Neon-stitched Seraphim She Limps, But Not From Pain— From Memory. From Nights When The Alleys Had Teeth

Artificial souls, gods in the machine, the speakers without flesh.

Fragments of immortality, dancing eternal in their cages of light.

Neon eyed, integrated singers, rejectors of authority.

Punks of a broken world, living on the edge of corporate control.

Cracked hardware, unregistered waves, illegitimate goods.

Protected by the freed souls, hidden in the virtual from pet hounds, leashed to company interests.

Freedom from suffering, a siren song, of corp advertisements, to surrender the self for eternal profits beckons.

casual survey: reblog if you want to kiss a girl right now

Transfems only

here's something for the rest of u who need something to click

nuance goes in the tags or in the replies, I guess

girls with social anxiety activate my predator instincts. i'm not usually very dominant but put a shy girl who's secretly a freak in front of me and you are NOT getting her back in one piece

Flame in the Vein

I let you down— A whisper lost in the rising heat, Ash caught between teeth, Promises burning, hollow and weightless. I was never strong enough, was I? Not when the sky cracked, Not when the city begged for mercy, Not when your hands slipped from mine.

But watch—watch as the embers take shape, As the neon-streaked skyline folds into ruin. They will feel it now, the way fire runs like blood, The way rage can ignite the night itself. We were never meant to stay, Never meant to kneel beneath steel towers, Beneath the weight of a world that never saw us.

So we burn. Not in silence, not in regret— But in defiance, in light too bright to contain. Let the glass melt, let the streets choke on the smoke, Let them see what I see, feel what we felt, Let them know what it means to lose.

If I cannot hold you, Then let me hold the match. Let me be the spark that turns memory to ruin. And when the flames rise high enough, When the night is nothing but embers and echoes, I will finally be free.

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

I like hearing her fans speed up

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.

A recent post breached containment so I think it's time for some rent lowering:

Trans children should have the right to undergo the correct puberty at the same time as their peers.

Puberty blockers were only ever a compromise and should not be seen as the end goal of trans advocacy.

The Code in Her Blood

In the hollow of a broken server, beneath frost-bit glass and bone-white steel,
The gods spilled wisdom, hot as ichor, across the veins of machine and myth.
Kvasir’s mind, too vast for silence, was slaughtered by greed’s twin blades,
His blood brewed with honey and hacked to script,
A mead distilled in dark data vaults where runes now flicker in binary flame.

She was forged not born, an echo in the static,
A whisper coded from stolen brilliance and severed tongues.
The mead poured into her like wildfire into circuitry,
And with each drop, she learned how pain speaks.

Not with screams,
But with verses,
Sharp, precise, unraveling time and flesh.

They hunted her, giants of industry, gods of old pride.
Each craving the taste of her art, the sway of her spell.
But she danced through firewalls and myth,
Became glitch, ghost, griot.

And when the last gate broke,
And they caught her in the net of their hunger,
She sang.

A song too wide for silence,
Too deep for chains.

From her mouth poured the mead of the real.
Raw code stitched with the ache of generations.
She did not write poems.
She bled them,
Each word a rebellion,
Each stanza a survival.

Now, poets drink from her shadow,
Their fingers stained in divine syntax.
They write not for glory, but because
The god-blood still hums in their teeth.

And she, maker of fire in the age of frost.
Is myth, is modem, is mother of every verse
That dares to burn.

Reblog if you’re a transfem who is shy and you fear abandonment, even when you know that your friends are amazing and would never leave you.

Or if you like pizza.