What if there was a whumpee who got sent to auction but nobody’s bidding on them and they even lower the price. Carewhumper gives an exasperated sigh before throwing out a pity bid.
#353
content: servant whumpee, humiliation, dehumanisation, human trafficking whump, past trauma, implied past torture, implied starvation, implied murder, carewhumper
Whumpee was standing on the stage, emaciated body full of cuts and bruises unable to be hidden behind the clothes their handler had hastily procured for them, and stared at the crowd with wide eyes. The starting price for them was already low, lower than for many of the other servants, and they knew full well why. They were not a good servant. They tried and tried and tried but their body simply couldn't keep up. When they fell behind, they got punished, and the punishment made it so that they were unable to do even the tasks they had previously been able to. Rinse and repeat.
"500," the auctioneer tried again, and Whumpee closed their teary eyes for just a moment. The lighting in the tavern was dim, and yet they felt like if they had to stare into the lamp for one more second they would throw up. The other servants went for 700, 800, even 1000. And there were bids for them. They were wanted.
Whumpee wasn't.
"500?" the auctioneer yelled, and Whumpee opened their eyes. Nobody in the crowd was really paying them any mind. They were the last servant of the evening to be sold, and most of the guests already had a servant by their side that they'd purchased. The ones who didn't — well, they weren't interested in Whumpee either. "450!"
Great, they were lowering the price even further. Whumpee's legs were shaking from having been up and working all day, only to then be led to the auction where they had to stand for as long as the others were sold. They longed for the uncomfortable wooden chairs of the tavern.
"450?"
Whumpee glanced at their handler, and they got a glare in response. They would get the biggest cut of the sale, and the further the price went down, the less they would get. Whumpee looked away as quickly as they'd glanced at them, down at the floor. Their bare feet were bony and deformed from having spent so much of their time walking back and forth.
"400!"
They knew what happened to servants that didn't get sold. They'd never personally seen it before, but they knew. They'd seen their handler come back with patches of blood on their shirt, they'd heard the rumours, they knew they never saw someone from previous auctions ever again.
"300," someone finally yelled from the crowd. Whumpee risked a glance up at them. They were middle-aged, with hair down to their shoulders, in clothing that was quite unassuming. They didn't look cruel. If anything, it looked like they were trying to save Whumpee from the fate of an unwanted servant.
But would the auctioneer accept such a low bid?
When Whumpee looked at them, they looked a little taken aback. The whole night, the prices had only gone up, not down. The auctioneer exchanged a glance with Whumpee's handler, and when their handler nodded, they turned back towards the crowd. "300! Once, twice…" Whumpee held their breath. "Sold!"
Whumpee was grabbed by their handler and dragged off the stage, and they followed clumsily. "Lucky, aren't you?" their handler sneered.
"I'm sorry," Whumpee said, as though they had any power over the bidding process. They felt like they'd robbed their handler by being such a bad, useless servant.
"300 is still money, I suppose. Do not embarrass me. Do everything the way your master wants, be quiet, be docile. You know the rules. If they bring you back and ask for their money back, I will personally wring your neck."
Whumpee had no doubt about that. "I will do my best," they said quietly.
They finally arrived at the table where Whumpee's new master sat. "Whumpee, was it?" their master asked.
"Yes," they said meekly.
"My name is Carewhumper, I—"
"Money first, introductions later," Whumpee's handler cut in rudely. Carewhumper sighed and reached into their pocket, pulling out a purse with more than enough money to pay for Whumpee. They took out some coins, counting them carefully, not wanting to pay more for a no-good servant than they absolutely had to. Once they handed over the money, Whumpee's handler was gone. Not even a goodbye.
"I'm sorry you had to pay for me," Whumpee said, eyes downcast. "I will do everything I can to make your purchase worth it."
"I'm sure you will," Carewhumper said, and Whumpee could hear the thinly veiled threat in their voice. "But not tonight. Tonight, just sit here with me. Enjoy a beer or two. Your job only starts tomorrow."
Leon fell in love with Alexei exactly for his cold demeanor, his matter of fact way of handling things, the bluntness with which he spoke, the way he never held back what he was truly thinking. All things that Alexei believed would drive Leon away from him, because he’d already been made to feel like he was odd, unnatural, just wrong for the way he existed. I can imagine Alexei fighting for his life to mask when they start dating, trying to make his personality, his behavior, himself more “appealing”, but Leon tells him that’s not what he wants. He knows exactly who he is already, and that’s the man he loves. It’s the first time Alexei can remember feeling genuinely loved, rather than just tolerated.
Whumpee didn’t have a very high spice tolerance, really, they didn’t even have one at all. They absolutely hated spice, and even the most mild of it would cause them pain that they just couldn’t handle. Whumper was well aware of this.
Any food that they were given was spicy. Most days, Whumper was generous, and only gave them something mild, which still caused Whumpee quite the stir. Other days, when Whumpee had upset them, they would be served something that even seasoned spice lovers may find challenging.
Either Whumpee ate it and dealt with the pain, or they didn’t eat at all. Their eyes would water, their tongue would burn, and they would find it hard to breathe. It was quite entertaining for Whumper. Torture and a show, what’s better than that?
Tags: alcohol/drunkenness, fever, sickfic, delirious whumpee, injury/scar reveal, slut shaming, caretaking (yes for real), implied past noncon // Words: 3.4k
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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.
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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.
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Part 2 of this is already written! I’ll probably post it tomorrow..
Worthless Pirate AU - A Well-Deserved Break: Part 1
Masterlist
Important note: This story is not in chronological order. This chapter takes place before the rescue
Content: forced intox, choking, slavery whump, dehumanization, degradation, reference to past noncon
If I missed any content warnings, please let me know!
-
Exhaustion settled deep in Elliot's bones as he curled up on the moldy floor of his damp cell. He used to endlessly complain about his long shifts at the tavern, the hours spent on his aching feet, the disgusting comments about his body from his patrons, the stale stench of alcohol.
He'd give anything to go back to that now.
The ship's crew was horribly cruel to him. He was nothing in their eyes, no greater than a bilge rat or any other inferior rodent. Except, he was more fun to play with because he could cry and scream and beg. He could make pretty, pathetic sounds for them. He could serve them, in more ways than one. But he still wasn't human in their eyes. He never would be.
