Wes had left Seven alone in the kitchen to make coffee and breakfast for what must’ve been under five minutes, when he heard a loud shattering crash followed by a softer thud. He started, jerking his gaze up from his phone and rising from his spot on the couch.
“What the fuck did you do?” Wes’ voice boomed across the marble as he rounded the kitchen island, only to see a quickly growing brown spill sliding along the white floor. Large shards of broken ceramic scattered in the puddled coffee, and Wes’ eyes went wide when he made it fully around the corner and saw Seven collapsed on his side, in a heap on the floor, just beyond the scene of the impact.
“Seven!” Wes called again, stepping over the spill towards the collapsed boy, but Seven ignored him. Wes kicked him harshly in the stomach. “Hey! Answer me,” he barked, but the strike only forced a low, pained groan from the servant, who had seemed to either not hear him or deliberately be ignoring him. Wes pressed a socked foot against Seven’s hip bone and gave him a firm shove, knocking his limp body onto his back.
“What the fuck!” Wes yelled, demanding some fucking answers—an apology, an explanation—something. When he got nothing but another pained sound, he leaned down, gripping Seven’s blonde hair in one hand and slapping his face with the other—once, twice—in an attempt to revive his attention. At last, Seven’s eyes blinked back open. His gaze seemed hazy and unfocused. His face was flushed red with heat.
Shit.
Wes wiped the sweat-slicked bangs off of Seven’s forehead and felt the skin beneath it with the back of his hand. The boy was absolutely burning up.
“Fuck me,” Wes mumbled to himself, heaving a deep resigned sigh as he realized the situation he’d created for himself.
Leaving the spilled espresso and the shattered cup on the kitchen floor for now, Wes hauled Seven’s lithe form up into a bridal style carry. The servant’s head lolled limply to the side to expose his neck and he groaned in that far-away sort of fashion you’d get from someone who doesn’t entirely know what's happening or where they are. That can’t be comfortable, Wes thought, upon seeing the awkward way Seven’s head dangled off the side of his bicep. Not that he typically gave Seven’s comfort much thought, but something about this felt different—it was a discomfort Wes hadn’t intended for.
God fucking dammit. Wes gave another begrudging sigh and carried his little servant back up the stairs to his bedroom.
He should’ve known the boy wouldn’t be able to handle it. Pushed him too far again, Wes. You fucking dumbass. Wes cursed that he’d have to clean up the espresso by himself now, if he didn’t want it to dry into a big sticky mess—he certainly didn’t—but he had to tend to the manner of his servant first. Wes had been the one to reduce Seven to this state after all.
Wes deposited Seven on the bed, genuinely trying not to be too rough with him this time, and Seven only gave a small groan in response. “Yeah, yeah,” Wes said with a wave of his hand, turning towards the attached bathroom.
“You feel like shit,” Wes grumbled to himself, opening the bathroom cabinet to rummage around until he found what he was looking for. A digital thermometer. A bottle of ibuprofen. He snatched a wash cloth off the towel rack and ran it under the cool tap water, giving it a firm squeeze once it was thoroughly soaked.
“Don’t… don’t feel.. good..” Seven whined softly when Wes returned to the bedroom. His limbs were all splayed out exactly where Wes had left him. It seemed Seven really had spent every last ounce of his energy—Wes had really wrung it all out of him, hadn’t he, just like he’d done to the washcloth in the sink. Wes tried to suppress the urge to mentally kick himself, but the cause and effect here was obvious. He really should’ve just let the damn kid sleep.
“Mmmnnn too hottt!” Seven whined louder, thrashing a bit, his words slurred like someone too many shots deep.
“Yeah, could you fucking wait a sec?” Wes snapped, trying and failing to keep the irritation from his voice.
He set the thermometer and the bottle on the bedside table, before folding the cool wet wash cloth in half and swiping Seven’s bangs up once more off of his face in order to lay the cloth on the servant’s burning forehead. Wes gave it a firm press to make sure it would stay in place, even if Seven moved around a bit.
Next, the thermometer. “Open,” Wes said, his voice low, as though he’d finally figured out that it wasn’t necessary nor welcome to project one’s voice at such close proximity. Seven’s lips were already parted as he panted slightly, his eyes half lidded and unfocused, and Wes took the opportunity to stick the metal tip right into Seven’s mouth.
“Close,” Wes felt his tone get a little firmer this time, and Seven obeyed, despite his distress. “Keep it under your tongue. You know the drill.”
Indeed, Seven did know the drill, for this was always the first thing to be done when he felt like this—too hot and too cold at the same time, body shaking slightly, random aches and pains all throughout his limbs. His brain was full of cotton and it hurt to think, so he just listened for when Wes’ voice told him to do something and tried to focus on doing it as well as he could. He couldn’t take any more punishment in this state and would do anything to avoid it.
