It’s Enough To Make A Grown Man Whimper

“Mmn,” Jonah hummed affirmatively, burying his head back into the pillow. It was probably nothing. He was so warm here, nestled in the silken sheets atop the Captain’s luxurious bed. He just wanted to go back to sleep. 

Vale slipped on a robe and padded out of the bedroom to the main entrance. Jonah heard the wooden door side open, then he heard a voice. 

“Captain,” Voss’ low voice reverberated from outside. “We have a situation.”

“What on earth is so important as to wake me in the middle of the night?” Vale hissed. He sounded clearly irritated. 

“Ship’s headed right into a storm,” Voss said matter-of-factly. “We need you to approve the new heading. Alejandro’s already identified several ways around it, but you have the final say, Sir.”

Jonah could hear the rushing of the rain now, if he focused his ears to listen—a rushing wind echoed from the open door like white noise. He could hear the raindrops hitting the side of the ship, pattering against the dark window on the wall to his left. 

“Agh,” Vale let out an irritated grunt. “Fine. Let me put on some real clothes.” 

“Right,” Voss said. “And what of the boy? Surely you don’t intend to leave him in your quarters alone.”

“No, no,” Vale concurred. “It’s far too soon for that. Take him to wherever you’re keeping Sawyer tonight.”

“Aye, that’d be the brig tonight, Sir,” Voss reported. “Mutt’s earned it with his shit behavior today.” 

Jonah’s world crumbled. He was so incredibly comfortable and warm right now—it was the most incredible bed he’d ever slept in, truly fit for a royal. And now they were going to send him to the brig? After all he’d endured? He’d tried so hard to be good for the Captain. He’d earned this! Jonah buried his face in the pillow and groaned, wishing he could just disappear. 

Jonah heard the Captain sigh. “Very well. It’s not my first choice, but it’ll do. Do give him a bedroll, though, won’t you? He’s been quite well behaved this evening and I don't want him messing up his bandages.”

Jonah’s heart jumped a little when the Captain called him well behaved. He was relieved his efforts had at least been acknowledged by someone on this god forsaken ship.

“Fine, fine,” there was a growing impatience in Voss’ voice. “Just hurry up and get dressed. Alejandro needs that heading.”

“Come in and get him now, then,” Vale said, sounding far too tired for this. “And don’t forget the shackles.” 

“As if I’d forget,” Voss muttered, but the Captain ignored him, beckoning him into the room and sliding the door shut behind them. 

Two pairs of footsteps echoed along the wood as they approached the bedroom. Jonah hid under the covers—a childish instinct really—but some tiny part of his brain wanted to hope that if he just hid from it all, they’d let him sleep. 

Jonah winced sharply when the covers were abruptly ripped off of him. He curled in on himself, suddenly freezing cold—the open air snapped all that warmth out of his body instantly. He looked up, wide eyes dismayed and pitiful, and was met with Voss’ stony expression staring down at him. 

“Get up,” Voss ordered sharply. “And put your clothes on. You’re coming with me.” 

“Oh, I do apologize, darling,” came Vale’s voice from the other side of the room. He pulled the ruffled midnight blue shirt over his head and reached for a pair of folded trousers. “But I have some urgent business I must attend to now and I’m afraid I just can’t leave you here unsupervised.” 

He buttoned his pants and walked over to Jonah, fondly cupping the side of his face. 

“You’ll be good for Voss, won’t you, dear boy?” 

Voss rolled his eyes, but stepped back to allow the Captain some space. 

“Y-yes, Master,” Jonah said, his tone exhausted and dismayed, nearly a whimper. But he obeyed, he agreed, he did as they expected of him.

Jonah heard the familiar rattling and looked up to see Voss holding the chain, shackles dangling down threateningly at him. 

