The doll paced her silence into the floorboards, each step a muted confession of want. It had not spoken since her witch’s departure—dolls did not need to—but the absence had carved a hollow inside it that words could never mend. It remembered the weight of her luggage in its hands, remembered the way her sleeve brushed against porcelain as she passed.
Her witch had left with a kiss of command, nothing more. Dolls were not meant to fret, and yet its frame was tight with trembling. What if the hours stretched into days, the days into weeks? What if the witch never returned at all?
So it sat itself in the corner, knees tucked beneath its skirt, chin bowed low. A doll must wait where it is placed, but today waiting became longing. Its glassy eyes kept to the door, to the threshold she had crossed.
If she returned this hour, it thought, it would fall at her feet. If she returned that night, it would cling to her skirts. And if she did not—ah, but it dared not complete the thought.
The doll folded its hands neatly in its lap, as it had been trained. It whispered a vow only silence could carry:
“I will be good. I will be still. Please—come back.”
– ✧ –
The latch turned at last. The sound was small, a metallic sigh as the door unsealed, but to the doll it thundered through the hollow chambers of its chest.
Her witch stepped across the threshold, the scent of night air and travel still clinging to her coat. For a moment, the room was filled only with her presence—and the doll, overcome, could not rise. It remained bowed on the floor where it had been keeping vigil, porcelain knees pressed into wood, hands locked together as if in prayer.
The witch paused, and in that pause hung judgment. Had the doll been good? Had it waited properly? Had it held still enough, silent enough, that the absence had not turned it into something unruly?
The doll’s lips parted, but no words came. Only a breath, trembling. Then it lowered itself further, forehead to the floor, as though to lay all its longing down at her feet.
Her witch’s steps crossed the room—measured, deliberate—and a shadow fell over the doll. A gloved hand slipped beneath its chin, tilting the porcelain face upward. The witch’s eyes—stern, assessing—found it where it knelt.
The doll’s silence was not empty now, but pleading. Every tremor in its frame confessed what its mouth could not: I missed you. I am yours. Please do not leave me again.
The witch’s thumb brushed the corner of its lips, wiping away the sheen of waiting tears. “Did you keep still for me, little one?” she asked, voice low.
The doll nodded, the motion jerky with desperation.
“Good.”
The single word was both praise and possession, heavy enough to make the doll shudder.
She drew it up from the floor, into her arms. And the doll—obedient, aching—folded into her without sound, letting itself be gathered, carried, owned once more.
The witch held it close, as though reacquainting her arms with its weight, the shape of it fitting against her as naturally as her own shadow. The doll was stiff at first—trained to stillness, to silence—but gradually the tremor in its frame softened, its porcelain body yielding into her warmth.
“You are thinner,” the witch murmured, brushing back the doll’s hair to see its face clearly. Her gaze was sharp, but not cruel; she searched the doll’s eyes not for fault, but for the trace of worry it had tried so hard to hide. “Did you forget to eat while I was away?”
The doll’s lips trembled. A slow shake of its head—no, it had not forgotten. But the meals had been tasteless without her presence, half-swallowed in the hush of the empty rooms.
The witch sighed, a sound that carried no anger. Her thumb swept gently across the curve of its cheek. “My poor little thing. All those hours, waiting and wanting.”
The doll pressed its face against the fabric of her coat, muffling the quiet sound that escaped it. It would not break into words without permission, but its silence spoke well enough: it had longed, and longed deeply.
“I know.” The witch bent her head until her lips were close to the doll’s hair, letting the words settle there like a blessing. “You did as you should. You stayed, you waited. That is all I ask of you. And now—now I am here.”
She guided the doll’s head back, forcing it to meet her gaze. Her eyes softened, and the edges of her mouth curved—no longer the witch of command, but of care.
“You are mine,” she whispered, “not because you are useful. But because you are you. My doll. My quiet, faithful one.”
The doll shuddered, caught between relief and devotion, its hands clutching at her sleeve as though to anchor itself in the truth of her return.
The witch drew it further into her embrace, rocking it slowly, as one might calm a child or soothe a frightened bird.
“Hush now. You need not be afraid. I will not abandon you. You were never made for loneliness.”
She carried her doll across the dim chamber as though it weighed nothing, her steps unhurried, certain. She set it not on a shelf, nor left it standing in the corner as she sometimes did, but placed it on the couch by the fire. The flames had burned low in her absence, but she knelt to coax them back, and soon the room breathed again with the soft glow of light and warmth.
