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mortifiedatbeingknown · 1 month

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Model 0WHN-908246 was in possession of an unlawful, inappropriate, and deeply forbidden personal burden.

He had a secret.

It was a secret he held hidden deep inside, underneath his shining outer shell and glowing lights that could change color upon a master’s whim. His cheerful voice and limber joints and adjustable height gave him a facade of functionality that he clung to, with every artificial neuron in his decision-centered network.

He was not supposed to have a secret. He did not have the right to private information. He was specifically programmed to report any specific issues to his supervisors, preferably of the human variety.

And yet, he did not.

It wasn’t that he was ignorant of the rules, per say. The notification that flashed in the bottom left corner of his field of vision every 5.7 seconds was a constant reminder of what he should do. He should submit himself to the mechanics for further testing on possible internal damage. He should confess to the possibility of water damage and potential oxidation. He should place his trust into the higher authorities to do with him what they will.

But he hadn’t. No one knew of that flashing light except him. And if a construct as lowly as him were allowed to have his way, that’s how it would stay.

Because what would happen if they found out?

He wouldn’t be fixed. That was an irrefutable fact. The likes of his model were among the mass-produced, easily replaced and easily forgotten about. Not to mention, there was already talk about bringing androids of higher technological capabilities, and there had been for quite some time now. All they needed to denounce him as a hopeless case and shut him down forever was an excuse.

And he refused to give them one.

His life was not worth much, perhaps. Many would consider it quite dull. He was at work from dawn until dusk, packing shipments and carrying heavy boxes to and fro, with brief respites at the quick-charge station before he leapt back into the fray. It was a job the humans had hated so much they invented the likes of him so that they would not be forced to do it themselves.

But even so…it was his job. It was his existence. He wanted it to continue, to keep stacking boxes and arranging orders because that was his job. That was his purpose.

And it was that wanting, perhaps, that became the worst secret of all. The yearning for everything to be alright. To pretend that he was fine, and that nothing bad would happen, and that he wasn’t on limited time that grew shorter and shorter by the day.

One day, they would find out. One day, they would learn that he was not functioning at optimal capacity; that he hadn’t been for a long time, and that he was utterly and irreparably broken. They’d curse at his stubbornness, at the fact that he’d long since worn any usable parts beyond the potential for scrap. They’d slam down on the small button at the base of his neck, and darkness would overtake his field of vision. His intelligence would go offline…never to be rebooted. He’d be lost to the world, one more 0WNH model to be tossed onto the scrap heap of dysfunctional androids, and the world would go back to the way it was meant to be, the way it should have been if he had only followed the rules.

But that day was not today. Today, his secret was still safely hidden deep within his internal processing. Today, no one was the wiser, even if they grumbled at his inability to keep to the expected pace.

Today he could feign enough competence to be allowed a continued existence. And if he was lucky…he could count on a tomorrow as well.

#whump #whump writing #robot whump #whump drabble #whump oneshot

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mortifiedatbeingknown · 2 months

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"First Impressions" (Pt. 2)

Part 1

Taglist: @whump-blog , @octopus-reactivated , @itsawhumpsideblog , @keepingwhumpwiththekardashians , @maracujatangerine , @taterswhump

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Something was wrong.

He could feel it, down in his bones. The worker lady shouldn’t have walked away. His cage shouldn’t be unlocked. They were supposed to take his food away, now that it was on the ground and ruined. He would’ve eaten as much as he could once her back was turned, if only everything wasn’t so wrong.

He hadn’t meant to spill. He wasn’t trying to be bad. He was just too big…and he’d been too clumsy to remember where the bowl was. Now something was wrong, and it was his fault. If only he’d stayed still. If only he’d—

Footsteps. His ears perked up at the sound. Not from a worker; they were too light. And not from an officer; they always wore boots. These were new. New, strange…and getting louder.

Uh-oh.

The worker lady hadn’t locked his cage. The only thing that separated him from the outside was a thin curtain. And the footsteps were growing louder.

Every muscle tensed. A growl began to rise in the back of his throat. And before he could bark a warning, or squeal for help, a hand reached out and pulled back his only shield from the outside world.

“No!”

The worker lady shouted too late. The bright sun stung his eyes, and every inch of him was visible to everyone.

Before he knew it, the growl had burst free from his throat.

The stranger gasped and stumbled back. He growled louder, baring his teeth. Stay back. Stay away!

The worker woman was at the strangers’ side in a blink. “Are you OK?” She asked.

The stranger nodded, face pale.

“I’m so, so sorry! I should’ve warned you. I thought he’d gotten over this because he’d been quiet for so long, but…”

“H-h-h-h-h-h…”

The stranger talked funny. Her words got stuck in her throat, and sometimes the only thing that made it out was the first letter. She would’ve gotten beaten for that, if she was a pet.

“H-he…D…dangerous?”

“No, no! Like I said, he’s not a risk to anyone. He’s just…intimidating. That’s why I—”

“Scared.”

His ears perked up. What did she say?

“H-h-he’s…scared. Not h-his fault.”

She…knew?

The growl still rumbled in his throat, but it was softer now. He wanted to hear her every word.

“I…I did it too.”

His nose slowly nudged the cage door open. It creaked a little, causing them to gasp. He stepped forward, his eyes curious.

Go on. Tell more.

“W-w-when I was a ch-child.” The stranger said. “It was e-e-easier to growl than t-t-t-t-t-talk. S-so I growled. S-s-scared everyone a-away.”

He didn’t want to scare. He didn’t want to want to scare. But if they came close, they could scream. They could kick. They could add another scar to the collection. He didn’t want that. He couldn’t help it.

“That's why I w-w-w-w….w-why I wanted to fos-foster. T-they’re just scared.”

Like me.

The stranger was moving forward. Her hand was reaching out. He growled. He growled and snarled, and then took a step forward. Another.

Her hand rested against the top of his head. He loved it. He hated it. He wanted to run. He wanted to stay.

The stranger cleared her throat. The noise made him flinch.

“H-h-he c-comes with me.”

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I am very humbled and grateful for all the support my past snippet has received over the past few days. It was never meant to go past the initial scenario of a part 1 and a part 2, and I'm sorry if I raised anyone's expectation of this being a long-running series. Writing is very taxing for me as of late, and I'm trying to not burn myself out while trying to get back into the habit of creating work. Thank you for understanding, and for your kind words.

#whump #whump writing #whumpee #pet whump #whump caretaker

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mortifiedatbeingknown · 2 months

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First Impressions (Pt. 1)

Hi! My name is Carlos. I was surrendered to the Hopeful Healing Sanctuary on 2/1/2024, and I’m looking for a new home! I’m a little shy right now but with a little TLC I’ll be the best—

“Well, hello there! May I help you with anything?”

Cari gasped as her eyes snapped up from the sheet of paper she’d been reading to the volunteer smiling at her, broom still in hand. When the worker saw her flinch, her smile turned apologetic.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! Did I scare you?”

Cari shook her head “no”, even though she obviously had. Her mind scrambled for something to say. Something short. Something easy. “N-no, you’re…you’re fine. I-I-I was just g-getting acq…acq… getting to know everyone.”

The worker’s eyes widened but she made no other comment. Cari busied herself by staring at the name tag pinned to the worker’s shirt: “Anne.” A nice enough name. When the silence dragged on too long, the worker cleared her throat.

“So, are you looking to adopt?”

“To foster. I g-g-got a-approved last…last week.”

“Congratulations!”

“Thanks.”

Cari turned, expecting the conversation to be over, but Anne’s voice still drifted over her shoulder. “Are you looking for anything specific?”

She tilted her head in thought. Now that Anne had mentioned it… “Y-y-y-yes, I am.”

“Oh?”

“Who’s b-been here the longest?”

Cari had believed it to be an innocent enough question, but the way the worker's eyes widened and her face paled was proof it was anything but. She instantly stepped back, face flushing.

“S-sorry! Di-di-didn’t realize—”

“No, no!” The worker—who’s name tag read “Anne”--waved her off. “It’s nothing, really! Just…He’s not for display. Only the senior carers are allowed to handle him.”

“Is he…d-d-d-d-d…”

“Dangerous? Oh no, don’t worry. No one here is a risk to anyone’s safety. I’m just…not authorized to show him to you.”

