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What if Wes makes Seven clean up the mess blindfolded 😀 and if he misses any spots he’s punished by sleeping out in the cold, chained and collared

alright lets do thiss <3

Sightless

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Tags: servant whump, physical abuse, blindfolds, multiple whumpers, sadistic games, set up to fail, poor baby | Words: 3k

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‘You’ll spend the rest of the day on your knees,’ Wes had threatened earlier that day, if Seven hadn't done whatever fucking thing he’d wanted him to do in that moment.

Save the breakfast. Right. Seven had heard the threat. Internalized it. He’d obeyed. He’d done his best. He’d saved the rest of the meal. For the rest of the day? His knees already hurt as it was. He didn’t want that.

But Wes had ordered him to his knees anyway. To scrub the kitchen until he told him to stop. Seven scrubbed until long after Wes had placed his plate in the sink. Didn’t even let him up to start the dishwasher. He only wanted Seven to keep scrubbing.

And scrub he did.

But the more he scrubbed at the floor, the more dirt Wes seemed to find.

Wes would pace by every few minutes, spotting some new bit of dirt, or a spot of spilled sauce Seven had missed.

And every time, Seven was sorry. He was just so dizzy. So hungry. His hand was burned and blistering. He hadn’t had a chance to treat it. He winced at Wes’ biting words.

“You know what, since your eyes seem to be so shit—let’s just eliminate that entirely.”

He grabbed Seven by the back of the neck and shoved his face to the floor.

Wes wrapped a dark strip of fabric tightly around Seven’s eyes, pressing his face into the tile and tying it tight around his head.

Seven whined low and pained as his nose was crushed into the floor. His eye socket screamed in pain—it was that same awful bruise again.

“You’ll be scrubbing until I deem the floor entirely fucking spotless.”

Seven bit his lip but didn’t say a word.

“And if you even touch the blindfold, I’ll hit that pretty eye of yours a couple more times.”

Seven gulped. Just then, Wes’ phone rang. He answered it.

“What’s up— Oh, yeah you guys are here? Yeah I’ll ding you up”

He hung up the call and pushed a few buttons on his phone, slipping it back in his pocket and turning back to his cowering servant. Seven knelt there, blind and unmoving, panting against the tile with the sponge still squeezed in his hand—just reeling from the relief that his face was no longer being pressed into the floor.

Knowing better than to try and rise to his feet—better than to correct the blindfold that’d been cinched around his head—Seven held perfectly, obediently still. He knew Wes would beat him unconscious if he even touched it.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sharp ding of the elevator.

He heard the doors slide open and a mix of voices enter the room. Male and female. Footsteps walking across the marble.

A girl's voice. Brie. He recognized her facetious amusement instantly.

“Ohh, what’s he doing over there?”

A few male voices laughed.

“Wait, is he blindfolded?”

If she’d just keep her attention off of him for once in her fucking life.

If they all would.

“Ugh,” Wes scoffed. “Don’t bother him. He’s being punished.”

“Oooh,” Brie’s voice didn’t hide her excitement. “What’d he do this time?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Wes' response was gruff. He was trying to shut this whole questioning situation down.

Seven couldn’t see any of them, from his position, blindfolded on his hands and knees on the kitchen floor. He could only follow their footsteps as they clacked across the marble and into the living room. It was an open-floor plan. He could clearly hear them settling down on the couch, chatting innocuously about classes and gossip.

He heard the TV turn on. Graciousness flooded him. The attention was off of him, at least for now. He was always grateful for white noise. The voices on the TV comforted him—the only voices that never wished to hurt him.

He still didn’t dare adjust the blindfold. Didn’t dare complain about the burn still blistering on the palm of his right hand. That he’d not been allowed to treat. Nevermind that the position required of him put pressure on that exact part of his palm. Never mind all that. Right—back to. Fucking. Scrubbing.

He grit his teeth and bit back what was horrifically a whine of pain at the way the soap and chemicals stung on the fresh burn.

He hated the way he sounded when he was in pain. When he was begging especially. The things he would say to bargain his way out of pain. But especially around them. The others. It was enough having Wes see him like this—it’d been so long and so frequent that he’d forced himself to get used to it.

But he especially hated being the subject of a crowd's attention. And to Seven, three was a crowd. Not to mention that anyone that attracted Wes’ friendship wouldn’t exactly be known for their humanity. Probably for their money, their cruelty, likely both if they'd found themselves into Wes’ particular orbit.

He’d never considered Wes a protector, but there was a strange shift in the air, between the times Wes was in the room and when he wasn’t. They were almost better when he was there. At least more predictable. They took his lead. Didn’t outright bulldoze past whatever Wes had said he wanted. And if what Wes wanted was not to touch the servant, then that’s what happened.

So long as Wes was in the room, Seven was usually safe from the torments of the others. So long as Wes’ possessiveness reigned in over his desire to hurt him and see him humiliated, he’d be safe. Never mind the moods Wes found himself in where he wanted to hurt Seven in front of the others. Those moments were there too, but Seven’s job was to take it. It was his role.

