#athena/raye crossover

[whump-tr0pes]

Relief

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)

Your Part to Kill | My Part to Die | To Die Quietly | Despair | Dawn | Breakfast Part 1 | Breakfast Part 2 | To Die Without Flinching

Contents: nightmare, [captivity, beating, gaslighting, forced to hurt someone, torture, flaying, so much blood, begging, death] all in a nightmare, collared whumpee, conditioned whumpee, past murder, PTSD, emeto, comfort, flashbacks, permanent injury, chronic pain, misunderstanding whump, recovery

~

Morja instantly knew where he was; the peeling paint on the walls, the barred door, and the cold blue lights overhead told him everywhere he needed to know. He was back in his cell room, back in Crayton. He was back where he belonged. 

There was an addition to the room, and the room seemed to have grown to accommodate it: a large metal table with leather cuffs at the top and bottom. Morja shuddered as he looked at it. He knew exactly what it was for. He had been on one himself, more than once. He wondered if his anóteros meant for him to climb onto it. 

Before the lack of answer could worry him, there was a sound behind him. Boots. A voice. 

“Hello, my diathésimos,” his owner benefactor said. A steady hand slid up the back of his neck, over his collar, and knotted in his hair. He dropped to his knees in an instant.

“Anóteros,” he said, his lips trembling. His hands settled in his lap and he tilted his head back, baring his throat. He was where he belonged at last - but his eyes burned, and his mouth was dry. He couldn’t explain it. He belonged at his anóteros’ feet, did he not? He had never known another home than this. 

No, there was another place, where he had a bed, not a cot - where there were no bars on the door, and there were windows that opened to the outside–

A blow snapped his head to the side. He accepted it without a gasp. His right ear rang. 

“Where did you just go, Morja?” the mayor said, his voice low and smooth. Morja knew better, though - he could hear the threat beneath the words. 

He answered honestly. He must always be honest.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. He closed his eyes and waited for the correction. 

Another blow whipped across his face, splitting his lip. Blood began to trickle down his chin. It itched. He did not lift his hand to wipe it. When it dripped on his wrists, then the floor, he knew he would need to clean it after this. 

“I don’t think you’ve ever been anywhere but this,” his anóteros said conversationally. “Other than when you are serving me on my missions, of course.”

An image flashed behind Morja’s closed eyes: a breakfast table, laden with eggs, bacon, toast. 

“Yes, anóteros,” he breathed. 

“Open your eyes, Morja,” the mayor said.

Morja obeyed.

He barely caught his gasp when he realized there was someone lying on the table now: Sam, the youngest of the family that was harboring Gavin Uriah Stormbeck. He remembered where that room was now: in that family’s house. 

Their wrists and ankles were strapped down to the table. With the table at eye level, he could see how tightly the restraints were buckled, the leather digging into their flesh. They trembled and stared back at him in terror, their mouth open but silent.

Morja’s owner benefactor drew the knife from his belt and held it out in front of Morja’s face. Morja held perfectly still, prepared for the knife to carve into his own cheek - but the knife hovered there, the blade between him and Sam. He could see himself reflected in the wickedly sharp steel.

“This one was captured harboring Gavin Stormbeck,” the mayor said coldly. “It is your job to punish them for this crime.” 

Morja’s throat tightened as he swallowed. His hands shook and he forced him to be still against his thighs. “Punish them… sir?” he croaked.

“Yes,” his anóteros said. “Gavin Stormbeck is a scourge upon this world, and they have actively worked to prolong his reign of terror. There must be punishment for this. You will deliver it.” The mayor flipped the knife so he was holding the blade, gesturing with the grip toward Sam. “Now, diathésimos,” he hissed.

Morja’s legs shook under him as he pushed himself to his feet. Sam met his eyes, and their eyes went wider as Morja took the knife from the mayor. His anóteros stepped behind him as he moved forward, as if in a trance, until his legs pressed against the table. The knife trembled in his grip.

He forced his mind to go cold and blank - like it so often did before the kill - as he brought the knife to Sam Vasterling’s sleeve. He made quick work of slashing it away from their arm until it was bare, the thin muscles rippling and tugging beneath the skin as they struggled to free themself. Then, as he blew out a slow breath through his lips, he brought the knife to their forearm. 

“Morja, please,” Sam begged.

The knife froze over Sam’s skin. Morja met their eyes. They looked so frightened, so young, strapped down to the table and pleading for their life. 

But Morja had killed younger people than them. And he had never spared anyone just because they begged him to. He forced down the bile that clawed up his throat, and slid the knife into Sam’s forearm down to the muscle. 

Sam screamed. They made no effort to bite it back. Tears welled in their eyes and streamed back over their temples. Morja carved into their arm again, staying within the first few layers of skin, fat, and muscle - avoiding the arteries. He could see the play of their muscles in the gash as they fought the restraints. Again, he cut, and veins stood out in their neck as they screamed.

He had seen his anóteros hurt people like this. He knew, now, how very effective it was. 

After he had sliced their arm to ribbons, he cut away the rest of their shirt. He avoided touching their skin as much as he could, as if one touch would burn him. They looked at him, trying to meet his eyes, desperate, writhing against the leather cuffs. He looked away. 

“Please, no, no, no!” Sam shrieked as Morja sliced through the thin skin over their breastbone. They shuddered and writhed, tears streaming, wrists twisting in the restraints. Morja’s shirt was soaked through with sweat. His hands shook as he gripped the knife. He cut again, and again, and again. Blood pooled in the hollows of Sam’s body. It rolled down their sides and onto the table, then dripped onto the floor. The entire room smelled thick with blood. 

And behind him, his anóteros stood silent as a sentinel. He chewed his lip and continued cutting Sam to pieces. They screamed and sobbed. The handle of the knife was slippery with sweat. 

“Isaac!” Sam screamed, finally squeezing their eyes shut and turning their face away from Morja. “Isaac, h-help me!”

Morja shuddered. The knife froze above Sam, dripping blood onto their skin. 

Sam whimpered and cringed away from Morja. “I-Isaac,” they sobbed. “Please…”

“Continue,” Morja’s anóteros hissed from behind him. A chill feathered down Morja’s spine as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

His hand tightened around the knife. The smell of blood was making him sick. Sam was barely more than a child, and Morja felt - he felt, he knew - they had nothing to do with the evil his owner benefactor was claiming. But if he could make them scream loud enough that Isaac heard them…

If Isaac Moore came, he could force Morja to stop this.

He brought the knife to patch of unbroken skin over Sam’s stomach and dug the blade in. Sam screamed anew. 

He fileted them open, carving into them with a cruelty he had only seen his anóteros reserve for the most depraved traitors of the North. He flayed them alive until his hands were soaked with their blood. They screamed and screamed until their voice went raw and began to fade. Still, he cut. Still, he carved. He slipped on the blood pooling on the floor. Everything was red. He was drowning in it. And still, Isaac Moore did not come and rip the knife from his hands, strike him down, shoot him dead. 

Still, he carved. 

Sam Vasterling screamed. 

“Keep going, diathésimos,” the mayor said. “Remember, this is the fate that awaits all who harbor traitors to the North. They are guilty. They deserve this.”

The small body on the table juddered and bled and screamed. They barely looked human anymore. Still, they did not die. More blood had come out of them than Morja had ever seen in his life. Still they did not die. They only screamed and bled. 

Morja’s shirt was soaked with sweat. He stared down into Sam’s chest, at their beating heart. He had carved away everything else. Still, they lived, and cried, and bled. 

“Isaac,” they rasped. “Isaac, please…”

Bile seared the back of his throat. 

They raised their eyes to his. Their eyes were bloodshot, red from crying, but they were brown, he noticed. They looked so frightened. “Morja,” they breathed. “Help me.”

Morja stared back at them for an eternal moment. Tears streamed from their eyes. 

He raised the knife and plunged it into their exposed heart. They shuddered once, then their head fell back. Their eyes were blank, their mouth open. They were - finally, mercifully - dead.

Morja braced for the correction.

His anóteros said nothing for a breath. Then, the mayor said, “No matter. You still have the rest of that family to get through.”

Morja opened his eyes. 

His room was pitch black, and the sheets on his bed were soaked through with cold sweat. He could still smell blood thick in his nostrils. 

He staggered out of bed and fumbled for the doorknob. When he found it, he wrenched the door open and dashed down the dimly-lit hall and into the kitchen. He threw open the sliding door to the backyard and made it a few shaky steps before he fell to his hands and knees, retching into the grass. When he was done, he slumped over and sobbed weakly. 

He still felt the youngest one’s blood on his hands, tacky and warm. He still smelled it. He still heard their screams. He still felt his anóteros’ hand on the back of his neck. 

