Imagine How Good It Would Feel At The End Of A Long Day To Be Able To Stretch Out On A Table And Have

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.

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.

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.

Haha straight up jorkin it haha,,, and by “it” I mean my girlfriend who uses it/it’s

In the urban maze's arteries, neon courses, A luminous stream amidst shadows' dark embraces. Through streets tangled like veins, secrets pulse, Neon's deceptive hues painting the city's face.

Here, where dreams and demons collide, Neon blood flows, relentless and untamed. Lost souls wander, seeking solace in its glow, Electric whispers weaving through the neon's frame.

Amidst towering structures, desires unfurl, Neon blood pumps, a rhythm unfettered. Beneath glamour's veneer, souls ensnared, In the city's neon heart, where reality's blurred.

In this realm of synthetic dreams, Neon stains the pavement, a mark of transgression. For in the urban arteries, neon courses, The lifeblood of a city, where truth finds no expression.

Heavy breaths shared between quiet whispers, degeneration to observe loving worship, please… 💕

let's fall in love so we can fuck properly

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

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

neon-stitched seraphim She limps, but not from pain— from memory. From nights when the alleys had teeth and the rooftops whispered names of the ones who didn’t make it. She walks like a glitch— half-code, half-ghost, all sorrow stitched in synth-wire grace.

Neon bleeds from her elbows, sacred and slow, a luminescent trail for the dead to follow. They do. You can hear them if you listen hard— in the static between heartbeats, in the fizz of broken screens, in the tremor of her breath when the darkness closes in too tight.

Once, she flew. Not with wings, but with boosters lit by bad choices and whispered promises of a future she never asked for. Now she crawls through glitching dreams, jerking awake as if her soul’s buffering. Lagged. Unpatched. Shaking with the echo of every capsule she swore she’d never touch again.

Her skin carries the gospel of survival— burns from datajacks, bruises shaped like goodbye. Every scar, a city landmark. Every wound, an archived file. She is not broken— she is backed up, fragments looping in corrupted prayer.

They tried to sanctify her pain, to call her angel. because she didn’t die when they said she would. But angels don’t flinch at their own reflection. Angels don’t wake up screaming. She does. Every night. She wakes to the smell of ozone and rot, to the taste of old sins on her tongue, to the silence left behind, by voices she couldn’t save.

The city never forgives. But it forgets. And she lives in that forgetting— a glitch in the archive, a flicker on the feed, a body moving just slow enough to be missed.

She does not look for redemption. Only quiet. Only something soft enough to rest on without dreaming of fire.

And still she walks, luminous and limping, the afterimage of someone who once believed she could be more than this.

What bleeds from her is not blood. It is data. It is grief. It is the price you pay for choosing to survive in a place that demands you die pretty.

And if you meet her in the shadow between heartbeats, don’t ask what she’s running from. She’s not running.She’s remembering.