whumpcloud

[whumpcloud]

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 :)

[whumpcloud]

Computer, show me characters gaining weight as a sign of their improving mental state. Show me characters learning to love their body as they learn to love themselves. Show me characters no longer punishing themselves for something that isn’t their fault. Computer. Computer do you hear me.

[whumpcloud]

vampire curled up at your front door whimpering like a kicked stray puppy begging to come inside where it’s warm and cozy because it’s so so cold

[whumpcloud]

Permission to be vulnerable in this torture dungeon. Do you guys even like me 

[whumpcloud]

hi everyone, perhaps you've seen the posts about my budgie saga before. unfortunately yesterday i found out devastating news. maus (my baby budgie) is terminally ill and likely only has a few weeks left. what started out as slight concerns for her breathing suddenly turned into her liver being both damaged and so oversized that it constricts her breathing. she is not in any pain currently but sadly it is only a matter of time before her liver fully stops working.

while we have moved her to palliative care, i am determined to give any treatment i can, to give her a bit more time and keep her comfortable.

i hate to be doing this, but as a full-time student her vet bills are a lot for me. if anyone has any money to spare, i'd really appreciate the help!!

GoFundMe link

[whumpcloud]

I pet whumped your boyfriend. Yeah, collar and everything. He answers to Rover now. Sorry :/

[whumpcloud]

I pet whumped your boyfriend. Yeah, collar and everything. He answers to Rover now. Sorry :/

[whumpcloud]

have you. HAVE YOU SEEN THEM.

Vincent doesn't object to Lyfelde's behaviour. Even as Lyfelde's hand snakes into his hair. There's a power that Lyfelde always feels when doing this, watching someone shape themselves to his will.

GO COMMISSION @whump-blog RIGHT NOW!!!!!!! they are SO lovely to work with and LOOK at how gorgeous their art is!!!

[whumpcloud]

Vincent doesn't object to Lyfelde's behaviour. Even as Lyfelde's hand snakes into his hair. There's a power that Lyfelde always feels when doing this, watching someone shape themselves to his will.

GO COMMISSION @whump-blog RIGHT NOW!!!!!!! they are SO lovely to work with and LOOK at how gorgeous their art is!!!

[whumpcloud]

51

inspo

[tw caretaker turned whumper, implied murder, comfort]

When Whumpee saw Caretaker’s blood-soaked hands and clothes, they didn’t question it. When Caretaker cupped their face with those same hands, cradling them and pressing a kiss to their forehead, they didn’t flinch. They leaned into it, closing their eyes and ignoring how sticky the blood was on their skin.

“I took care of them,” Caretaker whispered. Whumpee hummed in response. “You’ll never have to be afraid anymore.”

“Thank you,” they breathed, enjoying the way Caretaker brushed their thumb across their cheek.

“I told you, didn’t I? Anything for my beloved.”

Whumpee lifted a hand and gently placed it over Caretaker’s bloody one, nuzzling into their palm. “Should I run you a bath?”

“Would you be so kind?”

“Anything for my beloved.”

[whumpcloud]

Porcelain Cracks

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation, physical harm

Something is off today. Ashtray can feel it in his bones —not that it’s his purpose to make a judgement about the situation. He is only supposed to please his Mistress. 

Kneeling next to her, his golden collar connected to a leash held loosely in her hand. It’s picturesque, her beautifully manicured fingers tapping against the shining metal in something he can only hope is not annoyance.

There is no visitor today, a surprise given the collar, but he is still on his best behaviour. Mistress is only watching the TV, decorated in a golden antique frame to be hidden at will. Only his beloved Mistress could come up with such a perfect concept, combining her intricate style with the comfort of modern invention. He hopes her servants appreciate the design when they clean it. 

Mistress doesn’t seem to care much for it today though, just instead making a sound he’d never dare compare to a growl. Nevertheless, it makes him shiver. He can’t seem to stop, ever since she marked her own artwork —rightfully so!—, but he does his best to keep them under control. Barely visible to the eye, only noticeable when he is touched. 

And nowadays he rarely is.

Suddenly, she tucks at the chain, beckoning him closer. She blows her smoke into his face, drowning him out in the cloud, his eyes stinging. Finally, something familiar.

