Enter the Void

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!!

Taglist:

@phoenixpromptsandstuff @ofclrosewriteswhump @whump-queen @melpomenelamusa @hueningplushie @paperprinxe @neuronalwhip @written-in-the-stars135 @ieattoenailsforlunchlikearealone @lolrpop @butterflywhump

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!

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“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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"500?" the auctioneer yelled, and Whumpee opened their eyes. Nobody in the crowd was really paying them any mind. They were the last servant of the evening to be sold, and most of the guests already had a servant by their side that they'd purchased. The ones who didn't — well, they weren't interested in Whumpee either. "450!"

Great, they were lowering the price even further. Whumpee's legs were shaking from having been up and working all day, only to then be led to the auction where they had to stand for as long as the others were sold. They longed for the uncomfortable wooden chairs of the tavern.

"450?"

Whumpee glanced at their handler, and they got a glare in response. They would get the biggest cut of the sale, and the further the price went down, the less they would get. Whumpee looked away as quickly as they'd glanced at them, down at the floor. Their bare feet were bony and deformed from having spent so much of their time walking back and forth.

"400!"

They knew what happened to servants that didn't get sold. They'd never personally seen it before, but they knew. They'd seen their handler come back with patches of blood on their shirt, they'd heard the rumours, they knew they never saw someone from previous auctions ever again.

"300," someone finally yelled from the crowd. Whumpee risked a glance up at them. They were middle-aged, with hair down to their shoulders, in clothing that was quite unassuming. They didn't look cruel. If anything, it looked like they were trying to save Whumpee from the fate of an unwanted servant.

But would the auctioneer accept such a low bid?

When Whumpee looked at them, they looked a little taken aback. The whole night, the prices had only gone up, not down. The auctioneer exchanged a glance with Whumpee's handler, and when their handler nodded, they turned back towards the crowd. "300! Once, twice…" Whumpee held their breath. "Sold!"

Whumpee was grabbed by their handler and dragged off the stage, and they followed clumsily. "Lucky, aren't you?" their handler sneered.

"I'm sorry," Whumpee said, as though they had any power over the bidding process. They felt like they'd robbed their handler by being such a bad, useless servant.

"300 is still money, I suppose. Do not embarrass me. Do everything the way your master wants, be quiet, be docile. You know the rules. If they bring you back and ask for their money back, I will personally wring your neck."

Whumpee had no doubt about that. "I will do my best," they said quietly.

They finally arrived at the table where Whumpee's new master sat. "Whumpee, was it?" their master asked.

"Yes," they said meekly.

"My name is Carewhumper, I—"

"Money first, introductions later," Whumpee's handler cut in rudely. Carewhumper sighed and reached into their pocket, pulling out a purse with more than enough money to pay for Whumpee. They took out some coins, counting them carefully, not wanting to pay more for a no-good servant than they absolutely had to. Once they handed over the money, Whumpee's handler was gone. Not even a goodbye.

"I'm sorry you had to pay for me," Whumpee said, eyes downcast. "I will do everything I can to make your purchase worth it."

Elliot forced those thoughts from his mind as he rested his head against the wooden ground and listened to the sounds of the ocean lapping against the side of the ship. He closed his eyes, willing every aching muscle in his small body to relax, but the sound of pounding footsteps and drunken laughter overhead kept him constantly on edge. He just wanted to sleep. He'd been granted the mercy of a night in the brig, as opposed to the captain's bed or the crew's cabin. He wanted to take full advantage of it.

Just as Elliot's mind and body finally began to drift off, the door to the brig was slammed open. Elliot yelped and shot up, suddenly wide awake and shaking. A crewmate, whom Elliot wished he didn't recognize, stood in the doorway, staring at him hungrily. Elliot knew that look. He dreaded that look.

The captain referred the man by the name Reynolds. Whether that was his real name, Elliot didn't know, but what he did know personally was the man's cruelty. He found joy in Elliot's suffering, as did most of the crew, but few others sought out the slave for the sole purpose of watching him bleed.

