Work Text:
Vervain always had a fascination with dolls.
It came to her at a young age, before she was wrought with the crushing expectations of manhood, when she hadn’t even realized she was *different* to the other “boys”. She’d peek at the homemade dolls sold at rickety stands in the slums she was born into, made from scavenged cloth and repurposed fabric, too expensive to purchase even if her Father entertained buying one.
When she came of age, her fixation was strong as ever. If anything, without the crushing presence of her Father, she was able to bend the rules in ways she couldn’t afford before. . .
Under the Accord, factory work was a monotonous, mindless deathtrap. As grueling as it was dulling to the senses, lulling you in before ripping off a hand or crushing your leg. Most of the work in the munitions factory is machine operated, but it’s *far* from automated. Constant tinkering, repairs, and live maintenance would have her crawling throughout the labyrinth of machines daily. Ripping out redundancies. Swapping bits. Tearing out the scraps of junk that get caught in the dozens upon dozens of moving parts.
She still has scars from those days, from where the jagged machinery would rip and tear at her padded jumpsuit. Jagged lacerations along her forearms and back, striped from where she’d wriggle and writhe to fit into the tightest spots in the darkest corner of the factory.
It stung, and it ached, and it robbed her of years of her life. . . but it came with certain unintended *benefits*.
Strict as the supervisors were, nobody really tracks what happens to the metal scraps after they’re removed. If a handful at a time goes missing before it ends up reclaimed, that’s no skin off their back, no real risk to her. . .
After all, who’d be crazy enough to steal literal junk. . ?
Vervain’s first doll was woven from that scrap metal, this scrappy thing constructed from old tubing and torn carbon fibre filaments. This wobbly, asymmetrical doll with too long limbs and a messy face that she cherished with all her heart. Reeking of oil and lubricant, constantly shedding bits of loose metal, she’d still sleep with it nestled into her chest every night after a long shift.
It made sleeping in her miserable tenement slightly more tolerable. . . enough to keep her sane for the few hours of sleep she’d manage on the thin mattress that provided little protection from the concrete floor.
Years passed before she realized why she had such a love for dolls, even longer passed before she realized why she never felt comfortable in her own body.
If the Accord had continued, she’d have died young and miserable, never getting a chance to explore her feelings fully.
But that all changed when she met her. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
“You’re thinking too much again, moppet.”
A saccharine voice dripping in sublime warmth pulls Vervain from the past’s waters, back to the here and now. It’s a complex voice: equal parts sweet and sour, a musician’s precision to each syllable. Even short remarks are melodic in their beauty, in their ability to unravel others like the notes on sheet music.
“Oh- hah, it’s that obvious?. . .” Vervain’s pearlescent blue eyes shyly peek up at her Mistress, clutching at the waist of her long, chiffon skirt. . . The floret needs to crane her neck just to look her straight on.
“Your eyes grow dire when you do, dulled yet restless. . .” Golden fluid leaks from Drosera’s dozens of glandular tentacles as she talks, collecting on the trichome tips in small dew drops. One bristled finger taps Vervain’s nose, a symphonic snicker soon following. “And your face gets very scrunched up when you do, poor doll. . .” A bit of the honeyed substance coats her nose when she pulls away, sweeter than anything she’d ever smelled in her previous life.
“It- it doesn’t get that scrunched. . .” She murmurs through embarrassment, flattening creases in her long, ruffle-sleeved top. It’s made of the same purplish-blue chiffon as the skirt, entirely see-through to expose her modifications.
Golden creases line the various “quadrants” of her body, surgical modifications that’re cosmetically beautiful as they are functionally sound. Gold surgical lines separate the various joints of her body in faux-balljoints, embedded around artificial joints padded with synthetic materials.
When she clamps a slender hand over the opposite wrist, there’s a subtle burr that comes with the action. The buzz of mechanical elements inside her that lessened a once constant pain that came with existing, with feeling her joints be ruined and her limbs damaged permanently.
