whumpcloud - Tumblr blog

whumpcloud · 10 days

Text

Initials

[masterlist]

CW: whumper pov, pet whump, dehumanisation, cutting (NOT self-harm), gore

Mireille hadn’t put too much thought into it, not really. But she didn’t need to. The moment she lay eyes upon the initials carved into the jewelled perfume bottle in the home of one of her suitors, it was decided.

Henri was a good man, certainly as good as he could get, though not without some imperfections. He was of good stature, broad shoulders, though unaware of how to present them, always slouching slightly, as if the weight of his own frame was too much. And really, that wasn’t acceptable in the eyes of perfection. Maybe Mireille could make him great, could make him her own and teach him how to be proper, but maybe this was the best he could get and she’d just waste her time. Honestly, she’d rather be certain of her efforts, but he didn’t need to know, for his presents still made lovely decor.

He did have good taste, otherwise she wouldn’t have entertained him for so long.

All that matters now though, is the sunlight catching in the glass carvings of the bottle, the image replaying in her mind. She wants it too, and she wants it now, and Mireille knows just the possession perfectly suited for this:

Her little ashtray.

There is no thought in her mind of where to do this, who to ask. None of them would see the vision in her mind, the exact way it’s supposed to look. They’d all mess it up, ignorant of the gracefulness she lent to her ashtray. No, this is a personal project.

It is too easy to acquire a proper knife without suspicion. These men –the useful ones– – would bend over backwards just to get a chance at pleasing her. Sometimes she’d go as far as calling it boring, but what else was she supposed to do when all it took was the batting of her lashes, looking up at them with big, dumb doe eyes and slightly parted lips? Her body spoke a language none of them could resist, none of them were ever more than prey to fall in worship.

And worship they did, falling to their knees to satisfy her in all the ways she allowed them. She was their queen in satin sheets and velvet dresses.

So here she sits, legs crossed elegantly on her precious couch, the fine knife not yet unpacked, resting in a silver case, embedded with diamonds.

No one else understands that not only does the result need to be flawless, but every single step needs to be immaculate, from the tools to the cutting to the one performing. An image has to be created, a scene, and none of those lowly things could ever understand her vision. That was what has always made her inherently different, inherently superior, and deserving of rightful worship.

A servant rushes into the room, hitching breaths restricted by the working collar, eying the golden bell set carefully on the glass table in front of her.

“You called, Mistress?” they ask, staring cautiously at the floor, not yet daring to raise their eyes to meet hers. Good. She wants them revering.

“Yes. Fetch me my ashtray, won’t you?” Mireille drawls, her bubbling excitement hidden under layers of refined grace. “And bring me some strong dogs. They will be needed.”

The servant nods, not worrying their stupid little head about her meaning, teasing what's to come, and rushes out as quickly as they came. They look frail, purposeful like porcelain, probably why she bought them, though their name or number had left her mind long ago. An unimportant piece of information abandoned along the way, replaced with something of value.

Only minutes later, the same servant returns, gripping the ashtray’s golden leash too tightly. It’s barely noticeable but nonetheless doesn’t escape her all-seeing eyes; the way their knuckles drain of colour disturbs the otherwise pristine scene. They are followed by two guard dogs, muscular and well rested, their posture straight and imposing, their gaze hard and cold like unmoving stone.

The ashtray looks perfect as usual, the thought both pleasing and stinging in a way that does not fit her image. So Mireille pushes it aside, a worry for later or preferably for never. They can’t have taken long to get him ready. And yet…

“Undress the ashtray. I want his chest to be free” Mireille orders, snapping her fingers. The servant quickly complies, buttoning the fine blouse the ashtray was decorated with open, pulling up away from him and folding it with learned precision.

It only takes a hand movement for the ashtray to step forward, for him to sink to his knees in front of her. The poor lamb doesn’t yet know what is coming.

“Hold him.”