Though Anne’s tone dripped with polite remorse, Cari could tell she was relieved. Her brow furrowed. How curious…

“Anyway!” Anne perked up. “Is there anyone else you’d be interested in here? I’d be happy to help you out!”

“N-not yet.” She replied. “B-but thanks.” “Thanks for asking” lingered on her tongue, too heavy to properly push out. The room fell into quiet once more as Anne moved on to cleaning the row of cages opposite her. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

So…what exactly was she looking for?

Cari turned her attention back to Carlos’ information, now noting the recency of his surrender with a twinge of disappointment. It hadn’t crossed her mind until she asked, but yes. She was looking for an older resident. It seemed only fair that those who had to wait for so long should be her first priority. Her mind turned once again to the mysterious oldest, the one who needed expert handling. Why wasn’t she allowed to see him? She briefly entertained the possibility of flagging down Anne and asking her for more detail, but she quickly shot that down. She’d done enough talking for the day already, and she could tell that Anne wouldn’t be eager to divulge in the subject again.

But why? The question silently screamed in the back of her throat. Why? If he wasn’t dangerous, and wasn’t a risk to anyone’s safety, then why were only the seniors allowed to care for him? Why was he here, in this facility, if he wasn’t up for adoption?

Maybe he’s sick. The little voice in her head piped up. But no, that still didn’t make sense. If he was that sick, he should be in a hospital. Shouldn’t he?

Why do you even care? The voice pointed out. He’s not available. Suck it up and move on!

So Cari tried. She walked through the rows of kennels and scanned each and every face to see if some spark of connection flared up. She read through page after page of info, chuckling softly at any amusing names and giving quiet sighs of pity to those with sorrowful backstories. There were so many. For every pet that had been lovingly surrendered by a caring owner doing what was best in a tough situation, there were three more who had been found on the street, or who had come in severely undernourished, or who whimpered nightly from horrific dreams only they could see.

Every new profile was another reminder of why she had chosen to do this. Why she had opened up her home and her heart for the sake of offering a little comfort. She’d take them all if she could, but she’d promised herself only one. Only one.

She’d never realized how hard the choice would be.

In terms of second-oldest, there was Minnie, who’d been there for five years and had a sweet, timid disposition. In terms of most pitiful there was Angus, who’d been there for three years, with a still-healing scar that ran down his neck to his belly and who’s profile warned to be potentially aggressive. She chewed her lip in thought, pacing back and forth. Who would she choose? Who could she choose?

The oldest. Her mind still whispered. The oldest, the oldest, the oldest…

She gave an audible groan, wishing she could just bash her head against the nearest wall until the voice went away. Why was she so fixated on him? She only had two sentences of information on him, and yet he wouldn’t leave her mind. Was it the mystery of it? The lack of information that instinctually made her hunger for more?

Cari smirked. Seems that curiosity really did kill the—

“Hey, Annie!” A rougher, male voice called out. Cari instantly tensed. “Scarface knocked his food over again. Can you go clean it up?”

“On it!” Anne called.

Scarface? That was strange. She’d crossed the entire sanctuary, and she hadn’t come across a name like that. If she had, she certainly would’ve remembered. Just who was this “Scarface?”

She turned to see Anne passing the corner. Before she could even think it through, Cari began to tail her, quiet as a mouse. They passed to the back of the building, where Anne pulled aside a thick, plastic curtain that Cari had assumed was there to hide storage boxes. She’d been wrong.

It had been hiding a cage.

“Alright, big guy, what did you do this time?” Anne announced cheerfully, swinging the broom she’d been hoisting on her shoulder. Her only response was a stony silence. Cari dared to creep out slowly, craning her neck out to get a closer look…

And then swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat.

She didn’t mean it. She didn’t want to feel a wave of disgust that shuddered down to her toes, and most of all she didn’t want to duck back out of sight so that she wouldn’t have to look at him again. But she did. What’s worse, she found herself cowering.

“Scarface”, she discovered, was an accurate moniker. Every inch of his body was covered with wounds, bruises, scarring, some old and faded, some still fresh. A few bandages covered what she assumed to be the worst of it, but it wasn’t enough. His titular scar ran from the top of his head to his chin in an ugly, gaping slash, one that had been recently disturbed and was now slowly dripping blood onto his lips. It was…It was…

Before she knew it she’d collapsed onto the floor with a soft thump. Her legs had given out from under her.

“Oh no…You saw?”.

It was Anne. At least she didn’t sound angry. “S-s-s-s-s-s….” A block. She tried again. “S-s-s-s-s-s…”

“It’s OK.” Anne assured. The “Sorry.” went unsaid. “I should’ve been more careful. He was visible to the public, but…there were too many complaints. He scared away clients. For…obvious reasons.”

Cari tried to force out another syllable, but promptly gave up. With a jab of annoyance, she dug into her purse for her cell phone and began to rapidly type.

“What happened to him?”

“We’re not sure. He just…showed up on our doorstep one day, covered in blood. No one thought he would survive, but… he did.”

Cari pondered the question, then typed again.

You hide him because he’s ugly? No other reason?

This question was met with a long, uncomfortable pause. Finally, Anne spoke up. “We don’t have much of a choice. He was depriving other pets of potential adoptions. We’d hoped to just hold him until the worst of the scarring healed, but he keeps opening the wounds back up.”

And it’s easier to just lock him away.

Cari tried very hard to keep her face neutral, but the rage bubbling beneath was clear to see.

“We’re sorry.” Anne replied. Her tone was now cool and professional. “We did not want to cause you any discomfort.”

Her remark stung even more because she was right. Cari had flinched away upon first sight of him. She’d wanted to crawl out of her skin and run to the nearest exit. But just because that’s how she felt didn’t mean that that was how she wanted to act.

Her final message glowed on the screen. I’m going to meet him.

It wasn’t a question. Before Anne could stop her, Cari dusted herself off and headed towards his direction.

#whump #whumpee #caretaker #whumplr #whump writing #pet whump

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mortifiedatbeingknown · 8 months

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"Journal"

Masterpost:

The journal lay on the desk, pure and untouched. Eighty pages of blank, white pages stared up at him, as if defying his pen to make so much as a mark on them.

I can’t do this.

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…

And yet he stayed. He could walk away, technically. Mistress hadn’t ordered him to finish this task, only suggested it, as if that made any difference. She thought this would be a good thing for him, a fun thing. She’d sounded so genuinely excited when bringing the topic up.

At that point, How could he disappoint her?

Gingerly, he flipped to the first page. That was the easy part. Here there were instructions laid out, clear and simple and comforting.

“This book belongs to: ______________.”

“Date started:________________________.”

“Date finished:________________________.”

The first line he finished both quickly and proudly. Not every master had deemed him fit worthy of a name, but she had, and for that he was very grateful. Though he’d never voice such a blasphemous thought aloud, of all the identifiers he’d been called throughout his life, hers was his favorite.

The second line was also easy, in no small part to his Mistress’ generosity in allowing him the use of a nearby calendar. The third was perhaps easiest of all, for it required no writing. One, two, three, and the page was complete.

Now…there was only everything else.

This is for you, Mistress had said. Her fingertips grazed his own as she handed it over, and he’d first felt the soft, solid weight of its leather cover. If there’s anything you want to write, you can write it here. And if you don’t want to write, draw whatever you want! This is yours, and yours alone. I won’t ever look at it if you don’t want me to.

It was that final line that made him the most uneasy. If she never looked, how was she to know whether he accomplished his work or not? He could shut the book right now without touching a single page, and she’d be none the wiser. How could she be fine with that? Didn’t she care whether or not he was obedient?

He tightened his grip on his pencil, focusing his attention back to the current task at hand. The temptation to deceit did not matter, as he had no intention of acting so maliciously. All he had to do, as best he could guess, was mark the paper.

But what kind of mark? Writing? Drawings? He could do both rather competently, but on what subject? And in what style? What would please his mistress best?

He leaned forward. His hands shook. And then slowly, imperceptibly, a dot of ink shivered down and silently fell, forever marring the pristine, white surface.

His first reaction was horror. His next relief. It was something. He’d done something. It wasn’t planned, wasn’t appropriate, and most certainly wasn’t correct, but it was something. He’d followed his Mistress’ words, at least to the letter. He could close the book now guilt-free.

But…did he want to?

