficult to make out the features of the man whose face filled Elliot's vision. But the gentle, calloused hand against the slave's cheek, as well as the faint scent of cigar smoke and leather gave Elliot a pretty good guess.

The captain's hand slid down from his captive's cheek to firmly grasp his chin. Elliot whimpered. “Now, stay still, treasure.” The captain's thumb brushed against the slave's lips, gently parting them further. He gingerly ran the pad of his index finger along the edge of Elliot's teeth before delving deeper to further explore the boy's open mouth. “Don't gag,” he said as he inserted a second finger, then a third, pushing deeper until his knuckles scraped against Elliot's teeth. Elliot stared up at Captain Whitlock from beneath his drooping eyelids, fighting the way his throat tried to constrict around the intrusion.

The captain smirked and used his free hand to wipe away one of Elliot's tears. “Wanna know a secret, treasure?” The captain asked. “Remember that break I promised you? You'll still get it. I'm a man of my word, after all.” Elliot's mind barely registered what the captain was saying. All his focus was on his aching jaw and the overwhelming urge to gag. “The alcohol wasn't just for fun, treasure,” the captain admitted. “You're so fucked up that you won't remember any of this in the morning. And that's my gift to you. That's your fucking break.” Elliot whined and the captain tutted. “Quiet, treasure. As much as I love your little noises, we wouldn't want you to gag yourself, eh?”

It was a little late for that. After the numerous kicks to the boy's stomach, plus the taste of dirt and grime on the captain's fingers, bile began to rise up Elliot's throat. He whined again and tried to pull away, but the captain grasped his jaw with his free hand to hold him still. “You're not done, slave,” the captain warned him. “Be a good boy or I'll use your mouth for something else.”

Elliot couldn't take it anymore. Luckily, the captain seemed to notice the greenish hue of his captive's skin and quickly retracted his hand just in time for Elliot to regurgitate the poison that was in his stomach.

The crew released collective groans of disgust.

“Stupid mutt!” Someone shouted, punctuating the statement with a heavy kick to Elliot's shoulder. The boy flinched as a glob of saliva landed square on his cheek, dripping down to his jaw. He kept his eyes clamped shut as tears leaked out of the corners. His nose and throat burned. While the disgusted crew took turns hurling degrading insults at him, pulling his hair, and smacking his face, Elliot wept.

He wept for the life he used to have and the future that he would never reach, the dignity and self-respect that had long-since been lost at sea. His heart ached with grief for the person he once was and the smile he could no longer find. He didn't recognize himself anymore. His body, his mind, his thoughts, his words, they no longer belonged to him. Nothing did.

“Enough!” The captain shouted after an eternity. The onslaught stopped, but Elliot's tears didn't. His loud, open-mouth sobbing was the only sound on the ship, save for the waves crashing against the hull. “Retire to your cabin, men,” the captain said, never taking his eyes off of his pitiful slave. “I'll be taking watch tonight.”

Elliot kept his head lowered as the crew filed below deck. The sound of pounding footsteps was lost on Elliot, but the feeling of dozens of heavy boots reverberating off the wooden deck shook Elliot to his core.

Once the crew had gone, Captain Whitlock watched his pet cry for a beat. The poor thing looked beautifully pathetic, tied up and helpless, sticky from its liquor shower, tears pouring down its pretty face. Christian reveled in the sight. He loved when his slave looked like this and he couldn't help the blood gathering between his legs.

“Look at me, slave,” Christian said. His pet sniffled and lifted its watery eyes to meet its master's. Fuck. It was gorgeous. It was moments like these that reminded the captain of why he'd chosen this one to begin with.

Elliot shriveled beneath his master’s glare. He couldn't imagine how disgusting and miserable he must've looked, kneeling there in front of his puddle of vomit. “I-I'm s-sorry, Master,” he said. “I-I'll c-clean it—”

“Aye,” the captain interrupted. “You will.” Elliot flinched and lowered his head again, shoulders shaking beneath the weight of his cries. The captain kneeled in front of his sobbing pet and took a gentle hold of Elliot's chin, guiding the boy's eyes back up to his own. “But not tonight,” the captain continued. “I am a man of my word and I promised you rest tonight. So that is exactly what you'll get. Come tomorrow, however, you will scrub and polish every centimeter of this deck until your hands bleed. Savvy?”

Elliot sniffled. His head was still swimming, despite how much alcohol had left his system. He was exhausted. There was a heavy pounding in his skull and his mouth tasted like death. It took everything in him to concentrate on the captain's words, but he nodded and slurred out, “Y-Yes, Master.”

“Good,” the captain said as he brandished his dagger and sliced through the ropes binding Elliot's arms and wrists.

Elliot heaved a deep breath, his shoulder sagging in relief. “Th-Thank you, Master,” he said between heavy breaths.

“Don't thank me yet, mutt,” the captain said, returning to his full height. He snatched his slave by the arm and wrenched him to his feet, giving Elliot very little time to find his footing before the captain dragged him down the hatch and into the brig. The world twisted and swirled around him, dancing to the beat of the captain's footfalls. The next thing he knew, he was on the floor of his usual cell, the captain towering above him on the other side of the barred door. “Enjoy your break, treasure.” Elliot couldn't see it, but he could hear the smirk in the captain's voice.

The boy didn't have time to respond before the captain spun on his heel and left his slave to rot.

Come morning, Elliot had no memory of the night before.

-

I hope you enjoyed this! I'm not super happy with it, but it's as good as it's gonna get, I suppose.

If you have any requests for this AU, please send them to me!!

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Jonah gulped, but nodded his head, before silently working at his belt buckle and sliding it through the loops on his trousers. It was one of only a few articles of clothing he had left, and he’d hate for Sawyer to bite through it, but he obediently held it up to the prone man’s mouth until Sawyer clamped his jaws around the leather strip. 

Jaxon grinned as he started pouring the alcohol into Sawyer’s bloody back, there was a moment of silence before the screaming started—then Sawyer shrieked like he was being skinned alive. It was just as it had been outside, only even worse in the close confines of the wooden room—the sound of Sawyer’s pain reverberated off the walls and made Jonah cringe and squeeze his eyes shut. 

Sawyer balled up his fists and screamed through gritted teeth into the leather, gnawing on it furiously as Jaxon poured the contents of the bottle all over his lash-ridden back. He thrashed against the table as the liquid mixed with his blood and ran onto the wood below him, some of it dripping onto the floor. 

“You’re gonna clean all shit that up when we’re finished here, slave,” Jaxon said to Jonah, over the torrent of Sawyer’s pained cries.

“Y-yes, Sir,” Jonah squeaked, hoping Jaxon could still hear him. As long as he wasn’t being hurt. It would be okay. He just had to be good. He wasn’t being hurt..

Jaxon shook the final droplets from the now empty bottle and set it on the counter. Sawyer continued to cry into the makeshift gag for several long, agonized moments, before the noises gave way to muffled, pained grunting, and eventually to deep, desperate panting as he tried to recover from the horrendous burning of the alcohol against his open wounds. 

“Help me mop up the blood,” Jaxon ordered, throwing Jonah a towel he had retrieved from the cabinet. “We need the mutt dried off as much as possible if we want the bandages to stick.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jonah said quietly, trying not to look visibly bothered at the way Sawyer still panted and shuddered below them. Jonah squeezed the fabric in his hands in an attempt to ground himself, and the two of them got to work soaking up the remaining alcohol-blood mixture that coated Sawyer’s back. 

Sawyer hissed in pain as Jonah pressed the towel down, though he tried to be light-handed with his efforts. Jaxon, on the other hand, wasn’t even trying to be gentle, seemingly going out of his way to draw pained moans out of the man at his mercy. Jonah winced when he saw Jaxon press particularly hard against Sawyer’s shoulder blade—Jonah was sure the blonde man was trying to cause Sawyer more agony on purpose. 

He supposed that such behavior was befitting of a man like Jaxon, who seemed to relish in it. Jonah couldn’t ignore the way Jaxon’s smile widened whenever he forced Sawyer to cry out against the leather belt—he’d seen the look on Carlisle’s face a hundred thousand times. 

Eventually, Jaxon withdrew, declaring Sawyer’s back as dry as they could get it for now, and Jonah was relieved to be able to stop. Sawyer groaned into the table with what must have been some morose form of relief. Blood still oozed from the lash-wounds—Jonah could see how deep they were now—but it wasn’t the gut-wrenching, cascading red river Jonah had seen earlier when Sawyer had been getting his back split open on Voss’ whip. 

“You can take the belt back now, slave. Worst part is over.”

Jonah obeyed, taking the belt from between Sawyer’s teeth and wiping the drool off on his trousers before sliding it back into place around his waist. He ignored the little divots now indented into the leather from Sawyer’s clenched teeth.

