It's like you're an object or a force of nature, but not exactly one that's beloved. Instead, one that's recognized, that's spoken of, that's planned around. Seen as a 'thing' not a person, but it's not like being seen as a person won me anything.
Also of course there's the transfem appeal of reclaiming our objectification. In an environment where they/them is the degendering of choice, it/its becomes a balm. As a transfem, it feels like declaring my femininity to encompass the inanimate and the profound. Which is fun for me.
Oh you’re monogamous? I hope it’s ethical monogamy. So many people just use monogamy as an excuse to hurt people. I don’t know if I can really get behind that
TIL that Gothic literature makes a distinction between “terror” and “horror.” Terror is the sense of dread and apprehension that precedes an experience, horror is the sense of revulsion after an experience.
Someone described the modern difference as such: Fear is knowing that a werewolf is hunting you. Terror is when you see it and it charges at you. Horror is realizing that your feet are stuck to the floor.
here's a huuuge hucow commission i did for valentine's day, i'm very proud of it, enjoy !
i had so much fun exploring a new (albeit adjacent) kink, i'm usually so belly brained i forget boobs exist, and i was so fun squeezing them in that tiny bikini🍓
mech pilot trainee who just flunked out of the program. she wasn’t supposed to be anything but a weapon and she couldn’t even do that right.
she doesn’t have anything. no house, no job, no car, no free will, no legal protections. her entire life down to the level of her brain has been organized around piloting a mech for years and now she doesn’t get to do that. she doesn’t know who she is and she doesn’t even know how to turn back on the higher level brain function that would let her try to answer that question.
she’s basically an empty shell that had a human being in it once. she eats and sleeps and uses the bathroom like a person, but her eyes are completely dead. now she just sits places, silently and unmoving, for hours at a time, waiting for orders she’ll never receive…
you’re technically not supposed to take rejected pilots home, but no one’s going to stop you. as far as the government is concerned, she’s basically dud hardware, and it’s not like anyone else was going to claim her. plus you saw a pdf on how to do this online and thought it might be interesting, and you keep seeing her at the library and she looks so sad just sitting there staring off into space
these instructions seem simple enough
getting her home is easy. just tell her to come with you. she doesn’t have a handler, so she’ll default to your orders and you can lead her straight into the car to go home
once she’s home it gets harder. you have to feed her and clothe her. for food, treat her as if she has a stomach bug. pilots are trained to forage for food but you have no idea what she’s been eating (probably not enough - she looks starved and you can see her ribs through her shirt) and if you overwhelm her gut biome before it recuperates, you’ll just make her sicker. soups are good. soups remind her of the IV nutrient fluid she’s used to, even if it has little noodles and chunks of chicken in it. you don’t have chicken soup, but your pilot seems fine with italian wedding, wordlessly swirling the broth around and watching how the noodles move
she’s not used to sleeping outside the cockpit or one of the pods that simulates it. if you have a heated swimming pool, that’s the best option for her since the warm water feels pretty similar to the PFH gel pilots are submerged in. if you don’t, put her in a cold room under a lot of weighted blankets and she’ll adjust. you set her up on the couch with a heavy quilt draped over her. you also gave her a stuffed animal. she stared at it, almost looking disgusted by it, but she was holding it when you came back in the morning to check on her
she’s not used to making choices. in the shower, put out one clearly labeled soap and shampoo so she doesn’t have to make any more decisions than necessary. you forgot to do this part and found her sitting on the floor of the shower after 45 minutes, unwashed, because you had two different soaps and she literally couldn’t decide which to use. you took one away to help her
it’s important to keep her brain stimulated. take her places - the mall, public parks, maybe a restaurant from time to time. give her games to play - shooter games at first, but then slowly work in more tactical games and more creative ones to reopen the parts of the brain she can’t access consciously. watch movies together. she didn’t particularly enjoy CS:GO, but she really liked Splitgate. Guitar Hero didn’t really resonate with her, but she giggled when you lost at Candy Land - the first noise you’d heard her make
don’t feel discouraged if she doesn’t improve immediately. most recovering pilots don’t even talk for up to a week. keep a consistent routine, and she’ll open up to you. it took her six days. she brushed up against your shoulder and murmured “thank you.”