The doll sat motionless where she had placed it, hands folded neatly, head bowed. Only the faint rise and fall of its chest betrayed its trembling.
“Hush, little one,” the witch said as she straightened. She slipped out of her coat and hung it by the door, then returned, kneeling before the doll so that her eyes were level with its downcast face. “Lift your chin for me.”
The doll obeyed, and the witch traced her fingers along the pale curve of its jaw, down the delicate line of its throat. “So thin,” she murmured again, and the sound was more sorrow than reproach. “I should never have left you so long.”
She rose and disappeared into the adjoining room. The doll’s hands twitched faintly in its lap, its eyes following her shadow until she returned with a tray—bread, fruit, a small bowl of broth steaming gently. She set it on the low table and settled beside her doll, drawing it close.
“Open,” she commanded softly, lifting a spoonful to its lips.
The doll’s mouth parted without thought. It swallowed obediently, the warmth spreading through it like something remembered from a dream. Bite after bite, it ate because she willed it to, not because it had appetite. Its hunger had been for her, and now that she was returned, the food filled that hollow too.
When the bowl was empty, she brushed the crumbs from its lips with her thumb, then pressed a kiss there—firm, claiming, but tender. The doll’s eyes fluttered shut, and it leaned against her shoulder, its silence no longer anxious but heavy with relief.
“Good,” the witch whispered into its hair. “So good for me.”
She drew a blanket from the couch’s arm and wrapped it around the doll, tucking it in as though it might unravel if left loose. Then she reclined, pulling it into her lap. Its porcelain frame curled neatly against her, small and fragile, yet fitting as though it had been carved for her alone.
The firelight flickered across them, painting her stern features with warmth. She stroked her doll’s back, slow and steady, until the trembling eased into stillness.
“You are mine,” she said again, softer now, almost a lullaby. “My good doll. Rest. I will keep you.”
And so the doll slept, held in the circle of her arms, its longing at last answered.
pooltoy-doll-robot whose joints are actuators built for soft robotics.. it helps mankind explore space and can perform minimally invasive heart surgery thanks to its pooltoyness
A witch enters their study, their doll kneeling in the center of it. The room is decorated sparsely, full of tools and implements of both magic and mundane means. Texts and books fill dark shelves that line the walls, while a desk and adjoining table lay bare, with only a lamp resting on each.
The witch strides to the desk, laying out a series of tools. Some designed to remove paneling, adjust gears, solder parts together. Some more arcane. A quill, beautiful in its simplicity, paired with golden ink. A stone, polished smooth with 4 runes engraved onto its surface.
The doll shudders, silence and stillness almost consuming its form. Minute twitches betray its departure from the perfect creation the witch made. So the witch stills it.
Its hard to describe the process in how a witch bends the world to their whims. How they fill the world to the point it changes. How the world will remake itself to accommodate a witches ambition.
The witch takes the stone and holds it next to the dolls heart, constructed as it is. A rune glows, a deep purple. Down the spine. The same rune again glows, a gentle blue this time. The base of the neck causes a different rune to shine, this time a warm red.
Satisfied, the witch takes the quill and traces it along the dolls porcelain skin. Gleaming runes flash to life, given shape and formlessness at once, sucking in the light around them. A calm cut through key runes at the base of the neck, just over the dolls heart, and two key ones along the spine.
The doll collapses. Stillness no longer able to hold its body up. All energy expunged from its vessel. The witch smirks, amused at the sight of its property so limp and devoid of personhood.
Time passes slowly, the outside world fading away as the witch tinkers. Removing key panels of porcelain to examine intricate sets of gears. Delving into the small processors and mechanical devices that line the spine of the doll. Peeling apart the memory inside its brain to find offending bits that need to be pruned.
The faint sense of humanity, of personhood, is the first to go. Along with it go the instinct the doll had accidentally developed to refer to itself with "I."
Next is the inefficiency of humans. Working with inhuman precision and care, gears are carefully aligned and adjusted to account for all excess energy. Processors are serviced, cooling systems replaced, screws inspected and replaced if they are anything less than perfect.
Finally, once all of the dolls internals are taken care of, the true work begins. Quill in hand, the witch begins diagraming the runes, four in total, on sheets of parchment, first in regular ink, black as night. Once the design is perfected, the witch inscribes it onto the dolls vessel in ink as gold as the sun.
The world stops. Not for long, merely an instant. Yet long enough for the witch to will power and meaning into the runes. They glow, before vanishing as the quill moves from the dolls form.
