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whump-queen · 6 months ago

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Silver (Part 2)

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tags: forced intox, manhandling, “servant” whump but let’s be honest he’s basically a pet. words: 3k

✧ ─ ༻✦༺ ─ ✧

Seven stumbled through the crowd, making his way towards the white cabinets of the adjoined kitchen. The penthouse was precariously dark for how crowded it felt tonight. The sun had set and all that shone through the ceiling-high glass was the glimmering lights of the city. Of tiny people in distant windows. They danced and flickered like highway beams across Seven’s wavering vision.

He braced himself against the glass-paned wall, a handprint he would be cleaning up in the morning, along with the rest of the night’s inevitable damage. He felt his mind buzzing, he placed his other palm against the cool glass, and for a moment, he let himself forget it all.

The ceiling was all that stood between him and an endless sky of blinking lights and stars. There was a vastness about the view beyond that both captivated and terrified him. Skyscrapers surrounded him on all sides, towering to the starry heavens—a gateway that could suck him right up at any moment and send him floating, boundless, through the black night.

He blinked, snapping his gaze from the windowed walls to focus instead on the purple glow of the tacky LED strips Wes had stuck up on the crown molding. Wes was living proof that money couldn’t buy you good taste. He had a gorgeous place on his father’s dime and squandered it with cheesy, bachelor-esque decor. No, if you asked Seven, the penthouse would be much better suited with a simple, elegant aesthetic. But nobody ever did, in fact, ask Seven.

He let his mind wander back to the immaculate halls of the family estate. He wouldn’t say he missed it, rather, it was no better than his current circumstance, but he couldn’t help but feel as though his talents had been better suited there.

At least his Mistress shared his proclivity for cleanliness, and he felt his efforts were more…appreciated. That felt like a strange word to assign to someone like her, but he found himself sick of Wes and his particular brand of chaos. Of constantly cleaning things up after he’d only just tidied them. Of his drunk friends constantly throwing things, knocking things over, and getting sick in less than opportune locations. But most of all, he was sick of never getting a moment of space. Gone were any quiet afternoons spent cleaning the mansion, polishing silver or waxing wooden floors. He could at least let his mind wander, back then. Sometimes his Mistress would even let him out onto the grounds. Sometimes it was bearable, when she wasn’t busy tormenting him.

But there was no yard in this penthouse. Only stacked compartments that soared high into the atmosphere. He’d only ridden the elevator once, on the day he and Wes had moved in. To see so much of the city and never be able to touch it—he felt like a little bird in a high tower, its wings clipped by its captors. Kept in a tiny cage, enveloped in tiny, glimmering lights.

He was suddenly hyper aware of the bracelet around his ankle. The unwelcome feeling of its strap pressing against his skin. An ugly, black, clunky thing. It hadn’t come off since that first day.

He was thinking too much for the amount of tequila he’d ingested, and was rudely reminded of that when his throat clenched up and he realized he’d meant to get water several minutes ago. He turned and blinked again, jostling his twirling stream of consciousness, yet he hadn’t so much as another moment to himself as he was nearly toppled into by a drunk girl with red hair. Brie, some part of him remembered. She was a regular.

She said something to him. He couldn’t make it out over the blasting music. She was holding something.

Make that two things.

She offered him a hand. A blue Jello-shot.

He shook his head, a slightly slurred “Am’good.”

She stepped in closer, sliding her free hand up his chest, “Yeah? I can see that, pretty boy. But we’re just getting started with you.”

Her voice rang clear this time, and Seven felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He just wished they would all leave him alone. What on earth would she make him do this time?

“Please, come on, Brie, I just need some water, I–”

“And I just want you to take a shot with me!” She smiled cheerfully, as if he would have any choice in the matter.

“Now, you can be a good boy and we’ll do it together. It’ll be fun! Or, we can do this the hard way, and I can have the boys hold you down again.”

The memory of being grabbed and harshly shoved to his knees, his arms wrenched behind him and his hair pulled up, of being force-fed liquor like a pathetic dog—

Fuck—he was gonna gag again.

He knew he couldn’t get out of this, but maybe he could stall and buy himself some time to metabolize the tequila Wes had made him drink earlier.

“Please! I swear I just need a minute, I just—”

“Yeah, isn't that a shame? Cuz I want to do it now.”

She turned and called out into the crowd, her red curls bouncing as she moved. And like a supervillain summoning two goons, a pair of hulking jocks seemingly materialized behind her.

Seven froze, two pairs of eyes locking onto his like predators eyeing their next meal. Seven couldn’t even remember their names. Didn’t want to. The tall one with the curly hair and the slightly less-tall one with that awful sneer—they never missed a chance to rough Seven up.

Just like that, they were on him. The tall one kicked out his right knee while the other twisted a hand in his hair and yanked his head down. There was a burst of white light when he hit the floor face-first, hot wetness splattering under the clash of his temple against the tile.

Fuck. Fuckk. It was all white for a moment. Then Seven couldn’t see. Couldn’t feel his entire body. He felt weightless all of a sudden, he’d forgotten where he was, he was hurling through a vortex, somewhere far away, far from this penthouse and the music and the booze. It was a heavy, dull pulsating that stirred him back to whatever half-lucid dream this was. He was lying on something. A hard surface. Fuckk. Where was he?