Shit. The coffee—Seven suddenly remembered—he’d spilled the fucking coffee. Seven desperately wanted to open his mouth and apologize profusely, but knew if he parted his lips right now and the thermometer fell out, Wes would be even more angry with him. So he just let out a sad closed-lipped whine around the thermometer.
A few moments later, the thing started beeping loudly, and Wes pulled it from between Seven’s lips.
“Fuck my life,” Wes sighed. “Yeah, it’s a fever.” Guess I shouldn’t have kept him out all night. Wes felt a sharp tinge of regret in his chest, but he didn’t voice it. He needed Seven to believe that everything Wes did to him was always deserved. It was easier that way, to pretend it was all on purpose, all according to his design. But getting him sick had genuinely been an accident. Having Seven out of commission did nothing but make Wes' life more inconvenient.
“I…I’m sorry, I’msorry, Sir—” Seven whimpered out the string of apologies, hoping Wes would have mercy on him for once.
Wes just scoffed, and turned without a word, walking back into the bathroom to wash off the tip of the thermometer. Once it was put away, he picked up a glass on the counter and filled it with cool tap water.
“Gotta get some of these pills in you,” Wes said, his mouth full of gravel as he walked back into the bedroom. “I don’t have a straw up here, so you gotta sit up, Seven.” He punctuated his last few words so they would register as an order to his servant’s likely half-delirious brain.
Seven’s head indeed was swimming, thick and hot with fever, but he heard the order to sit up and managed to tuck a bent elbow beneath him to prop himself up. He whined a little as he forced himself upright—the sort of sound one might let out when their first morning alarm went off.
Wes put the cup in Seven’s other hand, and when he was sure the boy wouldn’t instantly drop it, he released his grip to shake three pills out of the ibuprofen container. He held them up to Seven’s face and his servant’s lips parted without being asked, tilting his head back just slightly so Wes could drop the pills into his mouth. Wes let one hand hover beneath the glass as Seven lifted it to his lips, just in case he suddenly fucking dropped it, and took it back when Seven had swallowed all the pills.
Task complete, Seven let himself collapse back down to the bed sheets once more. “Alright,” Wes set the glass on the side table. “I’ve gotta go clean up the fucking mess you made downstairs,” Wes grunted, turning towards the hallway.
“You’re fucking welcome by the way!” Wes called out on his way out the door.
Seven managed a weak “Th-thank you.. Sir…” before Wes disappeared down the hall and Seven’s eyes slipped shut once more.
༻✦༺
Some of you know what is coming next.. im excited :>
Tw: choking, strangulation, stress positions, physical abuse, servant/slave whump, forced nudity, humiliation and all that good shit, intimate whumper, manhandling | Words: 3.4k
✧─ ༻✦༺ ─✧
“I bought it online.” Wes smiled down at Seven. “Just came in.”
Seven’s eyes widened as he took in the sight before him—a mass of leather straps dangled from his master’s outstretched hand.
Wes’ teeth bared in a wicked grin. “I can’t wait to see how it looks on you.”
Seven gulped—he said nothing.
Wes’ other hand snapped at him suddenly. “Go on, strip,” he ordered, and Seven scrambled to obey. Familiar goosebumps tingled at his skin as he slipped off the thin t-shirt he’d been given to wear. His hands fumbled at the belt buckle until his trousers slipped down to his ankles and he kicked them off.
“Boxers too,” Wes said, deadpanned and unreadable.
Seven didn’t need to search his expression to hear the severity in his voice. He slid the black boxer briefs down his legs, shivering slightly against the cool air.
“May I—,” Seven stammered. “May I fold them, s-sir?”
“No. I don’t care. Turn around.”
Seven kicked the pile of fabric aside and turned to face the wall. The leather was cool against his skin when Wes lowered an opening around his neck. The tangled leather strips slid along his shoulders and down to his armpits.
“Hands up,” came the order, and Seven obeyed, raising his hands and allowing his head to dip downwards in surrender.
The harness criss-crossed over his chest as Wes configured it, laying the straps flat across his sternum and down his torso.
“Arms down.”
Seven obeyed, willing his hands to fall and still themselves at his sides. He balled his fingers into fists to avoid the nervous fidgeting Wes hated so much.
Wes yanked the leather pieces together between Seven’s shoulder blades and Seven let out a small gasp as the strap over his sternum tightened firmly. With a faint click, Wes secured a buckle behind his back, locking it into place with a small, silver padlock. Seven realized then, with an anxious twist in his stomach, that he wasn’t supposed to be able to remove it himself. He’d probably have to beg—nicely—for it to come off when all was said and done. He could feel a gnawing dread building within him, creeping up his throat. He clenched his fists harder. The leather strips still dangled down to the floor at his sides. Seven bit his lip. Wes wasn’t finished.