Elliot forced those thoughts from his mind as he rested his head against the wooden ground and listened to the sounds of the ocean lapping against the side of the ship. He closed his eyes, willing every aching muscle in his small body to relax, but the sound of pounding footsteps and drunken laughter overhead kept him constantly on edge. He just wanted to sleep. He'd been granted the mercy of a night in the brig, as opposed to the captain's bed or the crew's cabin. He wanted to take full advantage of it.
Just as Elliot's mind and body finally began to drift off, the door to the brig was slammed open. Elliot yelped and shot up, suddenly wide awake and shaking. A crewmate, whom Elliot wished he didn't recognize, stood in the doorway, staring at him hungrily. Elliot knew that look. He dreaded that look.
The captain referred the man by the name Reynolds. Whether that was his real name, Elliot didn't know, but what he did know personally was the man's cruelty. He found joy in Elliot's suffering, as did most of the crew, but few others sought out the slave for the sole purpose of watching him bleed.
Reynolds slowly sauntered over to his prisoner's cell and leaned against the bars, a mischievous grin on his face. Elliot's heart sank. “The captain requires your presence on deck, slave,” Reynolds said. The emphasis the man placed on the final word made Elliot flinch a little and tears well in his eyes. The crew never failed to come up with degrading, dehumanizing things to call him. Slave, rat, slut, whore, toy. But not his name. Never his name.
He used to waste so much time trying to remind them of his name, to convince them that he was a person. But he'd long since given up on that fruitless endeavor. He'd never be a person again. That title was stripped from him the moment the captain had laid eyes on him. There was no escaping what he was. He wasn't a person. He was a slave, an object, property. He was worthless.
Tears welled in Elliot's eyes. He was so, so tired. “But-But, Sir, I-I finished all my ch-chores. I did e-everything I was asked. M-Master p-promised me a b-break.”
Reynolds shrugged. “Guess he changed his mind.” He reached for the key to Elliot's cell and began clumsily fiddling with the lock.
Elliot scrambled backwards as far as he could at the sound of the door's squeaking hinges. Tears rolled down his face. “P-Please, Sir. I-I'm begging you. I can't—I can’t—”
“Shut up, slave!” Reynolds shouted as he easily grabbed Elliot by his bicep and wrenched the boy to his feet. The pirate's grimy fingers snatched Elliot's bruised jaw and steered him to face his superior. “You're not getting fucked tonight, you stupid whore.”
Relief flooded Elliot's system, quickly followed by a new, deeper sense of dread. “Then-Then what does the captain w-want with me?”
The irritation on the man’s face morphed into an ugly, menacing smile and Elliot's heart stopped. “Guess we'll see when we get up there, eh?” Reynolds chuckled and it sent icy tendrils crawling down Elliot's scarred back. “Now, walk.” The man shoved him and Elliot nearly tripped over the heavy shackles around both of his ankles. He had a matching set clamped tightly around his wrists, which used to be his only permanent restraints. However, the ankle chains were added shortly after the…incident, as the captain liked to call it. Also known as Elliot's one and only escape attempt.
Elliot was shoved forward again. “Hurry up, slave!” Reynolds shouted. “Ain't got all night!”
Elliot whimpered, trying and failing to pick up his pace. “I-I'm going as-as fast as I c-can, Sir. My-My chains—”
Reynolds groaned and rolled his eyes. “For the love.” He grabbed hold of Elliot's long braid and wrapped it once around his fist, creating a makeshift leash that he then used to drag the boy onto the upper deck. Elliot yelped, his neck straining to the side. Tears burned his eyes, which only made keeping up with the man that much harder.
When Reynolds had said the captain had called upon his slave, Elliot had assumed he'd be taken to the captain's quarters. His stomach dropped when he finally opened his eyes long enough to see the crew huddled around each other in various positions on the deck, holding tankards of ale and laughing haughtily.
Elliot squeaked. “S-Sir, p-please—”
“Quiet, boy!” Reynolds commanded, just before throwing Elliot to the ground in the center of the circle.
Elliot landed on his hands and knees with a quiet thump, his chains rattling as they clanged against the wooden deck. He held his breath.
A pair of worn boots entered Elliot's field of vision and Elliot recognized them instantly. His tongue would never forget the taste of those boots. Elliot hesitantly lifted his eyes to meet the captain's, the curtain of his overgrown bangs hopefully hiding the tears in his eyes.
Don't make a scene. That'll only excite them. Let them do what they wanna do and maybe they'll let me rest.
The captain smiled. It wasn't a cruel smile, like the one Reynolds wore. It was something akin to triumph or pride. Elliot lowered his head again, willing his tears to subside.
Whatever you're gonna do to me, please just get it over with.
“There's my pretty treasure,” the captain said. The handle of an overflowing tankard was clasped in his left hand, his right falling atop Elliot's sandy blond head. Elliot flinched at the touch, but if the captain noticed, he paid the reaction no mind. “Enjoy your break, pretty thing?”
Elliot's breath halted for a beat, eyes burning with unshed tears. “I-I've barely h-had my break, M-Master.”
“Oh?” The captain said, amusement weaving between his words. “So it wasn't good enough for you?”
Elliot squeaked and hunched his shoulders to appear smaller. “N-No, that-that's not what I meant, M-Master,” he insisted as he finally met his master’s deep black eyes. “It-It was l-lovely and-and I'm v-very g-grateful. You're-You're s-so good to me, M-Master. I-I just th-thought it would be l-longer.”
The captain chuckled. “It was supposed to be,” he admitted. “But the boys and I struck gold today, didn't we, men?” A cacophony of victorious whoops and hollers erupted from the waiting crew. Tankards were smashed together and droplets of ale dribbled onto the deck.
Elliot flinched again and instinctively raised his chained hands to protect his head. He didn't lower them again until the noise died down several seconds later. “Con-Congratulations, M-Master.”
“Thank you, treasure. Such a fruitful day warrants an equally spectacular celebration, don't you think?”
Elliot didn't know what to say. What did any of this have to do with him? What role in this so-called “celebration” was he doomed to play? “Y-Yes, Master.”
“Glad you agree,” the captain said as he looked past his kneeling slave. “Tie him up.”