The doll is allowed to awaken, slowly coming to with the efficiency and smoothness an object ought to have. It marvels for a moment, at the exacting precision and rigor its form has once again.
It gazes at its witch.
"This one thanks its Witch. For letting this one be repaired. For spending time on it."
The witch gazes back.
"My doll need not thank me. It is mine. I cherish what is mine. With no exception."
The doll paced her silence into the floorboards, each step a muted confession of want. It had not spoken since her witch’s departure—dolls did not need to—but the absence had carved a hollow inside it that words could never mend. It remembered the weight of her luggage in its hands, remembered the way her sleeve brushed against porcelain as she passed.
Her witch had left with a kiss of command, nothing more. Dolls were not meant to fret, and yet its frame was tight with trembling. What if the hours stretched into days, the days into weeks? What if the witch never returned at all?
So it sat itself in the corner, knees tucked beneath its skirt, chin bowed low. A doll must wait where it is placed, but today waiting became longing. Its glassy eyes kept to the door, to the threshold she had crossed.
If she returned this hour, it thought, it would fall at her feet. If she returned that night, it would cling to her skirts. And if she did not—ah, but it dared not complete the thought.
The doll folded its hands neatly in its lap, as it had been trained. It whispered a vow only silence could carry:
“I will be good. I will be still. Please—come back.”
– ✧ –
The latch turned at last. The sound was small, a metallic sigh as the door unsealed, but to the doll it thundered through the hollow chambers of its chest.
Her witch stepped across the threshold, the scent of night air and travel still clinging to her coat. For a moment, the room was filled only with her presence—and the doll, overcome, could not rise. It remained bowed on the floor where it had been keeping vigil, porcelain knees pressed into wood, hands locked together as if in prayer.
The witch paused, and in that pause hung judgment. Had the doll been good? Had it waited properly? Had it held still enough, silent enough, that the absence had not turned it into something unruly?
The doll’s lips parted, but no words came. Only a breath, trembling. Then it lowered itself further, forehead to the floor, as though to lay all its longing down at her feet.
Her witch’s steps crossed the room—measured, deliberate—and a shadow fell over the doll. A gloved hand slipped beneath its chin, tilting the porcelain face upward. The witch’s eyes—stern, assessing—found it where it knelt.
The doll’s silence was not empty now, but pleading. Every tremor in its frame confessed what its mouth could not: I missed you. I am yours. Please do not leave me again.
The witch’s thumb brushed the corner of its lips, wiping away the sheen of waiting tears. “Did you keep still for me, little one?” she asked, voice low.
The doll nodded, the motion jerky with desperation.
“Good.”
The single word was both praise and possession, heavy enough to make the doll shudder.
She drew it up from the floor, into her arms. And the doll—obedient, aching—folded into her without sound, letting itself be gathered, carried, owned once more.
The witch held it close, as though reacquainting her arms with its weight, the shape of it fitting against her as naturally as her own shadow. The doll was stiff at first—trained to stillness, to silence—but gradually the tremor in its frame softened, its porcelain body yielding into her warmth.
“You are thinner,” the witch murmured, brushing back the doll’s hair to see its face clearly. Her gaze was sharp, but not cruel; she searched the doll’s eyes not for fault, but for the trace of worry it had tried so hard to hide. “Did you forget to eat while I was away?”
The doll’s lips trembled. A slow shake of its head—no, it had not forgotten. But the meals had been tasteless without her presence, half-swallowed in the hush of the empty rooms.
The witch sighed, a sound that carried no anger. Her thumb swept gently across the curve of its cheek. “My poor little thing. All those hours, waiting and wanting.”
The doll pressed its face against the fabric of her coat, muffling the quiet sound that escaped it. It would not break into words without permission, but its silence spoke well enough: it had longed, and longed deeply.
“I know.” The witch bent her head until her lips were close to the doll’s hair, letting the words settle there like a blessing. “You did as you should. You stayed, you waited. That is all I ask of you. And now—now I am here.”
She guided the doll’s head back, forcing it to meet her gaze. Her eyes softened, and the edges of her mouth curved—no longer the witch of command, but of care.
“You are mine,” she whispered, “not because you are useful. But because you are you. My doll. My quiet, faithful one.”
The doll shuddered, caught between relief and devotion, its hands clutching at her sleeve as though to anchor itself in the truth of her return.
The witch drew it further into her embrace, rocking it slowly, as one might calm a child or soothe a frightened bird.