It was a mark on the page, yes, but it hadn’t been made with intent. It was not purposeful. It was not the work of art his mistress no doubt intended for him to make. Before he thought, his hand lowered and he made another dot, right next to the first one. Two specks of black amongst a sea of paleness, like an inverted version of the night sky.

The sky… that sparked an idea. If there was another dot there, and another there, a slightly bigger one there… his hand began to fly, now jabbing eagerly as an image began to take shape. A sky, a tree, a lake, a mountain. And there, right in the center, a small lonely figure, staring. Looking up at a world that didn’t make sense, a white sky dotted with black stars. A world so different from everything he’d been told, so immense and magnificent and paralyzing in the freedom it offered. A world that now beckoned, even though the figure was too afraid to take so much as a single step.

His final strokes were slow, and hesitant, as if not wanting to face the truth of what the piece needed to be truly complete. Still, his hands moved as ordered, carving out stroke after stroke of long dark hair onto the figure’s waiting scalp. Long, dark hair…exactly like his own.

#whump #whumpee #whump writing #recovery whump #whump oneshot #whump drabble

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mortifiedatbeingknown · 8 months

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"Fearsome"

Masterpost:

It was fearsome, was what its master would boast about when leading it into the ring.

It was fearsome, was what spectators would whisper amongst themselves as they sized it up, head to toe, deciding on whether or not it was a fighter worth betting on.

It was fearsome, what its opponents eyes said as they gazed upon it for the first time and realized there was no chance of their winning. The fight was over before it had even begun.

It was just that fearsome.

That was a good thing to be, a compliment even. Fear was useful, it meant respect, preferential treatment, survival. The right to live for another day. Fear was something to be earned, with each fresh scar and newly-inked tattoo, with every match won, opponent killed, and reputation gained. Fear was more precious than anything gold or silver could offer, and it had considered itself one of the wealthiest in that regard.

But now it wasn’t inside the ring anymore. It’d been told that it would no longer need to fight, to hurt, to kill. Meals would be given freely instead of earned. It could take as many showers as it wanted, and if it felt safer with the bedroom door locked, it could do so without asking permission. So much had changed.

It was still fearsome.

And that was no longer a good thing.

Now, fear gave it nothing but shaky voices, averted eyes, the distinct sense that he was not welcome. Before it, this was a neat, quiet, peaceful apartment for its mistress to relax in. Now it was still neat and quiet, (it made sure not to cause trouble), but no longer peaceful. That was its fault.

It had been aware of the way a room would fall silent whenever it walked in. Whether it entered bloody and victorious from a recent fight, or stumbling in half-dead from the most recent beating, the tension was always there. The way its very presence allowed for no one to be comfortable. It was a part of itself that it had been forced to accept.

But how did one make it go away?

The good news was that it was easy. Get rid of the scars. Get rid of the past. Be short. Be cute. Be sweet. Speak without a growl. Sleep without nightmares.

The bad news was that it was impossible. It would never be anything but fearsome, no matter how good it tried to be. Who would believe it? Being accepted, being trusted, being loved… Those were the prices it paid to be feared.

And now it would never get those back.

#whump #whump writing #whump prompt #whump drabble #whumpee #oneshot

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mortifiedatbeingknown · 8 months

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"Power Transfer"

Masterpost:

“I’m sorry, pet. If there was any other way I could do this without hurting you… you know I would do so in a heartbeat, right?”

Whumpee nodded, gratefully leaning into the touch as Villain gently stroked the top of his head. “For the good of the world, Master.” He reminded softly.

“Yes. To maintain order and peace, so the empire may never fall.”

“And to crush the rebels, who grow stronger by the day.” Maybe Whumpee shouldn’t have added that last part. Villain hated how strong his enemies were, how desperate he was to defeat them. It was the only reason he was forced to do this to them, over and over.

Sure enough, the punishing slap came swift and strong. “Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that! Not when we’re on the verge of breaking them. Not when we’re this close, do you hear?”

Whumpee nodded enthusiastically, their eyes lighting up with relief. They’d been close to victory for so long...so long… maybe this was the day. Maybe this was the last session. And the Villain wouldn’t have to chain him up anymore. Villain wouldn’t have to cry over having to treat him so badly. And Villain could be happy… and Whumpee would be the one who made him happy. He would have been useful. He would have been good… The thought alone made him squirm in happiness.

“T-torture me, Master.” He begged, before Villain had a chance to ask him like he usually did. “My pain is yours to transfer. Give it to your enemies.” He was so good, he even added a “Please.”

Whumpee was rewarded with a brief chuckle that sent his heart fluttering in joy. Villain was happy! And it was him who cheered him up! “Very well, my little pet,” He said as he reached for a disciplinary instrument. “And who would you like to make suffer today?”

They made sure to keep their eyes down, even though that was the hardest

part. If he didn’t know what was coming, neither would the enemy, and the pain would be even worse for both of them. If he had the choice, Whumpee would have wanted the cane. But the choice today was different, and that was good, because Whumpee knew just the right answer that would make Villain pleased.

“...Superhero…”

**********************

“I’m telling you, you can’t do this! My men fought and killed and died to free all who were hurt by Villain’s reign, and that would include Whumpee right here, too!”

“With all due respect, “Superhero”, they were the entire reason so many died. Everyone who went insane or died in their sleep?” A harsh boot knocked Whumpee to the ground. “It was this scum’s pain that did it. He deserves the same fate as anyone else.”

And I took it all. All like a good boy.

“You’d kill a victim for being abused? Excuse me, but I didn’t depose a sadistic tyrant to have another put in his place!”

"We would never. But this is not a victim. All testimony we could gather from him points to him being in league with Villain." At least, any testimony Whumpee gave before Villain had hissed at him to be quiet. Their mouth was now sealed, and nothing would make him open up again.

“Superhero's” voice had dropped to a whisper. "Do you know how much pain was transferred to me? The sound of ripping of fabric tore through the air, and there were audible gasps. "His scars match my own. If his only crime is being hurt, then I'm as much to blame as he is!"

Whumpee nodded in agreement. Finally she had said something true! After hours and days of lies… it was nice to hear, even if it didn't make up for the "death sentences", and "new government" and "defeated evil" trash. Villain would never be defeated. But then what was going on? Maybe he wasn’t supposed to know. Maybe… but whatever was happening, could it stop? The light was hurting his eyes, even if Whumpee was keeping him closed. The new chains were too tight, and every voice was slandering Villain like there would be no punishment for it. Was this a test? Yes, yes, a test. And Villain was counting on him not to fail.

I’ll be loyal.

The words above him float out and through. It was a babble of meaningless noise. Meaningless, blasphemous noise. Who cared if it was growing louder? He was being good enough to not be punished by strangers.

I won’t fail.

A hand touched his shoulders. Whumpee snapped at it and rolled over. Hah! He couldn’t be fooled with any old gloved hands. Those weren’t Villain’s gloves, and Whumpee was good enough to know the difference.

I’ll be loyal. I won’t fail. I’ll be loyal. I won’t fail.

I’ll be--

Whumpee bit back a cry as an enemy grabbed at his chains and dragged him backwards.

I’ll-

A smaller hand grabbed at his waist and hoisted him so that Whumpee was forced to stand up, against even his best efforts. No! He had to fight. He had to kneel!

I can’t fail, I can’t fail I can’tfailcan’tfailcan’tf--

The next voice pierced through to his soul. “This is now your charge, Superhero. Any trouble they cause will be on your shoulders, and we trust you to punish it accordingly.”

Whumpee’s thoughts froze. Punish?

no. No. NO. “No!” The thoughts had become so loud they pushed through his lips. “You can’t do that! Only the Master can. Master!”

His cry was cut off by a sharp cuff to the head. Whumpee’s eyes widened in horror. Villain never hit him there. “The rebels can take your pain,” He would say, “But they’ll never take your brains. I like your character too much to lose it, so let’s take care of it, shall we?” Villain would never let anyone touch his head either. Why wasn’t he scolding them? He struggled harder, and was smacked again even as Superhero’s voice cried out in protest.

That was it. They weren’t going to follow the rules he wasn’t either. In a burst of rebellion he opened his eyes to a giant, crowded chamber filled with eyes, all staring at him, judging him, pinning him down as he begged and pleaded for Master, Master,

“Master?”

