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whump-tr0pes · 5 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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newbornwhumperfly · 1 year

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a red seed…

so, i whipped up a little Gifte for my dearest pal @much-ado-about-whumping cause they voted and also they’re just wonderful therefore deserving of Giftes ❤️❤️❤️

a little context ~ déomas is bel’s lovely whumpee from their déomas and rhys series and cassander is my whumpee (a sex slave, from my series morja and company, who has yet to make an appearance!) who bel and i have lovingly crafted together! this is just a sweet little nonsense crossover ❤️

CW: Allusions to noncon/dubcon, dubiously consensual sex work, homelessness, complicated abuse survivor navigating safety in thorny ways, bittersweet ending

title is insp. by margaret atwood’s poem “eurydice” - “even in this domain of hunger…you hold love in your hand, a red seed you had forgotten you were holding”

“You look cold, honey.”

The voice is low and soft and startles Déomas out of his stupor. He’s been huddled in this alley for a while, trying to bear out the cold of the crisp autumn day behind the bakery. The stones in the wall are warmed by the crackling oven within and it provides a meager sliver of solace. Déomas’ clothing, bright and thin and clinging in all the right ways, isn’t exactly sturdy.

Normally, Déomas somewhat admires the season, with the bursts of rich color - crimson and yellow and burnt orange - on the foliage, the bright roses in the cheeks of passersby, the candied apples glistening and spiced chestnuts roasting in the stalls of street vendors.

But the season is less…cheerful for an urchin such as Déomas. A streetwalker. The vendors keep their eyes on him when he walks down the street with sharp suspicion - with good reason, Déomas has pilfered food for survival many a time. Can’t blame them for protecting their wares from wandering hands.

A principle Déomas cannot afford to adopt.

He’s been trying to avoid…this. Not in the mood to suck cock or spread his thighs, doesn’t have the fucking heart to coo platitudes at some bastard with loose coins as he ruts between Déomas’ legs or down his throat or into Déomas’ clever, coaxing hand. What he’s in the mood for very rarely matters where Déomas is concerned but he’s tired.

Still…it’s only going to get colder and he’s shivering. So he tries to glance up through his curls with some artfulness, to let the weary heaviness of his lids lend him some allure. Tries to lick his cracking lips moist, draw attention to their plump shape (and away from his cherry-red nose, runny, fuck, he’s catching ill).

It’s…not what he expected. Usually, the men who seek out boys like him in dark alleyways are a little older, all swagger and spoiled whim, wanting their bored egos stroked.

The creature standing over him looks more like Déomas than the men he services. He’s willowy, young, perhaps in the middle of his thirties, and he’s beautiful. Golden-brown skin, heavy-lidded amber eyes, a halo of tawny curls, his mouth held soft and smiling. To Déomas’ first glance, he seems like a statue - graceful and poised and…sad, his russet shawl blowing around his face in the chilly breeze.

Still…appearances can be deceptive and very often are. Déomas flutters his lashes in a manner that will make the man think about all the ways Déomas would look pretty at his feet. Purses his lips pathetically and clutches his own patchy cloak around himself.

“Y-Yes, good sir. It’s…quite a hard night…”

Perhaps this man wants pathetic - Déomas can do pathetic. He tries to look small and helpless, huddled against the wall.

The man’s breath doesn’t catch, he doesn’t wet his mouth with his tongue, doesn’t swallow in wanton excitement. Instead, he kneels right there on the cobblestones, seemingly heedless of the cold mud seeping into his trousers, and extends a hand.

“Oh, it is, truly. What do you say to the idea of going somewhere a little warmer, out of the chill?”

So he wants to play a savior. Déomas can work with that. Men have paid less of a price for the pleasure of his company. He slides his fingers delicately into the outheld palm - it’s soft to touch, warm, shocking against the iciness of Déomas’ flesh.

He allows the man to draw him to his feet, hiding his weak-kneed wobble (gods, how long has it been since he’s eaten?) by leaning suggestively, tripping, against the man’s side. Déomas isn’t groped, does not have ale-laden breath panted against his neck, doesn’t even get an arm looped possessively around his waist for his trouble. He just…smiles, warm and pleasant, steadies Déomas on his feet. Odd.

“What might I call you, goodsir?” Déomas purrs, wide-eyed, demure and polite, as he follows the man down the street like a lost kitten. Ingénue orphan - poor helpless whore, doesn’t want to be trapped in this profession on such a cold night.

“Cassander, but you can call me Cass.”

His voice is a burr, rich and heavy and murmurous, a clean brook tumbling over old stones.