Elliot gasped, but that's all he was able to do before his arms were seized and his shackles were unlocked. The crew twisted his arms roughly behind his back, despite the boy's compliance, and threw a coil of thick rope around his bruised wrists. Elliot whimpered. The angle at which the men held his arms strained his already sore shoulders. The ache was unbearable. Following the binding of his wrists, more rope was wrapped around his chest and upper arms, tightened to the point of restricting his breath.
Elliot wedged his lower lip between his teeth to hold back the ever-increasing urge to cry. What had he ever done to deserve being treated like this?
Finally, satisfied with the job they did, the crew released him and their hands fell away from his upper body. Elliot kept his head low to hide the slow trickle of tears that finally began to fall down his sullen face. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He didn't know what the captain planned to do with him, but the images his mind conjured made his whole body tremble.
A quiet, unintentional sob escaped his throat and he silently cursed his inability to hide his terror.
“Aw, are you crying, sweet thing?” The captain's hand softly grasped Elliot's chin and guided his face into view of the whole crew. “Oh, you poor thing. Don't be scared. We're going to take such good care of you.” The captain flashed a grin that did nothing to ease the fear swelling in Elliot's gut.
“Wh-What are you gonna d-do to me, M-Master?” The slave asked.
The captain chuckled and released his slave's chin. “Well, a celebration must include entertainment. Don't you agree?”
Elliot's breath caught in his throat. “But-But—”
“Here, I have an idea,” the captain interrupted. “How about something strong to calm your nerves. What say you?”
Elliot didn't understand until, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed several serpents pull out various bottles of alcohol. He saw rum, ale, grog, gin. His stomach churned at the sight of not only that, but the insidious looks on the crew's faces. He knew exactly what was about to happen to him and it made his tears fall harder. “M-Master, please. Please d-don’t. I-I'll be good. I'll be your entertainment. I'll do what-whatever you w-want! Please!”
The captain chuckled again. “Of course you will, treasure.” He ran a hand through his slave's choppy, unwashed hair. “You don't have a choice.”
“But, Mas—mmph!” the thin mouth of a bottle was shoved against the slave's lips as the contents flooded his tongue and dribbled down his chin. A strong hand gripped Elliot's cheeks before he could even think about turning his face away, although he tried. It was like fire licking the back of his throat, an agonizing sensation that he had no room to choke away. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't keep up with the steady stream of expensive liquor and his throat seized, refusing to swallow anymore. He coughed and spluttered, alcohol spraying down the front of his tattered, yellowing poet's blouse, as well as all over the crew members tormenting him.
“You stupid bitch!” One of them shouted, punctuating the statement with a swift backhand to Elliot's cheek. He released a pathetic yelp between his incessant coughs and gasps for sweet oxygen. Before the boy could fully catch his breath, a fist closed around his bruised throat, squeezing a tight gasp from his lungs. “That was pathetic! We all know you're better at swallowing than that!”
Elliot's face burned a humiliating shade of red. “I-I'm s-sorry, Sir,” he choked out. The man squeezed tighter and tiny black pinpricks began to close in around the edges of Elliot's vision.
“Enough, Decker,” the captain's bored voice interrupted. “Put the slave down. We're not done with it.”
The man called Decker growled but released his grip on Elliot's throat. “Aye, Captain,” he grumbled.
Elliot hung his head as the captain approached him again. “Look at this mess, treasure,” he tsked, shaking his head in disapproval as he gazed upon Elliot's stained blouse and dripping chin. He tilted Elliot's face up with a hand on his jaw. Elliot stared at him with eyes half-lidded, vision starting to swim. The captain laughed. “Oh, don't tell me you're feeling it already, sweet boy. That was only half the bottle! You've got so much more to get through.”
Elliot squeaked. “P-Please, Master. N-No more. I-I can't—”
“Shh,” the captain said. “Don't speak, treasure. Save your energy. You've got a long night ahead of you.”
-
I hope you enjoyed this!! Part 2 is already written, I just have to go through and tweak some stuff so I don't hate it so much😅
If you have any requests for this au, feel free to send them to me!
OKAY. After fighting for my FUCKING LIFE here is the first part with Warren and Aster <3 We kinda just get right into it haha
CW: NSFW, NONCON, implied past noncon, kidnapping, intimate whumper, stalking
***
Aster looked around the room he’d woken up in, his eyes wide. It was like his own bedroom, back in the apartment he shared with his cousin and his roommate, but at the same time… not.
The bed he’d woken up on was bigger than his own, but the sheets and blankets were similar earthy shades of brown and green, even the plushies and soft leaf shaped throw pillows were identical to the ones on his own bed. There was a nightstand beside him, with a lamp just like the one on his nightstand at home, with the flower shaped lampshade he loved so much. Above him where dragonfly shaped string lights, which also hung above his bed at home, and on the wall was the same fabric scroll that hung next to his own bed, with detailed pictures of flowers, each clearly labeled.
“What in the fuck…” He murmured, his heart racing. He tried to get up and explore the rest of the basement, there was a small couch and a tv against the other wall, and another door opened to a bathroom, but before he could even get all the way off the bed something caught his ankle abruptly and sent him tumbling to the floor, he landed awkwardly, half off and half still on the bed. He twisted around to see a metal cuff secured around his ankle, a short chain locked to the bed frame so he couldn’t go far. It was a struggle, but he managed to get himself back on the bed, taking a closer look at the cuff only to find it was locked with a padlock, there was no way he was getting it off himself.
He anxiously looked around, trying to make sense of the situation. He remembered walking home from work in the rain, he remembered feeling anxious, feeling like he was being watched, and then… he remembered Warren. One of his professors, Warren Calloway, a nice man he’d always felt comfortable around. He remembered Warren offering him a ride, insisting it was unsafe to walk alone, only to take him somewhere secluded, drag him back to the car when he tried to run, and drug him so he fell unconscious. Warren had done this to him, judging by the look of things, Warren had been planning this for some time, and now, he would have to wait on him if he wanted any answers. As badly as he wanted to know what was going on, he also dreaded seeing that man again.
He tried to think of another way out, he pulled open the drawer in the nightstand hoping to find something he could attempt to pick the lock or break the chain with, but he wasn’t that lucky. All he found were condoms, lube, and a pair of handcuffs. His stomach turned, any hope he had of this being something other than the worst case scenario was shattered instantly. He was all the more desperate to escape, he started inspecting the cuff again, looking for a weak point in the chain, anything. His hands were shaking, his heart pounding, he was so focused on finding a way out that when the door across the room finally opened, it startled him. He gasped, his head shot up to see Warren, walking casually into the room.
