there’s no getting out

“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

"Um, I'm looking for, uh, Whumpee?" came a hesitant voice from the top of the stairs. Like the voice's owner was scared to venture down into the basement. "Is anyone there?"

It had been so long since it had used its voice, Whumpee wasn't sure it knew how to anymore. But this was its one chance at companionship. At food. At freedom — hah, what a distant fantasy. "I—" Their voice cracked, and it had been so long since it'd received water or anything to wet its lips and throat with. "I'm here."

"Whumpee? Oh, uh… Okay. I'm coming down."

Steps descending the stairs. When Whumpee attempted to push its body up to see who the new arrival was, it found it had lost the strength to. Its emaciated body had been stripped of all muscle, and it simply couldn't support its own weight.

"Oh," came a softer voice, from closer. Whumpee turned its head to look at them.

The stranger was at most 20, a laughable number compared to the centuries Whumpee had spent on this earth. They looked equal parts scared and intrigued. But Whumpee wasn't looking for emotions. It was looking for food. It found none on the stranger's person.

"You've been alone down here for quite some time, haven't you?"

"Water," it choked out.

"There's water upstairs. I'll open this door now, okay? And you can come out. Whenever you're ready."

Another laughable concept. Nobody ever waited for it to be ready. Nobody ever asked its consent. Nobody ever considered its feelings. And now that this stranger might do all of those things, it had lost the ability to cooperate. A cruel joke.

"I can't," Whumpee said, but the jingling of keys drowned out its weak voice.

"Hm?"

"I can't. Too weak."

"Oh." The stranger stepped into the cell and crouched down by its side. "I see. I should've expected this. Well, you look light enough to… to carry. If that's okay. Is that okay?"

"Can I really— Can I have water?"

"Yes. It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

Whumpee nodded. The stranger picked it up in a bridal carry, and Whumpee could do little more than hang there limply as it was carried upstairs. Everything was bright up there. It closed its eyes and let the stranger carry it where they willed.

It was soon set down on something foreign, something so unlike the cold, cement floor. Something soft. Whumpee opened its eyes — it was on a sofa.

It soon heard the sound of a tap being turned on, then a glass being filled. If there was anything left in its body to produce liquid, its mouth would've probably watered at the mere prospect. The stranger came back and helped it sit up, then held the glass to its lips and helped it drink.

Oh.

Oh.

Whumpee closed its eyes. It gulped down the water all too quickly, and like the horrible little monster it was, it immediately asked for more. The stranger fetched it even more. This repeated at least five times by the time Whumpee was satisfied.

"Would you like something to eat as well?"

It was just common courtesy; the stranger must've seen the state it was in. Paper-thin skin sticking to bones that were jutting out, the result of several years of starvation. With fresh, cold water in its system, Whumpee felt a little more daring. A little more alive. "Yes, please."

"A sandwich?"

A sandwich. So casual. So mundane. Nothing sounded better than a sandwich. "Yes, please."

The stranger left to prepare it, after laying Whumpee back down on the sofa. Whumpee listened to the vague sounds of it being prepared, and it imagined the soft, fresh bread, the fillings — what fillings would the stranger use? Ham? Cheese? Tomato? Lettuce? Eggs? Would they use condiments? Mayo? Ketchup? The possibilities were endless — and the way the bites would slide down its throat one by one. And with how generous the stranger was with water, maybe it would be possible to ask for even more than just one sandwich. Whumpee, for the first time in years, felt giddy with excitement.

The stranger returned, once again helping Whumpee sit. "It's just a simple peanut butter and jelly, I hope that's okay."

Peanut butter. It remembered eating whole jars of it before it was captured and imprisoned. And jelly, sweet and sour, wonderful, grape jelly. It got so excited to be able to bite into it, it even forgot its manners, not thanking the stranger for the food before it dug in.

Oh, this was so much better than eating plaster off the wall. This had taste, actual, real, good taste. Whumpee bit and bit and bit and it definitely bit off more than it could chew but it didn't care, it was being fed, it was genuinely, actually being fed.

Then its stomach did a flip, and suddenly it was retching, onto the remainder of the sandwich and onto the stranger's kind hands. It was mortified. And most of all, it mourned the food.

"I still want to eat it," it said before anything else, staring intently at the vomit-covered sandwich. "Please? I'm sorry."

The stranger made a face. Even a kind stranger could only be kind for so long — Whumpee wondered what its punishment would be. A lashing? More years down in the basement? The thought, detached as it was from its emotional landscape, sent little more than a small shiver down its spine. What was a few more years of solitude and starvation?

"No, I think…" They withdrew, letting Whumpee fall back onto the sofa. It didn't have the strength to push itself back up again. "I think… Huh, well. We need to clean this up, and then I'll make some soup instead. Maybe that'll stay in your stomach."

"I don't need cleaning, I need the sandwich," Whumpee said, like a petulant child. "Please," it added, hoping to soften the stranger's heart. That sandwich had been so good. The best thing it'd ever eaten. And now—

No. Don't be ungrateful. Soup was good. Soup was fine. It was still food, even if it wasn't… chewable.

"You definitely do need cleaning," the stranger said, and when Whumpee tried to lift its hand to lick off some of the vomit, they even smacked its hand away. Whumpee whimpered. "Don't do that. Look… Ugh, I can't believe my grandpa did all this."

Grandpa? Its captors were a group of middle-aged men. Just how many years have passed?

"I'll help wash you off. I'll clean the sofa as well. And in the meantime, I'll put some water on the stove with a soup cube. How's that sound?"

"I really want the rest of the sandwich," it said before it could've controlled its stupid, greedy mouth.

"Look, I know. You're starving. But you really shouldn't eat what you've puked up. Please. Just let me help."

And so Whumpee did, because what else was there for it to do? It couldn't have protested if it wanted to. And so the stranger helped it wash off years of accumulated grime, turning the water almost black as it washed down the drain. They helped it into new, soft clothes, then carried it back not to the living room, but to the kitchen. They set it down on a chair as the water in the pot boiled, giving off the scent of freshly seasoned chicken broth. Then, the stranger took a ladle and put two big ladlefuls into a bowl, setting it down before it on the table.

"We're gonna take it slower, okay?" they asked.

"I never asked your name," Whumpee said, though its eyes were fixed on the soup.

"Oh, right. I never introduced myself. My name is Caretaker. My grandpa… Look, I know this looks bad, that my grandpa did all this to you and now I'm here, and I'm— But I'm different, okay? I would like to set you free, but with how you are right now, I don't think that's feasible. So, uh… You're stuck with me for a little longer."

"Okay," it said easily. Caretaker had given it water, and was trying to feed it. It couldn't have asked for a better captor. "Can I eat?"

"Yes. Slowly. Spoon by spoon, okay?" Caretaker lifted a spoonful to Whumpee's mouth, and Whumpee tried to savour it, it really did, but it ended up gulping it down and opening its mouth for more. "Spoon by spoon. So it can stay in your stomach."

"Spoon by spoon," it repeated, though it wanted to scream give it all to me now, and give me that sandwich, and give me all the contents of your fridge, and give me more even still. "Thank you," it said, remembering its manners.

"Of course." Another spoonful. "We'll get through this, okay? You and I." Another spoonful. "You'll feel much better once this settles in your stomach."

"Okay," it said quietly. "Thank you."

Caretaker smiled. If it had any brain capacity to focus on anything but the soup, it might've noticed the eerie resemblance they had to their grandfather. But where his smile was always a sneer, a cruel twitch of his mouth, theirs was gentle and kind.

So they sat, and Whumpee ate.

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.

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.

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

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!

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