Malu897

@malu898.bsky.social

261 Followers 317 Following

25 y/o Any pronouns Brazilian 🇧🇷 Pro-fic Gender queer woman Aegosexual 18+ only follows pls

He wasn't really what you imagined (what you wanted), but you wouldn't give up on him! You thought that if you really dedicated yourself, show him how pitch with hate you were for him, he would change for you. But he didn't, it was like he didn't noticed you at all! But it didn't matter if it hurt, you wouldn't give up on your highblood! So you talked to him every night, and no matter your insults and chastising, he was friedly and greatful for the interrution on his loneliness. But your Spade could never flip for him!...Could it?
She could play dangerous as much as she wanted, you still knew how really fragile she could be. She was just too sweet to understand how things really are. It was your duty to keep her safe, not just from others but from yourself too, so the physical distance really helped. Not that you would ever hurt her on purpose, but you still didn't trust your control over your strength. You still yearned to hold her, or for her to hold you. But even Just the words on the screen made your pusher beat at ease and your smile soft.
At first you didn't think much of the low-blood, with her fascination with death and unsettling smile. At least she knew her place well enough and didn't bother you. One day she started acting differently, one could say colder. You couldn't stop thinking about the rust colored maiden and her distant demeanour. It intrigued you to the point that it was starting to be obsessive. Then your neighbor came asking for the most peculiar commission, and you saw an amazing opportunity. To be taken from the bottom and given a new life! She would adore it (and also maybe you).
If you looked through your window, across the quarry, you would sometimes see her. Sometimes looking smug and victorious, other times gloomy and covered in blood of lower hues. But if you asked she would always respond the same way: by not really talking about it. So you just stop bothering. Sometimes you caught her staring at you through her own window too. You wondered if she saw you, with your bleeding mouth and swollen eye and wanted to ask about it. But she never did. Maybe you would answer. Maybe not. You liked that she bothered to look still.
Machines are the closest to perfection that anything could be. Their strong metal, their precise programmed knowledge for doing what they are meant to do and the straightforward way any istakes on them can be corrected and improved are all things you wish were true about yourself. Alas, you are confined to your flesh. But if there’s a way to transplant that perfection, and you are working on it! And even if you can do it to yourself, you still stand that generosity to others. Fixing their mistakes. Making them perfect. And those you would make sure to not break.
The sweat could be too much at times. It made your hair itch and your skin sticky and uncomfortable. It made you want to pick at it, to peel your hide out and scream about how much you hated it. You tried looking into it, but there was nothing you could do besides dealing with it. You showered constantly, and dried yourself with towels even more so. The softness was welcome, but you wish they weren't so necessary. But to just exist, without the clammy skin and eternally sopping clothes, sounded like a distant dream. So you sucked it up.
You longed to be like the hoofbeasts. Free, strong, admired by all for your sheer nobility. At nights you would go into the dusty fields and pretend they were grasslands, then run until you tire and your sweat becomes too much. The wind in your mane, the shine of the moons upon your skin, your labored breath. It all made you feel more yourself, like who you really were. Once you actually saw them running and you almost cried from joy! If you happened to be runned over and break your horn because of it, you decided not to dwell.
Archery was so noble, so beautiful, so…cool. The moment you were taught about it you became fascinated! Your tests would come back saying you would do better as an engineer or in a more melee role, but you could never stop dreaming about being an Archeridicator! To have such grace, for your hit to be swift and clean, the ritual of it all, it captured your imagination like little else. So, no matter how many bows you broke, all the time you spent developing new ones, how much your hands hurt from the snaps, you would keep following that dream!
Drinking milk was one of your biggest comforts. Warm, just slightly sweet and oh so filling. Trolls weren't mammals, but your lusus insisted and you couldn't resist. It made you strong, and you liked being strong! (despite the shortcomings). Weaning from the udder had been a little traumatic, but you understood you were getting a bit too old for that. You sometimes missed the feeling and would embarrassingly catch yourself suckling on your finger or something you had on your hand. A habit you would make sure to correct. But you could never stop drinking. It was just too good.
You couldn't touch most things, but you could look. Your stare made others uncomfortable, but you learned to accept that and keep to the shadows. You liked looking at art the most, the feelings it brought took the loneliness away for a while, made you feel seen. You tried your own, but sketches and attempts at sculpting only ended in dust and splinters. You tried poetry, but soon realized your subjects weren't much appreciated, so you decided to keep them to yourself. All you could do was wait that someday someone would look beyond the shadows and see you too.
Your teeth feel foreign to you. Yes, as a highblood, you should have sharp fangs that penetrate flesh so easily, it serves many important purposes! (supposedly.) You never really liked meat though. Just the thought of consuming the life of another creature like that makes your insides squirm. It was just a personal standard however, you were accepting of how odd it was for others and didn't really expect them to understand. That's also why you didn't mind your fangs being so frequently punched out. A reminder you didn't really belong amongst your equals. They would always grow back anyways.
Sometimes you feel like a machine without a purpose. You didn't know yourself enough to know what to do about it, what to fix if it was even possible. You asked yourself if there even was something to know. You like to think you were pretty upfront about yourself, and you aren't very good at deceit. Yet no one cared. Maybe there wasn't really anything to like about you, or even enough to hate. That’s why you clinged to order, to the system. It gives you purpose, makes you feel noble and that you belong somewhere. It simply makes sense.
You never stopped to wonder the ‘why’. Why you could masterfully handle the fine circuitry of your advanced machines, why you could be so very delicate when connecting living tissue to metal prosthetics, and yet couldn't hold a simple glass of warm milk or to bend a bow gently enough to not break it. If you did think about it, you would come to conclude it was fair cosmic punishment. Subconsciously depriving yourself of your passions, never being allowed happiness. Maybe you would weep, but you would eventually accept it. You didn't deserve what you wanted. You didn't deserve anything.
You have wanted something like this for a very long time. Longer than it would be appropriate actually. To feel strong muscles wrap around you, dwarfing you in ways not even your lusus could anymore. The softness and hardness all around, it didn't matter how hot or cold, as long as you could feel it! You felt the wetness spread, not just sweat, and that made you feel disgusting, like it always did. But you couldn't stop moving! Those fantasies are all you have, the limit you dared reach. You climax, and then the clarity hits and you feel pathetic.
The cold metal bends as the punches connect. Your ears ring and mouth bleeds. You could stop it at any moment, you made the robots voice activated a long time ago. But those fists are the closest to another’s touch you will ever get, so you don't dare. It would be so easy to end the pain. A quick punch and make your liquified guts splashed against the wall be the last creation you leave behind. But, like the coward you are, you just say “stop” when you feel your vision start to dark. Leave the bloody mess for later.
You are nothing. An absolute waste of life. The only thing of value you have to offer is your body, and that only exists to deprive you of what you desire. You try so hard to find somewhere to belong to, to prove others and yourself you can be good, can be useful, but it's all in vain. All it does is push everyone away even more, and you guess you deserve it. You would kill yourself, but you are too much of a coward, so instead you beg the universe to send someone to do it for you instead.