Déomas thinks that this man - Cass - will lead him to an inn. Perhaps a tavern, if he’s feeling cheap, where he can fuck Déomas semi-privately in a back booth as he nurses an ale. Instead, he draws Déomas into the very bakery he was huddling behind.

Déomas is too startled to really register it all, pulled along, windswept into the whole thing. Sat down at a little one-legged table, in the corner by the window, draped with a lace tablecloth and a beeswax candle. Served two mugs of piping cider, spicy and sweet and heavenly against Déomas’ half-numb palms.

He sips it, dizzy with the wave of warmth, the glare of candlelight, the murmurous buzz of chatter, and is surprised it isn’t mulled. Men usually try to get him drunk when they buy things for him. But even without the bitter punch of alcohol, the fruity beverage warms him right to his core, the apple-taste sinking into his very bones and thawing something tight and frozen there.

This Cass is still smiling, chatting softly to the baker’s apprentice, who is laying out a plate- no, a platter of sticky buns. Melted brown sugar and glazed pecans, all clumped over flaky golden dough fresh from the hearth and steaming in their dish, fogging up the frosty window glass.

Very stupidly, Déomas sort of wants to cry.

Cass pushes bun after bun upon him, coaxing him to eat his fill, to wash it all down with more sweet cider. Doesn’t speak much, except to make a soft, idle little comment about the fading sun upon the cobblestones or a customer with an excitable daughter. He almost doesn’t care that it surely, surely, comes with a steep price. Nobody is kind to Déomas without expecting something in return.

But he hasn’t had a hot meal in ages. He’s too exhausted, too sore inside and out, too shivery still at every gust of air from the bakery door swinging open and shut for patrons, to mind it too much. Perhaps Cass will want Déomas to lick his cock and call him master or daddy or baby. Maybe he’ll want to share Déomas’ talents with a friend. He’s had worse for less. And, oddly, he is grateful. He might not even mind so much, being a good little whore for someone so pretty and graceful.

He’s so enraptured by his meal, fingers sticky with syrup, belly full and heavy, mouth singing with spices, he only takes idle note of the coin Cass lays on the table. It isn’t much - the bakery caters to those with little money to spare, after all - but eyeing the man’s clothing, Déomas has discerned that this man isn’t wealthy.

It’s hidden well, but his clothing has been mended, again and again, stitched in places where the fabric has been torn or worn through with holes. The red of his shawl has taken on a faded hue. And his makeup…

Oh, he must be going slow. Déomas somehow failed to notice, a combination of the dim evening light and his own dizzy hunger, but the man has a little cream spread over his skin. Not everywhere, just…places. The corner of his mouth (a little too pink to be quite natural, now Déomas thinks of it), under his eyes, along the slender column of his throat. Hiding bruises. The lids of his eyes are tinted with a soft, pearly powder, and his cheeks - which Déomas thought were flushed by the cold - are rouged.

“Didn’t tell me you were a whore.”

Blunt, yes, but he’s just a little shocked it took him all of half an hour to figure it out. He ought to have recognized tart paint when he saw it - Déomas has often enough covered the handprints of grasping clients or the mark of some righteous citizen’s quick backhand.

Cass offers his same soft little smile.

“You didn’t ask.”

Fuck. Déomas isn’t sure how to feel exactly but he leans back, crosses his arms tight across his chest, eyes narrowed.

“So…just got out of the business and pitied the poor sluts who couldn’t climb their way free, is that it?”

Déomas shouldn’t be so fucking thorny. He winces as soon as he says it. Why is he such a bitch? He doesn’t back down though. His hackles are raised - from trusting little sex kitten to hissing alley-cat in moments. People in his line of work can’t afford to be philanthropists so he must…must be a favored courtesan of some pathetic man with a fat purse and a lonely wife. That’s got to be it, right? Déomas half-expects the aging whore across from him to spit back at him, maybe to spout some nauseating holier-than-thou platitude about seeing the light.

Instead, Cass surprises Déomas once more by laughing. It’s not even sharp. Just…soft and amused and so sad, that sorrow which flows beneath all his grace and warmth like a dark river.

“Not at all. I just thought you seemed cold, honey.”

Cass stands, brushing crumbs off his lap delicately, drawing his shawl up over his lovely halo of curls and fishes another few coins from his little drawstring purse, lays them before Déomas on the table with the empty dishes.

“It’ll frost over tonight, I should think, so this is for a room down at the Bluebell. They don’t ask questions but the doors lock well and it’s clean, warm - this should buy you a night.”

Still so patient, calm, measured. It makes Déomas feel a little cornered, like he wants to bolt, fidgeting in his chair, neck prickling, flushed and hot and sharp. He still feels like being a bit of a bitch because his belly is full and his holes are unfucked and he’s warm and untouched and none of this makes any sense.

