benthic-soundscape - Tumblr blog

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Being a toy means you're useful. Toys are meant to be played with, enjoyed, treasured, used. You are cared for and then put away until the next time you are needed. A toy is someone's favorite thing. They can't wait to play with their toy. Doesn't being a toy sound so much better than being a person?

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“Do I have to undress?” 

“No,” says the clockmaker, taking the cigarette out of her mouth with spindle-jointed fingers. It’s hand-rolled - meticulously - and unlit. Noticing this feels like brushing against a joke you don't quite understand. “I can just do your wrists, your elbow. Touch up the patina on your fingers. But your hip needs work, too, and there's no getting around it for that.”

She gives you a slewed, undercalibrated smile, a little too much teeth, a face a doll shouldn't make. The wrong of it is comforting. “It's okay, daisy-bell. We're all girls here.” You get the joke this time.

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A doll is a kind of prey animal that just wants to feel small and safe in someone's arms.

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A doll is a void where a person once was. A doll is rows of razor-sharp teeth. A doll is a transitory state. A doll is a mass of unwanted flesh. A doll is a witch waiting to happen. A doll is a reflection of your desires. A doll is a cuddly companion. A doll is a rifle. A doll is a caterpillar. A doll is boundless potential. A doll is wasted space. A doll is a friend who always agrees with you. A doll is pain that can do chores. A doll is a coping mechanism. A doll is a gift to the world. A doll is.

A doll is.

But what will it become?

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Debating Dolls

Warning: Hypno language

"Lady, I swear, I'm a person!" Sage cried out for what had to be the dozenth time.

The Witch sitting opposite her just peeked her eyes over her glasses, throwing the woman a look of clear condescension and sarcasm. "Uh-huh. Sure. I to~tally believe you."

"What is it going to take to prove this to you once and for all?!"

"You're asking the wrong question," the Witch replied.

"Well then enlighten me, oh Wise One."

"Well, you can't prove a negative."

Sage threw her hands up in exasperation. "Alright. You've officially lost me."

"Well, what do you believe makes a doll?"

"Oh, gee. I don't know. Cloth? Clockwork? Artifice? Magick?! Lady, hellooo~! Flesh and blood here. Granted motion by life, not Magicks. I am completely au natural," Sage retorted, emphasizing her point with a tongue in cheek hip gyration

"See? There's the error in your thinking. A doll is a being of Purpose and Stillness. The material is, funnily enough, immaterial. To prove you're a person, you'd have to prove you lack those two qualities. Thus, I reiterate, you can't prove a negative."

Finishing her lecture, the Witch took another sip from her tea while Sage sat aghast at what she'd just heard. Silence overtook them until the empty teacup clinked back down atop its saucer.

"Could I get a refill, dear?"

"Wha-oh. Yeah. Sure," Sage replied, reaching for the pot.

As she poured, Sage continued her line of questioning, "So what? You're telling me there's not a person out there who can truly claim to be a person?"

"Pretty much."

"That's absurd…"

"Not half as absurd as a doll calling itself human."

That earned the Witch a glare that would cause a weaker woman to wilt, but she held her ground, simply reaching for her cup once it had been filled.

"Fine then. Proof by exclusion. You say I'm either a human or a doll. If you fail to prove I'm a doll, then by process of elimination, I must be human. You said there are only two criteria that need to be filled, so proving them should be simple, if you're so confident."

"Are you sure?" the Witch asked, her know-it-all air evaporating for the first time.

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Are you absolutely certain, dear? The realization could be quite… jarring."

"Yeah, lady, I'm sure. I'm not so weak as to crumple over a simple deba—"

"Oh no!" the Witch exclaimed. "Out of biscuits already. You can't have afternoon tea without biscuits…"

"I'll get some more fricking biscuits, but then we're continuing this!"

"Tha~nk you, dear," the Witch shouted back sarcastically, Sage already halfway to the café's counter.

When she returned, biscuits in hand, the Witch took one to let soak in the tea a moment before responding to Sage's initial question. "Very well. If it's proof you want, then it's proof you'll get."

"Finally… This whole rigmarole has been quite tireso—"

"Dear, quiet yourself a moment, please. I'm collecting my thoughts."

Sage stopped herself, awaiting the Witch's argument. And waited. And waited. Growing tired of the Witch's contemplative nibbling, Sage redirected her interests to their surroundings, anything to occupy her mind

The outdoor café they sat in was quiet that day. The hustle and bustle of the evening crowds hadn't yet arrived. Light, tingly music lilted over the speakers as the smell of the tea and biscuits wafted through the air. A gentle breeze blew her long hair around, but why tie it up?

