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haro-whumps · 2 years

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Whumptober Day 7: Silent Panic Attack

Morja did not… care… for medical facilities. In general they were not an ideal place for a diathesimos to be. The fact that he might need medical attention was a personal failing, on his part, but he did feel ever so slightly resentful that Cobi would even insist that he needed it after such a minor injury—

No, he couldn’t think like that. Where had the thought even come from? Cobi was his superior, obviously Morja needed to obey. Just, he’d had worse wounds that had never needed—Cobi was right and Morja was wrong. He should stop thinking about it, clearly all it was doing was getting him worked up.

Maybe the injury was worse than he thought. Maybe he’d gotten concussed with the black eye, and he just didn’t realize it. Maybe that’s where all these errant thoughts were coming from.

Sarai entered the room and Morja did not flinch, but felt a faint horror at the fact that he almost had. He knew better! He was better than that, better than this. Sarai was talking to him, he should be listening.

“–ty black eye, so he wanted me to check on it. Your vision feeling okay?”

Morja nodded and swallowed, not trusting himself to speak. She was washing her hands. Drying them, pulling on gloves. He willed his heart to stop its pace, to slow, slow down, even slightly, but he could feel his pulse in his ears and with each throb of his new bruise.

“Gonna touch it.”

Morja held himself deliberately still, body tense, iron grip on his own breathing which threatened to turn loud and ugly and fast, spiral out of control. If he let himself slip for even a moment, he would spiral entirely and utterly out of control. He couldn’t. He knew better, he was better. Her fingers on his face felt distant, almost tingly. His whole face, actually, felt tingly. Numbish. He willed his heart to stop. His breathing to stay normal.

“Follow this with your eyes,” she ordered, her tone mercifully firm and impartial. It gave Morja something to cling to, as his body seemed to betray him, his thoughts errant and wrong. He made himself watch the tongue depressor she lifted, and moved first from side to side, then up and down, then in a slow circle. He clung to it like a drowning man, the order, the motion, the fact that he was obeying, he obeyed, he could obey. The hair near his temples felt like it was being yanked, like it was pulled into a too-tight ponytail. His lungs squeezed like he was suffocating, but he continued to breathe deliberately, slowly.

God knew what would happen to him if he allowed himself to crack in front of a doctor.

The doctor was Sarai. He knew her. She was kind to him, she’d always been kind to him, she wouldn’t—he wasn’t in New Athens anymore. Things were different here. He knew that. He was sweating. He felt cold. She was examining him, tilting his head gently, and it was the only movement he could allow himself. He couldn’t disobey her.

“Hey, Morja,” the glove was cool on his cheek, but he couldn’t move even to lean into it. If he tried to move he’d crack, and if he cracked right now he’d shatter all over her floor, “your eye looks fine. You good, honey?”

“I—” briefly, almost, the concept of asking for rest passed his mind, ‘I just need to sleep it off’ so common a phrase here he’d nearly parroted it, “—am fine, Doctor. Thank you.”

“Yeah alright. Go sleep this one off, okay?” See? There was that phrase again. “You seem in good health but take it easy the rest of today.”

“Yes’m,” he got out. He didn’t know how he managed to force his tongue to shape so many words. He could only pray they would be enough.

“Hey,” she said, stepping back and stripping off her gloves, Morja feeling his fingers begin to tremble. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, okay? Everyone gets black eyes, and Cobi fusses each time. No one’s looking down on you.”

Morja didn’t have the mental capacity to try and puzzle her words into making sense. He just got up, praying he’d guessed right, that this was a discharge, a dismissal, and silently departed the room. She didn’t stop him, and Morja made himself move very slowly, very deliberately, keeping his pace even and measured like he was taught, until he was all the way back to the little quiet space they’d given him as “his” and finally allowed himself to shatter.

A lil fanfic for @newbornwhumperfly today ;)

#whumptober2022 #no.7 #silent panic attack #morja #sarai #cobi #fear of doctors #black eye #panic attacks #whumptober #whump #writing #mine

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whump-tr0pes · 7 months

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Breakfast, Part 2

Many thanks to @newbornwhumperfly for being so generous in letting me put their boy Morja in Situations, and many apologies to them as well for holding onto this story for so many months while waiting for me to finish it.

