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newbornwhumperfly · 2 months

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to mention problem in front of power...

whilst these final two chapters are belated, there was simply no choice but to end whumpmas with a whimper 😈🥺😈 for this @whumpmasinjuly prompt - day 18: or else - i published a follow-up to this chapter. oops, jorah is being his nasty, intimidating self. that's just who he is, folks, we couldn't have too nice a time 😇😇😇

CW: punishment, burn whump, hidden whump

title insp. by the poem "social skills training" by solmaz sherif - "studies suggest it's best not to mention problem in front of power even to say there is none."

He’s not supposed to have opinions about…the company around him. It doesn’t matter, for example, that everyone at Fort Hill is so merciful. It doesn’t matter, for example, that he is comfortable here. That he has enough and more than enough of everything and there is no measure given to what Morja is allowed compared to what he done.

Everyone does their part here, Captain Brax had told him, speaking the way they do where their words slot into place sensible and correct. Just do your part to help the group and we shall return the favor, everyone goes to bed content. A smile that makes his insides shift to a calm rhythm and agree, yes, that all makes sense when they say it.

But consequences work in strange ways here with the enormous amount of allowances.

It makes Morja worry, still, that even the Commander has not…hurt him very badly, yet. That there have been no whippings. No long exposure in the weather, outside. Nothing that has even made him bleed.

He hasn’t had to keep himself in line so much for…ever.

But he still hasn’t been punished for hitting Lieutenant- for hitting Cobi. A week of waiting, strangely, felt itself like a punishment. Laying on his back, in his bed, hands over the ache in his stomach, pressing his thumb into the bruise on his knuckles. Unable to sleep more than an hour a night.

The hardest part of correction here is that he never knows when it will happen. Not that he deserves to be told. Of course not. It is just…it would help if he knew when.

Knowing it’s stupid and cowardly and almost certainly disobedient hasn’t kept Morja from trying to stay out of Cobi’s way, skirting rooms he is in, avoiding the gym for his workouts until very early or very late, trying to sweat out his nerves.

It’s only because he has a job this weekend (laundry duty, something that, somehow, is not his duty every day) which sends him into the recreation room where he knows Cobi waits, where he plays with the Commander and some visiting officers. Morja shouldn’t have to, at this point, but his throat still clicks when he slips through the door and watches the width of Cobi’s arms stretch across the pool table, the curl of how large his hands are around the stick.

At a crow of victory, Cobi pumps his fist in the air, pushing it back through his curls, the shadow of his- his black eye faint but visible.

The balls click together loudly, thudding clatter, Morja’s ears buzz for a second. Distracts himself by keeping to the edge of the room, cleaning up a little, maybe, maybe if he’s useful Cobi is less likely to notice him in annoyance or…worse.

In the corner, the teevee flickers with bright, loud noises, and men yell, jostle, shout as cars race across the screen and their hands move frantically over black boxes. A soft cloud of smoke tells Morja that the Commander is over encouraging one of his friends on the couch.

Black hair, backwards cap, solid back and shoulders, making most of the noise. A thinner man with yellow hair joining him in play, lanky, laughing a lot. A short redhead, at the pool table, square and quiet and making Cobi grin. Jorah’s - the Commander’s - friends.

Morja shouldn’t be distracted in a room full of people, he really shouldn’t be making pictures in his head, but his hands move quiet and efficient over empty beer bottles and bags of chips, countertop to garbage bin, and he is so used to not being seen in a room at all. He should know better than to almost startle when a voice stops him in his tracks.

“Looking for something?”

Morja spins around so fast the bottles he was holding clink together loudly in his hands, shit, and his throat clicks again at the Commander being suddenly very close. His stomach drops as suddenly eyes, every eye, turns to him.

Morja can’t get his mouth to work for a second, dry, swallowing. The smell of ash is very close and only the island of a countertop seperates him from the Commander leaning forward on his elbows, staring. His gaze is hard and cold.

When is it not?

“Cleaning. I’m just cleaning up a- a little bit?”

Morja hates that he ended it as a question. Doesn’t he know whether he’s cleaning up or not, diathésimos? It’s hard to think with the blare of light and crashing cars and buzzing music from the screen across the room. His skin crawls.

A laugh booms across the space and Morja flinches again as Cobi calls out. “Hey, buddy, you any good at pool? Martz here is kicking my ass, so much for my long reach-“

“Who’s the wallflower?” Another voice cuts out, booming, like Cobi’s, but…no laughter. Or…different laughter, as the man in the backwards cap calls over his shoulder. “Waiting to be asked to dance?” The blond man at his side titters - “Nice, Petey-“ - and Morja’s hands feel large and clumsy around the bottles.

