#jorah cuthbert

He shivers, prickles on his bare arms, the black of his clothes sticking to his skin. Another click as his arms are pulled back, as cold metal closes around his wrists, tight. Words that should pull his attention float past, listless, in the low whine that hums in his ears, closes around him like the cuffs, like the hallway, like the two bodies on either side of him. 

All that he can feel is the wetness of his shirt, somehow, heavy and cold and clinging. It’s not his blood he should be worried about, the blood of the ones he killed, the blood of the one he carried, that’s all browning-drying-cracking on his shoes, his face, his fingernails. 

He knows he can take the spasm through his right shoulder, sharp, hot, familiar, the pucker of hidden scar throbbing when his arms are wrenched back and up as Commander Jorah bends him at the waist (knows every minute of the stretch will just be stabbing heat in the shoulder, the arm, the neck, the collarbone, steady as a heartbeat). It is best to accept it because he knows he can take it. He sways, grunting shamefully, tilted back upright by a hand, enormous, that spreads across his chest and rights him. 

Morja should be listening: he can’t think. 

…Hey, what’re you?- that’s- that’s not necessary, Jorah, right?-

Cobi, please don’t fight me on it, just get this over with so we can get back to her-

Don’t bend him like that, man, just- we’re just walking him, don’t be like that, know you’re m-mad but don’t fucking do that- 

…Fine. Fine. 

What is the use listening when it won’t matter? Understanding what they’re saying won’t change what happens. 

Morja’s chin drops down to his chest. Even not bent in half like the Commander wanted to walk him down the hall - smart, less leverage for Morja to resist that way - he is still- he can still show respect. Head down. Eyes down. Marched like a disobedient signee who has to be dragged to the pole for correction. 

Apotchía. Worthless fucking disposable, diathésimos living up to the name, garbage, what are you good for now, waste, wasted retrieval, wasted training, wasted.

Morja? What’s going on? Why did you say that-

Don’t talk to him, are you-

…don’t know that-

…convenient for him, isn’t it?…

…ould listen to…explain…Saved us-

Or led you into a trap, we don’t know…orders to follow anyway, not for you or I…decide what happens…

Each jarring thud of his heartbeat makes him colder. Blood pulsing out of the slice in his side, not fatal, not vital. The tight fold of his undershirt packed against the wound has long since soaked through by now. Will they staple it up? If they want him awake - Morja’s stomach turns again, tucking his chin tighter against his chest. 

If they want him awake for what they’re going to do to him, they’ll have to stop the bleeding. 

The Commander’s grip around the back of his neck, pinching, bruise-heavy, the other gripping his arm. His anotéro- his team- Cobi behind him, tall and towering and almost twice his size, gripping his shoulder (fingers spread over the entire shoulder), sniffs and sharp little sobbing gasps happening somewhere high above him and- how will it start? Strapped down? Strung up? Bent over? It will happen quickly, maybe, because they are angry with him. Maybe it will be quick, at least today. Maybe today will-

Why is he trying to think ahead?

No matter what, there will be pain. There will be punishment. Pain is pain. Today or tomorrow, worse or better. He will still have to take it.

His head spins and if not for the grip on him, he would stagger. Good thing Morja isn’t under his own control. Good thing they are holding him back. 

A dog is chained when it bites at a hand. 

Any hand. A beating hand. A feeding hand. It is not his to bite. 

Why did he think he could hunt on his own? 

Doesn’t he know what the chain is for? How people get hurt when you reject your own good?

His legs fail for a moment and he stumbles, only the grips of his superiors keeping him from falling to the floor and the shame-heat in his chest at needing to be held up like this marching down hallways is washed over by plunging cold as he’s taken around the corner. A place where there are no private quarters. All white metal bars, rooms that contain but do not hide, that leave anyone inside open to all who walk past. 

The brig. 

How shiny and clean this cell was when he was brought to this place, how much these rooms didn’t look like they had ever been used…as if just waiting for someone like him. 