“Morja?” a small voice called out behind him.

He gasped and spun around. Sam Vasterling stood in the sliding door, silhouetted by the light in the kitchen. The golden light illuminated their curls like a halo. They took a halting step out of the house. Their hand was extended towards him. “Are… you alright?”

Morja blinked. In the fraction of a second that his eyes were closed, he saw them - bound to the table, coated in blood, flayed and screaming and begging for mercy. His stomach heaved again. He bowed his head in shame and horror. 

Sam drew closer. They were so young, but they showed no fear as they went to their knees and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Morja wasn’t sure if they didn’t know that he could break their neck with just his hands, could drag them inside and cut their throat with a kitchen knife… or if they knew, and chose to master the fear. He trembled, but held still as their hand rubbed up and down on his arm. The touch was gentle, so unlike–

He flinched at the memory - it was just a dream, but he had so many real memories of it, too - of his anóteros’ hand whipping across his face. Sam’s hand paused on his shoulder. “Is this… is it okay that I’m doing this?” they whispered.

A chasm opened inside Morja’s chest. His face crumpled and he began to weep. 

He leaned against Sam, bending his head so low that it rested in their lap. Their hand rested on his shoulder again. He reached out, his own hand shaking badly, and covered their hand with his own. His broad hand swallowed theirs. 

“Shhh,” Sam soothed. “I’m sorry, was it… a nightmare?”

Morja shuddered with shame. He pressed his head against their knee and nodded. 

Sam pushed out a slow breath. “Gotcha. I… I get them too, sometimes.” 

Morja blinked and tightened his hand over theirs. The thought of them waking, cold and shuddering, from a nightmare, made his chest ache. He rolled his shoulder to ease the old twinge there. 

“I get them less now,” Sam said, stroking their thumb along his arm. “But they still happen from time to time. About… our time in Colleen Stormbeck’s house. I… I get a lot of nightmares about getting shot.”

Morja’s eyes went wide, and he sat up. His eyes darted over Sam, looking for a scar - and his eyes finally settled on their right hand, the one they always held curled against their stomach. 

Sam followed their gaze and nodded. “Yeah,” they murmured. “It was a few years ago now. I was shot by a Stormbeck guard as we were escaping Colleen.” They smiled. “Finn saved my life.”

“Does it hurt?” Morja asked, before he could stop himself. He looked at his hands and bowed his head for his impertinence. 

Sam didn’t deliver a correction, though; they said, “Sometimes. Well… pretty often, yeah. It twinges. Sometimes I need to wear a sling.” They shrugged. “But it’s gotten better as time has gone on.”

Morja’s own shoulder twinged again, and he rolled it in its socket. 

Sam inclined their head. “You hurt, too?”

Morja’s mouth went dry. “I… no. Nothing so bad as… no.”

Sam looked at him for a long time. Then they said, “Gray says comparing things doesn’t do anyone any good.” They glanced out into the night. 

Morja stared down at his hands. His mind churned as he tried to decipher the meaning in Sam’s words. Slowly, he said, “My… shoulder. It hurts. Often.” He pointed to it stiffly.

“Don’t complain, diathésimos, or I will teach you the true meaning of pain. Back up on your knees, or I’ll string you up by your collar. Five more lashes for your impertinence.”

He shuddered and waited for the correction, or the promise of one. 

Sam nodded. “Yeah,” they said. They looked toward the house. “I’ll be right back.” They pushed themself to their feet and made their way inside to fetch a cane, or perhaps a whip, to punish Morja for the complaint.

His head dipped low and his stomach churned with guilt and shame - and a flash of something else, something he could not allow himself to name. Something that felt dangerous to feel. Something that rankled for having been guided right into that trap. 

Still, he should have known better. He had a lifetime of pain, telling him that he should have known better. His hands curled into fists as he waited for Sam to return. When he heard their footsteps at the back door, and then the swoosh of their feet through the grass, he squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth together. He must be silent when accepting this correction. He must not wake anyone in the sleeping house with a gasp or a cry. 

He had earned Sam’s disgust with his weakness. He must not make a sound, now. 

Sam went to their knees beside him, and he held perfectly still - save for his hands, which he slid together, palm to palm, so they could tie him. 

“Here,” they said softly. 

He held back a whimper. Perhaps they had not returned with a cane at all, but something worse - like a knife. He forced his eyes open. Their hand was moving toward his shoulder - the bad one. He froze. He braced. 

Something warm pressed against the knot that always lived in the flesh there. He flinched and uttered a shocked sound. 

“Sorry,” Sam muttered. “Is it too hot still?”

Morja turned his eyes to theirs. Their eyebrows were tugged together, holding something out to him - a warm compress. They had another one, balanced on their injured hand. “Here,” they said, holding one out to him. “The heat… it helps, sometimes. With me. Maybe it might with you, too.”

Morja stared at the compress with wide eyes. Sam held it a little higher, and he finally took it. Heat soaked into his finger tips. Sam took their own compress in their good hand and pressed it to their injured arm, over their bicep. They took a deep, shivering breath and let their eyes fall shut. 

Morja’s back ached in thwarted anticipation of the cane. He glanced at the compress in his hand, then back to Sam; their face wasn’t twisted in disgust - not at him, nor at anything else that he could see. They were smiling lightly. And they were using the compress. Haltingly, hesitantly, he pressed it to his own shoulder like Sam had done for him. 

Heat bloomed in the knotted muscles and he let out a trapped breath. His eyes burned with unshed tears. He slumped a little to the side - a little closer to Sam. They opened their eyes and smiled at him. 

“Nice, huh?” they said. 

Morja’s throat tightened. His head hung low. A dry sob shivered in his chest. 

Sam raised their curled hand and rested it on his shoulder. They slid it across his back, over the healed scars. Morja’s head dipped lower, lower still, until he was folded in half over his knees. He cried softly as Sam rubbed his back, not saying anything at all. 

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 , @starfields08000 , @morning-star-whump , @theelvishcowgirl , @i-eat-worlds

[whump-tr0pes]

To Die Without Flinching

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)

Your Part to Kill | My Part to Die | To Die Quietly | Despair | Dawn | Breakfast Part 1 | Breakfast Part 2 | To Die Without Flinching

Contents: recovery, PTSD, conditioned whumpee, tied up, blindfolded, attempted murder, false execution, rescue

~

After weeks with this family, Morja now moved freely among them. When they left the house in the morning to do their chores, he left with them, eager to help. When they returned in the evening to cook dinner together, he joined them, learning the skill of which spices to mix together to create the flavors that pleased them all. When he returned to his room at night, he went without a lock on the door. He slept in the bed, now. He didn’t fear what might happen to him in it. 

This team, this family, they were kind to him in a way he had never experienced before. He knew they were dangerous, but he wanted - so, so badly - for them to trust him, so that they might always turn their kind eyes on him forever. Their patience for each other seemed to know no limits, and they always seemed to want to be together. They never raised their voices or their hands to each other, or to him. Even when he could tell they were angry, they never did what he knew in his bones should happen; they never tied his wrists and whipped him until their tempers were eased. That always made his anóteros feel better. And yet, they refused to do it to him. 

He didn’t understand it. 

Still, when Isaac Moore called him to the barn one day, he couldn’t help but feel a prickle of unease. A few weeks of strangeness could not undo a lifetime of lessons, after all. But when Isaac called him, he went. He obeyed.

“Yes, Isaac Moore, is there something you need?” he said, keeping his gaze on the floor of the barn. Even if Isaac was a diathésimos like him, he was still uncollared and freed. Morja must always show him deference and respect. 

“Yes,” Isaac Moore said, his voice flat. A shiver moved up Morja’s spine as Isaac moved to block the barn door. His eyes were dull, his hands in fists at his sides. 

The hair on the back of Morja’s neck stood up. “Please… tell me what it is I can do for you,” he said, though lips that were beginning to go numb. His lungs were too large for his ribcage.

Isaac Moore finally raised his gaze and met Morja’s. Isaac’s eyes burned into Morja’s as he said, “Put your hands behind your back and get on your knees.” His right hand was behind his back, reaching for his waistband.

Morja did not even consider disobeying. His fell to his knees with a crack, crossing his arms at the wrists behind him. “Y-yes, diathésimos,” he croaked. 

Isaac’s face hardened as he stepped forward. Morja sucked in a breath and forced himself perfectly upright. His hands quaked behind him, despite the fists he was making. When Isaac Moore stepped behind him and bound his wrists together, he let out a terrified breath. When a rough strip of cloth was tied over his eyes, he uttered a shameful sound of fear. 

His throat was too dry to swallow with. His chest was too tight to breathe with. His mouth hung open and he tilted his head, desperately listening for Isaac Moore’s next move. When the cold metal of Isaac’s gun pressed against the back of his head, he folded over his knees with a shudder.