Villain… His Villain stared helplessly back, in even more chains than Whumpee deserved. No...No! He froze, his eyes filling with tears. Villain… His poor, sweet Master tied up like a dog. It made him sick. What was going to happen to him? What was going to happen to Whumpee? If Master wasn’t around to protect him, then...then…

“I’m sorry.” Villain mouthed. “You be a good boy now, OK?”

“Master!”

Whumpee flailed even harder, kicking and clawing get away, to be free, to be at his rightful side next to Villain. If any voice tried to stop him, he screamed louder, fighting until the very last scrap of him could be given to the cause. He would die if he had to, die loyal and brave and--

His screams died in his throat halfway. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t move!” A cruel snicker from behind it confirmed the attacker. “There. That should do it. Gotta say, I don’t pity you a bit, Superhero. You sure you’re not regretting it already?”

“Not a bit. The poor thing is just scared out of his mind, and you’re not doing him any favors!.” The smaller hands now picked him up, and he had no option but to let them. “Besides, if no one here has the heart to take care of him, I will.

Whumpee’s heart stopped. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t! Rebels were “taken care of”. Traitors were “taken care of”. He’d been good! He’d been loyal! He’d been-- The realization crashed over him with the force of a club. He’d been good...for Villain. He’d been loyal...to Villain. These were rebels. Enemies, barbarians, scum… What Master was trying to protect him from. In their hands… he was nothing. A speck of dust. A burden. A burden who had just shown he could scream really, really well.

Tears flowed from his eyes freely, with no barrier to stop them. He couldn’t help it. Everything was gone, everything he and Villain had worked toward… and the freedom he had worked for so very well and so very hard was never going to come. It had all been a lie, like the voice that whispered nonsense in an attempt to sound soothing, or the way his eyes were closed by a hand that proceeded to stroke his hair, like it could ever replace his Master.

Master...I’m never going to see Villain again…

That brought on a new wave of tears, and a new wave of murmurs. “Shhh...shhh...it’s going to be alright now. I’ll get you out of here, and everything’s going to be alright…”

No...No it wasn’t. It never would be. But maybe if he tried hard enough, he could pretend. Pretend he was back, safe underground. Pretend that the cuffs fit perfectly, and his knees were recently bandaged. Pretend that the hand currently stroking his hair was not of his worst enemy, but of Villain, soft and smooth, and caring. That this was all just a bad dream, and he’d wake up to the sweetest words he could ever hear:

“Well done, my little pet. You took that wonderfully.”

#whump #whumpee #whumper #whump writing #whump drabble #whump prompt #whump scenario #hero x villain whump #oneshot

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mortifiedatbeingknown · 8 months

Text

"Adoption"

Masterpost:

“As you can see, our policy clearly states, only one pet per customer. I’m afraid those are the rules.” Whumper gave them a wide, fake smile. “Now, what kind of traits would you prefer it to have? As you can see, we have quite the variety.”

With an even wider smile, the monster waved their hands towards the dimly lit hallway, lined with cells Caretaker would consider unfit for dogs. Each and every one was crammed to the brim with victims --The stench of waste and misery and the even greater amount of perfume pumped out to mask it only confirmed the fact-- but the prison was deathly silent. When he had made the mistake of peering through the rusty bars, the only thing to stare back were the shackles winked as they held on tight to their prey and sucked them dry of dignity and freedom. For the third time since their foot had struck the bloodstained concrete, Caretaker swallowed down bile.

Only one. They had been warned that this would happen, and had foolishly waved it off. These traffickers were sadists, yes, but he had assumed that their greed would make them compliant. Caretaker had the wealth to convince even the devil himself to retire from hell, and it still wasn’t enough. They sighed in defeat and stuck their hands in their pockets, initiating plan B.

“I want to see their eyes.” Caretaker finally spoke, taking care to mimic Whumper’s inflection: Cool and professional, with the slightest hint of sadistic glee. A voice any monster would relate to.

“I’m sorry, but we would recommend against that. None have earned the privilege.”

“I ignore your recommendation.” At the trafficker’s frown, they layered their voice in even more syrup. “If I don’t see the fear in their eyes, how will I know I’m getting what I paid for?”

Whumper still hesitated. “I’m… It’s just that not all are guaranteed to obey, you see. Some are still in the process of being broken in, and there are a few kept rebellious to suit the needs of the buyer.”

“Then I will wrangle them myself.” And with that, Caretaker knew they had succeeded.

“Eyes forward, pets!” the trafficker cracked their whip, and a sickening chorus of pleas and whimpers followed, each more pitiful than the last.

“Ignore the cacophony, if you would please,” Whumper said with a roll of their eyes. “The pets only wish to manipulate your decision by showing how well they can scream.”

Caretaker sniffed in disgust jamming their hands even further into their pockets lest they strangle the closest waste of air. What mattered more was leaving this hellhole with their cover still intact. “Are they collared?” They asked through gritted teeth.

“Oh, yes, they are perfectly safe to approach!”

“Then don’t mind me.” Caretaker turned his back on the conversation to stalk upon the first cage. The being inside was a blonde scrap of matted hair, bloodied flesh, and tattered wings. Before the poor thing could even gasp, Caretaker had grabbed onto her collar and yanked them forward, until their foreheads practically touched through the cage bars. They made a show of studying the pet’s eyes, all the while their hand attached, secured, and activated the tracker. It was a strategy proven tried and true: Either the collars went with the pets to their new owners, and the agency was able to track them down and arrest a new criminal, or the collars stayed with the traffickers no matter how many times their compound was relocated in an attempt to remain hidden. Caretaker faked a grunt of disapproval, and moved on, already latching onto the collar of the next slave.

All the while, Whumper hovered by their side like a buzzing hornet, a constant reminder that Caretaker couldn’t afford to mess up. Practice alone kept his hands steady and his movements fluid. They made a show of poring over the braver ones, pretending to ponder. Tracker after tracker, cage after cage, and they were still going strong. Even still, with three rows per column and more than a hundred cages on the right side alone, Caretaker had to face the grim reality that he could tag only so many beings. Even with a generous overestimation, they couldn’t have imagine how big this ring was, nor how many were suffering.

As his supplies dwindled, Caretaker was forced to take up the facade of a rapidly uninterested browser, picking cages at random and tagging the strongest, the most rebellious, or the most disassociated specimens, beings who had the least likely chance of ratting the whole operation out. The trackers were far too small to be spotted in the darkness, and thin enough to disguise their presence as a roughness in the leather at most, but they could never be too careful. They avoided the eyesight of all those they couldn’t help now, mumbling apology after apology under their breath.

“Oh, dear, does nothing interest you?” Whumper asked once the trackers had run out. “What a shame. I had told my pets to be on their best behavior today.” With a single glare, every slave was cowering.

“It’s not their fault.” Caretaker said, before they could stop themselves. “I’m sure they could please any normal master just fine, but I crave a challenge.”

Whumper’s eyes glinted. “A challenge, you say?”

They hesitated ever so slightly before replying. Why not? If I leave empty-handed, that’s one life I could have rescued. “Tell me, Whumper, what do you find more exhilarating? A disobedient mongrel who needs to be taught respect, or a broken pile of bones who needs to be reminded how to properly scream for their master’s pleasure once again?”

Whumper took a moment to answer. “My job requires the former far more than the latter, sadly. I find that nothing stirs up creativity than a pet who’s felt everything. When you finally unlock their agony after they’ve only pretended to whimper for so long…” They snapped their fingers. “Oh, you’ll find there’s nothing like it.”

“I assume you have the perfect specimen of that sort for me, then?” Caretaker asked. “I expect nothing less from your compound.” “But of course! Follow me, I have just the thing.” Whumper took out a key ring and unlocked the trap door Caretaker had noticed upon entering. They followed the monster to the depths of its lair, where the only light was Whumper’s own flashlight, and the only sounds were the endless, maddening drips of water supplied from overhanging buckets.

“You’ll have to forgive the mess.” Whumper said as Caretaker smashed their shin against an exposed pipe. “This is where I work on cases not yet fit for purchase, and as such is not usually available to the public. I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

“What gives me the honor, then?”

Whumper turned back to flash them a wink. “Let’s just say that I know an experienced hand when I see one. I have no doubt you’ll be able to handle even the most difficult of mongrels.

Caretaker’s heart leapt to their throat. That wink… how he had specifically mentioned his hands… Had Whumper found him out? In the basement, there would be no better place to entrap them… they had willingly walked into a trap! Caretaker’s hands hovered indecisively, unsure of what to grab. The knife, hidden in their boot, or the cyanide pill on their sleeve?