Jaxon produced a jar from one of the cabinets. “Help me spread this stuff on the wounds—keeps it from getting infected.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jonah said again, feeling like a broken record. Jaxon handed him an implement that looked sort of like a butter knife, only it wasn’t sharpened. He watched as Jaxon dipped his implement into the jar and scooped out some of the gelatinous substance inside. Jonah copied the motion when Jaxon held the jar out to him, and together they spread the stuff down Sawyer’s wounded back. 

Sawyer groaned against the wooden surface as the metal tools slid down his lashes, although it had morphed into a duller, more resigned sound now, rather than the shocked screams he’d let out earlier. Jonah hoped this part didn’t hurt him too badly. He was glad to be able to help, if he were honest. Maybe he could help Sawyer hurt a little bit less than if Jaxon was doing all this himself. Jaxon seemed the type to get impatient quickly, and Jonah already knew he was not above worsening the pain for his own amusement.

When they were finished and the jar was back in the cabinet, Jaxon rounded the table to where Sawyer’s head lay. He pressed his hand down against the young man’s head, wrapping his fingers tightly into his dark locks. 

“Now, what do you say, mutt?”

“Hnngg…” Sawyer groaned, and Jaxon sharply twisted the fist in his hair.

“Aaaghh—thank you! Thank you—fuck—Jesus—!” Sawyer barked out. 

“Thank you, what?” Jaxon seethed, yanking harshly at his hair. “Want me to make it hurt worse?”

“N-no!” Sawyer cried. “Godfuckyou—Th-thank you, S-sir.” He gritted out, pressing his face into the wooden table, as though eager to avoid seeing Jaxon’s self-satisfied expression. 

Jaxon released the death-grip in Sawyer’s hair and smugly patted his head, his voice thick with condescention. “Thaat’s it, mutt. See?” He turned to Jonah, his smile wide. “The beast can be tamed, if we just give him enough pain first.”

Jonah didn’t know what to say. He simply nodded, staring forth at the two of them, petrified. This was the treatment he had to look forward to if he ever found himself on the business end of Voss’ whip. Though no doubt he wouldn’t be stupid enough to drag it out the way Sawyer had. Jonah would say ‘Thank you, Sir’ correctly the first time.

Jaxon chuckled at Jonah’s reaction—the shock in his eyes, the way his lips had parted just a little. “Oh don’t worry,” he chided. “Stupid mutt’ll be back to his usual shitty self in the morning. Then we get to start allll over again.” 

Jaxon flashed a wide grin and the hair on Jonah’s neck stood on end. The list of people he needed to be terrified of was growing with each new crewmember he met. 

Jaxon gave Sawyer’s hair another fierce tug. “Up,” he commanded, and Sawyer groaned again before slowly bringing his arms up to push himself up into a sitting position. 

Jonah heard the rattling of chains, although he himself hadn’t moved. When Sawyer swung his legs over the edge of the table, Jonah saw the source of the noise. There was a nearly identical pair of shackles around Sawyer’s ankles. 

Sawyer was no crew member. He was a slave on this ship, just as Jonah was. Jonah felt a pang of empathy in his chest when the dots connected in his mind. The whipping, the accusations of a ‘shitty attitude,’ the way Jaxon seemed to relish in Sawyer’s pain and tried to drag it out as much as possible—Sawyer was every bit as much of a prisoner on this ship as he was. 

Jonah gave him a remorseful look, but Sawyer only scowled back at him when he caught his eye, with something loathsome in his expression. It unnerved Jonah, and he quickly flicked his eyes away. He wondered if Sawyer realized that Jonah didn’t want to be here either. 

Jaxon ordered Sawyer to raise his arms above his head, and the young man did it without further fuss. Jonah imagined he had to just want to get this over with at this point. 

Now that he was finally getting a view of Sawyer’s front, Jonah saw several things at once that he found difficult to ignore. He’d already glimpsed the long, jagged scar that ran down the side of Sawyer’s face and through his lips, but his torso was even worse. The man was covered in scars and bruises—a mixture of new and old injuries. 

Worst of all, was what looked to be a brand on the man’s chest, situated right in the center of his left pectoral. It looked to be a figure of a mermaid, her tail curled upwards to encircle her form. Jonah didn’t want to be caught staring, but the design was so delicate—so intricate. Jonah knew it must have hurt like hell, but the brand looked old, it had long since healed completely. He saw more of himself in the man’s body than he would have liked. It unnerved him. 

Jonah suddenly blinked out of his trance when Jaxon snapped his fingers at him impatiently. “Oi! Quit eye-fuckin’ the mutt and help me with this,” he ordered sharply. 

“Yes, Sir!” Jonah squeaked, jumping out of whatever train of thought he’d been lost in while wandering his eyes over Sawyer’s many injuries.

As dutifully as he could manage, Jonah helped Jaxon wind long rolls of white gauze around Sawyer’s torso, before tying the ends off when all the lashes had been covered. 

“God, finally,” Jaxon stepped back and wiped his forehead dramatically, as though he’d just completed a tremendous workout. “You really are the most irritating patient, you know that, mutt?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Sawyer mumbled under his breath, and the moment he uttered the words, Jaxon instantly yanked his hair back and slapped him hard on the side of the face. Sawyer grunted and hissed at the impact, but made no move to stop him—his hands stayed balled into fists at his sides. Sawyer seemed resigned to the fact that saying such a thing would get him hit, and he didn’t seem to care. 

Jonah stared at them with wide eyes. He couldn’t imagine what was going through Sawyer’s head. The guy just didn’t know when to shut up. Didn't he realize he was only making things worse for himself?

“Ugh, I need a fucking drink,” Jaxon groaned. He pointed fiercely at Jonah, making his way for the door, “Don’t go anywhere,” he ordered. “Don’t let him go anywhere.” Jaxon jabbed a finger at Sawyer—the ‘him,’ in question. 

He slid the door open. “In fact, I’ll flay the both of you if you’re not right here when I get back,” he grunted, and slammed the door shut behind him.

And then, Jonah and Sawyer were alone. 

༻✦༺ 

A long, tense silence passed between them. Jonah wrung his hands, and alternated between looking at the floor—at the cabinets—at the sunlight streaming through the porthole—anything but those loathsome dark eyes.

Finally, Sawyer broke the silence.

“You don’t have to be such a fucking kiss-ass, you know,” Sawyer spat, as though Jonah had somehow wronged him personally.

“Wh-what?” he stared at him, incredulous and shaking slightly. 

“All that ‘Yes, Sir,’ ‘No, Sir,’— Ugghh,” Sawyer groaned and dramatically rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t it ever get old to you? Don’t you ever get fucking sick of it?” Sawyer’s voice rose a bit as he ranted at Jonah. “I mean, these freaks don’t give a flying fuck about you, clearly, so why the fuck don’t you just grow a fucking spine and stop sniveling like a fucking child.”

Jonah stared back at him, wide-eyed. To his own embarrassment, he felt moisture kissing at the corners of his eyes. His cheeks suddenly felt too hot, as though he’d spent hours in the sunlight.

“Well—” Jonah gathered himself. “Well I could ask you why you fight back so much. It only ever makes things worse, you know.” Jonah’s tone lacked the sharpened edge that Sawyer’s had—he really didn’t want to make any more enemies here than he already had, but he just didn’t understand a damn thing about what was going on in Sawyer’s head.

“Oh, and what, I should just be some spineless little doormat like you then?” Sawyer retorted. “Is that supposed to be a better option?”

“I mean, they haven’t whipped me.. yet…” Jonah said it quietly, crossing his arms over his bare stomach protectively. He genuinely didn’t mean it to be offensive, merely a statement of fact, but Sawyer scoffed at him nonetheless. 

“Oh, just you wait, kid. They’ll have you strung up in no time, trust me. You don’t even have to deserve it,” Sawyer’s voice was thick with vitriol. “They just do it cuz theyre fucking sick. Because they can. At least I have the sense to realize that if they’re gonna hurt me anyway, I might as well get a few licks in first.”

Jonah paled. He hoped to God himself that what Sawyer had said wasn’t true—he was still clinging to the hope that he could avoid horrendous torture by being obedient, and so far it seemed to be working for him, so who was Sawyer to question that? It made sense to Jonah why they beat Sawyer. He clearly didn’t know his place. Jonah knew. Jonah would be good.

But Jonah knew better than to voice any of that. Injured though he was, Sawyer was still a lot bigger than him, and could probably throttle him in a second and beat him unconscious before Jaxon ever came back. And even if Sawyer got punished for doing it, that didn’t seem to be a factor in motivating any of the man’s actions. The guy was a freaking enigma to Jonah. 