“You’ll come visit me later, is that it? If you don’t have to go running off to your…paramour?”

Drawled with a sneer - it’s shaky, choked, pathetic. He’s so tired of the game of it all and he won’t be caught by surprise by anyone, he won’t.

Cass goes a little still. A shadow passes over his face, dark and horrible, his amber eyes glimmering with tears and for a moment he looks so miserable that Déomas feels ill. It passes and that placid, demure expression is back. Strained, now. Weary.

“No. I have…an appointment at the Dragon’s Head tavern, I’ll likely, uh, stay the night there.”

Oh.

Déomas flushes - this time with the hot stab of shame lancing through him. The whore tavern. Rough and seedy and a place someone like Déomas often finds himself. Not someone like this glowing, graceful creature.

“Oh, I-“

“It’s okay, honey.” Cass interrupts softly. For a moment, it seems like he is going to reach out and touch Déomas but thinks better of it. Instead, he catches Déomas’ gaze and it’s like his eyes burn through the redhead, piercing his chest and his heart and deeper, deeper still.

“Just…take care of yourself, okay? You deserve a night to sleep inside, away from the cold, without paying anything.”

Déomas wants to scoff, to protest that doesn’t. He really doesn’t. This whore doesn’t know him.

He can’t say any of that with Cass’ sad, kind eyes on him. So, like a coward, he glances away. Cass doesn’t seem to fault him for that either, though, and just sighs. Not a sound of irritation, just…resignation.

“It’s true. Whether you believe it or not.”

He’s gone before Déomas can retort, a flurry of cold wind and red shawl, into the evening. Déomas doesn’t watch him go, doesn’t look over his shoulder to watch Cassander glide quietly down the cold streets while Déomas sits in the bakery, safe and sound and alone.

It isn’t true, he’ll tell himself, even as his fists clench so hard they tremble around enough money to buy him safety and privacy for a single night. He’s wrong about me - he doesn’t know me.

Yet, under all the tangle of frost-tipped thorns, a little hidden patch of Déomas’ tired, wounded heart melts and softens like snow under the morning sun.

hope you enjoyed seeing our blorbos from our brains hang out 🥺❤️🥺

#it’s our blorbos friend! 🥰🥰🥰#deomas overbridge #cassander #much-ado-about-whumping #my writing #morja and company #crossover #whump #whumpee #caretaker #whumpee turned caretaker #hurt and comfort #angst #bad survivors #allusions to noncon #allusions to past noncon #environmental whump #sartorial whump #(only kind of lmao)

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whumpzone · 2 years

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JORAH ⚖️ JUSTICE

a commission for @newbornwhumperfly!! thank you so much raye! I have absolutely loved drawing your horrible man and I hope you love how he's turned out! <3 <3 <3

close ups under the cut because this drawing is absolutely enormous:

#my art #whump art #newbornwhumperfly #morja and company #jorah

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whump-me-all-night-long · 3 years

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how do dollie & charleigh feel about morja and brax? thanks! - newbornwhumperfly

Dollie wouldn't quite know what to think of Morja. She'd be hesitantly friendly with him, finding a strange sense of comfort in his company.

However, she would also be very suspicious of Brax. She would struggle to really get to know them, and she just would stay away from them.

Charleigh would think of Morja in a sort of sad kicked puppy sort of way. She would see him in a sort of pity project way.

She would also like Brax, but she would also get the sense of underlying motivates from them. She would see them as more of a friendly acquaintance than a real friend.

#ask dollie #ask charleigh #newbornwhumperfly

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haro-whumps · 4 years

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What if Soren had multiple people helping him recover? Would that stop him from emotionally attaching himself to any one of them?

*gestures to Bee’s frathouse boxboy and Frankie’s Ryan & Emi and Fairy’s Roommates fic and breakonme’s Connie & Theo and Raye’s Morja & Company* I think emotional attachments are pretty well agreed-upon to be unavoidable.

#and YES you can and should take those as rec's #Soren would prob be simultaneously delighted and overwhelmed for the record #answers #soren #bbu #thanks!#Anonymous

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whump-tr0pes · 7 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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whump-tr0pes · 1 year

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Dawn

My masterlist

“It is your part to kill me, mine to die without flinching.” — Epictetus, from Discourses (Translated by Robert Dobbin)

Your Part to Kill | My Part to Die | To Die Quietly | Despair | Dawn

Contents: captivity, conditioned whumpee, misunderstanding whump, suspected drugging, past drugging

Someone came to him only a few hours later, when sunlight was beginning to peek through the gaps between the shutters and the wall.