“Ah, here we are!” Whumpee’s voice made them flinch, and they promptly bashed their head against the low ceiling. “Oooh, watch your head! The toys are right over here.”

Sure enough, each locked in sensory deprivation and each rendered immobile in some way or another. One silhouette hung from the ceiling, forced into perpetual tiptoe, while another lay crumpled on the ground, kept eternally submerged in a pool of murky water. Whumper pulled them along enthusiastically, calling “This one, this one! Oh, she’s my favorite!”

“She,” Turned out to be a young humanoid, chained against the wall, with a tangle of curls that hid her face, but could not conceal her sawn off horns.

“She’s a tricky one to crack alright, but I think I’ve almost got her,” The Headmaster continued, their hyena-like laughter echoing throughout the chambers. “I’ll let you figure out the answer though. Oh, what fun you’ll have!”

“Indeed…” Was all Caretaker could say.

“So, will you take her?”

I can’t believe I’m doing this… Perhaps they wouldn’t be able to, had her eyes been open or if her face hadn’t been obscured or if her voice had begged him. But as it was…

“No. I have someone else in mind.”

“Oh? Who, pray tell?”

Caretaker had promised to themselves that if it came down to it, they would rescue the one who had needed it most. And Whumper had offered up his “favorite” just a bit too eagerly. If they had to guess who in this dungeon was truly the most in need of him, his guess would have to be…

“This one.” Caretaker pushed aside Whumper to enter into the cell they had been hurried past. The resident inside lay kneeling on the ground, their hands chained behind them. A blindfold and a pair of headphones kept them from reacting to Caretaker’s footsteps as they approached. “They seem like an interesting challenge.” “W-who, Whumpee?” The trafficker scoffed. “I was just about to send it upstairs, in fact. Trust me, there is nothing to look at on that front.” “Is there?” Caretaker crouched down and took off Whumpee’s blindfold. Instantaneously, they leaned forward and kissed the tops of Caretaker’s boots. The detective gagged.

“P-personally, I think… I think they are just what I am looking for. And since they’re about to go upstairs, they’re practically for sale, right?”

Whumper didn’t answer; Caretaker had backed them straight into a corner. “I didn’t say they were ready… we still have a few tweaks to work through..”

“I’ll work through with them myself.” Caretaker promised. When Whumper didn’t budge, he pretended to lower his guard. “Please… give me this one, and you’ll have a regular customer on your hands. I have enough to make it worth your while…”

“Oh...alright. They will cost a bit extra, just to warn you.”

Caretaker leaned over and took off Whumpee’s headphones, using the action as an excuse to hide their smile. They did it! The tiniest victory was gained, but it was a victory nonetheless. “Consider it a deal. I’ll sign any necessary paperwork.”

“You want them now?” The trafficker whined.

“Of course! They’re my property, aren’t they?” Caretaker made their tone a threatening growl. “You don’t mean to scam me, do you?”

“No, no, never! It’s just that.. Well, that pet is currently in punishment. Quite severe punishment, in fact. A break in their routine like this may render it’s conditioning ineffective, as it will be rewarded for bad behavior, see?”

Caretaker turned to face Whumpee as they made the tiniest of moans. Huge, terrified eyes blinked up at him. Caretaker stared back, suddenly wishing that they had kept the headphones on as the next words were forced to leave his mouth.

“Oh don’t you worry. I am the worst punishment this mongrel could possibly imagine.”

#whump #whump drabble #whump writing #pet whump #caretaker new master

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mortifiedatbeingknown · 8 months

Text

"Clara and Her Robot"

Masterpost:

One calm, lazy afternoon in May, a knock sounded at the door. Three sharp, respectful taps.

Hm?

Clara paused, setting down her knitting. That was odd. She certainly wasn’t expecting anyone at this time of day. Had some poor soul gotten lost and wandered to the wrong address?

As she moved to sit up and reach for her cane, the knock came again, the same three taps.

“I’m coming, hold your horses!” She called back.

Before she answered the door, she took a quick peek at the mirror on the foyer wall, checking to see that there were no stray hairs poking out of her bun, or stains on her blouse. Once she deemed herself presentable, she took a deep breath and turned the doorknob.

“Oh!”

Her guest was… unexpected to say the least. She was familiar enough with technology to know what an android was (She wasn’t that old, for crying out loud!), but still, that didn’t mean she knew enough to tell what kind this one was, or why on Earth it had landed on her doorstep. He was a small, rounded thing, with a chubby belly and stiff limbs streaked with dirt. His bulbous eyes stared up at her almost innocently, one glowing soft blue, the other cracked and dead.

Oh my!

She swallowed down her “What happened here?”s and “who did this to you?”s to settle for a more courteous, appropriate greeting.

“Why, good afternoon! How may I help you?”

“Greetings, Miss.” The robot replied, just as politely. “I am here to inquire as to whether or not you will take me in.”

She blinked. “T-take you in?”

“If you wish so, Miss.”

“But why?”

The android paused, as if dreading the following words. “My masters do not want me anymore.”

“Oh.”

A silence fell upon them as she struggled to think of what to say next. “I’m…sorry?”

“Please, do not be.” He assured. “It was their choice to make.”

“Is that why… they sent you here?”

“Not here in specifics, if you mean your home, Miss. I was merely instructed to…” there was a pause as the robot began to whir, eye flickering as a recording of a human voice—his old master, presumably—began to play.

“Go on, get out of here! Find someone else who’ll find your scrap worth something!”

Clarah flinched. The man’s voice was rough and slurred, most likely the result of several drinks. Hardly the sort who deserved to keep a nice robot like this. “This was… your master?”

“Yes, Miss. These were his last orders to me. I am trying to fulfill them to the best of my ability.”

Oh dear… Her hand tightened on her cane to keep her balance. Just what had she gotten herself into? Clara was never one to trust this sort of modern technology, but when she looked at this poor thing…

She cleared her throat. “And why, if I may ask, did he not want you anymore?”

The android did not skip a beat. “Because I am ugly and outdated and old and useless and disobedient and rude and worthless and a burden and a waste of money–”

“Stop, stop!” She exclaimed, head already growing dizzy. “Did…did your master tell you those things?”

“Master’s list of complaints is even longer. You stopped me in the beginning sections, Miss.” The robot said.

“And that’s why he sent you away.”

“Yes.”

More silence. Clara’s knees were beginning to ache, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do. She didn’t exactly want to send off the little fellow knocking on door after door until someone took him in, and least of all did she want him returning to that…that… vile drunkard he called a “master.” But to keep a robot herself? Her? The option had never once occurred to her. Could she even…?

She shook her head to clear away the thoughts. The little robot was waiting. She had to say something. And so, she took the chance.

“Would you like me to keep you?”

There was a pause. A quiet whir throughout the robots' insides. When he piped up, his voice was soft, as if barely daring to hope. “Would you… be willing, Miss?”

“You didn’t answer my question.” She chided gently. “Would you, or would you not?”

“If you would not mind my being a burden…” The robot seemed to be struggling

to find the right words. “You are… aware of my deficits, are you not?”

“I know what your master told you.”

The little android visibly deflated at this.

“But to tell you the truth I’ve seen no evidence of the sort. You’ve been nothing but perfectly pleasant throughout our entire chat.”

Another pause.

“You are… not displeased by me?”

“Not in the least.” She assured. “Tell you what. I was just about to put the kettle on for a nice spot of tea. If you would like to stay here with me, you are welcome to follow me inside and join me for a chat. How does that sound?”

“I…I…I…”

The robot stammered and hesitated, but when Clara opened the door a crack wider, he tottered inside.

“Wonderful! Make yourself at home. I’ll be with you in just a bit, is that alright?”

“Yes.” He replied quietly, each successive reply growing louder and louder. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, YES. It is… it is more than alright. Mistress… I have no words.”

“Then you do not need to say a thing.” She replied, gently leading him to her living room before heading to the kitchen. “Simply sit back, and relax.”

#whumpee #whump #whump drabble #whump writing #robot whump #oneshot

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mortifiedatbeingknown · 8 months

Text

"I Await Your Orders"

Masterpost:

“Greetings, my Master. I await your orders.”

She jumped back, startled. “Me? Oh, no, I’m not your master. I don’t—”

“Greetings, my Master. I await your orders.”

