#marquez

[omgsds]

havent posted in here in a whilee,,, hi!!

[devoutjunk]

"Not long ago an outlet interviewed an author whose book was marketed as a feminist retelling of The Odyssey. I adore retellings, and I’m fascinated by work that examines gender in antiquity. But I felt my hopes fall when the author readily admitted to never having read the epic, dismissing the poem as backward and boring, whereas her tale—of course—was dynamic and new. Well, I thought, that’s not a fucking retelling then, is it? Retellings can and do grapple with or criticize or slyly comment on their source texts, but buried in the premise of the genre or form is an actual, active engagement with the story being retold. This desire for genre’s trappings without any of its rhetorical commitments or risks is not unique to contemporary SFF. How often does a show marketed as a social satire lack the courage to commit to its critique, or a mystery novel make certain promises within its premise that it fails to meet (or creatively subvert)?

Caroline, you might be saying by now, who cares where a book gets shelved at Barnes and Noble or if VampyreBabe98 thinks Anne Rice is committing thought crimes from beyond the grave? And you know what, fair. There is so much to care about, and so much more pressing and dire than any of this bullshit. But I still think we need the tools of genre more than ever, and we need the varied worlds and works genre fiction offers us in all their nuance and complication. Le Guin wrote:

“To describe society since the mid twentieth century— global, multilingual, infinitely interlinked— we need the global, intuitional language of fantasy. García Márquez wrote his histories of his own nation in the fantastic images of magical realism because it was the only way he could do it.”

Fantasy, she claims in the same essay, is our first and oldest kind of fiction, and perhaps that long lineage sometimes allows us to explore in the realm of the fantastic what we cannot off the page or confined by the limits of a more realist lexicon.  There are many great contemporary genre authors following in Márquez’s footsteps, writing their vital histories and futures in the only way they can, with the tools at hand. I hope when those books find their readers, we are ready for them, and we read them with the care and curiosity they deserve."

--Caroline Shea (April Newsletter: New Fiction, Imagined Languages, and Who's Afraid of Genre? (pt. 1000))

[whump-queen]

HEY!!!

What if Wes puts out a cigarette in Seven’s mouth in front of Marquez 😇😇😇

I think this is the longest Seven chapter ever so far??! I just ran with it! Enjoy! 

Poolside

Seven Masterlist

Tags: burns, cigarette burns, mouth/tongue whump, servant/slave whump, multiple whumpers, semi-public humiliation, conditioned whumpee, shock collar mention, substance use (marijuana, alcohol, cigarettes), fucked up power dynamics as always, finally some fucking comfort on this show?? | Words: 5.6k

✧─ ༻✦༺ ─✧

It was just the turn of summer at the penthouse, and Wes had one of the glass walls drawn back and open to the terrace. He and a group of friends were lounging out by the pool. Trap music played from a bluetooth speaker somewhere, and the patio table was littered with red cups, ash trays, and a large glass bong. 

Seven was busy mixing drinks. Wes’ group of friends seemed to be asking for increasingly complicated shit these days. Today it was mojitos and margaritas. Seven had chopped and squeezed his way through half a bag of limes at this point. He was used to making these drinks—the mojito in particular was a favorite of his Mistress, Kiarra, and he’d made it for her countless times back at the McQueen estate. 

Seven was a well-practiced barkeep by now, but the preparation of such a drink was starkly different here in the penthouse. Back at the mansion, Seven would use the bright copper cocktail shaker to thoroughly chill the white rum with cubed ice. He’d take up the matching muddler to crush up the fresh mint leaves with lime juice in the bottom of a highball glass before adding new, different ice to the glass. He’d pour in the chilled rum, a dash of mint-infused homemade simple syrup, and top it with a splash of Italian sparkling mineral water. In the days after she’d first moved into the manor, Kiarra had made Seven redo it many times until he made it exactly how she liked it. 