His heart threw itself into his throat as the door handle twisted. He pushed himself to his knees, raised his hands as the door swung open on oiled hinges. His eyes were wide, and he was desperate to raise his head to see who had come. He kept his eyes fixed on the carpet just in front of him. His body was locked in place. He braced, hard, for the first blow as soft footsteps drew nearer to him. When something was set on the carpet in front of him, he withered in shame at the terrified sound that was wrenched from his throat. The footsteps retreated. Morja’s muscles ached with his trembling.

“Thought you might be hungry,” came Gray’s gentle voice.

Morja’s breath froze in his chest. He blinked, his gaze still fixed on the carpet at his knees.

Hungry…?

“You can eat, if you’re hungry,” Gray said, in that same gentle tone.

Shaking, braced for a slap, a fist, a knife, Morja slowly raised his eyes until they settled on what Gray had put in front of him:

A tray with a plate of eggs, and a large glass of water.

The food is drugged, Morja realized immediately. Still, his throat ached with thirst and his stomach twisted with hunger.

“Th-thank you, anóteros,” Morja murmured. There was a huff from the hallway.

His eyes flicked up, past Gray, who stood in the room beside the doorway. In the hall, Isaac Moore stood with his gun drawn and pointed towards the floor. He watched Morja in stony silence. Morja’s eyes flicked back towards the floor. He carefully laced his fingers behind his head, so his captors wouldn’t see his hands shaking.

“Thank you,” Morja said again. Keeping his hands firmly behind his head, he shuffled forward on his knees and bent at the waist, doing his best to take a delicate bite with his lips and teeth. Above him, Gray made a soft sound in their throat.

Morja froze. He did not move, did not breathe. He waited for the correction. Waited for the blow.

“Please just… you can use the fork,” Gray croaked.

Morja swallowed hard. Slowly, he sat up. Just as slowly, he lowered his hands, pressing them into the carpet. He kept his gaze at Gray’s feet. “Y-yes, anóteros,” Morja whispered.

With numb fingers, Morja picked up the glass of water and drank half of it. He reached for the fork and dutifully took a bite of scrambled egg. He faltered when he realized it was the best food he had tasted since… he could not remember how long. The eggs were fluffy, and there was… cheese in them. And little bits of some kind of herb, real and green. He took another bite, realizing now that steam rose from the plate. Hot food. For him, a diathésimos, and a captive at that.

He did not understand.

He tried to taste the drug in with the delicious flavors of salt and oil and egg, but he couldn’t detect anything. Perhaps they were using a drug he hadn’t been trained with. He felt no grittiness, tasted no bitterness. He shivered as he wondered if the drug would cause him pain, like the one that made him feel like fire had been poured into his veins, or if it would cause him fear, like the one that made him see his nightmares right in front of his eyes. Or perhaps it would simply render him pliant, so his captors could move him somewhere else, or do whatever they wanted with him.

Perhaps he would wake tied to this bed. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to keep the food down that he had just eaten. He knew he would be punished if he became sick.

“What’s your name?” Gray said gently as they watched Morja.

He placed the fork down and folded his hands in his lap. Would giving his name put his anóteros in danger? The mayor knew by now he had failed, knew that he was captured. Or dead. As long as he told them nothing about his owner benefactor, he thought, the mayor was not in danger. He would have to hold onto the mayor’s secrets as they tortured him. But he could give his name.

“Morja,” he croaked. “My name is Morja, anóteros.”

“You don’t have to call me that,” Gray said, tilting their head. “You can just call me Gray.��

Morja chewed his lip, forced himself to nod. Isaac adjusted his grip on his gun.

“I know you may have a hard time believing this, Morja, but… we aren’t going to hurt you.”

Morja’s eyes flicked towards Gray for the briefest moment, then back down. His focus was on the gun in Isaac’s hands.

“Isaac has a gun so that I stay safe, but he has no intention of using it,” Gray said, with a look in Isaac’s direction.

Morja held himself perfectly still. He could be still. He could be silent.

Gray let out a slow breath. “We don’t know what you’ve been through,” they said, their voice lowering in pitch. “We don’t know what’s been… done. To you. But we understand why you did what you did. And we know that diathésimos can be… can escape. Like you heard last night. And so if you want to stay…” Gray spread their hands. “…you can stay. As long as we know that… our family is safe, too.”

Morja finally lifted his eyes to stare at Gray, dumbfounded. His gaze went no higher than their waist. He played their words backwards and forwards in his mind, trying to decipher what they wanted from him. Information? Protection? His trust, so he was easier to lead to the slaughter? His eyebrows pulled together as he looked them over, glanced to Isaac and back to Gray. His shoulders were so tense they ached.