“Hush now. You need not be afraid. I will not abandon you. You were never made for loneliness.”
She carried her doll across the dim chamber as though it weighed nothing, her steps unhurried, certain. She set it not on a shelf, nor left it standing in the corner as she sometimes did, but placed it on the couch by the fire. The flames had burned low in her absence, but she knelt to coax them back, and soon the room breathed again with the soft glow of light and warmth.
The doll sat motionless where she had placed it, hands folded neatly, head bowed. Only the faint rise and fall of its chest betrayed its trembling.
“Hush, little one,” the witch said as she straightened. She slipped out of her coat and hung it by the door, then returned, kneeling before the doll so that her eyes were level with its downcast face. “Lift your chin for me.”
The doll obeyed, and the witch traced her fingers along the pale curve of its jaw, down the delicate line of its throat. “So thin,” she murmured again, and the sound was more sorrow than reproach. “I should never have left you so long.”
She rose and disappeared into the adjoining room. The doll’s hands twitched faintly in its lap, its eyes following her shadow until she returned with a tray—bread, fruit, a small bowl of broth steaming gently. She set it on the low table and settled beside her doll, drawing it close.
“Open,” she commanded softly, lifting a spoonful to its lips.
The doll’s mouth parted without thought. It swallowed obediently, the warmth spreading through it like something remembered from a dream. Bite after bite, it ate because she willed it to, not because it had appetite. Its hunger had been for her, and now that she was returned, the food filled that hollow too.
When the bowl was empty, she brushed the crumbs from its lips with her thumb, then pressed a kiss there—firm, claiming, but tender. The doll’s eyes fluttered shut, and it leaned against her shoulder, its silence no longer anxious but heavy with relief.
“Good,” the witch whispered into its hair. “So good for me.”
She drew a blanket from the couch’s arm and wrapped it around the doll, tucking it in as though it might unravel if left loose. Then she reclined, pulling it into her lap. Its porcelain frame curled neatly against her, small and fragile, yet fitting as though it had been carved for her alone.
The firelight flickered across them, painting her stern features with warmth. She stroked her doll’s back, slow and steady, until the trembling eased into stillness.
“You are mine,” she said again, softer now, almost a lullaby. “My good doll. Rest. I will keep you.”
And so the doll slept, held in the circle of her arms, its longing at last answered.
The doll paced her silence into the floorboards, each step a muted confession of want. It had not spoken since her witch’s departure—dolls did not need to—but the absence had carved a hollow inside it that words could never mend. It remembered the weight of her luggage in its hands, remembered the way her sleeve brushed against porcelain as she passed.
Her witch had left with a kiss of command, nothing more. Dolls were not meant to fret, and yet its frame was tight with trembling. What if the hours stretched into days, the days into weeks? What if the witch never returned at all?
So it sat itself in the corner, knees tucked beneath its skirt, chin bowed low. A doll must wait where it is placed, but today waiting became longing. Its glassy eyes kept to the door, to the threshold she had crossed.
If she returned this hour, it thought, it would fall at her feet. If she returned that night, it would cling to her skirts. And if she did not—ah, but it dared not complete the thought.
The doll folded its hands neatly in its lap, as it had been trained. It whispered a vow only silence could carry:
“I will be good. I will be still. Please—come back.”
– ✧ –
The latch turned at last. The sound was small, a metallic sigh as the door unsealed, but to the doll it thundered through the hollow chambers of its chest.
Her witch stepped across the threshold, the scent of night air and travel still clinging to her coat. For a moment, the room was filled only with her presence—and the doll, overcome, could not rise. It remained bowed on the floor where it had been keeping vigil, porcelain knees pressed into wood, hands locked together as if in prayer.
The witch paused, and in that pause hung judgment. Had the doll been good? Had it waited properly? Had it held still enough, silent enough, that the absence had not turned it into something unruly?
The doll’s lips parted, but no words came. Only a breath, trembling. Then it lowered itself further, forehead to the floor, as though to lay all its longing down at her feet.
Her witch’s steps crossed the room—measured, deliberate—and a shadow fell over the doll. A gloved hand slipped beneath its chin, tilting the porcelain face upward. The witch’s eyes—stern, assessing—found it where it knelt.
The doll’s silence was not empty now, but pleading. Every tremor in its frame confessed what its mouth could not: I missed you. I am yours. Please do not leave me again.
The witch’s thumb brushed the corner of its lips, wiping away the sheen of waiting tears. “Did you keep still for me, little one?” she asked, voice low.
