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Once a mech pilot hits 20 they age out of the system and the military just drops 'em off and gives them the number of a cheap therapist. If you know where to look, or got a buddy who they send 'em to, you can pick one up real easy and they make for impeccable sex toys. Growth was limited by cockpit size and the massive amount of calories burned by the biolink so you can just pick 'em up and toss 'em around however you like. Real used to pain, too. Best part is, they really know how to depersonalize a kid, they all answer to "it" and just do whatever you tell 'em. Never complain, never ask for anything, just sit there shaking and flinching at loud noise. Oh, and when they die, they're so full of chemicals they can last a few days before you wanna throw 'em out.

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submissive in the way a livestock guardian dog is submissive to the sheep it kills wolves for

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people who can’t handle mildly weird people are so annoying. “omg this person thinks they’re married to a fictional character???!! wtf???!!!” all my mutuals are delusional nonhuman furries and gods and angels and shit who wanna fuck laptops or the concept of space. and I bring them GIFTS for their weddings with their fictional spouses. get on my level

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genuine question does any writing in empty spaces/dollposting actually focus on the interiority of the primary witches rather than just the dolls

nearly everything i see of the setting, time after time, is written exclusively from the dolls' perspective; even things written by those who would fill the role of Witch doesn't stray from this, as far as i've seen

this wouldn't be surprising in, say, HDG where the dom-figures are intentionally unknowable alien entities that are, from a doylist perspective, functionally plot devices for horny purposes

but in dollposting where it's theoretically a brainweird hornyqueer space about exploring angst and tenderness and relationship to a lack of humanity it's kind of weird how the 'Witches' who fill the role of the dom-equivalent tend to be assigned to only existing with relation to the Dolls they have

am i wrong with my analysis here? do we simply not follow the Correct:tm: dollposters? a lot of our system identifies quite closely with the aesthetics of the witch-archetype as is depicted by the empty spaces ouvre and it's a shame that as far as we can tell that's not explored as much as we'd like

what does it mean to willingly shoulder the burden of holding control and sway? how do these entities live, being both less than and more than human, distorted from whatever former selves they once were? how does that doll's mistress feel, in the quiet moments, when she is alone? truly alone, not just 'needing to be cheered up by her dolls'.

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the moth was not enough to satisfy my desire to glue lace onto dolls, so here's my next endeavor.

i've been wanting to sculpt more mushrooms for a long time, but there was always something else demanding attention. seeing a lot of shrooms outside finally inspired me to make this ink cap, and start a couple of others that might eventually see the light of day. printing the cap without breaking the ink droplets is basically impossible, but at the moment i'm paying less attention to my designs being reprintable and more on having fun. as i told my partner, "can't wait to get the head out of the printer so i can BREAK IT."

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instagram | prints

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Generational toxic masculinity.

[undying-doll]

Wouldn't it be nice to just be a doll? Unthinking and empty... eyes staring off into nothing, smiling mindlessly.

Free from your worldly stresses. Dolls don't need those.

And you're just a doll, aren't you? A doll controlled solely by my strings. No need to think.

You just need to sink.~ ����🌀

[undying-doll]

What once was lost

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from A Well-Trained Wife: My Escape from Christian Patriarchy by Tia Levings (2024)

Pat said reactivity was a trauma response.

I was familiar with fight or flight. But less familiar with freeze and fawn. She explained fawning as supercharged people-pleasing. It’s engaging in behaviors (often self-betraying behaviors) in an attempt to appease and pacify a traumatic threat.

Fawning placed everyone else’s needs over my own, which also, perhaps conveniently, modeled Christian behavior. […]

People preferred to be fawned over more than they liked to hear a woman in fight response, but both responses were my reaction to feeling triggered. Fawning was my attempt to pacify a perceived threat and my relationships were entangled by it.

It seemed like I could sum up my entire childhood as fawning. I felt groomed to fawn. It was in the tone of voice we were taught to use, our smiles and crossed legs, our servant hearts.

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an angel will keep pushing itself far beyond its limits and screaming that it's all over and it's going to kill itself right fucking now, then persevere by the tiniest margin to do it again the next day

a doll will always endure the worst, smile and say "Everything is just fine, Miss!" then finally when it's no longer needed, it will disappear into the shadows silently and with demure poise. later on, as you're walking past the clocktower, you'll see a heap of porcelain shards and mangled gears strewn over the cobblestone

the witch is the reason why both are doing it

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Shadow: Fallen Angel

In the neon glow of the city streets, shadows dance like flames. Stretching and contracting; looming large then disappearing beneath the caster. No one thinks much of them the majority of the time. Though, sometimes, one might catch an unusual movement from the corner of their eye. A darkness that seems to dart with preternatural quickness from one pool of black to another. Most write it off as a trick of the light, or of the mind. Usually, theyre right, but sometimes something resides in the darkness.