“I don’t… understand,” he croaked at last.

“Give it some time to sink in, Gray,” Isaac said from the hallway, sounding tired. He shifted his feet. “You know w– they learn through action, not words.”

Gray fixed Morja with a long look. “Fair enough,” they said softly. “I’ll leave you be. Do you need anything before I go? We’ll leave you with a bucket for your needs. Do you require medical treatment? Something to read?”

Morja’s jaw was so tight his teeth ached. Confusion fogged his mind. “N-nothing, anóteros,” he murmured.

“Gray,” Gray said softly. “Just Gray.”

∴

“How’d it go?” Vera asked from her seat at the counter. Sam and Gavin sat next to her, watching Gray and Isaac as they entered the kitchen.

“Probably as well as it could have gone,” Gray said as they rubbed the back of their neck. They went to the coffee pot and poured themself their second cup that morning. “Better than I expected, actually.”

“Same here,” Isaac said as he tucked his weapon into his waistband. “You didn’t hear me have to use this.”

“He’s smart,” Vera said, taking a bite of her toast and speaking with her mouth full. “At least, he’s smart enough not to attack you when you’ve got him cornered with no weapons and you’re the one with the fucking gun.”

“What he is is fucking terrified,” Isaac grumbled, leaning against the counter and running a hand through his hair.

“He didn’t sleep in the bed, either.” Gray said. “It was still made.”

Vera shrugged. “He could have made it.”

“Diathésimos don’t make the bed like that,” Isaac murmured. “We do military corners. He didn’t sleep in the bed.”

“Can I bring him lunch?” Sam said quietly.

“No,” Isaac snapped, fixing them with a glare. “No fucking way. Gray goes in because I can’t stop them. You, on the other hand–”

“I think it’s for the best that we… limit the danger to me right now,” Gray said, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I think my status as… well, as someone he thinks is in charge–”

“No accounting for taste,” Vera said with a snort.

“–protects me when I’m in there with him. And Isaac is there just in case I’m wrong on that. You, on the other hand…” Gray squeezed Sam’s shoulder and nudged them gently. “We have to remember what he’s capable of, and what he’s probably done. We don’t know what he’s willing to do to get back to DFS, if that is truly what he wants. So until things calm down, I’m bringing him his meals.”

“Or I could,” Isaac said, forcing nonchalance.

“No,” Gavin said through clenched teeth. He fixed Isaac with a rare grimace. “I’m not… I’m not letting you near him without me or Gray there with you.” He got to his feet and took Isaac’s hands. They were balled into fists. Isaac forced himself to release them. “I’m not… letting him - or anyone else - pay the price for being the way my goddamn family made them.”

“Fine,” Isaac said tightly. “For now, Gray brings the meals.” His gun pressed against his lower back.

Continued here

@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 #misunderstandings #suspected drugging #past drugging

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whump-tr0pes · 1 year

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Your Part to Kill

My masterlist

Part 1

Contents: slavery, past murders, conditioned whumpee, reluctant whumper, attempted murder, nonsexual nudity

Morja’s feet had long since begun to ache. He felt the sting of a blister on the back of his right heel, felt the rough edge on the inside of his boot rub against raw skin. Each step down the dusty road sent a dull wave of pain through his toes where they crushed against the front of the boots. Too small, much too small – but it was better than going barefoot.

He’d walked far longer, before, and he’d done it barefoot then. That he had boots at all was a gift from his anóteros, and it was his duty to obey. What he wore on his feet made no difference at all to his duty. He was a weapon, and weapons do not feel pain.

His throat tightened as he made his way down the dusty lane, the moon shining on the lake that ran beside. He felt the first stirrings of thirst, having had his last sip of water several miles ago. He did not carry water with him. Water would only slow him down, and this mission would be over soon. Twelve miles a few miles did not require water. He carried only what he needed: a gun strapped to his thigh, and a knife tucked into his belt.

He could have gone without the gun, really, but his anóteros insisted he carry it.

“Isaac Moore is the type of man to require more than one bullet to put him down,” his anóteros had said. “If you must put him down – better to do it from twenty feet away with a gun. You stand a chance of surviving, then, diathésimos.”

“Yes, anóteros,” Morja had said, before he’d pressed his forehead to the floor at his superior’s feet.

Morja didn’t shiver, even though the night was cold. The walk was enough to keep his blood moving, and even though he felt a chill at the tips of his fingers, he was comfortable. He didn’t carry a jacket. That would only slow him down.

