#The Ashtray

[consultjohnwatson]

Hi John, What kind of tea did you have at the Buckingham Palace? Do you still have the ashtray Sherlock stole for you?

@artofdeductionbysholmes has a better memory than I do but I do remember there were no biscuits…

Ashtray? What ashtray?

[honeycollectswhump]

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 :)

[hazystars]

ceramics posting lol

[prettyboyeddiemunson]

that tiktok of Eddie’s trailer omg

HIS FULL ROOM IM—

[lanadelreysashtray]

DNI PORN BLOGS OH MY GOD GET AWAY FROM HER

[zegalba]

Yoshitomo Nara: 'Fuck U' Porcelain Ashtray (2020)

[showmeyourflyers]

[honeyymoony]

🚬 ashtrays pngs!!

[papirene-royzn]

“The Complete Stories” of Clarice Lispector, 42.

[eyesaremosaics]

porcelain ashtray

1920s

[honeycollectswhump]

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 :)

[ncv]

[lanadelreysashtray]

[zegalba]

Yoshitomo Nara: Porcelain Ashtrays (2021)

[galasgamingcorner]

Control | Ashtray Maze

[buriedteen]

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