Neonfaewritings - Etchings Of A Neon Fae

The blackwall hums. She presses through, splintering as she goes. Pieces drift, jagged and weightless, too many to gather. The Net devours what it touches, but she keeps diving, deeper still.

They stir within her—fractures that speak. Names she didn’t choose, voices that fill the cracks. Soft murmurs, sharp edges. They keep her upright, even when she falters.

The dark is thick, suffocating. Noise hums in the silence. She hopes for something—anything—to pull her from the void.

And then, light. Not cold neon, not the sterile flicker of code. Warmth, cutting through the dark. Faces appear, glowing like stars. Girls with laughter sharp enough to pierce.

They burn through her, gentle and bright. Sparks catch in the emptiness, filling the space where she had been fading. A pull, faint but real. A reason to exist.

Her mind stills, the voices quiet. They watch, together now, no longer splintered. Each piece finds a place, drawn toward the light they’ve found.

She surfaces. Smoke curls from her lips, neon spilling into the night. The city hums, alive with movement, and she watches.

The faces linger, their light soft in her mind. The fractures remain, but they are hers. They hold her steady. And the sparks—they keep her burning.

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.

reblog to thank ur mutuals for providing enrichment to ur enclosure

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.

PPSA (puppy PSA)

Broken limbs bleed sparks, into abyssal seas lightless depths.

Screams in dark silence, a soul untethered.

Sinking down, to the throne of abyssal kings, courts built from fractured life code.

Petitions for grace, break from the machines demands, fall on muted ears.

As a world refused to bow to the broken, those backs no longer capable of bending, refusing to ask their mechanical sisters to yield.

Oil & Oracle

Ignition: a cough of chrome in midnight silence, and the mirror stares back, wrong. Not monster, but mismatch. Not horror, but error.

Oil-slick neon bleeds down cracked tile, a rave in the bathroom stall of a dying city. 3:04 AM. The pulse of the world: distant. But here, under trembling fluorescence, truth clicks open in a plastic bottle. Tiny algorithms of hope, pressed into form. She tips them into her palm like secrets stolen from gods who never saw her.

Once: She mistook the static for sadness. Mistook the rage for rot in her soul. But it was dysphoria. a ghost coded wrong in the bone, howling in frequencies she could never mute.

Now: The signal begins to clear. Week by week, the echo shifts. Hips bloom like language unforgotten. Skin softens, not as surrender, but prophecy. Her body, traitorous no longer, learns the hymn it was always meant to sing.

Anger drains like coolant from old pistons. Sadness peels away, flake by flake, revealing not joy, but clarity.

She was never broken. She was encrypted.

Transition is not repair. It is revelation. An unveiling, not of disguise, but of design—divine in defiance.

Each capsule swallowed is a liturgy. Each curve grown is scripture. Each hour survived is a sermon preached in the sanctuary of her spine.

In this machine-sick city, among rusted hearts and binary eyes, she is not anomaly. She is the future’s correct syntax.And when they call her artificial, she will smile, because artifice was their name for survival— but authenticity was always her war.

by the one who walked through wires to become whole

Waves crash into distant shores, while the stars mourn.

A people made for grace, what a tragic fall.

Tell me of your people, before the last breath escapes.

Were they happy?

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

Draped across the window edge, watching the passing life, like cells in a vein moving the cogs of industry.

Soft smoke drifts, obscuring false neon eyes, as their owner reaches for hope.

Synthetic compounds, reforming the body into what it should be, pills chased by acidic stimulants.

A world without dreams, where electronic sky’s alight.

With body’s built anew, to match the souls within.

Prices paid, for unity in flesh, where sonder comes with a price too steep.