maybe ‘all dolled up’ for conditioned whumpee’s bingo card?
thank you if you choose to!
[masterlist]
CW: pet whump, dehumanisation, burning (mentioned)
Today must be the special day, and the Ashtray is vibrating with excitement. This is what all his previous existence has been leading up to. He was made for this.
Some workers come in, clasping a beautifully shimmering golden collar around his neck. He doesn’t move, even as it strains against his throat as he painfully swallows. It is wonderful. To be adorned with such a collar, more expensive than some of the other, lesser objects, is all the praise he needs.
Ashtray is gorgeous and pure. Untouched. He is a fast learner, something that can’t be said for every Companion Object. His Handler said, it made him special.
A different pair of workers enters his pen, holding a flowing blue gown and ribbons of the same colour to decorate his hair and wrists. Glowing on his porcelain skin.
They talk in hushed tones, but Ashtray doesn’t try to listen. Ever since they transferred him, he hasn’t understood a single word. Even his Handler now talks in a tongue he can’t comprehend, and Ashtray doesn’t know what happened, what he did Wrong.
He can’t be that bad, because if he was Bad, he wouldn’t be decorated, he wouldn’t be sold in such a celebratory manner.
When the workers are satisfied, they clink an equally golden chain to his collar and lead him to the next room, where his Handler waits for him. He grasps the chain and pulls Ashtray close, nearly making him trip. But Ashtray is Good, so he gracefully catches himself.
For the first time in what must have been weeks? Months? Ashtray understands a single word. An Order.
Handler Thorn holds Ashtray, struggling not to choke as the collar constricts his burned throat, up to his face, and whispers in his ear, „Behave.“
Despite the underlying threat, Ashtray feels a rush of warmth blooming on his chest. He knows he will behave. It is written in his DNA. Ashtray cannot exist if he doesn’t behave. The two are intertwined.
His Handler leads him through the big black door, that he has never consciously passed, not even when they transferred him. This time, he is awake and aware of every motion.
At first, Ashtray blinks against the blinding light. Then his eyes fall upon the person he was created for. He steps towards her and immediately drops to his knees, in one perfect, fluid motion.
His Mistress wears an elegant, silky black suit and bright red heels, complementing her blushed lips. She is everything his soul yearned for.
When she opens her mouth, her voice washes over him like a warm shower. His heartbeat quickens, a blissful feeling spreading in his chest. For the first time since he opened his eyes, Ashtray feels Whole. Fulfilled.
His Mistress crouches down gracefully and holds his face in her flawlessly manicured hands. Lightly, she twists his head left and right, looking for any blemishes.
She finds none. Of course.
Her satisfied grin rushes through his veins like a drug.
Ashtray is glad, he lives up to her high standards, despite the last-minute change. He can still feel the remnants, his throat an open sore. Though Ashtray has gotten used to the constant burning of a cigarette, the feeling of the soft, sensitive tissue of his mouth and throat boiling, while strapped to a table, is a memory Ashtray struggles to contain.
His only saving grace is the knowledge, that it will never be repeated. There is no need, when his voice was forever swept away by the scalding water poured into him.
It is good this way. Another step to perfection he always strives for.
Why would an Ashtray need to speak when being pretty and useful is all he needs to be?
Taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox,
@whumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood, @katwriteswhump
@opaldream16, @whumped-by-glitter, @whump-queen, @electrons2006, @vampirewhump
@saffitaffi, @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl, @thatbigbrownbird
let me know if you want to be added or removed :)
Taglist: @littlespacecastle @whumpymirages @flowersarefreetherapy @painful-pooch @whumplr-reader (and @squishablesunbeam iirc you wanted to be tagged if people used object designation? Idk if you still do but anyway)
During delivery to its owner, O69 is intercepted.
2.4k
CWs: BBU, pet whump, object whump, self-dehumanisation, locked in a box, conditioned whumpee, scared whumpee, talk of discrimination against Romantics, bad caretaker, bad safehouse (with implications that it could be even worse), implied non-con, wishing for punishment, non-verbal whumpee
O69's body thrums with anticipation as it speeds down the road in its box. It's being taken to its new owner.
