The Plain Doll: A Character Study

The Plain Doll: A Character Study

🌙 675 words. TW for body horror, misogyny, trauma, abuse, neglect, death & violence 🌙

The Doll is grateful she cannot remember being birthed. Only being squeezed, stifled — too tight — into the dark chasm that became her vessel.

All is silent in the dream.

It is always silent in the dream.

The Doll is used to it by now. It is all she has known, for as long as she can remember.

For as long as she has existed.

The Doll was not born. Not really.

For this, she is grateful.

Even if it means she recalls that feeling of disembodiment, of being stitched together, uttered into being word by incomprehensible word, consciousness secreted, oozed from the gaping maw of the one called The Moon Presence, and left behind in this body.

The Doll is grateful, because at least she cannot remember being put together.

Piece by piece. Body molded. Joints fastened. Face sculpted, painted, and glazed, by the hand of another, to please him. Material bent to his will. Every detail carved and fashioned to take the shape of his fantasy.

The Doll is grateful she cannot remember being birthed. Only being forced, squeezed, stifled, too tight, into the dark chasm of this vessel.

The Doll has since learned a little of this body. It belongs to a “woman”. This is because of the clothes she was given. A bonnet and a skirt were the clothes of a woman.

She heard a woman’s name once. Long, long ago. Her maker spoke it reverently, maniacally, and looked at her. Maria.

The Doll had blinked back. She was to be polite. Good manners mattered to her.

“Hello,” she’d said, “who are you?”

Something in her maker’s eyes died, then.

And so, she learned to act as a woman.

The Doll learned that it was a woman’s job to be “loving”. She did not know what that meant. The Doll tried asking her maker, once. He only laughed, hollowly, bitterly, and shook his head. Coughed. The Doll went to boil the kettle then, and did not ask again.

Countless have since arrived to the dream, and she has since learned what love is. They have told her of the gods; of the church and of their love. To love is to worship. To serve your makers. To obey. To be owned. Possessed. To love is to get on one’s knees and pray to them, serve them, fulfill their wishes and bid them good tidings as they leave.

To love is to be a woman.

To love is to be a doll.

She has seen many masters come and go. She has seen their blood smear the lilies as their heads roll into the valley. Her maker has had a great many love him. Most left the dream on their knees. Left her, on her knees. The Doll would send them to off. To face the dawn. And they would go.

They did not say goodbye — but she does not fault them. They are human. They are her makers. Her gods. And she is a doll. It would be absurd. The sun does not revolve around the Earth. The Earth does not revolve around the moon.

Of course she loves them.

So the Doll would kneel for them. Etch their name upon the weathered grave. Rise once more, and return to the silence of the dream.

Alone.

The Doll has known from the moment that pale, sickly sludge of her being had fallen from Flora’s jaws that there was some great capacity hewn into the fabric of her existence. It ached, burned, clawed at the walls of her porcelain vessel. Even now, she can feel it. Writhing in her chest cavity. Eating itself.

She felt that hunger when she looked upon them. When they would take her hand as if it were their own. When they would use her. When they would force her to her knees. When they would look into her eyes just to see their own reflection. When they would cut into the vessel and spill her essence upon the lilies; as if in rehearsal for their inevitable fate.

Of course, The Doll need not wonder the name for this writhing, roiling, churning thing within her; never resting, never sated nor soothed, neverending, eternally desperate for something that this abandoned simulacrum has never known, never known how to express —

Of course.

It is love.

🎃 OCTOBER COMMISSIONS ARE OPEN! 🎃

DM me or visit my Ko-Fi for more info!

i see your brador the chador and raise you!!!

a d e l i n e t h e c h a d e l i n e

Hunt’s End — A Mariadeline Fic

🗝 1769 words, TWs for mild blood and nudity. I hc Adeline as blind, and Flowerpatch is her service dog. AO3 link 🗝

Saint Adeline lights a lamp in the window as Lady Maria arrives back from the hunt. The Lady is intact - but her mind is worn as ever. Her Saint knows there's no better salve for that soreness than a warm bath - and, if she is bold enough - a warm embrace to go with it.

Or, Maria gets hosed down after a hunt. Lovingly, of course.

“It is time, my Lady,” calls Saint Adeline; her quiet words breaking the frozen silence.

Soft palms sweetened with perfume caress her hunter’s cold cheeks. Maria exhales and leans into the touch. By that alone, the blood saint knows how much she needs this.