The ashtray gasps and for a single, disobedient moment looks up at her with big panicked eyes. The way his blue eyes shine in the golden light of the chandelier does nothing but strengthen her resolve. Maybe, in another world, the view in front of her would be a painting she saw at an auction, a beautiful angel wrapped in gold captured by beasts of stone, unknowing of his fate. And like a painting, it is only natural for her to leave her mark.

He doesn’t struggle, even when she can’t imagine this was part of his training, he just looks at her pleadingly, unsure what he is even begging for.

It’s a scene now and Mireille will be a perfect part of it.

Slowly, she stands up, taking the silver case from the table as she passes it, positioning herself right in front of the ashtray. It opens with a satisfying click, revealing polished metal, sharp edges, red velvet and her initials finely engraved on the handle. Mireille can just about stop a laugh from bubbling up.

She crouches down to the ashtray’s eye level, laying a hand on his cheek. He doesn’t even lean into it. “Don’t. Move.”

Mireille takes the knife, letting it gleam in the gentle light, and hands the case to the servant still watching.

She can’t mess up now. It has to come from her heart.

Carefully, she traces her initials into the skin on his collarbone, making only slight cuts, letting her letters swirl around.

M. A. B.

Holding the knife like a painter's brush, with meticulous, perfected movements. It comes to her like second nature and the first step is completed.

In a final decision, she lays the knife’s edge on the first line of the M, watching the ashtray’s breath hitch in horrible anticipation. Not even a wince has broken through his training and Mireille is more than curious to test how far she can take it.

Were he any cheaper, she’d love to test what would get him to break his training. If she could get him to speak after all. But that wouldn’t be graceful, now would it? It would be a waste.

Instead, she presses it into his flesh, cutting down slowly, precisely. Once, then twice. The ashtray’s breath gets laboured and it only fuels her. She knows what she wants; an ornate engraving, decor on his skin, a signature on her masterpiece.

Fresh, richly red blood pours from the cuts, running down his bare chest like tiny rivers, connecting and separating, getting caught in raised scar tissue.

Mireille moves carefully, taking her sweet time, her lips opened slightly, imitating an artist. Position, press, slide. His flesh parts beautifully, like he was made for this. For a moment, she looks over to the servant, who is pressing the case against their chest, their face showing sloppily concealed horror, and it makes her smile. They would probably call it brutal, ignoring the gentle way her knife slides through his skin, not meeting any resistance. They’d call it violent, not comprehending the second artwork the rivulets of blood form through the hand of fate itself. They lack the mind of an artist and the nature of a human.

By the time she reaches the A, the ashtray is barely holding back sobs, letting out silent, crooked whimpers –a sound so ugly she should punish him for it–, as she etches her mark deep enough to hit the bone. Still, he doesn’t move, doesn’t strain against the unforgiving grip holding his arms, against her carving following the twirls and flourishes.

She doesn’t admit to herself that it is more challenging than she thought, to follow the rounded lines with a tool that craves sharp edges and straight incisions. The curves of the B make the knife catch on the bone and the ashtray lets out a soundless gasping scream, blue eyes nearly rolling back in his head. The tears he could barely hold back before now run down his face in a disobedient river, mixing with the blood on his chest, destroying her artwork.

He lifts his head upwards, in a last attempt to stop the flow of the tears, but it only makes them drip from his chin into the gashes and he is destroying everything–

A slap echoes through the room, loud enough to make his pathetic sobbing stop in an instant.

“Get your act together.” Mireille hisses, grabbing his chin and letting her manicured nails dig into his pretty face. “Or I will rip you apart, you worthless piece of trash.”

Only the word Worthless seems to get through to his stupid fucking pet brain. There is a reason he was made into a thoughtless object instead of anything else. His beauty is his only strength, the only reason they didn’t mercy-kill him, punish him for stealing space and air and atoms from anything with more use.

He is an ashtray or he is Nothing. And if he keeps ruining her attempts to make Something out of him, he will wish she had let him keep his voice to beg for death.