So one could imagine the rise in Seven’s blood pressure when Wes’ phone went off again, and, rather than answering right there and then, as he would have if it were one of his friends, he could hear Wes audibly scramble at whatever name was on the screen.

“Oh— guys I— I gotta take this. It’s. It’s my dad.” Seven heard his footsteps pad away from the couch and up the staircase to his room.

That left Seven alone. On the first floor. On his knees. Not permitted to stand. Or to remove the blindfold. At the mercy and attention of Wes’ friends. Whoever it happened to be today.

Again, Wes wasn’t a protector. He really wasn’t. But in that moment Seven found himself praying that Wes would just reenter the room. That he'd hear his footsteps trailing back down the staircase. That he would take the call right there instead. Keep his eye on Seven and supervise his punishment. To scrub—blindfolded and uninterrupted—until Wes and only Wes relieved him.

He heard someone stand from the couch and the unmistakable click of heels pacing across the marble floors.

Her heels.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

He heard her heels click closer, and could only breathe and hope—and beg, beg, beg to himself that she was just getting some water. That she wasn’t approaching the kitchen for any other reason. To his worst fear— he felt the point of her heel jam down onto his spine before his face was slammed down into the ground again. He coughed and cried out against his will—embarrassment flooded him, but part of him hoped the sound would alert Wes. That maybe he would hear him and come downstairs. That maybe he would make her stop.

“Oh Sevennn,” he heard her nearly sing, too closely above him. Far too close. She was leaning on him. Putting more pressure on his head. He winced and groaned against the floor as she pressed in.

“What’d you do this time, hmm?”

She pressed harder and her foot forced a low groaned sob from his throat.

“What’d you do to earn this?”

When she was met with silence, Brie lifted her foot for a gracious moment only to land it right on the side of his face. Her heel dug in harder.

“Cmon, you can tell me,” she cooed, far too sweet for someone about to pierce a man’s face with the spike of her heel.

He knew not to fight back. Not to struggle or lash out against her. He didn’t know what to do though. What else could he—

“I-I’m sorry— I spilled something earlier, I was— I was cooking a —“ his voice was hoarse and jagged, “and— s-sir is mad now and— says have to wear the blindfold and i have to— have to —“

She shook her foot around, digging into the side of his cheek and forcing his face to jerk against the floor beneath her.

“Have to what?”

“To— to stay on my knees, m-miss.”

“Oh yeah? What else?”

“To, to s-scrub the floor, miss.”

She finally let up. Mercifully. And Seven gasped against the tile in relief, clenching his fist around the sponge in his hand.

“Hm, cute,” she mused, voice alight with a smug glee.

Seven sat up slowly, rising to his knees.

“Carry on then, I guess. I just came to get a drink. Though I suppose you couldn’t help me with that, could you?”

Seven froze. Was this a trap? He was supposed to be a good host. To never refuse a guest. To always entertain and serve his masters guests to their every whim.

But he couldn’t see. He’d been ordered not to get off his knees.

“Can’t— can’t see, miss,” but she cut him off by ripping the blindfold straight off his head.

He was panicking. This was against the punishment. He couldn’t refuse her. But he couldn't disobey Wes. His Master.

In a moment of frantic thought, his body started moving. And he was crawling across the kitchen floor towards the refrigerator.

Brie squealed in delight behind him, clapping her hands. “Ohh, what a good boy!” she exclaimed.

He ignored the rising heat in his cheeks. He prayed he could get this over with, serve her and get his blindfold back on before Wes came back and let all this be forgotten. He reached up and opened the refrigerator door, rising on his knees until his hand could hover over the drinks lined up on the lower shelf.

“Uhm..,” he started, awkwardly,

“We have um, Modelo, White Claw, Stella, Beatbox, High Noon—“

“High Noon,” Brie cut him off, and Seven was grateful for it. He didn’t want to have to guess for her.

Reaching up on his knees, he grabbed a can of High Noon—raspberry—before reaching his hand out to Brie.

She didn’t step forward. She just raised a hand and beckoned him towards her.

“Here, boy,” she ordered, as if summoning a shy dog.

Seven felt the heat rise further in his cheeks—sure he’d be bright red by now. But he had no choice. Holding the can awkwardly in his non-burned hand, he crawled back towards her. He kept his eyes on her shoes, determined not to look at her. His stomach lurched when he saw her shoes step back.

And back again.

“Cmon, here boy, you can do it,” her soft encouraging voice was met with the laughter of her crew.

“Atta boy,” she beckoned him further towards the dual white couches as the onlookers jeered.

“Oh— how’d you get him to do that?”

“Oh my god, Brie, did you train him or something??”

“Wow he looks so pathetic like that.”

Seven whined at the comments, he’d never be used to this. It was just like it was back at the mansion. When he was better dressed than this but no less at the whims and fantasies of his cruel masters and their demented friends.

