Code Eclipsed

Flickering lights trace the edge of sight, A city alive while the mind strains in the quiet. Circuits hum beneath the skin, sleepless whispering, In the hollow hours where neon breathes like a heartbeat.

Eyes reflect the dance of fractured light, Insomnia's rhythm winding tighter, an endless tether. In the haze, thoughts unravel, coded in static, A mind split, part flesh, part data stream, lost in transit.

Throbbing signals drift through empty skies, Dreams corrupted, overwritten with binary ghosts. Awake but somewhere deeper, past even the body's reach, Chasing some solace hidden in the glow, forever elusive.

And as dawn breaks over glass and steel, The heart remains untouched, pulsing faintly, A quiet signal, lost beneath layers of code. Still tethered to life, but only barely.

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

let's fall in love so we can fuck properly

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.

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

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.

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.

reblog to thank ur mutuals for providing enrichment to ur enclosure

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.

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