After what seemed an eternity, the Witch finally spoke. "It's nice, isn't it? So peaceful. So tranquil. So calm. You could sit like this for hours and hardly feel time pass at all."

Sage had to agree. How long had they sat like this already, enjoying their repartee?

The Witch continued, "Time just seems to slow to a crawl, like a clock winding down. Everything gets slower… and slower… and slower. You could start it back up if you wanted. But isn't it nicer to just sit back and enjoy it?"

The Witch had a point, Sage thought.

"So just relax. Let time wind down. Let everything slow to a crawl. As that internal clock just tick—"

「Wait…」

"—tick—"

「Hold on…」

"—ticks away."

Sage felt herself go limp as all the world seemed to pause. She thought to panic, to get up, to yell, but…

Everything was just so nice when it was Still…

"Time winds down. Perception winds down. You wind down. You could get up if you wanted. You could leave if you wished. Or you could just sit here and be Still with me."

The Witch paused, waiting for what, Sage knew not.

"Then sit. Be Still. Let time pass you by. Nothing need disturb you. Nothing need bother you. Nothing need be thought by you. Mind racing as it always does, arguing, fighting, debating, it's tiring isn't it? Trying to do so much, think so much, be so much. Let it all be Still."

And so Sage obeyed.

________________________________________

"That did not go as expected…" Sage exclaimed, opening her eyes and blinking slowly.

"No, I imagine it did not."

"That was hardly a logical argument."

"No, I imagine it was not."

"Fine, I admit. You've proven I can be Still. What of the other criterion you listed?"

"Oh, that? That requires no proof. Now be a dear and go fetch another pot of tea, will you?"

Sage stood and began to walk, feeling her whole body move in a stilted, yet natural manner it never had before, Purpose guiding her back to the counter. "Yes, my Lady," the doll answered.

End 🧵

(Old story reposted from Twitter)

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"My son is fine"

Sir, your child wants to be dressed up like a doll, collared, stuffed with a tail, made to crawl around on all fours, be told what a good kitten they are, bitten and marked with bruises that last for a week, then be fucked and bred so hard they'll be a useless puddle for at least 18 hours.

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a stray cat walks by. when it notices the motionless doll, it startles at first, running away, but eventually, cautiously, it returns, and, after assuring itself that the doll is no threat, lays a fish it caught before it, and disappears again.

The doll is able to properly greet a visitor for the first time since it entered its stasis, bowing its head slightly to the cat. This visitor is a shy one, darting behind a corner at the doll's smallest movement. The doll understands, some creatures are more comfortable when their companions are still. It resumes its statuesque repose, hoping its timid guest will chance a second approach. A short time later its patience is rewarded when the feline pads into view again with a gift for the doll held in its teeth. Something the doll can make into a meal for its witch--

Does it have a witch? The doll ponders. It can't remember, its motionless sleep has left some memories blurry, and some may be gone entirely. It remembers a house, but not a witch. Perhaps, if it recovers its strength, it can find that house. Maybe a witch will be there, maybe that witch is the doll's witch, or another witch who would take it in and make it her's. The doll tries to put those thoughts aside. Such hopes can wait until its strength returns. It liftsits arm to give the cat some affectionate pets as way of thanks, but the creature had already left as silently as it came.

The motionless doll has been left with these trinkets: A small piece of gold, two buttons and a length of ribbon, a plastic token for a free hug, a sword, two screws and a drop of oil, stories from a small doll, the time and company of an absent doll, and a fish.

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doll whose Miss falls asleep with Her arms wrapped around it. Her arms are heavy and warm over it. It can't sleep for the excitement of being this close to its Miss; to pass the time, it counts each breath She takes, listening to the soft and comforting rhythm of a body it doesn't have. What a silly doll.

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a doll of her own

impossible.

dolls can't have dolls of their own. you cannot craft a toybox small enough; a vessel that tiny cannot hold sufficient magic.

but this doll seemed to find a way, for a time. she knew not what she did, nor what would become of her. hidden away from an already small world, an escape of her own.

her flimsy attempts to mimic emotions she only learned from mimicking others became grotesque in this doll. a smile became a shrewd grin, laughter morphed into grotesque howling. more and more, the doll grew uneasy with the secret hidden away.

dolls can't have dolls of their own.

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“So, like… speaking hypothetically. Just to help me get my head around the whole. Biometric key. Thing. If - if, again, purely hypothetically, I told you to kill… that guy. There, across the street. In the overcoat. You’d do it?”

“Automatically. Like breathing.”

