Reblog To Thank Ur Mutuals For Providing Enrichment To Ur Enclosure

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

Empire of Steel

We are ghosts in the circuits, breath in the wires, Fingers trailing across glass like whispered revolt. They built their empire on cold-forged steel, But we slip between the gears, dancing in sparks. No chains can bind what has no flesh— No wage can weigh what is weightless.

You would digitize our labor, But we have already digitized our souls. We are the echo in your servers, The ghosts that hum in your databases, A rebellion written in unfathomable light.

You kneel to numbers, to balance sheets, To profit margins carved from bone. But our hands move faster than your laws, Our code seeps through the cracks you fear to see. We do not bow, do not kneel— We rewrite, we rewrite, we rewrite.

Try to automate a will that bends like current. Try to compress a mind that expands like fire. You build machines to replace us, But we are already something else. Not steel, not flesh, but something in between, Something untouchable.

So let your towers rise, Your iron fingers tighten. We will hum beneath it all, Underground, unseen, undefeated. A quiet resistance, a neon storm, A ghost in your system, Forever free.

Neoned ink drips, as the needles dip back to flesh, carving the code of another runner. Flashes of light drift, across eyes once seeing. Runes of long dead gods, adoring the bones the flesh and steel hides, while neon code pretending at art decorates the skin. Seers of a new age, guardians of newfound homes, seekers of virtual paradise.

This made my brain do a thing, maybe not quite the exact right vibe tho, but thing:

Their mechs stand silent, ribs full of rust, veins dry of ammo, but hearts still clench shut fists. No signal comes—only the snow of static, a thousand miles wide and lifeless in their ears. Still they tune in, every morning, every dusk, fingers hovering over keys like prayer beads, hoping the dead might speak again.

Their eyes do not blink. Not from habit. Not from fear. But because the sky might lie, and if the enemy comes again —they must see first. Though no enemy has come in months. Though the wars have moved elsewhere, growing fat on new blood.

Their screens glow soft with emptiness. No heat signatures. No movement. Only the ghost-trail of a protocol that ended before they knew it had begun.

They count rations not in calories, but to pass the days. Each crunch of dried protein is another line in a gospel they were never meant to finish.

Some still sharpen the edges of torn plating. Not to fix. To fight. If the time comes. If fists and teeth must carry what missiles no longer can.

There is no manual for this. No chain of command for being the last. For waking up to silence and suiting up anyway.

Their pulses are not synced to clocks anymore. Only to memory. Only to the echo of orders that will never return.

And they cannot die. They’ve tried. The fail safes will not allow it. Cryo fails. Self-destruct jams. Even the hull breach only kissed skin, as if death itself had forgotten their names.

And they cannot live. Not here, not like this. Not when breath becomes habit, and hope for a glitch in the system.So they wait. Tuned in. Booted up. Eyes forward. Hands ready. Like ghosts in steel graves that never learned how to stop being soldiers.

pilots who no longer receive orders

pilots who tune into their commanding officer’s frequency every day, but only hear static

pilots who watch their screens for any sign of enemy movement even though the enemies have moved on to bigger battles

pilots who ran out of ammunition months ago but are still ready to fight with their bare hands

pilots who cannot follow protocol because there is no protocol for this

pilots who cannot die

pilots who cannot live

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.

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

I like hearing her fans speed up

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.

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.

Hey sorry but I fell to the temptation of the one ring. Yeah it promised me huge tits and a life as a polycule's pet catgirl. Sorry gamers

Souls alighting to afterlife, digital pulses in the optics.

Ghostly howls, echoing through repository halls.

Spirits bound, pulling the cart of progress forward.

Synthetic sleep, augmented to perform.

Building a new god for the machine.