His head spins. Hands cold, prickling, in their cuffs. The whining pitch in his ears gets louder, muffling, words on either side of him humming in and out. 

“…Pfeffer. Pfeffer.” 

“Mhmm- s-sorry, um, hands-“

Big, big fingers fumble on the cuffs, the grip on his wrist slipping off. Tries again, unlocking. Morja’s hands are numb, only feeling the touch through the jostle. He blinks fast, dryly, wrists flexing as his fingers try to uncurl from their fists to not be a threat when he’s unlocked. 

It won’t matter, he thinks, unable to breathe through the ringing in his ears. 

There is no way to brace for what is coming. 

“Fuck. Hey, Cobi? Hey? Go get yourself water, yeah? Take a breath, take a beat. Come back.”

“Okay. Okay. J- Jorah, be chill? Be chill, I’m o-okay. Um. Gonna get water.”

Heavy footsteps walk away and the grip on his arm goes so tight Morja can’t feel his blood go through it. He can hold his wrists behind his back as he is pulled into the cell. He can keep his head bowed. He can- he can obey, show that he will take it-

The pain that is coming, the punishment about to break him open, Morja can’t avoid. As his stomach rises into his throat, his eyes go dark for a moment as what is coming, the screaming, the pleas, the blood, the breaks, rolls over him. 

Obeying won’t save him now. 

~

Obey. He knows how to obey. It’s so familiar too, gun in hand, hand raised, the muzzle steady and shining and level with its target. 

Like he never left at all. 

“Very good, diathésimos. Keep the threat contained.”

The building that was supposed to be only trainees- only…only boys full of men in dark suits and calm voices and their commands echo against the walls same as they always have. 

It was so familiar, right? His hand doesn’t shake. Of all things, not on a weapon, never on a weapon. 

“You’re confused, diathésimos. That’s alright. Too long in the field can do that.” Some anótéros, the voice so sure, always so sure. Morja’s palm itched, grip on the handle tight, stance planted, sweat trickling down his neck. All of that means nothing. 

On her knees, hands raised behind her head, small and strong and she trusts him. The target- the mission- Claudia. She trusts him and she doesn’t look afraid. Jaw ticcing, fingers balled into fists, but she’s looking right at him. Right up at him and there’s no flinch. Morja’s ears hum, lips tingling, his bad shoulder throbs and his good shoulder holds steady as it should. 

“Where’s the rest of the party, dickwads?” She calls out, a drawl with no tremble. Morja is close enough to see the muscles of her fingers relax and contract. “You’re not much fuckin’ fun.” Her eyes don’t leave Morja’s face and they’re dark and round like- why is she looking at him like that? 

The footfall of shoes behind Morja - flat, soft, expensive, athletic, something a supervisor would wear outside - and an anotéros stands behind him. He is rigid and alert and still as the back of his neck is gripped, a light squeeze. Morja does not breathe and something pulls at the- at her- at Claudia’s mouth and Morja is still, so still. 

“How many are with you, diathésimos?”

It doesn’t even occur to Morja to lie. The truth falls from his mouth as fast as he can open it. Clipped and quiet. “Two, anotérós. This one and another with a car.” 

The hand squeezes, soft leather on skin, pinching. His heartbeat throbs and his flesh is pulled taut around him. Pinned in place. Fixing up. Tightening him up. 

“Have you told them about this place? Its purpose?”

Cold sand to crawl through. Hot sun to run under. Sharp wire and concrete hallways and a room where they choose which boys- which candidates will make it.

“Yes, anotéros.”

“You’ve told their superiors too, haven’t you, diathésimos.” There’s no lilt to the end of it. Flat and even and Morja’s knees twitch. If he weren’t focused on aiming he would kneel right now. 

His throat moves and his swallow tightens his answer of yes, anotéros. 

“Well, it matters very little now, coincidentally. This year’s stock was…ah, lacking. No candidates worth the shape we’d whip them into. Not every kid can be a winner, can they?” 

A soft laugh and his neck is released and Morja does not draw in a gasp. He’s too well-trained to breathe. 