Jonah didn’t respond. This conversation was going nowhere. Instead, he turned around, busying himself cleaning the implements with another bottle of liquor and a clean rag. He might as well be useful and help Jaxon clean up, and he really didn’t want to look at Sawyer. 

He regretted it just a few moments later when he heard Sawyer let out a snicker. 

“I see you’ve been around the block, yourself, haven’t you,” Sawyer said when Jonah turned around to the counter. There was a thick layer of amusement in his tone, though the pain was still stubbornly laced in his voice—the way it rasped, his throat was still hoarse from all that screaming. 

Jonah startled when he realized Sawyer was still talking to him. He’d hoped to stay as invisible as possible right now, to disappear into the task at hand. 

“Wh-what?” he said quietly. 

“Your back,” Sawyer grinned. “Looks like you’ve been through the fucking meat shredder. Whoever had you before liked the whip, didn’t he.” 

Jonah frowned, suddenly feeling sheepish and far too exposed. That heat was spreading through his cheeks again. It wasn’t his fault Carlisle had sliced up his only shirt ages ago. No one on the ship had given him anything to cover his torso with either, so he just walked around, scars and bruises and burns on full display. 

“And wait— turn around again—“ Sawyer said it like an order, and Jonah obeyed him without even thinking about whether he wanted to. He was just so attuned to obeying that tone that left no room for questioning. His back to Sawyer, Jonah quickly realized he didn’t have to obey the man—they were together on the ship’s lowest rung—but it was too late. Sawyer had started laughing. Jonah whirled back around, his face hot and flushed. 

“By god, and he fuckin’ branded you too?” Sawyer laughed. “An’ I thought the bastards around here were some of the sickest freaks around. Seems they got ‘em on the mainland too!”

Jonah said nothing for a moment, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth and casing his eyes down and to the side. He didn’t wanna look at Sawyer’s smug face. Fuck him. Fuck Carlisle and fuck Sawyer for laughing at him when he was just the fucking same.

“You’re one to talk,” Jonah finally muttered, hoping Sawyer wouldn’t lash out at him and knock him out for talking back. But Sawyer just sighed heavily and looked away. Guess he didn’t have a clever retort to that. 

You and I are the fucking same. 

“You did come from the mainland, didn’t you kid?” Sawyer asked, pivoting the conversation.

Jonah was grateful for the subject change—anything to avoid talking about his many injuries. 

“Not the continent, no,” his voice still sounded so timid. “One of the smaller Islas.” 

“Well, there’s a million of those around here, aren’t there,” Sawyer said flatly. 

Jonah scratched the back of his neck with his fingers. He didn’t want to say which one—he was worried if the crew found out, they might just take him back. But was this really any better than life at Carlisle’s beck and call? He supposed he hadn’t been whipped yet on the ship, though it’d only been a day. As weird as it was to admit, things here had been going slightly better for him so far. 

“Y-yes…” Jonah said, not wanting to provide anymore information. 

Sawyer gave a little huff at the walls Jonah was putting up. “Fine then, don’t tell me. Not that I care anyway.” And Sawyer swung his chained legs back to the side, laying his head down on the table over his folded arms. Jonah supposed the fatigue was probably settling in. Sawyer had been through a lot that day.

“You’ll tell me one of these days, kid. You’ll see,” he said, though Jonah seriously doubted that. 

Jonah was almost grateful when the door opened and Jaxon re-entered, a flask in his hand. He eyed them over with a sharp gaze, then flicked the cap open and took a swig. 

“Slave,” Jaxon commanded, and both of the boys’ eyes snapped up at attention. 

“I meant the pup,” Jaxon clarified. “But I suppose both of you could help with this.” 

Jaxon pointed to the cabinet across the room. “Fresh towels and cleaning rags are in there. Clean up all the liquor and blood. Use the rags, not the nice towels, got that?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Jonah nodded. Sawyer just stared Jaxon down with a death glare. Jaxon continued anyway. “Do the table first, then the floors. Don’t be stupid. When you’re done, dirty rags go in the bucket.” He nodded to said bucket, which sat on the floor up against the cabinet. 

“Yes, Sir,” Jonah said again. The response was truly automatic. It was a long-ingrained habit to respond affirmatively, respectfully, without question, and it was a habit that had been serving him here so far, so he didn’t try to suppress it.

“Ugh, fucking kiss-ass,” Sawyer mumbled under his breath, flicking irritated eyes at Jonah. Jonah shot him an innocent look and gave a tiny shrug of his shoulders. What the hell else was he supposed to say?

Jaxon snapped his fingers impatiently, and the boys got to work, wetting the rags with another bottle of clear alcohol and scrubbing down the table before starting on the floors. 

Jaxon leaned back against the wall, sipping at his flask, watching them work. Jonah could feel the blonde man’s eyes boring into his back as he scrubbed at the blood on the floor.

“That’s a nice brand,” Jaxon commented at one point, and Jonah felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

“Th-thank you, Sir,” he said meekly. He hated that everyone could see it all the time. The brand on his lower back was displayed out in the open like the beam of a lighthouse, shining bright red on his skin amid years worth of other burns and layered whip scars. He wished they’d give him a fucking shirt.

Jaxon chuckled darkly at Jonah’s response. “Aren’t you just such an obedient little thing..” Jonah froze when he heard Jaxon approach where he knelt, bristled when he felt a hand in his hair. 

Jonah let out a short gasp when he felt his head tugged upwards. He followed the motion—his scalp was still sore from getting manhandled by Crowe. Jaxon rounded Jonah’s form to face him, tilting the boy’s head up so he was forced to look up into those shrewd green eyes. 

“You’d make a lovely pet,” he cooed, running his fingers through Jonah’s sandy locks..

“Thank you.. S-sir..” Jonah felt the blood drain from his face. Sawyer snorted from somewhere next to him, still working a stubborn bit of blood out from the floorboards. 

“Stand up for me,” Jaxon ordered, giving his hair a little tug.

Jonah gulped, and rose on shaking legs. “Get on the table,” Jaxon said, and Jonah obeyed, despite alarm bells blaring in his head, echoing off the walls of his skull.

Sawyer looked up, suddenly interested in what was about to happen.

“You keep cleaning, mutt,” Jaxon snapped, reaching over to shove Sawyer’s head back down. Sawyer grumbled under his breath, but didn’t talk back for once. Perhaps all those fresh wounds were making him aware of just how easy to injure he was. All Jaxon would have to do is stomp down on his back and Sawyer would collapse, howling in pain into the floor.

“I just wanna have a little.. personal time with the puppy..” Jaxon grinned down at Jonah, who lay back on the table obediently, trying to still the tremor in his limbs.

༻✦༺

Next chapter gets wild oh man… I feel so bad for Jonah oh wait no i don’t!! Suffer pretty boy suffer….

LA SIRENA TAGLIST

@spookyboywhump @livelaughwhump @phoenixpromptsandstuff @unforgivenn @befuddled-calico-whump

@bloodthirsty-squirrel @writing-for-gold @thesecretgardenofmymind @unorganisedalienrubbish @thekneelingdoll

Crowe ordered Jonah to sit up on the high table, and although it was awkward without the use of his hands, Jonah managed it, jumping up a little to reach the edge and settling himself atop the wooden surface. 

Jonah heard Graves chuckle from behind him. “Oi, I didn’t really get a good look at you earlier, boy—your old master really did a number on you, didn’t he.”

Crowe was quick to dart behind him, eager to see what Graves was talking about. A moment later, he heard Crowe let out a sharp laugh. Jonah kept his eyes down on the floor as a fierce heat rose to his face.

“Um, y-yes, Sir,” he said quietly. He didn’t want to be a spectacle. He wished they would just ignore the state of him. 

“Wow! You must have been really disobedient!” exclaimed Crowe between fits of laughter. 

“I—I wasn’t!” Jonah exclaimed fearfully. He didn’t want to make these men think he was bad—that would surely only set him up for a life of punishment here too. He was going to be good. So so so good. He’d do anything to avoid being hurt again.

When his handlers recovered from gawking and laughing at him, Jonah watched as Crowe ran his eyes along the wall, studying the various tools and implements hanging on hooks, and Jonah gulped when Crowe pulled a length of chain from a particular hook. Crowe held the chain up in front of Jonah’s face—jingling it a little and chuckling to himself—and Jonah’s blood ran cold when he saw what the chain actually was. Two heavy metal shackles hung from either end of the chain. Jonah watched in silent horror as Crowe bent down on one knee to wrap one of the metal cuffs around his left ankle. 

Shitshitshit— They were going to—

“Wait—!“ Jonah cried out. He would bargain however he could to avoid being chained again. “Surely that’s not necessary, um, Sir— Y-you don’t need to—“

“Oi, you questioning the first mate's orders?” Crowe challenged, flicking his dark eyes up to Jonah with a dangerous expression.