At the penthouse, however, Seven correctly assumed that the standards for cocktail preparation among Wes and his friends were… well, lower, and he could get away with skipping the shaker and the muddler entirely. Now, he simply poured two shots of rum into a solo cup with ice, threw in a pinch of chopped mint, a squeeze of lime, a dash of pre-made syrup and topped it with club soda from a plastic 2 liter bottle. It was a bit of a sad discount version, in Seven’s opinion, and he found himself missing the fine tools and the calming feeling of being able to be precise and take his time to make it just right. To make it pretty. There was a sense of pride in it, even if he wasn't the one drinking it. 

Wes and most of his friends were rich, sure, but that didn’t necessarily guarantee that they had class. It was like they’d seen their parents drink cocktails far fancier than beer from a keg stand or jungle juice out of a bucket and wanted to imitate, yet they lacked the full sophistication—or perhaps the stuffiness—to scrutinize its preparations. Seven knew it was easier and faster this way, which was why he did it, but even with the lime wedge to garnish the end result, the look of it sitting atop the red solo cup didn’t give him much in the realm of satisfaction—nothing compared to the look of a fresh mint sprig and a bright green wedge atop the rim of a crystal highball glass; the clear mixture fizzing away, bubbles rising to the top, mint still swirling within. There was something nice about a proper cocktail—something calming about its careful preparation—it was almost like a tiny work of art. Whatever that factor was that satisfied him, it was something that this frat-ified version sorely lacked. 

But for Wes’ little gatherings, his ‘cheap’ version was more sensible, for he knew they’d get too impatient waiting for their drinks to be prepared the proper way. And with a group like this, serving glass by the pool was out of the question—even Wes had the sense to recognize that. The glass bong was already enough of a risk, though Wes didn’t have a plastic one to use in its stead.

Someone had lit a cigarette, and Seven’s nose crinkled the moment he smelled it. They’d been smoking weed all afternoon in the shade by the pool, and though the smoke would waft into the indoor space through the open sliding glass wall, marijuana smoke wasn’t nearly as irritating to Seven. It was nothing like cigarette smoke, which seemed to cling to the walls and furniture and everyfuckingthing in the living room for days after they’d gone. But maybe Seven’s nose was just more sensitive than most, for Wes never seemed to complain about it. 

At least Wes had the sense to enforce a ‘no smoking inside’ rule, but there was a certain futility to a rule like that when there was an entire wall open from the terrace to the inside. Seven tried to ignore the wafting smoke and kept focusing on his drinks. Another round of three. He topped each with a mint sprig and a lime anyway, even though it probably made no difference to them. He wanted to take pride in something, even if it was a discount version of the real thing. 

With the drinks aligned on a tray, Seven crossed the length of the terrace, past carefully carved topiaries and manicured flower beds—ones Seven had preened himself, another thing he took pride in—to the pool area, where a scattering of sun umbrellas overlooked a ring of chairs and a wide, low patio table. 

Today’s crowd was the usual suspects. Wes was lying on his side in a lounge chair, propping himself up on one elbow, barefoot and shirtless in only his trunks. Brie was stretched out and sunbathing on an adjacent lounge, clad in a tiny baby-pink-and-white-striped bikini. An oversized pair of designer sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose, and a dainty heart necklace hung just below her collarbones—sure to leave a tiny heart-shaped tan line by the time the sun went down. A few others whose names Seven couldn’t bother to remember crowded amongst them in the circle of chairs, laughing and chattering away by the poolside. 

Seven set the tray carefully down on the table and began to distribute the drinks. No one thanked him audibly, but one guy did lift his drink in a ‘cheers’ motion when Seven passed it to him.

Seven didn’t hear it over the Bluetooth speaker, but just then, there came the faintest chime of the elevator doors from inside the penthouse. Three people entered, wandering their way through the living room out back to the terrace. The two guys holding handles of clear liquor looked vaguely familiar, but Seven nearly dropped the tray in his hand when he recognized the third. 

It was him. It was Marquez.

Seven couldn’t believe it. He’d been practically dreaming of Marquez since the night they’d met just a few weeks back—when Seven had been chained by the neck and dangled from the staircase all night and some asshole had nearly killed him. But Marquez had saved him. His arms had been so warm and strong and—something about the way he’d stepped in, reassured him, it made Seven feel an aura of safety radiating from another person for the first time in what felt like decades. 

