can we please see seven force cuddled by wes that sounds so fun🙏
so I just kinda got on a roll and now you get the whole drabble congratulations <33
To Dream
Seven Masterlist
Tw: forced cuddling, implied past noncon, servant/slave whump, manhandling, creepy/intimate whumper, pining, Seven is too gay for his own good | Words: 1.7k
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Seven was cleaning the kitchen when the last of the party finally trickled out. The music had turned off at some point, and when he heard footsteps padding along the marble tiles towards him, Seven realized that he and Wes were alone together once more.
Seven didn’t look up, he didn’t say anything, opting to keep his eyes down at the cups in the sink and dutifully loading them into the dishwasher. The counters would need to be cleaned next, the tables wiped, the floors swept... He begrudgingly resigned himself to it. Exhaustion tugged at the corners of his eyes—it settled heavily on his shoulders, but Seven knew he would be in a world of trouble if Wes woke up hungover to a mess in the kitchen.
Wes was drunk. Seven didn’t need to pay attention to the slightly uneven sound of his gait to know that. It came with the territory on nights like these. Nearly every night, if he were honest. Usually, Wes would just stumble up the stairs to his bedroom and pass out without so much as a word, unless of course, he was angry with Seven for whatever reason. Seven didn’t look up, even when the footsteps approached the kitchen.
Had he done anything to piss him off? Seven racked his memory, but the night hadn’t seemed out of the ordinary. He had tried his best to stay attentive but silent—responsive but demure. Perhaps Wes would nitpick tonight and find something to complain about anyway. Seven braced himself for it, staring down at the dishwasher when the footsteps reached him. But then, Wes did something rather unexpected.
“Leave it,” Wes ordered, mere inches behind him, and despite knowing his master’s position, something about the way his voice cut through the silence startled Seven so badly he dropped the cup he was holding and it clattered in the sink. Unbroken, thankfully, for Seven no longer served Wes’ friends alcohol in glass cups anymore. He’d forgone that option for a set of sturdy clear plastic ones months ago. It had saved Seven a lot of time cleaning up broken glass.
“Y-yes, sir—“ Seven muttered, suddenly shy for a reason he couldn’t name. He was so damn jumpy. Perhaps from the exhaustion. Or something about the way the air seemed to crackle with volatility. Suddenly, Wes grabbed Seven’s arm sharply and tugged him away from the sink. Seven’s heart crashed into his stomach and he stumbled after him as Wes dragged him from the kitchen into the living room.
“Please—! Please, sir, I’m sorry—“ Panic rose like bile in his throat. “P-please! Wh-whatever I did I—I- I’m so so—“
“Shut it,” Wes growled, yanking him across the living room and towards the staircase.
Seven’s mouth snapped shut and he let out a pathetic closed-mouth whimper, flashes of inevitable pain flickering across his vision. He knew better than to struggle, and he let himself be dragged up the stairs. He stumbled on a step and yelped as he tried to correct himself. Wes seemed mad—but Seven didn’t know why and he was just so so tired. It was well past 4 in the morning by now, and he had just wanted to finish cleaning up and pass out immediately. Seven felt tears streak down his face and he bit down on his lower lip to try and hold in any sound that might make his situation worse. Wes had told him to shut it.
Seven’s heart pounded like thunder as he was pulled down the hall and into Wes’ bedroom. He didn’t like being in here, for obvious reasons. A small whine escaped between his bitten lips and Wes just grunted in irritation and mumbled at him again to ‘shut the fuck up’ before roughly shoving him onto the bed.
Seven curled in on himself slightly, but he let his head fall onto the pillow on one side of the bed. He just had to get through this. Just one more task, he told himself, one more task for the night and then he could go back to his own room and finally sleep.
He felt the other side of the mattress dip as Wes settled himself on top of it. Seven squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for whatever was about to happen. He didn’t know what exactly he was expecting. Hands around his throat, perhaps. Teeth on his neck. Wes’ body weight pressing him down, his hands pinning Seven’s wrists above his head the way Wes seemed to love so much.
He certainly hadn’t expected to feel Wes’ torso pressing against his back, one of his arms snaking beneath Seven’s neck and another wrapping around his ribcage. His mind conjured a million ways it could go downhill from here.
Don’t struggle. Don’t struggle—you know that only eggs him on.