He can’t breathe. 

“You sick fucks…” Claudia breathes and Morja blinks, once, twice, and the sharp exhale from waist-height is not where the second rush of air comes from, his lungs contracting in his chest, a muscle that is failing to work well. “You killed-“

“Oh, don’t be dramatic, Legionare. Jesus, what kind of sob stories has this one been feeding you?” Someone snorts, smile in his voice, edge of the room, only exit, hand too loose on his gun, finger not on the trigger. No armor. “This isn’t summer camp. You pass the fitness tests or you don’t, not everyone’s fast enough to dodge-“

That gloved hand is held up and the room falls silent. 

“Well, there’s no need for a lecture, is there?” Cold and calm and with that smile in the voice. “Two of you, go sweep the perimeter and kill the other one. Diathésimos, kill the combatant.” 

The horrible thing is that Morja’s finger curls around the trigger before he thinks. His body works - what does he need to think for? Why does he need to think at all? He’s been given a command. 

The target- Claudia- the woman on her knees jerks backwards, that’s common for them to do, but stills and her eyes are dark and burning and they stare up at him like he won’t do it. 

“Morja?” 

He won’t. He won’t pull the trigger, is the thing, but his finger curled. It did. He can’t say it didn’t, is the thing that is hot in his chest, hotter than the burn in her eyes he can’t look away from. He can’t move. 

“Diathésimos.” Angry and stern and Morja wants to kneel. He doesn’t want. He doesn’t know what he does or doesn’t want? “Your corrections for attempting to contravene your indenture are already severe enough. Are you disobeying a direct command?”

He would never. 

He already has. 

“Have you forgotten how to listen?”

Dangerous. Morja knows what happens when you strain at the leash. When you think you know better about what your teeth are for. 

Remembers when nothing filled his chest up like obeying, like hearing anything close to well done. Glad to be useful. Glad to have a job to do well. 

Why can’t he move? Why can’t he point the gun away? Why can’t he shoot her? Why can’t he answer? His arms and legs are stiff, heavy, chest-deep in water heavy, his hand hurts, his head hurts. 

“Don’t gotta listen to him, Morja, you don’t have to fuckin’ listen to him.” 

Doesn’t he? 

Her lip is bleeding. They hit her in the mouth when they put her on her knees. She struggled and they hit her. 

“If you don’t want to be whipped until you wish you were dead, you miserable fucking idiot, shoot this bitch in the head right now-“

“Fuck this, it’s broken. I’ll do it myself.”

The man across the room raises his gun. 

Too slow. 

Morja is faster. 

The man’s gun falls from his hands and then his body falls to the ground a moment later, blood pouring out of his throat, red hands clutching at the blade buried in his throat. 

He doesn’t need to be as accurate with his left hand when the target is so close. Two more knives against his thigh. Two more men in the room, two guns, and Morja’s leg catches onto Claudia’s body almost quick enough. 

Almost. 

He almost pulls Claudia down to the floor, out of direct fire, with his foot while spinning. 

Morja’s gun turned to shoot one man in the head, blood spraying out of the new hole in his head even before his body drops. 

Bang, bang as one, two, bangs from his left and even as he spins on his heel. 

He curls his body to arch over Claudia. 

Tries to block the bullets and even as a blade flies from his hand towards the threat, he isn’t fast enough that the familiar scar-pain twinging through him knocks his aim off by a half an inch. 

Not fast enough that one shot does not catch him, kevlar catching the bullet with a blow like a kick slammed into his middle. 

Not fast enough that when she rolls to the floor, she misses the second shot that the handler man got off. 

Red pours from Claudia’s head as she falls and that gun is tumbling in a moment from the hand that shot her as it is pinned to the wall by a blade through the palm. Pain means nothing to Morja and he doesn’t need breath in his lungs to aim. The anotéros, the handler, the man, screams.  Morja’s knife in his throat silences the scream. 

The anotéros bleeds out just like any other body would - gargling, clutching at his neck, sliding down the wall to the floor and, after a few wet noises, going still and then quiet. 