“Don’t move,” Isaac ground out.

“Y-yes, diathésimos,” Morja sobbed dryly. He understood, now, he saw it all. It had all been a test somehow, and he had failed. This was the cleanest end he could hope for: a bullet in his brain, a shallow grave behind the farmhouse that had been his unwitting prison for all these weeks. Had the test simply been to see if he could figure out that he had been a captive at all?

Had his anóteros set this all up to punish him for his failure?

One thing was certain: he was going to die with his anóteros’ collar wrapped tight around his neck.

He pressed his lips together and waited for the white-hot blast, and then the oblivion after. It didn’t come. It didn’t come. Despite Isaac’s admonition, he rocked minutely forward and back, drawing in breaths too shallow to provide enough air. He tried to wait silently. Pitiful whimpers made their way past his lips anyway. 

He was failing.

“I-I need to do this,” Isaac Moore murmured.

Morja nodded frantically, at a loss for what else to do. The gun pressed harder into the back of his head, and he froze.

“You’re a fucking threat to my family. A threat to Gavin.”

Morja couldn’t deny it. He couldn’t deny that he had harbored some small hope that he might one day carry out his mission and make his anóteros proud - but he wanted something else, too, something he couldn’t name. The clash made him sick. 

“You can’t change. You can’t fucking learn, I’ve been watching for the switch to flip and it hasn’t. I need to put you down. I… I see you watching him… and I know that everything he taught you is still in there, because… because for the longest time, it was like that with me…”

Morja couldn’t deny that, either.. He squeezed his eyes shut behind the blindfold and waited to die. 

“I… I have to fucking do this.” The gun pressed harder, then harder still, until it was pinning Morja’s head against the wooden floor between his knees. He felt Isaac adjusting his grip. He heard Isaac shuffle his feet against the floorboards. He drew in a terrified breath, could barely let it out without a groan escaping him. He was trapped, unable to move, unable to speak. He heard Isaac Moore sniff. He was crying. 

“Isaac?”

Morja flinched hard when Gavin Stormbeck’s horrified voice filled the barn.

The gun eased its pressure on the back of Morja’s head. 

“Gavin.” Isaac sounded frightened. 

“What… oh, fuck, did you…? Isaac, what–”

Morja couldn’t help it; when Gavin Stormbeck fell to his knees beside him, when a hand settled in his hair, right next to the gun, he let out a muffled wail of terror.

“Tell me you’re not doing this,” Gavin breathed. His hand was shaking on Morja’s head. “Tell me you didn’t… lure him here so that you could execute him in cold blood.”

“He came here to execute you in cold blood, Gavin,” Isaac snarled. Morja’s body tensed as the gun jammed hard into him. “Don’t–”

“This isn’t you,” Gavin said. “Isaac… this isn’t you. Please tell me this isn’t who you are.”

No one moved or breathed for a long moment. Then Isaac said, “You know this is who I’ve been for a long time.”

Gavin’s hand tightened in Morja’s hair. “Not anymore.”

“But he–”

“He stopped! Like you! How can you look at him and not see you?” Gently, Gavin’s fingers smoothed through Morja’s hair. Horrified, desperate, Morja found himself pressing the side of his head against Gavin’s knee. 

The gun on his head pressed harder, harder, hard enough that Morja knew it would leave a deep bruise. Then, all at once, it disappeared. Isaac Moore stepped back. Heavy footsteps left the barn. 

Morja took a deep, shuddering breath and shook apart into dry, tearless sobs. His head rested on Gavin’s leg, and the syndicate son’s hands rested gently in his hair. 

“Shhh,” Gavin Stormbeck soothed. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”

Morja could no longer pretend. He could no longer be silent. He was so frightened, and confused, but most of all he was so, so tired. He didn’t much care if the syndicate son had a knife waiting for him. All he could feel was the gentleness of the boy’s hands in his hair, the solidity of his leg, and the beat beat beat of his heart that threw itself against his ribs. Gavin slipped the blindfold from his eyes and tossed the cloth into the corner of the barn. Slowly - he used his fingers, not a knife - he worked the knot tying Morja’s hands free.

“You’re safe,” Gavin said again. 

Morja’s fingers clutched at Gavin’s pant leg. “Y-yes, anóteros,” he stammered, desperate to be good, to obey - anything to keep Isaac’s gun from pressing against his head again. “Yes, Gavin Stormbeck–”

“Please don’t call me that,” Gavin whispered. 

Morja’s stomach heaved. His eyes went wide and he buried his face against Gavin’s leg. He shuddered in the moment between inhale and exhale - in the moment between mistake and correction. 

“I… I apologize,” Morja rasped through numb lips. He pushed away from Gavin and pressed his forehead to the floor in front of him, shaking, broken, cold. “Please,” he could not stop himself from saying. “Please.”

Gavin’s hand landed on him again. Morja made a horrible, humiliating bleat of fear, but he did not move. He did not move. He waited. 

“My name is Gavin Uriah,” came the quiet voice. It sounded like Gavin was in pain. 

Morja’s throat worked around a swallow. “I-I…”

“I’m not what they made me. And neither are you.”

Then Gavin’s hand was in his hair again, moving slowly, gently. The touch was so soft that it undid him. Morja crumpled, leaning forward into the touch until his head was in Gavin Uriah’s lap. Dry sobs heaved through him as the fear and pain moved over him and out. He pressed his face into Gavin’s thigh and allowed the touch, allowed the hand in his hair. 

“I’m sorry,” Gavin said quietly. “I’m so sorry.” 

Morja could say nothing in response. His throat was too strained. 

Gavin sat with him in the barn for a long time. He held Morja, waiting until his great, awful sobs had stopped, before he took his arm and led him back toward the house. 

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 , @starfields08000 , @morning-star-whump

[whump-tr0pes]

Another Way to Be

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)

Your Part to Kill | My Part to Die | To Die Quietly | Despair | Dawn | Breakfast Part 1 | Breakfast Part 2 | To Die Without Flinching | Relief

Contents: conditioned whumpee, implied past murder, false execution, misunderstanding whump, flashbacks, PTSD, guilt, past offscreen murder of children, forgiveness, recovery, collared whumpee, collar removal

Note: in @newbornwhumperfly's story, it is not canon that Morja has killed children.

~

Isaac separated Morja from the rest of the family again, a few days later, like a wolf cleaving a single sheep from the herd. Morja watched it happen - watched as Isaac suggested Gray, Vera, and Tori leave in their car to go into town. Then he watched as Finn and Ellis slipped out, encouraged by Isaac again. Sam and Gavin were harder to convince. Still, as Morja washed the dishes from the morning breakfast, scrubbed the counters that were already clean, wiped every surface in the kitchen and then wiped them all again - he could feel Isaac’s eyes on his back. He could feel the presence of Gavin Uriah on the couch next to him in the living room, too, and Sam’s in their room. 

Morja’s hands shook as he worked. He wanted to ask for something else to do, but the thought of breaking the heavy silence made his stomach clench. He reached for the broom and began to sweep the already spotless kitchen floor. 

“How about you go take a walk around the lake?” Isaac said gently to Gavin. “Get some fresh air. You’ve been inside all day.”

Morja froze, straining his ears for Gavin’s response. He didn’t hear one. 

Not only a useless diathésimos, but an eavesdropper, too. He set the broom aside and turned toward the back door.

“Where are you going?” Isaac called after him.

Morja froze. His heart pounded. His hands balled into fists. His spine was a rod inside his body, perfectly straight, as he turned and looked at the two of them. “I’m sorry,” he croaked, throat dry. “I didn’t mean… I was just going to–”

“I’ll come with you, if you want to go outside,” Isaac said, and he got to his feet.

“No,” Gavin breathed. His hand locked on Isaac’s wrist, pulling him back. 

Isaac stared down at Gavin for a long moment. Finally, he murmured, “I just want to talk to him. Alone.”

Gavin shook his head. “No.” The word was barely louder than a breath. 

Isaac turned, showing Gavin his back. Morja blinked, confused, before he realized - there was no gun tucked into Isaac’s waistband. That didn’t matter, Morja knew, Isaac could have a knife concealed on him and end Morja’s life that way. Or just use his hands. Diathésimos could be deadly with anything they were given. Morja had ended enough lives with his bare hands to know that.

Isaac turned back to Gavin and knelt, holding Gavin’s face in his hands. “I swear,” he whispered, and the gesture was so intimate that Morja turned away, face flushing. “I’m not going out there to kill him. I swear, I swear, I just want to talk.” He sucked in a breath. “D-diathésimos to diathésimos.”