Just as importantly, it matches the gold ribbons tied to her Mistress, woven bands personally tied by her most cherished paramours. The closest thing she had to clothing, contrasting brightly against her amber bark and reddish-green vines. Many were tied by Vervain personally, moist from the honeyed armbosia that leaks from Splendid Drosera at all times.
“Like a crumpled leaf~.” She teases so earnestly, viny flesh parting on her face to expose a mouthful of serrated, thorn-like teeth.
“Not even a l-little.” As much as Vervain grumbles over it, she doesn’t try to hide her lovestruck features. It’s been almost a year now, but she’ll never get used to that ravenous grin that her mistress wore so very well. A smile that seemed ready to swallow her whole, to consume her into a sweet embrace.
. . .In matching her mistress, a cut piece of the same gold ribbon is wrapped around the base of Vervain’s cock, taut to remain in place, though not constricting. Most of the time it's covered by woven panties, but right now it’s on fully on display. It’s not necessary where they’re going, as if modesty is ever needed in her new life.
“Audacious, are we? I do wonder why.” Drosera’s curved palm is ever-so-indented, allowing for a healthy dollop of the golden fluid to be collected on it like a bowl. Sweeter than pure sugar, the smell alone is intoxicating to the floret. Her eyelids grow heavy from inhaling the vapors, struggling to keep the act going much longer.
“M-Maybe I just feel like being defiant today. . .” Bratty words, ones that don’t match how excitedly she watches the spoonful of sweet dew be brought closer to her trembling lips. How it shines in the light of the ship, glimmering and glossy like liquid metal. A snared trap awaits her, one she’ll trot into with no care in the entire universe.
It’s deliciously addictive, some days she suckles upon it more than water. In one breathless gulp Vervain downs the entire palmsworth of nectar, comfortably warm as it travels down her gullet.
“Drink it all up, sweet moppet. This will help you feel less restless. . .” Drosera shushes her float sweetly, refilling the indent right as it’s emptied. “Are we feeling more pliable now, hm?” Spoonful upon spoonful is fed to the floret, the blue of her pupils slowly fading into an opaque orange. Each is impossibly wide, far beyond normal dilation, golden tears streaming from the corners of her eyelids in euphoria.
“Nmmnnnmn. . .” Vervain hums happily, her tongue too heavy to formulate words. At first it’s just numbness, but it soon turns into a lovely warmth that spreads throughout her entire body. . . “Ver. . . pleeeable. . . mizz. . .” Wobbling like the doll she is, a still-sticky finger slides under her chin to close her agape mouth for her. . . She didn’t even realize it was open.
The most intense spot of head is around her crotch, she’s not able to get hard anymore but it doesn’t stop her cock from steadily leaking between sporadic twitches.
Her mistress’ bemused laugh is all Vervain can focus on in this state, watching her unwind one of the ribbons from her slender forearm. Gently so as not to break the sensitive material, looping the gold lace around her floret’s neck instead. It’s still sticky from her nectar, mostly clinging to her neck while Drosera binds it into an elaborate knot. The contact allows more of the fluid to suckle its way into her bloodstream, keeping her in a stupor as the end of it is used to tug her forward like a leash.
“Just a few more steps and you won’t need to walk for a long, long while. Just a few more steps for me, moppet. . .” The affini only sounds so much more divine under the influence of her nectar, everything she needs and wants within one being. Guiding her clumsy steps towards the end of the hall by a pull of the ribbon, her floret limply waddling through the sticky trail left in her mistress’ wake. Everything is muffled by this layer of gleaming gold, a filter over her drugged perception. Everything is beautiful like this, everything is as shiny and perfect as pure gold.
Vervain used to have a limp from the Accord before her body was modified, sometimes she still finds herself with that gait when she's this blissed out. It’s weird to not have the limp anymore, sometimes she has to convince herself all this is real. . .
Where were they. . .?
A biomechanical door slides open to welcome the affini, the materials of the semi-metallic wall itself unraveling like twisted roots to accept them inside.
Oh, yes. Where else? Her favoritest room, one she’s spent many days within.