At last, the ashtray doesn’t act up any more, stays motionless and silent as she finishes the B. When she pulls his skin taut, she can feel him tremble with the effort to keep still. Seems like his training had some use after all.

Finally satisfied, Mireille lays the bloody knife aside, giving herself some time to analyze her work. Briefly, she turns to the servant to order a towel, before devoting her attention back to the signature, quickly overflowing with blood. It’s beautiful, but her interest lies somewhere else.

She digs two fingers into a line of the A, pulling the incision apart. The ashtray only manages a whimper that she gives no regard to, as she digs deeper and deeper through the tissue, against the continuous blood flow. Then, against the intense red, her own personal gold shines through.

Bone.

A pleased giggle escapes her.

It is done.

Whatever will happen, whoever will lay their eyes upon them, it will be eternally clear who he belongs to. There are nicks in his bone that her knife and her hands caused and he will forever know.

And when her stupid little ashtray comes back to his senses and remembers his silent purpose, he will thank her for it tenfold.

Taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @sowhumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

i hope you enjoyed this chapter!! if you did, i would be very thankful if you considered donating to @whumpcloud's gofundme for their top surgery (of course only if you are financially able to!!!). it would mean the world to us both <3

#I'M NORMAL I'M SO NORMAL #AAAAAAAAAAA #SOBBING AND CRYING !!!!!

43 notes · View notes

whumpcloud · 14 days

Text

me irl jumpscare

so! all the detail is in the gofundme description but to summarise: hi, i'm a transmasc living in the uk and it sucks here! i've already had to go private with my hormones because of the waiting times and the struggle to even get on the waiting list at all and by god it costs money. so if you can throw even some spare change my way for my top surgery fund, i would really appreciate it <3

#polly's postings #transgender #top surgery #top surgery fund #trans aid #sorry for the not whump asgdhf but this is really important for me!!#i'm finally in a place where i have the oppurtunity to safely get surgery and it would be incredible

43 notes · View notes

whumpcloud · 20 days

Text

i need everyone to know that there is a guy in my house!!!! for a couple of days now actually!! @whumpcloud how did you get here??

we have done a bunch of things so far!!! including me getting this proof of love for them 🥰

#teehee fraulein i have broken into your house

7 notes · View notes

whumpcloud · 30 days

Text

hey i wondered what she was staring at (once again drawn by my beloved pumpkinbrainart on instagram)

#polly's postings #whump art #vincent maddox #WOE. BAD ARC VINCENT BE UPON YE #yes there is a bad arc coming up. sorry <3

30 notes · View notes

whumpcloud · 1 month

Text

#the whump writer's motto

26K notes · View notes

whumpcloud · 1 month

Text

#polly's postings #whump #whump meme #for context i am getting vincent art from a friend asgsdgf

834 notes · View notes

whumpcloud · 1 month

Text

Ashtray: Artwork training

I kept this drawing pretty simple. This is @honeycollectswhump 's character. He very cute and I hope he gets rescued soon.

#guy guy guy guy guy guy #thinking about this art in context of the [redacted]......... waugh #the pose is so <333

45 notes · View notes

whumpcloud · 1 month

Text

I'M NOT DEAD BTW EVERYONE WHO HAS SENT ME AN ASK I PROMISE I'LL GET THERE

#polly's postings #SORBY 😔😔

4 notes · View notes

whumpcloud · 1 month

Text

no rizz. just big bambi eyes and many unsettling things to say.