“Legs out,” Voss ordered, cold and stern. Jonah obeyed without thinking, stretching his legs out in front of him on the mattress. He squeezed his eyes shut as Voss snapped the shackles around his ankles and locked them in place with the padlocks. Jonah felt the weight of them instantly—the freedom of motion taken from him once more. His heart sank in his chest. They’d never let him forget his place here, and the shackles were integral to that, it seemed. 

“Arms up,” Voss commanded, holding the bunched up silken dress he’d worn earlier. Jonah felt his lip wobble as he raised his hands above his head, allowing the first mate to slip the meager garment over his body. Were they really going to take him out in the pouring rain like this?

“Stand,” Voss said curtly. Jonah slipped his body off the bed, mourning the loss of those silken sheets. He shivered in the cool air of the room. 

Voss grabbed the thin gold chain that held the garment together and simply draped it around Jonah’s neck. No time to lace it up properly, he figured. 

Voss was growing impatient. Jonah could feel it, and it made him uneasy. He just had to be good. Be good, and they would allow him to go back to sleep.

“Give him a cloak or something, would you?” Sebástian said, slipping his coat over his shoulders. “I don’t want that silk getting wet.” 

Voss gave a low hum, not bothering to hide his irritation and urgency. This was taking too long, clearly. 

Sebástian tossed a bundle of fabric at Voss, who caught it and let it hang from his fingers before wrapping it around Jonah’s slender frame. It was a long dark cloak—smooth fabric draped over Jonah’s shoulders and engulfed him down to his knees. Voss tugged the hood up, and took Jonah’s wrist in a vice grip and began to pull him out of the room. Jonah spared one last look at Sebástian, who was slipping on his boots now. 

“I’ll see you later, darling boy,” he said, a fond smile curling at his lips. 

Voss pulled Jonah from the room without another word, and when the door to the main entrance slid open, Jonah nearly gasped as he was hit with a sudden wave of bitter cold. He clutched the sides of the cloak and wrapped it around himself as tightly as possible, trying to shield himself from the wind and rain as best he could while Voss dragged him across the deck towards the staircase that led down below. 

They descended, and Jonah had to walk slowly to avoid tripping over his chains on the dark stairs. It was warmer down here, shielded from the brunt of the storm, and Jonah was grateful he at least would be able to sleep inside tonight. He shuddered, remembering the nights Carlisle had chained him up outside for the night. The brig wouldn’t be comfortable, surely—nothing compared to the Captain’s luxurious cabin—but it was better than suffering the elements. Jonah tried his best to be grateful for that, at least.

Voss pulled Jonah through the corridors of the ship’s underbelly until they reached a room with a large metal cage along the far wall. Its walls were made of iron—thick rows crosshatched back and forth to create a grid-like pattern. More barrels and crates lined the walls on either side, resting beneath the lanterns that illuminated the space in a dim glow.

As they approached the cage, Jonah’s brow furrowed when he saw another figure was already locked inside. The man’s torso was wrapped in bandages, seated on a sleeping mat with his hands chained above his head, locked to the iron grid. Jonah recognized Sawyer instantly. The young man was slumped over in the sitting position—his head hung down limply, black hair dangling over his face. He appeared to be sleeping. Jonah’s heart clenched in trepidation at the thought of being left alone with him, but he found a tiny bit of solace that he was at least chained up. Sawyer couldn’t hurt him like this, even if he wanted to. 

Sawyer startled awake when Voss unlocked the padlock on the cage and the heavy metal door creaked open. He gave Jonah a rough shove, causing him to trip as he stumbled into the cell. His chains caught on metal at the cage’s threshold and he tumbled to the floor, nearly colliding into Sawyer, who sat back against the far wall. Jonah scrambled up into a kneeling position, ignoring the ‘tch’ he swore had just come from Sawyer’s direction. He could be as smug as he wanted—Jonah was not trying to incite Voss’ ire right now. 

Voss reached into a nearby crate and pulled out a folded bedroll. He wordlessly tossed it into the cell and slammed the door shut. 