“N-no!” Jonah squeaked. “N-no, Sir, no,” he was scrambling now. “I just.. I… There’s nowhere for me to run.. Sir.. I, I just thought it wouldn’t be—” 

He winced when he felt the heavy snap of a padlock securing the first shackle in place.

That it wouldn’t be necessary. That he wouldn’t have to live with his ankles in chains again. Jonah had really thought he’d put that all behind him when he’d escaped Carlisle. But now here he was, about to be chained up again. It was just the same, only somehow worse—at least Carlisle only restrained him at certain times—namely when he was hurting him, or when he needed him out of the way… And that was better, right? Surely, Jonah thought, it must be. At least Carlisle only chained one of Jonah’s ankles at night—but now, he was going to have to wear these for… how long, exactly?

He knew he should just keep his fuciking mouth shut right now—he could feel how volatile the energy in the room was, like the air itself was crackling with electricity. But he couldn’t stop himself—he had to know how bad this would be, whether it was truly time to catastrophize or not.

“Um.. Sir? H-how long do I… do I have to wear these for?” he asked timidly, as Crowe hooked the second heavy padlock on the shackle around his right ankle. 

“Oh,” Jonah could hear him smile. “These don’t come off, mate,” Crowe chuckled, looking up at Jonah with a wicked grin as he clamped the final padlock into place. 

Jonah felt tears pricking the corners of his eyelids again at the sheer finality of it. He didn’t see a key anywhere in sight. Hell, there might not even be a key for these shackles at all, if they weren’t even meant to come off. 

Crowe stood up, and Jonah tested the strength of the chain, yanking his feet apart until the chain stopped the motion cold and he felt the unforgiving metal pressing into his skin. He could get his ankles about two feet apart before the chain went taught. 

“It’ll be enough to walk, slowly, and crawl of course,” Crowe snickered. “But we can’t have little slaves like you running all over the damn place, now can we.” 

“N-no, Sir..” Jonah sniffled, trying not to cry again.  

“Good boy,” Crowe grinned, ruffling Jonah’s hair condescendingly, just as the Captain had done minutes earlier. 

Graves chuckled again from behind him. 

“He’s an obedient little thing, ain’t he!” Graves exclaimed.

“He really is… so far anyway,” Crowe leaned in. “Best keep that up, eh, boy? I’m sure you’d hate to find out what would happen if you chose to be difficult.” 

A lump rose in Jonah’s throat. He blinked up pleadingly at Crowe, who towered over him with that sneering, scarred visage. 

“N-never, Sir! Wouldn’t—wouldn’t, d-dream of it, S-Sir,” he hoped he’d said it convincingly. He really did mean it. He did not want to face that whip. Jonah would be happy if he never got whipped again for the rest of his life. He hoped with everything he had that, maybe, if he earned their favor, they might consider letting him leave at the next port. He clung to that hope, however unrealistic, like a lifeline, for the only alternative was a hopeless collapse into despair. 

Crowe gripped Jonah’s chin between his fingers, studying him.

“W-want t-to be good, S-sir,” Jonah stammered, shaking like a leaf as he was scrutinized by his new handler.

After several agonizing seconds, Crowe cracked a smile. 

“Alright little slave, let’s see you make good on that promise,” he said. 

Jonah bit his lip and nodded as best he could with Crowe’s grip on his face. “I-I will, Sir. I pro-promise.” 

He heard Graves cackle behind him again, no doubt thrilled at Jonah’s little performance. 

“Well, isn't he just a treasure,” he heard Graves jeer.

“Indeed,” mused Crowe, stepping back and releasing Jonah’s face at last. “Let’s see how well you handle your first task, eh, boy?”

“Y-yes, Sir,” Jonah said meekly, although it was lost on him how he was meant to perform any tasks at all with his hands still bound behind his back.

As if reading his mind, Crowe stepped aside to shuffle around in a drawer behind him. A moment later, he withdrew his hand, holding a large pair of shears. He gave them an experimental snap in the air, making Jonah flinch automatically. Crowe gave a sharp exhale of amusement at the boy’s reaction. 

“Jumpy little thing, aren’t you,” he teased, leaning forward and beginning to cut away at the ropes that wrapped around Jonah’s torso and bound his wrists behind him.

“I could’ve just untied it, you know,” mumbled Graves. 

“Oh, shut it,” hissed Crowe. 

Jonah tried his best to stay perfectly still despite his shaking, for he didn't want to accidentally get nicked by the huge blades in Crowe’s hand. Once the ropes were pulled off of him, Jonah rubbed at his raw wrists and squeezed his hands to get the circulation back in his fingers. 

He was truly grateful to at least have the use of his hands again, although the ankle chains posed a new issue. He wouldn’t be able to run in these, so they’d effectively stopped him from booking it as soon as the ship docked at the next port. He wouldn’t be able to swim well in them either, and they’d keep him from kicking properly and would no doubt weigh him down in the water—they already weighed him down as it was. He ran through the scenarios, his prospects of escape growing bleaker and bleaker, while Crowe put the shears back in their drawer and rounded back to face Jonah once more. 

“Voss’ got an assignment for you,” he said, suddenly all business. “Let’s see if we can trust you with arm privileges. Those ropes will be back on you so fast if you try anything stupid.”

“So don’t fuckin’ try anything stupid,” echoed Graves’ smug voice from behind him.

“Yes, Sir,” Jonah said automatically, and his mind started running wild with what his task might be. 

Crowe ordered Jonah off of the table, and he was gripped by the arms again by both men and steered out of the room, back down the dark wooden hallway.

༻✦༺

Jonah was marched down another corridor into another lantern-lit room, though this room had a porthole which allowed beams of sunlight to stream through. 

This room looked similar, with a wide wooden table in the center, and various cabinets, counters, and drawers against two of the walls. 

Jonah barely noticed the presence of the man who rummaged around in the cabinets, for all of his attention was caught instantly by what—or who—lay face down on the table. Jonah gasped when he saw those bright red bloody lashes up close, running all down the man’s back, from the hem of his trousers all the way up to his mop of black hair. Sawyer.

Crowe and Graves seemed to ignore Sawyer’s presence entirely, and the man didn’t even look up from his spot on the table when Graves spoke. 

“Aye, Jaxon,” he greeted the blonde man at the cabinets with that signature gruff tone, but there was a friendliness to his voice when he addressed him. “Voss sent this little rat to help you. Keep a close eye on him, though he’s been behaving alright for us so far.”

The man turned. He had an almost too-handsome face, a head of tousled blonde hair, and a dimple on one side of his face when he greeted the men with a sneering grin. He raked his green eyes up and down Jonah’s shirtless form, and Jonah felt a shudder crawl up his spine at the way the man was looking at him.

“Boy,” Graves nudged Jonah with his elbow. “This ‘ere’s Jaxon. He’s got one hell of a job cut out for him today, as you can see.”

“Well, hello there,” mused Jaxon, and Jonah could see now that his sneer might just be a permanent feature of his face. 

With a thrill in his eye, Jaxon rounded the table and reached right for Jonah when he was close enough. Jonah shuddered as Jaxon slid his hands down Jonah’s face and neck. Jonah bit his lip, clenched his fists, and tried not to react, but the man set him on edge. Jaxon seemed to take great pleasure in touching Jonah all over, running his hands down Jonah’s chest and bare torso. He pinched at one of his nipples and Jonah let out a small gasp—he hadn’t been expecting that.

“My, my…” Jaxon sounded beyond amused. “You’re that little stowaway they found this morning, aren’t you.” Jonah gulped.

“Actually, it was us who found him,” remarked Crowe, hell-bent on getting his credit where it was due. 

“Well, seems you gentlemen have struck gold!” Jaxon exclaimed. “He’s an awfully beautiful thing, ain’t he?”

“Aye,” Crowe agreed. “Quite the addition he’ll make to our ship, provided he can behave better than the fucking mutt over here.” He shot a look of disdain down at Sawyer, who still hadn’t looked up—who until that point, had been content to let the men talk over him at each other. 

“Oh, fuck off,” came Sawyer’s muffled voice. He kept his head down still, but wasn’t going to let the insult go unchallenged.

Crowe smiled wide, taking a step closer to where Sawyer lay. 

“Oh my, you are really not in a position to be talking back, mutt,” Crowe sneered, pressing a hand roughly down onto Sawyer’s bloody back. Sawyer groaned sharply in pain and bit his lip hard to avoid crying out, though Crowe smiled, seemingly getting what he wanted anyway. He dug his nails in and Sawyer whined, forcing a cruel laugh out of Crowe as he twisted his fingers in the bloody mess.

“Would it kill you not to make it worse, mate?” Jaxon sighed. “I’ve already got my fucking work cut out for me as it is.” 

“Serves him right for running his fucking mouth,” Crowe shrugged, wiping his bloody hand off on a hankerchief.