Body. 

Claudia. 

The other bang catches up with Morja in the moment he thuds to his knees beside Claudia - oh, that is where the second shot went - and one hand presses over where the blood pours out, hot and red and so much, one hand pressing against the gash along the back of her head. A choked sound comes out - is that from his mouth? - as he puts pressure on the wound. 

No. No. No. 

Her dark skin is pale and cold, no warmth at all, and she is so still under the sheet. How can there be no movement at all? How could they not see she should be saved? 

No. No, that’s not her- this is Claudia and she’s warm and shaking and alive and her eyes flutter, gleaming up at him. Her weight falls against his shoulder, solid and small, and he catches her. Blood gushes between his fingers and he presses hard, hard, keeping it inside her, he has to keep it inside her. 

I’m sorry, Morja wants to say. I shouldn’t have let this happen, he should admit. I failed you, he should confess. 

“Gn- Mo’a…?-“

“I’m sorry,” Falls out of, choking that useless word, over and over.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry?-“

“Ge’ me outta here?…”

Dark eyes look up at him without accusation - how? - and her curled-up fist presses into his shoulder. Morja’s breath whispers out of him, like a sob if he were capable of that, and her blood-slick knucles brush up against his cheek. 

The friend-punch that she does. 

The light in her eyes is dull but it’s there, still there, and her breath puffs hot against his cheek, lips pale, as her head dips, flops against his chest, close enough that he can barely hear. 

“Ge’ me…home…”

Get me home. 

Claudia goes quiet in his arms and her fingers slide slickly away from his face but she’s alive. Morja’s arms tighten around her, pressing against the gash until the pulse of blood slows. Rolling his shirt, binding it around her head, stopping the blood. 

He counts the six bodies between him and the exit into the tunnels, counts the bullets in his gun (ten) and the guns (two) he takes off the bodies in the room (fifteen per magazine), counts his knives (four) still strapped to his thighs. 

Yeah - he can do that. 

She’s alive. She is going to be fine. This time, she will be fine. Morja will make it so that, no matter what it takes, Claudia is fine. 

…

A horrible rush of air pushes out of Morja’s lungs as his chest hits the edge of a table. 

Dull heat throbs from his wound and then all through his body, driving the blankness from his mind. Fog tries to roll over him, darkness scattering under the edge of his lids, and is wrenched away again as two kicks to his ankles make him whimper. Blinks and sees, he has slipped into darkness in the moments between the open door and ending up across the tiny steel ledge, a crude desk, in the wall.  

“You’re not getting away that easy, you rat fuck.” 

Oh. Yes. He forgot for a moment that he’s about to wish he was dead. 

“Don’t fucking pass out on me yet.”

Familiar sharpness pulses through his scalp as the Commander’s hand yanks his head back until his back arches. Even through the water burning in his eyes, Morja can see a twisted mouth, slitted eyes, an expression impossible to be anything but a rage that hollows him out inside. 

“You shot her? Huh? You shot Claudia?”

No, no, no and it must come through his mouth because the Commander grips his neck so hard Morja feels nails cut into the skin before his head is slammed, driving the air out of him again, into the cold of a steel table. 

“I’m gonna get license to blacksite your ass for this, Asset,” Jorah hisses against his ear, hot and close and quiet. “You hurt my team, my fellow soldiers. You hurt my friend. You’ve never been hurt before, you traitorous fuck.” 

“‘Msorry-”

Fuck, Morja thinks he’ll be sick. He doesn’t have the focus to gag, dizzy and reeling. The tilt of his stomach, the cold that stretches out and out inside him, swells up, clogging his throat and his chest. That fear and the throb of his ribs pulls another whimper from him as he opens his mouth, breathes through the urge to vomit. 

As if he should give them another reason to punish him. 

“Hands up on the table and don’t fucking move them.”