He was a spectacle here, just as he was there. It was a different circle, but the same feeling. He occupied the same role. The entertainment.

Seven didn’t even have to see their faces to feel their eyes. Speaking of seeing—he was sure Wes would descend the stairs any moment and beat him senseless for having taken off the blindfold.

He wanted to plead that it was her. Seven knew he’d just end up apologizing over and over while Wes beat him for it.

She backed him all the way up to the couches, the two white long leather sofas arranged around the large flatscreen tv. She stopped against the edge of the nearest sofa. Leaning back against it.

“Give it here, boy,” she said, voice still laced with that sickly sweet sugar.

Seven obeyed, holding out the drink to her blindly, following her voice and resenting that she’d made him jump through so many hoops to deliver it. She’d been right there.

She’d just wanted to see him crawl.

She plucked it from his hand with those signature manicured nails—he felt them—lingering on his fingers, dragging along the sides of his hand longer than they should’ve.

She removed the can and Seven’s hand retreated. He was about to lower his head when he felt her fingertip beneath his chin. Tapping there, she raised his head without resistance, but at the same time he absolutely did feel forced to look at her. His eyes quivered.

“He’s really onto something though, you know,” she mused. “You look really cute on your knees.”

There were several jeers from the guys settled around the couches, eyeing her outright flirtation with Seven—if that’s what you’d call this—with whatever type of sick satisfaction that would require.

Just then, Seven heard Wes' footsteps padding down the staircase.

“Brie— Brie the blindfold— the blindfold please!” He begged furiously in a harsh whisper, reaching for her before he could think, desperate to grab the black fabric and secure it back around his face before Wes saw him without it. He managed to reach up and snatch it from where it was tucked under the waistband of her skirt.

Wes’ voice boomed from halfway down the stairs, “What the fuck, Seven!!”

Seven’s blood froze for the third time that day. He scrambled to secure the blindfold around his eyes, turning toward the source of the voice and raising his hands, rising up on his knees and holding his palms up by his face in a show of innocence. Of apology. Of surrender.

“Fuck are you doing with that blindfold off?” Wes was pissed.

“Please-please Wes! Sir!” He called out into the darkness, hoping Wes, as his feet descended the stairs, would take some pity on him.

“Thought I was pretty clear— you’re not to fucking touch it.”

“Please, I’m sorry sir!”

Some pathetic part of him hoped Brie would say something. She had removed his blindfold, after all.

He heard Wes say a loud “Well?” to the silence of the room. Seven was stupid enough to hope that Brie would fess up. He knew that he was going to end up taking the blame. He was too afraid of her to say anything against her. He wouldn’t risk ratting her out. If he did, she’d get her revenge the next moment Wes turned his back. And he’d pay. And he’d be sorry.

Wes’ shoes clicked down at the bottom of the stairs and Seven’s stomach dropped towards arctic levels of frozen. He was petrified, on his knees, blindfold once again securely fastened around his face, listening only to Wes’ footsteps and trying desperately to stay still—hands raised in their air to show his deference, as Wes’ footsteps approached him.

Seven wanted to cower. To cover his head. His face. His organs. But he was committed to the position now. And so many pairs of eyes were on him. So he stayed put.

He stayed put right up until the toe of Wes’ shoe hit him square in the solar plexus and sent him careening backwards, landing hard on his back, coughing and spluttering.

He didn’t dare touch the blindfold. He had not even a chance to breathe before Wes’ shoe collided with his ribs again, still bruised and drawing an embarrassing cry from his lips.

He coughed and choked as Wes kicked him. Cried as Wes stomped on him again and again in front of his friends. How dare he disobey. How dare he lie. How dare he remove the blindfold just to look at Brie.

To Wes, it was never clearer why he’d done it. She was in the room. She was right there. The crush they were both fighting over, obviously. Brie was the total package. How fucking stupid of Wes not to see that even his own braindead servant could see that too.

So Wes had to shove Seven down and demonstrate his place right in front of them—in front of her—just to show her and everyone else exactly where Seven belonged. He was not a real man. Not any real competition. Not a real romantic target. Any of the ladies here would be damned lucky to have a guy like Wes. Someone like Seven was fucking scum in comparison.

Eventually, Wes’ kicks lost their heat, and he got tired. Worked out his anger—tired himself out—whatever it was—Seven was grateful.

Wes ordered him back to scrubbing. “Until I say you can stop,” he’d said.

Blindly curled against the floor, Seven winced while Wes’ friends laughed around him—someone fired a couple beer caps at him that he would have to pick up later.

It was better than Brie shoving things down his throat. Or Wes kicking him more. Again. There were worse punishments than being forced to scrub the floors, even blindfolded, even with a burned hand, even with an audience of rich nepo-babies, right? Seven knew worse. This treatment meant so much. Wes was being nice. He kept scrubbing, blindly hoping his relief would come soon.

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Should I continue this? Give me prompts if you want! 💖✨<<<333 ✨💖

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