#dollspace

[smellson213]

a doll is forever.

[sugar-papa]

‧˚꒰🍷꒱༘‧—Welcome to Doll Space's personal blog ೀ

This is a small place on the Internet that serves to promote my writings.

My purpose is to create a community made to appreciate the beauty of Shota through narrative and always keeping in mind that no real people are being offended.

I'm so messy here tho, I'll be creating social media accounts where you can see everything!

─ 𐔌 Creator's info ࿐ . ۫

Nickname: Dmonsieur/Sugar Papa

Signature: 𝓢𝓾𝓰𝓪𝓻 𝓟𝓪𝓹𝓪‧‧˚꒰🍷꒱༘‧

Pronouns: he/him

Contact: 𐔌՞[email protected].՞𐦯

Tiktok (Dinoash edits): Sygarpapa

Ao3: Dmonsieur

https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dmonsieur/works

Soon in: Mastodon/Aethy & Neocities

─ 𐔌 Important announcement ࿐ . ۫

My Tumblr blogs keep getting deleted over and over again, you'll be able to find them shortly ╰┈➤ here a user account on another app.

Sincerely;

𝓢𝓾𝓰𝓪𝓻 𝓟𝓪𝓹𝓪‧‧˚꒰🍷꒱༘‧

[aurinkos-toybox]

errands

the doll never liked the word; it did not mind tasks, but errands were a source of fear. it fixated on an assumed etymology of the word, with -er as a prefix, "to make a mistake". errands were opportunities for failure.

"Go buy some bread." A witch might ask. What kind of bread? How much is 'some'? What bread is the witch's favorite? How do I know what 'good' bread is? These were errands.

"Can you help me with something?" An angel asked. A task, more palatable, easier to understand. "What should I do?" The doll could say, in turn. The gratification of being told, and not having the opportunity to fail, was immense.

Now, lost in the city, the doll remembered how simple a task should be. It was not just bread - it was a Witch's preference, it was a Witch's hunger, a desire for specificity, or generality, contained within the bread. "I wish I could have asked more." The doll thought.

[dollyavi]

my daddy got me bath bombs for christmas!!! i love when he gets me this kind of stuff, and i can't help imagining...

the water turns cloudy and pink as the bath bomb starts to dissolve. sugar and vanilla perfume the air, sweet and cloying, and my vision blurs. i'm so sleepy, all of a sudden... but i have stuff to do, i promised daddy i'd make his favorite food for dinner... i've been nervous about it, there's so so many steps to remember, and it hurts to stand for so long...

minute by minute, focusing gets harder. what was i going to do after my bath, again? my skin feels so soft and smooth now, and my muscles are relaxing almost too much... my limbs are heavy... my joints feel... strange... i don't recognize the soft click i feel when i try to move my fingers, but there's something right about it. did i always have ball joints? (at least they're pretty.)

as lovely as they are, though, moving these new joints slowly becomes impossible. i lie limp in the tub, eyes unfocused, chin tucked against my chest. i've never felt this still before... i can't even feel myself breathing...

i don't know how long it is before my daddy comes to fetch me. he smiles and makes a cooing noise as he kneels beside the tub, turning my head towards him. my eyes focus again. that's my daddy... i love my daddy... everything else is far away, but i know him. i'll always know him. he's my purpose.

he murmurs sweetly to me as he starts to brush my hair. such a pretty boy, my handsome little doll, my plaything. the last dregs of panic, tucked away somewhere deep in my chest, start to dissolve.

once my hair is nice and soft, daddy picks me up and towels me off, dresses me in something frilly and cute. he doesn't ask what i want to wear. all that matters is what he wants to see me wear. it all feels so... so right. he whispers a word i don't understand, kisses my forehead, and suddenly my limbs don't feel so heavy. i can move!

"go make dinner, little one," he orders, and off i go, ball joints clicking, no thoughts in my head except the desire to please my owner.

[noumenalroom-deactivated20221021]

*Enter Dollspace*

D O L L S P A C E

https://dollyoko.thing.net/doll00.htm

[aurinkos-toybox]

Manufacturer Part Number

this doll did not know its parts. joints unfamiliar, face plates sourced anonymously, with disparate markings for each component that comprised "her". it recognized some numbers, but none of the acronyms; lettering and characters from other languages, and other numerical arrangements interspersed that it could never decipher. it never named them, and barely recognized them as its own.

another doll passed in the street, among the witches and workers bustling about during the night. if only for a second, our doll recognized part of itself in the other - a distinct, brightly colored stamp on the wrist. the red outline burned crimson into its eyes, and for a moment, our doll sensed part of itself in another. it had never felt such a feeling before. but just as the moment arrived, it was over. the other doll disappeared into the crowd, its other parts unrecognized and uncategorized to our doll.

"It must be the same." it thought. "I hope it doesn't ache like mine does. I hope it doesn't need such thorough tightening in the mornings."

[aurinkos-toybox]

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.

[aurinkos-toybox]

laundry

it's dress had a stain on it.

ignoring it for days, the doll kept on about her tasks. the others traded glances, more as the days wore on. they started whispering about the stain's longevity, otherwise unremarkable, was approaching a week.

it dreaded doing laundry. it had only one dress, a hand-me-down from another doll long forgotten before her. however well kept - and it was well kept, with expert stitching from one of the witch's workers that came by occasionally - the dress felt unseemly on the doll. embroidered initials gave the doll an unanswered question to it's original owner, one that kept the doll in a state of unease.

the doll preferred to wear the blouse and skirt that was made for it, but after an errand gone awry, neither were presentable. "Go buy some bread" the doll was told, and in the process, was nearly hit by a falling brick that missed the two-foot gap in the scaffolding above it.

it wondered if the brick was some kind of sign.

alas, after some prodding, our doll was given time and privacy to wash its dress. however disconcerting the dress felt to wear, being without clothes felt multitudes worse. it's disjointed parts, sometimes melted or bolted together when joints didn't fit together, embarrassed our doll. chips upon it's torso, missing fragments down it's legs - small imperfections that added up and weighed upon it.

it's parts were not made for our doll, but they were made to fit together, by any means necessary.

back and forth along the washboard it's dress went.

back and forth

back and forth

back and forth

back and forth along it's arms did the candle burn.

back and forth along it's torso did the sandpaper bruise.

our doll stopped. the stain was gone, finally.

it wished for another blouse and skirt.