“Whatever,” Jaxon mumbled, displeased but clearly not willing to start a fight over it. Everyone knew Sawyer deserved what he got, after all. “Just leave the little puppy with me and I’ll take good care of him.” 

Jonah flushed when he realized he was the little puppy in question. Would it kill them to use his name? He had given it freely for a reason. Though, Carlisle never seemed to call him by name either, only by a series of degrading nicknames. The parallels between this situation and his last were making Jonah nauseous.

“Enjoy his company, then,” Graves grinned, growing smug at the way Jaxon continued to eye Jonah the way a coyote eyes its prey. 

“And do try and teach him a thing or two, if you can,” Crowe added. “It’d be nice if he learned to be useful. Would please Voss and all that. You know how he gets..” 

“Aye.. Aye...” Jaxon said, waving them away, never taking his eyes off of Jonah. 

The two handlers left the room without any further fuss, and Jonah paled when the door slid shut and he was left alone in the room with Jaxon and Sawyer.

༻✦༺ 

Next chapter is already written! I’ll probably post it tomorrow :>

LA SIRENA TAGLIST

@spookyboywhump @livelaughwhump @phoenixpromptsandstuff @unforgivenn @befuddled-calico-whump

@bloodthirsty-squirrel @writing-for-gold @thesecretgardenofmymind @unorganisedalienrubbish @thekneelingdoll

“Go to hell!” he heard the bloody man—Sawyer—shout, though Jonah could hear the pain in his voice. He couldn’t believe the nerve of this man, to be mouthing off and cursing his torturer in his position. Jonah knew from personal experience that he would’ve been begging for mercy long before this point, had it been him at the business end of the tall man’s whip. 

Another lash, even harsher than the ones before, and it finally drew a long pained scream from the restrained man. 

“There we go,” the whip-wielding man sneered. “‘Bout time I get some pretty noises outta you for my efforts.”

“Fu—fuck y-you,” Sawyer’s voice was wavering now, catching on his every sharp, pained inhale.

“Still as shameless as ever aren’t you, mutt,” the wielder hissed, “All these years and we still haven’t managed to beat that shitty attitude out of you, ‘ave we?” 

Sawyer said nothing, only panting in his restraints, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath in the brief respite before the lashes started up again. 

“Whip him harder!” someone in the crowd called, to the furious cheers of the onlookers. 

“Mutt fuckin’ deserves it!” Another yelled. Then the crowd descended into mad shouts and jeers, swirling together in a symphony of thrilled, angry voices as the welder brought the whip down on Sawyers back again and again. The crowd’s cheers served as an orchestral backdrop against the thunder-claps of the whip and the screams of the one at its mercy.

Jonah looked to his sides, terrified. He locked eyes with Crowe, who gave him a fierce grin.

“Stop!” Jonah cried, “What did he— What did he even do?”

“Oh, you should learn quickly that that stupid mutt can never keep his damn mouth shut,” Crowe said casually, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. Jonah had thought Carlisle to be the cruelest man he’d ever met, but it was clear he was in just as much danger here, on the ship he thought would be his mercy. 

Jonah wanted to cry out to them, to scream at them to fucking stop hurting the poor man, but his voice failed him, fear took over and froze him in place. He cursed the way fear always seemed to grip him in ice until he couldn’t move at all, but the self-preserving part of Jonah knew that to call out for mercy on the man’s behalf would only cause the whip to be turned on himself instead. So he stood there, Graves and Crowe’s grip tight on either of his biceps, and watched with horrified tears streaking down his cheeks. He felt awful for the man, Sawyer, but knew he didn’t want to face the same fate. Maybe if he was good, if he obeyed and didn’t talk out of turn, he wouldn’t face the brunt of that tall man’s whip. 

“Oh,” Graves leaned in, pointing to the wielder. “That there’s Voss, our fine ship’s first mate. Bit of a right terror he is, an’ awfully good with that whip, though don’t tell him I said that..” Graves paused a moment, “Just.. uh, try not to get on his bad side, eh?” 

Jonah gazed in terror at Voss, who wielded the whip with such confidence, such ease, he could give Carlisle himself a run for his money. He watched the man pause his relentless onslaught for a moment to work the soreness out of his shoulder, rolling it in circles in the joint. Voss must have been working up a sweat, for he slipped his leather coat off to reveal a simple low-cut burgundy tunic below it, the fabric was unbuttoned most of the way to expose his chest and the top half of his torso. Jonah could see the tattooed tentacles of a kraken winding up his chest and neck, he saw them spreading down his arms where the sleeves had been rolled up. 

Working the tension of his shoulder, Voss took up the whip again, and lashed Sawyer over and over, who only continued to curse him out between blood-curdling screams. 

“Fuck— Fuck you— Y-you f-fucking bastard—AAAHH!”

Eventually, the cursing stopped, and Sawyer only cried out at the fire of each hit, groaning in pain in the seconds between them.

Sawyer was clearly in too much pain to speak, and Jonah’s vision was getting blurry with the amount of tears welling up behind his eyelids. At some point, Voss gave one furious crack of the whip and Sawyer collapsed, limp in his bindings, hanging from his wrists.

He’d passed out. 

Voss signed, wiping the blood from the whip with a handkerchief from his pocket. 

“Well, seems that’s all the fun we’re going to get out of him for now, men,” Voss called, to the disappointed groans and boos of the crowd. The first mate’s voice sent chills up Jonah’s spine—it was sharp and menacing, though there was a slight breathlessness to it, as he’d no doubt just had a decent workout shredding up Sawyer’s back. 

“Cut him loose, boys,” Voss ordered, and two men rushed forward to untie the ropes at Sawyer’s wrists. Without the bindings to hold him up, Sawyer crumpled to the floor, and the men hauled him up and dragged him off to the side. 

“As you were, gentleman!” Voss called, and the crew gave a chorus of “Aye!” before the men rushed in all directions back to their stations. 

Now, with the central entertainment over and done with, the men started to take notice of Jonah, casting him hungry looks and eyeing him up. 

“Oi, Graves, Crowe,” Voss called, crossing the deck to where they stood, holding a tied up Jonah. 

“What’s this pretty thing you’ve caught me?” Voss sneered as he approached Jonah, who flinched and tried to crane his head away, only for Voss to reach out and grab his jaw in a firm grip once he was close enough to reach him.

“We found this little rat stowing away in a barrel in the hold!” Graves said triumphantly. 

“I see..” said Voss, his voice a low hiss when he leaned down ever closer to Jonah until they were face to face. Jonah stared up at him with wide, terrified eyes, shaking in the first mate’s grasp. 

“And what, pray tell, were ya’ doin’ scuttling around down there?”

Jonah swallowed, willing his tongue to move, but it felt so heavy in his mouth it was hard to speak at all.

“P-passage, S-sir,” he stammered, his heart pounding like a drum in his ears. “J-just wanted p-passage, Sir.”

Jonah winced when Voss gave a low, amused laugh, just as smug, if not all the more sinister than Graves and Crowe had mere minutes earlier. 

“Ohh, you poor, stupid thing,” Voss grinned like a serpent. “Ain’t you lucky you stumbled upon our little vessel.” Little was hardly the operative word, the ship felt huge to Jonah. “I’m afraid you’ll not be goin’ anywhere now. Not without my say so.”

Jonah gulped, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He feared his voice would crack into tears if he tried. 

“What’s your name, pretty thing?” Voss asked, forcing Jonah’s chin up, tilting his face from side to side and studying him. It made the hairs on the back of Jonah’s neck stand on end, as if this could be any more terrifying.

“Um.. J-Jonah,” he squeaked. He’d do anything to keep this man happy, it was Carlisle all over again. Voss was fucking terrifying.

“Well, dear Jonah,” Voss’ voice sank into a sickly mocking tone when he addressed the boy by his name. “Let’s have you come meet the Captain then, shall we?”

Jonah said nothing at first, but when Voss’ fingers gave his jaw a harsh squeeze, he forced out the “Yes, Sir,” he was supposed to say. 

“Good boy,” Voss smiled, patting Jonah’s face condescendingly before he released him.  

Obedient. Just be obedient, and they won’t torture you. Just be good, Just obey. Jonah repeated the mantra in his head as he was dragged over to the other side of the ship, presumably near the captain’s quarters. 

Voss ducked inside the chamber, and a few moments later he exited again, this time being followed by a beautiful, important looking man. The man had a large black tricorn cap atop his long silken hair—brown with streaks of warm honey and tied loosely behind him with a cream-colored ribbon. His boots were freshly shined, and he had an excessive amount of gold jewelry hanging from his neck, his ears, around his wrists. He looked like he was absolutely dripping in treasure. 