Morja’s hands press to the cold steel, obeying, fingers curling around the edge like he’s holding on. What could he hold onto that he won’t be dragged away from? Feels the Commander’s hands drag up his inner legs, feel at his ankles, press over the waistband of his pants, a harsh crackling sound echoing against the walls as the fastenings of the vest are ripped open, wrestled off, tossed to the floor - the blood on it is dry. 

Each throb of Morja’s side is a sickening pulse in his head now and even that can’t drive out the thinking about it. It doesn’t ever, ever help to think about it. But- but he can’t help but think about it, breath fast and fogging up the steel beneath him as his hands are jerked one wrist at a time behind him again (cross them and if you make a move, I swear to Christ, give me a reason). He’s a coward, he is a coward who can’t help but not want it to happen when he deserves it and he can’t stop thinking about how pain hasn’t started yet. 

His ankles are open wide…will someone step between them? Will it be right away, how many, will the Commander, will Cobi, will others? 

Will he be strung up from the bars in the ceiling, swinging from his wrists as his back is split open by blows, as his legs and chest and stomach bruised and then welted and then bleeding?

With the stun batons surge fire through his skin, again and again, leaving him twitching, soiled, blistered? 

How close to death will they bring him for failing, for failing an anotéros? 

Morja’s cheek burns against the desk, head turned to the side, eyes blurred and pitiful noises jerked out of him. His head is thick and buzzing, can’t think, as he feels his boots yanked off. Hears the snick of a knife being drawn. Cold air bites his legs as his pants waist band is cut through, the buckle of the belt hitting the floor with a clink that rings so loud he jerks in a flinch, making the knife knick his back as it glides up, up the back of his shirt, up the length of each sleeve. 

He doesn’t mean to, he doesn’t mean to, but he feels so sick and so dizzy and his ribs already hurt so much before they have even been hit, but seeing the big, so big, he’s so big, shape of Cobi through the bars, his breath wheezes out higher and thinner, faster and faster and faster and faster.

He won’t struggle, he won’t struggle, he will hold still and he won’t struggle, he won’t beg them to stop, this is a punishment, don’t cry now, don’t whine now, don’t even think about struggling, nononopleasepleasepleasesorryplease- 

“What are you doing?!-“

“Strip-search, what’s it look like?” 

Nopleasesorrypleasesorryplease-

“It’s okay, Morja, it’s okay, don’t gotta be sorry- what in the hell, Jorah, we don’t do that?-”

I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry-

“We? No, Cobi, this is my job, I have to determine if he’s a security risk before-”

“Before what?! He- he’s not armed, we dunno if he did anything yet-”

“This is protocol.”

“Who cares, you’re scaring him, being a dick for no reason, Jorah, this isn’t you-”

Pleasepleaseplease-

“I’m trying to keep us safe-”

“By taking his clothes off?!-”

Every fast breath is a knife stabbing his middle, grinding his cheek into the steel, sob-breaths, can’t get air, dizzy, going to be sick, nononono-

“Jesus Christ, Cobi, it’s so he doesn’t try and choke us out with a shirt, you want that?”

“You know he’s not gonna do that, move, man, he’s having a panic attack-”

“So you don’t wanna keep everyone safe?!”

“Jorah, Jorah, you- you’re being nuts right now, not thinking clearly, how does this help Claud- oh- oh, shit, his side- oh, fuck, Morja?”

Morja hears his own name, blinks up to tunnel in on a hand as big as his head stretch out towards his body, and at the thought of a fist that size slamming into the sharp fire of his ribs, Morja heaves, vomits, and, in the only mercy he will get today, everything goes dark. 

~

i hope the update was worthwhile!! don’t worry, morja will get everything he deserves (not just what he thinks he deserves) 😩😩😩

taglist: @whump-tr0pes @wolfeyedwitch @much-ado-about-whumping @haro-whumps @i-eat-worlds

@redwingedwhump @straight-to-the-pain @whumpzone @suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpthisway

@whumpster-draganies @whump-me-all-night-long @liliability @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whatgoeswhumpinthenight

The rec room on this stiflingly small base is stupid-small and doesn’t leave much room for hiding in corners, but Morja seems to be doing his best to stay out of everyone’s way, at least. Small blessings. But he hasn’t left the rest of present company alone, lingering by the water cooler and taking infuriating little sips of a paper cup. 