Gavin took in a breath, too. Morja stared at the floor. 

Tactically, it was a good strategy to get Morja alone. He wondered what Isaac would say to Gavin once Morja was dead - what he would have to say to repair the trust Isaac was breaking right now.

Finally, Gavin nodded in Isaac’s hands. Isaac pressed a kiss to Gavin’s forehead and rose to his feet once again. 

“Let’s go,” Isaac said flatly. He brushed past Morja and slid the back door open. Morja followed behind, silent and still. 

He had already had Isaac’s gun pressed to his head once. He knew Isaac Moore would not hesitate this time. 

He trailed behind Isaac as Isaac walked out over the grass behind the house, then onto the pebbly beach of the lake. Isaac walked in silence. Morja’s legs moved mechanically, bearing him along, his hands and head numb. He wondered where and when Isaac would tell him to get on his knees and execute him with quick, clean efficiency. 

Isaac had hesitated before. And diathésimos never hesitate. 

Diathésimos never show the enemy their back, either. But Isaac was walking only a few steps ahead of Morja, and Morja was staring at his empty waistband. 

Once they were about a quarter way around the lake, Isaac stopped walking. Morja knew without looking back that they must be out of sight of the house now, or at least the rear windows. 

He wanted to say goodbye to Sam.

He dropped to his knees. 

Isaac wanted something else from him, last time–

Shaking, shaking, he crossed his wrists behind him. 

“Get up, Morja, I’m not killing you today,” Isaac said without turning around. 

Morja choked on a sob. He stared up at Isaac’s back, the pebbles digging into his knees through the soft sweatpants they had given him. 

He was tired of the tricks, of the games - ah, diathésimos, I never told you to scream, I only told you to beg, now contain yourself or I’ll bring in another friend to enjoy you tonight - he was tired of the nightmares. 

He was tired of never knowing when a correction was coming. Let one come now.

He held his tongue and bowed his head. His shoulder ached from holding his arms in the position they were in, but he would hold them there as long as it took. 

Isaac whirled on Morja. “I said get up,” he snarled. Morja flinched minutely. The motion was hardly noticeable at all. 

He flinched hard when Isaac held out a hand in front of his face. He steeled himself and braced for the correction. Heat spread through his face in anticipation of the blow. This, he knew. He closed his eyes.

The wind made a soft sound through the bushes and trees around them as Isaac stood motionless in front of Morja. The pebbles ground into his knees, but he hardly noticed it. 

Other than the barn, he had not been made to kneel in so, so long. 

“Please,” Isaac whispered. His voice sounded so broken that Morja’s eyes opened in shock. The hand in front of his face was still there, motionless–

Not motionless. Shaking. 

“Please,” Isaac said again. “Please get up.” He opened his hand further and reached for Morja’s bicep. Morja let himself be pulled to his feet. Helped to his feet.

As he staggered upright, his hand landed on Isaac’s wrist. Isaac allowed the touch, allowed the weight. Once Morja had righted himself, he pulled away, staring at his feet. They stood together in silence, closer than they had ever been. Isaac made no move away from Morja. Morja stood stock still - gunpowder near a flame. A wrong move, and the explosion might destroy them both. 

Still, Isaac didn’t seem uncomfortable with Morja so close. He tucked his hands in his pockets and looked out over the lake. The sun shimmered on its surface in the late afternoon. It looked more like a pane of glass than water. 

“I’ve been thinking about what I– what happened.” Isaac said. He swallowed thickly. “About what I did. What I…” He wet his lips and stared at the ground. “What I almost did.”

“I understand it,” Morja said. “I am… I was…”

“It’s not about that,” Isaac said. “I know it. And I think you do, too.” He bent to pick a particularly smooth and flat stone from the beach. He straightened and flicked it over the surface of the lake. It skipped along the top several times before it slipped beneath the surface, sending ripples in every direction. 

“But I…” Morja blinked, staring at Isaac. “I did. Try. I mean… I apologize. I did try to kill your…” He lapsed into silence. 

“You’ve been… forced,” Isaac said. “And I… I know what that… means. What that’s like.” 

If you return without proof of death, diathésimos, it’ll be you on the rack next. 

Morja shivered and looked out over the lake with Isaac. Large white birds twisted and soared in the air currents above it. His eyes followed them for a while. 

Isaac broke the silence. “It’s not just that,” he whispered, pained. “I mean, I…” He glanced back at the house. It was a brilliant white smear on the edge of the lake. “Even after Gray… found… me… I didn’t stop killing. Even when I… even when…” He drew a hand over his face. The pale scars at his wrist peeked out from his long sleeve. “Even after I knew there was… a different way. I… I killed someone on… on our side.”

Morja’s throat tightened. He said nothing, just looked at Isaac. 

Isaac chewed his lip and kept going. “It was an argument that got out of hand. They were… going after Gray about a difference of opinion on how to handle a syndicate target. Gray was calm, and the other person… wasn’t. And they… they raised their hand to Gray, and I–” He let out a choked sound and sank into a squat beside Morja. 

The birds whirled above them, indifferent to the tears that glittered on Isaac’s cheeks. 

Isaac shot to his feet again, swiping the tears away. “Fuck,” he breathed. He glanced at Morja. Morja looked at the ground, bowing his head again. Isaac huffed out a bitter laugh. “You ever kill any kids?”

Shame clutched Morja’s heart. He swallowed, swallowed again. His hands squeezed into fists again.

They were enemies, diathésimos. An enemy is an enemy, no matter their age. Be careful, or I may suspect that you are beginning to sympathize with our enemy.

“Yes,” Morja said, more a breath than a word.

“Yeah,” Isaac responded, nodding. “Me, too.” 

More tears shone on Isaac’s cheeks, now. Gooseflesh rippled on Morja’s arms. His throat tightened. His eyes prickled, and he squeezed them shut. 

Sam’s body, juddering under his knife, flashed across his vision. He opened his eyes with a soft gasp. 

Isaac was looking at him with curiosity. Morja’s lips trembled as he returned the look.

“Is there a way to be something other than this?” Morja said with a numb mouth. 

Isaac was silent for so long that Morja thought he wasn’t going to answer. The lake made little ripples on the gravel. One bird landed on the lake and floated. It was joined by another, then a third. The wind moved through Morja’s hair. 

“I don’t know,” Isaac finally said. “I’m… trying to figure that out. With Gavin. With Sam. With my family.”

“And… could I…?” Morja’s knees shook. He was ready to let them fold, if it was the wrong question.

He was always ready to kneel.

“Could I… try… as well?” he whispered.

Isaac looked at him, then out across the lake. He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. He rubbed his fingertips along the scars along his throat, the ones that marked him for what he was - or used to be. “Yeah. I think you could.” He turned to keep walking along the edge of the lake. “Want to keep moving?” he said softly.

Morja paused. “Will you…?” His hand drifted up and trailed along the edge of his own collar, still buckled tightly around his throat. “Will you help me?”

Isaac’s gaze softened as he stepped forward. Gently, slowly - so slowly - he raised his hands and loosened the buckle of the collar. Just as gently, he drew the collar through the buckle until it was just a strip of leather hanging on Morja’s shoulders. Morja held one end of the collar in a shaking hand. As he did, Isaac covered his hand with his own. 

Slowly, Morja pulled the collar away until it slithered off his shoulders and hung from his fingers. He turned, resolutely, and faced the lake. Then, with perfect precision, he wound up and hurled the collar into the center of the lake, startling the birds who had decided to take their rest there. 

@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 , @starfields08000 , @morning-star-whump , @theelvishcowgirl , @i-eat-worlds

[whump-tr0pes]

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)

Your Part to Kill | My Part to Die | To Die Quietly | Despair | Dawn | Breakfast Part 1 | Breakfast Part 2

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. 

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

[whump-tr0pes]

Breakfast, Part 1

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)

Your Part to Kill | My Part to Die | To Die Quietly | Despair | Dawn | Breakfast Part 1

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. 

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

[whump-tr0pes]

Dawn

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)

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

[whump-tr0pes]

Your Part to Kill

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 myself 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.

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​

[whump-tr0pes]

Honor Bound masterlist

The war against the syndicates is over. Anyone who remains knows to keep their heads down and stay out of the way. Those who don't risk torture and death. Isaac grew up training to fight. He has spent the past six years of his life doing everything he can to strike back at the cruel syndicate families that destroyed his life. He and his friends have all been broken by the syndicates, one way or another. The group travels the country sabotaging the vicious Stormbecks, the syndicate that controls the region with an iron fist. When Sam, the group's youngest member, is kidnapped and tortured by the Stormbecks' son, Isaac would do anything to get them back. The ragtag family launches a mission to rescue Sam, and Isaac makes a choice that will shatter all their lives forever.