“Where am I…” his lips moved. No one heard him.

Then the pounding in his temple began to slowly morph when the bass of the music faded back in, thumping against the inside of his skull like an alarm he just wanted to sleep through.

He groaned, and he was reminded, slowly, that this was indeed music, that he was lying on a hard surface and that his head fucking hurt.

He was coming back to himself by the second now and dreaded his position, the memory of reality. To be painfully and blissfully whisked away, if only for a moment—reality hit him harder than the tile flooring.

He was just grateful he’d had the reflex to turn his head. He’d been slammed into the floor enough times to know that failing to do so meant a broken nose.

He was still reeling from the blow when he felt his wrists grabbed. He knew what came next. He tried to struggle against the hands, but he still couldn’t see straight and fuck he was so dizzy everything was whirring too fast. Arms double the size of his own yanked him up into a kneeling position. He felt hands pressing his wrists together, another hand was in his hair, yanking his head back and forcing his spine to arch painfully.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Just do it already, he thought, hoping she’d be finished with him if he just took the shot and left it at that. He should have just taken it the first time. God dammit.

He cried out and his head snapped to the side. Brie had slapped him.

“Pay attention!” She was excited. Smiling in that cheerful beautiful way that would make anyone shocked at the cruelty she was capable of.

She leaned in, sliding her hand down the side of Seven’s reddening cheek, his jawline—he bristled when she reached his collarbone, his sternum, until she was fiddling with the button on his shirt, flicking it until it came free. Seven felt a whine of embarrassment leave his throat, thankfully deafened by the music.

She flicked open a second button and Seven thrashed against the hands that held him, twisting this way and that, giving all his strength for a brief few moments of valiant effort before he felt the back of Brie’s rings cut across his other cheek. He had no time to recover—she grabbed his face and dug her pink nails into the sides of his cheeks, forcing his mouth open. She held the shot up, and he shuddered with the taste of what he knew was coming.

“Now, I was gonna let you use a spoon, but since you decided to be a bitch about it, you can lick it out with your tongue.”

Seven whimpered. Fuck, he was really going to have to do this.

“Go on. You can either eat it from my hands, or off the floor like a dog. Your choice.”

As if there was ever a choice.

Seven complied, scooping the blue jello from the cup with his tongue, and swallowing obediently. It was the only way out. He just prayed she’d be satisfied and leave him alone so he could slink off into a corner somewhere where no one would find him for the rest of the night.

Brie laughed, delighted. She ruffled his hair with her manicured hand. “Good boy!” she exclaimed. As though he really were a dog performing some kind of trick.

He supposed that his obedience was the trick. He was the trick. The dog. Even his title was a farce. Servant. Like his cleaning ever did this place any good. They all treated it like a trap house, anyway.

His stomach was in knots. At least he had done it. He thrashed against the men that still held him.

“Aren't you gonna—” his tone slipped. He caught himself. Be respectful. Plead.

“Please, Brie, jus’ lemme go.” His head was pounding, still bleeding from being slammed against the floor. Everything hurt. As he said it, he realized he might just topple over if they were to release him now.

“Hmm..” Brie posed her hand against her chin, in mocking consideration.

“No, I don’t think I will.”

She smiled, “I’ve remembered how much I like you this way. You’re just so cute!” She ruffled his hair again. He twisted his head to the side, trying to avoid her hand. That earned him another slap. Harder than the others. Seven seemed to have run out of chances.

“Mikey!” She exclaimed to the goon on the left, “Tie him up!”

The hulking man chuckled. “Looks like he hasn't had enough yet.”

The goon, Mikey, released Seven’s left arm, only for the other man to grab it immediately, twisting both arms behind his back and pressing him down to the floor. Seven didn’t struggle this time, fears of a broken nose or worse running through his mind as his face was rubbed into the smear of his own blood. He let it happen.

There was a knee on his back, pressing him hard against the tile. He felt a thick leather strap encircle his wrists, cinching tightly before the hands released his arms and tangled back in his hair, yanking his head up until he was kneeling again. He tested the leather, pulling to see if it would give, but it seemed he’d been successfully restrained with no more than a leather belt.

“Aww, come on Seven, that was nothing! Surely you can take more than that.”

By this point, they were really starting to draw a crowd. Dark figures gathered around him, laughing and swirling, their faces shrouded into dark silhouettes.

“Please,” he begged, “W-water…”

No one heard him.

“I've got somethin for him!” one guy shouted, approaching through the crowd with what looked to be a jar in his hands.

“Ooo lemme see!” Brie turned, thrilled, “No way. You got Moonshine Maraschinos? Where did you even find these?”

Seven paused his struggling, confused. He hadn’t heard of that before. He imagined it would be painful, whatever it was.

“My buddy makes ‘em himself,” the man declared proudly, no doubt invigorated by Brie’s approval. “Best moonshine around. Won’t find nothing stronger than these.” He tapped the lid of the jar.