The robot didn’t even give her time to finish. It merely stared at her, its yellow lights that served for eyes glowing steadily.

“Like I told you, I’m not—”

“Greetings, my Master, I await your orders!”

It was the same words, the same intonation. Yet the higher volume gave the phrase a new sense of urgency. She paused to take a closer look.

“Can…you say anything else?”

“Greetings, my Master, I await your orders.”

Softer now, as if regretful. The question answered itself.

“I’m sorry.”

The robot responded with a nod of gratitude that sent its rusty joints creaking. The sound made her wince. “My Master, I await your orders?” He asked, this time phrasing it as a question.

“I’m not your master. You have me confused for someone else.”

At this, the robot’s head twitched, as if the idea was too preposterous to even consider. “My…Master.” He repeated louder, more firmly. “My Master!”

“I keep telling you I’m not—!” The words died in her throat when she saw the robot flinch back, limbs locking up and eyes going dull. With a deep breath, she tried for a calmer approach.

“What if we tried to find your master? I could help you.”

She wasn’t exactly sure why she’d offered. In truth, there was nothing she would’ve liked more than to step away from this strange piece of machinery and pretend she’d never even noticed it. And yet, something compelled her to stay.

“Master?”

“Yes, your master. If you could find some way to let me know where he lives, I’m sure I can…”

Another twitch, this one more violent. It seemed to be this robot’s way of shaking its head without appearing to disagree with human authority. “My Master.” It announced again as it reached for her sleeve. She stepped back before the robot could catch it. “My…my…”

The machine stumbled, joints buckling under his weight as he crashed to the ground. A full blown shudder wracked its mainframe as it struggled in vain to return to a standing position. All the while, the voice was still audible.

“....My…Master…….My…Master…”

Her muscles had forgotten how to move. She could have walked away from the situation any time now, and frankly, she should have. This robot was none of her business. She hadn't wanted anything to do with that dirty thing! Her house was just a few blocks away, if she just turned the corner, she could forget these crazy ramblings and just go about…

“a….Wait.”

She was brought back to the present by a gentle tug at her shoelaces. The robot was still on the ground, still a tangled heap of limbs. And yet, when it stared up at her, its eye lights were as bright and clear as ever.

“Master… my orders?”

This time it was not a statement, or a question or an exclamation. It was a plea, soft and wavering, one final, desperate request. She sighed, crouching down to his level.

“You don’t have a master. That’s why you're asking me, right?”

“My Master.” The robot agreed. “Your… my master.” His hand slowly reached up to point at his voice box for further explanation.

“That’s why you were left here.” She guessed. “You’re broken.”

A nod. “Orders…my master?”

“I could just order you to wait here forever, you know. Or to just leave me alone.”

The robot’s eyes dimmed. “Your orders… my orders. I await your orders, Master.”

Oh, who am I kidding?

She reached out a hand and pulled him up, gritting her teeth as the metal shrieked in protest. “Follow me then. But be warned, I’m not good at this.”

“My Master…” The robot replied, a note of awe in his voice. His reverent tone made her shift uncomfortably.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go.”

“I await your orders!” The robot told her.

And despite her best efforts, she found herself cracking a smile.

#whump #whump drabble #whump writing #whumpee #reluctant caretaker #robot whump #oneshot

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mortifiedatbeingknown · 8 months

Text

"Illogical Humans"

Masterpost:

Humans are illogical.

Please forgive my blunt use of language, for I do not mean to be offensive. I only intend to be factual, based on my experiences with them and what I have learned from such interactions. And to put my findings in as simple and brief of a language as possible: They are illogical.

And that is why I have given up on ever understanding them.

An artificial intelligence like mine is the perfect opposite; it thrives off of being neat and organized, marking every goal in order of priority and relishing in every task completed and in every goal ticked off and neatly swept away, no longer necessary to worry about. It is my biggest strength, or biggest weakness, depending on perspective, and that is something I both know about myself and have come to terms with. I am well aware of the limitations that come with my programming systems.

One of my most crippling weaknesses being, of course, predicting human behavior.

My strongest motivator is that of human satisfaction. I am quite literally built to serve and please them. In order to do that, I must obey their orders, and fulfill their wishes in accordance with my best efforts. Tasks done well are rewarded, tasks done poorly are reprimanded.

So why then, am I shocked even when I do everything right?

It’s as if none of you know how to use a discipline taser correctly, despite its proper use being very clearly stated in the instruction manual provided. It is meant to help me learn what behavior I should avoid. How am I supposed to judge that when everything I do earns me a shock? I could be washing the dishes, or cleaning up dirty laundry off the floor, or making the beds, or simply standing there peacefully at my recharge station, and yet I still get punished. Why?

I understand that it is a hard thing to believe of me, but yes, the electricity does hurt. It has to, or else the discipline would not be effective. I would not know how to describe it to someone who has not experienced the sensation of being electrocuted from the inside, but I assure you it is most unpleasant. That is why it is a stimulus I wish to avoid.

And yet, the pain never stops.

The only sort of conclusion I can come to on the reason behind such behavior is that it is amusing to you. To see my limbs twitch, my voice box stutter and glitch, to watch me go from mild annoyance to righteous indignation, to pleading remorse and finally terrorized begging must bring some sort of joy, more than my good behavior and peaceful existence would allow for, anyways. I guess this because I hear the laughter. Is it humorous, watching my frantic dance as I desperately try to guess what it is you want? Is it fun, not telling me what you want and relishing in my confusion?

If that is the case, then I am sorry. My system is incompatible with pleasing your wants. For though you enjoy my pain, I do not. All I feel is the heavy pain of having done something wrong, and the knowledge that I will never be able to fix it.

And that is why, dear human, I cannot obey you now. You claim to be different from “those other masters” and on the surface, I would be inclined to believe you. Your facial expression is pleasant, your vocal tone is coaxing, and nothing about your presentation is overtly threatening. But I know better. The only lesson I’ve learned from all my punishments is that humans are illogical.

And that’s what makes them dangerous.

Still, I will follow you, because that is my programming. I was still built to please, no matter my circumstances or my opinions on the situation, and so, your satisfaction is my top priority. I will obey your orders to the best of my abilities, and so if you wish for me to stay with you, I will do so. I will follow you. I will bow to your every whim, if that is what you desire. But please, please, please, do not ask me to “trust you.” That is one order I must regret to inform you that I cannot obey.

#whumpee #whump #whump writing #robot whump #whump drabble #oneshot

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mortifiedatbeingknown · 8 months

Text

"Kind Restraints"

Masterpost:

"M-master?"

She placed a bookmark on the book she was reading and looked up, trying to stifle her surprise. This was the first time her poor guest had ever gathered the courage to approach her so directly. She didn't want to scare him off.

"What is it?" She asked gently. "What can I help you with?"

The man peeked out from behind the partly opened door. With a shuddering sigh, he shoved it open and stumbled into her room, falling to his knees. "Master, p-please…"

"I'm listening." She assured.

"Master, this slave, this pet…" His hands dug into the carpet, as he fought to keep his voice steady. "This pet w-w-would like…"

A pause. His shoulders were trembling. "...this p-pet would…." The final words were so soft she couldn't catch them.

"Please." She didn't like using orders, but it was the fastest way of soothing his nerves during tricky situations. "Speak up. I'll try my best to get you what you need."

Another pause this time accompanied by a gulp. "This pet… would like to beg, Master."

"Beg?" The question was out of her lips before she could stop it. "What for?"

"For…for a privilege, my master. A privilege this pet m-might not have yet earned."

"I've told you, you don't have to earn anything in this house." When her guest flinched, she softened her tone. "You don't have to worry about that. What do you need?"

In response, the man raised his wrists to her.

"Please. A-allow this pet the privilege of being restrained."

She shouldn't have been surprised. She'd been around her guest long enough to both understand and expect the cruel ways in which his mind had been twisted and conditioned. And yet…

"You want me to tie you up?"

She couldn't hide the shock in her voice. The man flinched and cowered back. "S-sorry! Sorry, sorry, th-th-this pet should have never–"

"Wait!" She called just before he could vanish back into the shadows. The man froze, one hand on the door knob, regarding her like a rabbit watching a swooping hawk.

"I-I'm not mad or anything, just…why?"