Seven’s chest flooded with warmth as he took in the sight of Marquez. He had been falling asleep imagining those warm tattooed arms wrapped around him once more—he’d imagined being able to touch his skin, if they ever met at a time where his hands weren’t chained behind his back. He wanted to put his palm against Marquez’ chest and feel his heartbeat—perhaps just to ensure he was real. 

And after weeks of pining over a stranger he’d only met for a minute, there he was—right in front of him. Seven gripped the tray until his fingers turned white. He couldn’t draw attention. Oh, if Wes knew... If something made Wes look over and he saw how Seven’s face was so furiously blushed—oh he’d make Seven’s life a special kind of hell, that much was certain. 

Marquez walked out onto the terrace, and he was gorgeous in the light of the day. Dark tattoos spread down his shoulders; they wound up his neck and up the shaved sides of his head. He was clad in a loose fitting dark-green t-shirt and black board shorts. Marquez looked warm. 

Marquez glanced up at Seven and Seven just about melted into the floor. His heart was beating out of his chest. He couldn’t let Wes see. He couldn’t. Marquez seemed to know this too. What happened that night would have to be kept secret. Wes was not the kind of guy to just be cool about any of his friends or acquaintances getting too friendly or forgiving with his servant. 

The group greeted the three newcomers and waved them over, making space for them around the circle of chairs. Seven swallowed and ducked away, hurrying away with the tray and trying to hide the furious heat that had risen in his cheeks. 

༻✦༺

Seven busied himself making drinks for the newcomers. It was easier to keep his hands busy and his gaze down at the bar top—though he kept stealing glances up at Marquez from across the terrace, hoping to catch his eye. 

When the drinks were finished, he brought them back over on the tray. When he handed Marquez his drink, their fingers brushed slightly, and Seven couldn’t help but look up into his eyes. Warm pools of green met his own cerulean blue, and for a split second it felt like being enveloped in warm leaves—-like lying in a soft clearing of moss, dappled by spots of sunlight. 

Wes took a long drag of his cigarette, squinting at the two of them. Their eyes were locked as though dazed—their fingers seemed to linger together on the cup for just a little too long. Wes frowned and considered this for a moment, but then the corners of his lips curled upward, and he was back to looking smug as ever. 

“Seven. Get over here,” he ordered, and Seven felt ice run down his back. Had he noticed? Wes’ voice was stern yet casual, but he spoke with that signature hint of amusement that always made Seven nervous. It was in the way his eyes narrowed—the way one edge of his lips curved upward just slightly into a smirk.

“Y-yes, Sir?” Seven said, leaving the tray on the table and approaching where Wes sat stretched out on the chase lounge, leaning his weight on one elbow. Clad only in a pair of dark swim trunks, Wes’ tanned torso was on full display. Typical—Wes was never one to resist a chance to show off. Seven wouldn’t admit it, of course, but Wes did look really good like this—objectively speaking. He was toned and muscular—all smooth, tanned angles. If only his smug expression didn’t make the hair on the back of Seven’s neck stand on end. 

Wes sat up and leaned forward, cigarette held between his fingers, elbows resting on his knees. His free hand rose and snapped loudly. Seven immediately jolted. The snap was always meant to get his attention, though usually there was an order attached. 

Please just let this be another drink order.

He wasn’t so lucky. Wes’ flicked his wrist and pointed sternly to the ground beneath the lounge chair. Seven dropped instantly, obediently kneeling at Wes’ feet and folding his hands behind his back the way Wes liked. The motion was practiced and automatic—he’d only done it a hundred thousand times. 

“Stick out your tongue,” came the order, and Seven whined at the way Wes smiled down at him, his free hand reaching to grip his servant’s chin between his tanned fingers. Seven could feel the dozen or so pairs of eyes around the terrace boring into him, but with no other option, he obediently let his tongue slip out from between his lips and hang out of his mouth. He didn’t want to breathe at all or Wes might accuse him of panting like a dog—or even worse, Seven might let out some other pathetically terrified noise. Fuck—this was so humiliating— Fuck Wes for this. Fuck him.