Reynolds slowly sauntered over to his prisoner's cell and leaned against the bars, a mischievous grin on his face. Elliot's heart sank. “The captain requires your presence on deck, slave,” Reynolds said. The emphasis the man placed on the final word made Elliot flinch a little and tears well in his eyes. The crew never failed to come up with degrading, dehumanizing things to call him. Slave, rat, slut, whore, toy. But not his name. Never his name.

He used to waste so much time trying to remind them of his name, to convince them that he was a person. But he'd long since given up on that fruitless endeavor. He'd never be a person again. That title was stripped from him the moment the captain had laid eyes on him. There was no escaping what he was. He wasn't a person. He was a slave, an object, property. He was worthless.

Tears welled in Elliot's eyes. He was so, so tired. “But-But, Sir, I-I finished all my ch-chores. I did e-everything I was asked. M-Master p-promised me a b-break.”

Reynolds shrugged. “Guess he changed his mind.” He reached for the key to Elliot's cell and began clumsily fiddling with the lock.

Elliot scrambled backwards as far as he could at the sound of the door's squeaking hinges. Tears rolled down his face. “P-Please, Sir. I-I'm begging you. I can't—I can’t—”

“Shut up, slave!” Reynolds shouted as he easily grabbed Elliot by his bicep and wrenched the boy to his feet. The pirate's grimy fingers snatched Elliot's bruised jaw and steered him to face his superior. “You're not getting fucked tonight, you stupid whore.”

Relief flooded Elliot's system, quickly followed by a new, deeper sense of dread. “Then-Then what does the captain w-want with me?”

The irritation on the man’s face morphed into an ugly, menacing smile and Elliot's heart stopped. “Guess we'll see when we get up there, eh?” Reynolds chuckled and it sent icy tendrils crawling down Elliot's scarred back. “Now, walk.” The man shoved him and Elliot nearly tripped over the heavy shackles around both of his ankles. He had a matching set clamped tightly around his wrists, which used to be his only permanent restraints. However, the ankle chains were added shortly after the…incident, as the captain liked to call it. Also known as Elliot's one and only escape attempt.

Elliot was shoved forward again. “Hurry up, slave!” Reynolds shouted. “Ain't got all night!”

Elliot whimpered, trying and failing to pick up his pace. “I-I'm going as-as fast as I c-can, Sir. My-My chains—”

Reynolds groaned and rolled his eyes. “For the love.” He grabbed hold of Elliot's long braid and wrapped it once around his fist, creating a makeshift leash that he then used to drag the boy onto the upper deck. Elliot yelped, his neck straining to the side. Tears burned his eyes, which only made keeping up with the man that much harder.

When Reynolds had said the captain had called upon his slave, Elliot had assumed he'd be taken to the captain's quarters. His stomach dropped when he finally opened his eyes long enough to see the crew huddled around each other in various positions on the deck, holding tankards of ale and laughing haughtily.

Elliot squeaked. “S-Sir, p-please—”

“Quiet, boy!” Reynolds commanded, just before throwing Elliot to the ground in the center of the circle.

Elliot landed on his hands and knees with a quiet thump, his chains rattling as they clanged against the wooden deck. He held his breath.

Don't make a scene. That'll only excite them. Let them do what they wanna do and maybe they'll let me rest.

A pair of worn boots entered Elliot's field of vision and Elliot recognized them instantly. His tongue would never forget the taste of those boots. Elliot hesitantly lifted his eyes to meet the captain's, the curtain of his overgrown bangs hopefully hiding the tears in his eyes.

The captain smiled. It wasn't a cruel smile, like the one Reynolds wore. It was something akin to triumph or pride. Elliot lowered his head again, willing his tears to subside.

Whatever you're gonna do to me, please just get it over with.