eventually, she’ll probably want to hold you. let her snuggle up next to you, resting her head on your shoulder or curled up against you in bed. in this stage of recovery, she cares deeply for you. allow her to express those feelings. you saw her one night, lurking in the doorway, wearing one of your old nightgowns and clutching the same stuffed wolf you gave her on her first night here. you patted the bed and she came to sit down, allowing you to take her by the shoulders and pull her down next to you, where she buried her face in your chest.
once she’s put on some weight and she seems capable of making simple decisions, take her clothes shopping. she’ll need new ones that don’t remind her of her past, plus it’s a great way to exercise those mental faculties and put some nice outfits together. she has ridiculously expensive taste. no one ever said this would be cheap. those black leather boots look great on her though.
most burnt pilots will subconsciously go to places they valued before training. you found yours at the library. you took her there and immediately discovered she loves reading - you gave her a relatively simple book about insects and you’d never seen her smile the way she did since you got her. it’s cute. you helped her make a library account and showed her how to check books out.
rehabilitating a pilot is hard work but its so satisfying watching her become a person again. good luck.
okay, so imagine. you're a tgirl in her twenties, and you have a pretty meh relationship with your mother. like, she wasn't a total piece of shit or anything, but it did take her a while to understand "the whole trans thing," and really she's just working though a lot of her own stuff right now - especially with the divorce, and her trying to find a new relationship - so you two don't really keep in touch. maybe a thanksgiving dinner or something every now and then, but that's about it.
at the same time, you have a *huge* momcest kink. maybe it's from a yearning for a better maternal figure, maybe it's a desire to be treated like the beloved daughter you've always been, maybe that's just your thing and it doesn't have that kind of psychological source or whatever.
So, getting off to it multiple times every night. you literally can't fall asleep without touching yourself to the thought of mommy fondling you and pressing against you and shoving her tongue down your mouth, yknow? normal stuff.
eventually you meet this gorgeous trans woman who's like twenty-something years older than you, and wouldn't you know it? she's into the exact same kind of stuff!
at first it's pretty much just sex. she's poly, but she has this other partner she's really serious about that you haven't met, so she's not really looking for another romantic relationship.
but then things start to change. you start to get to know each other better through after-care conversations and pillow talk, and before you can stop yourself, you're asking her to get coffee that weekend. and to your pleasant surprise, she says yes!
soon enough, it's pretty damn serious, and you're calling her your girlfriend and vice-versa. well, sometimes, that is. other times, when your out in the park, at a restaurant, or shopping together, she introduces you as her daughter - a possessive hand keeping you close to her as she does. it drives you up the wall every time, and you make sure to show her just how much as soon as the two of you are alone again.
eventually, she decides that you ought to meet her other partner. she really cares for you both, and wants to make sure that the two most important people in her life are able to - at the very least - get along over dinner.
that fateful night, she's driving you to her other girlfriend's house - that's probably a good sign, right? that she offered to host? you're definitely pretty nervous. it's almost what you imagine the experience of meeting a partner's parents to be, and you can't help but smile at the irony of that.
you know a little bit about your metamour. she's a couple years older than your girlfriend, she's a bit of a baby gay comparatively, and she hasn't come out to her family yet.
you're looking out the window of the passenger seat, and as you drive into the suburbs, you start to realize how familiar these streets are. this is where you grew up! what a fun coincidence! you say as much to your girlfriend, making small talk, neither of you thinking much of it.
then she turns down the street. then again. then again. with each turn you're getting closer and closer to your childhood home, and realization starts to dawn on you.
you're clinging on to what shred of denial you can even as your girlfriend parks in your mother's driveway, too shocked to say anything.