Seven wanted to hide under the table, to scurry inside and bury himself beneath the covers until everyone was gone. He didn’t know where to look. He didn’t want to look at Wes. As if reading his mind, Wes’ fingers snapped again, and Seven’s eyes blinked up to his immediately. That got a delighted giggle from Brie and some other girl. Of course it did. 

“Aww Wes, he’s so well trained!” Brie exclaimed from her seat, leaning in closer now to watch whatever was about to happen with rapt attention.

Wes’ lips curled into a toothy smile, as his free hand dipped to grip Seven’s chin firmly between two of his fingers. Seven’s eyes widened in horror when Wes’ other hand slowly began to bring the burning cigarette towards his face. Seven gasped and tried to jerk his head away, but Wes gave him a fierce slap across the cheek before gripping his jaw tightly.

“Tongue. Out.” Wes hissed, low and seething, and Seven hadn’t even realized he’d closed his mouth to grimace. Seven pleaded with Wes with his eyes—he didn’t want to beg in front of everyone like this, but there was nothing else he could do—Wes was really about to—

“Out. Or I’ll put it out in your eye.” 

Seven’s stomach twisted in terror, and he knew he was caught in a trap between two inevitable and harrowing fates. Like a squirming fly wrapped in a spider’s silk. Seven had started panicking hard, running through his limited options. He couldn’t move his hands without permission—couldn’t stand without permission—he couldn’t do anything like this. It was this, or his eye. There was no choice.

He reluctantly parted his lips and forced his tongue back out, letting it hang there as he shook in Wes’ grip. He felt tears prick at his eyes as he could do nothing but watch in horror as Wes brought the cigarette closer and closer to his tongue, until—

There was a searing burn in his mouth—like he’d just licked a hot pan, like Wes had pressed a burning iron to the surface of his tongue—and he let out a blood curdling shriek. Seven twisted and writhed against the tight grip around his face. His hands flew up to claw desperately at Wes’ hand. Wes pressed the cigarette down firmly, twisting it back and forth a bit, grinding the tip down on his servant’s tongue to put it out completely. 

Seven was shaking horribly. He was crying—he couldn’t breathe—the smoke was suffocating him. He felt like he was going to throw up. He was dying. Surely this was what dying felt like. Seven screamed his throat raw. 

When the embers had finally been extinguished to dry ash, Wes pulled the cigarette butt away and released Seven’s face, and Seven collapsed instantly, curling in on himself in the kneel, sobbing with his hands covering his face. Drawing his tongue back into his mouth only filled it with ash, and he breathed it in and coughed furiously between sobs that wracked his whole body. The cigarette had been pulled away, but the heat still burned savagely on his tongue as though the flakes of burnt ash were still smoldering orange embers. 

He couldn’t see through the tears when his eyes blearily flicked back open. He was still kneeling at Wes’ feet. There was a swirling of excitement around him that he couldn’t make out over his own sobbing. Excited voices and laughter echoed from the group that surrounded him. He vaguely felt Wes' fingers smugly patting his head like he were some obedient dog. Seven didn’t believe in heaven or hell, but a part of him wished that hell was real, just so Wes would wind up there one day. 

He started crying again when he thought of Marquez, who probably still stood among them, though Seven had only been looking at Wes. Marquez, who had said nothing. Seven felt stupid thinking it, but a part of him wanted to hope Marquez might do something to help him, like he had before. Back at that party, Marquez had almost seemed to… care.

But then again, where would stepping in have gotten him? Kicked out and sent down the elevator, never to return. And then Wes would probably punish Seven worse just for being pissed off that some asshole dared to question him. Marquez would never be invited back if he had stepped in. Seven knew that much. No, it wasn’t Marquez’ fault, Seven told himself, trying to stop crying. Seven blinked up with blurry vision, scanning the group for Marquez’ face, hoping to catch his eye. Even a sympathetic expression would mean everything to him right now—but there was no sign of him. 

