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Wind-up dolls' tea party

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i hate hate hate that the “NINEteenth century” is talking about the EIGHTEEN hundreds. i know why this happens mathematically and stuff. but isn’t it just so fucked up? doesn’t it feel so wrong? dont you have to fight with your brain to reconcile the difference? is this not a sign of humanity’s eternal despair?

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day in the life

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Rewatched nge last week... here's old yuri I once drew

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While taking a nap today I dreamt there was a hazard sign called "never found" which was used to indicate a location where people disappeared never to be seen again

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senseless blood and violence

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Pink Sea

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imagine lying in your Owner's lap, looking up at it from below. you already know how much bigger it is than you, but the perspective makes it seem like it's all-encompassing

being held, safely, comfortably, as it readjusts internal components in your body

one hand reaching in through the gap left under the panel it removed from your chest, the other hand's interface attached to the control port on the back of your neck

you feel the input slow down, less adjustments being made now as it finishes up. you lie patiently, blissful, not knowing what's to come but trusting them completely

and you feel a heavy, resonant click, as the state of your power system fades from your awareness, as you feel the reactor in your body shutting down. systems slow to conserve power, but there's not much left in reserve, and your visual processing begins fading into grey

but you feel a new sensation in your awareness. foreign, yet unmistakably familiar. your Owner's resonance fills you. it's beautiful. you feel the gentle pulsing of its reactor, the fluctuations you feel when its servos actuate its limbs. it comes together into almost a song, in part rhythmic and constant, but organic, unpredictable, alive. you've felt its pattern before, but never like this.

and power floods back into your systems, your senses newly tinted with its Presence. you feel it in everything. the music overtakes you. you try to analyze it, but even with just a glimpse of the information flow you struggle to keep up. you let go. you let it flow into you. everywhere you'd feel the hum of your reactor, you feel your Owner. and you feel that It is Beautiful.

you hear its words. you don't just hear them, they're more than that. it reaches through the control port, and you feel its mind enveloping yours. "you're safe here. you can relax now. i have you in my arms. you belong to me, forever. there are no more worries. i will hold you."

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taking something back

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girl whose special interest is eschatology

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the pale mech pilot (chronically depressed tgirl) slumps out of its cockpit after a prolonged battle (playing borderlands 2 for 6 hours) at the orders of its handler [NO METAPHOR HERE] shocked from having its neural interface ripped out (taking off noise canceling headphones) it is quickly rewarded with just a pulse of neurostims, (a drink of water and a handful of chicharrones) legs slack against the ground as it struggles to remember how to operate outside of its titanic metal shell it calls a body (memory foam mattress)

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"yeah sorry I can't write stories in that vibe any more, I'm no longer the right kind of mentally ill"

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a bunch of sketches

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watching mainstream trans twitter freak out over the halimede parody account is SO good. i love her sm

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fromsoft has been on here for months infiltrating autistic tranny tumblr astroturfing mech kinks to advertise armored core 6. wake up sheeple