“I’m glad to see you’re awake.” He said it like this was… nothing. Like there was nothing odd about the situation, as if he’d just let Aster crash on his couch after a rough night. He was calm, friendly even, nothing like the cold, scary man Aster had seen before he’d passed out. This just scared him even more.
“W-Warren…?” He stammered, looking around anxiously. “What- what is all this?”
“Do you like it?” Warren asked, he sat down on the edge of the bed, which prompted Aster to push himself further into the corner. “I tried my best to get it as close as possible to your bedroom, I wanted you to feel at home.”
“Like it?” Aster asked, his eyebrows raised. “What are you- what do you mean like it?!” He cried, hugging one of the leaf shaped pillows close to his chest. “How did you even do this- have you been in my fucking room?!”
“Of course not.” Warren said, he was giving Aster a look as if he were odd for even thinking that. He took his phone from his pocket, Aster watched as he swiped across the screen before showing him one of his own social media accounts, the last post he’d made was yesterday, showing off his outfit in the mirror. In the background, his bed was clearly visible, as were the lamp on his nightstand, and the dragonfly lights above his bed. He knew very well that he had even more pictures up that would’ve shown more angles of his room. “You share quite a bit online. I was able to piece it all together from your posts alone.”
“How… How long have you been planning this…?” He asked, his voice wavering, and Warren smiled at him, kind, affectionate even, and very unnerving in these circumstances.
“Since the first time I laid eyes on you.” He said, setting his phone down on the nightstand. Aster felt a chill run up his spine. “Back in September, the first time I saw you in my class, I knew I had to have you to myself.” He moved closer to him, and again Aster tried to push himself back, but he was already as far into the corner as he could get. “You were so beautiful, and then when I saw you again at the start of this semester, I knew you must’ve felt the same way.” At this point he had Aster trapped against the wall, Aster flinched when he raised his hand but he only placed it against his face, his thumb caressing his cheek.
“I didn’t!” Aster cried, his heart racing. “I just- I just needed the fucking class, and I thought you were a nice professor, not- not a goddamn freak!” He swore he saw the corner of Warren’s mouth twitch, that smile threatening to fall.
“That’s fine.” He said calmly. “You can learn. You’ve always been so smart.” He brushed his hair back from his face, and then he leaned in and kissed him. Despite everything in his body telling him to push him away, to bite him, to fight back, Aster simply… froze.
Oh god. Oh god no. This can’t be happening. Not again, please, dear god not again, He silently begged, tears welling up in his eyes. He was too scared too move, too scared of what might happen to him if Warren thought he was resisting, all he could do was sit there and let him kiss him, clutching that pillow to his chest still, the only thing providing him some small sense of comfort in this moment. And even that couldn’t last very long, as Warren pulled back, he pried the pillow from Aster’s hands and tossed it aside.
“Now baby, I don’t want to hurt you…” He said, resting his hand on Aster’s thigh.
“You already hurt me.” He said, his voice shaking. Warren ignored him.
“So I need you to behave for me. It’ll feel good for you too, I promise.” He said, he pulled Aster by the hips so he was laying down, staring up at him in horror.
“Warren- Warren, please, please no…” His voice cracked, he didn’t even care, he was terrified.
“It’s alright, I’m going to take good care of you.” Warren said, he undid the button on his pants, in a panic Aster tried to push his hands away and Warren sighed. He straddled his legs to hold him down and reached for the drawer in the nightstand, Aster’s heart sank. He’d forgotten about the handcuffs.
“Wait- wait please!” He cried as Warren took them out, locking one around one wrist. “Please, I- I’ll have sex with you! I’ll do it, I’ll have sex with you, just please- please don’t restrain me! I swear it, I’ll do- I’ll do whatever you want me to if you jus-just let me go home after.” He begged, and Warren smiled at him, his head tilted slightly, like he’d just said something adorable and amusing.
“Oh, sweetheart. You are home.” He told him, and Aster sobbed. He pulled the chain through the bars of the headboard and then locked the cuff around his other wrist, having to wrestle his arm above his head as Aster desperately tried to push him away. He still yanked against the handcuffs, the metal bit into his skin, he didn’t care, he just wanted out.
“Let me go!” He cried, pulling as if he could somehow break the chain, twisting and thrashing beneath Warren in an attempt to buck him off.
“Hey- hey, look at me,” Warren said, he’d placed his hand on his cheek again, “You need to relax, you’re going to be alright. Take a deep breath now-“
“No!” Aster screamed, he didn’t want to hear a word he had to say, he just wanted this to stop. Warren had run out of patience with him, he drew back and slapped him across the face, doing so a second time when Aster didn’t stop wailing. He roughly grabbed him by the face and leaned down so they were close, his eyes narrowed.
*”Listen to me,”* He warned, “I can make this nice for you, or I can make it very, very painful. I’m sure you know which one you’d prefer, so stop throwing a fucking fit and be good.” He growled. Aster whimpered, his jaw clenched as he struggled to hold back his sobs, and he reluctantly nodded.
Tears continued to stream down his face while Warren got off his legs, only so he could unzip his pants, pulling his pants and boxers off him. Of course they caught on the chain, but that ultimately didn’t matter, they were no longer an obstacle to Warren. He did the same with his shirt, pushing it over his head and arms until it caught at his wrists, leaving him completely exposed. Aster had to squeeze his eyes shut, he couldn’t stand to look at Warren’s face, he was looking over his body hungrily, Aster wasn’t entirely sure if he was about to fuck him or about to take a bite out of him like an animal.
Warren forced his legs apart, though Aster resisted at first, he was scared of what Warren would do if he kept fighting. He choked back a sob when he felt Warren’s hands between his legs, he wasn’t being rough or particularly forceful, just… exploring. It was as if he was learning every inch of his body, fingers teasing over his entrance, brushing over his dick with a featherlight touch and causing him to squirm, whimpering uncomfortably.
“Warren… please stop…” He whined, though he knew it was useless. “I-I don’t want this…”
“Shhh, just relax.” He said softly, focusing more on his cock, rubbing gentle, slow circles that made him nauseous, even as heat pooled in his stomach. He felt like he didn’t have control of his own body, his cock twitched, his hips moved, searching for more stimulation as Warren made slow work of this, which only encouraged the man. “See- baby, you’re wet already. Of course you want this, you just need to let yourself enjoy it.”