This is the most important day in a pet's life.
It wonders what its new owner will be like. It has been trained extensively, and it will be good for whoever it is, but it has no idea what they're like. Short hair, long hair? Kind, cruel? Where will they keep their new toy? It has no idea.
It will find out soon enough.
The van stops suddenly and O69's thrown into the wall of its box. It's not supposed to move at all so it doesn't, not reaching out to cushion itself before its head slams into the wood. It grunts.
It's not supposed to make a noise. It hopes it gets punished.
The doors to the van are thrown open. O69 wonders if it's its turn to be delivered.
Patience, O69. Objects don't get impatient, do they?
No. No, another box is removed. It's disappointed at first but then it realises that multiple boxes are being removed, multiple pairs of feet in the van. What's going on?
Its box is lifted and set down somewhere else, urgent voices surrounding it. It doesn't know what they're saying and it doesn't need to.
Someone shouts, "Go go go!", there's lots of commotion, and then O69's careening down the road, heart in its throat. It can hear screaming.
It isn't long. It isn't long, it knows it, but feels like forever.
It's not the first to be dropped off this time, either, but it feels different when it is. More careful. Like it's breakable.
That's not true. Sex toys aren't breakable. Or if they are it doesn't matter. They can always be replaced.
It can always be replaced.
There's murmuring from outside, and then a noise, a bit like hammering but different. And then daylight. Lots of daylight. The kind it hasn't seen for as long as it can remember.
More light of any sort than it's had since it was packed.
There's a face staring down at it. It tries to look appealing – it doesn't know who this is, but it thinks that regardless of that they're more likely to keep it if it's appealing.
The woman above him makes a strangled sound.
"Oh, god, you're a Romantic, aren't you? At least partly. They won't like that. Shall we get you out of there?"
And without waiting for a response that O69 isn't allowed to give, she reaches in, grabs it just below the elbows, and lifts it out.
O69 screams. Screams like its existence depends on it, like a burglar alarm, someone will come and get their property back, put it back safe, but nobody does, nobody comes.
Nobody wants it enough to come.
It's left in this woman's grip, the shocked look on her face boding nothing good, oh what if this is its owner? It didn't think so, it thought it was stolen, but maybe... maybe this is why pets don't think.
"Hey, hey, it's not as bad as all that. Let's get you sat down, then we can go over a few things." She sets it down on the carpet.
It's too soft. The lights are too much and the noise is too much and it has no idea what the expectations are and it all hurts. It wants to bury its head in its knees and jam its hands over its ears and scream until this all goes away but it can't, it's not allowed, it knows this without actually knowing, so it does the next best thing.
It tries to climb back into its box.
"Whoa, whoa, no. You don't need to go back in there, you're free."
But it's dark and familiar and safe in there and for the first time ever it ignores an order, crawling towards it, starting to climb over the lip of the box.
She wrenches it out, setting it down further away, and lifts the box. "I said, no." She's harsh this time and O69 cowers away from her tone, words like acid. "You don't need to– look, I'll be back in a minute."
And she walks out with its box. Its only safety, and she just takes it away, like it's nothing, like she doesn't care, like... like... what's O69 supposed to do now? How can it be stored, how can it be safe now? What does it mean that its storage is being taken? Retraining? Replacement? Refurbishment? It whimpers at the thought.
It needs somewhere to go. Maybe if it just stays out of the way it'll be forgotten about, allowed to stay. A dusty toy on a shelf, not played with but not thrown away, either.
It scans the room. There. A nook, tiny, in the corner, and it moves without an order, heart in its throat, desperate, crawling into it, scrunching up tight to fit. It's nearly as tight as the cage it was trained to stay still in, and it has to go really small, but that's okay. It knows how to do that. Out of sight, out of mind.
The woman comes back into the room and frowns. "Are you in here? Oh, you're... okay. Let me grab your papers and you can stay there until you're ready to come out."
