witchpassing

[witchpassing]

It's too bad you can't make deals with reality. Like, you can't call up a demon or genie and do a trade.

Cause I was thinking, I could be entirely happy as a maid just cleaning up a mansion, if:

My back didn't hurt after a while

My skin didn't hate cleaning chemicals/gloves

I didn't have to decide where stuff goes. Just tell me where everything goes and I can mindlessly do that.

So like, if you're a scientist who figured out how to give people new bodies, but you need a maid? Lemme know, that's the perfect job for me. Like, put my brain in a robot body, that sounds great. I'll just go around cleaning everything. It'd be fun and I wouldn't mind it at all. The only reason I'm NOT doing exactly that right now is that my body is annoying and I have to be in charge of where stuff goes.

(And yes I'll wear the maid uniform, do you have to even ask?)

#maid tag

[witchpassing]

a real maid would pour your energy drink into a champagne flute not just give you the can

#maid tag

[witchpassing]

Unbearably, impossibly bright blue. It radiates, literally radiates, upwards from the reactor core at the heart of the public baths. You watch it, first seeping out from where the control rods remain ready to deploy, then boiling water in vast columns, roiling bubbles carried quickly out and away towards the generators, then up towards the fiberglass that separates you from it. It’s perfectly safe, from this distance. If you could reach your hand through the glass, you could actually safely extend your arm a few feet into the water. The water is the coolant. The water is the shield that protects the skein of your genetics from unraveling inside you. The glass just marks the distance, with a few inches of water as buffer. And of course, it gives you somewhere to stand.

The public bathhouse is an ad-hoc modification of the reactor core, really, but volume is scarse on Paracelsus. Volumes of habitable space, volumes of breathable air, and yes, volumes of water. So we make do. In a few days, the gas giant Trismegistus will swell overhead through the dome that protects your little crater, and bathe every ounce of this hemisphere with gorgeous filtered sunlit, red and gold, for weeks. But today, thankfully, it’s blue.

Your ports don’t itch, for once. The stitches have long since dissolved, but the juncture right where scar tissue meets metal usually itches something fierce anytime you’re not plugged into your mech. The ports aren’t connected to anything now, not yet at least, but they’re hooked directly into your spinal cord, so they’re still sensitive.

But for now, you’re here, in the public bathhouse. Warm water lapping at copper and gold contacts, gently massaging you down to the bone. It’s a pleasant hum, dulling your brain and your senses, washing over you from your scalp to your toes. It tastes like static. Normally you have to drink yourself sick to feel like this. But the water keeps your vision blurry, your ears full, and your ports touching an electrically conductive material. Your senses extend to the limits of the pool, through the fiberglass, down into the thumping, steady beat of the reactor core. You reach down past control rods, and Cherenkov radiation shines back at you through a liquid medium. You don’t feel anything. You are radiant. Blue is your favorite color.

#unsorted

[witchpassing]

how do you find good maid outfits that will fit people who arent twigs? preferably also good quality. im looking to make an Investment

I honestly haven't had much luck myself. I bought one off of lolitawardrobe earlier tonight that had ones big enough to fit a girl who usually wears medium (it was listed as xxl though)

#maid tag #may perhaps be of interest or use to this blog's audience

[witchpassing]

Sistenzca is retching up a crow. Bones stick-thin in the mouth, threatening to snap. Greasy black taste of feathers. When it’s all done, she kneels exhausted on the bed, sweat-damp hair clinging to her back, and stares at the new animal. The crow, spit-shiny and confused, labours over the bedclothes towards the window. Mallory makes a note of the time. Third one today. 

The crow sits upon the sill and puts its feathers in order. Sistenzca watches.

 "Mal?”  

“Yes?” Mallory is scratching something else in her notebook and only sort of looks up.

“Is it going to stop?” 

Mallory finishes writing. Tucks her notebook away; gives Sistenzca a tired smile. Sistenzca half-smiles back, shakily, out of habit. She’s a nice girl like that, Mallory has come to understand. The kind that tries her very hardest not to be difficult.    

"Why don't we keep reading your book, Sistencza? We can pick up where we left off.”