Seven shivered in the cool of the AC. He focused on the feeling of the soft carpet of Wes’ bedroom beneath his bare toes, trying to will his mind anywhere else.
Seven squeezed his eyes shut as Wes dragged the leather straps to wrap around his waist, tightening them snugly and snapping another buckle into place at the base of his spine. Seven heard the clink of another padlock, and it cemented the dread—he definitely wasn’t meant to be able to remove the harness without Wes’ help—and key.
Wes tugged experimentally on the binding at Seven’s waist, before sliding his fingers down the leather pieces that remained. Seven exhaled a little more sharply than he would’ve liked at the gesture.
Seven felt a sharp rapping at his ankles as Wes kicked his feet apart, and he parted his stance without resistance. He shivered harder, naked and bared and posed before his master, dreading whatever was coming.
The harness was still going, and Wes’ tanned fingers descended past his slender waist to cinch the leather around Seven’s upper thighs. Seven could feel the warmth radiating from his master’s hands as he slid his fingers down his skin, along his sides and down to his thighs to play at the straps that held him. Wes tugged at the leather around his legs just slightly, to test the fit, and Seven bit his lip harder to avoid making a sound. This was fucking humiliating, he thought. But Seven held perfectly still, fighting the shiver that ran through him when Wes ran a finger smoothly down the dip of his spine, goosebumps trailing in their wake. Seven squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to retain his complete silence. He didn’t want to make whatever this was even worse.
Seemingly satisfied with the way the leather hugged his servant’s thighs, Wes secured a final buckle somewhere behind him, and Seven could feel the way it cinched him fully.
“You look pretty like this. ‘Makes you easier to handle, huh?” Wes mused, an audible smile in his voice as he tugged at the leather once more. Seven felt it all when he pulled, the straps across his chest and around his hips and thighs tightening all at once. He was fully ensnared now, helpless to be tugged around at his master’s mere whims.
Then he felt the absence of Wes’ body heat as he took a step back. He took a moment, letting the silence between them grow thick and heavy as Wes’ eyes raked over his work.
“Turn around.”
Seven obeyed, his eyes locked on the floor.
“Fuck..” Wes breathed, sliding a finger down Seven’s chest to hook around the strap that ran across his sternum.
“Yeah… you look so fucking good like this. Better than I expected, honestly.” Wes’ voice was a low hum in his throat, quite pleased with his purchase.
“Turn. Face the mirror,” he ordered. Seven turned as ordered and had to bite back a small whine when he saw his full appearance. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a cheesy kinky porno, wearing nothing but the straps of winding leather and the locked collar that never left his throat.
“I’m having a party tonight, d’you know that, servant?” Seven nodded, and disappointment and fear settled over him as he realized Wes’ plans were not to merely appreciate the sight of him alone.
Seven had heard Wes chatting away to his friends earlier that day, as he’d scrubbed dishes in the kitchen. He was only half listening, but had caught bits and pieces about some plans this evening that Wes was excited for. There was something he was eager for them to see. It clicked in his head what that thing was. It must have been him— this—that Wes had been eager to show off.
Wes came up behind him and gripped the leather strap across his back. He abruptly yanked on it, dragging Seven back a few steps until Seven stumbled back and hit Wes’ torso. Wes held him there, cinched up by the web of leather that tightened across his whole body.
“Yeah…” Wes breathed into his ear, and Seven felt goosebumps make the tiny blonde hairs on his arms stand on end.
“I can’t wait for them to see you like this,” Wes purred, letting his tongue dip out to lap a small, wet stripe just below his servant’s ear. Seven squeezed his eyes shut, a high-pitched keen struggling to escape his tightened throat. He braced himself for more, for worse, but as suddenly as he’d grabbed him, Wes’ hand released him.
“Get dressed. No shirt. Pants only.”
Seven scrambled to obey, eager to be at least partially covered once more. He all but fell into the pile of dark fabric on the floor in an attempt to clothe his lower body as quickly as possible. He thanked his lucky stars he’d been allowed at least that.
As he dressed himself, Wes rattled off about the party.
“You’re gonna help me get ready for tonight,” he said, like this was the most normal situation in the world. “All the jello shots from the back fridge should be set by now. Put those out on a bed of ice. And put all the drinks from the storage room into the main fridge. Chill that good champagne I’ve been saving. And for fucks sake, clean the fucking kitchen again. And I swear to god, the last time you supposedly ‘cleaned’ the floors, I still couldn’t see my reflection perfectly.”
Wes yanked him forward once again by the leather at his chest, bringing him way too close for comfort and tugging his servant up onto his tiptoes. “Get your shit together, Seven,” he hissed. “I have people I want to impress tonight.”
