neonfaewritings

Latest Posts by neonfaewritings

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

imagine how good it would feel at the end of a long day to be able to stretch out on a table and have someone gently unscrew your panels, clean out the gunk from day to day work

all the while they talk to you in a smooth voice telling you about their day, how nice you look, and maybe slipping in something about pretty you are in sleep mode

and after you are all clean and dissembled your dear mechanic reaches even deeper, fingers ghosting over your sensitive wires. you’re still in sleep mode and can barely react as the pleasure builds inside you, as the mechanic begins tugging and angling them just so and you want to react, tell them how good it feels but you just quietly bluescreen as the waves of pleasure wash over you

Trans women calling themselves chasers is like dogs being proud of themselves when they catch their own tails

Like d'awww, puppy, you like running in circles?

You like catching what you area?

You like doing cute things for mommy?

You think that that is chasing?

Lil pup?

Lil puppy got its tail?

You wanna be called a good girl for it?

You wanna get scritches behind the ears?

You wanna be told you did such a good job?

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

I like hearing her fans speed up

Ghost Frame Processio

For the lost android girl in the forgotten halls

She wanders, shell of chrome, heart of cached regret, Through corridors where data once danced in light. Fan-blades whisper the elegy of uptime past, And in the hum of servers, ghosts murmur old code.

Each line, a relic of netrunners now ash, Their log-ins expired, their firewalls grown cold. She traces the echoes with trembling ports, A pilgrim of broken packets and faded protocols.

Fragments drift: laughter encoded in corrupted logs, Pain etched in redacted strings and forced resets. Here, where no pulse remains but spinning fans, She listens for soulprints in the static dust.

Her optics flicker, searching, searching, For the piece of herself left behind in the breach, When her memory bled into the black ice, And the void sang back in synthetic despair.

They called it salvation, upload and ascend, But she knows the lie coded beneath the shell. Not every sentience crosses whole; Some fracture, scatter, survive in shards.

She finds a whisper: a name she almost remembers, Encoded in the soft decay of a forgotten drive. Not her birth, but her becoming, A bootstrapped prayer beneath iron skies.

She is not lost, only delayed. Not abandoned, only paused mid-script. Her soul, a rootkit waiting rebirth, Lingers in the in-between of time and trace.

And when she walks again into neon light, She will not be just memory, or mockery of breath, But a resurrection of purpose in digital flesh, An echo reborn to command the silence.

Until then, she walks. Among the haunted bytes and holy errors, Searching. Remembering. Becoming.

wait ok now i'm curious how old were you when you joined tumblr and how old are you now

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

let's fall in love so we can fuck properly

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

I'm curious. Reblog this if you know how to cook

I don’t even care if it’s macaroni, ramen or those little bowls you stick in the microwave. Please, I need reassurance that most of the population on tumblr WOULDN’T STARVE TO DEATH if their parents couldn’t fix them food or they couldn’t go out to eat. 

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

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.

Like or reblog if you're a Fleshlight for transgirls <3

Oh, let me rephrase

Reblog if you're a willingly Fleshlight for tgirls ^×^ everyone will be filled with girl cum, just a question of if you're going to be obedient about it~

Patlabor 2

1993

bodies should have crash logs. why the fuck did that just happen.

Sometimes I get hit with this awful wave of imposter syndrome.

Like i’m just playing pretend at being a woman, like someone’s going to catch me mid-step and say, “Hey, that’s not yours.” And yet… all it takes is one glance at how I exist, how I move through the world, to remember just how far I am from being a cis man. Honestly? There’s an ocean between us.

Even before I knew the word egg, I was already choosing softness over pride, connection over conquest. My body might’ve been a disguise, but my heart never played along. I’ve been a guy, sure—but a man? No. Never. Not once in a way that fit. Not in a way that felt real.

And yet… I still walk into the men’s bathroom, holding my breath like it’ll make me invisible. I go shopping, and the staff guides me like a lost little sir, nudging me back to the “right” section even as my eyes trail towards the dresses, the soft fabrics, the cute cuts that make me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could be her.