“There's my pretty treasure,” the captain said. The handle of an overflowing tankard was clasped in his left hand, his right falling atop Elliot's sandy blond head. Elliot flinched at the touch, but if the captain noticed, he paid the reaction no mind. “Enjoy your break, pretty thing?”

Elliot's breath halted for a beat, eyes burning with unshed tears. “I-I've barely h-had my break, M-Master.”

“Oh?” The captain said, amusement weaving between his words. “So it wasn't good enough for you?”

Elliot squeaked and hunched his shoulders to appear smaller. “N-No, that-that's not what I meant, M-Master,” he insisted as he finally met his master’s deep black eyes. “It-It was l-lovely and-and I'm v-very g-grateful. You're-You're s-so good to me, M-Master. I-I just th-thought it would be l-longer.”

The captain chuckled. “It was supposed to be,” he admitted. “But the boys and I struck gold today, didn't we, men?” A cacophony of victorious whoops and hollers erupted from the waiting crew. Tankards were smashed together and droplets of ale dribbled onto the deck.

Elliot flinched again and instinctively raised his chained hands to protect his head. He didn't lower them again until the noise died down several seconds later. “Con-Congratulations, M-Master.”

“Thank you, treasure. Such a fruitful day warrants an equally spectacular celebration, don't you think?”

Elliot didn't know what to say. What did any of this have to do with him? What role in this so-called “celebration” was he doomed to play? “Y-Yes, Master.”

“Glad you agree,” the captain said as he looked past his kneeling slave. “Tie him up.”

Elliot gasped, but that's all he was able to do before his arms were seized and his shackles were unlocked. The crew twisted his arms roughly behind his back, despite the boy's compliance, and threw a coil of thick rope around his bruised wrists. Elliot whimpered. The angle at which the men held his arms strained his already sore shoulders. The ache was unbearable. Following the binding of his wrists, more rope was wrapped around his chest and upper arms, tightened to the point of restricting his breath.

Elliot wedged his lower lip between his teeth to hold back the ever-increasing urge to cry. What had he ever done to deserve being treated like this?

Finally, satisfied with the job they did, the crew released him and their hands fell away from his upper body. Elliot kept his head low to hide the slow trickle of tears that finally began to fall down his sullen face. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He didn't know what the captain planned to do with him, but the images his mind conjured made his whole body tremble.

A quiet, unintentional sob escaped his throat and he silently cursed his inability to hide his terror.

“Aw, are you crying, sweet thing?” The captain's hand softly grasped Elliot's chin and guided his face into view of the whole crew. “Oh, you poor thing. Don't be scared. We're going to take such good care of you.” The captain flashed a grin that did nothing to ease the fear swelling in Elliot's gut.

“Wh-What are you gonna d-do to me, M-Master?” The slave asked.

The captain chuckled and released his slave's chin. “Well, a celebration must include entertainment. Don't you agree?”

Elliot's breath caught in his throat. “But-But—”

“Here, I have an idea,” the captain interrupted. “How about something strong to calm your nerves. What say you?”

Elliot didn't understand until, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed several serpents pull out various bottles of alcohol. He saw rum, ale, grog, gin. His stomach churned at the sight of not only that, but the insidious looks on the crew's faces. He knew exactly what was about to happen to him and it made his tears fall harder. “M-Master, please. Please d-don’t. I-I'll be good. I'll be your entertainment. I'll do what-whatever you w-want! Please!”

The captain chuckled again. “Of course you will, treasure.” He ran a hand through his slave's choppy, unwashed hair. “You don't have a choice.”

“But, Mas—mmph!” the thin mouth of a bottle was shoved against the slave's lips as the contents flooded his tongue and dribbled down his chin. A strong hand gripped Elliot's cheeks before he could even think about turning his face away, although he tried. It was like fire licking the back of his throat, an agonizing sensation that he had no room to choke away. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't keep up with the steady stream of expensive liquor and his throat seized, refusing to swallow anymore. He coughed and spluttered, alcohol spraying down the front of his tattered, yellowing poet's blouse, as well as all over the crew members tormenting him.