✧ ─ ༻✦༺ ─ ✧
Just before the guests were set to arrive, Seven heard a sound ring out, startling him from his work scrubbing the kitchen floor. Something thick and metal was clanking against the marble floor of the penthouse, trailing along with Wes’ slow, deliberate footsteps. Seven’s eyes darted towards the noise, and he paled when he saw the long length of chain in his master’s hand. Wes was dragging it along the shining marble, letting it trail behind him as he approached his kneeling servant with a wicked grin.
“Hey, Sevennn…” he drawled. “You might want to pay attention now.” Seven scrambled to his feet, the knees of his dark pants slightly wetted with the cleaning solution he’d smeared over the marble tiles.
“D’you remember a few days ago… when you fucked up?”
Seven’s eyes snapped wide open. He swallowed, his own throat felt thick as the terror crept up his esophagus.
“You really don’t remember?” Wes frowned. “You stupid fucking bitch,” his voice dipped into a low growl. “You don’t remember when you rolled your fucking eyes at me three days ago?”
Seven gasped softly. He remembered. He hadn’t meant to do it. It must have been a trick of the light. An accidental twitch of his eyes? How the hell had he let Wes see that??
Wes stared him down, drawing closer and dragging the chain after him. “You want me to remind you? It was Thursday. Around 7. Is your memory really that shit?” Wes’ voice was rising. “Have I really beaten you entirely stupid?? Slammed your fucking head against the ground too many times??” Wes was nearly yelling now, despite the mere inches between them. “Did you just hope I’d forget and you’d get off scott-free?!”
Seven cowered before his ire, his hands rising, palms out in deference. “I—I’m so sorry, si—“
“Shut the fuck up,” Wes snapped, rage searing through the narrowed slits of his eyes. His free hand rose and backhanded Seven hard across the side of his face. Seven’s head snapped to the side as he let out a choked cry.
“I don’t wanna hear any pathetic excuses,” Wes hissed. “I didn’t punish you then, but I’ve been thinking about what would be fitting. What would finally teach you a lesson and cut out that shitty attitude of yours.”
Seven said nothing, standing frozen before him, feeling his cheek pulse with fresh pain. His watering eyes flicked down and locked onto the heavy chain in Wes’ hand.
“And I’ve finally thought of something I think sounds… appropriate.” Wes nearly spat the last word at him, the air squeezing through his bared teeth.
Wes’ fist rattled the chain against the floor, sending another shiver up Seven’s back. He flinched at the sudden noise, quickly righting himself and hoping Wes wouldn’t grow more angry at how jumpy he was.
Wes only drew closer. “I think it’s time to pay up, don’t you think?”
Seven opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He was already wrapped up in the leather harness—what on earth was the chain for? Wes’ raised a single eyebrow and shook the chain again—his signal to answer him already.
At last, though he felt frozen as a doe in headlights, Seven found his words—the ones Wes was looking for. “Y-yes, sir,” he said. His voice sounded small and timid, and the heat of embarrassment warmed his already burning cheeks at the sound of it—the way he already sounded so defeated.
Wes lifted the chain.
“What are you—“ It slipped out before Seven could stop it.
Wes slapped him again, hard across the other cheek, and Seven cried out at the sudden shock of pain that radiated through his cheekbone and off the sides of his skull.
“Shut up and turn around.” Wes’ tone stung him with an icy chill. It left no room for hesitance. Seven shut his mouth and obeyed, his shoulders shaking slightly, his face still blossoming with red heat.
“Hands behind you,” came Wes’ order, his voice a low hiss behind him. Seven twisted his arms behind his back and held the position, letting his head fall forward until the back of his neck was bared. He stared down at his own feet, resigned to whatever awful thing was about to happen to him. He realized again that he was shaking.
Seven winced a little when he felt the familiar snap of the metal handcuffs around his wrists. He felt them click into place and heard the metallic zzzt as Wes tightened them firmly around his bony wrists, cinching Seven’s hands firmly together behind his back.
Seven didn’t move, even when Wes’ hands retreated. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to do whatever was about to happen. Maybe if he didn’t move, didn’t blink, time itself would stop. If only…
Wes didn’t even order him to turn around this time—he simply gripped his servant’s shoulder and spun Seven around to face him. The sudden movement jostled Seven’s attempt to zone out, and his eyes snapped up to take in his master’s expression.
Wes looked to be deep in focus, his eyes dark and intense. The slightest upturn of his lips gave away his amusement, barely containing his rising anticipation of whatever was about to transpire.
Wes lifted the heavy length of chain and wrapped one end around Seven’s neck, securing it like a lead with a heavy padlock. Instantly, Seven felt the weight of the chain and the lock pulling him down, a burden that tugged him towards the floor as it dangled from his neck. He wished he could follow the impulse and melt into the floor entirely—let it swallow him whole before Wes did whatever he was about to do next. He let the image of it comfort him as a brief idle moment stretched between the two men in the kitchen.