“That’s my friend Morja, Ben, and I bet he’d love a chance to beat your sorry asses at pool. Could probably gimme a run for my money, right, Jorah? Can’t beat ‘im in much, I’ve learned!”

Cobi beams across the room and what does that mean? Is it- is that a reference? Is he trying to draw Morja out, somehow? Is this another strange kindness? His blue eyes are bright behind the black eye and Morja can’t read anything but the smile on his face.

Jorah breathes out a cloud of smoke from his cigarette and Morja stifles his urge to cough, speaking tightly and quietly against the itch in the back of his throat and the watering in his eyes.

“…Thank you, um, I really just came to ask if you needed any laundry collected?” Morja bites down on the sir or anotéros he wants to end that with and the chasm it leaves under his feet makes his stomach clench. He should be trying to be as good as possible right now and that smile he gets back only makes him blink harder.

“Aw, man, thanks for asking, I totally fuckin’ forget- left the basket by my door so you can just take it. Uh, got some shirts that I gotta iron, take ‘em also. Thanks, Morja!”

“…It’s my job.”

“And it’s very helpful!”

Morja seeks the familiar comfort of the garbage bin because what does he say to that, trying not to fumble under the attention as he drops glass into the blue bin, plastic into another.

“Hey, Morja.”

Morja freezes. The Commander doesn’t say his name…much. His palms prickle a little.

“Grab me a beer while you’re over there.” Jorah’s eyes are unreadable when Morja meets them and he gestures to the fridge behind Morja, a flutter of ash falling to the countertop. Blows another cloud of smoke around a row of straight teeth. “If it’s not too much trouble, of course.”

Morja’s hand actually slips on the handle of the fridge-door getting it open, quick, efficient, sweating, pulling out the cool glass bottle and hearing the Commander call out - “Yo, Petey? Kip? Need a top-up?”

Morja gathers more before he even hears the yells of confirmation and moves across the space with four bottles in his hand - Commander and his two friends and Cobi because he can’t neglect to serve him even a little bit. He doesn’t look up at the Commander when the cigarette is ground out on the sink, left smoldering on the shiny steel, but the boots stay close for a long moment. Morja breathes again when they retreat, taking the bottles with them, handing them out with cheers in answer.

Breathes deeper when he escapes, no, walks back into the hallway, takes the moment of pleasure and loudness to vanish into his duties.

He should have known he didn’t have permission to breathe deep.

Morja is too drawn into his tasks, in doing a good job gathering baskets of clothing, in carefully washing the bundles one by one with care, in the little measure of relief he takes in spending extra time washing Cobi’s things. Extra treatment to get the sweat-stains out. The grease and oil and spice of snacks smeared on shirts. Bleach and scent and color-correct, the neatly labeled supplies laid out in the laundry room. The slow, even press of the hot iron over those shirts, one by one, getting a straight collar, a crisp cuff - Cobi will be pleased by the shirts.

In his rhythm, his lax enjoyment of the amends, he almost doesn’t hear the click of the door until it shuts.

Morja almost drops the iron, shameful, setting it carefully on the board and going to stiff attention as the Commander stands in the shadow of the doorway. Quiet. Eyes narrow and cold as always, for a long moment.

“Sir.”

Silence. Morja’s mouth goes dry. He waits, waits for a minute, longer, before his fucking will breaks to glance up. Through the small window of the door, there is a broad back and a backwards cap. Commander’s friend standing at the door.

Morja’s fingertips prickle again and his chest seizes on a stopped breath. He isn’t going to be trouble. He isn’t- he won’t fight back against correction, there doesn’t need to be a guard. Does the Commander think Morja can’t be trusted to obey?

Why wouldn’t he? Not after what happened. Morja is no better than a feral dog if bites when being trained.

Heat crawls up Morja’s neck, his chest, flushing all the way down to the shrinking feeling in his stomach. Can’t be trusted. Of course. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands as the Commander walks up to the ironing board and he wants to kneel at the Commander’s feet, hot and shaky, smaller, lesser, fuckup.

“These are Cobi’s shirts.”

Morja doesn’t know if that’s a question.

“…Yessir?”

Shouldn’t you know, fuckwit?

One hand strokes over the green cloth spread out on the ironing board, the row of dark buttons, the collar, plucking at the sleeve.

“You missed a spot.”

What?

Before the little spike of cold can land, Morja is flung forward on the ironing board, the side of his head slamming into the surface, ringing, the air driven out of him, the edge driving into his chest. He gasps and the hand, the Commander’s hand, tight, cold, squeezing to the point of pain, pinning. Morja’s hands are behind his back, he doesn’t struggle, he can be still.

“Do you. See. This. Wrinkle?”