Where had Marquez gone? Had he seen what had just happened? Had he heard Seven’s screams?

Brie had jumped up from her seat and was excitedly bouncing over to where Seven knelt in a puddle of misery. He immediately cowered and curled back in on himself when she approached, his eyes squeezed shut. But she tangled her fingers in his hair and tugged his face up to look at her. 

“How was it, Seven? You sounded so gorgeous!” She beamed. “What did it feel like??” 

Seven’s tongue felt heavy and swollen inside his mouth, a fire still burning away on its surface. He didn’t want to speak, didn’t even think he could at this point. He tried to shake his head despite her firm grip. “Nuhh-uh,” he said, hoping she would just fuck off. 

“What, don't tell me you didn’t like it,” Brie pouted her pink glossy lips, twisting her fingers in Seven’s hair. “You screamed so beautifully for us!” Her eyes sparkled brightly when she lifted her fancy sunglasses with her free hand and rested them up on her head. “And let’s be honest now, okay baby? It's your job to be entertaining for us. And you're so good at it!” She ruffled his hair fondly, like he was a small and adorable dog. He supposed morosely that, in her eyes, that's essentially what he was. 

Seven didn’t even try to speak—his jaw still hung open to avoid putting any pressure on the fresh burn—but her relentless teasing forced an embarrassing whine from his open mouth. His eyes still leaked tears, and Brie let out a pleased hum as one of her perfectly manicured fingers rose to swipe away a droplet that ran down his cheek. He hated the way she looked at him. He hated the way he sounded when she was invading his personal space, taunting him with a mockingly bright smile. She always made him feel so fucking pathetic. 

༻✦༺

The moment Brie finally left him alone, Seven stumbled into the open patio door into the penthouse, hand clasped over his mouth, tears pouring down his face. His small pained whimpers were muffled by his palm. His tongue still burned so badly. It burned as though the cigarette hadn’t been lifted away at all.

His legs shaking, Seven made his way towards the downstairs hallway, but suddenly gripped the marble of the kitchen countertop as a huge wave of vertigo hit him and the corners of his eyes started to darken. Fuck—he almost passed out right there. He’d definitely stood up too fast—but he just couldn’t bear to sit there any longer, with everyone staring at him with amused smiles and objectifying comments—with Brie teasing him relentlessly. He could barely stand her on a regular day, but after this? He didn’t care if Wes was mad at him for running off. He was distracted for the time being anyway. He had to rinse the fucking ash out of his mouth before he actually fucking threw up.

After a few moments, his vision returned and his legs felt steady enough, and Seven whipped around the corner to the hall and almost collided straight into someone’s chest— he jumped and let out a terrified squeak, and his cheeks instantly flushed when he looked up to see Marquez’ astonished face above him. Marquez’ brows furrowed and he gripped Seven’s shoulders gently but hastily, steering him immediately towards the bathroom. 

“Oh thank god, you got a second to yourself—” his words were rushed and urgent. “—God, fuck, okay, come on,” Marquez urgently pushed Seven towards the bathroom door. “Oh fuck okay, okay. So I already raided the cabinets—“

Indeed— the cabinet doors were open and various boxes of medical supplies, medicine tubes, and pill bottles were strewn across the countertop. 

“—and I found something that might help?” Marquez pushed Seven further inside—not harshly by any means, but there was a firmness to the motion that the urgency of the situation required, though he really was trying to be gentle with him. 

Marquez closed the bathroom door and locked it. “Fuck—I’m so fucking sorry he did that to you— What a fucking psycho—” He ran an exasperated hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry I just—I couldn’t just fucking stand there and keep watching. I came to find something—“  

Marquez picked up a small white tube from the mess on the counter and held it up in front of Seven’s face. “—I found some burn cream, okay? I think I should—I think we should put it on your tongue. I’m not a doctor or anything, but I feel like we have to do something— At least rinse all the ash out of your mouth.” 