Instead of extinguishing her still-lit cigarette, she pushes his chin with a single, slender finger until he leans back, the posture tugging at his many scars.

As gracefully as possible, almost sensually, Ashtray lets his head fall back too, light blond hair spilling over his face, getting caught in his long eyelashes, his eyes closed. 

Suddenly, her nails trace the letters over his heart and they are sharp almost like—

like knives. 

Sharp, honed, new blades, with the single purpose of splitting Ashtray’s flesh with ease. 

Prolonged cutting he doesn’t dare call cruel, white lighting and red rivers. 

He is right there. All over again. 

It’s like his body reacts before he can, caught in a memory he should be grateful for if he wasn’t somehow broken.

The body flinches back, from his Mistress's holy touch.

For a moment, everything is silent. 

Ashtray stares at the ceiling, a horrible feeling of knowing washing over him. Whatever his Mistress did, rightfully, he never flinched. 

In the next second, his head snaps to the side, the loud bang of his Mistress slapping him echoing through the room.

Mistress is screaming at him, for the first time. He has never failed her before, not like this. And he can’t even comprehend her words. 

Whatever she is telling him is lost to his mind that he never quite understood. He only knows he is inferior in a way even an ashtray shouldn’t be, and he can do nothing to remedy that.

Tears pool in his eyes, as the servants drag him away from his still-shouting Mistress. When did he get so useless? 

When did his beautiful porcelain conditioning crack?

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox,

@sowhumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood, @katwriteswhump

@opaldream16, @whumped-by-glitter, @whump-queen, @electrons2006, @vampirewhump

@saffitaffi let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[whumpcloud]

Would I do absolutely anything for Peter? Yes I love the guy so much and I was thinking about him and rereading delicate and. I love him your honor I’m stealing him and giving him headpats 😭

YESSSS peter ily peter. he will get written about soon i prommy. he just needs to be loved!!

[whumpcloud]

things to ask yourself when designing a female character:

how much blood is she covered in

are her eyes filled with madness

can she rip things to shreds with her fingernails

[whumpcloud]

for the vampy bingo! Shadows

content: vincent's contradictory self-hatred

Henry has been in Paris for a week now. Vincent watches, sometimes. He knows his brother's heartbeat better than he knew his own, knows his gait and the lightness of his steps. Vincent could find Henry anywhere.

Henry can't find him. Henry has been looking for him, he's overheard the conversations. Guilt gnaws at his dead heart.

There's always the temptation to approach. Vincent ignores it, as hard as it is. No matter what Vincent believes, what Lyfelde tells him, Henry would be disgusted at what his little brother has become, Vincent knows that. That was a different man's life, one that he can never go back to.

Vincent slips back into the shadows.

He's disgusting. He should be ashamed. He should be arrogant, shouldn't he? No matter how sinful what he's become is, he's powerful. He's better than he could ever be.

But not to Henry. Henry never cared what he was, as long as he was happy. Would he care now?

Don't be stupid, of course he would.

Vincent slaps himself, the crack audible as he hits too hard. He needs to stop thinking about his brother. What good will that do him?

"Mr Lyfelde?" Vincent calls as he enters the house.

"Mm?" Lyfelde appears in the doorway of the kitchen after a moment. "Vincent, dear. You were gone for a while."

"Just... needed some fresh air." Vincent tentatively steps forward, then without a word rests his head on Lyfelde's shoulder.

"Are you quite alright?" Lyfelde asks, bringing a hand up to rub Vincent's shoulder.

No, he isn't alright. He needs his brother, he needs to be small again, needs to be held, needs to be home.

This isn't home. Nowhere is home like the fireplace in the drawing room and the scratching of Henry's pen, even if there is no place for him there anymore.

"Fine," Vincent answers quietly.

taglist: @whumpsday @whumpycries @whumpwillow @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @sowhumpshaped @suspicious-whumping-egg @chiswhumpcorner @melancholy-in-the-morning @bloodinkandashes @whump-me-all-night-long @sickophantic @itsmyworld23 @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @annablogsposts @thebirdsofgay @maracujatangerine @neverthelass @magziemakeswhatever @whatwhumpcomments

[whumpcloud]

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

[whumpcloud]

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

[whumpcloud]

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