Honor Bound, Book 1: edited and published with 3 new chapters on Barnes & Noble and Amazon

Editor: @kys-chai-and-books

Honor Bound chapters here

~

Honor Bound, Book 2: edited and published with 5 new chapters on Barnes & Noble and Amazon

Editor: @kys-chai-and-books

Honor Bound 2 chapters here

~

Honor Bound, Book 3: edited and published with 2 new chapters on Barnes & Noble and Amazon

Editor: @kys-chai-and-books

Honor Bound 3 chapters here

~

Honor Bound, Book 4: edited and published with 2 new chapters on Barnes and Noble and Amazon

Editor: @kys-chai-and-books​

Honor Bound 4 chapters here

~

Honor Bound, Book 5: edited and published with 4 new chapters on Barnes and Noble and Amazon

Editor: @kys-chai-and-books​

Honor Bound 5 chapters here

~

Honor Bound, Book 6: (completed) coming to bookstores in 2025

Honor Bound 6 chapters here

~

Vera: (completed) - an Honor Bound prequel and companion to books 2 and 3 coming to bookstores in 2025 with 3 new chapters

Editor: @kys-chai-and-books​

Vera series chapters here

~

AUs:

Vampire AU: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

~

Ash/Athena Crossover AU(s)

Original AU with @ashintheairlikesnow and her brilliant Daniel Michaelson story

Fillis angst parade (AU to the AU), Finn/Patrick spice, Fillis AU spice/epilogue

AU to Fillis AU, Survivor’s Guilt (Iris at 14, written exclusively by @ashintheairlikesnow)

Just Us: Danny/Gavin AU, duende, nightmares, my name is Stormy

-

With Ash’s BBU story with Jake, Chris, and Antoni: 

Jake/Isaac comf part 1, Jake/Isaac comf part 2, Jake/Isaac comf part 3

~

The Collection Box/Honor Bound Crossover AU

Crossover with @whump-it and her BBU AU The Collection Box

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

~

Athena/Raye Crossover AU

Crossover with @newbornwhumperfly​ and their Morja and Company story

Your Part to Kill, My Part to Die, To Die Quietly, Despair, Dawn, Breakfast Part 1, Breakfast Part 2, To Die Without Flinching, Relief, Another Way to Be

~

Athena’s AO3

Athena’s Ko-fi

Athena’s bookshop.org link (I am an affiliate and do get commission if you use this link)

~

When the story begins in 2029...

Isaac Moore, 27: the protector of the team. He’s been tasked with keeping them all safe, but he tasks himself with so much more. He’s been trained to fight the crime syndicates since he was a teen. He’s brave, protective, and would do anything for the team’s youngest member, Sam.

~

Sam Vasterling, 19: the youngest and newest member of the team. They are Isaac’s little sibling in every way but blood. They’re sweet, devoted, and loved. They didn’t want this life, but that choice was taken away when they were at the wrong place at the wrong time. Now they’re part of the ragtag team, learning how to survive.

~

Gavin Stormbeck, 24: the son of the Stormbeck crime syndicate. He grew up learning to hurt people at the command of his parents, and has never known any life but the world he was born into. When he meets Isaac, he realizes there is something outside his own blood-soaked world, and would do anything to find out more.

~

Vera Novak, 36: a fighter in every way, and Isaac’s best friend. She became a cop to fight the syndicates, and learned the cruelty of the syndicates better than most. She fights by Isaac’s side to keep the team safe. She’s fiercely loyal to her family and would do anything to protect them... including hiding her dark past. 

~

Gray Uriah, 52: Gray is the heart and leader of the team. Empathetic, caring, and sensitive, they see the places their team needs support the most. They are always ready and willing to put someone else first. They are the only one that still remembers how the world was before the syndicates, and they’ve spent their whole life trying to fix things one way or another. 

~

Finn Dunham, 27: they have the unfortunate gift of having training as a combat medic. It’s unfortunate, they say, because that guarantees they’ll always be farthest from danger, waiting to patch up the team whenever they get hurt. They want nothing more but to be in the thick of the action.

~

Ellis Price, 34: Finn’s partner. They have no family left but the team. When Ellis’s family was gunned down by the Stormbecks, they vowed to do whatever they had to in order to bring the syndicates to justice. They hide their pain under a mask of sarcasm and snark but will fight you if you threaten their team. 

~

Tori Nasser, 33: Tori was involved in the resistance movements with Gray years ago. Now she runs a safehouse, helping out victims of the syndicates and trying to keep innocent people safe. She enjoys her quiet life under the radar. When she answers Gray’s call and lets the team into her protection, she has no idea what they bring to her doorstep… good, and bad.

~

Joseph Stormbeck, 51 (at the time of Honor Bound): Fourteen years before the start of Honor Bound, Vera was assigned to infiltrate Joseph’s syndicate. As the head of his family, he didn’t take kindly to the police snooping around his business. Rather than kill Vera outright, he decided to capture her and torment her for months. Suave, patient, and wildly sadistic, he became the subject of her nightmares when she’s asleep, and awake.

~

Ryan Pearson, 24 (at the time of the Vera series): Fourteen years before the start of Honor Bound, Ryan joined Joseph’s syndicate for safety, purpose, and most importantly, a job. When he was assigned night shift guard duty for Vera, he figured it was going to be an easy paycheck, babysitting an easy captive. He had no way of knowing the consequences of that assignment.

~

Colleen Stormbeck, 49 (at the time of Honor Bound 2): Colleen lives as one of the top syndicate members, in control of one of the biggest regions in the shattered country. She loves her husband and her son more than anything else in the world. When her husband is taken from her and her son nearly dies (again) at Vera’s hand, she decides to exercise her power as a Stormbeck to set the world right again: by hunting down and destroying Isaac and his team. She would do anything to maintain her family’s status and power, and there’s no one she wouldn’t cut down who got in her way.

~

Edrissa Clarke, 18: Edrissa has lived for the past 2 years as a syndicate plaything. Only her own spirit and the hope of seeing her brother again kept her alive. When the team rescues her during her own sale to another syndicate, she has no choice but to stay with the team for her safety, and theirs. She has no idea what she’s found in the family when they take her in.

~

Daniel Schiester, 42 (at the time of Honor Bound 2): he is the mysterious mayor of Crayton, the town that holds the line for the north. He has a grudge against the syndicates and takes particular interest in Gavin. He oversees the protection and safety of the refugees that come into his care both to make up for his dark past, and to carry out his own version of justice in the present.

~

Zachariah Medina, 18 (at the time of Honor Bound 3): Zachariah grew up in Fort Meyers, and he learned young that it was either work for the syndicates, or starve. When he gets a job at the Stormbeck household as a security guard, it is a relief. That relief is quickly replaced with horror as he realizes the implications of having to protect the Stormbecks - and who he’s forced to hurt in the process.

~

Cast faceclaims/fancasts here, here, here

Honor Bound playlist here

Isaac moodboard, Finn/Ellis moodboard, Vera moodboard, Gavin moodboard,  Isaac/Gavin moodboard,  Isaac/Gavin in captivity moodboard

Art from others:

Moodboards:

Moodboards by @orchidscript: Sam/Isaac/Gavin and Tori/Vera

Moodboards by @newbornwhumperfly: Gavin Stormbeck Uriah, Isaac and Sam, Gavin/Isaac book 3 & 4, Gavin/Isaac book 5 & 6, Tori/Vera, Gray Uriah, Daniel Schiester, Vera

Moodboards by @newandfiguringitout: Gavin and Isaac captivity, Isaac, Sam, Gavin, Ellis, Vera, Isaac and Sam, Isaac/Gavin

Art:

Commissions by @albino-whumpee: Isaac/Gavin, Isaac and Sam, HMS ToriVera, Isaac/Gavin book 6

Commissions by @boxboysandotherwhump​​: Isaac/Gavin book 6, Gavin’s nightmare, Isaac, Gavin, and Sam book 6

Commission by @erissa002​: Vera

Commission by @luckydanart​: Sam in book 3, Isaac/Gavin in book 4

Gavin Uriah then/now by @who-needs-a-life-anyways​

Nata the cat (?) and Zelda the dog (!), Gavin takes the trash out, the team meets Tom Bombadil by @burtlederp​

The end of the Stormbecks by @mostlyjustwhump​

The family by @my-whumpy-little-heart

Isaac/Gavin by @luckydanart​

Music and more:

Gavin Stormbeck Uriah playlist, Isaac Moore playlist by @newbornwhumperfly​

The Honor Bound Season 1 Episode 1 TV pilot of my dreams by @butwhatifyouwrite

@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​, @squishablesunbeam​, @whumpifi​

[newbornwhumperfly]

athena…how dare you break my heart this wayyyyyyyy 😭😭🥺🥺😭😭

every chapter of this au causes me to cry but this chapter is just??? the parallels between morja and gavin as weapons choosing to be humans who can grow and love??? morja trying to be good at all costs because everything is a test and he’s always failing?? the EDRISSA AND ISAAC ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION PARALLEL (jfc athena that fucking HITS) 😭😭😭

fuck, man, isaac saying “i have to do this” and “they’re not gonna be safe as long as you’re around” because he sees himself in morja and isaac never thinks he himself is fully safe or able to keep his family from harm…they are the same and they are lost, what does that say about how isaac sees himself…💔💔💔

but morja’s breakdown at the end was the most piercing scene…how he’s so exhausted and shaken and overwhelmed that he breaks down in gavin’s knee while gavin strokes his hair because he understands and he uses hands morja was most afraid of to soothe his terror??? are you trying to murder me because that tenderness cut me to the bone 😭🥺😭

“I’m not what they made me and neither are you.”

oh. oh. oh. 😭💔🥺💖 yeah. that’s it.