“Now, boy,” Voss ordered sharply, and Jonah snapped out of his trance from staring at the captain to blink back into reality. “This here’s your new master, Captain Sebástian Vale. Show some respect.” 

The moment he uttered those words, Jonah was shoved down to his knees, and Crowe pressed his boot between Jonah’s shoulder blades until his face hit the floor for a second time that day. Crowe’s boot rested heavily on his back, forcing Jonah down in the deep bow as the Captain eyed him over.

Captain Vale approached closer, until his boots were directly in front of Jonah’s head. Jonah shook horribly, terrified of what this Captain would do. 

“Well, hello there,” the Captain cooed, as if Jonah were a little bird he’d trapped in a cage. “My first mate here says the men found you stowing away on my ship?” 

Crowe stepped off of his back only to yank Jonah’s head up by his hair just enough so he could crane his neck to look up at the Captain. 

“Answer him!” Crowe ordered, with a fierce kick to his ribs. 

“Y-yes, Sir!” Came Jonah’s panicked response.

“Aww, not quite, little pet,” the Captain clicked his tongue down at Jonah, who cringed back when he realized he’d already done something wrong. 

“It’s Master to you, slave.” 

All the blood drained from Jonah’s face when he realized the full reality of his position. They weren’t just going to ransom him or try to rob him, they were taking him captive—permanently. He had effectively gone from one cruel master to another in less than the span of 24 hours. Tears spilled down his face as Crowe tugged his hair again, a wordless demand for him to fucking answer already.

“Y-yes, Master,” Jonah’s breath caught in his throat as a sob threatened to work its way up. 

“And??” Crowe shook Jonah’s head roughly back and forth. 

“I—I’m s-sorry, Master,” Jonah cried, his voice breaking as he looked down at the captain’s freshly shined shoes. 

“Well, aren’t you a pretty one,” Sebástian Vale reached out to swipe away a tear on Jonah’s cheek. “It’s rare we get one that’s pretty when it cries,” he smiled down at Jonah. 

“Fucking pathetic…” Voss scoffed from behind him. It was evident the first mate wasn’t quite so enamored with Jonah’s little terrified performance as Captain Vale seemed to be. 

“Yes, quite pathetic, isn’t he?” The smile never left the Captain’s face. “I think this one will do nicely here. I’ve been needing a new cabin boy ever since the…. Well, never mind.  You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about it, sweetheart,” the Captain pinched Jonah’s cheek and he bit back a wince. 

“Good work, gentleman,” Voss said, strict and businesslike. 

“There’s just something I’d like to see,” Captain Vale said, voice alight with amusement. “I want to see the little thing kiss my boot.” 

“Do it, if you know what’s good for you, mutt,” growled Voss, his arms crossed and all his weight leaned on one hip. 

Jonah bit his lip to hold back the sob that wanted out so badly, and thought of Sawyer, and the whip that now dangled in a coil from Voss’ waist. 

Slowly, when Crowe released his hair, Jonah lowered himself to the Captain’s shoes. Fresh tears fell and splashed against the smooth leather before Jonah’s face even reached it, but once he was close enough, Jonah pressed his lips to the captain’s shoe, shuddering in place as he tried not to sob against them. 

“Aww, very good, little boy,” the Captain sounded beyond pleased, smug and delighted at his new slave boy’s obedience. 

Jonah stayed down, completely still save for the tremor in his shoulders. He didn’t want to move without permission, the fear froze him in place. He didn’t want to know what might happen if he angered the Captain so quickly.

It seemed to be the right call.

“Up,” ordered the Captain, and Jonah rose once more to blink up at him, his eyes red and wet as more tears streamed down his cheeks. 

“We’re going to train you so well, dear boy. You’ll be pleasing my every need in no time,” the Captain said it like it was an encouraging promise, but the words stabbed Jonah’s chest with icy dread. He couldn’t get out of this. There was nothing surrounding them but miles and miles of water. 

“Now, I trust these boys here to help you get… acquainted. I’m pleased you already seem to understand your place here. Were you a slave before this?”

Jonah sniffled. “Y-yes, Master.” Now he really did feel like he was back with Carlisle again, sniveling and dutifully agreeing, saying ‘Yes, Master,’ over and over to the man who ran his life, who decided whether he ate or slept or lived or died.

“Good boy,” the Captain gave Jonah’s hair a ruffle with his hand. “In that case, I’ll let my men get you oriented here.”

Sebástian Vale towered over his crying slave, and flashed him a wide, beaming smile. 

“Welcome aboard La Sirena de Sangre.”

༻✦༺ 

Two chapters in one day??? Honestly this story is just falling out of my brain this is so much fun to write

TAGLIST (just ask to be added!)

However, it wasn’t even a day after he’d been brought to Carlisle in exchange for a hefty sum that he realized he’d be far worse off here. At least his father only hit him when he was drunk and angry. Carlisle seemed to do it for the sheer fun of it—for some kind of a sick thrill. He loved to chain Jonah up in his blacksmithing workshop and beat him with whatever tool struck his fancy that day—a whip, long metal rods, pronged sharp tools. Sometimes he’d stick the metal in the furnace and press it flush against Jonah’s exposed skin. Jonah’s only tunic had been cut off of him that first day, and he was never given anything to wear as a replacement—Carlisle always said he liked to see the marks.

His title may have been ‘apprentice,’ but Jonah knew what he was to the man—a slave. He’d been exchanged for money, for crying out loud. He wasn’t paid a dime for the years he’d worked in Carlisle’s blacksmithing workshop—hell, he served the man hand and foot, from dawn until dusk, but never got so much as a word of thanks. Carlisle always seemed much more preoccupied in abusing Jonah and trying out various cruel and unusual punishments than he ever did actually training the boy in his craft. 

So Jonah dreamed of freedom, even though he spent most of his nights chained by the ankle in the workshop, sleeping on a pile of hay. 

One evening, when he’d been permitted to accompany Carlisle to a supply run at the market, he spotted it, just out on the horizon of the sea. A ship—unlike any of the ships of the local merchants and foreign magistrates. Its flag was a deep, bloody red, with a grinning skull across the face of it. He could just make out the insignia as he stared out at the sea. The ship was approaching. 

That night, he knew it was his chance, when Carlisle passed out drunk off too much rum and forgot to lock the chain to Jonah’s ankle before retiring himself. This had happened before, on occasion, but everyone in town knew Jonah belonged to the blacksmith and would drag him back to his master the moment they discovered him, so there was never anywhere for him to go, unless he wanted to walk off barefoot into the jungle and get bitten by a snake or die of starvation. 

But tonight was different. The moon had risen high in the sky. Surely, the ship would have docked by now. Jonah snuck out of the workshop and slipped out onto the dark streets. His heart leapt as he approached the shore and saw it. Large and majestic now,  the ship towered high above the waves. Its masts rose up into the star-lit sky. Its decks were quiet—no doubt the crew had all gone ashore to… sample the local cuisine, as it were. 

Jonah took his chance, his heart racing in his chest. He leaped from the old wooden dock and caught a rope that dangled from the ship’s side. He summoned every ounce of strength he had left to climb up and hauled himself over the ship’s railing and landed on the wooden upper deck. He spotted a guardsman on the opposite side, an oil lamp flickering in his hand. The man hadn’t seen Jonah, thank god. Jonah scanned the floor of the ship until he spotted the gap in the floorboards that led belowdecks. Slowly, he crept through the darkness and descended the ladder. 

He wove through a maze of dark passageways below, looking for a place to hide. The cargo hold was the obvious choice. He crept past a snoring sailor in a hammock, the man’s slumbering body swaying with the rocking of the waves. At last, Jonah reached a larger room full of barrels, trunks, and crates. The crates were all nailed shut, so he tiptoed to a set of barrels, looking for one empty enough that he could slip inside. 

At last, he found one barrel at the end with a loose lid. This was his. He carefully lifted the lid and climbed inside, curling himself up before resetting the lid atop the barrel. So long as nobody came and nailed it down, he would be safe here until the ship docked once more. Then, he’d finally be free, on some new Isla, in some new town where he could start over. Get a real job, rent a room of his own—the visions of a new life invigorated Jonah as he curled up in the confines of the barrel. He was really doing it—this was really happening. He could barely contain his excitement. He was finally on his way to a new land. 

༻✦༺ 

At some point, Jonah must have fallen asleep, for he startled awake at the sound of muffled voices wafting through the corridors of the lower levels. His eyes snapped open, only to see absolutely nothing. He tried to stretch his limbs out, then panicked for a moment when he found he couldn’t, before he remembered where he was, and tried to calm his nerves. 

It’s okay, he told himself. Nobody is coming to check the cargo. He focused on his breath—in, and out. In… and out. 

Soon, however, he heard footsteps growing louder as they approached the cargo hold.