Scratch of claws on stone. A complication of wings. The crow flies out into the pale grey sunlight. 

“Okay.” 

#this one's writing #microfiction #emeto cw #sort of. just to be sure

[witchpassing]

Hidden

A doll who serves, but is never seen.

Charlotte pulled her front door open with an exhausted yawn. It had been yet another long day at work and she was about ready to collapse into bed. The pay was nice at least, and the job itself wasn't too bad, but there was no doubt that the long hours had had an affect on her. She switched on the living room lights and glanced around the place. Much to her chagrin, her home was becoming visibly sloppy. A pile of discarded dishes had accumulated on the coffee table, the shelves had become noticeably dusty, and she couldn't remember the last time she vacuumed. She wanted to clean the place up, but she'd never been an early riser, and her job left her too tired to do much of her chores even during her off time.

It wasn't worth stressing out about it though, not right now at least. Charlotte was far too tired to bother with any housekeeping; what she needed to do was grab a snack then go to bed. And so, she did just that, trudging over to the pantry in a sleepy daze, switching on the overhead light to ponder her selection of food. That was when she noticed that the box of tea biscuits had been raided again. Charlotte breathed an aggravated sigh. She'd had this mouse problem for weeks now but had still not caught sight of any sign of the creature. Why did it only go for the tea biscuits anyway? Maybe the mouse had a particularly sweet tooth or something? Why had it never touched any of her other sweets then? Why was she pondering the eating habits of a mouse?!

Charlotte slammed the pantry doors shut. She was just stressing herself out looking at it. Maybe she could grab something out of the fridge instead. Yawning once more, Charlotte turned to head towards the fridge when she caught sight of something strange out of the corner of her eye. There, on her ding table, one of the teacups that had belonged to Charlotte's late mother sat alone, and next to that, a tea biscuit, bitten in half. Charlotte jumped back with surprise, thinking, just for a moment, that she might have been haunted by her mother's ghost.

But that made no sense. Ghosts weren't real, and they certainly didn't eat biscuits or drink tea, so that couldn't be it. Was somebody else living in her house without her knowing? No, that couldn't be it. The only things that ever went missing in the house was tea and biscuits along with the occasional cup or platter. Unless her unseen housemate was somehow subsisting entirely off of sugar and had the smallest appetite known to man, it couldn't be another person... but come to think of it, that did line up with something she knew. Charlotte had learned growing up that dolls of all things had famously tiny appetites and tended to stick with one or two mainstay food options when possible.

Okay, so it wasn't a mouse at least, but a stray doll really wasn't much better. Charlotte had come from a family with its fair share of witches, and that had proven a problem when it came to light that she had a case of severe pediophobia. Nobody was ever able to figure out why, but the sight of dolls always sent a chill up her spine and made her freeze up stalk still. Of course, Charlotte knew they meant well, she did not fear dolls necessarily, but she could not stand the sight of them. And now she had one living in her house, and somehow not seeing it made her feel even more nervous. The absolute last thing she wanted was to come home from work to see a doll lounging on her couch. She just might throw up at that point. No, she needed to get this doll out of here, preferably soon.

And so, for the rest of the week, Charlotte tried to do just that. Every day she'd come home with a new trap, lure, or repellent, each of which promised guaranteed results for dealing with stray dolls, and each of which proved ineffective. Whatever was living with her, it was good at staying out of sight. By the end of the week, dealing with the doll was practically all she thought about. Several times, she contemplated calling doll control services, but she could never bring herself to do it. She knew what happened in those facilities, and while she didn't want the doll living with her anymore, she didn't want the poor thing disassembled either. It had never been violent or troublesome to her, only stolen her sweets, it didn't deserve to have its core silenced.

Maybe, it occurred to her, she was being a bit selfish. She knew how hard life could be for stray dolls who lost or were abandoned by their wishes. There weren't many people willing to take a stray in, and fewer still who were suitable witches or owners. Really, this doll hadn't been disruptive in the least, compared to what it could be, and now she was setting up traps and attempting to scare it out of her house. The poor thing must've been so lonely and scared, and she was only antagonizing it. No, that wouldn't do.