To Die Without Flinching

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)

Your Part to Kill | My Part to Die | To Die Quietly | Despair | Dawn | Breakfast Part 1 | Breakfast Part 2 | To Die Without Flinching

Contents: recovery, PTSD, conditioned whumpee, tied up, blindfolded, attempted murder, false execution, rescue

~

After weeks with this family, Morja now moved freely among them. When they left the house in the morning to do their chores, he left with them, eager to help. When they returned in the evening to cook dinner together, he joined them, learning the skill of which spices to mix together to create the flavors that pleased them all. When he returned to his room at night, he went without a lock on the door. He slept in the bed, now. He didn’t fear what might happen to him in it. 

This team, this family, they were kind to him in a way he had never experienced before. He knew they were dangerous, but he wanted - so, so badly - for them to trust him, so that they might always turn their kind eyes on him forever. Their patience for each other seemed to know no limits, and they always seemed to want to be together. They never raised their voices or their hands to each other, or to him. Even when he could tell they were angry, they never did what he knew in his bones should happen; they never tied his wrists and whipped him until their tempers were eased. That always made his anóteros feel better. And yet, they refused to do it to him. 

He didn’t understand it. 

Still, when Isaac Moore called him to the barn one day, he couldn’t help but feel a prickle of unease. A few weeks of strangeness could not undo a lifetime of lessons, after all. But when Isaac called him, he went. He obeyed.

“Yes, Isaac Moore, is there something you need?” he said, keeping his gaze on the floor of the barn. Even if Isaac was a diathésimos like him, he was still uncollared and freed. Morja must always show him deference and respect. 

“Yes,” Isaac Moore said, his voice flat. A shiver moved up Morja’s spine as Isaac moved to block the barn door. His eyes were dull, his hands in fists at his sides. 

The hair on the back of Morja’s neck stood up. “Please… tell me what it is I can do for you,” he said, though lips that were beginning to go numb. His lungs were too large for his ribcage.

Isaac Moore finally raised his gaze and met Morja’s. Isaac’s eyes burned into Morja’s as he said, “Put your hands behind your back and get on your knees.” His right hand was behind his back, reaching for his waistband.

Morja did not even consider disobeying. His fell to his knees with a crack, crossing his arms at the wrists behind him. “Y-yes, diathésimos,” he croaked. 

Isaac’s face hardened as he stepped forward. Morja sucked in a breath and forced himself perfectly upright. His hands quaked behind him, despite the fists he was making. When Isaac Moore stepped behind him and bound his wrists together, he let out a terrified breath. When a rough strip of cloth was tied over his eyes, he uttered a shameful sound of fear. 

His throat was too dry to swallow with. His chest was too tight to breathe with. His mouth hung open and he tilted his head, desperately listening for Isaac Moore’s next move. When the cold metal of Isaac’s gun pressed against the back of his head, he folded over his knees with a shudder.

“Don’t move,” Isaac ground out.

“Y-yes, diathésimos,” Morja sobbed dryly. He understood, now, he saw it all. It had all been a test somehow, and he had failed. This was the cleanest end he could hope for: a bullet in his brain, a shallow grave behind the farmhouse that had been his unwitting prison for all these weeks. Had the test simply been to see if he could figure out that he had been a captive at all?

Had his anóteros set this all up to punish him for his failure?

One thing was certain: he was going to die with his anóteros’ collar wrapped tight around his neck.

He pressed his lips together and waited for the white-hot blast, and then the oblivion after. It didn’t come. It didn’t come. Despite Isaac’s admonition, he rocked minutely forward and back, drawing in breaths too shallow to provide enough air. He tried to wait silently. Pitiful whimpers made their way past his lips anyway. 

He was failing.

“I-I need to do this,” Isaac Moore murmured.

Morja nodded frantically, at a loss for what else to do. The gun pressed harder into the back of his head, and he froze.

“You’re a fucking threat to my family. A threat to Gavin.”

Morja couldn’t deny it. He couldn’t deny that he had harbored some small hope that he might one day carry out his mission and make his anóteros proud - but he wanted something else, too, something he couldn’t name. The clash made him sick. 

“You can’t change. You can’t fucking learn, I’ve been watching for the switch to flip and it hasn’t. I need to put you down. I… I see you watching him… and I know that everything he taught you is still in there, because… because for the longest time, it was like that with me…”

Morja couldn’t deny that, either.. He squeezed his eyes shut behind the blindfold and waited to die. 

“I… I have to fucking do this.” The gun pressed harder, then harder still, until it was pinning Morja’s head against the wooden floor between his knees. He felt Isaac adjusting his grip. He heard Isaac shuffle his feet against the floorboards. He drew in a terrified breath, could barely let it out without a groan escaping him. He was trapped, unable to move, unable to speak. He heard Isaac Moore sniff. He was crying. 

“Isaac?”

Morja flinched hard when Gavin Stormbeck’s horrified voice filled the barn.

The gun eased its pressure on the back of Morja’s head. 

“Gavin.” Isaac sounded frightened. 

“What… oh, fuck, did you…? Isaac, what–”

Morja couldn’t help it; when Gavin Stormbeck fell to his knees beside him, when a hand settled in his hair, right next to the gun, he let out a muffled wail of terror.

“Tell me you’re not doing this,” Gavin breathed. His hand was shaking on Morja’s head. “Tell me you didn’t… lure him here so that you could execute him in cold blood.”

“He came here to execute you in cold blood, Gavin,” Isaac snarled. Morja’s body tensed as the gun jammed hard into him. “Don’t–”

“This isn’t you,” Gavin said. “Isaac… this isn’t you. Please tell me this isn’t who you are.”

No one moved or breathed for a long moment. Then Isaac said, “You know this is who I’ve been for a long time.”

Gavin’s hand tightened in Morja’s hair. “Not anymore.”

“But he–”

“He stopped! Like you! How can you look at him and not see you?” Gently, Gavin’s fingers smoothed through Morja’s hair. Horrified, desperate, Morja found himself pressing the side of his head against Gavin’s knee. 

The gun on his head pressed harder, harder, hard enough that Morja knew it would leave a deep bruise. Then, all at once, it disappeared. Isaac Moore stepped back. Heavy footsteps left the barn. 

Morja took a deep, shuddering breath and shook apart into dry, tearless sobs. His head rested on Gavin’s leg, and the syndicate son’s hands rested gently in his hair. 

“Shhh,” Gavin Stormbeck soothed. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”

Morja could no longer pretend. He could no longer be silent. He was so frightened, and confused, but most of all he was so, so tired. He didn’t much care if the syndicate son had a knife waiting for him. All he could feel was the gentleness of the boy’s hands in his hair, the solidity of his leg, and the beat beat beat of his heart that threw itself against his ribs. Gavin slipped the blindfold from his eyes and tossed the cloth into the corner of the barn. Slowly - he used his fingers, not a knife - he worked the knot tying Morja’s hands free.

“You’re safe,” Gavin said again. 

Morja’s fingers clutched at Gavin’s pant leg. “Y-yes, anóteros,” he stammered, desperate to be good, to obey - anything to keep Isaac’s gun from pressing against his head again. “Yes, Gavin Stormbeck–”

“Please don’t call me that,” Gavin whispered. 

Morja’s stomach heaved. His eyes went wide and he buried his face against Gavin’s leg. He shuddered in the moment between inhale and exhale - in the moment between mistake and correction. 

“I… I apologize,” Morja rasped through numb lips. He pushed away from Gavin and pressed his forehead to the floor in front of him, shaking, broken, cold. “Please,” he could not stop himself from saying. “Please.”