#vincent and clary in that order

25K notes · View notes

whumpcloud · 2 months

Text

i love u characters who are victims who don't show things in a way that's appealing i love u characters whos trauma leaves them with anger issues, with violence issues, with issues with connection and trust and being truthful i love you characters who don't get "better" in a way that's palatable, who don't find growth and meaning in their trauma

#clary..........#even after she gets better. there's no meaning to it #she's just better now #it's something she struggles with #wow i should write 😔

9K notes · View notes

whumpcloud · 2 months

Note

i want to see ashtray get a pat on the head 🥰 and maybe a burn at the back of his throat. you know. for fun! - @whumpcloud

im very sorry it took me literal AGES to write this! at least you get some angst now :D

Smoke in His Lungs

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, burns (cigarette & other), dehumanisation, conditioning

Being used is his greatest wish, his only purpose, the one thing Ashtray knows without a doubt how to do. The months –months? he can’t remember anymore– of relentless training prepared him, made a truly polished Ashtray out of the senseless Shape he was before.

Now, he gets rewarded with the highest honour anyone could bestow upon him: kneeling at the feet of his first and only Mistress, the one who owns his body, mind, and soul, and Ashtray couldn’t be more grateful for it. For a short moment, he allows himself to close his eyes and let himself drift in the unintelligible drift of conversation and the comforting smell of smoke.

Not for too long though.

Ashtray blinks himself to awareness again and swallows with difficulty, the tender flesh of his throat still aching with the memory of the scorching wave. Yet he knows not to flinch. Instead, he wills himself to focus on the fresh burn on his left palm, the red, inflamed blister feeling hard against the bare skin of his thigh. It burns, of course, a rush of delight coursing through him.

Burning means he is being useful. Burning means he is a Good Ashtray and, perhaps even, a Good Boy.

There is an ugly feeling in his stomach though, sticking to him and turning the wafting voice of his Mistress into a minefield he has no choice but to cross. Ashtray knows he is dumb, his only purpose is to serve, to obey, he doesn’t need to think. But unlike his blunt Handlers during training, his Mistress’ silky voice remains incomprehensible to him.

It should be a fatal flaw, and maybe it eventually will be, but right now his Mistress shows endless compassion, graceful mercy, seemingly knowing her Ashtray’s limited capabilities, despite his price point. She speaks slowly, gesturing kindly to whatever area she demands of her Ashtray. And he complies –of course–, always eager to serve, and hopes that maybe one day he will memorise the meaning of her words.

This time, his Mistress elegantly points to her mouth with one slender finger, perfectly manicured, her nails sharp and red like wine. Ashtray straightens up towards her, opening his mouth, eyes closed, waiting for how he will be used this time.

Suddenly, his Mistress’ hand is in his mouth, violating, and it takes all of his training not to gag then and there, as he inhales fumes and soot. Burning engulfs his throat like a forest fire, sizzling in a place not made for it.

Calming breaths do nothing against the threat of smoke filling his lungs. Ashtray freezes, his nails digging into his thighs like claws, tries to stop moving, stop thinking, stop breathing, until the colourful spots in his vision make room for a flurrying blur of white static.

Then, almost as abruptly, his Mistress removes the cigarette again, leaving him only with the overwhelming taste of ash seeping into his blood and soul.

He wants to gag. Heave. Retch.

Ashtray waits a moment, then two, until he allows himself calm yet stuttering breaths against the fumes. In his early training that alone seemed like an impossible task, going against instincts he couldn’t explain to himself. It feels good to have his training reinforced, to show –even if only to himself– that it was worth it, that he worked hard to become the perfect luxury product for his beloved Mistress.

Staring back down on his hands, a barely touched canvas for her markings, Ashtray can only breathe. The blister on his palm seems to have broken when he clenched his fist against his reflexes, but he barely feels the additional hurt over the charring pain all over his body, concentrated, irreparably, in his throat. But it's okay. It’s okay. It must be Okay.

It is nothing but pure mercy, when his Mistress lays her hand on top of his head, almost absentmindedly, and starts petting him in slow, gentle motions, making sure not to ruffle his prettied hair. Ashtray tries not to press into her touch, chasing a sensation he knows will be rare. It floods his body like a cooling wave and a fever high at the same time.

