The Clockwork Spear

please dont follow if you are tme it/her tma spear-wielding doll fighting against evil reasonable accomodations expected willing to consider offers at competitive rates bitter rival, eternal heel, and favorite sister of @progestrogenized perfect pretty princess of @critical-doedecahedron

[apas-99]

Experienced in battle, I am able to see clearly what the two remaining platoons cannot: we are going to die here. This I am sure of, so I clutch the receiver of the company radio, and remind myself, until I am delusional enough to perform my duties.

[anniesated]

Binding your swornsister's soul to your blade, that she may stay with you even after her death to revel in your joint battles, is all fine and good until it's been a decade since your last good fight—longer still since any real battle—and she's still in there, and you can hear her crying every night, longing for the grip of your palm and the guts of your enemies. And of course she won't let you be, even in your dreams, appearing there too. Whole and young as the day she died, while you've gotten older and timeworn. Gripping her pretty head by the hair and driving her skull through the chest of some faceless foe, the air is sparkling like diamonds. The blood's all over her and she's smiling at you, fucking blissed-out and naked, because of course she's naked, she's only doing this to fuck with you.

So you take her down off the mantel, and before the sun's really up, just blue-gray on the horizon— reflecting off her, the blade you've never had to clean or sharpen—you stumble from your home. And with your bare feet in the early spring dirt and your bare hand on the leather wrap of her grip, she talks to you again. Denies the dream. Won't admit she's doing it on purpose. Pretending like she isn't the one doing this to you. Playing coy.

Someone sees you, and you see him back. You know him. You always know them. You actually live here, in this shithole town where no one asks that many questions. He nods at you, the gesture of something small and dumb and dead. He hasn't seen your state, not yet. Half dressed and wild eyed with sleep deprivation. Naked sword in your practiced hand.

Haven't had a good fight in a decade. Still true, this guy isn't fighting you. Slip her into him, feel the POP of the skin and fat, the slick glide of the intestines, the clattering of bone and it's already over.

Wrench her up! Tear him open! She's happy. She's there with you.

"Good girl."

You say it into her pommel, which happens to be next to the guy's ear. If he was listening, he dies very confused, but it was just a little dirty talk.

They'll find him in the morning and say he got robbed. Or a scuffle gone wrong. One of his buddies, probably. Or some drifter from somewhere else. Always goes that way. The men who don't know their jobs are to clean up your messes will nod at you in the morning as you pass by on your walk to the docks. Just like he did.

She's back on your mantel for not quite a week before it all starts up again. Not dreams this time, but hauntings. Things thrown and dropped. Odd noises in the dark. Fucking brat.

Good's never good enough for her, is it? She always wants more. Fine. You can give her a little more. Start wearing her around. Show off your jewelry. Invite someone to really try you. And they do. They always do. Can't throw a rock in this world without hitting someone looking to prove anyone can best a swordswoman.

You're at the bar when the rock hits home. He's drunker than you are, face red with it, and his buddies are all behind him jeering while he prods at you. Like you need the provocation. You've been shivering with glee since you saw him stand up. Next time he touches you, you bite him. He's a bleeder, barely nipped at the skin and you're covered in the stuff.

"Jealous?" you ask her, tucked neatly in her scabbard. Now that the idea's struck you, the whole thing lays itself out so neatly in your mind. You throw a punch. She doesn't feel anything. You knock one of his teeth out. She's biting at the leather you've got her in. You break his arm and claw at his eyes and she stays exactly where you have her. She gets to play the cuckold and it's delicious to deny her.

Until one of his dumbshit friends grabs her right from under your nose. Too busy chewing your food? He's a scrawny kid but he's got a good few scars to show for himself, and he's holding her not without any skill.

And-

This is so much better. God she's so fucking hot like that. You can take care of him easily enough, but halfway through dodging and weaving around his swings, you realize what's happening. She's fucking helping him. You're fighting her.

Its good, it's so good. Like having the bitch back from the dead, she can turn even this pimplefaced idiot into her avatar. You shoot the cartilage of his nose up into his skull and he falls into a heap. Didn't even know that could really happen, but it does and you can feel her squirming when you do it.