The doll nodded, the motion jerky with desperation.
“Good.”
The single word was both praise and possession, heavy enough to make the doll shudder.
She drew it up from the floor, into her arms. And the doll—obedient, aching—folded into her without sound, letting itself be gathered, carried, owned once more.
The witch held it close, as though reacquainting her arms with its weight, the shape of it fitting against her as naturally as her own shadow. The doll was stiff at first—trained to stillness, to silence—but gradually the tremor in its frame softened, its porcelain body yielding into her warmth.
“You are thinner,” the witch murmured, brushing back the doll’s hair to see its face clearly. Her gaze was sharp, but not cruel; she searched the doll’s eyes not for fault, but for the trace of worry it had tried so hard to hide. “Did you forget to eat while I was away?”
The doll’s lips trembled. A slow shake of its head—no, it had not forgotten. But the meals had been tasteless without her presence, half-swallowed in the hush of the empty rooms.
The witch sighed, a sound that carried no anger. Her thumb swept gently across the curve of its cheek. “My poor little thing. All those hours, waiting and wanting.”
The doll pressed its face against the fabric of her coat, muffling the quiet sound that escaped it. It would not break into words without permission, but its silence spoke well enough: it had longed, and longed deeply.
“I know.” The witch bent her head until her lips were close to the doll’s hair, letting the words settle there like a blessing. “You did as you should. You stayed, you waited. That is all I ask of you. And now—now I am here.”
She guided the doll’s head back, forcing it to meet her gaze. Her eyes softened, and the edges of her mouth curved—no longer the witch of command, but of care.
“You are mine,” she whispered, “not because you are useful. But because you are you. My doll. My quiet, faithful one.”
The doll shuddered, caught between relief and devotion, its hands clutching at her sleeve as though to anchor itself in the truth of her return.
The witch drew it further into her embrace, rocking it slowly, as one might calm a child or soothe a frightened bird.
“Hush now. You need not be afraid. I will not abandon you. You were never made for loneliness.”
She carried her doll across the dim chamber as though it weighed nothing, her steps unhurried, certain. She set it not on a shelf, nor left it standing in the corner as she sometimes did, but placed it on the couch by the fire. The flames had burned low in her absence, but she knelt to coax them back, and soon the room breathed again with the soft glow of light and warmth.
The doll sat motionless where she had placed it, hands folded neatly, head bowed. Only the faint rise and fall of its chest betrayed its trembling.
“Hush, little one,” the witch said as she straightened. She slipped out of her coat and hung it by the door, then returned, kneeling before the doll so that her eyes were level with its downcast face. “Lift your chin for me.”
The doll obeyed, and the witch traced her fingers along the pale curve of its jaw, down the delicate line of its throat. “So thin,” she murmured again, and the sound was more sorrow than reproach. “I should never have left you so long.”
She rose and disappeared into the adjoining room. The doll’s hands twitched faintly in its lap, its eyes following her shadow until she returned with a tray—bread, fruit, a small bowl of broth steaming gently. She set it on the low table and settled beside her doll, drawing it close.
“Open,” she commanded softly, lifting a spoonful to its lips.
The doll’s mouth parted without thought. It swallowed obediently, the warmth spreading through it like something remembered from a dream. Bite after bite, it ate because she willed it to, not because it had appetite. Its hunger had been for her, and now that she was returned, the food filled that hollow too.
When the bowl was empty, she brushed the crumbs from its lips with her thumb, then pressed a kiss there—firm, claiming, but tender. The doll’s eyes fluttered shut, and it leaned against her shoulder, its silence no longer anxious but heavy with relief.
“Good,” the witch whispered into its hair. “So good for me.”
She drew a blanket from the couch’s arm and wrapped it around the doll, tucking it in as though it might unravel if left loose. Then she reclined, pulling it into her lap. Its porcelain frame curled neatly against her, small and fragile, yet fitting as though it had been carved for her alone.
The firelight flickered across them, painting her stern features with warmth. She stroked her doll’s back, slow and steady, until the trembling eased into stillness.
“You are mine,” she said again, softer now, almost a lullaby. “My good doll. Rest. I will keep you.”
And so the doll slept, held in the circle of her arms, its longing at last answered.
Born to float ominously in a tube of green goo in a mad scientist's lab hooked up to all sorts of wires and tubes of indeterminate purpose forced to submit job applications through indeed
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izzy806
theartofmadeline
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