“Are you ready for your strings, moppet?” Drosera guides the floret with her siren’s song, twiddling her fingers towards the center of the room. . .
It’s a simple room, mostly bare beyond Vervain’s kin scattered over the woven floor. Little dolls woven from all kinds of materials: some are cloth, some are fabric, some are made from bits of her mistress’ body wrapped with similar tiny ribbons. Some match her, some match other outfits she’s worn in the past. There’s dozens of them scattered around, it’s only fair that Vervain joins them. . .
“Mmhmm. . .” The floret nods excitedly, her neck bobbing clumsily in the process. There’s a clear spot in the center where she kneels, exposing her back towards Drosera’s loving gaze. On her back are more remnants from her previous life, a series of metal pins running down the center of her neck from where she’d been crushed by a munitions press. They overlap with the many irregular scars, the marks that defined who she once was. . .
Overhead dozens of golden strings hang down from the ceiling, each ending on a curved metal hook. They’re not very big hooks. . . but they perfectly match the modifications made to Vervain’s body.
The affini pets her scars intimately as she tugs a handful of strings down from above, tracing over wounds her beloved would never experience again. Her neon blue antennas affectionately bounce when the floret leans into her touch, the scar tissue especially sensitive in her current state.
“Like the strings on an instrument, each strand serves its purpose, and fulfills its role. . .” It’s nothing Drosera hasn’t said before, she just loves a chance to wax poetically. “One can’t exist without the others! The strings need each other as much as they need the instrument. Mmm, I wonder who that reminds me of~. . .” Her voice grows low, an enticing whisper that gets a deep shudder from the floret. . .
“Please. . .” Vervain kneads her back into the affini’s touch, desperate for what comes next. Desperate for release, the feeling of heat in her cock growing more and more intense.
Along her body, on her prosthetic arms and back, are a series of small holes. Metallic slits studded with gold rims that stand out against the porcelain white. They’re a bit deeper than the hooks on the strings are, when Drosera lines the curved tip of one to the opening on her wrist. . . It slides in with a solid *click*, mechanically locking itself in place. Every string fits perfectly into the corresponding hole, a faint pressure coming from where the two meet.
The strings are slack right now, providing light resistance when Vervain strains against them. Thin as they are, they’re unimaginably sturdy. She could pull and tug on them with all her weight and get nowhere close to snapping even one. It makes the military alloys she handled in the munitions factory look like cheap sheet metal in comparison, she couldn’t imagine how much effort went into crafting it. . . Not that she really cares about the subject anymore, she really doesn’t know how most of her mistress’ technology works.
“No more thinking for now. . .” Drosera whispers warmly, attaching the last few wires to the remaining slots. “Sweet, simple toys don’t need to worry themselves with such frivolous activities. Let me in and this will be all you’ll ever need. This is everything under the stars, moppet. . .” Before her floret can respond, a sticky finger is pressed to her open lips. The bristly tendrils slip into Vervain’s mouth, probing at her tongue and teeth in broad strokes. Gagging on the sudden intrusion, it doesn’t take long for her to adjust to the familiar sensation.
Vervain suckles on the tips of the tendrils, lapping her splendid mistress’ ambrosia straight from the tap. Like a youth at the teat she nips at them to encourage more to spill out, to give her more fluid to gulp down in a frenzy.
“Mmmh~” Lidded eyes glance over her shoulder to Drosera’s face, a twisted grin beaming at her from above. The affini’s antennas flat against the blue tinted vines hanging from her head, stroking the strands back to expose another ribbon tied around her pronounced neck.
“Drip by drip. Can you feel your mind oozing down your skull cavity? Leaking away? I can, my dearest moppet.” The metallic glow of her pupils only intensifies the longer she stares, two orbs of pure light that consume Vervain’s very being. A guiding light in the dark that grounds her as everything fades away. . .
Before long the effects are already intensifying: her vision dulls into a multi-colored miasma of vague shapes and colors, her mistress little more than a yellow-green blob in the center of it. The blue of her eyes have been completely consumed by dilation, completely opaque as drip by drip of gold-tinged fluids ooze from her mouth and eyelids.