She got you, once. A little line of pink flesh is poking out from under your eye. It's going to scar nasty. You'll have to get her back for it. Soon enough, you do. Same routine, new bar. Pick a fight with the biggest group of men you see, wait for one of them to take her and then make sure you're the only two people left standing.

She plays dirty. Knows all your tics. It's heaven. She's alive every time you fight her. You're young as long as she's facing you down.

Until you're not. Someone gets you with a chair to the shoulders. Shouldn't faze you, and it's not like he didn't get what he had coming, but… but it takes you months to recover enough to go back out. Then someone hits it again, a year later. Same spot. With a metal pipe. Reopens all the old wounds, and doubles the old pain. She has to intervene, and the guy holding her slips suddenly, impaling himself and his pipe wielding friend in the fall.

You both reach the same conclusion on the limping walk home. This can't go on any longer. You're not keeping up with her. She visits you in your dreams again, this time to soothe you. It breaks something deep in your guts, this kindness from her. Feels to final. Shatters itself and tears you open. The fear you hadn't felt since you were a teenager. Death. Looming over you. Can't bear to lose this. Lose your nights together.

She's got an idea. Just have to find the right instrument.

"And you'll inset the hilt with this." You hand the blacksmith a jewel. "Doesn't even have to be visible, just has to be in there."

"Looks all scratched up," he squints at the near imperceptible script you've carved into the surface of the jewel. That's half the work done, there. The easy half, she reminds you from your hip. You tell her that she had you to do the hard part for her, the little princess.

"Just do it. I'm sure paying you more than enough. Then once it's ready, I want you to wrap it in this," you hand him the cloth. It's stained deep brown with your dried blood. The blacksmith's face pales. "And burn it. while it's still over the blade."

He looks at the money you're paying him, in advance, and then back to you. Wonder if he knows what you're planning?

Two weeks and three days later, it's ready. You watch him burn the wrap. Has his assistant do it. No one talks. There's nothing left to say. You pull the sword out of the ashes—still hot, it burns the skin off your hand, not that that matters anymore—and give the blacksmith a tip. It's more than what you paid in the first place.

"Well then." You were never good with words. "Got a will in my pocket."

Awkward angle, but it'll work.

Trachea to Tits to Navel to Crotch. It's a wonderful sword. Practically cut yourself in two with one swing. Then you're dying. Real fast, the world's spinning around you. Around and around. She's there with you, arm in arm, you're both young again and everything's so beautiful.

Now you've a metal body, rigid and sharp and drinking up the last of your own blood. The swap is instant. You're like her now. And she's there with you. You laugh, but only she hears you. The blacksmith's screaming.

They find your will right where you said it'd be. Pretty simple stuff, you think.

"Give one of my swords to the strongest person left in town. Give the other to the second strongest." Everyone's hesitant, but you're the real deal, a legend by this point, so they do it. Now all that's left is a little nudging from her and you, and soon you'll get to fight again.

The first time your steel meets hers it's better than any kiss. Hotter than any sex you'd ever had, and more intense than any previous fight. Neither of you has to hold back anymore. It doesn't matter if you kill the other, because that wasn't really you at all. Someone else will come along and pick you up and then you'll start again. Across back alleys, dueling halls, and battlefields, you fight her over and over. There are near misses where you kill a thousand men in search of the one wielding her, too much chaos to find each other. You laugh about it between swings when next you meet. There might be decades where you can't make it happen, years sitting in a chest or armory, but you both know that it's only a matter of time. The mountain of corpses you leave behind will grow higher and higher, until it eclipses the sun. Even then you'll still fight her in the dark. 'Til no hand is left to hold you. On a dead world, you'd spark and scrape against each other long into the eternal night.

[progestrogenizer]

valerie returns from the dead cutely 🩷

[clockworkspear]

a blade unrusted, howling at the empty stars. flesh, an empty sheath.

[clockworkspear]

it was going to be a normal book about necrophilia but you just had to go and mention capitalism

[clockworkspear]

i really should make it more clear that i generally do not want people to follow me. Not because I think it would cause people to stop following me, but rather just because I want people to recognize that they are being perverts for watching a hapless girl reveal her most embarassing sexual fixations while she begs, tears in her eyes, that you look away.