Seven still held his hand firmly over his mouth, too afraid to try and speak. But he’d stopped crying. He was just completely shocked that Marquez was trying to help him right now. Nobody ever gave half a shit when he got hurt, least of all Wes’ guests. But here was Marquez, tearing the cabinets apart to find something to help him? Seven couldn’t believe it. 

“Can I.. see it?” Marquez asked, trying to suppress the urgency in his voice. 

Hesitantly, Seven lowered his quivering hand from his mouth and slowly parted his lips further. Tears began to well up in his eyes again as he moved his tongue to push it out of his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want Marquez of all people to have to see him like this. But it wasn’t like he had any other options. 

Marquez leaned in, his fingers gently gripping Seven’s chin to tilt his head up. 

“Jesus…” Marquez nearly winced just looking at it. “There’s so much ash all over it.” That was putting it nicely. Marquez leaned in and squinted at it—an angry ring of bright red burnt flesh intermixed with black soot on the surface of his tongue. 

“Look, uhh… Just rinse your mouth out with some water first and then I'll put some of the cream on it, okay?” Marquez was trying to stay calm, but if he were honest, it looked bad. And he was very much not a doctor.

Marquez stepped aside so Seven could get to the sink. Still too afraid to speak a word, Seven managed a small “Mhm..” before leaning over the sink and running the water. He cupped his fingers and swished the water around in his mouth. He almost gagged as bits of ash were tossed all around over his tongue and teeth. He almost swallowed some and coughed harshly back into the sink. 

“It’s okay,” Marquez rested a steady hand on Seven’s back. “Just try it a few more times, okay? We’ve gotta get that ash out.” Seven nodded blearily and sipped more water from his hands. 

After several more attempts to rinse his mouth, he did taste less ash, although the taste of it was so strong he wasn’t sure he’d ever get the taste out fully. 

Seven turned off the water and stood back up, turning to face Marquez again.

“Okay, let me see it now,” Marquez said, voice gentle, like he was coaxing a frightened kitten out from beneath a car. 

Seven stuck his tongue out again, and Marquez leaned in to inspect it. Less ash now—more bright, angry red. 

“Fuck, okay, it’s uhh… pretty swollen. Don’t try to talk, you’ll just make it worse.” He turned to rifle through a drawer. “I just need to find… here,” he said, holding up a box of q-tips. At least Wes had a well stocked bathroom. 

Marquez squeezed a bit of the burn cream onto the tip of the cotton swab. 

“Push your tongue out, a little farther if you can,” Marquez tried to keep his voice gentle, it was as calm as he could manage given the situation. “Good, like that. Now just.. hold still,” he said, and Seven felt a weird funny feeling he couldn’t explain at the way Marquez was speaking to him. Was this… genuine praise…?  

Marquez’ fingers pinched Seven’s chin again and tilted his face up to get a better angle. Carefully, Marquez applied the cream to the burned circle on Seven’s tongue. Seven let out a pained whine when the swab made contact, and the rubbing hurt so so badly—he squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the edges of the counter behind him. His breath became ragged and heavy and fast by the time Marquez pulled the swab away.

He blinked his eyes open and just looked at him, waiting for instructions. He felt beyond stupid with his tongue still hanging out of his mouth, but he could feel the cream working already, and the pain had subsided ever so slightly. 

“Ok, good, good. Just let it dry.” His voice was so gentle—warm—like honey—like the way one would comfort a scared animal. “Don’t close your mouth yet or it’ll just get wiped off, alright?” 

Seven nodded, letting out another “Mhh-hm,” but he felt so embarrassed having his mouth hang open like this. Like he was a panting dog or something. This was not how he pictured his first real interaction with the man. He couldn't even have a conversation with him. Marquez must have thought he looked pathetic like this. 

“That’s it, keep your tongue out just like that,” Marquez let one hand drift up into Seven’s hair, the other hand gently cupping the back of his neck. Seven let his head be guided forward a few inches until the side of his face rested against the broad surface of Marquez’ chest. Strong fingers began to softly run through his hair, and Seven’s eyes slipped closed without him even realizing. It felt… nice. 