Morja’s throat moves, works around dryness, tries to answer, can’t see more than the long stretch of board, bunched green cloth, the iron at the end.

“Here, take a closer look.”

The Commander picks up the iron.

Sets it right in front of his face.

Breathe.

Fingers pinch the skin of his skin, pressing, holding, and Morja can see the shimmer of heat in the air. The metal an inch from his face. Even the closeness to the heat hurts, his cheek burning before it burns, hot, hot, hot. All he can see is flat silver, shiny, shimmering.

A voice in his ear, a close whisper that would make him shudder if he wasn’t locked-muscles-tight.

He doesn’t flinch. He knows better than to move to avoid a blow. He knows better than to avoid a consequence. Doesn’t he?

“You know, I’ve heard a lot about your mistake a few days ago. How you accidentally hit my friend, oh, sorry, kicked him.” Breath tickles at his ear, hotter than the wave rolling over his face, hard and angry, and if Morja even breathes too deep, his skin will touch the iron. “Tell me, Asset, are you…sloppy? Or are you insubordinate?”

Heat. Pressure. Lips cracking under the heat.

His feet are solid on the ground and his hands are tight behind his back. Thumbnail into palm. The prick of skin draws in air.

“…Sloppy, sir. I apologize. I…I’ll do better, sir.”

A long moment that stretches like heat through air, slow and wavery, every pressure point, every throb of pain, chest, neck, head, hand, keeps him still and steady. Keeps him in place.

He can remember how to hold still for things.

The iron pulls away and a lack-of-heat drags another breath into him that becomes a grunt when the grip on his neck seizes a handful of hair and yanks him upright. Staggers, a little, but is at attention, even while his scalp strains under the tug. He’s been dragged by his hair, before, and this grip barely pulls a strand out.

“Roll up your sleeve.”

Morja doesn’t need to be told twice. Unclasps his hands to unbutton his cuff, roll his sleeve up, up, to the elbow. There is no red on his nail - at the very least, his self-control was measured enough to not cut himself.

“Arm on the table.”

Deep breath. Swallow. Plant feet on the floor, plant arm on the board.

“Palm down.”

Oh. Right. He’s not used to it being palm down but he rolls his arm over to the side that has a different kind of scar. Where the lines and holes are less straight and deliberate, more jagged, more scattered. It is only right to be hurt on the side of his skin that is marred by mistakes rather than corrections.

“My team might look past your sloppiness but the kind of mistakes- well, if they are mistakes, but the fuckups that you make get good people hurt. I can’t let that happen. It’s my job to keep an eye on shit, to minimize mistakes.”

People make mistakes, buddy. But he’s not people - he’s a diathésimos. Shame tightens his stomach and something else, underneath, just as uncomfortable, unfamiliar. He curls his hand into a fist and his nail slots into the groove of his palm.

The burn doesn’t surprise him, the stabofsharphotthrobbingdowntobone, smell of flesh-and-heat, and it's gone. It lasted barely long enough to grunt behind his teeth, the iron pulled away from his arm before the sound even got out. Burns always feel like they last longer than they do. This was a quick burn.

A red v-shape streak, already swelling, looks strange on his arm, somehow.

“Look at that. You burned yourself doing laundry. Now, if you weren’t being sloppy that wouldn’t have happened. Sometimes you’ll just get hit and you gotta take it.”

The burn throbs, bright, the smell of singed hair and detergent swirl in his nostrils. Morja rolls his sleeve down over the mark and buttons his cuff again. Neat, straight, at attention. With a final shove that bangs his hip into the edge of the board, the Commander releases him, retreating towards the door.

“You’ve got a lot of laundry to finish.”

Morja breathes slow, deep, around the throbbing in his chest. Just from the bruise - the edge of the board hit him harder than he thought. His arm throbs, the blister pressing up against his sleeve.

“You’ll be more careful next time. Won’t you, Morja?”

He looks up and the Commander- Jorah’s eyes are such a different blue than Lieutenant Cobi’s. Shiny silver, flat iron, cold rolling off, heat in a wave.

“…I’ll be more careful, sir.”

The correction rolls through him, wounds pulsing their second heartbeat, steadying his first until his hands don’t shake around the iron. Every wrinkle is smoothed, crisp like sheets of paper, rigid and at-attention, as he is calm. Finally, calm.

With the rhythm of this other heartbeat, familiar, so familiar, he might, at last, sleep through the night.

don't you all see that jorah is just keeping everyone safe? 😇😇😇 it's his job to be vigilant! isn't he protecting everyone from morja's vicious, uh, (checks notes) submissiveness? 😇😇😇

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have a very merry @whumpmasinjuly everyone!! 💖💖💖

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