“You two play nice,” he ordered, staring down at the boys through the bars. His piercing blue eyes now appeared light gray in the orange glow of the lanternlight. 

“Yes, Sir,” Jonah answered automatically, his voice small. He was still shivering. He curled his knees up to his chest and huddled in the cloak. 

“Could you at least fuckin’ unchain me so I can lie down?” Sawyer drawled. The layer of sleepiness in his tone did nothing to mask the irritation.

“You already asked that, and as I already told you—not happening,” Voss hissed. Jonah flinched at the edge in his sharp tone, even though it wasn’t directed at him. “I already said I don’t want you fucking up those bandages.”

Sawyer let out a dramatic groan in protest, but Voss ignored him. He walked to the side of the room, extinguishing all but a single lantern. Without so much as a ‘goodnight,’ Voss thudded impatient footsteps towards the room’s entrance and disappeared into the corridor, the door slamming shut behind him. 

Jonah sat in silence, grieving the loss of his comfortable accommodations. This was truly a dismal downgrade. He pressed his face to his folded knees, trying not to cry again. He didn’t want to cry in front of anyone, least of all Sawyer, who he knew would tease him for it.

“You can at least lay out the bedroll, you know.”

Jonah blinked and lifted his head up. He’d nearly forgotten. He nodded, crawling forward to grip the folded roll in his hands. He stood on shaky feet, chains rattling beneath him, and laid out the mat against the cell wall adjacent to Sawyer. He didn’t want to be near him, but he didn’t want to block the entrance either, in case Voss came back for them. 

Jonah settled atop it, resuming his earlier position, huddling in the wet fabric of the cloak and trying to conserve enough body heat to rid his bones of the deep chill that had followed him in from outside. 

Jonah felt Sawyer’s eyes on him. He looked back, unsettled by the unreadable expression on the man’s face. 

An awkward discomfort overcame him. They were alone in the cell, nothing to distract them now but the heavy silence and the pattering of the rain that thudded against the wooden walls of the ship.

“I’m sorry, um, about your uh, your wounds,” Jonah stammered out. 

“Fucking bastard,” Sawyer mumbled, and it took Jonah a moment to realize he didn’t mean him. “Voss wants to pretend I bring it all on myself, but the truth is that sadistic fuck likes it. Probably gets hard under his trousers every time he gives me a whipping.” 

Jonah didn’t want to say the obvious. He hadn’t seen what Sawyer had done to instigate today’s particular whipping, but based on what he’d seen of the young man’s behavior, Jonah was certain it wouldn't happen to him so much if he just held his tongue. 

“Is.. Is he like that with everyone?” Jonah asked, trying to gauge the probability of landing in the same situation. 

Sawyer scoffed. “Agh, he’s a right sadistic prick that’s for sure. Cactus up his arse, I swear.” Sawyer paused. Then, his voice lowered a bit. “But, he isn’t quite as rough on the others,“ a bitter resentment and a hint of dismay laced his tone. “Seems he’s got it out for me in particular.” 

He took a deep breath, looking down at his chained feet. “Though, suppose it makes sense, to a bastard like him. Anyone else would just quit if he beat them like this.. But I’m the only one who can’t leave.” 

Sawyer looked over to Jonah, who was staring down at some spot on the floor. 

“Though, I guess, now that you’re here, that makes two of us.” 

Jonah felt his stomach twist. He hated this conclusion, that Voss just beat Sawyer because he could, because he was a slave. Jonah was in the same position—was he doomed to the same fate, even if he tried to be good? It was clear Sawyer didn’t even try to behave, and Jonah had found solace assuming he’d be spared if he just obeyed and didn’t talk back. But Sawyer seemed convinced that his torture here was inevitable. Dread rose up Jonah’s throat as he thought of Voss’ whip, of the deep bloody lashes that lined Sawyer’s back beneath the bandages. 