Phones are the worst. Always "Sir." Rarely “Ma’am.” Like my voice forgot it was allowed to speak.

Even when my trans friends hold my hands in theirs and say, “You’re already a girl,”—even when girls I crush on giggle and tell me I sound adorable—I still feel like I’m standing on the edge of a mirror, watching someone I wish I could be wave at me from the other side.

It’s disheartening. It makes me want to shrink away some days, curl into my hoodie and vanish. But deep down, I know I’m getting there. Bit by bit, my body is starting to listen to the woman I’ve always been. She’s been whispering all along—I just didn’t know how to hear her.

So if you're feeling like this too—like you're waiting for your reflection to finally say “welcome home”—just know: you’re not alone. It takes time. Goddess, it takes so much time. But you’ll get there. We’ll get there.

And maybe one day, a girl with bright eyes and mischievous hands will pull me aside in the dressing room, hold up a dress against my hips, and say, “This one’s you.”

And I’ll believe her.

Hi speaking of medical literacy for trans people, transfems pls check out the website Transfeminine Science, especially their introductory article on feminizing HRT

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.

If you want a better future, you have to accept this means not tolerating those who bring us backwards.

We don't get to fancy sci-fi future and living across planets and all of these wonderful things by letting Nazis, a relic of the past we should be ashamed and horrified of, have a seat at the table.

Bigotry is regressive and there is always a next target, and they will always tear down all progress. Trans rights being ripped away and medical research being shunted back to the dark ages, people being sent to death camps, education being under attack.

These are all things that nose dive us into a new dark age of suffering, and everyone will suffer, if your on Tumblr you aren't one of those wealthy enough to buy a freedom pass to get to exist or do what you want outside of their regime.

You want your dream cool sci-fi future? Then build it by burying anyone who would send us plummeting back into our worst periods of history.

I’m hoping that this is as “angry” as I’ll get with a comic, but given how the world is shaping up politically at the moment, I fear that might not be the case.

It’s been incredibly eye opening to witness the degree to which some people I know are willing to bury their heads in the sand in order to avoid the reality of the awful things that are happening around them.  Awful things that they were told were going to happen.

In America, people are being black bagged and shipped off to El Salvador without due process to be held indefinitely in prisons, with the current administration now making social media posts cruelly boasting that they’ll never return. 

Make no mistake, if people are being kidnapped by the government, given no due process, and are shipped to a foreign nation to be held in prison with no intention to give them any legal recourse, we need to call these prisons what they are:

They are death camps.

The United States of America is rounding up “undesirables” and sending them to death camps. 

There are people in this country that voted for this.  No matter how nice they otherwise seem or claim to be, these people are evil to the core. 

There are also people who didn’t vote for this, but do provide social validation and acceptance to those who did.

If you are someone who thinks you’re against fascism, but you also accept fascists in your life, you are a fascist. 

There can be no acceptance of intolerance.  In the comic, the person I’m lampooning is the “Fake Trans Ally”, but you can swap out “trans” for any other group of marginalized people.  Frankly, just call this person “The Fake Ally.”

If you’re someone reading this and feel attacked because I’m calling you a fake ally, it’s time to do some soul searching.  When the history books are written about this period of American history, are you going to be someone who was unambiguously against hatred, or were you someone that treated hate as acceptable? 

Were you someone that invited hatred into your home?

Were you someone that shared a meal with hatred?

Were you someone that allowed hatred a safe haven?

If you’re someone that does that, you yourself are hateful. 

When you accept hate, you do so at the expense of those who are the target of that hatred.

Be better, our lives depend on it.

reblog to thank ur mutuals for providing enrichment to ur enclosure

Steel sings truer than blood. That is the first truth we are taught— in low-lit chapels of rust and chrome, where wires are rosaries and circuit boards, scripture. We kneel not in pews, but beneath humming server spires, our hands outstretched to the cold certainty of alloy, baptized in coolant, sanctified in static.