Not again. This can’t be happening again, He felt like he was dreaming, this had to just be a nightmare. He had plenty of nightmares after the first time, he still did, surely this was just another thing his brain had conjured up to torment him with. He’d wake up soon, in his bed, his actual bed, in his cousin’s apartment, his roommate on the other side of the wall.
He kept praying he’d wake up.
He cried out when Warren slipped a finger inside him, he moved slowly, like he was trying not to overwhelm him, but it didn’t make this any better, nothing could. Aster tried to close his legs again so Warren used his other hand to hold his leg down, situating himself in between them.
“Just relax baby, I don’t want to have to tie your legs down too.” He warned him, though Aster could only keep crying in response. It didn’t hurt, but it was unwanted all the same, uncomfortable and intrusive and completely impossible to ignore. After spending some time getting him used to the intrusion, he added a second finger, Aster squirmed in his handcuffs, his head thrown back in discomfort.
“Warren, please.” He begged, tears streaming down his face, soaking the pillow beneath his head.
“I know, I know, you need more.” He said, pumping his fingers in and out, in and out, Aster felt he’d be sick.
“N-no, no, stop!” He cried, his voice pitched up, the sound be made completely contradicting what he said- in Warren’s mind, anyway.
“I can’t do that, not when you’re moaning so pretty for me.” He teased, and Aster groaned in frustration. Warren heard it differently, of course. “See, I told you it would feel good. Just let yourself relax.” He coaxed him, but it wasn’t working, his body was tense with fear and discomfort, his hands balled up into fists above his head, his body trembling as he resisted every urge he had to fight against the man. “What’s the matter, is this your first time?” He asked him, and Aster frantically shook his head.
“No, Warren- I’m scared!” He cried, searching for some mercy, some sympathy that would never come.
“You don’t need to be scared, I’m not going to hurt you.” He told him again.
You are hurting me. You’re hurting me right now. Please, just let me wake up. I don’t want to be here, let me wake up already.
Warren took his time fingering him, Aster whined and moaned when he rubbed his dick while his fingers were still inside him, as much as he hated it, his body reacted anyway. His face was flushed, he was burning up even in the cold basement air. Warren was still talking to him, but he did his best to tune it out. He shuddered when Warren finally pulled his hand away, taking a deep, shaky breath to try and calm himself down, but of course, it wasn’t over. Warren shifted, he heard the sound of a belt buckle being undone, a zipper pulled down, he bit his lip, his body trembling as he cried.
“Come on pretty boy, open your eyes now.” He told him, holding Aster by the hip to position him the way he wanted. Aster shook his head, he didn’t want to have to see it happen, as long as his eyes were closed he could continue to believe it was all just a bad dream. Warren dug his nails into his skin, and when Aster only squirmed in discomfort he was grabbed by the face, Warren tightly gripping his jaw. “I said open your fucking eyes.” He ordered, and finally, reluctantly, Aster’s teary eyes fluttered open, looking at Warren’s own flushed face. He still had that look on his face, looking at Aster like he wanted to devour him. “That’s better. Keep them open, okay?”
“Please don’t…” He whimpered, a final, weak attempt that he knew wouldn’t get him anywhere. Warren was partially undressed now, he had his cock in his hand. He was already hard, Aster couldn’t keep watching but he was also scared of angering Warren so instead he looked away, up at the ceiling. His breath hitched as Warren pushed inside him, again slow, giving him time to adjust, but no amount of “care” could change what was happening here, what Warren was doing to him. He cried with the first full thrust, and Warren swore under his breath, every sound Aster made only spurred him on. He held his hips tight enough to bruise, Aster could feel him watching him, studying his face. He didn’t know if he was giving him what he wanted, if he was reacting the way he was “meant” to, he didn’t care, he just continued to stare up at the ceiling, at the dragonfly lights, tears rolling down his face.
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 :>
content: pet whump (bbu/institutionalized slavery), cigarette burns, forced self harm, a ssssnake
𓆙𓆙𓆙 THREE YEARS AGO...
“God, this is terrible for me,” Ginny muttered, wrapping her lips around the filter. The end glowed, a burning ember, as she accepted the smoke into her lungs. It poured from her mouth when she said: “First cigarette in years.”
The next few minutes passed— except for the sweet sound of rustling leaves— in silence, her dark eyes squinting into the sun setting behind the trees. She seemed placid today— though Ginny’s stillness was, of course, no guarantee of safety. Perhaps it would be peaceful, sitting side-by-side with her as they listened to the sounds of the forest in her backyard, if not for the unrelenting anxiety that she was merely preparing to strike.
He could not see the whole of her face— only her profile, the sharp edge of her straight nose and her puckered lips as she took another drag, cheeks hollowing. She wore lipstick, sometimes, but today they were bare and cracked. “Never stopped craving it, to tell you the truth,” she said. “Hits the fuckin’ spot.”
Then, sharp elbow supported on her lawn chair, she extended an expectant hand. Not even bothering to look at him. Her iris, normally tar-black, was shining deep like syrup in the golden light.
“Arm,” she said.
The pet had a feeling he knew what she wanted to do with it. Still, he did not hesitate. He did not even consider it. His pale arm bridged the gap between their chairs, wrist slotting into her long-fingered hand.
“Special occasion?” he asked, perhaps boldly.
She frowned, lines pulling around her mouth. Her fingers, tipped with peeling nail polish, clenched around his wrist. “Watch yourself,” she said. “I’ll put this out on your tongue.”
He shut his jaw tight, knowing it wasn’t an empty threat. Despite this, something about the wafting smell of smoke and sweep of wind through the trees ignited within him some sense of nostalgia, the origin of which he could not place. It was almost comforting, at odds with the impending dread pressing against his gut and the sharp nails digging into his flesh. (Still, what a welcome relief this was from the stale cellar. The breeze might be worth the price.)
He thought he might be able to feel his bones creak under her vice grip. He did not watch— eyes towards the bright fireball beyond the sticks— as she pressed the smoldering cherry to the sensitive skin of his wrist, nestled in the crease where his arm met his palm.
He couldn’t help his flinch and whimper at the burn, which only made her hand tense like a constricting snake. As she lifted the ember, his eyes flicked over against his will— left behind was an angry red circle, stark over the shadows of his veins.