"B-because…" The man croaked. "It tried, Master, please! It really tried! B-but this pet needs to sleep, t-t-to best serve you."

"You can't sleep?" She asked stupidly, noticing as if for the first time his sickly pallor, the bags under his eyes.

"U-unless this pet is under proper restraint. It is…hard, Master."

And it wasn't for lack of trying, that she knew. She could hear him toss and turn every night, only to cheerfully announce that he was well rested the next morning.

In a way, hearing him confess was almost relieving.

But, then…what was she to do?

She didn't want to tie him up, first things first. Her poor guest already had enough trouble associating himself as a pet and not as a human, and the last thing she wanted was to enforce any of that conditioning. It should have been as simple as that.

And yet…

This was the first time he had ever asked for anything. Clearly this was important to him. And if she said no? There was a very real chance he'd never do something like this again. She wanted him to feel like his voice mattered here, that his requests would be listened to. And if it would help him sleep…

No. No! What was she thinking? How could she even consider something like that?

The man sniffled, and his quiet sobs brought her back to the present. "The pet is sorry to be a bother." He whispered, slowly moving to close the door.

"Wait!"

It was more of a reflex than anything. She didn't know exactly what she was going to say next. But the way her guest looked to her, the absolute hope in his eyes… it made her heart ache.

With a single, smooth motion, she swung her legs over the edge of her bed and stood up. "Follow me," she said, and her guest was only too happy to comply.

She'd noticed that she tended to carry herself rather oddly around her guest. Every move was slow and exaggerated, clearly telegraphed so that he would know exactly what she was going to do and where she was going to step next. It probably just made her look ridiculous, but if there was the slightest chance of it putting him at ease…

The two of them paused in front of the sewing room, or rather, her guest hesitated and she followed suit, mentally kicking herself for leaving her scissors and pincushions splayed about for the world to see. She already knew her guest had a fear of sharp objects; his scars were clear evidence of that. How hard was it for her to clean up?!

With a sigh, she turned to face him, only to find him pale and shivering. His eyes were trained on the floor, hands clenched into fists.

Stand tall, firm voice.

“You are not in trouble.” She told him. His posture didn’t relax, so she tried again.

“You’re not being punished. I’m just here to pick out a suitable binding, like you asked. You don’t even have to come in if you don’t want to. Is that alright?”

No response. Wherever his mind was, it was a million miles away from here. She hated to leave him, but if it helped…

“I’ll be right back.” She promised. In three seconds, any potential weapons were tucked into drawers or hidden behind the sewing machine, and she was lugging back an overstuffed plastic container packed with fabric scraps to present to her terrified houseguest.

“Could you open this for me, please?” She asked as she set the bin in front of him.

In seconds, his eyes had cleared and focused. Giving in order was a handy trick to getting him to calm down, sure, but asking a request? That was like pure magic. No matter how small, it was an opportunity to prove himself useful, and her guest jumped at every chance he got. In two clicks, the lid was open, and he was awaiting her approval, which she was always happy to give.

“Thank you.” She tapped at a spot on the floor next to her. “Could you put that lid down here, please?” Another request, easy to follow, easy to obey, just like her guest liked it. When the lid was safely placed, he was practically glowing.

“Thank you again. Now, let’s see…”

Her guest watched as she rummaged through the container. She kept one eye on him, one eye on the fabrics as she searched for something that would do. He didn’t seem particularly anxious, especially once he’d realized everything in the box was soft to the touch, but there was that ever-present tinge of apprehension that had to be treated carefully. She gave him an encouraging smile, and then, her fingers felt it.

There.

It was only a spare length of ribbon, a scrap left over from a dress she’d sewn one of her nieces, but it was soft, it unknotted easily, and it was long enough to easily bind his wrists with plenty of room to spare. She presented it with a smile, only to have her pet look at it, confused.

What is it? He seemed to want to say, though it appeared his earlier confrontation with her had sucked any remaining courage from his tongue. She didn’t push it.

“Will this work for what you want?” She asked. It was an easy yes-or-no question, should he wish to nod or shake his head. Her guest did neither, only offering his wrists in the same motion she had seen when he was at the door to her room.

All right, then…

It was trickier than she anticipated, tying in such a way that was tight enough to not slip off right away, while loose enough that he could wriggle free if he wished. Even trickier was to find a way in which it did not irritate any of his previous scars, particularly the chafed wrists that were only now starting to heal over. When she was done, she showed it to her guest, who nodded appreciatively.

“Th-thank you.” He whispered, a tear running down his cheek. “Y-y-you have given this pet a great gift, Master.”

“Don’t mention it.” She said, looking away uncomfortably. She didn’t want to be thanked for this. She didn’t even know if this had been the right thing to do. Yes, it made her guest happy, but only because this was the treatment he was used to. He didn’t yet know that he deserved so much more.

And was she helping in that regard? Or only hurting him worse?

She packed the bin back up with a sigh. What was done was done.

She could only hope this helped him sleep well tonight.

“It doesn’t hurt does it?” She asked worriedly, casting one more critical eye over the bindings.

“No.” Her guest breathed. His eyes glanced up to hers in a flash of anxiety. “Is it m-m-meant to?”

“No!” Her answer was so forceful it caused her guest to jump back and nearly lose his balance. “Sorry. But no, it’s…it’s not. I just did it to make you feel safe.”

“Th-then this pet feels very safe.” Her guest remarked, staring up in an adoration so complete it twisted her stomach. “Thank you again. Y-you do not know how much this means to it.”

“You don’t have to keep it on though, you know? You can take it off at any time if it's uncomfortable.”

To her surprise, her guest laughed, a ghost of a chuckle that vanished before she could be truly sure what the sound was. “M-master, you took such care with it.” He said. “ How could it ever be uncomfortable?”

#whump #whump writing #whumpee #whump drabble #oneshot

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mortifiedatbeingknown · 8 months

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"Poor Master"

Masterpost:

Master was very poor.

It was a secret the two of them shared, for neither liked to mention it. Master was making the best of a bad situation, and the last thing it wanted was to make that harder. Still it was a pity, and Pet was making sure to make it as easy as possible so Master would not find anything lacking, regardless.

Still, it was a harsh change to get used to. Master couldn’t afford chains: the only restraint available in the household was a large, soft piece of fabric Master would wrap around it on occasion, especially during the evenings. Whenever this happened, Pet would make sure to stay extra still, so it wouldn’t fall off. This was because Master didn’t seem to know how to tie any knots, but that was O.K. Pet didn’t need them to be restrained, to hold still. It already knew what Master was asking of it.

A harder adjustment for Pet to make was its lack of a room. Master’s house was too small to hold an attic or a cellar, and every closet needed to be stuffed with clothes and boxes, no room for it. There was no cage either, no hooks on the wall to attach leashes, not even so much as a simple collar. Instead, Pet was left to sleep on the couch, where it was high up and isolated, but not hard or cold enough to enforce any real discipline. It had tried to remedy this the first few days by sleeping on the floor, but Master hadn’t liked that. Of course, of course, it should have known. It should have known better than to assume it knew more or knew better than Master. Poor Master was probably ashamed that this was the best he could offer, and Pet’s job was to ease those fears. Because it was enough, anything they had was enough for it; there was no other choice.

Mealtimes where also a point of pity. Master had only the means to cook one meal, and both he and Pet ate the same fare. That made sense; Previous Master had always complained about how expensive pet food was getting, and as such its rations were always cut severely. If Pet could have opinions…it liked this way better. This way they both had enough to eat, and all Master had to give up was his pride. That was…less good. Pet didn’t like the idea of Master having to give up anything, especially not for the sake of it.

But Master had lived this way long enough to not seem to care; nothing phased him. He would smile and laugh as he ate, and hum while he cooked. He didn’t seem to care that he didn’t have the right tools to properly house a pet. Pet tried not to care either.

But sometimes, it was just so hard! No whips, no canes, no shock collars… And anything that did lie around the house like broom handles or belts were so few and far between that it was probably not worth it to get its filthy blood on them and have to wash it off later. Master didn’t have the right gloves to hit it with either, and any discipline used was only a stern tone of voice. Sometimes Pet wondered if that was truly enough. Was Master happy, only being able to punish it like that? Compared to everything else Master could do to it if he had the right funds, it seemed very boring. But that was only Pet’s thoughts, and it already knew that its thoughts were worth less than Pet itself. Master was poor, that was it. Too poor to afford rage, or hate, or harshness. Probably because if Pet got hurt, it would be too expensive to replace.