“You stupid bitch!” One of them shouted, punctuating the statement with a swift backhand to Elliot's cheek. He released a pathetic yelp between his incessant coughs and gasps for sweet oxygen. Before the boy could fully catch his breath, a fist closed around his bruised throat, squeezing a tight gasp from his lungs. “That was pathetic! We all know you're better at swallowing than that!”

Elliot's face burned a humiliating shade of red. “I-I'm s-sorry, Sir,” he choked out. The man squeezed tighter and tiny black pinpricks began to close in around the edges of Elliot's vision.

“Enough, Decker,” the captain's bored voice interrupted. “Put the slave down. We're not done with it.”

The man called Decker growled but released his grip on Elliot's throat. “Aye, Captain,” he grumbled.

Elliot hung his head as the captain approached him again. “Look at this mess, treasure,” he tsked, shaking his head in disapproval as he gazed upon Elliot's stained blouse and dripping chin. He tilted Elliot's face up with a hand on his jaw. Elliot stared at him with eyes half-lidded, vision starting to swim. The captain laughed. “Oh, don't tell me you're feeling it already, sweet boy. That was only half the bottle! You've got so much more to get through.”

Elliot squeaked. “P-Please, Master. N-No more. I-I can't—”

“Shh,” the captain said. “Don't speak, treasure. Save your energy. You've got a long night ahead of you.”

-

I hope you enjoyed this!! Part 2 is already written, I just have to go through and tweak some stuff so I don't hate it so much😅

If you have any requests for this au, feel free to send them to me!

Taglist:

“Ughhh! He's fineee!” Wes groaned. “He’s literally fucking fine. He’s fine, he just, he just… He’s like, sick or something okay? I don't know, man. Okay? I don’t even fucking know but like. It’snotgood, dude… So you should… You should juslike… help me out, y’know.” That last part probably should’ve been a question, but Wes drawled it out like an assumption.

Marquez would have laughed if he weren’t so concerned. Was Wes drunk calling him for help? Marquez only had seconds to make a decision, and quite frankly the situation was obviously dire if Wes was calling him at a time like this. Whatever was wrong, Seven needed help, and Wes was completely unable to provide it in this state—especially in this state. Marquez figured he could sit here on the phone and try to drag more details out of a tossed and belligerent Wes, or he could just figure it out himself. The answer was obvious.

“Alright, I’m coming over. Same passcode as last time on the elevator, yeah?” 

“Yeah, yeah…” Wes drawled, and Marquez noted the lack of ‘thank you’ that would typically punctuate a request like this. 

Whatever. Marquez wasn’t doing this for Wes. This was about Seven. It was always about Seven.

“Okay—okay, yeah. I’ll be right there.”

“Thank fucking godddd,” Wes groaned—he probably hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but Marquez knew it was as close to an actual thanks as he would get, at least for now. 

A moment later, the line went dead, and Marquez went to find his keys.

༻✦༺

Seven was drifting in and out of consciousness when the bedroom door slipped open. He was somewhere far away, lost in the sprawling grounds of the McQueen estate. Seven found himself caught in the maze of immaculately carved hedges, wandering through those palatial grounds. He labored away, in that practiced fashion that was so familiar, pulling weeds that kept growing back as soon as he had tugged them from the soil. He frantically trimmed rose bushes, whose prickly vines kept trying to wrap around his limbs. At one point, he gave up, throwing down the trimmers and turning his gaze up at the sky. After what felt like a lifetime of struggling, he was willing to let it happen to him—to not fight against the forces that seemed hell-bent on sabotaging him over and over. He looked up into that bright blue abyss and willed it to suck him up entirely. He just wanted to float above it all, like a dove flying through the clouds, but the thorny brambles of the roses he had tried and failed to trim kept him tethered to the ground. Weeds sprung up around him, their tendrils thick and anchoring, covering his feet and wrapping his ankles in their undergrowth. 