it's not until your mother answers the door that you finally have to admit to yourself what's happening.
the three of you spend forever feverishly and nervously talking around each other standing there on the front porch. your girlfriend is embarrassed - she never would have suggested this if she knew, and she can't believe that in all this time she forgot to so much as tell you the name of her other girlfriend. your mother is downright mortified - in the midst of everything else that's going on (which is definitely a fucking hell of a lot), this was certainly not how she expected to be coming out to you.
you mostly don't say anything. you're kinda surprised that you and your mom have the exact same taste in women - to the point of it being the exact same woman - but opt not to make a joke about it given present company's current emotional reactions.
you surprise yourself when you make your most substantial comment thus far:
"It's... it's pretty cold out here. Should we head inside? To keep talking? That's why we're here after all, right? To talk about this relationship?"
After a beat of silence, your mom nods her head and invites the two of you inside.
Dinner is just out of the oven by now, so you all give it a minute to cool, and you talk. You brought a bottle of wine - hoping to make a good impression with who you now realize is your own mother - and it's already gotten ample use out of the three of you. Your mom will probably be dipping into her own supply before dinner's over. It makes the talking easier, at the very least.
Once the shock wears off, you're all able to hold an actual conversation - even if your speech is slightly slurred. your mother says that you're an adult, and you have the right to date whoever you want. the same can obviously be said of her. and your girlfriend loves you both too much to let any of this impact her relationships with you.
so that's that. the dinner wraps up, and you and your girlfriend are *way* too drunk to drive home, so your mom nervously invites you to spend the night. you nervously accept, because you're not in the headspace for a DUI or a car crash tonight and you're not willing to risk it.
you're about in the middle of a quick and awkward conversation about bed logistics when your girlfriend - again, *impressively* drunk - makes a joke about previously thinking this night might end in a threesome before you all realized what you realized. the look on her face tells you she immediately regretted it, but you can't help but giggle all the same.
"Who knows? It still could."
You whip your head over to see your *mother* having just made that joke, start to drunk-giggle herself, but immediately come to make the same face of regret your girlfriend did.
and you're a little miffed because you were just about to make that very same joke yourself.
"Hey! No fair! You stole my joke!" you whine, devolving into laughter before you can even get to the "-k" in "joke." and then your girlfriend and your mom are both laughing with you. and then the sheen of awkwardness that had tainted this entire night is finally lifted, and it feels like what you had hoped it would be - a polycule of disaster lesbians in the same room just enjoying each other's company.
and then your mom goes, y'know what? the couch is really uncomfortable to sleep on, and the twin-mattress in your bedroom is too small. what if the three of you all just slept in *her* bed? after all, it wouldn't be the first time either of you shared a bed with her.
before you know it, you're all lying in your mother's bed. even for its size, it's a bit of a tight squeeze, but its just about the most warm and safe and comfortable you've ever felt in a bed. just laying there between both of your moms.
and maybe its the alcohol, or you're tired, or even just wishful thinking, but you swear - amidst the tight space and all the small body-adjustments made - you could feel your mother sleepily and drunkenly grinding into you.
as you go to sleep, you think that maybe this was worth all of the awkwardness
A frail thing, incapable of withstanding stress. Its body gave way under the lightest of strains, fingers breaking, dissolving into powder.
It's limbs would sometimes let loose a loud *crack* before suddenly falling off and shattering.
Its Witch didn't mind too terribly. It never had to wait long for new pieces, as every night she would patiently fill in the various micro cracks and replace whatever was missing.
They continued like this for a long while, years perhaps. Their intimate ritual of breaking and repairing breaking and repairing before the Doll worked up the courage to ask: Why?
Why glass, why give it such a weak and fragile body? What did it do to deserve a body like this one? Why couldn't it be like the other dolls with powerful bodies of Porcelain and Gold?
The Witch paused at that and asked it to recall how many times this past season it had broken a limb completely.