Only Good Boys get pet; a blissful knowledge deeply ingrained into him.

Good Boys take the pain they were trained for and Good Boys look graceful while doing so.

And then, maybe, Good Boys will be rewarded with a touch so rare they can barely remember the last time they felt it.

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @whumpshaped, @clickerflight let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

#hey why did i do this to him 😭😭#HE IS A GOOD BOY !!!!!!!!!!!

67 notes · View notes

whumpcloud · 2 months

Note

How would Elio react to seeing Peters burns from when he poured burning water on himself? Do you think he would make a rule that’s something like Peters not allowed to punish himself? I love your writing so much and I’ve binge read all of your series

waaa thank you so much <33 if elio were to actually notice/find out about that he WOULD be genuinely concerned and kinda freaked out and tell peter he can't do that again. unfortunately elio is the worst so. he doesn't notice

#asks #delicate asks #might write something on this concept when i can

2 notes · View notes

whumpcloud · 2 months

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/averyluckyclover/739931350391537664?source=share

this has vincent vibes. in my heart

no you're so right. WAUGH

#asks #te | pc asks #VINCENT ME WHEN VINCENT

4 notes · View notes

whumpcloud · 2 months

Note

I'd take ashtray and use him as a cuddly toy, a beloved pet to spoil and dote on then stick him back in his cage until I'm feeling cuddly again

[masterlist]

The first time you use Ashtray as a cuddle toy, he barely knows what is going on, yet he can’t help but melt into your touch. It’s so unlike his training, even as he is laying in your lap, your hands playing with his golden locks, he keeps searching for a cigarette, for a familiar, comforting smell of soot and ash.

It doesn’t take long for all of the coddling to become overwhelming for him. You can feel your Pet flush under your hands, his breath quickening. Within one day, Ashtray is experiencing more contact than in his entire remembered life and it is taking a toll on him, a burning foreign to him, making it near unbearable. Thankfully, he knows how to take pain, even though Ashtray can’t comprehend why he is feeling like this.

When you eventually put him back into his cage, he feels thankful, though he’d never admit that –even to himself–, laying his head against the cold bars to cool down. As he falls asleep that night, he vows to learn his new role as a lapdog or a toy or something in between. He will learn to please you, learn to form himself into whatever shape you desire.

The next day, he awaits you happily, eager to train himself and secretly hoping that maybe, if he is an especially Good Boy, you might even allow him a cigarette burn. Anything to show his belonging to you.

#i'm really normal about the He.#not shaking the bars of my cage at all

28 notes · View notes

whumpcloud · 3 months

Text

can you come collect your freak of a man please. He’s doing things

#me but with clary

170K notes · View notes

whumpcloud · 3 months

Note

PLEASE aftermath of the shock collar piece?👉👈 back to normal? back to ashtray being loved and lovingly used for his normal standard purpose? so he knows he in fact didn't do anything wrong? and he's a good boy? MAYBE... MAYBE EVEN... merciful mistress mireille checking on him to make sure he's gonna be alright?🥺 because maybe she's worried she went a bit too far with all the shocks?🥺

-🪷

Citrine Kisses

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation, cigarette burns, past torture (referenced)

When her servants carry in the ashtray the next day, no amount of makeup they have desperately seemed to apply can hide his condition. As Mireille lounges on her velvet couch, worth someone’s fortune, she can’t help but notice his sickly sweet, pale tone and the occasional twitch he tries and fails to hide. It’s unbecoming of such a luxurious good as him, laughable for the price she paid for him to be pretty.

It almost makes her want to ring her stupid servants back and have someone, anyone, answer for ruining her scene with a pathetic excuse for a golden ashtray. And yet…

And yet she doesn’t.

Despite it all, he still looks beautiful, doesn’t he? There is beauty to be found in his alabaster skin, no matter if it was caused by the thick collar around his pretty thin neck, which has still left imprints like two pricks of a vampire. The thought makes her laugh, elegantly like chiming bells, like candlelight and a passionate kiss. No, Mireille wouldn’t mind being a vampire.