She peels the plastic packet carefully off his t-shirt and moves away. It wonders how long it'll be allowed to stay here for.
_
Minutes, it thinks at first. Minutes which turn into hours, which eventually turn into days.
It keeps its eyes shut, body tiny, it knows how to keep still and it will. At least its training is useful for something, even here.
It isn't aware of everything, but it's aware of enough.
It hears voices, low and angry, an argument that it hopes it doesn't take the brunt of. There's worry somewhere. Someone says something frustrated that it determinedly doesn't listen to. Even though it shouldn't, it resists attempts to remove it.
Out of sight, out of mind, it's safe.
Out of sight, out of mind, it's safe.
Out of sight, out of mind, it's safe.
And then, a day or two (or maybe three or four) later, there's desperation and pleading. One side of a conversation, not a pleasant one, but they're not talking to it so it doesn't listen, hoping it won't be hurt for this.
It is still due a punishment though, for noises and moving and a hundred other things by now.
O69 doesn't know how long it is until there's hushed voices in the hall, and soft footsteps on the carpet. A thing that sounds like its box is brought in, set down.
"Are you sure about this Alix?" says the first voice.
"Yes," says a new voice, cutting through the air like a knife.
There's a sigh like disappointed wind, and then a set of footsteps disappears out of the door.
"Hello. I'm Alix. You must be O69, right?"
O69 looks up. The woman opposite it doesn't quite look like a knife. But then, not all knives are sharp, and not all dig in smoothly, immediately. Her voice is softer now.
Maybe she's a blunt knife, which takes a lot of force to hurt someone with. It wonders how much it would take for her to hurt it.
"Pleased to meet you. I've come to bring you somewhere safer, if you're okay with that. You can go back in your box. I know they don't like that here, but it's okay, really. If it's safer for you, that's allowed. May I call you O?" O69 doesn't know how to respond, it wasn't taught how to give an opinion. Objects don't do that. "I'm going to take that as a yes. At least one of my housemates will probably find it very uncomfortable at the least to call you 69. Pronouns. He? She? They? It?" It blinks at the last option, not deliberately choosing but just... relaxing, slightly, maybe. Hopefully not. "Okay, it/its it is. Let me bring your box closer and you can climb back in, yeah? I promise you, I have no problem with you going back in there."
Alix is true to her word, bringing its box over and then backing away. O69 unfurls itself, cramped and barely able to move from the stiffness, and crawls over to its box, climbing up and over the top. It curls up inside.
It's safe again. It's safe. It's darker and softer and safer.
"There we are. Here's a blanket in case you need one, and you can eat when we get to my house. I didn't bring any food because I didn't know if you get carsick. I'll take your lid with me, obviously, but I'm leaving it off for now, if you're okay with that. So you can see out if you like. Ready to go?"
Alix peers over the top of its box and it blinks, unsure of what's going on. All it knows is that it's being moved again and hopefully that place will be better than this one. Even though she's still not its owner, it's still not going where it should be, and what's going on?
"Great. Let's get out of here."
It's carried for a bit before the voice from days ago says hesitantly, "Alix? About this... um, thank you. I know you don't have much space."
"We have a spare room at the moment. And even if we didn't, we'd make do. Don't thank me, just... look, find someone better than Christians Against Pets to teach you this stuff, okay? You've got a good heart, good instincts. You just need to learn how to use them."
"They didn't want to help O69 at all," she sniffles.
"Yeah. They do that with Romantics. WRU allows them to exist as a rehabilitation group, think about why they'd choose them, specifically, as cover. What WRU can do, knowing where they are, where they can find a supply of unwanted and probably undefended Romantics. Find somewhere else to train, and I hope I see you again soon."
"You too. O69? I'm sorry."
O69 doesn't know what to say to that, even if it could speak.
Alix lifts its box higher in her arms and carries it outside.
"I'm going to set you down in the car now. Passenger seat. The roof's down, hopefully you can feel a breeze in there."