"None Miss" it replied
"Now, how many in the first year?"
"One hundred and thirty-five" It felt a sharp stab of guilt at that, and a new crack formed in its face.
"And why does it think that changed?"
Stumped the Doll thought it over as its Witch continued the repairs.
Suddenly it clicked for the Doll. It understood now.
"Those ones needed something different than this one" it whispered.
The other Dolls needed to feel strong, powerful.
This one needed to learn how to be gentle with itself.
Sometimes you just gotta hold your local trans girl gently and tell it that it doesn't need to pretend to be a person anymore, That it's safe to just be an object, to remind it that it is your most prized possession and you would never let it go.
Reblog to remind the ""person"" you reblogged from that it isn't a person, and doesn't have to fake humanness 24/7
ViJinx hatesex where they’re both so fucking pissed at each other, so tired of being on opposite sides. They fall into each other with teeth bared and nails sharpened for the kill. Jinx bites at Vi’s ear roughly then hisses “fuck me like you fucked her” and it just pisses Vi off even further, pushes her deeper into rage-soaked lust, and if she wasn’t so fucking angry, she would be ashamed at how she can’t be gentle with Jinx.
Vi pauses. Maybe the truth of the matter is that she couldn’t be rough with Caitlyn, couldn’t unleash her temper and have it met with the same vicious responses that only has her blood pressure spiking in the most delicious ways. She grabs and pushes and pulls at Jinx because she can, because Jinx can take it in the way that Caitlyn never could.
She doesn’t fuck Jinx like she fucked Caitlyn. She fucks her like she’s wanted to fuck her whole goddamn life, fucks her how only she can.
People love the needy, possessive domme when it's convenient and fun, but then they hate to deal with her emotional and attachment and abandonment problems. Wtf.
I'm on my knees, looking at another girl who's on *her* knees, looking at me. Someone is standing behind me, my long braid wrapped up in their hand. The other girl looks scared.
"strip.". We're both wearing identical matching bra and panties. We both look away from each other as we take them off, too nervous to look- until I feel a yank, hard, on my hair. "No, look right in each other's eyes. Look at her tits. You're both fucking porn, act like it. "
I feel the hand slap my ass. The other girl winces, seeing the pain on my face. "Tell her she's just porn, just like you. She's nothing."
I look at her carefully. Her makeup is running from crying. She's already been beat quite a bit. "You're just porn. You're nothing." She just looks at me silently. "Keep going".
I look right at her. I try to summon up my contempt for her. She could have been so much. Now she's here on her knees in front of me stripped and crying. So vulnerable. "You're a stupid, stupid bitch" I start laying into her. "You're pathetic. No self respecting woman would let this happen to her.". The girl starts sobbing. I feel the approval from behind me and I can't help but start insulting her and betraying her for the approval of the force of that hand in my braid and the validation I know I'll find there if I just do a good enough job tearing down this victim.
I'm going to make her a victim.
"you're shit. You're barely a person, you just sit there and strip and cry.". I start getting into it. I'm masturbating on my knees staring at this helpless naked loser crying. "Go on, cunt, touch yourself while I insult you.". She's touching herself, one hand between her legs and one on her nipple. I can't tell if she's doing it to impress the one behind me or just to self soothe or because- "fuck, you actually like this? You sick puppy. You're not even rape bait, because I don't think you're even capable of having an opinion on who gets to use you. Nobody thinks of you as anything other than a slutty, easy, fuckdoll. You're going to remember this moment for the rest of your life. I hate you. I hope you get drugged and passed around a party. You deserve to be pinned down by somebody and fucked dry. You, oh my god," the hand is twisting in my hair and this poor girl is absolutely sobbing at all the abuse and I'm filled with traitorous contempt as I realize her flush is half crying and half arousal and I see- "you whore. Don't you dare cum. You sick fuck, you rug munching cock sucking ass eating porn making easy access " I think the bitch is actually going to cum, I feel all the approval in the world from behind me as I realize this is what they want, they want to see if I can truly betray this victim they brought for me to abuse to get them off, this is my value to them, to hurt this girl, I go harder, I feel a hand on the back of my neck, "failure, nobody takes you seriously, everybody just imagines putting you on your knees any time you open your stupid mouth, people on the street look at you and imagine raping you, your colleagues call you names behind your back, you're going to be like this forever, you stupid, stupid, stupid-"
I feel, somehow, the pull on my braid that tells me to shut up. I look at the girl I've been tearing down to earn approval. She's quietly crying. Both her hands have come up to her tits. I hear the voice behind me. "Spit on her."