My masterlist

Morja is a diathésimos, one of a class of indentured servants owned by society’s elite - though some would call them slaves. He has been tasked with a mission of critical importance by his anóteros: to infiltrate a dangerous family that has taken refuge in the north, and kill the criminal that they are harboring: Gavin Stormbeck.

“It is your part to kill me, mine to die without flinching.”

— Epictetus, from Discourses (Translated by Robert Dobbin)

Contents: captivity, conditioned whumpee, Breakfast, past drugging, past offscreen deaths of children, fear of noncon

The dining room was so quiet, Morja could hear everyone breathing. His hands shook in fists in his lap, and he stared at his plate, heaped high with scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. He had only taken a few scraps from the kitchen before Gray had gently removed the plate from his hands and piled more food on. His face burned with shame at the prospect of eating so much food, and while seated at the table, surrounded by the people he knew to be traitors to his anóteros.

Gray sat at the head of the table, on one side of Morja. Vera sat on his other side. Isaac Moore and Gavin Stormbeck sat at the opposite end of the table, but Morja made no mistake; he knew that Vera Novak was as deadly a fighter as Isaac, and he also knew she was armed. Not with a gun, but with a knife, slipped into the sleeve of her shirt. He’d seen it while she took a scoop of eggs in the kitchen. He didn’t know the meaning of Gray letting him out of his room, but he understood the meaning of Vera sitting next to him: make one wrong move, step out of line, and his life would be forfeit.

In some small, strange way, it was comforting. It was the life he knew.

His muscles were so tightly wound that he flinched when Gray raised their hand. “Dig in, everyone, while it’s still hot,” they said brightly. Morja flushed with shame at the flinch and couldn’t stop his gaze from drifting to Gavin Stormbeck at the end of the table. The Stormbeck heir looked away from him with an unreadable expression. Morja swallowed hard and began to eat.

The food couldn’t be drugged or poisoned this time. He had seen the family take from the same dishes he had. His hand trembled only minutely as he took up his fork and scooped up a small bite of eggs. It was just as delicious as every other morning.

They’ve been preparing the same food for me as they’ve been eating. The same quality.

The thought made Morja dizzy.

“Good?” came a soft voice Morja didn’t recognize.

His head snapped up and he met the gaze of Sam Vasterling. They were seated across from him, curls wild about their head, eyes soft and dark with… something Morja didn’t recognize. It was something like worry, he thought. What struck him was how very young they looked. Younger than they looked in all the surveillance photos he had pored over in their dossier.

A traitor, still, he thought, forced himself to think. They’ve committed crimes that make them as dangerous to the North as any of the others. And some day, they may pay the price. I may be the one to make them pay the price.

I’ve been the one to put a child down before, and Sam Vasterling is no child.

His throat was so tight he could not even swallow. The food was trapped in his throat. He shivered, tried again, forced the eggs down.

“Y-yes,” he croaked. “Thank you.”

A thin smile passed over Sam’s face, and that smile was still warmer than any expression Morja had ever seen south of this house. “I did the eggs today,” Sam said. “So I was hoping you’d like them better. I add more cheese.”

A thin finger of fear traced the back of Morja’s neck. Was this just a game, too? A hint? Was the food drugged? He was exhausted, so, so tired of trying to think his way through these puzzles. He let his eyes fall shut as the bone-deep weariness rose up to crush him. He wished, in that moment, to be told of his infraction and what his punishment would be. Then, at least, he would know, and the punishment would have an end.

He forced his eyes back open. He didn’t know what else to do but nod and bow his head. Obediently, he took another bite of food, bacon this time.

As if they could read his mind, Gray cleared their throat and said, “None of us have any plans or intention to harm you, Morja.”

This time, Morja swallowed carefully. A weight tugged at his lungs, crushing them, until his head was spinning. All he could do was nod again.

“Thank you, Gray,” he whispered, through a throat far too tight to speak. At the end of the table, Gavin Stormbeck drew in a deep breath. Morja’s stomach turned, but he took another bite.