Seven was beyond grateful for someone to actually care enough to try and alleviate his pain for once, but this situation hurt in a new way that pricked at his heart a bit when he thought about it too hard. This was his first time alone with Marquez and he had been wanting to ask him so many burning questions. He wanted to find out everything about him. 

Seven found himself wishing he could be a normal boy with… a crush. That maybe they could sit on a bridge over a creek and let their feet swing down over the rushing water. That they could swap stories, ask questions. He wanted to know the stories behind all of Marquez’ tattoos. He wanted to know what the actual hell someone like Marquez was doing mixed up with someone like Wes. 

He just wanted to talk to him, but he couldn’t say much of anything beyond “Thannuu... thannuu... thannuu.” He murmured it over and over against the soft t-shirt fabric on Marquez’ chest. Marquez just held him there, one hand stroking up and down his back and the other carding through his hair. 

“Shh,” he murmured against the top of Seven’s head. “You don’t need to try to talk right now. It's okay.” 

And it was so gentle—so genuine—unlike anything Seven had ever felt, and he found himself crying again, little tears soaking into the shirt where his cheek was pressed against it. Marquez let him close his mouth once the salve appeared to soak in. It tasted bitter in his mouth, but Seven was grateful for the way it helped ease the pain.

Marquez held him there for another minute or so, letting the silence pass between them, save for the soft sounds of Seven’s crying—his bewildered relief. 

Eventually, Marquez broke the silence. “You don’t have to talk, just um, just nod yes or no, okay?”

“Mhhm..” came Seven’s muffled response. He wanted to hide there in Marquez’ shirt forever. 

“I don’t know what your… situation is. But it’s… well, it’s not normal. To say the least.” Marquez was struggling to figure out how to phrase this. “Can you… leave here at all?” 

“Uhn-uhn,” Seven shook his head, his voice was so small against Marquez’ chest. He felt like he was melting—in a good way this time. 

“What if I… If the others were distracted, could you come down the elevator with me?” As soon as he said it, Seven’s head drew back sharply and his eyes snapped up to Marquez, suddenly wide and terrified. He frantically shook his head. “Uhn-uhnnn,” he made a distressed sound.

Marquez was surprised at the boy’s sudden panic. No doubt he’d been threatened with something bad if he tried to leave. “But if Wes wasn’t there—if he didn’t notice, then—”

“Uuhnnn! Uhn-uhnn!” The panic in Seven’s voice rose as he shook his head vigorously. He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers gripping Marquez’ sleeves as if to convey the urgency. He couldn’t explain himself—of all the days for Wes to burn Seven’s tongue—fuck— Urgency burned inside him but he was helpless, unable to explain that the tracker around his ankle had been replaced with something far worse—that the new collar Wes had recently affixed to his throat would drop him before he even made it out of the building. Not to mention it would alert Wes immediately once he was out of range. It was a thin metal band—the prongs digging into his neck weren’t quite visible from the outside, but the automatic shock would drop him instantly, going off at full force the second he stepped outside the safe zone Wes had set on his phone. Wes had shown Seven before—had pressed the shock button and held it down until Seven seized uncontrollably on the ground—just to demonstrate what would happen if he ever tried to leave. It wouldn’t be pretty. 

“Uhn-uhn! I—than’t— I than’t!” Seven wailed, trying so hard to maintain a low voice but growing more and more panicked. He wished he could just explain everything, but he couldn’t pronounce anything properly with his burnt tongue swelling in his mouth, ‘No, No, I can’t!” His mind screamed. He tried to convey it with his eyes, still brimming with tears.

“Okay, okay. Shh, it's okay,” Marquez’ words came quickly but softly, like he was soothing a spooked deer. He ran a hand down Seven’s back, gentle but firm. Reassuring. “It’s okay. You can tell me why another time. I won’t push it, okay?” 

Seven’s distressed noises ceased at that point, and he just leaned his forehead against Marquez’ chest, panting softly into the fabric. 

“Nnh-hnn…” he said. He sounded exhausted. Marquez lifted his other hand to gently cup the back of Seven’s neck. He felt the tiny blonde hairs on his skin stand on end—felt goosebumps starting to form—but Seven didn’t pull away.