He squirmed in place, alternating between fighting the possessed flora and not fighting at all. He writhed helplessly against the very forces of nature he was meant to tame, that were supposed to obey him here when nothing else in the world would—when something stirred him just enough to crack his eyes open and see that the doorway was opening. A figure appeared in the space of the widening gap, and he let out a small surprised noise when he recognized the shape that had stepped through. 

It couldn’t be real—a sturdy figure, black ink coiling around strong, olive-tanned limbs—his nightmare had sent an angel. The image of Marquez, still fuzzy at the edges, hovered before him, gliding like a spectre towards the edge of the bed. Yes, Seven resigned, he was definitely still dreaming.

“Seven?” came a concerned voice, that voice that flooded Seven with warmth every time he heard it. Seven’s pale, shaking hand extended forward unconsciously towards the looming figure. He tried to sit up but the motion made the room swim and all the blood rise to his face, bringing with it a heat that thundered in tandem with the pounding heartbeat in his ears.

“Mar… Marquez…” Seven whispered as though he couldn’t believe it. Like the man before him was a living ghost, gliding along the deck of a long-sunken ship. Marquez had saved him from those twisted, thorny vines, surely, for he didn’t feel their sting anymore. Only a thumping pressure behind his eyes and that burning heat that rose to the surface of his skin in a glistening sheen of sweat. 

Marquez reached him, and sat on the edge of the bed. Seven felt the mattress sink as his savior settled upon it, before he saw Marquez’ large, warm hands extending out to cup Seven’s flushed cheeks.

“Oh, you poor thing…” Marquez’ voice was gentle as ever, washing over Seven like a splash of cool water against his fevered flesh. Marquez gazed down at the wilted servant, his mossy green eyes brimming with concern. He looked just as he had the day Seven’s tongue had been burned—he was every bit as beautiful and unbelievable in his radiance. Seven blinked up at him, trying to focus his gaze on Marquez’ face—it was still blurring in and out of focus before him. 

“Mar… quez…” was all he could say.

“You’re burning up, aren’t you.” Marquez wasn’t asking, it was merely a resigned observation. “What on earth did that bastard do to you…”

“Huhhnn..” Seven’s voice sounded slurred and far away—he barely registered Marquez’ words, savoring the richness and comfort of his presence alone, the low resonance of his voice. 

“Out… Outside…” Seven said softly, when Marquez’ question finally processed in his fevered mind. Everything moved like molasses, just as it had when he’d passed out in the shower, or in the kitchen. It seemed he’d been horrible at staying conscious lately, ever since Wes had left him outside in the rain all night.

Marquez had no idea what Seven meant by that—Wes had given him absolutely no context when he’d arrived. Rather than provide any useful information, Wes had greeted Marquez by shoving him up against a wall with a fist twisted in the collar of his shirt, his other hand clutching a bottle.

Marquez had scowled at him, but didn’t shove him off. He should’ve expected something like this. 

“You’renot fucking special, y’know,” Wes had slurred. “You’re my fucking drug dealer, that’ss it. You’re fucking replaceable. You’re only here ‘cuz you were free, got that?" Wes leaned in until their faces were mere inches apart. Marquez just stared Wes down, a fierce burning in his eyes. Whatever Wes was doing—attempting to establish dominance or some dumb shit—Marquez told himself he had to simply endure it. Let him say his little drunken threats, and then he could find Seven.  

“An’ byy theway,” Wes had hissed, pressing Marquez harder into the wall. “Don’t do fucking anything other than help heal my fucking servant. Don’ fuck him or touch’him like that or any of that fuckshit I know you wanna do. That’ss how he got like this in the first place.. fucking whore.”

Marquez’ nostrils flared—a low growl rumbled in his throat—he wanted to beat Wes into the ground right then and there for even speaking about Seven like that, especially while the boy was probably within earshot—sound carried easily across all the glass and marble—in some state of peril, and likely groaning in pain in the one of the bedrooms. Marquez was one hundred percent confident he could take Wes and win. He was stronger, his biceps wider, Wes was wasted—it would be easy.