[clockworkspear]

I've been getting a lot of new followers recently, and one thing that I find interesting is how many of them claim that they will block any blog that doesn't publicly share their age. The interesting thing about this is that I have never claimed to be 18+ on any of my blogs. Does this moral standard not apply when the other girl is funny enough? I don't get it.

If you would block anyone not promising to be an adult, then please block me as well <3

[clockworkspear]

Tumblr staff nuked my girlfriend progestrogenized without reason on the first day of pride month.

[clockworkspear]

Kill all tumblr users.

[clockworkspear]

can tumblr stop killing my girlfriend already. I wanted to get to do that first.

[clockworkspear]

[un accordéon et une mandoline commence à jouer quand j'entre même si j'suis anglo] Hey girls do you know where I could get my cutlery sharpened?

[clockworkspear]

How She Sends Her Regards

When the bombardment begun, I was lucky enough to be the only one taking shelter in this particular foxhole. I had been waiting for this for so long. A shell exploded perhaps ten meters away, and against a better judgement I peeked my head up to look at the searing crater. I bit my lip to suppress a moan. It looked like 150mm. I was so lucky. I only had diagrams of three of the enemy's artillery pieces, and the largest one was by far my favorite.

Deep in one of the pockets of my trousers, I pulled them out. I was careful not to look much at either of the other guns. I didn't want to have to pick between any of the girls I loved. This one was just so elegant. How many dreams had I had of loading just one shell into her, feeling the gas release after a deafening shot rings out?

My eyes darted around to make sure I was alone. The next time a shell landed, I couldn't restrain myself. I unbuttoned then unzipped my pants. My knees began to shake as I stroked my dick in time with the syncopated rhythm of exploding shells. All the while I held the diagram of the gun in my other shaking hand. Each stage of her loading process was so carefully designed around. The barrel length let a perfect amount of force to burn up inside of it.

When two shells landed right next to each other I nearly screamed a moan. Over the cacophony I could barely even hear myself. Every moan completely overpowered by the sound of exploding earth brought me closer. Every time the ground shook or the sky sung with air bursts made me shake and dribble.

I came with the perfect symphony of three shells landing in a burst. I let my tongue through a kiss barely tease the paper that her diagram was on. I wanted more but I couldn't stain it, or else lose the quality of the image. The only thing to wipe my watery come off on was the mud slowly liquefying around me and the fragile wooden supports keeping me alive. When I zipped my pants back up, the bombardment continued. I rested my head against my knees and closed my eyes. It was all so beautiful.

[clockworkspear]

The repetition gets to me. I blink and suddenly notice my aching legs have gone out beneath me. I land on my knees and a hand, glove sinking into the wet dirt. My rifle slips and the barrel fouls.

The other girls all glare at me. The overhead sun is getting old and their knees must be almost done too. Some of them catch each other's eyes. Everyone knows that the commander won't end the drill recently after someone falls.

I don't allow myself to arrest. A step up and a hand pushing on the ground lets me find my feet again. The static feeling is comforting. As an afterthought, I fix my mask, two fingerprints of mud attach to the chin. The rest works in where I hold my rifle

That night the sergent makes me disassemble my rifle a second time for her. She needs me to verify the barrel is cleared. All the other girls have gone to bed. I still haven't cleaned my mask.

[the-demon-cat]

Being a catgirl is overall really nice but one of the downsides has got to be the creeps at bars that keep asking me if it's barbed

[clockworkspear]

where I'm from, "dude" is a gender neutral term that just means I think you are worthy of respect. So when I commented under your selfie "that's a dude," it was actually just me saying how much I admire your bravery.

[xxxdragonfucker69xxx]

listen to me. come here look into my eyes. you cannot fathom the effect it will have on your stock portfolio when you start learning unholy spear techniques.

[clockworkspear]

she let me hit because im whimsical

[the-demon-cat]

I'm going to kill all whimsy

[clockworkspear]

i hate you i hate you ih ate you i hate you i hate you i hatey ou