Morja caught a flash of white light through the bushes that ran down each side of the lane. He froze, fading instantly into the darkness of the night. Slowly, slowly, he stepped to the side, careful to keep his boots silent on the gravel lane. He blinked as the light flashed into his eyes again. He let out a breath. It was only the moon, reflecting off the windows of the house.

His target.

Morja felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle as he took another step towards the house. No lights burned in the windows, and the only sound he heard was the rustling of the wind through the trees and the quiet hum of crickets in the darkness. He checked the gun in its holster. The steel felt solid and cold in his hand. He ran his fingers over the handle of his knife. It felt almost warm to his palm, as if it was meant to fit there.

He was meant to be here. Meant to do this. He was not fit for anything else.

He shook his head against the fog that seemed to creep into his mind every time he was sent to fulfill his duty. He never liked to hear the curses, the screams, so he always made it quick. But still – the smell of blood never left him. He could feel it under his fingernails, even after he’d washed his hands over and over and over again. Perhaps that was why he left his jacket. He could never quite get out the stench of blood that seemed to be as much a part of the fabric as the fibers and thread. Perhaps the blood was a part of him, too.

Morja was perfectly silent as he made his way up the gravel driveway and to the front door. There was no security system for him to dismantle, his anóteros had assured him. There was only one thing to do: get in, and assassinate Gavin Stormbeck.

Morja’s stomach clenched as his hand closed around the door handle. He adjusted his fingers around the knob, turned it, and slowly pushed the door open.

The door swung open silently on oiled hinges. Morja let out the breath he’d been holding and rolled his shoulder as he took a step in, trying to loosen the coiled muscle and sinew that pulled taut inside him. A sudden bolt of pain shot through his left shoulder and down his arm. He gritted his teeth and forced away the pain.

His boots lighted silently on the wood floor, but he knew they would, even though these boots had not always belonged to him. He knew how to be silent, when it was demanded of him. He knew how to exist without a single noise at all.

Silence, diathésimos. If I wanted to hear your voice I’d remove the gag.

He shuddered at the sudden twinge in his chest. He pushed down the pain and moved on. The wood floor became carpet as he turned down the hall to the bedrooms. He had studied the layout of the house until he could see it behind his eyes, until he knew it better than the cell room that was his home. He had seen this house in his dreams every night this week, when he was allowed sleep. He knew every inch of it. He knew he would have to know it, if he had to fight his way out.

But he wouldn’t have to fight his way out. He would be obedient, and silent, and effective. Only one life had to end tonight, and no one would ever know he was there. He was his anóteros’s best weapon. He would not fail.

There was a door directly in front of him – not the correct room, he knew. That room belonged to the one named Sam, who was not a fighter. Morja’s stomach turned at the thought of them falling to his knife. An innocent, and injured, too, without the use of their right arm. But they did not have to die tonight.

Morja made a turn and passed by an empty bedroom. His ears pricked, scanning for any noises: normal ones, like snoring or gentle, even breathing – or ones that spelled something gone wrong, like the shuffle of feet against the floor, the squeak of a mattress. He heard nothing but the light rasp of a snore from the next bedroom he passed – the one belonging to Vera and Tori, two more innocents.

They had suffered a syndicate son in their midst, even though they were innocents.

“No one is innocent that harbors the enemy,” Morja’s anóteros had said. “They are lucky I only want the Stormbeck boy’s life. What they deserve is another thing entirely.”

Morja had shivered when he allowed himself to wonder what this family really did deserve, according to his anóteros.

He swallowed the dryness in his throat. His blister itched as he turned again, perfectly able to navigate the house in the pitch darkness. No moonlight reached him this far down the hall. He allowed himself to reach out one hand to trail along the wall, finger brushing feather-light against the plaster until he reached a wooden doorframe. He drew the knife from his belt and took in a deep breath. His throat tightened around the air as he drew it in. His right hand tightened around the handle of the knife. He found the doorknob, turned it, and pushed the door open.

Morja blinked in the sudden light. He found the source of it immediately: a night light was plugged into the wall, casting the room in a golden glow. Morja’s heart stuttered as he saw it. He had anticipated doing the killing with barely enough light to see at all. But now… he could see his target – Gavin Stormbeck, heir to the Stormbeck syndicate, torturer, murderer – nestled in his lover’s arms, pulled tight so his back was pressed against Isaac Moore’s chest. Moore’s lips were pressed to the back of the Stormbeck boy’s neck, and as they breathed, their chests rose in unison.