Short journeys, quiet shuffling steps, from the cooler to the corner. Cooler to corner. Jorah’s jaw tics. The soft drag of the tip of his shoe across the floor. Lift, absence of pressure, drag, tiptoe, mouse-step, take more water, scurry away. Fuck, can’t he just take the whole industrial jug at this point and leave well enough alone? 

Like a mosquito buzzing near his ear and never quite landing, Jorah just can’t ignore it. He’s lost a second round of Battleship to Pfeffer, inducing one of the guy’s booming chuckles in the wake of slipped curses. He doubts anyone else has noticed - it’s not exactly obvious. Whether the asset isn’t feeling very sulky today or else he’s too chicken-shit to fish for sympathy while Jorah is in the room, Morja is behaving himself. 

It’s not like anyone can see it either. It’s not like anyone knows why the little creep is dragging his heels around. But if the twinge of soreness in Jorah’s arm is anything to go by, Morja’s soles have gotta be smarting in the hours since last night. In the cool shadow of the corner, he leans against a wall to spare his stance.

His soles were that pre-bruise red, that deep shade right before purple Jorah knows well by eye, the welts in perfect straight lines over the arch of his thick skin. Jorah has to work for the break in the skin. Had to stop before it bled, before the lines broke altogether, even though a scream, hard to draw out as blood, broke in muffled echo through the rag between the asset’s teeth. Jorah is patient, he’s not some fucking brute who doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows when to stop. 

Knows when to reel back, gloved hand gripping the black metal ruler firmly. It’s shimmering ricochet gleams in the low-wattage, unstained by its task. God, Jorah admires military hardware. Even tools as simple as this have many uses, such as drawing out beads of sweat from the asset’s screwed-up face, rolling down into his dark hair, in making the skin of his knuckles bleach white with clenching, making those bare feet quiver and dance to the beat of Jorah’s tune, unable to fake. 

The way those thickly callused toes flinch in their tight bonds can’t be faked. 

It's different than the spasm drawn out by the jolt of electricity across his feet. Jorah's baton can always cause that. Getting the skin tender, blistered. But some days, you've gotta hit something. And the response - the jerk, the whine at the tail end of a trailing yelp, the harsh drag of breath through the nostrils - feels practiced in a way that doesn't at all discourage the conversation.

That’s the beauty of physical pain. It might not “work” for traditional interrogation but it sure does tell you a lot of other shit. Jorah checks the bonds over, the tight security of zip-ties over cloth, no grooves, no marks, good work. He watches a bead of sweat roll down the back of the asset’s calf, catching on dark hairs, a path down to land on one of the welts that match the feet. Watching the clench of his thigh when the stinging salt likely hurts like a motherfucker in the stripes across the backs of this thighs. 

Pain is a language everyone speaks fluently. The perfect fucking teacher. The highest grade in understanding. 

There’s a purpose to the shit he’s going to Morja. Mindless beating accomplishes nothing much - not unless you’ve got a lot of free reign to work with. And here, Jorah simply doesn’t, not with soft-touch attitude of everyone at hand. No. Until Claudia or Cobi or especially Brax - Captain Hutchins - sees the value of it, Jorah’s work has to stay discrete, even-handed, subtle. 

Unfortunately for this guy, he gives Jorah a lot of room to work with. 

“Never knew you beefed it so bad at Battleship, J-Man, wanna switch to Go-Fish?” 

Jorah blinks, shaking away the fucking mosquito buzz around his ear, snorts, flicks a little plastic boat at Cobi’s arm and it bounces off the skin. 

“Owwwww.” Cobi whines, his big dumb face wrinkling up as he flicks the boat back. Sticks his tongue out. “Sore loser.” 