Twirling a lush black lock around her finger, a cigarette between her lips, she leans forward, taking in the sight of her ashtray. If he were a diamond, she’d hold him in her hand against the light, letting rays of sun play with the rainbow. What happened yesterday, it too was like seeing a rainbow illuminate her walls, each gasping scream echoing in her mind like a marvellous symphony.

Under her gaze, the ashtray goes still like a marble statue. He never raises his eyes, just like it should be. Silently worshipping but never being brash enough to gaze upon her.

Mireille bathes in the knowledge that the ashtray’s biggest fear must be displeasing her. That is all he was made for after all. Maybe… maybe that is why he now holds himself differently, but it’s not like she could expect a simple thing like him to understand the aesthetic intention behind the shock collar, the joy and entertainment so unlike a punishment. Of course, the ashtray is too simple to get that.

It almost makes her feel bad, if only for the unappreciated amusement getting drowned out by his pleading devotion. He had been good yesterday, had been less an ashtray and more a diamond yet to be polished. She is merciful, Mireille thinks with a slight smile, and his pretty screams have earned him a reward.

Gracefully, she takes her cigarette from her lips, gazing at it for a moment, before delicately placing a hand on his shining golden locks. Immediately, the ashtray leans into her touch, imperceptively stretching himself to press himself into her palm.

He was made mindless but a simple drawled “Ashtray” is enough to get his attention fully on her. Melting under her gracious touch, her thing turns towards her, lowered and on his knees. Mireille pets his head a couple of times, like she has seen with her friend’s lapdog. She much prefers love as an act of passion, of art and burning.

The ashtray shivers under her touch, as she lets her long fingers glide down his jaw and tilt his head up to meet her eyes. “You love that, huh?”, she chuckles, and that alone seems to give him to strength to hold himself straighter.

“You’ve been a good boy, a very good boy. Your screams have been delightful, you’ve done so well.”

A hazy smile appears on his lips as if drugged, and for a moment she considers the fun in that. Instead, though, she holds out her hand, beckoning him to lay his hand in hers. Of course, the ashtray complies, it is all he knows, eager to please like a dog or something less.

Holding eye contact makes her ashtray flush sweetly, and he shivers again. This, she thinks, is also art.

“You are my favourite toy, I want you to never forget that.” Mireille purrs, lightly holding his hand like a prince would a princess’, his fingers curled around hers. “A reward would only be fitting, don’t you think? Something to commemorate this?”

She turns the cigarette between her fingers until it feels right, before placing the glowing end of it on the ashtray's pale skin, pressing down until the citrine gets swallowed up by ash.

Never once does he flinch, steadily looking at her. A practice of worship, the greatest price of them all.

Soon, when her servants wash away the dirty ash, a bright red spot will remain, burning through skin and tissue, a kiss his body will never be able to heal. And her ashtray, her stupid little ashtray, will look at it in doglike adoration, his most precious possessions are the scars she allows him, and he will be thankful.

Sometimes Mireille wonders if the ashtray pities her servants for their lack of burning, wonders if her little lamb prides itself in the red scarf wrapped around its neck, telling a story of how the butcher will one day cut its throat.

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @whumpshaped, @clickerflight let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

#i'm so insane about her pov #she's so fucked up #ashtray i'm normal about you

83 notes · View notes

whumpcloud · 3 months

Note

maybe put a shock collar on Ashtray?

Lightning in His Veins

[masterlist]

CW: shock collar, pet whump, conditioned whumpee, dehumanisation

His Mistress has a new collar for him. Ashtray should be excited at the prospect of being decorated, but something about it makes his stomach churn. It is big, black and ugly. Nothing like the delicate accessories his Mistress usually dresses him in, and that almost feels like a sin.