“They’re all still outside…” Marquez began. “Look, maybe we can just... Sit for a while.” 

“Mmn,” Seven nodded, head still pressed against Marquez’ shirt, fingers still balled up in the fabric. Then he slowly pulled away, wordlessly leading Marquez out of the bathroom and down the hall to a bedroom. It was a spare room Seven slept in sometimes—when Wes permitted it. He would usually take it when given the chance, often grateful to put some distance between himself and his master.

He gripped Marquez’ hand and led him to the edge of the bed. Seven didn’t want to let go of him. Marquez was safe.

Marquez joined him and wrapped his arms around him. Seven liked this a lot. It was so nice. He just wanted to… Ah, fuck it. He leaned back against the bed, gently tugging Marquez with him by a handful of his shirt fabric. 

Marquez gave a low soft chuckle at the motion. “Yeah? You wanna lie down, is that it?” He was smiling from ear to ear. “Okay, little thing.” 

It was strange, being called something like that without an air of condescension. There was only fondness in Marquez’ voice. Seven’s face felt very warm. 

As Marquez leaned back, Seven glued himself to the other man as soon as he could. He was so tired. Marquez’ chest was broad and warm when Seven laid his head down upon it. Marquez’ hands were strong but gentle as they wrapped around him. Marquez just held him there, gently but securely. Seven’s fingers curled into Marquez’ shirt fabric once more—it seemed to be more reflex than anything. Fuck—that’s adorable, Marquez thought, softly carding a hand through the boy’s hair. 

“Mmmhhh,” Seven gave a tiny contented sigh. Marquez chuckled fondly—God he was cute. He allowed himself to close his eyes, keeping his ears peeled for sounds of anyone coming inside. But the chatter and laughter outside continued, and Marquez heard no footsteps approaching. They would be okay like this for a while. 

Seven was melting, lulled by the steady rhythm of Marquez’ heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest, the gentle weight of his hands. The silence calmly settled around them like a warm rosy mist. 

Marquez smiled wide when he realized Seven had fallen asleep, fingers still clinging to the fabric of his shirt. 

✧─ ༻✦༺ ─✧

GENUINE COMFORT ON MY BLOG?????? I FINALLY DID IT I GAVE HIM SOME GENUINE FUCKING COMFORT

SEVEN taglist 

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

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

@whumpdreamz @kitstorm @amazingmagda @honeycollectswhump @ijustwannareadsomestuff 

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

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

@softvampirewhump @technicallydeliciousdeer  @scoundrelwithboba  @whumpsday @hellodecisionparalysis

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

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

@thekneelingdoll @glvsnchapsblog 

[rideorhide]

Vale and Marc are ROSQUEZ

Luca and Alex are MARQUEZ

[eobsinj]

2025 - marc marquez - todo al rojo | figma poster series ( twt | ig )

[comicwaren]

From X-Men Vol. 7 #028, “Danger Room, Pt. 3”

Art by Netho Diaz, John Dell, Sean Parsons and Arthur Hesli

Written by Jed MacKay

[mayaisobsessedwithf1]

I wondered at the start of the season what it would be like to have a title fight between two brothers. Now, I’m not sure we could really call this a title fight with Marc being so dominant, but still. One wonders what it is like for Alex to in many ways, stand in Marc’s shadow. Because of this I find it so beautiful what Alex said, 

“it makes me feel proud that when Marc retires… he will remember me not only as his brother but as his rival”. 

It says so much about them as brothers, and that competition doesn’t have to be the enemy of relationships in sport, even if it so often is… Being Marc's rival is a privilege, because in the end he does not feel jealousy, but in stead, admiration for what his brother has achieved.

[viejospellejos]

La gran promesa de Marc Márquez a su abuelo Ramón: "Mi abuelo me dijo, 'basta ya' y le dije 'última oportunidad'"

El esfuerzo, el tesón, el espíritu resiliente y la perseverancia le dieron la razón a Marc, que no dudó en dedicarle su noveno título a Ramón, su abuelo.