The floor seemed to tilt under Morja’s feet. His hand shook on the knife. He took a step forward, then another, letting his aching feet carry him towards his mission. He drew in a slow breath, let it out, barely realizing he was matching the breaths of his target, lying warm and asleep in his bed. He gritted his teeth as he came to a stop beside the bed, standing over Gavin Stormbeck. Silently, he brought his knife to Gavin Stormbeck’s throat and let the blade tremble a millimeter above his carotid. All Morja would have to do is thrust the knife in, cutting through the vocal cords in the same strike. Gavin Stormbeck would bleed out all over his bed in one minute. His dying struggles might even seem to his lover like the mild tossing and turning of someone surfacing from sleep, and falling in again.

His hand shook. His fingers tightened around the blade. He drew in another slow breath, let it out.

This was his mission. He was a diathésimos. This was his purpose.

A tiny flash of movement caught his gaze, and he glanced at it. His heart dropped in his chest as he realized what the movement had been: Isaac Moore’s eyes flicked open and immediately focused on Morja with a look of protective, unfathomable rage.

Morja found himself taking a step back from the bed.

Without a word, Isaac launched himself over Gavin and off of the bed. Morja only had a moment to process that Isaac was naked, before a fist came flying at his face. He blocked the blow, and his entire forearm juddered with the force. The knife remained tight in his fist, unblooded. He jerked into action and lunged towards Isaac, knife flashing in the dim light.

Gavin startled awake as the bed lurched beneath him. He sat bolt upright and rubbed at his eyes, trying to process what he was seeing: Isaac, naked, pinning a dark-clothed stranger to the wall with a forearm as his throat as he tried to wrestle a knife out of the stranger’s hand. Isaac slammed the man’s hand back against the wall, and the knife flew from his grip.

Gavin’s heart pounded in his chest as Isaac grabbed the stranger by his throat and slammed him onto the floor. The stranger’s mouth gaped open as he gasped for air, throwing his arm over his head to defend himself from another killing blow. Isaac snarled as he shoved the man against the floor by his throat, other hand searching for the knife. The man clawed at Isaac’s wrist as his eyes rolled back. Even in the dim light of the room, Gavin could see his face going red, then purple.

Isaac’s hand closed on the handle of the knife. He brought it to the stranger’s throat, just above where Isaac’s palm pushed down, and pressed down to cut.

The man’s eyes went wide and flicked towards Gavin. Gavin’s stomach dropped. The look on the man’s face was so familiar, Gavin felt it like a punch to his gut – the look of someone choking beneath him, desperate for air, knowing he was moments away from death… and a terrified resignation that Gavin recognized instantly.

“No!” he croaked, unable to look away from the stranger.

Isaac Moore went rigid over Morja. Terror swept through Morja like the lash from a whip. He tore his gaze away from the boy on the bed to stare up at Isaac, sweat stinging his eyes. Isaac was looking down at him with stark fury on his face, but he stayed the knife. Morja could feel it trembling against his throat.

Ice clutched at Morja’s heart as he tore his gaze away from Isaac Moore and looked once again at Gavin, his chest heaving, one hand held out towards Morja. He shuddered, his mind going blank with a white fog of panic as he wondered: what does Gavin Stormbeck want with me alive?

Continued here

@womping-grounds, @free-2bmee, @quirkykayleetam, @walkingchemicalfire, @inpainandsuffering, @redwingedwhump, @burtlederp, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @whatwhumpcomments, @cursedscribbles, @whumpywhumper, @stxck-fxck, @omega-em-z-02, @whumps-the-word, @justwhumpitwhumpitgood, @justplainwhump, @finder-of-rings, @inky-whump, @thatsthewhump, @orchidscript, @inkyinsanity, @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

#athena/raye crossover #honor bound au #morja and company #slavery #past death #conditioned whumpee #reluctant whumper #attempted murder #nonsexual nudity

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newbornwhumperfly · 1 year

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y’all 😍😭❤️😍❤️😭😍

everyone say hello to my beautiful wounded whumpee, Darius ❤️❤️❤️ (a yet-to-be-introduced character from my Morja and Company series)

i commissioned @albino-whumpee / @piamio (moya, the phenomenally talented artist) to draw him and i am literally crying with joy - his allure, his guardedness, his flair, his sadness, everything is captured to perfection. thank you so so much! (everyone please commission immediately ❤️)

#just…i am weeping it’s HIM it’s really HIM 😭😭😭❤️❤️❤️😍😍😍#darius #morja and company #art #commissions #piamio #whump #whumpee #my writing #favorite

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newbornwhumperfly · 11 months

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How would each member of the team decorate their rooms, given infinite resources?