But Marquez swallowed the swell of rage that twisted up his throat—he shoved it down hard. He had to focus on what he’d come here for. It was always about Seven.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” Marquez gritted out through his teeth, clenching his fists tightly so he wouldn’t fucking deck him.

After a moment of silence so tense it could snap, Wes seemed to have gotten what he wanted, because he finally released Marquez’ shirt and stepped back from the wall. He gestured towards the staircase with the bottle in his hand, uttering a slurred,  “He’ss upthere.” 

Marquez then wasted no time, hurrying up the staircase to the bedroom Seven usually slept in, cursing Wes in his mind the whole time for whatever he’d done to the poor servant. He’d imagined a hundred awful scenarios on his way to the penthouse. His mind had been racing with anxiety at what state he might find the boy in, but finding him sick and feverish to the point of near delirium was, in Marquez’ opinion, one of the better options. At least he wasn’t horrifically injured. He wasn't bleeding out. No bones appeared to be broken. If Marquez was lucky, and attentive and fucking perfect, he’d be able to help nurse Seven out of this. 

But Seven looked so fucking gone. He blinked up at him and his gaze was clouded and unfocused, but nothing could take the reverence out of those cerulean eyes whenever he looked at Marquez. Seven looked at him like he was an angel—a god. Marquez supposed it made sense, given everything that had happened between them. It seemed Seven had no one else that truly cared about his wellbeing. Hell, Wes would rather get blackout drunk than take care of his ailing servant. Resentment rose like bile within him whenever Marquez thought about it too hard—the fact that Wes, of all the sick people in the world, was the one in charge of Seven. But he knew, despite his simmering loathing, that stirring in his hatred for the man downstairs would do nothing to help Seven in that moment. Wes had called him for a reason. He was the only one equipped—that cared enough—to do this. Everything was up to Marquez now. 

Just as he took note of how hot the boy’s face felt, Marquez spotted the damp washcloth, scrunched up on the sheet a foot or so away. He released one hand from Seven’s cheek to take it. At least Wes had provided the bare fucking minimum before utterly crashing out. Not that he deserved any credit for it, given that he’d no doubt been the cause of all of this, somehow.

“Give me a second, okay?” Marquez said in that soft, gentle tone that always seemed to calm Seven in a way nothing else in his life would. Marquez slowly lifted himself from his sitting position, and Seven let out a little soft whine at his absence. The sound sent a small pang of regret through Marquez’ chest—he couldn’t help it, the way the boy’s distress made his heart throb with remorse. But he took the cloth to the bathroom anyway, running the fabric under cold water and wringing the excess water from its fibers before returning to Seven, who had since fallen back down, listless, into the pillows. 

“Come here, little thing,” Marquez soothed as he gently turned Seven’s shoulder so he was face-up again. 

“Nnnhh…” Seven sounded. Marquez wasn’t sure how lucid he was exactly, but he wasted no time gently sliding the cold washcloth over the servant boy’s face—down his cheek and across his chin, down the other cheek and over his pale, slender neck. Seven’s eyes fluttered shut once more, and he gave a small hum of approval at the motion. It must have felt nice—the cooling sensation on his heated skin. Marquez wiped the sweat from Seven’s forehead, before folding the cloth and laying it across his skin to cool the fever.

Fuck it, Marquez thought. The kid was burning up everywhere—he needed another cloth. Marquez went back to the bathroom and returned a few moments later with a second wet washcloth. Setting it on the bed beside Seven, he reached for the boy’s thin shoulders. “Come on sweetheart, up— Can you sit up for me, just for a moment?”

“Hnnmm… Mhmm..” Seven hummed affirmatively, and although he  sounded so far away, the boy seemed to understand—Seven allowed Marquez to slowly guide him up into a sitting position. Marquez slid the damp t-shirt up over the boy’s head, and Seven raised his arms in compliance when he realized what was happening. Everything felt too hot anyway, he was glad to be rid of it. 