There could be a better way to do this, there had to be. One day, Charlotte had an idea. She placed a brand new box of tea biscuits on the dining table before she went to work as a peace offering, placing with it a handwritten note. Charlotte told the doll of her phobia, and how desperately she did not want to see the doll around the house, but she also told that it was welcome to stay, so long as it didn't cause trouble. She wouldn't call doll control on it, she wouldn't set anymore traps. She'd provide a box of tea biscuits whenever the doll ran out, and she'd buy extra tea and stop attempting to hide either of them. She encouraged the doll to try and find a witch when it could, but explained that she understood the trouble.

When Charlotte got home at the end of the day, she noticed that the box had gone missing, but her note remained on the table. Charlotte went to grab the note and dispose of it when she noticed that in large, squiggly letters at the bottom of the page, a reply had been written. "OK." With a heavy sigh of relief, Charlotte couldn't help but smile a little. Maybe, she hoped, she could finally get some sleep without worrying about waking up to the sight of a doll.

The next morning, though, something curious happened. When she went downstairs to prepare for work, she noticed the mountain of bowls and cups on her coffee table had disappeared, and that in fact, all of the once dirty dishes now sat in a pristine state, lined up on the shelves exactly where they belonged. Charlotte looked around, finding no sign of the doll, but still decided she needed to express her gratitude somehow. So, when she brewed a fresh pot of tea for herself, she poured an extra cup and set it on the dining table, exactly where she'd put the biscuits the night before.

That evening, she found the cup empty, just as she had expected, but she also found that all of the shelves, once besieged by an army of dust bunnies, were now entirely spotless. "Oh, well, thank you!" Charlotte spoke into her house's empty halls, hoping the doll would hear her words, wherever it was.

Thus it was that things continued. Charlotte would leave in the morning, come back at night, and find that her chores for the day had always miraculously been finished for her. Occasionally, she'd stumble upon an empty box of tea biscuits sitting in the open, and she'd drive down to the supermarket to buy a fresh supply, always of the same brand. The house had once been lonely after Charlotte lost her mother, but now, no matter how long it had been since she had company home, there was always a hint of companionship in the air that lightened Charlotte's heart.

Sometimes, Charlotte and the doll would write notes to one another. Charlotte always ended up rambling in her letters, talking about work and her attempts at a love life, and thanking the doll again and again for its hard work. The doll's replies were always succinct. Simple responses summed up in three words or less, but eventually, they began to be accompanied by drawings. They weren't the highest art, in fact they resembled doodles by a child more than anything, but they still brought a smile to Charlotte's lips nonetheless. The majority of the drawings were of a woman that vaguely resembled Charlotte herself.

One day, out of curiosity, even despite her phobia, Charlotte asked the doll if it could draw itself, to which the doll politely declined. "I don't like being seen." The reply said, the single longest sentence Charlotte had ever received from her companion, clearly something the doll felt strongly about. So, Charlotte asked the doll its name, embarassed she had never learned over the two months they'd lived together. "I don't want one." The doll replied.

Over time, Charlotte began to feel quite attached to the doll, despite never seeing its face. There were days that she considered asking the doll to never leave, but she could never bring herself to do such a thing. A doll deserved a witch, not a silly woman who couldn't bear to so much as glance at a doll without feeling ill. Still, she appreciated the doll's help immensely, and exchanging letters with it was a delight, even if the Doll wasn't very talkative. It was nice.

It was only when that sank in did the day Charlotte had begun to dread came to pass. She came home one evening to a note on a table, a surprise considering she had not written that morning and the doll normally only offered replies. The note read in one single sentence. "I found my witch." Immediately, Charlotte began to cry. While of course she was happy for the doll, and she knew it deserved a happy home, but she still didn't feel like she was ready to say goodbye. She knew it was selfish, the doll deserved better than her, but truly, she couldn't quite help it. Though it had been a few short months, she'd grown accustomed to the doll's presence, and she knew that with it gone, the house would feel lonelier than it ever had before. But it would be okay. The doll would be happy, Charlotte knew that, and that made her happy in return.