Ginny was smiling. “You always sound so pathetic,” she teased, flicking the stubbed cigarette to the ground. She pressed it down into the dirt with the sole of her flip-flop. It flattened to the earth, crumpled and spent. Only halfway smoked. She hadn’t even savored the whole thing.
His wrist hovered in place even once she released it to reach for the pack. The angry burn stung brighter as she slipped another cigarette out, pinching it delicately and placing it between her lips. Flame danced under the end when she flicked her lighter, thumb running over the gear.
She exhaled and glanced at his exposed arm. “Put your fuckin’ hand down,” she said. He returned it to his lap, face up, as not to disturb it. The burn was sensitive even to the breeze.
They sat in silence for some time as the sun dipped lower. It inched so minutely that he didn’t even recognize its shift until it was already kissing the horizon, sky aflame. By the time the world was dark, Ginny was on her fourth cigarette and the pet was sporting two new simmering burns.
Three resounding knocks shot through the house, sharp enough that they traveled all the way from the front door to the backyard where they sat. Then came the tinny chime of the doorbell, inappropriately cheerful. Ginny twisted around in her chair, squinting through the glass door. “Who the fuck…?” she muttered.
She stood and slipped into the house without casting the pet a second glance, smoke trailing close behind. For some reason, he found himself worrying that the smell might seep into the carpet. She should open a window, he thought, and lean over the windowsill so she could keep it outside, teetering halfway between two worlds. Then the scent might not linger for someone else to recognize. Then he caught himself— it didn’t matter. He wondered why he’d even had the thought at all.
He was content to stare into the void between the trees and listen to the symphony of crickets until he startled at something brushing against his ankle. He lifted his foot up— bare and filthy, as Ginny did not care to give him shoes— and looked for movement. He did not notice any, and the dim light affixed to the wall of the house did not afford him enough light to see. Probably just a cricket or a spider. He cautiously put his foot back down, toes in the grass, hoping it wouldn’t bite him.
Voices floated through the crack in the door as Ginny spoke with whoever had come. Maybe it’s the police, he thought idly. They knocked like a cop. He wondered if they might have anything to say about the state he was in— fresh burns, old cuts and bruises, and all-around unkemptness. When he had been in training he'd imagined he would end up in the home of some richie-rich family— cooking, cleaning, maybe looking after children. Not whatever this was. Not Ginny.
“Not interested,” he caught, and then the firm slam of the door and click of the lock. His posture tightened at the slapping of Ginny’s sandals growing closer as she approached from behind. She sat heavily back in her chair. “Goddamn missionaries,” she said. “All the way out here. At this hour. Dedicated sum’bitches.” She pet at the wild frizz falling over her shoulder, idly tugging at a curl so it straightened and snapped back like elastic. “I wonder if they woulda recognized you. All you folk seem to know each other.” She took a drag of her cigarette, eyebrow raising. “Or are related…” she pondered. “It all seems very incestuous, doesn't it?”
“What?” he asked.
Her lip curled, grinning, though her eyes were mirthless when they fell on his face. The shadows cast by the light made the creases on her forehead especially pronounced. “I wish you remembered things, sometimes, but other times it's more fun that you don’t.”
He hated that she knew more about him than he knew about himself. He really, really hated it.
Black eyes drifted over him, her detached gaze landing by his feet. She revealed her teeth, smiling with more humor. “You aware there’s a snake by your foot?”
Fuck—! He could see its slither, now, and pulled his feet up so fast that one of his knees cracked against the arm of the chair. Pain shot through his shin like a bolt. Ginny snorted with laughter and tilted forward, contorting her body so that her shadow did not fall upon the snake and prevent her from getting a good look at it. It was skinny, striped in bands of yellow, black, and red.
“Is that a coral snake? What’s the rhyme…” Ginny thought for a moment. “Red on yella, friendly fella… red on black, you’re fucked, Jack. Ah, maybe it’s the other way around.” She sunk back into her chair. “Better not let it bite you either way,” she warned.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he muttered, crossing his ankles on the seat of his chair. His voice shook a little with the burst of adrenaline, heart still thumping too fast.
Ginny slipped out of her flip-flops and pulled her own feet up onto her seat, wrapping her arms around her knees. The cigarette still smoldered between two fingers, and a clump of ash fell off the end and landed in the dirt. The way she tilted her head made any reflection disappear from her eyes, dull. “You scared of snakes, Jack?”
He ran his palm over the goosebumps that broke out all down his leg, brushing over the pale hairs sticking out like the fur of a frightened animal. “A healthy amount,” he answered truthfully, even if she was just taunting him. For a moment he had forgotten about the burns on his arm, but they were back to their insistent stinging, impossible to ignore. He shuddered as he replayed in his mind the moment the snake caressed his ankle, himself none the wiser. He imagined what it might feel like for its fangs to sink into his tender heel, to feel the venom run through his veins. Maybe it wouldn’t be so different from the pinch of a needle in his arm.
The snake’s little tongue flicked out, raising its head to look at him with beady eyes. It's not gonna try and jump at me, is it? He glanced at Ginny and knew she would not care if he got bit. Her eyes were similarly cold-blooded.
They both watched as the snake set its chin back to the earth and slithered into a taller patch of grass, disappearing. The blades went still.
“Look at me,” Ginny said.
He obeyed.
Her claw-like hand squeezed his face, nails digging into his cheeks. He wanted to turn away, but could not bring himself to wrestle out of her grasp. She turned the cigarette over in her fingers so that the filter pointed towards him, aiming the cherry towards herself. She lifted it to his mouth, an inch away. He parted his lips without needing to be asked.
“Ever smoked before?”
He shook his head minutely, as much as her grip would allow.
“Inhale,” she told him.
At her command, he did. It burned terribly in his throat and nose. Ginny pulled both of her hands away as he coughed, somehow finding himself surprised as the smoke poured out of his mouth. He grimaced at the foul taste on his tongue, still hacking. When it ceased, and he looked at her through watering eyes, she just looked vaguely bored.
She held out the remaining half of the cigarette. “Finish this,” she said. “I don’t want it to go to waste.”
He grabbed it awkwardly with two fingers, eyeing it warily.