Wes gave the length of chain an experimental tug, and Seven gasped and stumbled forward a few steps, unable to stretch his arms out, he was barely able to catch himself on his toes just before he collided into Wes’ chest. He was breathing heavily, though he didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the sense of impending doom he felt creeping through him. Perhaps it was the humiliation, rising hot and fresh to further redden his cheeks—at the way he couldn’t use his hands to keep from slamming face-first into his master’s torso, if Wes just tugged a little harder.
Seven tried to back up slightly, though Wes allowed little slack in the chain. Seven made the mistake of looking up at him and his panicked breath caught suddenly in his throat.
Wes eyed him hungrily, his smirk deepening as he yanked the chain forward again, harder, and forced a choked gasp out of Seven. This time, the servant collided hard against Wes’ torso, his face falling into his master’s broad chest. Seven righted himself quickly—he didn’t want to give Wes the satisfaction of seeing how this was affecting him—how the dread and anticipation and the helplessness of getting tugged around like a ragdoll made his head hazy with terror.
Wes could do whatever he wanted to him right now.
He always could. It was always the case, and Seven knew this, but with no hands to shield himself, at the mercy of Wes and the chain in his hand, it spiked his fear above his usual levels in a way that made him almost nauseous.
Wes smiled, pleased with the way his servant was coming undone. “Now c’mere, I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Seven bit his lip and said nothing, but his stomach dropped and he let out a strangled cry when Wes yanked the chain again suddenly and started dragging him across the penthouse floor.
Wes took a brisk pace, wasting no time, and Seven stumbled after him, trying to keep up to avoid being further choked by the heavy chain.
When Wes reached the base of the grand staircase, he began to ascend it and Seven moved to follow him. But a few steps up, Wes turned around and held up his free hand.
“No no,” he said, pointing down to the ground beside the base of the stairs. “You stay down there.”
Seven looked up at him, confused, but began to back down the staircase, and Wes provided some slack in the chain to allow the movement. When he got to the bottom, Seven looked around, unsure where Wes wanted him. He just wanted to be good, but what did Wes want him to do? What was this for?
Wes huffed a breath of impatience and marched back down the staircase, pulling Seven down by the chain towards the side of the banister. Wes dragged him along, positioning his servant standing on the floor, facing away from the banister that sloped up several feet above his head.
“Now stay,” Wes ordered sternly, and Seven didn’t move.
Wes began ascending the stairs once more, dragging the chain up behind him. Wes let it dangle from the bannister until he got about halfway up, the chain hanging from the staircase down to Seven’s throat. Seven could only listen to the heavy clinking sound, unable to look up at what his master was preparing.
Wes wrapped the chain around a post in the banister and tugged. There was a loud metallic zippp as the chain tightened, and then suddenly it snapped and cinched hard around Seven’s pale neck. The force of it yanked a gagged choke from Seven’s throat as it squeezed abruptly into his windpipe. Wes pulled the chain tighter, until Seven was lifted up to his tiptoes, his ankles straining upwards just to be able to breathe.
“Perfect,” Wes hummed above him, locking the chain into place with a heavy padlock.
Seven stared forward with eyes wide. Surely this couldn’t be—was this his punishment?
Wes descended the stairs slowly, agonizingly slowly, enjoying the choked noises Seven made as he struggled to breathe.
“You’re gonna stay here tonight,” Wes grinned. When he reached him, Wes leaned in and slid a finger up Seven’s bare chest, admiring the way he shuddered beneath his touch and the building strain of his position—admiring the way the leather straps clung to his quivering body. He gave them another little tug, just to emphasize, to remind Seven he was still wrapped up in them. Wes’ hand raised to gently cup his chin, and Seven’s eyes screwed shut and he winced as Wes turned his head to the side and let his tongue flick out once more to taste at the skin below his ear.
“I’m gonna go get ready,” he said, voice low and velvety, speaking to his servant far too sweetly for the circumstances. “Stay put and be good, okay?” Seven heard the smile in Wes’ voice before he flicked his eyes open to verify it. He just let out a faint choked sound, “Please–sir…”
Wes only chuckled softly at him, patting his cheek condescendingly. He turned with a grin and ascended the grand staircase once more, leaving Seven to hang there, cuffed and leashed and harnessed and straining not to fucking pass out. It was unbearable. Seven hoped desperately that Wes wasn't serious—he prayed to whatever was out there that Wes would let him down before the actual party started. He couldn’t possibly maintain this position all fucking night.