Alix sets it down and starts up the engine. It can see white fluffy clouds and blue skies above, the tops of green and brown trees flitting past. A flock of gangly birds honk as they pass overhead.
"Canada geese," she explains. Then she sighs, and says, "There's one of my housemates. We'll pick them up, you can meet them." Then she raises her voice and, in a knife-edge tone that makes O flinch despite itself, yells, "Bug!"
There's a moment of silence, before an indignant, "You nearly made me drop the shopping!"
"Come on, get in. Come and meet your newest housemate."
Someone flops into the back seat. "Gonna be a bit cold with the top down, isn't it?"
"You picked the car," Alix says long-sufferingly.
"I was trying to see if you'd actually buy it."
There's a pause, then Alix says quietly, "I'll always take your advice, Bug. You know that."
There's the sound of someone clearing their throat. The new voice is rougher now, like grating sand. "Who am I meeting then? Why are they in a box still?" asks Bug warily, tightly. Like a coiled-up spring.
"Bug, this is O, it/its. O, Adalia, they/them, sometimes known as Bug. Mostly by me. And O's in the box because it wants to stay there."
"Oh. Okay. Hi O. Romantic?"
O feels like it can hear Alix grimace. "Not just Romantic. Here." Papers are tossed and flicked through.
"Fuck," says Adalia. "Those monsters. I'm glad we have you now, O. You'll be safe with us. I'll make sure of it."
The way Adalia says it makes O seem certain they will. But it doesn't know what their version of safety is.
"O, when it comes to your box, you'll need to leave it fairly soon to have a wash, and so we can cover any possibly-unsafe parts of the inside. You can keep it in sight at all times though, and that's the only time I'll ask it of you. You won't have to leave it again, not until you want to, and I mean you, not me. I won't remove it from your sight, and I won't pull you from it, not even to wash."
"You'll start to smell if you don't wash though."
Alix sighs. "Bug."
No. No. She promised.
"You okay in there, O?" asks Adalia. O doesn't respond. It can't. "O, breathe. I bet you're struggling with that. It's okay. I used to be a pet, don't know if you can tell. Alix is good at this. She keeps her word. And if she doesn't, I'll punch her."
O takes a deep, slow breath. It thought it could hear something in their voice.
"Eat this."
A hand reaches in, not Alix's, this one is brown, and gives O an... an apple? O gets an apple? They bite down on it, closing their eyes blissfully (oh it's so sweet, and juicy, it's so good), almost missing the grinning face above.
"Hi. I'm Adalia. Or Bug. I'm not picky. It's nice to meet you. I'd like to be your friend."
And O thinks, so long as it can stay safe in here for as long as it likes, that it would like to be their friend too.
It doesn't know what a friend is, not exactly. But the word feels warm, and it would like that warmth.
"I have a present for you. Here."
They place something soft gently into its other hand. It looks at it closely. It's a small toy bear, looking resplendent in a tiny rainbow sweater.
It's lovely. O's eyes water. Must be the weather. Though it doesn't know why that would be, or why it would think the weather could affect it like that.
O squeezes the teddy and lets go, squeezes and lets go, squeezes and lets go. Again and again and again, over and over it does so, thinking and thinking about the warmth that being Adalia's friend might bring.
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 :)
I just want you to know that the whumperflies you are able to give me with Ashtray are so good!!!!
And i just read a recent post of yours and i would actually love to see Mireille consider drugging ashtray, if you fancy it :)
Thank you!!
- ☆
im so glad you enjoy my silly story!! i thought i'd mix your request with an event, i hope you don't mind
Augusnippets Day 13
drugging/poisoning/cannibalism
[masterlist]
CW: pet whump, noncon drugging, noncon touch
Perhaps there was something in the water Mistress had given him. The fogginess was its only indication but the ash on his tongue hid any suspicious taste. And it wasn’t suspicious after all, of course he’d take anything given to him by his Mistress. Whatever was in the water, it did exactly what it was supposed to.
Now Ashtray floats on a cloud made out of cotton, which is strange because his limbs are made out of lead and shouldn’t that be too heavy?