They let the heavy silence hang over them for a few moments, before Jonah spoke up again. 

“How, how long have you… been here? On the ship, I mean.”

“Tch,” Sawyer turned his head. “Fuck’s it to you, anyway?”

“Oh, um, I’m sorry,” Jonah deflated. He was just trying to make conversation. Trying to learn more, if he could. He didn’t want to make Sawyer mad, but he needed to figure out how he could avoid the same fate as the ship’s resident whipping boy.

Sawyer sighed, relenting. “‘Bout two years,” he said. “They captured the vessel that held my contract—I used to be a paid man, you know—killed most of the men, sold another few to other ships, but the Captain kept me for whatever fucking reason.” Sawyer paused, and Jonah let the silence form between them, listening intently. “Haven't stepped foot on the land since the day I was captured.” 

Jonah’s heart sank ever further down into his gut. “They- They don’t even let you off the ship? Not ever??” He was trying to suppress the panic that crawled up his throat now. How on earth would he ever escape if they didn’t even let him on land at ports? 

Sawyer gave a grave chuckle. “No, fucking pricks just chain me to the mast while they all go ashore and fuck around. Or lock me up down here. Must be fuckin’ nice for them though,” he said bitterly.

Jonah thought of the shore, the sand between his toes, the waves kissing the land—the trees and the birds, the bustle of a morning market, the music of a tavern fiddler. He’d only been off land for a day, and he already missed it all so much it hurt. The knowledge that he didn’t know when, or even if, he would ever see any of it again made his throat clench up and moisture prick at his lashes. Don’t cry in front of Sawyer. 

“We’ll— We’ll do it,” Jonah swore, finally looking up at Sawyer. “We’ll be on land again, together. We’ll escape, we will. We have to.”

I have to.

Sawyer gave him a puzzled look, then just laughed bitterly. “That’s nice, kid. You sound fuckin’ crazy, but it’s kinda refreshing, you know? I’ve been trying to escape this damn place for two fuckin’ years now, and every time they just fucking hurt me worse than before.” 

“Oh..” Jonah said, trying not to let despair overcome him.

“But that doesn’t mean I won't try again, you know,” Sawyer said, and Jonah’s head perked up a bit at that. 

“R-really?” he asked. 

“Look, kid, if you can come up with some kind of genius plan to get us the fuck out of here, then I’ll do whatever I have to to make it happen. But as it stands, I’m fresh out of ideas.” 

“I’ll.. I’ll think of something. I will,” Jonah promised himself aloud.

Sawyer sighed, the hint of a smile ghosting his expression. He leaned back against the iron bars, clinking the cuffs as he adjusted his wrists overhead. 

“Sure, kid. You just loop me in if you think of something. Maybe you’ll get lucky.” He exhaled sharply, the hint of a laugh, as though he couldn’t believe it. “I’d be willing to try fuckin’ anything at this point.” 

“Just wait,” Jonah promised, trying to reassure himself it was still possible. “I’ll think of something. We won’t be stuck here forever.”

Jonah wasn’t even sure if he believed the words that came out of his own mouth, but it was better than the alternative. Better than sinking into endless hopelessness and despair. He had to remain alert, had to be ready for any opportunity to present itself. He had to grab it by the throat and jump at any chance fate would gift him. 

But for now, Jonah could do little more than shiver in the damp cloak. At least they’d given him a bedroll, so he wouldn’t have to sleep on the bare wooden floor. 

Sawyer studied Jonah’s huddled form as the silence stretched between them once more. 

“You look cold,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, no shit,” Jonah mumbled, his voice muffled by the fabric as he pressed his face into his bent knees. 

Sawyer sighed again. “Look, kid, we’d be warmer if we were closer together. Share body heat and all that.” 

Jonah looked up at him suddenly. “What— What are you saying, exactly?”

Sawyer rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me— Look, I’m not some blushing bride, okay. Just get over here and you can, like. Lean back against me. I can’t use my arms, but… you’d be warmer that way.” 