“What I do have plans for today,” Gray said–

–Morja’s stomach heaved, and he nearly brought up the breakfast he had eaten so far–

–“is to finish repairs on that back corner of the barn.”

Morja shivered, and his stomach unclenched. Sweat prickled under his shirt.

Isaac nodded tightly. “I can help,” he said, his eyes on his plate.

Vera huffed. “Guess that means I’m on Uriah duty.” She shrugged and arranged some slices of bacon atop a piece of toast.

Morja’s brow furrowed as he looked from Vera to Gray. It made sense for this family’s anóteros to demand a constant guard… but Isaac Moore seemed to be the one fulfilling that task today, not Vera.

Sam cleared their throat, and Morja was startled to discover that they were looking at him as they did. “Not… she means Gavin Uriah.”

Morja blinked, not understanding. Does Gray have a son?

“Me,” Gavin Stormbeck said dully from the end of the table. “She means me.”

Morja’s eyes widened as he glanced at Gavin Stormbeck, then back at his plate. Isaac’s words and rage from the night Morja was captured clicked inside Morja.

“No, Gavin Stormbeck, pl–”

“Don’t call him that.”

Morja’s throat tightened, and he swallowed again. He didn’t have to understand it. He didn’t have to understand how these people thought. His anóteros had told him their way of thinking was sick, twisted, broken.

And yet–

Gray cleared their throat, and Morja flinched. Blood rushed to his face at the shame of it, at the humiliation of such a sound causing such a movement in a body built to be a weapon. He held perfectly still and waited. Waited.

“That sounds fine, Vera,” was all Gray Uriah said.

For a long time, the table was silent, with the only sounds being the clinking of forks against plates. Morja took a bite of his breakfast - his hot and delicious breakfast - and another, and another, until his plate was empty. Slowly, the others at the table began to talk of things he didn’t understand, people he didn’t know, events he had never heard of. There was a lull in the conversation, and he opened his mouth.

“E-excuse me,” he croaked, and everyone fell silent. His hands shook, and he placed them flat on the table.

“Yes, Morja?” Gray said gently, and he could feel their soft gaze on his face.

Morja’s throat worked even as terror shuddered through him. Still, he forced himself to speak. “What is it that… you might want as repayment? For the privilege? Of…” He bowed his head, wishing that he could drop to his knees beside Gray. But Gray had said they didn’t like it when he did that, and he was terrified if he moved, Vera would leap forward with her knife. “In what way can I… repay…?”

He had to be polite. Even in this den of vipers, he had to be polite. Even once they began to hurt him, he knew he had to be polite. He could not be ungrateful for what he had been given so far.

Even if they wanted to repay him by bending him over this table and–

“Well, we usually share the task of doing dishes,” Gray said. Morja was startled to realize he had not breathed since he asked his question, and he slowly drew in a breath. “If you like, you can help us with the dishes.”

“Yes, please,” Morja said, bowing his head even deeper. “I would like to do that… please.” Especially if it spared him from paying them back in… other ways.

He wanted to be useful.

“Well, then,” Gray said as they carefully got up. “Vera, you and Morja and I could go to the kitchen?”

“Sure thing,” Vera said, in a tone that sounded almost flippant. She grabbed her plate and sauntered into the kitchen.

“Morja, if you’ll take your plate and come with me?” Gray said as they followed her in.

Morja obeyed, making his movements as slow and careful as possible without seeming like he was dawdling. He cut a wide berth around the table, keeping his gaze down and away from Isaac Moore. Still, he could feel the other diathésimos’s eyes burning into him, and he knew without having to look that Isaac Moore’s hand was on his weapon.

Once in the kitchen, Gray smiled as they took Morja’s plate. A chill clutched Morja’s chest.

“I’ll wash your plate,” Gray said. “And you can wash Vera’s. And Vera will wash mine.”

Morja nodded and did what he was told. Orders. Orders were good. He took the plate Vera handed him and turned to the sink to wash it. The water was warm, then hot - he wondered if he would ever be given a cold shower here, like with his anóteros. For now, he had just been bathing with the wet rag he had been given each day.