“Come.”

Adeline has never understood how cries of victory could fill the streets before the blood on the hunter’s hands had even dried. Oh, the town flew their banners and blew their horns, toasting another successful campaign against the beasts. Perhaps she couldn’t fault them, for these people so rarely had something to celebrate. But here, within the four walls of her Lady’s quarters, the woman’s gray and weary countenance marked the true burden the battle extolled.

Lady Maria had sustained no grievous injuries on the expedition she led, nor had any others under her command — Adeline is thankful for that. But here, away from the prying eyes of the public, Maria’s squared shoulders sag, her sharp eyes dull, her very soul seems to shudder as her powerful form slumps heavy in the armchair. The blood was a crimson trophy no more - just sticky and stale as it dries on her skin.

Sterling eyes gaze up from beneath the shadows of her hat; there is no steel to them now. A nod answers Adeline, and her Lady rises to follow her saint to the washroom.

“Will you undress, my Lady?” Adeline murmurs, watching the steamy room all but melt the resistance from the other’s expression.

“You don’t have to do this,” comes a quiet, graveled reply. They are the first words Adeline has heard her speak since arriving back to her quarters, but they aren’t unfamiliar. Even as Maria removes her hat, even as Adeline helps shrug off her heavy coats, her Lady protests - however weakly - as if burned by the prospect of being looked after.

Adeline’s gentle hands find Maria’s face once more, brushing pale blonde locks from her brow, holding the taller woman’s gaze steadfast. “I know,” the saint says plainly, the words hovering in the air a moment despite their weight, “and yet, here we are.”

The smile on Adeline’s lips tinges Maria’s own, an unspoken understanding bridging the space between them. She watches the way her eyes fall to the corners of her mouth, and leans closer in familiar invitation.

It leaves Adeline blushing, eyes lowered shy and demure to the floor, on instinct. A newly ungloved hand turns her face back up in familiar gesture, until those bashful ocean eyes meet Maria’s. Maria’s, which crease softly at their corners, before warm lips this time press her forehead, and Adeline smiles in earnest.

“Your hands are freezing, love,” the saint laughs softly, entwining their fingers before the touch disappears, lest the other see it admonition, “Come, Maria. If you shall disrobe, I shall finish drawing your bath. That will warm you up in no time.”