Marquez bit back a gasp of horror at the sight before him. Seven’s torso was covered in large bruises—deep splotches of purples, reds, and blues ran along his ribcage and stomach. He could see the fading remnants of old injuries in the yellow-green tinge of other areas. Marquez’ eyes shot wide when he saw the wrap-around scars of old lash wounds that he now realized covered Seven’s entire back. He glimpsed what he swore was a fucking brand on his lower back—but the angle didn’t provide a perfect view, and he was not about to make Seven turn around so he could inspect his body. 

More scars littered his front, many of which he didn’t even know how to pinpoint the cause of. It made him feel sick to even think about what Seven must have endured in however long he’d been in Wes’ penthouse. Marquez didn’t want to alarm Seven, or make him feel any worse about his state than he already did, but he was fucking seething seeing it all with his own two eyes. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting to find when he removed the boy’s shirt, though, given everything he had seen in his visits to the penthouse so far, but seeing it first-hand made his blood run cold in sheer hatred for Wes and whoever else had had a hand in this.

As soon as Marquez released him, Seven slumped back down onto the mattress, panting slightly with the vertigo from the small motion alone. Marquez, trying to recover from the shock and surge of internal rage, twisted the shirt fabric in his hands. Calm. If he wanted to help, he had to remain calm. Marquez squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath—in… and out. He would wring Wes’ neck one day, he swore it, but today was not going to be the day. 

Resigning himself and shoving the feeling deep down, he tossed the shirt aside, and began to gently wipe Seven’s chest with the cool washcloth. Seven seemed even more fragile beneath him than he had before, now that the extent of his injured state had been revealed. Hell, that wasn’t even what Marquez had been called to fix—did Seven just… live constantly in a state like this? It broke Marquez’ heart to think about. 

“Uhnnn..” Seven hummed—he at least seemed pleased with this development.

“Thaat’s it,” Marquez cooed down at him. “You’re doing amazing.” He tried to keep his voice steady, and hoped he didn’t sound too patronizing. Given Seven’s state, he imagined any word of encouragement right now might, to some extent, but Seven seemed to be responding well to it. Marquez slid the cloth down the boy’s ribs and stomach, trying his best to be extra careful over the bruised areas—which if he were honest, seemed to be most of it. Slowly, he wiped the thin sheen of sweat away, before carefully lifting the waistband of Seven’s boxers to swipe the cloth over the skin beneath it. 

Marquez froze when Seven feverishly and clumsily caught his wrist. 

‘No—! Please, don’t..” Seven pleaded, and Marquez’ eyes widened in shock. “Not.. Not now… C-an’t—please,” he just kept begging, and all the blood drained from Marquez’ face when he realized Seven was begging to not be used. 

Marquez felt tears prick at his eyelashes at the fact that Seven would assume he would do that at a time like this, when Seven was so vulnerable and weak.. Marquez wanted to cry right there, thinking about how many people must have done that to Seven for him to see it as something normal and expected. He couldn't help but feel a stab of guilt in his chest, imagining how Seven must have felt in that moment—the doubt, the betrayal, the notion that his last hope for kindness and safety could be so easily twisted into being used again.

“No! I didn’t— I wasn’t—” Marquez scrambled to correct the situation, releasing Seven’s waistband immediately. 

Seven gave another sad little whine when those fingers released him, which puzzled Marquez. The boy seemed distressed either way. Regret stabbed through Marquez’ chest as he imagined the betrayal Seven must be feeling, thinking Marquez had only gotten close to him, was only helping him because he wanted to use Seven like a toy, just like all the others had before him. The very thought that Marquez would weaponize his vulnerability, would use that small glimmer of hope and safety and trust just to pry him open—to build Seven up, just to tear it all down again—it would rip his heart right open. Marquez bit his lip, his hands shaking slightly as they hovered above Seven’s body, afraid to touch him at all. 