When Vera’s plate was clean, Gray washed Morja’s plate. Morja’s stomach twisted with the wrongness, but… it had been an order. Then Vera washed Gray’s plate. The whole time, her body was turned towards Morja. He knew exactly why, and he understood.

When those dishes were drying in the rack, Gray gave him a smile. “Back to your room, then?” they said. Morja swallowed hard and nodded.

Then he was led back to his room, and the door was locked again. His belly was full. His bruises were healing.

@womping-grounds , @free-2bmee , @quirkykayleetam , @walkingchemicalfire , @inpainandsuffering , @redwingedwhump , @burtlederp , @castielamigos-whump-side-blog , @whatwhumpcomments , @whumpywhumper , @stxck-fxck , @whumps-the-word , @justplainwhump , @finder-of-rings , @inky-whump , @thatsthewhump , @orchidscript , @this-mightaswell-happen , @newandfiguringitout , @whumpkitty , @pretty-face-breaker , @cinnamonflavoredhugs , @pebbledriscoll , @im-just-here-for-the-whump , @endless-whump , @grizzlie70 , @oops-its-whump , @kixngiggles, @1phoenixfeather , @butwhatifyouwrite , @carnagecardinal , @annablogsposts , @suspicious-whumping-egg

#honor bound au #morja and company #athena/raye crossover #captivity #conditioned whumpee #Breakfast #past drugging #past death of children #fear of noncon

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made--on--purpose · 1 year

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#sporty and rich #morjas #loafers

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dansar04 · 1 year

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Diplomatic Ties part 510: E. Marinella.

Suit from Caruso, Charvet shirt, tie from Marinella, Shibumi ps and shoes from Morjas. Scent: Frédéric Malle Geranium pour Monsieur.

Also check out our website: Diplomatic Ties.

And if you are interested in music, check out: All Kinds of (Good) Music as well.

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lovefrenchisbetter · 2 years

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The Tassel Loafer - Cuir Lisse Noir

#tassel loafer #penny loafer #morjas #shoes #mens shoes #gentleman #essentials #essential homme #parisian style #parisian vibe #parisian aesthetic #parisian homme #clean #minimalism #minimalist #all black #summer wear

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woodstocknavy5-blog · 1 year

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昨日Waiperのインスタで紹介したM-52ショーツ。実物に負けない作りになっております。 5月5日までの限定セールを行っておりますので是非ご検討ください。 #militarypants#m52#frenchmilitary#waiper #panamahat#drybones #sunglass#rayban #shirt#clubstubborn #loafers#morjas ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• #サマースタイル#メンズファッション#メンズスタイル#mensstyle#summerstyle https://www.instagram.com/p/CrwxigOPXhx/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#militarypants #m52 #frenchmilitary #waiper #panamahat #drybones #sunglass #rayban #shirt #clubstubborn #loafers #morjas #サマースタイル #メンズファッション #メンズスタイル #mensstyle #summerstyle

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permanentstyle · 1 year

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https://www.permanentstyle.com/2023/02/expressing-yourself-how-to-dress-like-milad-abedi.html

Expressing yourself: How to dress like Milad Abedi

#barbanera #berg and berg #eidos #morjas #novesta #private white VC #Ralph Lauren #silver ostrich #the anthology #tom ford #Zaremba

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vestaignis · 3 months

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Невероятное ощущение свободы-ветер и соленые брызги, а рядом с тобой бескрайняя водная гладь до самого горизонта.

An incredible feeling of freedom - wind and salty spray, and next to you there is an endless expanse of water to the very horizon.

Источник:https://t.me/+fxNu20lM26MwYzhi, ://kartin.papik.pro/more/14398-kartinki-loshad-u-morja-69-foto.html,/bogatyr.club/13222-loshadi-v-vode.html, /balthazar.club/o/6413-kon-u-morja.html, https://kartinki.pics/pics/4309-loshadi-v-okeane.html.

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i-eat-worlds · 1 month

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Worlds’s Whumpy Recomendations

[Large Text: World’s Whumpy Recomendations /End ID] Sorted by genre for convenience. If you feel your story fits better in a different category, or would like to add a note let me know and I’ll do that!