She feels thirty tons heavier right now, her body being dragged to the floor by its own weight. Entirely limp like a doll should be, only able to sway and shake through shallow breaths. Only the strings connected to her back and arms keep her from joining the other dolls on the floor, slack as they are.
“That’s much better! There’s my most perfect of dolls, my most cherished paramour. . .” Drosera’s voice is very muffled right now, all Vervain can focus on is the sensation of being pet through her long locks of hair, pointed fingertips tenderly playing with the knotted braids.
Her floret only mumbles in response, lackadaisical nothings oozing out of her emptied brain.
Even in this state, she’s very aware of what comes next.
A sleek, digital panel is snug with the organic wall, the affini tapping the various holographic projections knowingly. With a conductor’s care she slides each control module into its intended position, activating mechanisms leading up into the ceiling. . .
Vervain moans as the hooks embedded in her back vibrate smoothly, reverberating from the advanced machinery connected to them. This is always her favorite part. There’s few sensations better in life than the subtle pain it brings, the sensation of the metallic strings retracking with her in tow.
The first thing to rise are her arms, little as they weigh. Slack hands dangle at the ends of her wrists, the wires in her back are the next to help pull her upwards. Blurred shapes shimmer and shift in motion, she can feel the exact moment she’s pulled completely into the air.
The gold hooks nestled inside her vibrate harder when she’s off the ground, within her modified and reinforced flesh. Inhaling through synthetic lungs, relishing in the sensation of having her newest orifices filled. One arm remains raised above her head by a shorter string while the other hovers around her waist, a marionette dancing to an invisible tune.
She’s a good four or five feet off the ground, high enough up to be at eye-level with her mistress for once. All she can focus on is her splendid aria, the way she hums in a song more beautiful than the most wonderful symphony, so many more notes and beats than the human tongue is capable of.
Vervain’s body is entirely limp, her head hanging low in a vacant stare. Dangling there, she sways forward and back when Drosera taps her on the forehead. . . A ditzy giggle and a flutter of mostly-blind eyes is the most she gets in return.
“You’re even more adorable, ensnared by tangled strings. Weightless as any good doll should be. . .” A suggestive sting comes to her voice, carnivorous in its intentions. As blurry as Vervain’s vision is, she can only make out the faint shape of greenish-blue vines bursting from the affini’s back.
“Hahh. . . Alr. . . Alwedy. . .?” Vervain’s jaw hangs slack on its joint, malformed words only able to be babbled out through a prickly tongue. She doesn’t get a chance to say anything more before one of the long, pointed vines is perversely probing at her open mouth.
The tip of it is curved, only a quarter inch thicker than the rest of the tendril. It glows brightly with the same pulse of her core, leaking more of her nectar from an angled slit. When the fibrous vine presses past her lips, it’s done with the utmost care. It’s thin enough to not buckle her jaw too badly, her glossy drool helping it slide in smoother. Only a couple inches of it are used to fuck into her, bottoming out right as it tickles the back of her throat.
Drugged as she is, the floret can’t even manage a gag from the action. Even when the vine starts rhythmically thrusting from her lips to the back of her mouth, all it gets is strained moans. Tears flow down from her foggy eyes the faster her mistress goes, streaks of gold overlapping her porcelain pale skin like a spider’s web.
“Oh how I enjoy your noises the most out of all my dearest florets. How scandalous to be playing favorites. . .” Many of Drosera’s smaller vines tease her body, rubbing at her scars, gently following along their contours. “You can keep a secret, moppet. Can’t you~?” She could devour the girl through presence alone, strumming at the metal strings above them.
Another thicker vibe probes its way past the chiffon skirt, globs of ambrosia serving for lube to tease her hole.
Driplets of pre leak from Vervain’s cock when the vine penetrates her, inching its way inside. The small ribbon strains against her parts as they twitch from the rapid thrusts rocking her waist, once again rocking from the strings holding her in midair.