Gavin’s hand landed on him again. Morja made a horrible, humiliating bleat of fear, but he did not move. He did not move. He waited. 

“My name is Gavin Uriah,” came the quiet voice. It sounded like Gavin was in pain. 

Morja’s throat worked around a swallow. “I-I…”

“I’m not what they made me. And neither are you.”

Then Gavin’s hand was in his hair again, moving slowly, gently. The touch was so soft that it undid him. Morja crumpled, leaning forward into the touch until his head was in Gavin Uriah’s lap. Dry sobs heaved through him as the fear and pain moved over him and out. He pressed his face into Gavin��s thigh and allowed the touch, allowed the hand in his hair. 

“I’m sorry,” Gavin said quietly. “I’m so sorry.” 

Morja could say nothing in response. His throat was too strained. 

Gavin sat with him in the barn for a long time. He held Morja, waiting until his great, awful sobs had stopped, before he took his arm and led him back toward the house. 

@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 , @starfields08000 , @morning-star-whump

[much-ado-about-whumping]

I am SCREAMING at how fiercely evocative and subtle and beautiful this is!!!

Your Part to Kill

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 myself 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.

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.

Keep reading

[newbornwhumperfly]

screaming 😭😭😭💖💖💖🥹🥹🥹😩😩😩

jfc, athena, every chapter you pen of my boy and your blorbos sharing angsts, i curl up into a ball and die of happiness 😭💖😭

this opening scene was so fucking brutal??? the visceral gore, the anguish, the way morja just wanted someone to make him stop…😰😰😰 and there’s something so chilling and hurtful about when morja gets hit in the face and how casual it is and how he expects it…something about the contrast of small brutality with the larger brutality is so choice 🥺🥺🥺

(“don’t worry, we still have the rest of the family to get through.” on GOD, athena. 💔😩😭😰😈 CHILLS!!! and the moment where morja is startled out of his dissociation, thinking about his new home, and then snaps out of it again the moment he gaslights himself with denial…fuckkkkk that hit. 😩😩😩)

and the soothing…holy fuck…😭💖🥹 i feel like we so rarely get to see sam take on a soothing role but it’s such a sign of how they’ve grown into themself? how they use their pain to connect and empathize, they’re so strong and cool, athenaaaaaa 😩😭😩

the comparison of injuries was so precious? morja thinking he’ll get in trouble for admitting to an injury was so APT, he truly does closely guard his “weaknesses” and sam making themself vulnerable in that moment…what a beautiful connection 🥹🥹🥹

something about how much morja just anticipated being punished for vulnerability (expecting the cane or the knife) and then…the compress? the way it moved something so fragile inside him? the hug at the end? 😭😭😭💖💖💖😩😩😩 they both deserve comfort for their vulnerability and it’s so nice to see morja be seen for how fragile he really is on the inside? and how he deserves that fragility honored 🥹🥹🥹

Relief

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)

Your Part to Kill | My Part to Die | To Die Quietly | Despair | Dawn | Breakfast Part 1 | Breakfast Part 2 | To Die Without Flinching

Contents: nightmare, [captivity, beating, gaslighting, forced to hurt someone, torture, flaying, so much blood, begging, death] all in a nightmare, collared whumpee, conditioned whumpee, past murder, PTSD, emeto, comfort, flashbacks, permanent injury, chronic pain, misunderstanding whump, recovery

~

Morja instantly knew where he was; the peeling paint on the walls, the barred door, and the cold blue lights overhead told him everywhere he needed to know. He was back in his cell room, back in Crayton. He was back where he belonged. 

There was an addition to the room, and the room seemed to have grown to accommodate it: a large metal table with leather cuffs at the top and bottom. Morja shuddered as he looked at it. He knew exactly what it was for. He had been on one himself, more than once. He wondered if his anóteros meant for him to climb onto it. 

Before the lack of answer could worry him, there was a sound behind him. Boots. A voice. 

“Hello, my diathésimos,” his owner benefactor said. A steady hand slid up the back of his neck, over his collar, and knotted in his hair. He dropped to his knees in an instant.

“Anóteros,” he said, his lips trembling. His hands settled in his lap and he tilted his head back, baring his throat. He was where he belonged at last - but his eyes burned, and his mouth was dry. He couldn’t explain it. He belonged at his anóteros’ feet, did he not? He had never known another home than this. 

No, there was another place, where he had a bed, not a cot - where there were no bars on the door, and there were windows that opened to the outside–

A blow snapped his head to the side. He accepted it without a gasp. His right ear rang. 

“Where did you just go, Morja?” the mayor said, his voice low and smooth. Morja knew better, though - he could hear the threat beneath the words. 

He answered honestly. He must always be honest.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. He closed his eyes and waited for the correction. 

Another blow whipped across his face, splitting his lip. Blood began to trickle down his chin. It itched. He did not lift his hand to wipe it. When it dripped on his wrists, then the floor, he knew he would need to clean it after this. 

“I don’t think you’ve ever been anywhere but this,” his anóteros said conversationally. “Other than when you are serving me on my missions, of course.”

An image flashed behind Morja’s closed eyes: a breakfast table, laden with eggs, bacon, toast. 

“Yes, anóteros,” he breathed. 

“Open your eyes, Morja,” the mayor said.

Morja obeyed.

He barely caught his gasp when he realized there was someone lying on the table now: Sam, the youngest of the family that was harboring Gavin Uriah Stormbeck. He remembered where that room was now: in that family’s house. 

Their wrists and ankles were strapped down to the table. With the table at eye level, he could see how tightly the restraints were buckled, the leather digging into their flesh. They trembled and stared back at him in terror, their mouth open but silent.

Morja’s owner benefactor drew the knife from his belt and held it out in front of Morja’s face. Morja held perfectly still, prepared for the knife to carve into his own cheek - but the knife hovered there, the blade between him and Sam. He could see himself reflected in the wickedly sharp steel.

“This one was captured harboring Gavin Stormbeck,” the mayor said coldly. “It is your job to punish them for this crime.” 

Morja’s throat tightened as he swallowed. His hands shook and he forced him to be still against his thighs. “Punish them… sir?” he croaked.

“Yes,” his anóteros said. “Gavin Stormbeck is a scourge upon this world, and they have actively worked to prolong his reign of terror. There must be punishment for this. You will deliver it.” The mayor flipped the knife so he was holding the blade, gesturing with the grip toward Sam. “Now, diathésimos,” he hissed.

Morja’s legs shook under him as he pushed himself to his feet. Sam met his eyes, and their eyes went wider as Morja took the knife from the mayor. His anóteros stepped behind him as he moved forward, as if in a trance, until his legs pressed against the table. The knife trembled in his grip.

He forced his mind to go cold and blank - like it so often did before the kill - as he brought the knife to Sam Vasterling’s sleeve. He made quick work of slashing it away from their arm until it was bare, the thin muscles rippling and tugging beneath the skin as they struggled to free themself. Then, as he blew out a slow breath through his lips, he brought the knife to their forearm. 

“Morja, please,” Sam begged.

The knife froze over Sam’s skin. Morja met their eyes. They looked so frightened, so young, strapped down to the table and pleading for their life. 

But Morja had killed younger people than them. And he had never spared anyone just because they begged him to. He forced down the bile that clawed up his throat, and slid the knife into Sam’s forearm down to the muscle. 

Sam screamed. They made no effort to bite it back. Tears welled in their eyes and streamed back over their temples. Morja carved into their arm again, staying within the first few layers of skin, fat, and muscle - avoiding the arteries. He could see the play of their muscles in the gash as they fought the restraints. Again, he cut, and veins stood out in their neck as they screamed.

He had seen his anóteros hurt people like this. He knew, now, how very effective it was. 

After he had sliced their arm to ribbons, he cut away the rest of their shirt. He avoided touching their skin as much as he could, as if one touch would burn him. They looked at him, trying to meet his eyes, desperate, writhing against the leather cuffs. He looked away. 

“Please, no, no, no!” Sam shrieked as Morja sliced through the thin skin over their breastbone. They shuddered and writhed, tears streaming, wrists twisting in the restraints. Morja’s shirt was soaked through with sweat. His hands shook as he gripped the knife. He cut again, and again, and again. Blood pooled in the hollows of Sam’s body. It rolled down their sides and onto the table, then dripped onto the floor. The entire room smelled thick with blood. 

And behind him, his anóteros stood silent as a sentinel. He chewed his lip and continued cutting Sam to pieces. They screamed and sobbed. The handle of the knife was slippery with sweat. 

“Isaac!” Sam screamed, finally squeezing their eyes shut and turning their face away from Morja. “Isaac, h-help me!”

Morja shuddered. The knife froze above Sam, dripping blood onto their skin. 