oops this answer is...years late but the lovely thoughtfulness of the question still captivates me, it was so thrilling to think about this and thank you so much for your sweet early interest in my world, @much-ado-about-whumping 💖😍💖

Brax - As you know, Brax is an eminently fancy human, so they’d be very stylish and luxurious in making their quarters like their old apartment. Brax’s tastes run…expensive, since they appreciate high-quality things. Silk sheets, scented candles, rich jewel-toned velvet couches and foot-stools - they would especially invest in their collection of books. Being a massive bookworm, they would prefer shelf upon shelf of finely bound books surrounding them at all times. They would invest in some dimming lights. They would also invest in a more orthopedic chair for their desk (because hours of paperwork is a bitch and a half on one’s neck), honestly, Tyrus Legion bases have poor taste in chairs, in their personal opinion.

Cobi - His first change would be adding a nice big window you can actually open, cause he’s an outdoorsy boy and needs a lot more natural sunshine in his personal space. Cobi would add lots more goofy queer decor, banners and throw pillows and stuff. Cobi would also add little bright and colorful bits and bobs cause he’s a little magpie - souvenirs, prizes he won at fairs, photographs of pals and family, just…would like lots of room to scatter his stuff. A big space to live his big life in his big body. He would also have little things for pets since Cobi loves pets! So, towers for cats, beds for dogs, all the amenities for his furry friends. Speaking of friends, Cobi would appreciate big couches and deep-sinking-into chairs, floofy poofs to sit on, lots of surfaces for friends to sit down on and just chill. Oh, he’d also have so many mini-fridges and snack-bars, just a multitude of every kind of food-stuff a loved one would enjoy.

Claudia - While Claud certainly is a sporty gal and a very tough butch, she is also a nerd at heart and wants her sanctum sanctorum to be a place of goofing and security. It’s harder for her to invest in creature comforts unless she’s being very indulgent, but given the resources, she’d have a real little nerd-cave! She’s extremely into video games, so when she’s not doing jock shit, Claud likes to turn off her brain by focusing on a nice little puzzle task that’s also fun. Her room would have a nice little gaming console set up, one of those cool gaming desk chairs, the whole shebang. Claud would do cool neons and interesting mood-lighting, with cool blues and greens to give a underwater glow vibe to the room. She would also buy lots of organizing furniture (like shoe racks or hat hooks) that neaten the space up but still keeps her stuff on display. She would put up a lot of posters of the video games and action films she likes best, especially the vintage dorky ones from the 80’s/90’s.

Sarai - One thing Sarai takes very, very seriously is softness and permission to be soft. So her personal space is an area she has tried her utmost to cultivate that softness. Because of her disabilities, Sarai would prefer to make anything and everything as accessible as possible. She is still in the process of shedding shame over needing assistance, so she would have railings and grabbable-things to help with standing and walking around, plenty of room for her chair, etc. She would have one of those fancy motorized beds, a large bathtub with jets and stairs and shit. Sarai is also a very luxurious person at heart and an aesthete, so she would splurge on gorgeous silky throw blankets and tasseled pillows, painted lampshades, elaborately embroidered drapes for the windows and doorways, just every surface alight with warm, ripe-fruit colors. Deep, soft, sheepskin rugs on every surface so every step is warm and soft. Just deep indulgence to remind herself she deserves rest and softness, a refuge for when she forgets.

Jorah - In general, Jorah is kind of…straightforward and spartan in his personal tastes, super uhhh CisHet Guy oops more like he has sunk deep into a persona of being as Normie and Unobjectionable As Possible but that is neither here nor there. He doesn’t have a lot of personal touches in his home decor, for lack of a better word, and since he’s literally on a military base, he would prefer to let his Job Aesthetic dominate his personal space (it’s to help Compartmentalize, shh, think nothing of it.) So, you will see a lot of greytone…Adidas-esque aesthetics. Plain, hotel-esque bedclothes and furniture, expensive enough to be good quality but not unique, really? He doesn’t really care, as long as none of the style hokey or faux pas. Nice, respectable, businessman chic. Jorah would maybe splurge on some bougie exercise gear, nice shoes, good selection of athleisure, etc. He isn’t much the type to decorate a room, more his body. But he would probably invest in a nice fucking shower with perks, jets and all, because, damnit, this job is stressful sometimes and hey, decompressing lets him do his job better and high water pressure sure helps him relax and gets the blood out from under his nails.

thank you again, bel, what a thoughtful and delightful ask! 💖💖💖

#yes yes it is Delving Into Years-Old Asks Time!! 💖#much-ado-about-whumping #asks #raye answers #morja and company #my writing #fluff #brax hutchins #cobi #claudia #jorah

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