Both of the largest vines fuck into her in parallel, the one in her mouth thrusting out as the one below thrusts in. Only getting faster the longer this goes, every sensation greatly heightened by the drugs coursing through her veins. Her pants and moans rumble around the vine’s length, the pleasure only growing from the hooks digging harder into their slots.
The lower vine goes deeper than the other, hitting against a spot in her tight walls that get a shuddered exhale from the floret’s quavering lips. Still soft despite the stimuli, she’s already so, so close to climax. The warmth filling her is ready to bubble over, growing into a blaze that travels out from her overeager cock in waves. A ceaseless drip of pre trickles from between her legs, little dots splattering the floor and her mistress’ feet.
A smaller tendril rubs down the base of her neck, teasing the metal pins keeping her spine steady. Smaller ones still rub circles around the slots in her back, around their raised rims where the strings are connected.
Constant overstimulation, contact on all her most sensitive areas. Every spot on her that can be filled is stuffed to the brim, each scar given personal attention, every inch of her given as much love as it can.
Through blurred vision, Vervain can only just make out Drosera’s massive smile. Wider than anything a human could manage, the material of her face warps and stretches to allow the thorny grin to grow up the sides of her face. Big enough to show off multiple rows of teeth, layered over each other, gold ambrosia leaking from each, her head opening to expose the full height of her maw.
“Go on, moppet. Coda.” In a voracious kiss the oversized maw clamps down on the floret’s head, a viny tongue replacing the vine in her mouth. Her entire face fits comfortably into her elongated jaw, tenderly gnawing down as her throat is finally explored fully.
Vervain can only try her best to kiss the affini back, more of the tiny tendrils lining the roof of her mouth that tease her face during it.
When she manages to climax, she manages a scream of pleasure that echoes off the curved walls of the doll room. The noise is the only sign that she has, what comes from her cock is little more than a couple translucent drops that are barely more visible than the pre. The many vines continue to probe her as she finishes, slowly deescalating their pace while she comes down from her euphoria. Compared to how she used to finish, the nectar inside her helps her ride it out far longer, feeling how intensely it sears.
“Iii- ahhh. . . L-Loffuuu. . .” Incoherent mumbles lovingly declared into her mistress' mouth, feeling the vines eventually retract to be replaced by her long, slender arms.
With her quickly the world moves and shifts, she doesn’t even notice when Drosera’s face has already shifted back into its more normal state. . .
Instead of the ravenous kiss that once devoured her, the small kiss that lands on her forehead is far more delicate. A loving gesture, her fluffy antennas swishing down to ruffle her now messy hair.
“ Lofe” you too, sweet doll. . .” The two remain embraced in the afterglow, she’s at the perfect height right now to be embraced by the tall affini. With her arms pinned up she can’t return the hug, only able to rub her face clumsily into hers instead.
She won't be leaving anytime soon. When her mistress eventually leaves, when their embrace separates, the floret will still be hanging in air suspended by those golden strings. The room reeks of sweet nectar, of the gold fluid soaking into Vervain’s skin and holes, only dragging her deeper into bliss once more.
Dangling there in her best doll pose, the affini stands in the threshold of the now-open door. Her tall silhouette casts a taller shadow over the floor, only the glow of her eyes and the sneer of her grin still visible.
“This time? A few hours seems perfect.” She hums sweetly, snickering when it only gets a delirious wave from the strung up girl. “A splendid amount of time with your kin. Yes?. . . I’ll be baaack, moppet. . .” Twin thumbs curl as she returns the wave, taking a few flawless steps back.
Before the door twists and winds shut again, capturing the floret inside.
Now she’s surrounded by silence, by the limp dolls littering the floor. All she can focus on is the sensation of her still warm body and the hooks inside her body, losing momentum before she’s no longer swaying.
“Ceeuu. . . soon. . .” Her eyes flutter shut, and she fades into a warm nothingness. Only short giggles leave her occasionally, amused by everything and nothing.
Nothing. Nothing at all. There’s nothing to focus on, nothing to worry about, nothing at all but the pressure of her strings and her blissful haze. . .
And Vervain wouldn’t have it any other way.
. . .
. . .
. . .