BBU/Pet Whump

Do No Harm: Jamie and Sebastian by @peachy-panic (+ Medical/Lab whump)

The Fighter by @hold-him-down

Charles and Ollie by @cupcakes-and-pain

Unintentional by @distinctlywhumpthing (+ Medical/Lab whump)

Guard Dog David and Guard Dog Riley by @redwingedwhump

The Palette by @squishablesunbeam

The Safehouse by @itsawhumpsideblog

Linden and Colton by @whumpzone

Max & Carlo by @deluxewhump

Medical/Lab Whump

Edurance by @whither-wander-whump

Peter and Joy by @alittlewhump

Land of Liars by @whumpy-daydreams

Mediwhump May Masterlist by @demondamage (+Nonhuman Whump, Angles and Demons. Comics)

The Last Lab Rat by @whumpy-wyrms

Heroverse

Immortal Cannon Fodder by @pigeonwhumps

And Still and With Bloody Outstretched Hands by @wolfeyedwitch

Honhuman Whump

Our Man Flint by @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night (Vampires)

Blackthorne Hall by @redwingedwhump (Vampires)

Kane & Jim by @whumpsday (Vampires)

The Heart and The Hunger by @wolfeyedwitch (Vampires)

When Hell Comes Knocking by @snaillamp (Demons)

Historical/Fantasy

The Shadow of Death by @actress4him (High Fantasy)

The Tiefling by @redwingedwhump (DnD Homebrew)

No Warrior by @secretwhumplair (Medieval, Vikings)

Fog and Furrow by @wildfaewhump (Urban Fantasy/Dystopia, telepaths)

Sci-fi/Futuristic/Dystopian

MD-264N by @pigeonwhumps (Living Weapon Whump)

Morja & Company by @newbornwhumperfly (Conditioned Whumpee)

Riot Kings by @befuddled-calico-whump (Comics)

Weapons Don’t Weep by @wolfeyedwitch (Living Weapon Whump)

Honor Bound by @whump-tr0pes (Near Future Apocalypse-ish)

Other

Freelancers by @whumpacabra (Modern, Mercenary/Millitary whump)

A1 and A2 by @hcnnibal (Modern, Mercenary, Romance, Comics)

#worlds babbles #whump #whump community #whump recs #this is mainly for me to remember what stories I’ve liked #so I don’t forget and have to hunt people down every two days lol

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just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi · 4 months

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can you assign morja a craft? 😍🥰💖 - newbornwhumperfly

Oh knitting. Immediately. Lots of garments and cable work, but the bunny is there because he NEEDS a bunny. Need not a want.

#racoon assigns crafts #fun fact all of these are from my own knitting Pinterest board #and I have made that feather shrug it just desperately needs to be blocked

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newbornwhumperfly · 1 year

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100%. Does your character resemble anybody famous? For Morja!

thank you for asking about My Boi, @suspicious-whumping-egg <3

as a matter of fact, he does!! not, like, in-universe? but my inspiration faceclaim for morja is the actor manu bennett, so morja is meant to look a lot like him!

question comes from this prompt list <3

#love being asked any and all questions about my beloved. 💖💖💖#asks #my writing #morja #morja and company #ask game #suspicious whumping egg

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haro-whumps · 2 years

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might i request my sweet boy morja, as an adult, curled up into a very small ball in his bed, knees tucked to his chest, hugging his torso a little, beaten to hell, with a bandaged bullet wound in his shoulder, trying to sleep through the pain and lonliness (cause they only gave him so many pills oops) 💔💔💔 - newbornwhumperfly

He's *trying* to sleep

#answers #art #thanks!#mine #morja #newbornwhumperfly

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whump-tr0pes · 9 months

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Breakfast, Part 1

My masterlist

“It is your part to kill me, mine to die without flinching.”

— Epictetus, from Discourses (Translated by Robert Dobbin)

Contents: captivity, conditioned whumpee, past drugging, thoughts of death, past torture

There were footsteps in the hallway. Morja was instantly awake, eyes wide open, back ramrod straight as he sat up. He stared at the door from his sleeping spot on the floor, doing his best to stop trembling before the anóteros of the family - Gray, they told him to call them Gray - came in. They’d done that every morning for the past five mornings now, taking away his bucket of waste, bringing him something delicious for breakfast. It made Morja’s stomach flip with shame to be served in such a way, and by the anóteros no less. If his owner benefactor heard of this, he would be whipped for his insolence. He was still waiting to be whipped now.