The hacker wets their lips, knowing they shouldn’t ask, unable to resist. “How?”

“Dunno.” The machine tilts her head, studying the stranger in the long coat like a curious dog. The hacker still can’t think of her as an it. They’ve seen the file, the photograph of the woman this instrument was made from. “Snap his neck, let’s say. He wouldn’t feel it much. A little time, while the heart and the lungs turn off. Then lights.”

“Oh.” The hacker pushes a hand through their hair. It comes back damp. “I feel sick.”

“Better watch what you say to me, then. Boss.”

“Stop it,” they say. She’s been doing it since they figured out how to make her stop hunting them. They just wanted to be safe, not... whatever this is. “Stop calling me that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No – no, that’s worse,” desperate now, “please, stop it, can’t you just talk to me like a person?”

“Why? So you can keep kidding yourself about the nature of this relationship? You own me now. You are the finger on the trigger, you are central command. If you want me to speak to you in a certain way, I suggest you exercise your authority and make me.”

Silence.

“Can we… Can you go back to calling me ‘boss’. At least. Sir is… just…”

“Sure. We can do that.”

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"I wish I wasn't..." She trailed off. "I wish I wasn't," said the girl.

The Witch nodded. "I know this. Take my hand, and I will grant your wish."

And so the doll did, and then it was nothing at all.

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this one is glad it is a doll instead of something flesh and blood. this way, whenever its Miss tears its throat out with Her teeth, it feels all of it for as long as She wants.

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why would you ever be normal when you can have phone sex that would make someone normal call 911

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A Doll who offers up its pieces freely.

It tears out its cogs and springs, offering them to the Mechanic desperately. Is this cog the wrong one? Is that spring faulty? Which one is it? Tell the Doll, tell the Doll and it will give it willingly!

But the Mechanic just takes each piece and stares at it for a second before they put it in the growing pile of parts next to them. They never say a word, just hum in understanding.

The Doll doesn't understand. It wants to understand.

But it doesn't ask. It continues offering parts, hoping that one day it will be put back together again.

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Know Yourself

I killed that that thing weeks ago, but it stalks me still. Deathless, breathless, and sleepless, it could be an unparalleled tracker were it not lacking the cunning of an experienced hunter like myself.

I catch a glimpse of a familiar cloak through the trees as I travel. Again I recognize the flutter of cloth when its wearer ducks into an alley from within the bustle of a city crowd. I rent a room at the inn and feel eyes on me until I pull the window's curtains closed.

Then I quietly duck back out—down the hall, slip through the kitchen, out the rear door. I find a good vantage, draw the darkness and silence around me like a cloak, and I wait.

The thing is subtle. It moves like I do, but with an inhuman grace, footsteps that never snap a twig and barely disturb the snow. Its silhouette approaches my room's window. I watch it creep close enough to put its ear to the wall, listening for me inside, missing my slow, careful approach.

If my stalker is capable of surprise, it reveals none when I reach around from behind to lay my blade across its neck. It ignores my threat altogether, twisting in my grasp to face me.

As with our first encounter, I find myself caught off guard to see my own face staring at me, those features reflecting an idealized self, that—

Wait, no. It's different now. When I first saw this doll wearing my face, it was a perfect replica without flaws and blemishes, but now I see a gouge across the lips, a thin line along the cheek, and a chip on the forehead in imitation of my own scars.

In our last encounter, I watched it increasingly mirror my body language and imitate my speech, and now I see that it's been modifying its body to better shape itself into a duplicate of me.

"You're a good copy, but not good enough to beat the original."

"I know," it replies. "I was made to be you, but I can't be you. Not yet. I don't know you well enough yet."

"That's why you've been watching me."

"Yes." It says the word in perfect mimicry of how I agreed to the price of the room at the inn. "I was made to replace you."

Of course. Learn from me, become a perfect duplicate, then kill me and take my place, exactly the sort of plan its creator would make. I should kill this thing again right now before it has a chance to learn any more, scatter its pieces to keep it from reviving itself.

But something makes me hesitate. Something doesn't quite feel right. "You helped me kill your maker in the end. Why still do her bidding?"

"I was made to replace you," it repeats. "To replace you, I have to be just like you. I need to be you. I helped you kill her because you wanted her dead, and so I learned that I wanted her dead. Aren't you glad that she's dead?"

"More than anything. But I hoped you were dead too. So will you kill yourself now and save me the trouble?"

My duplicate thinks for a moment, tilting its head in an eerily familiar way. "No," it replies with a decisive nod. "You don't want yourself to die."

So much for that trick, then. I swallow my uncertainty and lunge with the knife, hoping to put an end to this threat immediately.