“Well? Chop chop!!” She clapped her hands at him impatiently. “I’m not opening that thing myself.”

When the lid was open, Brie reached in and withdrew her hand, her pink fingertips clasped around the stem of a single red cherry. She turned to Seven, leaning down and dangling it in front of his face.

Seven twisted and scrambled away, “No! Wait, please I jus’ need—” He made it a few feet before one of Brie’s goons caught him by the hair. He let out a yelp as he was dragged backwards, and thrown back down at her feet. His knees cracked against the tile again and he knew they would be beyond bruised by morning.

“Oh Sevennn,” Brie sang from above him, “Did you think I was finished with you? That it would be that easy? I haven’t even told you what they are yet! Don’t you wanna know?”

Held tightly in place by the goons, Seven said nothing, indignant and content to stare her down until she did the inevitable.

She let out a big, dramatic breath. “Since you didn't ask, I might as well tell you. These are maraschino cherries, sugar cherries. Soaked in moonshine. You’ve heard of moonshine, haven’t you?”

He grit his teeth and scowled. Her tone was beyond patronizing, but he had not, in fact, heard of moonshine.

“No,” was all he said.

“Don’t worry, you’ll feel it soon enough.”

Before he could react, her hand was on his face again, pinching his cheeks until his mouth opened. She dangled the cherry over his parted lips. He could still see her smiling over him. Fuck—why did she have to drag this out?

She lowered the cherry into his mouth, and he took it obediently. He swallowed and immediately gagged when she released his face. It tasted awful. Like someone had soaked a cherry in rubbing alcohol for 8-10 business months. He supposed that was probably exactly what it was.

She fed him three more before the goons finally released him. Seven curled in on himself at once, folded over with his hands still bound behind him, just trying to quell the nausea in the pit of his stomach. His throat burned, and he couldn’t get that god awful taste of moonshine out of his mouth—out of his nose—his head.

He collapsed onto his side, his shoulder hissing with pain when it hit the floor. He begged for water. No one heard him.

✧ ─ ༻✦༺ ─ ✧

Seven was floating somewhere. Somewhere high, high above. Diving in the starry depths that loomed overhead, just above the ceiling plaster.

His mind was elsewhere, but his body remained curled on the floor, crumbling between hyperventilation and bouts of nausea that made him gag, when he felt the tip of a shoe jab him hard in the ribs.

He ignored it. The shoe persisted, jabbing him harder and harder until it kicked him ruthlessly in the ribs.

He groaned in pain and stirred, coughing, as he awkwardly propped himself up on one elbow with his hands still bound uselessly at the small of his back.

Slowly, he managed to look up, and felt his liquor-soaked blood run cold. Wes’ hulking shadow loomed over him.

“Well, don’t you look fuckin’ pathetic,” he spat.

Seven could hear that he was smiling. Wes continued, wiping slick strands of hair across his forehead, “Looks like they already got you tied nice and tight, you want some more?”

Seven scrambled back, “No—no’more, please!–”

Wes didn’t give time for Seven to escape. Grabbing his collar and yanking him forward, he forced that now half-drunken bottle of silver tequila right to his lips.

Wes’ other hand found Seven’s hair and yanked it back again, following with the bottle until Seven was nearly bent in half limbo-style.

For several agonizing seconds, Wes’ hand in his hair was all that held him up as he was forced to chug that horrible nauseating poison. It was. It was straight poison. And Seven would never be free of it. Free of them. Free of him.

Too many seconds—let up Wes for the love of god please—let up!—god—Seven begged in his head, tears falling and whimpering, he gagged mid-gulp and felt lukewarm, stinging poison spill from his lips and run down his chin, before Wes pulled the bottle away and released his hair.

He collapsed instantly, coughing and retching and curling in on himself when his knees hit the floor and he felt his kneecaps ring.

They thought it was funny to get him drunk like this. Just because they could.

Seven lay on the floor for, he didn’t know how long. Someone finally brought him water. He didn’t know who. There was a light touch on his shoulder, the gentle cupping of the back of his neck, guiding him towards a red solo cup. He flinched away before he realized its contents didn’t reek like its predecessors. It was water.

He was back on his knees so fast it made his head spin with heavy vertigo, swallowing him in swirling molasses for several moments as he tried to stop the blurry red shape in front of him from oscillating back and forth.

That hand was back around his neck again, gripping, but not squeezing. Holding his chin and guiding him towards the water. He tried to reach for the cup. His arms did not budge. He remembered now, slowly and to his detriment, that no one at this party had any intention of releasing him from his belted circumstance any time soon.

He decided he didn’t care. There was no time to care when there was water.

He lurched his head forward when his lips touched the plastic, causing the cup to tip too fast and the water to cascade down his face and neck and his exposed chest.

He didn’t care, gulping it up at a breakneck speed until every drop was gone.

His savior pulled her hand away and he gasped and bent forward, realizing the front of his shirt was soaked through.

He probably looked like a mess.

He didn’t care.

This was no place for pride.

He just hoped he’d survive the night.

✧ ─ ༻✦༺ ─ ✧

Oh boy that was a long one! Let me know if you have any suggestions/requests on what to do to him next :3

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