He was waiting for worse things than a whipping. He was waiting for drugs in the food, but not a single meal had left him sick, or weak, or unconscious, or in pain. Perhaps it was a slow poison that would work through his body over weeks rather than hours, but Morja couldn’t see the sense in that. Morja had puzzled over it in the days that he had had to himself; when this family had Isaac Moore - whom Morja now knew was a diathésimos like himself - at their disposal, why would they not use him to put Morja down like the threat that he was? Why would they waste their food, their space, their time on him when they were planning on killing him anyway? The time he could understand, even though it made him sick with terror: the time was to break him. The time was only the first step in the torture. But why was the food not drugged? His own anóteros drugged his food. How could this family of criminals, traitors, murderers do less?

The door handle turned, and he shuffled to his knees, just like he had every morning since he’d been locked in this room. And, just like every other morning, he slid his hands behind his head and laced his fingers together to keep them from shaking. He kept his eyes riveted to the carpet just in front of his knees as the door opened.

“Good morning, Morja,” Gray said gently. They stopped at the door.

Morja froze. So the torture would begin in earnest today, then. Starting with going without food. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to blow out a slow, even breath. “G-good morning, anó– Gray.” He must still be polite, even though he was terrified. His anóteros had made sure he could do that.

Still, he was thirsty. It had taken so little time for him to become soft, after having been given food and water so frequently. Morja’s eyes opened again, as he began to see the plan laid out in front of him. He wondered of Gavin Stormbeck had concocted it, or if the entire family was gifted in the art of torture.

“I’m going to stop whatever thought process you’re so clearly lost in right now,” Gray said, their voice soft. Morja braced for whatever blow was coming. “You’re still being fed. You’re still getting water.”

Morja blinked, swallowed. His eyes flicked up towards Gray. His stomach lurched as he realized Gray was the only one standing in the door.

Where is Isaac Moore?

Gray was already speaking again. “What I wanted to ask, without Isaac here, so you wouldn’t feel pressured either way,” they said, “Was whether you would care to join us all for breakfast?” Gray shrugged. “In the dining room?”

Morja shivered as he tried to decipher the meaning behind Gray’s words. He had been tied to a chair and interrogated in the dining room the first night he had been in this house - perhaps Gray was playing a game with him, trying to get him to agree to another interrogation for their own amusement. Or perhaps they simply wanted to move him to another part of the house under false pretenses. Morja was in a reasonably defensible position in this room, and that might be the case. Or perhaps…

Morja swallowed hard, desperately hoping he was not playing into some sick game by guessing. “To… to serve you? Anóteros?”

The corner of Gray’s mouth turned down, and Morja knew he had guessed wrong. He shuddered and bowed his head low to the floor.

“No, Morja,” Gray rasped, holding their hands out to the side. “No, it’s like I told you… We don’t want anything like that from you. I was wondering if you would like to… eat with us. At the table, instead of in this room. That’s all. Not serving us. Just as an equal.”

“Equal…” Morja croaked, staring at his knees. He realized he had spoken out loud and closed his mouth with a snap.

“Yes,” Gray said, sounding tired. “Is that… something you would like? If that would frighten you too much, I understand, but… I think it might be nice.”

Morja’s hands were shaking behind his head. Isaac Moore would be out there, and Gavin Stormbeck. But if he didn’t go… If he displeased this anóteros, and didn’t go…

He swallowed bile, swallowed his fear. He drew in a quavering breath and slowly, slowly let his hands fall until they pressed into the carpet in front of him. “Yes,” he murmured, nodding jerkily. “Yes, if it would… please you, anóteros, I’ll do it.”

“It would please me for you to be free,” Gray said with a tone that Morja didn’t recognize. “And this, I think, is a good first step. Let’s see how this goes.” They took a step into the hall and waited for Morja to get to his feet before they started walking towards the dining room. Morja fell into step behind them. They had their back to him as they walked, he realized with a start.