“You smile that way… I should think it enough to warm me,” the hunter replies as they part, halting, soft and to herself; as if unsure her chapped lips can utter such sweet nothings, as if unsure Adeline would want to hear them at all. The saint’s face only dusts with pink, and she allows the words to ring sweetly in her ear while she goes.

~~~

It does not take long for the last of the hunter’s bloodied clothes to fall away, and soon enough, Adeline helps the woman into the warm, soapy water. Only as she strokes a washcloth over her head, however, does the saint notice the faint crease to the other’s brow as her fingers stroke across it.

“...What’s wrong?” she asks softly, suddenly nervous, “Do you dislike it…?” “No - No, not at all, I only...” Maria replies, trailing off as her eyes follow a stray petal floating on the ripples. The bath is… rather more extravagant than the Lady is used to. The water tinges lilac with what must be all manner of soaps and salts; lavender blossoms resting calmly amidst the bubbles; but Maria sounds more surprised than anything as she trails off, “You truly didn’t have to - all of this, luxury, it’s not required, I’m…”

“Maybe not,” Adeline acquiesces gently as she rolls up her sleeves, “I merely thought that if everybody in the square is out lauding your efforts, you’ve more than earned a proper reward of your own, no…? Let me look after you, love. It is my desire and my duty.”

Plush fabric coaxes the blood and sweat from her brow, and at her saint’s gentle request, Maria closes her eyes and at last eases her aching body fully into the water.

Once her Lady is cleansed of all evidence of her troubles, Adeline begins on the rest of her. It is a slow, tender affair Maria seems to bear with an eager sort of trepidation. Oh, dear Maria may have returned unscathed, but Adeline knew better than that. The scars that patterned her pale skin wounded her long after healing. It was not her body which now ached, but her psyche. The saint returns the kiss to her lover’s brow, and gently massages the tight line of her shoulders from huntress to human once more.

“That’s nice...” Maria says with a sigh; leaning into the soothing touch upon her sore shoulders, “Adeline… tell me, what is it you’ve scented this water with…? I cannot tell, beyond the lavender.”

She tilts her head back, opening one eye to look her lover in the face, and she’s glad for it. Her saint’s expression is alight in an instant, brighter and sweeter than sunlight at the chance to speak of her beloved garden. Maria cannot sequester the fond curl that takes to the corners of her own lips.

“Oh, well - the salts went with honey, and it was lavender with chamomile to ease your mind… We had it all the time growing up, to help with sleep. The soap’s made with dandelion and orange peel, to keep you healthy even through winter months,” Adeline hesitates suddenly after a moment, her cheeks going pink with the beginnings of embarrassment. Maria rests a hand over hers.

“Go on, my dear,” comes an adoring encouragement.

“Ah, I had only meant to say… perhaps the lumenflower gave you pause? To be truthful, it’s something I’ve only thought recently to try, but... based on the current evidence I’ve got, I think it may quicken the mending of small scrapes and bruises.”

“Is that so?” Maria asks, and at the other’s bashful nod, her smile only grows, “You are a genius, Adeline. Do you know that?”

The furious flush which overtakes the saint’s face burns so bright that Maria knows if she were to tuck her hair behind her ear, she’d see their tips painted pink. “Oh— gracious—,” Adeline stammers, trying to cover the smile audible in her voice, “Maria, you can’t just say things like that...!”

“And why can’t I?” she counters with a playfully raised brow.

“Or else — I might burn up!” the saint cries with mock indignance and a childish pout.

“Burn up you say? My, well we can’t have that now,” Maria replies, flicking a few drops of water onto her apron; replacing Adeline’s playful pout with a cheeky grin.

“No good! It’s no good! No measure can save me now!” she exclaims, splashing the other back in retaliation between peals of laughter as their banter escalates to an all-out water fight.

“Have it your way then!” Maria declares, and Adeline recognizes that wolfish grin means a moment too late — as she’s all of a sudden hoisted into the tub with an astonished, delighted squeal. The water calms before their laughter does, leaving the pair entirely drenched with Adeline more or less draped over her lover; certainly not helping the ruby color of her face which is promptly buried in the crook of her hunter’s neck. Strong and calloused fingers card through the saint’s curls as they both come down in warm, content silence broken only by the water lapping at the sides of the bath.

“...You’re all wet now,” the hunter observes plainly, in a manner which would be nearly apologetic if it weren’t for how she grins like the cat that got the cream.

“I am,” the saint agrees, finally daring to meet Maria’s eye and finding nothing but adoration. Instinctively, she raises a hand to tenderly cup the side of her now-pink face in another peaceful pause.

“Beautiful,” murmurs Maria, and means it. Dark curls and lashes capture pearly drops, scattering them like freckles across rosy cheeks; those deep green eyes liquid as a calm sea. The weight of the woman atop her warms something so raw within Maria it seems to burn.

“You are,” agrees Adeline again, yet not an ounce of refutation can be found from those honeyed lips as she draws them up to her hunter’s. Maria’s body is soft, sturdy beneath her own, her hand steady on her hip and warm beneath the collar of her dress, and her saint can’t help but smile against her soft mouth.

Adeline’s heart skips a beat as they part for a breath, Maria’s face is so clear so close to her own, her touch slow and grounding. Her eyes are warm, molten gold, pupils blown wide, fond and loving in a way that it feels nearly impossible for it to be all for her. She wonders what Maria sees reflected in her gaze, and as their lips meet again, she prays it is all that and more. Their fingers twine together, the gentle pressure daring her own touch to wander, bodies ebbing, flowing, in slow synchrony.

SPLASH!

“Patch!!!”

The answering bark is coupled with water leaping out of the bath as the guide dog’s tail wags a mile a minute before hopping out of the tub again, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Oh — Lady Maria — I’m so sorry, are you alright?” Adeline rushes out, but her apologies are eased by Maria’s vibrant laughter as she rights herself, pushing her bangs from her eyes. Oh, it’s a rare sound indeed, but Adeline savors it all the same.

“He’s a good boy,” the hunter chuckles, reaching to scratch the pup behind the ears when he perks at the phrase, “Come to protect you from the treacherous bath. Were you missing her, little one?” With Flowerpatch seeming delighted by the attention, Maria turns that rare, radiant smile of hers to Adeline. “Come, dear. Your clothes are soaked because of me. It’s only right I should help dry you.”

As she helps her out of the flowery water, Adeline can’t help but smile back.

she’s eepy…..