“Grab you a soda and we’ll call it even.” Jorah drawls, drawing cheerful agreement from his friend as he stands, stalks to the nearby little fridge. Drawing out the cold cans in hand, he catches a you, uh, a fan of Go Fish, buddy, it’s cool if you join us, right, Jorah? 

Oh. Right. He’s still fucking there, huh?

Jorah straightens, glancing out of the corner of his eye, catching the asset, catching Morja, stock-still. Cobi’s head tilts back, yellow curled and shaggy, dog-like, beaming in the man’s direction like a spotlight. 

Morja’s stillness is broken by the flicker of his eyes, dark, narrowed, from Cobi to Jorah. Blink. Widen. Blank. Creepy. 

Jorah’s fingertips crack the tab of his soda, the sharp pop snapping through the air, a hiss of cool air, and Jorah’s mouth pulls up at the corners. 

Morja’s throat jumps in a swallow and those black blank eyes blink once-twice. Sways side to side on tiptoe. This close, Jorah hears a small squelch at the sway. Oh. Interesting. Putting cold water in his shoes, huh? Jorah’s eyes flick down to his feet, up again, close-lipped, and Morja blinks faster. 

“Yeah, man.” Jorah says. “You wanna sit down with me and Cobi?”

It’s almost boring the way Morja’s eyes widen. The way he lowers his weight down to rest on his swollen soles to spare his thighs the strain. It’s a little funny though. Like a dog trying its hardest not to look at you when it threw up behind the couch. 

Flick to Cobi. Back to Jorah. Back again. 

“I-“

Almost on cue, Cobi cuts in with a musical you don’t HAVE to, of course, only if you wanna. Jorah can always count on Cobi not to ruffle any feathers. And at that, Morja’s body unfreezes, doing his little at-attention routine, shoulders drawing back like a flinch of its own. 

“Thank you, sir, I have work to do.”

Right answer, Asset. 

“Hey.” Jorah shrugs. “If you have work to do, you should do it.”

There it is, that dumb fucking tilt of the head, like he doesn’t get it. Like he doesn’t know what’s expected of him. Has to be told fucking everything - what to eat, how to kneel, when to talk, where to shit, probably. Jorah’s mouth pulls at the corners again, his teeth grit and bare. Read the room. 

That sends the asset scurrying off, click-swallow-blink, the paper cup tumbling out of his hand into the garbage, squelch squelch squelch, and that awkward thorn-in-foot limp when he retreats, dragging one foot after another. 

Jorah’s body relaxes all at once, shoulders dropping down, rolling his neck. Fuck, corralling people in line is hard work. Whatever, a sheepdog is thankless sometimes. Still. It’s a nice thought that this idiot runs off with his tail between his legs, with wet shoes and a dry tongue, unable to sit or stand. 

Setting the sodas on the table with a wide grin, Jorah lounges back for the first time, guard settled, plucking a new little ship between his fingers. 

“Fuck Go-Fish, bro, I’m stretched and hydrated now, your fleets gonna sink.”

Cobi’s face beams and then frowns a little, glancing back towards the exit, the crinkle in his face making Jorah’s stomach sour again. “Man…I hope Morja didn’t feel left out. I don’t want him to be lonely.”

Jorah flicks another ship at Cobi, drawing another sqwuak. His shoulders are down flat now, hackles soothed. The mosquito has fucked off and the room is cool and calm again.

“Aw, big softie. Get your head in the game or I’m gonna sink your battleship. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

He deserves it. 

~ 

taglist: @much-ado-about-whumping @whump-tr0pes @haro-whumps @whumpthisway

@whumping-every-day @stoic-whumpee @whumpzone @straight-to-the-pain @redwingedwhump

@wolfeyedwitch @suspicious-whumping-egg @liliability @whumpster-draganies @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whatgoeswhumpinthenight

@tears-and-lilies @whump-me-all-night-long @scoundrelwithboba

I hope you enjoyed this little snippet cause i was so so excited to write something new again!! 🥰🥰🥰 have a very merry @whumpmasinjuly 💖