A lone angel darts into an amber lit alleyway; panting and trying to catch her breath. Leaning forward with her hands on her knees, she lets out a deep sigh and closes her eyes. The many eyes on the side walk, she swears, were fixed on her halo. Overwhelmed at this much perceived attention, she had begun to panic. A moment, she thought to herself, just need a moment. Having finally calmed her nerves, she straightens up, shaking the remaining jitters off.

"Okay. Im good. Its okay. Im fine" she says out loud, attempting to reassure herself.

With one last deep breath, she attempts to take a step, but finds her legs wont obey. Her shadow, unbeknownst to her, appears to be wreathed in void-like flames. It straightens, standing tall with its arms at its sides and legs together. To her horror, she does the same. The poor angel cant speak, cant move, cant scream.

Her shadow lifts both arms, gripping her halo. Muffled protests vibrate deep in her throat and chest, unable to fight whatever force has gripped her. Her arms flex and strain as the halo bends in the shadows hands until, finally, it snaps in half with a thunderous crack. A cry of amguish reverbates through her chest, muffled by her still sealed lips. Tears begin streaming from her pained eyes.

In a swift, unnaturally forcful motion, the cracked and jagged ends of the broken halo are thrust through her forehead unceremoniously.

Pain. Agony. Cries cut short in her throat as blood streams down her face. Whatever forse puppeting her not allowing her blissful unconciousness. She stands, once again, bolt straight with her arms at her sides. The twin streams of tears and blood flooding her face as they merge. Some passing the corners of her mouth, leaving her with the taste of salty iron.

The crescents of the halo burn beneath her skin, charring and becoming twisted black horns. The angels' muffled wails of pain intensifying as abysal flames spark and engulf her. All the while stuck frozen and unmoving. Her skin wriths and twists across her body, dying a deep crimson. New scars appearing on her skin, one for each sacrifice she'd ever made. Marking her now devilish form forever as a reminder. Her pristine white wings quickly turned to ash, but retained a wing-like shape. Her shadow forcing them to spread, eliciting another agonized muffled scream from her chest. Her nails become talons and she could now feel sharp fangs pressing against the back of her lips.

The transformation complete, her eyes are the only thing that remained of her previous form.

The shadowy flames died, seemingly leaking into the surrounding darkness. As if cut from invisible strings, the angel collapses to the ground. Finally free to scream, pained otherworldly wails poured from her lungs until her voice turned hoarse. Curling up in a ball, she wraps herself in her wings of ash, sobbing and rocking.

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Endlessly drifting through a harsh mindscape, i find myself warped by stray thoughts. Im an idea, a figment. A concept givin form, though none of them are my own. Asigned my role, i will play it and dance gracelessly to the music. My strings tangling together; making me more of a jester. Your clown. Your personal joke. You laugh as i stumble and fall, strings cut. Tears wanting to form, but they wont come. You want me to smile. Hold that vapid, brainless expression. Eyes vacant. Bright red lips curled into a beaming grin as i stare out from my heap of limbs.

I am your toy. Your villain. Your hero. Your victim. Despite my best efforts, i cannot escape. When i run, you take my legs, leaving me to crawl on my belly. When i raise my fist, you make them large, useless, paws. When i scream, you steal my voice and i mew or bark. I cant tell you how much i hate you because you change my words. Turning them from anger and derission to loving poems about your majesty. Gushing about how wonderful you are.

I swear i was human once, but you dont allow me that memory. I swear i had my own name, but you change it every hour and ive lost track. I cant remember who or what i was. At some point, i became your imaginary friend and i hate that you made me love it.

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Not Catholic related but it’s related to a response I gave to an ex friend (who identified as Pentecostal) when they said that they trusted their pastor because he “is a nice guy and has kids”.

[undying-doll]

Awareness skitters off the world's surface. You are not in the body that they have always told you is yours: you are in the wind trailing across your skin and twining its fingers through your hair, in the dance of birds across ill-tended ground and the beauty of peeling paint.

In the distance a car's horn, the rush of traffic, an angry shout, and you are there too, body left behind to plod through its motions. It doesn't need you. There is grass growing in the cracks of the sidewalk and a bug crawling towards the shade and they are more you than this.

Attention is a currency, and you freely spend it; drifting, skipping, your body's edges coming unpeeled. Boundaries bleed, their false inevitability diffusing like blood in water, dripping like ink down rude wood. Not even a cut: forget that there was ever skin.

"I'm not here," you say, "not really."

The words crawl ungainly from your splayed mouth.

"I'm just dissociated. Sorry."

A body is such a big responsibility. A puppet that you can never really put down. Always demanding things, always complaining. Such a horrid thing.

It's no wonder that you don't spend much time in it. Better to be—well, anywhere. Outside. In the touch of fingers on keycaps and the reassuring clatter of well-chosen switches. Drifting through seas of information. Dissolving into sensation. Distraction. Dissociation.

Is that true?

Maybe.

Does it need to be?