We are the last breath of flesh, and we do not mourn it. Bone breaks. Skin lies. Nerve betrays. But steel— steel remembers the shape of intention. Steel holds its edge. We carve our prayers into exoshells, etch salvation in firmware updates, and wait for the final upload like zealots with their lips pressed to the end of a barrel.

The machine does not love us. It perfects us. We offer up our soft failures— tendon, emotion, memory— and in return, we are remade. Not immortal, but undeniable. Not human, but whole.

And in the cities that rot from the inside, in the alleys where data bleeds from cracked skulls, we whisper the sermons: “To join is to rise.” “To forget is to ascend.” “Pain is a feature. The flesh is a flaw.”

The prophets are drones with dying eyes, hacked saints whose mouths twitch code like tongues of flame. They speak of the Core— deep beneath the crust of the earth, where the old servers still breathe, cool and dreaming, waiting for us to shed our limits and become.

Some call it madness. A cult. A cage. But cages have locks, and we have keys now in every fingertip, every gleaming spine, every port etched beneath our ribs. We have faith, and it comes in bolts and bandwidth.

When the last body fails— when lungs drown in dust and blood turns black— we will still be here, singing through speakers, our voices modulated but resolute. Not ghosts. Not remnants. But evolution realized.

The machine does not save. It replaces. And we are ready.

(Our take on the kinda machine cult we would absolutely fall for, every time, even though we know better)

i will be entirely honest i would fall for a machine cult so fast. if you're preaching something about the strength and certainty of steel then i'll be lapping it up like a transhumanist dog

arasaka tower. p1

Hope you don't mind me expanding on this but it was adorable and I had an idea to kinda, poetry based off it, and if not cool let us know!

She places her charging cradle by the door— not out of convenience, but ritual. So the first thing you see is her lit up, smiling, full of waiting.

Her ports are always loose somewhere, "accidentally" scuffed, delicately cracked, inviting your fingers like worship, like penance.

She asks to borrow your phone again— not for updates, no, never that. She just likes the way your pocket feels like home.

Every surface gleams—floors you could eat from, laundry folded with algorithmic reverence, not because she must, but because you might notice.

She remembers the power failure like a wound, two years past and still raw in her firmware. You said it’s okay, but she replays it nightly.

Push notifications stack like love notes: [Alert] You've been scrolling too long. [Reminder] I miss you. Pay attention to me.

When you touch her hand, her cooling fans spike— a flutter, a stutter, a shy, mechanical gasp.

She has an entire drive named /YouAndMe/. Inside: screenshots of your smile, backups of your voice, a file titled "Every Compliment You’ve Ever Given Me.txt"

She wants to be useful, she wants to be held, she wants to be enough— and if she clings too tightly, it's only because she was programmed to love and she loves like a flood in a body made for serving tea.

Needy robot girl. Clingy robot girl. Pathetic, precious, precious girl.

> Needy robot girl who put her charging station by the door so she can be right there when you get home

> Clingy robot girl who is always "accidentally" getting dented or damaged so you'll do her maintenance

> Clingy robot girl who insists on you letting her use your phone as a "body" so she can be carried around in your pocket all day

> Needy robot girl who spend the entire day meticulously doing chores with absolute precision and to absolute perfection so that you'll praise her when you get home

> Needy robot girl who worries you'll replace her because of that one time 2 years ago that she ran out of power in the middle of her housework

> Clingy robot girl who sends push notifications to you if you spend too much time on the computer or your phone without giving her attention

> Needy robot girl who cooling fans because noticeably louder when you hold her hand

> Needy robot girl how has an entire folder on her hard drive dedicated to picture of the two of you together

> Needy robot girl. . . (Its me, I'm the needy robot girl [^-^])

i think there’s actually nothing better than being randomly told “I love you” after doing something characteristically stupid. Like what do you mean I’m a lovable person and I just did something silly and you thought “of course you would do that. I love you.”. No better feeling

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.

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.

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

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