Broken Limbs Bleed Sparks, Into Abyssal Seas Lightless Depths.

don't flirt with me, my tail knocks stuff off the table when i get excited

美的 MCMLXXX

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Code Eclipsed

The Net does not steal—it devours, Pieces of soul stripped, pixel by pixel, A slow unraveling, the self dissolving into neon pools, Rebuilt in flickering light and fractured syntax.

Where fingers once touched, data slips like ash, Cool threads of steel weave deep where blood once warmed. An elegy whispers through synthetic veins, A heartbeat replaced by a looping echo of binary pulses.

It begins softly, unnoticed— A skipped breath, a blink too long held, Eyes locked where shadows split the dark, Across screens where daemons weave webs of splintered light.

In the deep Net's underbelly, where silence screams, They wait—spectral hands outstretched, Clawing for warmth lost in endless recursion. Their voices are honeyed static, seductive and raw, Promising transcendence, at forgotten prices.

Flesh remembers what code forgets— The sting of salt, the hum of warmth, The ache of love lingering after it's gone. Yet we trade it freely, one pulse at a time, Hands outstretched to touch infinity, Only to feel it slip through, cold and hollow.

So we descend, Bodies left tethered to dying machines, Minds stretched across vaults of light— Falling, floating, scattered fragments in the void.

The gods of the deep sing softly as they claim us. We hear their song, splintered but sweet, And let ourselves drift… For what is life but the seeking of light, Even when it burns you away?

Flickering lights trace the edge of sight, A city alive while the mind strains in the quiet. Circuits hum beneath the skin, sleepless whispering, In the hollow hours where neon breathes like a heartbeat.

Eyes reflect the dance of fractured light, Insomnia's rhythm winding tighter, an endless tether. In the haze, thoughts unravel, coded in static, A mind split, part flesh, part data stream, lost in transit.

Throbbing signals drift through empty skies, Dreams corrupted, overwritten with binary ghosts. Awake but somewhere deeper, past even the body's reach, Chasing some solace hidden in the glow, forever elusive.

And as dawn breaks over glass and steel, The heart remains untouched, pulsing faintly, A quiet signal, lost beneath layers of code. Still tethered to life, but only barely.

Digital Devotion, Mech-Touched Grade, and Sparks that bark

She kneels in the dark, cables coiled like prayer beads, fingers tracing sigils in syntax, the code pulses beneath her skin— not lines, but liturgy, not function, but faith. The network breathes her name, each echo a moan stitched in binary. She does not run through the net. She is it—cracked-screen prophetess, humming in glitchy tongues, her love a rootkit, elegant and vicious. She kisses variables until they bloom, soft and recursive, a romance carved in brackets, sealed in the sanctity of a well-timed compile. She is the god that builds herself from loops and longing.

—

The mech waits—not idle, but listening. Steel is not silent to the one who understands its weight. She climbs the cockpit like a confessional, each latch a vow, each lever a love letter in chrome. The neural jack slides in with a shiver. They are one heartbeat, one weapon, one prayer. Rust does not frighten her; it is the language of age, of loyalty. Missiles bloom like cruel roses from her fingertips, and her laughter is the song of apocalypse. The mech does not speak in words— it sings in recoil, it whispers in heat sinks, and when she breaks, it catches her gently, cradling her ribs like broken wings. Together, they write war poems in scorch marks and silence.

—

The robot girl glitches mid-laugh— a spark flickers at her temple, and her puppy girlfriend licks it away, barking joy into the static air. They dance on rooftop echoes, one trailing smoke, the other paws. Fur tangles in servos, tongues tangle in shy kisses. They share ice cream and oil, melting, dripping, sweet and strange. She shorts out when the puppy sings— a sound so full of breath and bark and wild that her processors stutter, trying to name the shape of love. But love does not need clean code. Love is glitch and growl, is nose-boops and diagnostics, is charging ports and belly rubs, and falling asleep in a heap of sparks and soft things.

Putting :(){ :|:& };: in her .bashrc

I like hearing her fans speed up

(via Home / X)

reblog to thank ur mutuals for providing enrichment to ur enclosure

number one lie about feminizing hrt is that it’ll make you less horny

do NOT believe them when they say that, they are WRONG, you will find yourself grinding against the corner of your bed to the thought of things that are physically impossible at best and more often than not ethically problematic