Maybe it's because the collar is a gift from one of her friends, watching excitedly. Not for Ashtray, of course, nothing is ever for him, nothing belongs to him, that’s how it's supposed to be. But sometimes they gift her things to dress him in, though nothing comes close to her knowledge of style and grace. This collar must be one of those gifts then, and who is Ashtray to question that. A Good Boy never questions his superiors, a Good Boy never questions anything. A Good Boy does what he is told.

So Ashtray does. He bares his neck prettily, taking note of how his torso moves, twisting on fresh burns, knowing that the glitter the servants applied must shine like tiny diamonds. And maybe, silently, he hopes that his Mistress’ friends must be so jealous of her beautiful, perfect possessions, decked in gold and jewels, just what dreams are made of.

…At least he thinks that’s what dreams must be like. Objects don’t dream, naturally.

As his Mistress closes the clasps of the collar, as her pristine red nails scratch over a burn scrab, he can’t help but focus on the feelings of prongs digging into his throat in an uncomfortably familiar way. Ashtray doesn’t dwell on it though. He has already learned, there is nothing to fear. The blank rooms are far gone and instead have been blessedly replaced by the shining smiles his Mistress graces him with, her cold hands like glistening ice bringing warm burns, and the golden glamour she has allowed him to be a part of.

Satisfied, his Mistress steps back. She is saying something, talking with her guest, exchanging airy laughter and warbled pleasant tones, washing over Ashtray like pearly morning dew he can picture in his mind but has never seen before. He could get lost in her voice, riding on it like clouds carrying him through his purpose, and yet never being too distracted, always keeping an eye on the ground just low enough so he’ll never miss a clue he can’t understand, never missing the remote–

The remote being handed to his Mistress, equally as black as the collar, making him suddenly awake of the prongs against his throat and the pit forming in his stomach.

Ashtray stays still though, perfectly poised, and suppresses the flinch before it had even fully realised. Maybe he hopes, desperately, if he is Good enough she’ll decide against it. Maybe it was all a test, maybe, maybe… Maybe he can see it coming just enough to give her the reaction she wants.

Almost pleadingly in the silence of his own mind, Ashtray knows he isn’t trained for pain. He is supposed to be an Ashtray, an object with a specific use, it’s all he could ever hope to know. The thought of displeasing her with his reaction scares him more than any pain ever could. What if he reacts too much? What if he is not– Lightning burns down his veins, ripping out his throat, his skin and tissue and soul. Two punctures spread venom down his very being, and there is no escape no escape no escape no escape no escape

Suddenly, it’s gone and Ashtray finds himself curled up on the ground, his limbs still twitching. He can’t remember how but surely it wasn’t graceful and–

His mouth rips open in a breathless scream, a pathetic, garbled screech barely noticeable over the sound of mindless thrashing, limbs hitting the floor, head banging against polished stone. It’s fire and lightning and Punishment and he doesn’t know why, doesn’t know anything, only knows Pain and Punishment and Please Stop.

Pause.

Breath.

Notice saliva dripping from the mouth. Not elegant. Not trained.

Hell.

Like veins imploding, swallowing what is left of Ashtray, leaving no trace of his purpose. Like poison, destruction, ruin, Ødelæggelse.

Stop.

Gasp.

Look up at Mistress, hope for mercy, hope for anything.

Find glee. Find amused laughter. Please.

It never ends…

• • •

He is still here. Ashtray is still here. Twisted, on the ground, the venom still burning in every vessel, but here. His tongue feels thick and swollen in his mouth, dried and bloody at the same time. Somehow, it is all pain, every single cell in his body is pain and lightning and shocks still coursing through him.

Maybe she heard him think. Maybe she felt her Ashtray have stupid little thoughts about things he should be grateful for, like being adorned in a big, black, ugly painful it hurts burning agonising beautiful collar.

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

#YOU !!!!!! YOU !!!!!!!!!!!!!!#HRRG #I'M NOT NORMAL

107 notes · View notes