But it wasn't up to him, he knew that. Surely he shouldn't be shocked at his own powerlessness anymore, yet it somehow managed to astound him every time—to knock the proverbial breath from his lungs—at the way Wes seemed to keep on discovering new and creative ways to drive in Seven’s powerlessness, to emphasize his position in the most painful cruel ways. Seven choked and writhed uselessly against the chain as he heard Wes’ bedroom door close.
A few minutes later, Seven was jolted from his miserable train of thought as the bluetooth speaker chimed loudly before playing some hip-hop track at full volume. Seven’s spine shuddered with a fierce chill when, even over the sound of the speaker, he heard the elevator ding.
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
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
༻✦༺
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.
Tags: alcohol/drunkenness, fever, sickfic, delirious whumpee, injury/scar reveal, slut shaming, caretaking (yes for real), implied past noncon // Words: 3.4k
༻✦༺
Marquez could tell as soon as he answered the phone that Wes was drunk.
“Listen— Okay? I’onknow what you even fucking see in him, but since you fucking love him so much, whydon’you… Why’on you just fucking take care of it yourself, huh?”
“Wh.. What?” Marquez was beyond confused. Wes was clearly wasted. “What are you talking abou—”
“Seven, okay! Motherfucking—” Wes cut himself off for a moment. “Sevennnn. He’s.. He’s fucked dude, okay? He’s fucking fucked up or some shit—is that what you want me to say??”
Marquez was instantly alarmed. “Wait. What happened to Seven? Is he okay? Fuck, Wes, what did you—”
“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.
Tags: servant/slave whump, environmental/cold whump, shoulder dislocation, begging and crying, just general fucking misery. ~ Words: 2.3k
Seven Masterlist
Continued from this
“I came into a place mute of all light,
Which bellows as the sea does in a tempest,
If by opposing winds ’t is combated.
The infernal hurricane that never rests
Hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine;
Whirling them round, and smiting, it molests them.”
- Dante, Inferno. Canto V (28-33).
༻✦༺
Seven’s heart fell right through the floor as he watched Wes saunter back into the penthouse. He cried and pleaded over the roar of the rain. “Please—! Please let me back in Sir, PLEASE— Please pleaseplease—” He watched Wes ascend the stairs through the glass, and something snapped inside him—his begging gave way to a sudden white hot rage, and he was screaming and swearing at his master, who by now most certainly could not hear him.
“FUCK YOU! FUCKYOU WES I HATE YOU—I FUCKING H—hhc” His voice cracked into an angry sob before the screaming started up again. “Fuck– I— I F-FUCKING HATE YOU! LET ME FUCKING GO—” He twisted against the chian with his good arm. “FUCK YOU!!!”
Seven’s whole body shook with explosive anger, and for once, he let it take over. The feeling felt foreign yet so so right. Seven had never truly snapped like this in front of Wes before. He’d had too many years of experience internalizing all his frustrations. When the two of them were face to face, Seven was often too overwhelmed with fear and anxiety to let himself explode like this, but the feeling had been building for fucking years—like magma bubbling beneath the mouth of a volcano—a pressure in his head he was never able to release. It was always easier to take it out on himself—blame himself, tell himself he could somehow control the outcome if he only tried harder to be perfect. But the instinct to shove it down had abandoned him now, and he screamed into the night, hurling everything he wanted to say to Wes, who had long since disappeared down the hallway of the upstairs level. Seven pictured himself throwing himself at Wes full-force and tackling him into the wet tile. He imagined slamming a fist into his cheekbone and beating him into the ground until his face was bruised and bloody.
Seven sobbed and screamed until his throat ached, then screamed some more until it was so raw it hurt to even cry—but he couldn’t stop fucking crying. He slumped down in his forced kneeling position, spent and exhausted from all his screaming. His whole body shook with broken sobs—the tears were washed away instantly with the onslaught of the storm. The rain beat down on him with a relentless force, thoroughly soaking his exposed skin and his thin boxer briefs until his whole body felt heavy and waterlogged. As he came down from his fury high, the chill began to fully set in, and it penetrated through to his bones within just a few minutes. Every muscle was growing heavy, spent and exhausted. Panting heaving, ragged breaths, soaking in the unsatisfying comedown, Seven was painfully reminded of his dislocated shoulder. Without the anger or adrenaline to dampen his nerves, every spike of pain hit his shoulder’s socket like the sudden twist of a knife.
He sat there, bent forward in the kneel, until his legs began to go numb, and the pins and needles started to hurt. His head felt like it was full of lead, and as his time there in the darkness went on, the cold seemed to seep through him even further, until he found himself curled up on his right side, shaking pitifully on the tile ground. The rainwater puddled around him—maybe half an inch on all sides. It was so fucking cold, but there was no escaping it. Seven had no other option but to lie there and shiver and wait it out.