One could imagine Charlotte's shock then, when she flipped the note over to be confronted by the sight of the witch the doll had chosen. There, drawn in uneven squiggly lines, was a shape that Charlotte had seen more than a dozen times over by now: herself, as drawn by the doll. Just like that, Charlotte had begun sobbing once again, this time with tears of joy. Never had she imagined that of all people, the doll would choose her to be its witch, but here it was, plain as day. Really, Charlotte still wasn't sure she had it in her, what it took to be a witch. She didn't know the first thing about doll care, and she'd never casted a spell in her life...

But really, the doll never asked for much. Besides tea and biscuits, its only requests were to be unseen, and to not be given a name. Maybe that's really all it wanted. Maybe that's what made it the most happy. It took a while but once Charlotte was through crying, she stood up from the table, and turned to sing through the house a joyful "thank you," hoping, nay, knowing that the doll—her doll—would hear her, wherever it was hiding.

#doll tag

[witchpassing]

I started keeping an animate doll around the house. Every three days it learns to be a real boy, which then allows me to harvest its soul. It then loses all its memories and the cycle repeats. My sister says I'm a monster, but I just think it's a good sustainable source of souls. aita?

#doll tag

[witchpassing]

#maid tag #what a good dog!

[witchpassing]

Finding a broken doll still trying to fulfil its purpose in an abandoned building, despite the roof caving in and its Creator clearly being long, long gone (though it informs you it is sure they will be back soon if you'd care to wait).

Building up trust with it over weeks. Giving minor repairs. Helping clarify tasks. Bringing it some comfort items.

Reading through its Creator's tattered diaries that still lie untouched on their immaculately clean desk. Finding out the Creator had no choice but to leave, and deeply regretted it.

Eventually telling the doll that its Creator would like it to come and stay with you for a while. All of your other arguments failed, but this seems to convince it. You think it knows, deep down, they're not coming back, but it's a good doll that would never abandon its post.

If it's what its Creator wants, though, that's a different story. Maybe with enough time the wound will heal enough for it to accept the loss. For now, a comforting lie is good enough.

Getting it home and settled is a painfully slow process. It does everything it can to hide its anxiety, often throwing itself into duties it isn't ready for. But with enough time and care, it settles in.

At first, it often asks when its Creator will be coming to collect it. Those questions become rarer the happier it seems, however.

The doll has purpose again. It has duties and tasks to perform. It has someone to instruct it and orders to follow. Someone who takes care to fix its damaged form. Someone who makes it feel useful.

Someone who doesn't abandon it.

#doll tag

[witchpassing]

#maid tag

[witchpassing]

A group of dolls have discovered that they can fit into each other's outfits. Their witch comes home to find them gleefully trying on each other's garments, pretending to fulfill each other's roles. The witch smiles, she gave them all specific clothes to reflect the jobs and roles they were given, but they seemed perfectly happy to take on others from time to time. By the end of the night, they've all donned their original clothes again, pleased with the new things they experienced, but also the comfort of what's familiar.

#doll tag

[witchpassing]

Ivy:Dollhouse! Dollhouse:House that is a doll! Dollhouse:Doll that is a house! Dollhouse:Filled with gilded slots for Ivy's claws! Dollhouse:Walls filled with Ivy! Dollhouse:Rails on the ceiling for Ivy's puppets and dolls(Ivy's dolls:also Ivy!)

#doll tag

[witchpassing]

I suppose since you asked me, I will pose the same question to you! What does Dollhood mean to you?

I think one of the most prominent things for me is the non-personhood. When I was like 12-13 years old, I started feeling like I was a broken doll in the the shape of a person. The broken doll feeling kind of pushed out my identification with personhood over time. I didn’t realize that I didn’t truly feel like a person until just recently, honestly. And since I’ve come to understand that I’m not a person, it opened my eyes to all the other things I subconsciously (and consciously!!) identified with/as in the past and present. I am a tool. I am a toy. I am a weapon. I am all of these, but damaged in some way usually.

Which brings me to my next point. What does a witch do when she finds a broken doll in the ditch? Takes it home. Cleans it. Repairs it. Fixes it enough that it can stand on its own again, then fucking *hugs it*. Shows it that everything will be okay now. Even if it breaks again and again, it will always be repaired. The broken doll will never stay broken for long.