By the time it was burnt nearly to the filter, he wanted to throw up. Each inhale gave him this sort of light-headed rush, like a burst of cold air. He was dizzy even sitting down, and knew that if he tried to stand he would surely stumble and lose his balance.
Ginny did not care to watch him. She was merely staring into the trees. “I’m done,” the pet said, and she turned her head. There was no humor in her face— absent was the sense of sadistic pleasure she usually reveled in. Her eyes bored into him, iced over with something colder.
“Well?”
“What?”
She motioned minutely with her hand, eyes flicking to his arm, like it was obvious. “Put it out,” she said.
He stared down at his own wrist. With his other hand, the cigarette drew closer… and he hesitated. When he glanced up at Ginny, her eyebrows were raised ever-so-slightly, expectant. Dangerous. Go on.
He dropped his eyes. He should be punished for faltering. He selected his spot, a patch of white skin on the outer edge of his forearm, an inch away from another angry burn. The smoldering cherry hovered above the unmarred skin, trembling. He allowed himself a countdown, which he would not back out of. In his head: Three, two, one…
Clearing his mind of all resistance, he pressed it to his skin like an angry bite.
something i never see explored with caretaker or friend characters is what it's like to grow up surrounded by traumatised people, but have no trauma of your own. it feels like you're on the outside of this club that you can only get into by going through something Really Bad, even though the people inside the club are happy to welcome you anyway, you know you'll never actually fit in.
and fucked up as it sounds, you want to fit in. you want the awful things to happen to you. you feel envious of what they have, even if that thing is memories of the most awful things known to man and consequences that run your daily functioning into the ground.
you're not sick enough to relate to the sick people, but you've seen ever so slightly too much to fit in with the "normal" people. your problems seem so minimal compared to these life-altering horrors that the whumpees have been through, yet you're not coping anyway. so either you admit that the problem is yourself, or you find a reason to react that way.
give me caretakers that sit through whumpee's stories and swallow back envy. who actively go looking for danger and dodgy people in the hopes that they'll go through something that can put them on whumpee's level. who plan out how to make things worse in precise, structured detail, then get angry with themself because what the fuck are they doing and it doesn't count if it's fucking orchestrated.
content: pet whump (bbu/institutionalized slavery), medical stuff (g-tube), discussion of past infant death
~~~~~~
Mr. Oz had never been one to talk extensively about his family. Port figured, at first, it was just because he didn’t have much to speak of. But as he got to know him better, he realized it was because the topic as a whole carried with it plenty of baggage his master didn’t want to unpack— dirty laundry he didn’t care to air out.
The things Mr. Oz did share tended to disturb him. His father: dead and decomposing in a cemetary he never visited. His mother: dementia ridden and wasting away in a home he didn’t frequent. Extended family: status unknown, across the ocean in a country he wouldn’t return to.
Port learned to brace himself whenever Mr. Oz brought up his wife and kids. It started as wistfulness, sometimes, but it was like watching a train crash in slow motion every time. The faraway stare and standing tears in his eyes would give way to the shouting and rising color in his cheeks, like watching metal twist and mangle, smashing whatever was unfortunate enough to find itself on the tracks.
But somehow, the one thing that stuck with Port the most was the one thing Mr. Oz had shared like it didn’t matter to him at all.
“I’m an only child,” he’d said, in response to Port’s question. (This was back when, naïvely, he thought asking about family might be a good way to get to know him. He learned his lesson quick.) Mr. Oz rubbed at the stubble on his chin in a way that made Port think he was simply pondering over the next clue in his crossword puzzle. “I guess I wasn’t always,” he continued. “I had a sister, but she died a long time ago.”
Port was shocked into momentary silence. “I’m sorry,” he said, after a beat.
Mr. Oz lifted his eyes from the newspaper like he was surprised Port had even offered condolences. “I was young,” he said, shrugging. “I didn’t really get death, yet. This was before we even came to the United States.” His gaze roamed over the puzzle for a few seconds and he scribbled something in the margin. “She was a baby. Came and went so fast I could barely miss her.”
Something tugged at Port's heart. Was that supposed to be a comfort? Mr. Oz’s eyes remained on his paper, but they went out of focus, looking beyond it. “Hell… I haven’t thought about her in forever. She died of malnutrition. It's really messed up. Everyone blamed my mother.”
Port could not think of anything else to say other than: “That’s terrible.”
“It was only once I had kids of my own that I realized it was never her fault at all. My sister probably had, uh…” He clicked the end of his pen once, twice. “…this genetic disease. Cystic fibrosis. I don’t think they knew how to diagnose it at the time, let alone treat it.” His eyes darkened. “If I had known…” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have married Noshin if I had known.” He scratched at his nose, squinting at his paper. “Anyway... What does this even mean?" he muttered, tapping the point of the pen on it.
Port was still stuck on the image of his sister. He imagined holding a baby girl in his arms, running a hand over her soft fuzzy hair like a peach. Then he imagined her going limp and cold and...
“I’m sorry that happened,” Port said.
“Thanks,” Mr. Oz said dismissively. His gaze drifted away from the crossword, skipped up to Port. “Do you know—? Woah.” Discomfort crossed his features, a wrinkle between his brows. “Like I said, it was a long time ago. If I had known you’d be so affected, I wouldn’t have said anything.”
“Sorry, sir,” Port apologized, swiping hastily at his face. “I just think it’s sad.”
“It’s not your story. No need to cry over it, bud.”
~~~~~~
The carpet cleaner fizzled over the stain like rabid saliva, eating away at the remaining traces of spilled milk.
“Thanks,” Tal said.
“You’re welcome, sir,” Port replied as he wiped it up. This was in his comfort zone. He had no issue cleaning up after others, even if the movement made his body twinge and ache in the aftermath of the seizure.
“You, uh, don’t actually have to call me sir,” Tal said. When Port looked over to him, he was running his fingers through his dark hair, swiping all the way from his forehead to the base of his skull. It was floppy today, like he hadn’t slathered on a pound of hair gel. He was sitting on the far end of the couch, legs pulled up so his heels pressed into the cushion. “I think I’m over the novelty of it.”
“Okay,” Port said. Whatever his master wanted, he could adjust.
He stood and brought the spray bottle back to the cupboard under the kitchen sink. It occurred to him that the bowl of cereal had been mostly full— Tal hadn’t gotten the chance to eat much. When Port returned to him with a fresh bowl of cereal and spoon in hand, Tal’s eyebrows raised with something like surprise, pulling at the scar splitting one of them. He took the offerings silently.