“Surely one of these has the rum,” said a gruff voice. 

Jonah froze, holding his breath. 

“I’m telling you, we drank it all,” came another, “Best pick up some more at the next port.” 

“Agh,” groaned the first, “You’re so full of shite.” 

Jonah, to his horror, heard the sound of wood against wood, mere feet away from where he sat. 

“Oh yes, pop them all open, why don’t you,” the smoother voice said sarcastically.

“I fuckin’ will!” grunted the gruff one.

Jonah felt tears of panic in his eyes. This couldn’t be happening—please don’t check this one please don’t check this one please don—

The orange light of a lantern flooded Jonah’s vision, and he squinted hard against it as the lid of the barrel was thrown open. He froze, panic like ice in his chest, and gazed up into the light at the two shocked faces above him.

Their shock quickly turned, as two crooked smiles overcame their faces.

“Well well well…” said the gruff voice, a man with a scraggly beard and a bandana around his head. “What ‘ave we got here?”

“Seems we’ve found ourselves a little stowaway,” smiled the smooth-voiced one, a taller man with a scar on his cheek and a gold earring. 

“Don’t suppose you know this one, do ya Graves?”

“Can’t say I do,” said the gruff one—Graves—eyeing Jonah like he was a freshly grilled steak. “Though he sure is a pretty little thing, ain’t he?”

“Please—I’m sorry, just, just let me leave, I’ll—I’ll get off as soon as we’re at the next port—please!” Jonah pleaded, tears rapidly welling up in his eyes. “Just don’t tell anyone I’m here!”

Jonah paled when the two men laughed and laughed, before strong, rough hands reached in to haul him out of the barrel. The two men dragged Jonah out and threw him onto the floor. Jonah hastily turned to face them in a kneeling position. 

“Please!” He cried. “Please I beg of you, just don’t tell anyone—I mean no harm!” At least, for all his time with Carlisle, he’d had plenty of practice at begging for mercy.

“Aww, you hear that Crowe?” Graves chided. “He says he don’t mean no harm.” 

“Oh, I’m sure he don’t,” Crowe laughed, knocking Jonah over easily with a single sharp kick to his side.

Crowe stepped his foot down onto the side of Jonah’s face, leaning down to press the boy’s cheekbone hard into the wooden floorboards. 

“We’re just gonna have to see if the captain believes you.” 

Crowe kept his boot pressed down firmly on the side of Jonah’s head to hold him down. Jonah groaned in pain against the floor, convinced his head would split clean open if Crowe put even an ounce more weight on it. 

“Grab something to tie him up, would ya Graves?” 

“Already on it, mate,” came Graves’ rough voice, now a few feet away. Jonah couldn’t see what he was doing, but he heard his heavy footsteps approach once more and struggled weakly on the floor, still pinned down beneath Crowe’s savage boot. 

“Aye, that’ll do, won’t it,” Crowe clapped Graves on the back as the man bent down to wrestle Jonah’s arms behind his back. Jonah tried to writhe against the man, but Crowe was quick to lift his foot for a moment before stomping down hard on the side of Jonah’s head, sending white stars popping through his vision and making the whole room swim. Jonah cried out and went limp for just long enough for Graves to tie the boy’s hands roughly behind him with thick, coarse rope. Crowe stepped off of Jonah’s head only to lean down and wrench a fist into his hair, hauling the boy back up onto his knees. 

Graves, seemingly reading Crowe’s mind, wound the rest of the rope around Jonah’s torso, pinning his arms tightly against his back. Jonah tried to thrash against Crowe’s hold, but he only succeeded in making his own scalp burn as he twisted against the hand that held him. 

Crowe stepped around to Jonah's front to deliver a sharp slap across the side of his face. His head tried to snap to the side with the force of it, but he was still held in place with Crowe’s other hand in his hair, so Jonah’s face absorbed the full impact. Jonah gasped and hissed in pain, a fierce heat radiating through the side of his face. 

“You’re a firstly little one, aren’t ya?” Crowe’s crooked smile loomed down over Jonah as he said it, the amusement thick in his voice. 

“Ple—ease..” Jonah’s voice cracked as he held back a sob. This was the worst possible way this escape could have gone. He just prayed whoever this captain was, he would take mercy on Jonah. He tried not to think of how slim the likelihood of that really was.

When Graves had secured the ropes around Jonah’s arms and torso, Crowe hauled Jonah to his feet by the grip in his hair. Jonah stumbled up to follow the motion, his head still spinning with the force of getting kicked into the floor—the impact of Crowe’s boot against his head. 

“Ohh the captain’s gonna love this,” Graves grinned wide, rubbing his grubby hands together as he stepped back. 

“I’d say he might even reward us for finding the little rat, wouldn’t you say?” Crowe smiled back at Graves, his eyes narrowed to delighted slits.

“Aye..” Graves hummed, his voice a low rumble in his throat. 

“Let’s go, pretty boy. Move.” Crowe snapped, beginning to drag Jonah out of the cargo hold and down the wooden corridor. Jonah tried to resist at first, keeping his feet stubbornly planted, but a fierce yank on his hair was all it took to have him hissing in pain again and obediently following Crowe through the passageway towards the upper decks, Graves trailing behind them. 

Jonah let the tears fall silently, praying that this wouldn’t turn out as badly as he feared it would. He saw sunlight stream down from the gap in the ceiling as they neared the staircase, a loud mix of voices sounded from above. As he was marched up the stairs to the upper deck, Jonah pleaded in his mind to anything that was out there that this captain of theirs would be merciful. 

༻✦༺ 

Let me know if you want to be tagged in part 2!

*NEW* Pirate Story Taglist

“You’re just so cute when you’re out of it!” she cooed. “Aren’t you, baby boyy…” She was leaning in mere inches from his face, her short skirt pooling over his thin waist and pinning Seven in place with her thighs. 

She leaned up for a moment, perhaps to assess his expression properly, and Marquez could see the way she pinched at Seven’s cheeks when she spoke to him, as though he were a cute little puppy dog she’d met on the street. Seven whined at the treatment, weakly batting at her waist with his hands. He groaned in painful protest when she lowered her hand to press down on the bruises that littered his bare torso. 

“What’d you do to get all these, hmm?” She teased, pressing down harder at the purpled skin on his ribs and stomach. Seven cried out, weakly trying to push her away, and the sound seemed to snap Marquez out of his shocked daze.

“Get the fuck off him, Brie,” Marquez hissed, as menacingly as he could. He couldn’t exactly shout and shove her off of Seven—he knew that it would not go over well with Wes, if Marquez ‘mistreated’ one of his closest friends, but Marquez crossed his muscled arms and made a point to sound as irritated as possible to try and intimidate her off of him.

“Aww c’monnnn,” she chided in mocking protest, turning her head to look at him, her red hair cascading like a sunset-lit waterfall as she tossed it over her shoulder. “What’s the problem? He clearly likes it...” The snicker in her voice would be audible even if Marquez were not able to witness her expression firsthand. 

“He does not. Like it.” Marquez forced out through gritted teeth. “He’s sick. I'm supposed to be taking care of him,” he oozed authority now, knowing his purpose here was backed by Wes’ own desires—something even Brie wasn’t in a position to argue with. “Now buzz the fuck off.” He ordered. “Seriously.” 

“Aww, he does though!” She protested, challenging the certainty in his voice as she pressed down on a particularly awful bruise on Seven’s ribcage. “He does! Seven likes it.. Don't you baby?” Her voice dripped even further into nauseating condescension when she said it, and she squeezed both of Seven’s flushed cheeks tightly between her manicured fingertips, forcing another pained whine out of the boy. She smiled brightly and leaned in closer to his face, her pink glossy lips hovering inches above his own.

Seven blinked up at her with bleary eyes, “I… I.. um…” he was frozen in fear—he was never allowed to refuse them, especially Brie of all people. She could make his life hell for daring to speak against her—for resisting in the slightest. 

Marquez dropped a heavy hand to Brie’s shoulder. “Off him. Now,” he growled, and Brie turned her shoulder away and scoffed in mock disgust. 

“Don’t touch me!” she exclaimed. “I just wanted to come say hi to him!” Marquez stepped even closer to her, looming down over her straddled form, his biceps flexing as his arms twitched in their position. 

“Get. Off.” Marquez growled, narrowing his eyes. “Or I’ll make you.” It was perhaps a bluff, mostly, but it seemed to work. Brie chuffed under her breath and climbed off of Seven. “Alright, fine! Fucking Jesus! You don’t have to be so fucking dramatic.” 

Brie huffed as she climbed off the bed and stormed out of the room in a whirl of fiery red hair, her flowy miniskirt swishing behind her. 

“Enjoy your little private time, lover boy. Hope you brought a condom!” she called behind her with a haughty sneer, and slammed the door behind her. 