Seven, even in his own fevered mind, instantly felt Marquez’ regret and lamented it. Seven desperately wanted it to be real. He wanted Marquez to touch him—but he wanted so badly for it to be genuine and soft and kind, he wanted to remember it without the tinge of pity and fever and guilt that the memory would have if it were to happen right now. 

“Not… Not like… this,” Seven tried to clarify.

“I’m so sorry, Seven,” Marquez’ voice cracked. “I’m so so sorry—I wasn’t going to—”

“Want…” Seven said quietly, “Just… Just not… like this.” 

Marquez worked those words over in his mind, deciding to just let the moment slip past them for now. “Of course,” he reassured, as gently and earnestly as he could. He blinked away the tears that had risen beneath his eyelids, and tried his best to recover—he needed to be strong for Seven right now. 

“May I…?” He asked softly, hovering the wash cloth over Seven’s ribs. 

“Uhn-huh,” Seven nodded, letting his eyes slip shut. Trust. Marquez hadn’t fucked this up irreparably. Thank fucking god.

Marquez took to drawing the cloth over Seven’s torso once more, cooling the skin there in soothing motions until it reached a less burning temperature. Seven seemed to calm throughout this, and Marquez never brought it lower than the boy’s hipbones. Marquez dabbed at Seven’s cheeks with it once last time, before spreading the cloth out and laying it across his chest. 

“Feel a little better?” He asked softly, leaning forward slightly to assess Seven’s expression.

“Mhmmm,” Seven hummed, giving the slightest nod of his head against the pillow, his eyes still closed shut. Marquez felt movement at the cloth of his trousers, and looked down to see Seven’s little fingers balling up in the excess fabric. Marquez couldn’t help the fond smile it brought to his face when he saw it—the boy had done this last time too. He was clinging to him. 

“You wanna be close, little thing?”

He heard the faintest response. “Please,” Seven nearly whispered, and Marquez let out an involuntary hum. Why was he so damned cute, even like this—or, especially like this? Seven was always so sweet and vulnerable and pliant with Marquez. Though it wasn't lost on Marquez that this was likely because they’d only interacted when Seven was already in some very vulnerable state, but he couldn't help the way he felt about it. He rather liked it. 

Marquez situated himself beside the servant’s frail form. He took Seven into his tanned, tattooed arms, sliding his thumbs soothingly across the boy’s pale, bruised skin, and together they nestled into the pillows with a new peace that seemed to stop time entirely. Seven hummed warmly against his chest, as though Marquez were the embodiment of bliss itself, and promptly fell fast asleep, letting out little slow puffs of air against Marquez’ sternum. Marquez found himself almost as deeply entranced, as sleep nearly overtook him as well, and they settled there for a while, wrapped in a sheetless embrace, Seven’s feverish cheek against a steadily beating heart. 

༻✦༺

Part 2 of this is already written! I’ll probably post it tomorrow.. 

SEVEN taglist 

@oddsconvert @blood-is-compulsory @lonesome--hunter @silversanimewhump @whatwasmyprevioususername 

@suspicious-whumping-egg @theonewithallthefixations @saltyemrys @writing-and-trying @veyroswin 

@whumpdreamz @kitstorm @amazingmagda @honeycollectswhump @ijustwannareadsomestuff 

@fleshand-blood @cryptobiolliegy @whumper-whimsy @electrons2006  @abmwrites 

@ichortwine @pumpkin-spice-whump @jumpywhumpywriter @angstandwhumplover @morning-star-whump 

@softvampirewhump @technicallydeliciousdeer  @scoundrelwithboba  @whumpsday @hellodecisionparalysis

@lolrpop @hiddencowboybarbarian @wolfolkstar @elfwhump @andithewhumper @hueningplushie 

@theloveofwhump @light-me-on-pyre  @hihi24

@thekneelingdoll @glvsnchapsblog @kingbri-guyf @neuronalwhip @spookyboywhump