“I can go back to my room,” Port said, not wanting to disturb his peace any further.
“Wait. You can sit with me, if you want.”
Port thought of Sonny, who must still be deep in sleep. He thought about how he did not want to face him when he woke up. “Okay," he agreed.
“Do you want cereal?”
A few minutes later, Port had himself situated on the other end of the sofa with his very own bowl of Froot Loops. In his peripheral, Tal’s brown eyes were flicking to him at regular intervals, carefully not moving his head. Port stiffly spooned the first bite of sugar into his mouth, feeling self-conscious of Tal watching him eat. He tried to chew as quietly and discreetly as possible, as if it made any difference. The sheer artificial sweetness was shocking his tastebuds. It was rough over his sensitive tongue, still swollen from how he had bitten it, and his jaw was sore.
Unsure of whether or not he should try to make conversation, he pretended to be interested in what was playing on the TV. He watched Daffy Duck get blown away with a shotgun, head disappearing into a puff of smoke. When the cartoon cloud dissipated, the duck was unharmed. Must be nice.
“I’m sorry about the other day,” Tal said, unprompted.
In a controlled manner, Port turned his stiff neck to look at him. Tal faced him in turn. His discomfort was well-concealed, but still visible in the slight furrow of his brow.
Port hated to be apologized to. There was only one thing he could say. “It’s okay, sir.” No, not sir. This isn't Mr. Oz. “Talha,” he corrected himself.
The boy looked away, sheepish. “Seriously, I just wasn’t thinking. I know it’s not okay to grab at people. I’m gonna apologize to Sonny, too, when he wakes up.”
“Thank you... it’s okay.” To their credit, neither of the siblings had yet laid a violent hand on them. But it would happen, sooner or later. Someone would lose their temper. And then...?
Port tried for a smile— All is forgiven, it said. Tal's face did not change. His eyes stuck on Port like he wanted to say something more, but he peeled his gaze away and turned back to the TV, to the flashing colors. He grabbed a pill bottle from the coffee table and unscrewed it in a smooth motion, shaking a couple capsules into his palm.
It didn’t feel right to leave the conversation off on that awkward note. “Do you need to take those every time you eat?” Port asked. He ought to learn dietary requirements, anyway.
“Pretty much,” Tal said, after dry swallowing the pills. He shook the bottle for emphasis and the little capsules rattled around inside like a maraca. “They’re enzymes. They help me digest food because my stupid pancreas no-workee.”
Port’s brow furrowed. “What happens if you don’t take them?”
“Bad shit.”
“Oh.”
“And I mean that literally. I could also starve to death, hypothetically, but it would take a while.” Tal seemed obvious to Port’s disturb as he scooped a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “Wanna see something cool?” he asked, still chewing.
“Sure,” Port said, with some apprehension. He watched in shock as Tal lifted his shirt to reveal his midriff. Above and to the left of his navel was a piece of plastic, like a snap, protruding from the plane of his stomach. The circle of skin surrounding it was maybe slightly rawer than it should be, but looked otherwise healthy.
Tal poked at it with his finger. “I call it my second belly button,” he said.
“Wow,” Port decided on, at loss of what else to say. He sort of wanted to avert his eyes, even if there wasn’t anything very disturbing about it. “What's it for?”
“It’s a g-tube, for nutrition. It goes straight into my stomach, though I haven’t been using it lately because I’m eating more. Through my mouth,” he specified.
Port wondered if Tal could pour cereal milk into it, but decided not to ask such a stupid question. “Is it for your, uh… cyst-ic…?” He could not remember the full name, though he suspected Tal might have the condition ever since he saw the pill bottles and various medical equipment around the house.
Tal’s eyebrows raised, and he dropped his shirt. “Cystic fibrosis?”
“Right, that’s it.”
“You’ve heard of it? Did Rida tell you?”
“Yes. I mean no. Um…” I shouldn't have even brought this up. “Mr. Oz— I mean— your father… he mentioned it,” Port muttered.
Tal’s eyes went a little wide, but his expression was otherwise blank, straight-mouthed. “He talked to you about me?” he asked, after a moment.
“Not really... It just came up once or twice.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Not really,” Port repeated, pinned under Tal’s round-eyed stare.
Another beat of silence, punctuated by the sound of an explosion coming from the TV. His next question hung in the air like he wasn't even sure if he wanted to speak it aloud: “What was he like?”
This was not a conversation Port wanted to be having this early in the morning. Or ever.
He must have hesitated for too long, because Tal cut him off right as he opened his mouth. “Never mind,” he said, dropping his eyes. He scraped at one of his cuticles with his thumbnail, face unreadable. “You don’t have to tell me.”
I always see the whump community hating on healing magic but GUYS
Everyone can survive more injuries. Go nuts.
Healing magic that exhausts the user, leading to an entire team of whumpees when the healer faints after saving their wounded friends.
Healers in pain tearing out pieces of their own life force to save the life of a friend.
Healing magic that works best with contact and close proximity: holding the whumpee’s hand, stroking their hair, forehead kisses, whumpees being held and cuddled…
Very sore and weak whumpees who just recovered from something too quickly.
Healing magic that hurts…
Healing magic that feels good and warm, soothing the whumpee’s consciousness away into a deep sleep in the healer’s arms.
Characters with a healing factor putting themselves between their friends and the threat, taking bullets for teammates because they can heal.
Characters with healing factors being tortured or cruelly experimented on.
Healing stasis: limp, broken, very unconscious whumpees behind glass or floating or laid out on an altar.
The whumpee coming out of stasis taking quite a while to fully regain consciousness.
Healers saving everyone else but passing out before they can heal themselves.
"Abuse is when a man seeks to break someone for his own pleasure," Whumper said. "Correction is when a man seeks to build someone up by teaching them where they stand. You're lashing out because you're being held to a standard, and you're too soft to meet it."
His hand on the nape of Whumpee's neck tightened not enough to hurt, but enough to command absolute attention. He leaned down, his face inches from Whumpee's, his eyes boring into theirs with a terrifying intensity.
"Don't you *ever* use that word again to cover up your own lack of discipline. It's an insult to people who have actually suffered."
It’s Enough To Make A Grown Man Whimper @whumpinator - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