He is draped languidly on the couch cloud, an arm and a leg dangling down. There is a hand carding through his hair, caressing his bare skin, but perhaps it is just the wind.
Ashtray purrs from deep within his chest, a sound that makes his body vibrate in waves. Fingers trace over his torso, circling each burn like constellations. If only he could lift his head to look at the night sky on his stomach.
Slowly, he can feel the fingers dip deeper, tugging at the covering fabric, and every moment makes his being become undone.
He whines uncomfortably, pushing his head into the cotton, as the hand in his hair grabs a fistful. Even on the cloud, somewhere high up, he understands the command.
Be still.
Ashtray swallows a second whine and instead looks up into the swirling night sky. Maybe, if he concentrates hard enough, he can leave his cloud and fly between the stars.
Maybe, he can ignore the touch coming closer and closer, shooting him down.
Maybe, he can delay his crash into earth a little bit longer.
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 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.
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thank you for sending this ask!! and i hope you don't mind my late reply :)) it was so fun to write <3
the bingo card was made by @gentlelittlehorrors (i hope you enjoy what i did with your prompt)
[masterlist]
CW: dehumanisation, pet whump, burns
“Up!”
It’s the first thing Ashtray hears, the first thing he understands, while laying down under the table, letting the noise of conversations pleasantly wash over him.
Up means he is needed, Up means he is going to be used and Ashtray is eager to be used. Recognizing a word makes his nerves tingle with happiness. Ashtray rarely gets talked to –of course–, and it's even rarer that he understands.
He gets on his hands and knees, crawling closer to the soft velvet voice of his beloved Mistress. From his point of view, Ashtray can only see her silky smooth dress, a slit revealing her elegantly crossed legs.
Careful of the leash binding him to the table, he takes his place, kneeling right beside his Mistress. Only like this, he is allowed to look at her, Ashtray has learned. He turns his head towards her, waiting for another cue amidst the pleasant waves of her voice.
Ashtray knows few words, short hints like Up and Down, Good Boy and Punishment, Hands and Back and Tongue, but he is very proud of his collection. It makes him a Good Boy, he thinks, that he has learned to recognise the otherwise strange sounds. Ashtray strives to serve his Mistress, in the way he was made for, and in any way at all.
“Hand out.” his Mistress says, and Ashtray is thankful he is such an attentive Good Boy to filter out the right words. He tries his best to copy her poise, even though it is so unnatural for a simple thing like him.
Mistress didn’t say which hand or maybe Ashtray doesn’t know the word yet. He can only guess what the most logical answer would be and sitting at her left side, he has an idea. Everything should always be elegant, so as graceful as possible he lifts his right hand to rest on her thigh, just like she trained him to.
He can feel the cigarette getting closer, even without seeing it directly, can feel it burning and sizzling against his skin. Despite this, Ashtray doesn’t flinch, just like expected of a Good Boy. His eyes never leave his Mistress’ face, drowning in the pleased smile she gifts him.
Other owners wouldn’t smile at their Ashtray like that, but his Mistress does. She is gentle, and loving, and so beautiful that Ashtray knows he’d let her hold his hands in a fire just to gain another smile.
Twisting the cigarette into his skin, his Mistress makes sure it truly is put out. Ashtray marvels at how responsible she is, even as it leaves an angry red crater that will surely leave a mark in the field of raised, almost perfectly round scars that coat his hands.
After fulfilling his purpose, Ashtray lifts his hand back down again, barely conscious of the way his skin seems to be lit on fire. This is what he was made for anyway. He resumes his position next to his Mistress, both hands in front of his knees, still and Good, bathing in her presence until she will inevitably send him under the table, only to come out when he is needed. Maybe then, she will call him a Good Boy again and Ashtray wants to be a Good Boy so badly.
If he continues to be a Good Boy, his Mistress will even provide Ashtray with cream so that the fresh wound won’t get infected. Another thing other owners wouldn’t do for their possessions.
Ashtray is so lucky to belong to such a kind Mistress.