Jonah looked at Sawyer like he’d just grown a second head. Did he really just ask Jonah to fucking cuddle? Sawyer seemed like he’d try and bite anyone that came near him. He was practically feral in front of the crew. But perhaps Jonah was different. They did share a fate after all. Jonah shuddered against the cold for a moment longer, then thought, ‘Fuck it.’ 

“If you bite me, I’ll fucking punch you,” Jonah mumbled, climbing off the bed roll to drag it over next to Sawyer. 

Sawyer chuckled, his chains rattling a bit as he twisted his arms. “I’m not gonna fuckin’ bite you, kid. Jesus, you really think I’m some kinda rabid fuckin’ animal, huh?”

“No!” Jonah backtracked. “I just— You...” Jonah trailed off, not sure how to finish his sentence without offending the other man. 

Sawyer chuckled. “I’m just fuckin’ with you, kid. No biting, okay? Promise.” He flashed a smile. Jonah thought it was likely meant to be reassuring, but maybe he was just too jumpy from the day’s events, for Jonah thought he looked like a fox who’d just spotted an unsuspecting mouse. 

Nonetheless, Jonah was freezing in here, and beggars couldn’t exactly be choosers. He settled himself upon the bedroll and tentatively scooted closer to Sawyer, until his shoulder touched the man’s bandaged torso. 

“I’m not gonna bite you, Jonah,” Sawyer said again, a hint of impatience at the boy’s hesitation. “Can’t even touch you like this.”

“I— I know,” Jonah said, leaning up against him. He couldn’t lie, it felt nice. Not nearly as nice as being wrapped up in those silken sheets, but nice enough to warm his body up a bit. 

Jonah maneuvered the cloak around to his front to act as a blanket, sliding the fabric over himself and Sawyer, hoping to trap their body heat together. When the blanket was situated, Jonah’s arm instinctively wrapped around Sawyer’s warm torso. He flinched when Sawyer hissed in pain as Jonah gripped his side. 

“Shit!” Jonah grimaced. “Sorry–”

“‘Ss’okay, kid,” Sawyer’s voice sounded strained. “Just, yeah, uh, mind the lashes, could you?”

“Y-yeah,” Jonah said. “Sorry um, about that.” 

Jonah let his arm rest across Sawyer’s bandaged torso without gripping at his ribs, simply laying his fingers across the gauze gently. Sawyer gave a low hum in approval at the adjusted position. 

Jonah still couldn’t believe he was basically cuddling with Sawyer, of all people, but he couldn’t deny that it was working—he felt himself warming up by the second. Their shared body heat gathered steadily, trapped beneath the makeshift blanket. The goosebumps on Jonah’s arms and legs settled back down into smooth skin—the shiver in his chest seemed to melt away as the minutes passed there between the two boys. 

Jonah leaned up against Sawyer in the dim lanternlight, listening to the pattering of the rain until his eyes flickered shut. The steady beat of the storm ravaged the walls of the ship, but none of it reached them here. Eventually, Jonah slumped over into Sawyer’s body, his head falling into his lap as he slipped beneath the waves of slumber once more. 

༻✦༺

LA SIRENA DE SANGRE TAGLIST

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

@writing-for-gold @thesecretgardenofmymind @unorganisedalienrubbish @thekneelingdoll @victimeyez 

@veilofvoices @the-scrapegoat @ladygwennn @atomicsandwichprince @hueningplushie 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

༻✦༺

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

༻✦༺

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

LA SIRENA TAGLIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir, c-can I— please—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

༻✦༺

Ohhh poor baby Jonah’s really in it now…

LA SIRENA TAGLIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You fucking missed a spot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jonah wished he truly believed in God. 

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

༻✦༺

Thanks for reading! More coming soon…

LA SIRENA TAGLIST

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

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

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

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

"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."

“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.. 

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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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