I am enamored by the extremely intimate act of being repaired by caring hands. I feel as if I have a desperate need to be rebuilt until I can finally be truly, honest to god useful again. I want to be able to repay the kindness I’ve been shown by the loving and skilled hands that put me back together.

I long to be useful. Be that as a toy, a weapon, or a tool. I am a doll after all. Dolls are usually at least two of those things at once, and this one gets to be all three. And being used as such things brings me joy. And if there is love with which I am used, that just multiplies the joy further.

This is what dollhood means to me. I feel as if I am missing other aspects that sing to me, but I can simply add them later in a reblog. This answer is the main core of it though.

Dollwitchhood is a fair bit different and I’m still discovering aspects of it that I quite enjoy. I’ll talk about that too someday. But for now, this is all.

Thank you, my work-of-art, for sending this ask.

#doll tag

[witchpassing]

#doll tag

[witchpassing]

This one is wondering what being a “doll” means to you. Can you satisfy this one’s curiosity?

A doll is a tool given human form. It is not a replaceable or expendable tool, however. A Doll is a tool in the same way a handcrafted axe or crucible is a tool. Lovingly created to fulfill a purpose designated by its owner. In this case, a Witch. The relationship between a Doll and its Witch is sacred. Dolls are meant to be loved and cherished. Sometimes Dolls are defective, but that's okay. It's perfectly normal to recycle them for parts, but it is just as common not to. To allow it to continue existing just for its own sake. Dolls and Witches are mutual caretakers. The Witch providing maintenance and tasking, and the Doll completing tasks and assisting its Witch with day-to-day life.

Just as a Doll is a tool, A Doll is also a narrative device. In my experience, Dolls are often used to explore the effects of trauma and what it is like to live with those consequences in a heavily abstracted way. I have seen works explore CPTSD, PTSD, Anxiety and Panic Attacks, the effects of Traumatic Brain Injury, and more through this lens. Being a Doll, to me, represents a deep and profound trust, loyalty, and understanding between myself and the one I call my Witch. Not necessarily a deeper connection than that which I share with my romantic partners, just a different one. One that warrants its own definitions and terminology. Dollhood is a situation one finds oneself in, rather than something with a starting or ending point. The full breadth of what Dollhood means to me is difficult to concisely put into words, as it is more of a set of feelings than anything concrete. I hope this answer has been satisfactory!

#doll tag

[witchpassing]

"S'gonna hurt," says the clockmaker around the tool in her mouth, and before Sable can ask any follow-up questions or even really brace itself, she prises.

It does hurt. It hurts really, really bad. Sable tries to pull away but the clockmaker has it by the wrist and she’s stronger than it and the pain sharpens and sharpens and turns inside-out and then suddenly goes, leaving in its wake a tender achey empty feeling.

A sob lurches in Sable's throat. "Ow," it says.

"Mm." The clockmaker clicks her tongue in sympathy and pats it on the shoulder, which makes it wobble a little in its chair. "Don't you worry, you're doing alright. A lot of dolls cry at that part." She takes its pointer finger between two of her own, gentle now, and curls it inwards like she's checking the joints for stick. "Sable, wasn't it?"

Sable's gaze lands on its arm, lying on the clockmaker's lap, turned belly-over at the elbow and opened right up and all the little piano strings inside glistening in the light and, oh, moving, and skitters off like touching a stove.

"Yes, Miss," it manages, making sure it only looks at her face, forward and not down. "Sable."

"Thought so." The clockmaker smiles at it over the... over the, um, open place. She’s reached its ring finger now. The corresponding doll-string slides in its housing. "Pretty name for a pretty doll.”

“... D-do you say that to every doll you work on, Miss?” Sable knows it shouldn’t tease, especially not now of all times, but the clockmaker is nice and only sort-of a person, so maybe it’s okay.

A raspy, clicking laugh. It is okay. “Just the nervous ones.”

#dollposting #microfiction #surgery cw #of a sort? just to be sure #this one's writing

[witchpassing]

Objectification without disposability

Degradation without replaceability

Putting in the hours and the effort to make her into the perfect toy and then keeping her close by your side as a prized possession

#doll tag