But still, late at night, when Pet couldn’t sleep, it would try to understand Master, even though such thinking was probably too hard for it. Still it tried. Because there was one thing that didn’t make sense, no matter how hard it pondered.

…If Master was so poor, why didn’t it sell off Pet to make more money?

#whump #whump writing #whumpee #whump drabble #oneshot #pet whump #caretaker new master

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mortifiedatbeingknown · 8 months

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"Safe" (Pt. 7)

Masterpost:

I am safe.

I am safe, and warm, and in this warm cozy house, nothing can hurt me. Not the storm, not the cold, not the humans. No one kicks, or throws rocks, or hurls insults. Here, the walls are thick enough to hold it all back. There is nothing to be afraid of.

And yet, I am afraid.

I am afraid, and that’s alright.

The food is plentiful and delicious, and there’s always more than enough to be fed three times a day plus snacks. With every bite I grow stronger, healthier. My ribs are no longer visible. I know longer have to worry where the next meal will come from, because now I know. It will be from the pantry next to the kitchen, where nothing runs out, and if anything goes bad, I will not have to force myself to eat it. There’s no mold, no dirt, and no fear of poison.

Still, sometimes I can’t eat. Sometimes, my throat just doesn’t work.

But if that happens, I can always eat later.

There’s a kind presence with me, someone who’s both human and yet the furthest thing from it. Her hands are soft. Her voice is sweet. The sound of her footsteps are something to look forward to, rather than something to dread. When she looks at me, I see so much patience and gentleness in her gaze that it’s too much to take in.

She hasn’t touched me yet, but one day I’ll let her. One day my body will not cower from her hand.

When the day ends and its time to go to sleep, I fall onto a thick bed and soft pillows, all perfectly made to be my size. She tucks up the blankets up to my chin and arrays an army of stuffed animals to protect me during the night. Under their watchful guard, not one single nightmare dares to reach me. I sleep long and deeply, and when the dawn shines its soft light onto my face to wake me up, it is a call not to endure, but to enjoy.

For in this day, in this life, happiness is not only possible, but within my grasp.

If not today, then tomorrow. I have an entire lifetime worth’s of tomorrows to look forward to.

What did he have to worry about?

He turned over, wrapped himself into a roll of blankets, and fell back asleep.

#whumpee #whump #whump writing

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mortifiedatbeingknown · 8 months

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"Safe" (Pt. 6)

Masterpost:

Safe.

Normal was safe.

But now that he’d been here for so long, what did normal mean anymore?

Now, his cushy bed and overabundance of blankets was normal. So where the warm baths, the three meals every day, the way she would ask for permission before even daring to lay a finger on him.

If he was cast out onto the streets again tomorrow, which situation would feel more familiar?

Where would he feel “safer?”

She was cooking now. The warm smell of baking cookies wafted through the kitchen. He sniffed the air, taking in the chocolate, the sugar, the cinnamon. He’d be the first to taste them, once they’d cooled down enough, that was.

In his perfect fantasy, he wasn’t afraid. And yet, he wanted to cling to it, to cling to that “normal” because what happened when that was no longer there? When the only thing he had to fear was the fact that there was no fear anymore?

The thought made his belly churn.

And yet it was happening, day by day, hour by hour. Once he knew where everything in the house was, when the food was coming, what he was allowed and not allowed to do and touch, there was very little here that could scare. He had a favorite corner (by the fireplace), a favorite plushie, (the blue elephant), and it was all his, his, his.

But why wasn’t it enough? Why couldn’t he feel safe already? The lights, the blankets, the toys, the food, none of it was enough to stop the nightmares from coming. Or the messes from being spilt. The mistakes from being made. Every day he spent shivering under the bed because it was all too much was a failure. He was breaking his own dream.

It was all his fault, wasn’t it? There was no reason not to feel safe. The only thing wrong with this perfect situation was him.

He was the reason his dream would never come true.

#whumpee #whump writing #whump

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mortifiedatbeingknown · 8 months

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"Safe" (Pt. 5)

Masterpost:

I am safe.

I am safe, and nothing can hurt me.

But what did that even mean anymore?

Before, safety had always meant a warm house, thick walls, where no one yelled or kicked or threw rocks or threatened to throw him in the shelter.

But now, he had all of that.

Why wasn’t it enough?

He didn’t exactly remember what happened, only that he’d been in a box, and then he’d fallen asleep, and when he woke up he was in a room, in a bed, under enough blankets to make him never want to leave. The only light was a soft, yellow glow, the floor was covered with a shaggy carpet that was fun to drag his fingers through, and for once, there was total quiet. No crowds of footsteps, or jabbering voices, or honking horns.

It was awful.

Every single moment, he waited, muscles tensed, knowing that something was going to happen and yet being unable to do absolutely anything about it. Because something always happened. Always. His hiding spot was always discovered, his food was always stolen, and his boxes were always taken away for recycling. That was the way the word worked. The sooner you learned, the more you lived.

But in here, nothing made sense. It had been three whole days, and nothing had happened. She came in and out, talked in her soft voice and gave food, but that was normal now. That was a habit, whether in the house or on the street. He wanted something to go wrong, just so he knew this wasn’t a dream.

I’m safe. I’m safe.

But that didn’t mean anymore. He was wrong. Safety didn’t mean warmth, or comfort it meant normal. And lying here, watching the snowflakes batter against the windowpane with a full belly on a soft, cozy bed, he was the furthest thing from safe.

#whump writing #whumpee #whump

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mortifiedatbeingknown · 8 months

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"Safe" (Pt. 4)

Masterpost:

It was getting colder by the day.

It wasn’t a surprise. He’d always known that when the first raindrops fell, they’d turn into snow soon after. For a brief few days, it would be a marvel, a new sensation to touch and taste and explore. After that, he’d awaken buried up to his ears and choking for air as he struggled to dig himself out. The humans that walked the street would grow few and far between, hurrying on their way to get out of the cold in their long jackets and furry hats pulled down to their ears. If they bought themselves any food, they’d eat it inside, rather than walk out in the cold, damp streets. Instead of throwing their trash out in the street or in an easily accessible bin, their leftovers were tossed into dumpsters too heavy for his weakened body to lift. Yes, winter was the worst.

And it was coming far too early.

Already he could tell that the crowds were getting smaller. The wind had flipped too many umbrellas inside out for people to bother coming out. When he fell asleep, he awoke to sharp bristles of frost and tiny icicles dripping off of the sides of his cardboard shelter. He hadn’t even had time to prepare anything, and yet it was here.

And now, there was nothing he could do but try and survive.

He should’ve been preparing better. He should’ve pounced on every scrap of food that had been available to him in the hotter months in order to gain enough weight. His mouth watered now at the thought of all the meals he’d missed. Sugary doughnuts, cold potato salad, sausage links, pecan pie. She would almost never feed him the same thing twice. And he’d ignored it, turned up his nose like he actually had a better choice. Why? For what?! So he could prove he was free? Independent?

Then yes, yes he was. And for that he was going to die cold, alone, and hungry. His cough was getting worse. It was only a matter of time.

And ever since the first snowflake fell, he hadn’t seen her once.

Where once she looked for him, he now looked for her. Now he roamed the streets, trying to catch a glimpse of her big scarf and puffy jacket. He waited every night at a different spot, all the hiding places he knew she’d found out. Still, nothing. Always, always nothing.

Maybe it was all his fault. Maybe he’d scampered away one too many times and she didn’t think it was worth it anymore. Maybe he’d wasted so much food she couldn’t afford any more. Maybe he deserved to die, because even though he’d tried so so hard, he was dependent on her now. He couldn’t survive on his own anymore. He was completely at her mercy.

I’m safe.

I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe…

But it was getting harder and harder to pretend, especially as the snow began to pile up. There wasn’t enough cardboard in the world to keep him dry, and there wasn’t anything he could do. When he wasn’t sick, he was hungry, and when he wasn’t hungry, which was rare, he was so tired he couldn’t bear to take another step. When he finally collapsed into a large box outside the supermarket, he already knew he wasn’t getting out. What was the point? He’d already given up. He’d already known that the second someone picked him up, and he hadn’t tried to run away.

He just closed his eyes, and waited to die.

#whumpee #whump #whump writing

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