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honeycollectswhump · 2 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

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honeycollectswhump · 3 months

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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 :)

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