I... hesitate. Do I really hate this poor girl enough to do that, is she, okay with that? Do I care about that more than I care about doing what I'm told? She looks so afraid. She looks so... you know what? She looks like she deserves it. She deserves it.
"Miss!" you hear your doll call out from behind the door. "Is everything okay? This one heard a loud noise!"
You stare down at your hands. Their complexion fades, hardening into a sickly shell. "No, fuck, no no no!" You try to take the quill, desperate to fix your mistake, but your fingers refuse to bend. The joints have yet to grow in.
The doll barges through the door, taking only a split-second to admire your private study. Its full attention is on you as you cuddle into your cloak in fear.
"Go away!" You bark, only then realizing you're on the verge of tears. "You can't see-" Your throat hitches for just a moment, and your porcelain hands finally clutch into your cloak, letting you hide your transformation. "M-me... like this..."
"Miss..." The doll steps towards you, concerned and in awe. It shouldn't be disobeying you like this. You're a witch.
It places a gentle hand against yours, the identical material making a light clink. "Miss, this one-"
"Shut up, shut up!" you recoil, hiding your face in your hat as you feel it spread up your neck. "Please, th-" You freeze, knowing exactly what you were going to say. You bury your face into your hands, flinching at how cold and hard they feel on what little is left of your flesh.
You dare not to think. It can't start to control how you think. You are a witch, not a doll, and good dolls do everything they-
NO! No, f-fuck no. Good dolls don't curse. There has to be a way to escape this, some way to undo it, but you're so scared, you need a witch to-
No. Not yet. You're not ready yet. This one can feel the beating if its heart slow and weaken, overtaken by the ticking of clockwork. It can't be a doll. It can't be. It's a. It's. This one is. A.
"Miss, could you please look at this one?"
This one opens its eyes and faces the other doll. It's vision is blurry, tears still waiting to fall. "This one knows that becoming can be very scary..." It gently takes your hand in its grasp, an audacity it would never spend on a witch. "But this one will do whatever it takes to help. Would you like another task, Miss?"
This one whimpers and shivers. It tries to steady itself, its breath caught in its clockwork. It closes its eyes and slowly, bashfully nods.
. . . . .
Two dolls sit at a little table, cradling their cups. "Another thing is the coven meets!" says Miss, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smirk. "They tell you that you're supposed to prepare food, but this one would always transfigure some dirt into a cake on the way there!"
"Oh gosh!" said Dolly with a giggle. "And the witches never found out?"
Miss excitedly shakes her head, quickly swallowing its sip of tea. "They knew, they had to! But people are always so secretive, this one knew they couldn't say."
"Oh, Miss!" Dolly's eyes widen in realization, a sudden shift in its posture as it excitedly lurches forward. "The coven! They could help that one become a witch again!"
Miss's face softened. It looked across the table, at the doll that was supposed to be her obedient toy. It could feel it's face warm, the porcelain trying to blush, as it bashfully looked out the nearby window just as the wind picked up.
"That is... a very good idea, Dolly." It said, not yet looking back. "But the leaves are starting to fall. That one might need help with the raking."
Dolly set her tea aside, sliding a hand across the table to just barely tease against the other doll's. It let out a dreamy sigh as it gawked at it, still wearing its old hat. "Oh, Miss... you make such a lovely doll."