Sam whimpered and cringed away from Morja. “I-Isaac,” they sobbed. “Please…”

“Continue,” Morja’s anóteros hissed from behind him. A chill feathered down Morja’s spine as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

His hand tightened around the knife. The smell of blood was making him sick. Sam was barely more than a child, and Morja felt - he felt, he knew - they had nothing to do with the evil his owner benefactor was claiming. But if he could make them scream loud enough that Isaac heard them…

If Isaac Moore came, he could force Morja to stop this.

He brought the knife to patch of unbroken skin over Sam’s stomach and dug the blade in. Sam screamed anew. 

He fileted them open, carving into them with a cruelty he had only seen his anóteros reserve for the most depraved traitors of the North. He flayed them alive until his hands were soaked with their blood. They screamed and screamed until their voice went raw and began to fade. Still, he cut. Still, he carved. He slipped on the blood pooling on the floor. Everything was red. He was drowning in it. And still, Isaac Moore did not come and rip the knife from his hands, strike him down, shoot him dead. 

Still, he carved. 

Sam Vasterling screamed. 

“Keep going, diathésimos,” the mayor said. “Remember, this is the fate that awaits all who harbor traitors to the North. They are guilty. They deserve this.”

The small body on the table juddered and bled and screamed. They barely looked human anymore. Still, they did not die. More blood had come out of them than Morja had ever seen in his life. Still they did not die. They only screamed and bled. 

Morja’s shirt was soaked with sweat. He stared down into Sam’s chest, at their beating heart. He had carved away everything else. Still, they lived, and cried, and bled. 

“Isaac,” they rasped. “Isaac, please…”

Bile seared the back of his throat. 

They raised their eyes to his. Their eyes were bloodshot, red from crying, but they were brown, he noticed. They looked so frightened. “Morja,” they breathed. “Help me.”

Morja stared back at them for an eternal moment. Tears streamed from their eyes. 

He raised the knife and plunged it into their exposed heart. They shuddered once, then their head fell back. Their eyes were blank, their mouth open. They were - finally, mercifully - dead.

Morja braced for the correction.

His anóteros said nothing for a breath. Then, the mayor said, “No matter. You still have the rest of that family to get through.”

Morja opened his eyes. 

His room was pitch black, and the sheets on his bed were soaked through with cold sweat. He could still smell blood thick in his nostrils. 

He staggered out of bed and fumbled for the doorknob. When he found it, he wrenched the door open and dashed down the dimly-lit hall and into the kitchen. He threw open the sliding door to the backyard and made it a few shaky steps before he fell to his hands and knees, retching into the grass. When he was done, he slumped over and sobbed weakly. 

He still felt the youngest one’s blood on his hands, tacky and warm. He still smelled it. He still heard their screams. He still felt his anóteros’ hand on the back of his neck. 

“Morja?” a small voice called out behind him.

He gasped and spun around. Sam Vasterling stood in the sliding door, silhouetted by the light in the kitchen. The golden light illuminated their curls like a halo. They took a halting step out of the house. Their hand was extended towards him. “Are… you alright?”

Morja blinked. In the fraction of a second that his eyes were closed, he saw them - bound to the table, coated in blood, flayed and screaming and begging for mercy. His stomach heaved again. He bowed his head in shame and horror. 

Sam drew closer. They were so young, but they showed no fear as they went to their knees and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Morja wasn’t sure if they didn’t know that he could break their neck with just his hands, could drag them inside and cut their throat with a kitchen knife… or if they knew, and chose to master the fear. He trembled, but held still as their hand rubbed up and down on his arm. The touch was gentle, so unlike–

He flinched at the memory - it was just a dream, but he had so many real memories of it, too - of his anóteros’ hand whipping across his face. Sam’s hand paused on his shoulder. “Is this… is it okay that I’m doing this?” they whispered.

A chasm opened inside Morja’s chest. His face crumpled and he began to weep. 

He leaned against Sam, bending his head so low that it rested in their lap. Their hand rested on his shoulder again. He reached out, his own hand shaking badly, and covered their hand with his own. His broad hand swallowed theirs. 

“Shhh,” Sam soothed. “I’m sorry, was it… a nightmare?”

Morja shuddered with shame. He pressed his head against their knee and nodded. 

Sam pushed out a slow breath. “Gotcha. I… I get them too, sometimes.” 

Morja blinked and tightened his hand over theirs. The thought of them waking, cold and shuddering, from a nightmare, made his chest ache. He rolled his shoulder to ease the old twinge there. 

“I get them less now,” Sam said, stroking their thumb along his arm. “But they still happen from time to time. About… our time in Colleen Stormbeck’s house. I… I get a lot of nightmares about getting shot.”

Morja’s eyes went wide, and he sat up. His eyes darted over Sam, looking for a scar - and his eyes finally settled on their right hand, the one they always held curled against their stomach. 

Sam followed their gaze and nodded. “Yeah,” they murmured. “It was a few years ago now. I was shot by a Stormbeck guard as we were escaping Colleen.” They smiled. “Finn saved my life.”

“Does it hurt?” Morja asked, before he could stop himself. He looked at his hands and bowed his head for his impertinence. 

Sam didn’t deliver a correction, though; they said, “Sometimes. Well… pretty often, yeah. It twinges. Sometimes I need to wear a sling.” They shrugged. “But it’s gotten better as time has gone on.”

Morja’s own shoulder twinged again, and he rolled it in its socket. 

Sam inclined their head. “You hurt, too?”

Morja’s mouth went dry. “I… no. Nothing so bad as… no.”

Sam looked at him for a long time. Then they said, “Gray says comparing things doesn’t do anyone any good.” They glanced out into the night. 

Morja stared down at his hands. His mind churned as he tried to decipher the meaning in Sam’s words. Slowly, he said, “My… shoulder. It hurts. Often.” He pointed to it stiffly.

“Don’t complain, diathésimos, or I will teach you the true meaning of pain. Back up on your knees, or I’ll string you up by your collar. Five more lashes for your impertinence.”

He shuddered and waited for the correction, or the promise of one. 

Sam nodded. “Yeah,” they said. They looked toward the house. “I’ll be right back.” They pushed themself to their feet and made their way inside to fetch a cane, or perhaps a whip, to punish Morja for the complaint.

His head dipped low and his stomach churned with guilt and shame - and a flash of something else, something he could not allow himself to name. Something that felt dangerous to feel. Something that rankled for having been guided right into that trap. 

Still, he should have known better. He had a lifetime of pain, telling him that he should have known better. His hands curled into fists as he waited for Sam to return. When he heard their footsteps at the back door, and then the swoosh of their feet through the grass, he squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth together. He must be silent when accepting this correction. He must not wake anyone in the sleeping house with a gasp or a cry. 

He had earned Sam’s disgust with his weakness. He must not make a sound, now. 

Sam went to their knees beside him, and he held perfectly still - save for his hands, which he slid together, palm to palm, so they could tie him. 

“Here,” they said softly. 

He held back a whimper. Perhaps they had not returned with a cane at all, but something worse - like a knife. He forced his eyes open. Their hand was moving toward his shoulder - the bad one. He froze. He braced. 

Something warm pressed against the knot that always lived in the flesh there. He flinched and uttered a shocked sound. 

“Sorry,” Sam muttered. “Is it too hot still?”

Morja turned his eyes to theirs. Their eyebrows were tugged together, holding something out to him - a warm compress. They had another one, balanced on their injured hand. “Here,” they said, holding one out to him. “The heat… it helps, sometimes. With me. Maybe it might with you, too.”

Morja stared at the compress with wide eyes. Sam held it a little higher, and he finally took it. Heat soaked into his finger tips. Sam took their own compress in their good hand and pressed it to their injured arm, over their bicep. They took a deep, shivering breath and let their eyes fall shut. 

Morja’s back ached in thwarted anticipation of the cane. He glanced at the compress in his hand, then back to Sam; their face wasn’t twisted in disgust - not at him, nor at anything else that he could see. They were smiling lightly. And they were using the compress. Haltingly, hesitantly, he pressed it to his own shoulder like Sam had done for him. 

Heat bloomed in the knotted muscles and he let out a trapped breath. His eyes burned with unshed tears. He slumped a little to the side - a little closer to Sam. They opened their eyes and smiled at him. 

“Nice, huh?” they said. 

Morja’s throat tightened. His head hung low. A dry sob shivered in his chest. 

Sam raised their curled hand and rested it on his shoulder. They slid it across his back, over the healed scars. Morja’s head dipped lower, lower still, until he was folded in half over his knees. He cried softly as Sam rubbed his back, not saying anything at all. 

@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 , @starfields08000 , @morning-star-whump , @theelvishcowgirl , @i-eat-worlds