He could kill them, if he wanted to. It would be so, so easy. They towered over him, but he was strong, packed with muscle, as hard-won as his scars. A kick to the back of the knee, and his hands could close around their neck, or he could bash their head against the wall. He didn’t need a weapon. He was the weapon, and he could kill this traitor, just like he had been trained to. Just like his anóteros had commanded him, just like it had been beaten trained into him for years. Isaac wasn’t here with his gun. Morja could do it, and then go find Gavin Stormbeck to complete his mission. It could be over in a second.

Morja’s hands shook as he clenched them into fists.

But Gray trusted him. They had to, or they would never do something so foolish. Morja couldn’t understand why Gray would turn their back to an enemy, someone they knew had been sent to kill one of their own. His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard. He forced his hands to open at his sides. He stared at Gray’s back, brow furrowed as his chest ached with an emotion he couldn’t name.

#honor bound au #morja and company #athena/raye crossover #captivity #conditioned whumpee #past drugging #thoughts of death #past torture

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seasons-beatings · 5 months

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Happy holidays, @newbornwhumperfly!

From your gifter: A/N: This was super fun to write! I hope I did your characters justice, they’re all awesome. The way you write Morja is a beautiful mixture of thoughtfulness and fear, and I did my best to capture that. Enjoy and happy holidays! <3

Title taken from the song My Skin by Natalie Merchant

CW: military whump, mentions of war, injury whump, verbal abuse and threats, kneeling, noncon touch, mentioned past conditioning, non-graphic wound care, blood, references to suicide, gun mention, xenophobia

Promises Sweeten the Blow

Morja hears the cell door slam shut behind him, four locks clicking into place. He’ll be alone now, for who knows how long, while intel he gave up is analyzed and picked apart. Then, he’ll figure out if all the things the captain promised him are even a remote possibility.

The mission went well, for the most part. The infiltration had been easy. New Athens had made a bet on secrecy over defense, and they had lost it. It was the escape where things had gone awry. He’d clambered into the jeep with several new bruises and a massive gash down his bicep.

He sighs, picking himself up off the floor of his cell. He can still feel the ghost of a gun’s barrel on his upper back. A lieutenant had pressed into him the whole way back to base, while he whispered threats in his ear about what he dreamt of doing to “athenian bastards like you.” He’s about seventy percent sure the lieutenant's name is Cuthbert, but it doesn’t really matter. The chances he’ll ever actually use it are low.

For a prisioner’s cell, his room is surprisingly well furnished, though it’s eerily suicide proof. The faucet on the sink is too short to hang anything off of, the bed is smother proof, and his clothing lacks strings or ties. He isn’t even allowed shoelaces: his boots close with zippers and buckles. It makes sense, unfortunately, but the suicide prevention measures also mean that there's no medical supplies available to him to treat his wounds.

Not that he was expecting there to be, but it would’ve been nice, especially since he isn’t supposed to go to the hospital wing because he’s a security risk. Maybe he’ll get seen if the data proves to be fruitful, but he doubts that.

The wound isn’t mortal, and he’ll just have to make do.

It feels wrong to use up one of the shirts that the captain gifted him, but he couldn’t just leave it to bleed. Cleanliness was important. He wouldn’t want to disrespect the space the anóteros had given him by getting his blood everywhere.

He efficiently tears the bottom half of the shirt into strips, and he’s starting to wet them in the sink when he hears the heavy locks on the doors start to slide open. Nerves flare in his gut. Had the analysts finished already? Or was the lieutenant who’d pressed the gun to him back for more?

The door slides open, and Morja knows who it is the moment he catches sight of the gold rimmed glasses. It’s the captain, trailed by a woman carrying a large backpack, and leaning on a sparkly purple cane that matches her outfit. Another anóteros. Both of them step into the room, and the woman’s eyes go straight to the slice on their arm.

He freezes, wet fabric dropping onto the porcelain of the sink with a smack. His legs fold under him automatically and he collapses into a kneeling position with perfect posture. There hasn’t been time for the intel to be analyzed yet. The captain is here for another reason, and his mind races with all the tiny slip ups from the mission. He knew a correction was inevitable, but it still stings when he realizes it’s happening now. After a beat of silence, the captain steps forward and enters the cell.