Seven waited in terror, too petrified to move, to breathe—like he’d been set carefully down onto a trap and could trigger it at the slightest movement. But… nothing happened. Seven lay there, tangled in the web of Wes’ arms, and counted in his head. As the moments passed there in the dark between them, he listened to Wes’ breathing gradually grow slower and slower and slower behind him. Holy shit. He was asleep.
Seven lay there staring at the nightstand, unable to shake the feeling of how fucking weird this was. This wasn’t like Wes. He was handsy, grabby, invasive for sure, but it was rare that Wes would actually just cuddle him like a human-sized teddy bear. Seven felt caged in—claustrophobic.
But at the same time, he couldn’t remember the last time anyone just… held him like this, let alone touched him at all without the intent to hurt or humiliate him. He couldn’t remember if it’d ever happened. Not since— He shoved the thought down the moment it arose. He didn’t want to think about that. Regardless, the fact that it was Wes was jarring and so so weird—Seven couldn’t think about it too hard. He tried to shove the unsettling thoughts down. He didn’t want to think about Wes at all.
But then, for some reason, he thought of Marquez. The thought startled him for a reason he couldn’t name, for Seven had only been thinking about Marquez all damn week, ever since that night they’d briefly met, when Wes had left Seven hanging from the bannister.
He’d only been pining after the thought of Marquez night after night since, hoping to catch a glimpse of him again. Every time the elevator would ding to announce the arrival of another guest, Seven’s heart would jump a little in his chest and he would snap his head towards the elevator doors to see who had entered, only to be disappointed when it was the same old collection of assholes again and again. Even though he knew it was stupid, and would only set him up for disappointment, he couldn’t help the little spark of excitement he felt nearly every night these days. He was let down every time, but a part of him still hoped each night that he might see him again. That maybe Marquez would smile at him, that maybe he would…talk to him. Or… that he’d wrap his arms around Seven’s torso the way he had that night, but maybe under less painful circumstances.
Seven let his eyes slip closed and let himself entertain the thought. Marquez. His mysterious stranger. His kind-eyed savior. He thought of how his arms would feel instead. Strong, like Wes’ perhaps, but not possessive, not threatening, but something… else. Maybe… maybe safe? At the mere thought of it, Seven’s fingers unconsciously curled around Wes’ forearm. He imagined how Marquez’ skin would feel beneath his fingertips instead. How he would trace the tattooed feathers that wound down his tanned biceps. Seven’s face began to heat up as the thought became more vivid. Marquez… His warm muscled arms wrapping around Seven and holding him closely against his torso. Marquez murmuring something soothing in Seven’s ear. His breath tickling at the back of his neck. A kiss pressed to the top of his head. Safe, he thought. In his perfect world, Marquez would be safe.
Part of Seven knew—he knew—that it was stupid to dream like this—to extrapolate so boldly about a stranger he’d only met once for a brief moment. One single interaction couldn’t possibly tell him enough to know anything about Marquez at all, or whether he’d really hold him like this. And Seven knew that even if Marquez somehow did, Seven wouldn’t deserve it. Gentleness like that wasn’t meant for things like Seven. It was only for… real people. The thought tore at his heart a bit and made his chest clench, and he chewed at his lower lip and shoved it down deep. No. He could have this. He could have this moment to just… imagine.
And when he took a deep breath and let his mind slip into the bliss of fantasy, Seven couldn’t help the way his brain ran wildly down the road of dreams. A blanket of serenity seemed to wash over him when he imagined the way Marquez would feel instead. How the shaved sides of his undercut would feel beneath Seven’s fingertips if he reached up to cup the back of the other man’s neck. How soft his lips would feel if Marquez were to press them to Seven’s own. It wouldn’t be invasive and revolting like when Wes or Kiarra did it—Seven was sure that kissing Marquez would feel so so different. Seven thought of his tongue. He wondered how the piercing would feel if it slipped, gentle yet eager, past his teeth and into his mouth. The fabric of his thin pajama pants suddenly felt too tight—fuck—he was imagining this too hard. But it felt so good to allow himself this spark of self indulgence—of hope—even if it was only delusion.
It would never happen. Not in real life. Seven knew this, he knew. But maybe, if he imagined it hard enough it would stick, like a memory. Maybe he could come back to this—to this exact spot, held in Marquez’ arms, feeling the man’s chest rising and falling slowly against his back.
The thought of being held in close by his mysterious savior settled heavily over him like a weighted blanket. It held him in a dark silence that now felt serene. And with the slow rise and fall of tandem breath, Seven eventually drifted off to sleep.