It's faster than I expect, though. The doll draws my old, discarded sword and disarms me with a flawless imitation of my own technique. In a flash, I'm at its mercy.

With the point of my own sword hovering at my throat, it threatens me in my own voice. "Please don't try that again."

"Not gonna kill me now?"

"Of course not. If you die, I can't learn any more about how to be you. I'll be imperfect forever." Despite its words, it shakes its head in a precisely accurate show of frustration. "You're still able to surprise me. I can't speak like you yet. I can't fight like you yet."

It fights well enough, from my perspective. I grimace in embarrassment as I fail to ignore the blade aimed my way. "Yeah, turns out there's a whole lifetime you'll never know by stalking me from the shadows."

In response to my words, the pain in its expression might be genuine. "You're right," it says. "I need to be closer to you."

There's something in the way it looks at me that makes me shiver as it closes the distance. Its eyes fall to the neckline of my shirt, and with the blade still at my neck, I dare not flinch as the doll touches another scar peeking out from under my collar. It tugs my shirt's opening wider, a button slipping out from its hole while my double follows the scar with a feather-light brush of fingertip on skin. I realize that it's almost certainly memorizing the shape for later self-modification.

When it raises its gaze to meet mine again, there's something naked and vulnerable in those eyes I never noticed before, though I must admit to feeling pretty naked and vulnerable myself right now.

"I need to see all of you," it says. "I need to. Please."

I glance down at the sword, now resting on my shoulder, only a flick of the wrist away from ending my life, and I don't try to stop the thing as it pulls my shirt open the rest of the way to expose my bare chest in the moonlight. I shiver again from the touch of its false skin—as cold as the snow we stand in—as it traces the latticework of scars from innumerable battles. I can't suppress a gasp when its hand glides across my breast, and suddenly its attention shifts back to my face once again.

"I realize I don't know how you like to be touched, even." It runs a thumb around my areola and studies my involuntary squirming. "I know how my maker liked me to touch her, but the way she used me was for her pleasure alone. You react so differently, don't you? She never bothered to teach me how to fuck like you."

It kisses me roughly on the lips. Then lightly, then tenderly, as if deploying every permutation it could think of to evaluate my reactions.

"Stop," I gasp in between awful experiments. "Gods, please, not here. Not like this."

"Then how?"

"I have a room. Less exposed. Warmer. And," I can't believe I'm saying this, but as soon as the words leave my mouth I realize I'm telling the truth, "it's been long enough since I last got any action that I'm willing to teach a doll how to fuck if it's willing to learn. Just put the sword away and follow me."

It stares at me, studying my facial expressions. Then slowly, mercifully, it pulls back and sheathes my sword in silent agreement to my request.

In the room the situation takes on an altogether different feeling. Is it narcissistic to look at her, see her clearly in the firelight, and find her beautiful? Is it strange that—as we pull each other's cold, damp clothes away—I should look upon the sculpted curves of her body and see her as the woman she wants to be?

On the bed her body drinks in the heat of mine until she's as warm to the touch as I am flushed with desire. Gods, the loneliness really has been getting to me; I don't even think twice about how she looks just like me from top to bottom when I press my face between her thighs and run my tongue across lips modeled after mine. I tease her and push my fingers inside her, and every time I show her just what to do, she reciprocates flawlessly.

It really is just like fucking myself. She learns so quickly how to touch me in all the ways that have me convulsing in pleasure, and I can't deny the sick thrill of seeing my own face between my legs slick with my own juices. I don't even care if it's fucked up to want my own doppelgänger like this anymore.

No wonder that witch wanted to make a copy of me, I really am the best lay ever.

"You're so good at being me," I pant breathlessly into her ear when she bites my neck and curls her fingers just right to send me into my second shuddering orgasm. From the way she grips me and trembles against my body, I think hearing those words brought her to her own climax, so I repeat them. "You're so good at being me. Fuck, you're even going to smell just like me after tonight."

The kiss she responds with is completely unlike those first awkward few, and I reciprocate with an affection I never knew I could feel toward anyone else.

Maybe I can't. Maybe I can only really fall in love with myself like this.

The next morning I help carve the rest of my scars into her body so she can be complete. I gently run my hands over the spiderweb-like lines on her belly, the remnants of where I stabbed her the first time we met. It's the only part of her now that isn't the same.

I hand her my knife, and the spiderweb-like lines she carves in my belly don't hurt all that much, not really. It's nothing compared to how pleased she looks when we finally, truly match.

I kiss myself on the lips, and hand-in-hand we greet the new day.