“Good afternoon, Morja.” Their tone is serious but polite.

He doesn’t get why they act like this towards him, courteous and respectful, but his mind silences the thought before it can turn into something bigger. It doesn’t matter. They're anotero, they can act however they want. He should be thankful that they lean towards mercy.

They crouch down in front of him, and he suppresses a flinch. He hasn’t been with Tyrus that long, but he can feel his behavior already starting to slip. Just because he’s not in New Athens anymore doesn’t mean he can be disrespectful.

“I was worried that you might be hurt,” they start, referencing the blood caked patch of skin on their arm, and Morja swallows. Had he been that bad at hiding it? “Do you remember Sarai? She’s a doctor. She can take care of that, if you’d like.”

Morja doesn’t know how to react. It is a test? To see if he’ll let other people touch him? Or is he to be punished later for taking too much? But the woman is standing right there, and it would be rude to decline the captain’s suggestion.

“If you’ll permit it, she can look at it, captain,” he says, voice whisper quiet, hoping he made the right choice.

The captain nods and waves her over. She smiles and follows his instruction, bending down towards him.

“Hello, Morja, I’m Sarai,” she introduces herself.

“Thank you for offering your aid, anóteros,” he responds politely, averting his eyes.

“How about we get you onto your bed? That will probably be more comfortable for you, don’t you think?” she says, tone just as patient as the captains.

Once again, he finds himself unsure how to answer. But then again, “how about” was less of a question and more of a disguised order. “Yes, anóteros.”

Both her and the captain back away so he can stand, and he quickly rises and sits back down on the edge of his bed. He keeps his head down. If he can’t kneel, this is the next best option.

The doctor sets her bag down next to him, then goes to wash her hands. Once she’s done that, she throws on a pair of gloves and starts to examine the wound. She explains every move she makes, and asks permission to touch, and it's jarring.

Medical care is a privilege, and she is anotero. She doesn’t have to ask.

For some reason, the captain stays, maybe to remind him of his place, though they must have better things to do than watch over their captive diathésimos.

He gets off easy. No stitches are necessary, and the doctor simply uses some tape strips to close the wound after she cleans it. She asks him some questions about allergies and the like, takes his vitals, and checks him over for any other injuries. There's just some minor bruising, though, and the pair leave once he’s been tended to. The captain says they’ll be back later to bring him some food, and update him on the intel they recovered.

Morja wonders why they insist on doing things like that. It’s almost certainly below their station, so if it’s a ploy to earn his trust, then it’s rather see-through. The bandages are too soft against his skin as he lays on the oddly textured anti-suicide sheets, pondering the captain’s endgame.

For a stupid second, he can almost believe their intentions are true. Maybe, things could change.

——————————————————————————

Eventually, he hears the telltale noise of the locks being slid open again. He doesn’t know how long its been, since the cell doesn’t have a clock, but he perks up anyway. He’s absolutely ravenous after the mission.

However, the captain does not step through the door.

Instead, it’s the lieutenant from the boat, the one who’d pressed his gun to him.

Morja falls to his knees. So this is the correction for getting hurt. It was foolish of him to assume he was safe.

The lieutenant closes the door behind him, then walks across the room to where Morja is kneeling. His fingers grip Morja’s chin and pull it up, and he scowls deeper when he notices the fresh bandages.

“I don’t know what kinda game you’re playing, bitch,” he says, voice low and deadly. “But I can see you trying to wrap the captain around your finger.”

His nails dig into Morja’s cheeks as he squeezes his face harder. “They’re a good person, and they’re also smarter than you are.”

The pressure is nearly bruising now. “Whatever scam you’re running, it won’t work.”

He pinches even harder. “And if I catch you fucking with anything, you’ll pay.” The lieutenant pulls his hand away, then swiftly slaps Morja across the face. “Understand me?”

“Yes, anóteros.”

What else is he supposed to say?

Just as he was in New Athens, he is still underneath everyone.

#season’s beatings gift #whump #whump writing #season’s beatings

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