The relief of her absence was instant, palpable between the two of them. “Sorry about that..” Marquez looked sheepish as he gazed back down at Seven, who was still panting slightly, his eyes wet around the edges. “I didn’t know she’d come in like that. Does this door even lock?” 

“It… It doesn’t, Sir…” Seven said quietly, confirming Marquez’ suspicions that Seven might have his own room, but privacy was a right he had to constantly earn around here. 

Marquez vowed to wring her neck along with Wes’ when the time came. He let out a heavy sigh, trying to shove the feelings down once again and right himself to focus on what he could actually control. He willed his brow to unfurrow, his expression to soften, back into that of calm gentleness—the one that Seven needed right now. 

“Okay, just come here,” he situated himself beside Seven once more, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s alright, just come over here with me,” he said gently, extending one arm and beckoning Seven to lean back with him and snuggle into his torso as he’d been before. Seven’s skin still felt so hot to the touch. Marquez spotted the bottle of ibuprofen on the bed side table.

“Did Wes already give you a few of those pills?” He said, nodding to the bottle. 

“Uhn-huh,” Seven murmured against his chest, not even looking up.

“Alrtight then, I’ll give you some more in a few hours. For now, let’s just be here together, okay?”

“Oh–” Seven’s voice caught in his throat. “Okay.. Yes, Sir..” Marquez felt the boy hiccup against his chest, but didn’t say anything, instead bringing a hand to Seven’s bare back and rubbing gentle circles into the feverish skin with his thumb. He tried not to take too much notice of the way the layered whip scars felt beneath his fingertips. Don't think about Wes. Don’t think about how much you fucking loathe Wes. Don’t think about how nice it’d feel to slam his face into the ground.. 

Marquez squeezed his eyes shut and shoved it down, vowing to channel the energy into soothing the subject of Wes’ abuse. His other hand lifted to Seven’s head, carding long fingers through the boy’s damp hair, absentmindedly undoing any tangles in careful, feather-like motions.

Seven didn’t know what it was that made him start crying. Perhaps it was the gentleness, the act of someone actually caring about him, for the first time in over a decade, that brought fresh tears to well up behind his pale, long lashes. He hadn’t felt actually, genuinely loved like this since—since her. 

And just like that, the floodgates opened, as the memories Seven had worked so hard to suppress over the many years began to bubble up to the surface of his consciousness, breaking through the confines of the mental walls he’d carefully built up for his own sanity. He tried never to think about the past—about her. It all hurt too much to think about—but perhaps it was the fever, Marquez gentle touch, his soft voice, or all of the above, that weakened the gates of the dam with crack after crack, little hairline fractures spreading into larger canyons in the concrete, until the whole wall collapsed into rubble and water flooded into the valley of Seven’s mind. It reminded him all too much of his mother.

Rosaline had been a gentle and hardworking woman—what she lacked in money she more than made up for in spirit. She worked herself to the bone to provide for the two of them, but it never cost her her smile—she would beam at her little boy every time she came home. She’d take Seven up in her arms, swinging him around with sore muscles and hugging him close. 

The way Marquez smiled at him, the way his hands felt like pure love itself, it all flooded his fevered mind with memories of her—of the last times he was able to feel gentleness, like he was truly worthy of love. His Aunt Beatrice had never loved him—that much was clear from the day he’d been moved into her house and was carved in stone the day she’d sold him. But Rosaline always had. Seven missed his mother more than anything in the universe. It ran through him like a wooden stake, piercing through his very heart in the place where every emotional nerve met at its highest sensitivity. 

He grieved the life he might’ve had if she hadn’t died when she did. He missed the way she would hold him, he missed the way he’d trusted in her—in the world itself, at the time—to hold him and lead him through it safely. The memory of her love always opened a hole up in his chest and sucked everything good in with it. It cracked his soul apart and it fucking hurt. It always did when he allowed himself to remember her gentleness. He’d tried for years to block it out mentally, for her memory only caused him more pain, but something about the way Marquez’ was holding him now made him unable to think of anything else. 

He cried into the pillow in his arms, feeling Marquez' gentle touch on his hair, on his back. He wanted to apologize for crying but he couldn't even get himself to speak, he was sobbing so hard. He remembered the little stuffed pig she'd gotten him one year, when he was very small. Whatever happened to it, he didn’t know. He wasn't even allowed to pack his own things from the house after she’d died—he was ushered to his Aunt Beatrice’s house so quickly and the house he’d shared with Rosaline had been cleared out by his Aunt before he could clutch anything for the last time. Aunt Beatrice, who had said he was ‘too young to know what he’d need,’ had packed it all up—what little she thought necessary—and must have simply thrown the rest away. Seven never saw the pig again, or any of his stuffed animals, or even any photos of her. He had nothing but the memories.

He had a feeling Beatrice had always hated her sister. His mother had never really spoken much of her, not that he could remember anyway. But after Rosaline’s death, Beatrice had seemed hell-bent on erasing her own sister’s very existence from history itself. Beatrice always grew angry with Seven whenever he tried to talk about his mother. He learned quickly never to bring it up. Rosaline lived on in his memories, though, and he remembered kneeling on the floor every night in Aunt Beatrice’s house, silently praying to anything that was out there to bring her back—to take him away from this new house where he was loathed and beaten down like he was some evil, wretched thing. He’d pressed his face into the hardwood and cried into the floorboards, praying over and over to have his mother’s sunshine back. 

Nothing ever answered him, of course. 

He was so young at the time, that he didn’t even recall that many conversations between them, but in his mind he could see her smile. He heard the sound of her laugh. He remembered the way she’d make pancakes for him in fun little shapes—hearts and dinosaurs—and put fresh strawberries on top. The songs she’d sing him—god the songs—sweet little lullabies as she rubbed his back to lull her young son to sleep. The songs especially hurt to think about—the melodies in his head. He tried to shove them down but the song started up anyway. 

‘Go to sleep my darling, hush now, don’t you cry…’

He had curled in on himself now. He bit down on the pillow he was clutching and sobbed, shaking with the pain of it. His head pounded harder with the fever. He'd give anything to hold her in his arms again. Seven didn't know how tall she’d been before she died, he had been so young and small at the time, but he imagined he might even be taller than her now. He thought of what it would be like to hug her, to pull her up against him tightly and rest his chin on the top of her head. He wondered if she’d still sing to him, the way she used to—soft and light, like the call of the morning birds. 

Birds—they made him think of her too now, in the thick of his fever, his mental walls demolished to nothing by the sick burning heat. There was a memory of him lying next to her on a blanket in the grass. The shade of sunlight-dappled branches cast wandering stars over their forms. The image was so vivid he may as well have been hallucinating. He lay with his head on her shoulder and leaned into her torso, her arm wrapped around him. Rosaline laughed, in that bright, beautiful way that felt like the morning light itself. She pointed up to a bird on a branch. 

“It’s a red breasted robin, dear, do you see it?”

“Yes, mama,” he’d probably said, nuzzling in close to her and gazing up at the little bird. 

Rosaline was not unlike the robin. She was light and free and peaceful. She hadn’t had it easy, certainly not, but she’d never lost that light that seemed to glow at the edges of her form. That music in her laugh, that carried on her voice with every word. Birds always brought Seven a certain bittersweet peace, when his guard was lowered as it was now—she must’ve given him that association before he could even piece it together. 

He’d give his life for hers, in a heartbeat if he could. She’d been too gentle, too sweet for a world like this one. It was only through some cruel divine wrath that her light would be snuffed out so soon, that Seven would be cast into darkness to face the world's cruelty alone—Aunt Beatrice, the facility, the McQueens. He hadn’t been able to say goodbye, to tell her he loved her one last time. He was so young the day Rosaline had died—she didn’t even get to see what he might turn out to be. 

Seven cried in Marquez’ arms until he couldn’t anymore. Though Marquez didn’t know what had suddenly overcome the boy, he never pried, and simply held Seven and let him ride out the emotional waves as they came. Marquez would be his rock—the one thing he could steady himself against amid the barrage of the storm—he was determined to be, to stay with him until the clouds parted and calm was restored to the seas of Seven’s mind once more. 

At last, Seven’s sobs gave way to little faint hiccups, the occasional sharp inhale, until even those faded into something slower, something akin to a calm sky with a still distressed, swirling sea below. Marquez kept rubbing slow, soothing circles into his scarred back. He pressed a soft kiss into the top of Seven's head. The boy had fallen asleep right there, no doubt spent from crying and fighting the fever’s heat. 

Perhaps, when he awoke, Seven would tell him what he’d been thinking about. Perhaps he wouldn’t. Marquez would listen if he wanted to talk, but it was up to Seven if he was willing to share it. Regardless, Marquez would be right here, still holding him tightly when he awoke once more. 

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