His dislocated shoulder couldn’t be ignored—the socket pulsed over and over with a sharp, nauseating pain. Apart from the cold, it was all he could focus on. The spikes of agony seemed to worsen each time they hit, forcing him to cry out through hoarse vocal chords and writhe weakly, rattling the chain that kept his cuffed wrists bolted to the balcony’s edge. On any other day, at a time like this, Seven would’ve tugged and yanked at the chain relentlessly, but with the agonizing fire radiating through his shoulder, even the mere thought of pulling against it made him want to throw up.
He lay there in agony, drenched in the darkness. The rain beat down on his body, on his face, soaking his hair until he felt as wet and limp as a drowned man. He couldn’t keep track of time at all. His only sense that time was even passing were the bright flashes of lightning that made him flinch sharply and the crashing thunder that shook his whole body. It was hell. Had he been in any sort of mental state to analyze patterns, Seven may have reflected on the fact that this very thought crossed his mind rather frequently. But like Dante descending to a lower realm, tonight’s hell felt entirely new in the most awful, twisted way.
He was cold—he was shuddering in pain—he was fucking lonely. Even Wes’ company was better than none at all, when left in a state like this. With nothing else to do, he cried some more, until he couldn’t anymore. His uninjured arm twisted and tugged at the wrist cuff behind his back, but that effort only dug the metal into his skin. He kept doing it anyway, just to feel something other than the bone-shivering cold or the spikes of pain in his left shoulder. He did it again and again, just to have a new kind of pain he could actually control. Any distraction was welcome. He didn’t care if the motion drew blood. It wouldn’t matter anyway—it would only be mixed in with the rushing cold rain and swept away as quickly as it had seeped out.
His left arm lay there uselessly, spasming with the pain in its socket. The attached hand remained as still as possible, limp in its cuff, petrified with fear that any motion could make the stabbing pain even worse. Seven briefly considered slamming the dislocated shoulder down into the wet tile to try and push it back into the socket, but the idea made his stomach lurch with dread and he decided that waiting it out would probably be less agonizing than trying and failing. Nothing horrified him more in that moment than the thought of slamming his shoulder into the tile ground, only to miss and knock it even further out of place. He might actually black out from the pain if he tried that.
Though, on second thought, maybe blacking out would be a blessing at a time like this. Seven thought about it, but still didn’t move. He just lay there on his right side and curled his legs up into his bare torso as far as he could. He shivered against the barrage of the rain, against the cruel bite of the wind on his soaking wet skin. His teeth had started chattering a long time ago, but it was getting to a point where it had started to hurt. He tried biting the inside of his cheek in an attempt to quell the motion, and though that seemed to work for a little while, he had to stop biting when he tasted blood. Despair settled in, heavy as the battering rain—as the roaring thunder. A hopeless resignation twisted in his chest, pressing him down into the puddled tile. His eyes glazed over, and he let them slip shut. He didn’t sleep; he only wished for unconsciousness to take him.
༻✦༺
At some point, after what felt like a lifetime, a hazy gray light penetrated through Seven’s eyelids, and he flicked them open. Blinking through the water on his eyelashes, he saw that day was breaking. There was a sun peaking over a horizon somewhere, above all the heavy gray clouds. Its warmth wouldn’t reach him here. He was shaking so badly now that he couldn’t even force himself to sit up, but despite it all, a tiny flicker of hope sparked within him at the onset of a new day. Wes—please—please come back. As the gray light grew steadily brighter, Seven began to feel frantic, and he’d resorted to begging once more, pleading with the man who could not hear him. Please—come to the door— Wake up, please, Wes— Come to the door—
And then, like a desert traveler glimpsing an oasis, he saw him. Wes was coming down the stairs. Seven’s heart was beating out of his chest—he instinctively pulled against the chain and then screamed when it pulled on his dislocated shoulder. He tried sitting up, but got so dizzy he collapsed again and his head hit the ground and rattled his skull. He didn’t stop begging. Through strained, sore vocal chords and chattering teeth, Seven didn’t stop pleading the whole time as Wes walked outside and stalked towards him, this time, holding an umbrella overhead.
“Wes—” Seven desperately choked out, then quickly remembered his manners. “Sir—Master, please—please let me go—please please please, Sir!” He pleaded like his life depended on it, like he would die if left out here a moment longer. His body realistically couldn’t take much more of this. Seven didn’t know much about hypothermia, but this seemed like a surefire way to contract it.
Wes said nothing, only bent down and unlocked the chain from the railing. “God—th-thank you, Sir, thank you, thankyou—” Seven was crying again, in relief this time. Wes tugged at Seven’s hair until he was once again in a kneeling position, but Seven was so unsteady he wavered on his knees and started to slump back down into the rainsoaked tile. Wes grunted impatiently, but reached a sturdy arm around Seven’s waist, easily hoisting his servant’s naked, dripping body up and over his shoulder. Seven yelped when his injured shoulder joint was jostled, but he bit his lip hard to avoid making any further noise. He’d do anything to keep Wes from getting annoyed with him so soon—he wanted to be taken inside right now more than anything in the world.
Tears of relief streamed down his face when he was brought back in and deposited on the marble floor. It was so much warmer in here, but he was still soaked to the bone and shaking with the cold. His jaw ached with how hard his teeth were clanking together.
After shutting the door, Wes crossed his arms and stared down at Seven, who sat huddled in a wet heap on the floor. “Now, what did we learn last night, servant?”
Seven blinked up at him with wide, red eyes, trying to remember how this whole nightmare had begun. “D—don’t…” his teeth were chattering away viciously. “Don’t b-be a— a f-fucking h-whore, S-sir..” Wes cocked an eyebrow at him expectantly, and he hastily racked his memory and stammered out the rest. “F-for—for— a-anyone tha-that… that i-isn’t y-you, Sir.” Seven held his breath, desperately hoping that was the right answer. He exhaled deeply in relief when Wes smirked down at him. Approval.
“Yeah, alright, I’ll take it,” Wes said. “Congradulations, you survived.”
“Thank you, S-sir, thank you, thank you—” Seven was babbling but he could barely think, he was just so relieved to be out of the storm. One thing was pressing on his mind though: he wanted warmth more than anything right now.
“M-may—may I— please sh-shower, Sir?” he put on his best pleading eyes. Please Wes— He just needed this one thing and then he would be good and perfect again.
“Fine, whatever,” Wes huffed. “Go take a fucking shower. You look fucking terrible.”
Seven’s torso slumped in relief, but the motion jolted pain through his shoulder joint, and he realized he still had a major problem. He paled, looking back up at Wes, dreading that he had to make a second request before he could fulfill the first. “Wait— Um… Um S-sir,” Seven struggled to speak around the shivering. “My—um… my… my sh-shoulder, Sir—”
His efforts were cut off when Wes let out a sharp laugh. “Oh yeah! I completely forgot about that!” He seemed delighted to be reminded.
“Alright, c'mere," Wes said, bending down and unlocking the cuffs that still bound his servant’s wrists behind his back. Tossing the metal restraints aside, Wes firmly gripped Seven’s injured arm with one hand and placed another on his back. Seven shrieked in agony when Wes suddenly shoved his arm back in against his body. After a moment of excruciating pressure, there was another sickening pop in Seven’s shoulder and Wes’ hands retreated. Seven gasped and panted on the floor, his right hand clutching his left arm protectively. It still hurt—fuck did it hurt—but it felt so much better now compared to before. Seven lifted his left hand and stared down at his own quivering fingers as he moved them around. Electric heat still radiated through the joint, but he was in so much less pain now, and for that he was fucking relieved.
“Th-thank you, S-Sir..” Tears pooled in his eyes once again—summoned by pure gratitude this time–and Seven blinked up at Wes with reverence. His devil and his God.
“Great,” Wes said dryly. “I’m not going to wait around all day for you to shower, so get fucking to it.” Wes snapped his fingers and Seven visibly flinched.
Seven tried to scramble to his feet, but his shaking legs slipped on the now wet marble and Wes caught him with a single outstretched arm before he could hit the floor again.
“Jesus, fucking useless...” Wes muttered to himself, though Seven swore there was a hint of amusement in his tone. Wes slung Seven’s small frame over his shoulder once more and carried him off to the downstairs bathroom. When he reached it, he deposited Seven into the empty tub, leaving him shivering in nothing but his boxers.
“Now hurry the fuck up,” Wes ordered. “When you’re done, get your ass in the kitchen. I’m fucking starving.”
“Y-yes, Sir,” came Seven’s weak but grateful acknowledgement. Without another word, Wes left Seven in the tub and slammed the bathroom door behind him.
Wes took a long drag of his cigarette, squinting at the two of them. Their eyes—their fingers seemed to linger together on the glass for just a moment too long. Wes frowned for a moment, but then the corners of Wes’ lips curled upward, and he was back to looking smug as ever.
“Servant. 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. The way his eyes narrowed—the way one edge of his lips curved upward just slightly.
“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, but Wes did look really good like this—objectively speaking of course. 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 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 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, he 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 coo from Brie and some other girl. Of course it did.
“Oh 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 slanted smile, as his free hand dipped to grip Seven’s chin 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, and gripped 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’ hands. 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 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 that 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 blearily, 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?
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Don't worry—this one actually does have some comfort at the end! But as always, its comfort thats also more whump, because I dont do the pure uncomplicated sweet stuff. hahahahhaa...
