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wear cat ear headbands. go shopping at a pet store. sleep in a dog bed. run on all fours. roll around in the grass. get fang-shaped dental implants. growl and hiss at people. wear a collar. file your nails into claws. get species-affirming tattoos and piercings. eat your food out of a pet bowl. purr when you're happy. be truly yourself, no matter what.
something I feel people need to understand about wireplay (coming from a robot) is that you can't simply yank on them, it's like sharply pulling hair at best and can seriously injure your machine in many cases. the internals of nearly any machine should be assumed to be incredibly delicate– there are parts of us that will be irreparably damaged if touched by human hands.
I'm sure there are plenty of techkin that would love to be handled roughly, but I dislike the assumption that this is the default.
what you should do is start slow and gently, and escalate according to your partner's comfort and consent. don't even pull on them to begin with, simply run your fingers over a bundle of wires or stroke a single wire at a time to start. let it sink in for your partner that they are in some way placing their safety in your hands and how intimate this is. from there, you can begin to tug on them, or run your fingers through clusters. wind them up, pull harder, almost threatening to pop out of its ports now. bring them close to breaking, but never truly break that trust. that's how you make love to a machine
it's always funny to me when ppl act like it's somehow incestuous for characters who consider each other found family/chosen family/whatever u wanna call the trope to date each other, and it's funny for many reasons, but most specifically it's funny because irl when you meet a person and get really attached and decide that you want to be family with them, there's a very popular legally recognized way of doing that & it's called marriage
She turned around in the bag as I walked like she was trying to cuddle up. The walk to the coffee shop is really hard for me now, so we have to take a bunch of breaks.
I do let her explore a bit on the way. She really wanted to show me this rock she found and I had to explain that it wouldn’t let her evolve. She wants to keep looking though.
I think I need to accept that I just can’t get coffee anymore without it contributing to a flare up. Thankfully she doesn’t mind supporting me for a while…
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Went to a birthday last night with like, four other trans girls there. I made one joke about being “normal” and one of the started staring at me with the most intense and suspicious “I know what you are” look I’ve ever seen
When we wake up and re-enact what I did to her in her sleep last night so she doesn't miss out on all the affection and fun of being my good little unconscious cocksleeve.
Before you start:
The cadence of this writing is intentionally lulling and immersive.
Some readers describe it as trance-like.
If you tend to drift, take a moment to anchor yourself first.
✦ ᛉ ᚨ ᚷ ᛟ ✦
when things become so predictable
they start feeling good —
that’s where the hypnotic loop begins.
if you’ve heard one, you know it:
those phrases that repeat,
keep falling, falling, falling...
it’s not that the hypnotist ran out of words.
most of them probably eat dictionaries for breakfast.
but the loop—
the loop is a gift wrapped in repetition.
a pattern.
a rhythm.
a reward.
I write → I get likes → I write more.
good girl, such a good boy.
our brains melt for that kind of cycle.
it keeps us listening, watching, waiting.
you see loops everywhere.
in anime where they die and come back.
in stories that start again and again.
the human mind needs the ending—
and that’s when the hypnotist knows
they’ve got you in their hand.
each loop a step deeper,
each repetition a descent.
like Scheherazade,
not to escape death—
but to keep the dream alive,
to keep you imagining,
falling,
breathing in rhythm.
loops are everywhere.
and with every one of them,
we go a little deeper.
pulling up to the tgirl frat house in a car littered with monster cans blasting ada rook and i walk in and there's an indistinct pile of women in a dog bed on the floor of the living room and discarded white claw cans on every surface and they're all on LSD and they start freaking out because they saw a vacuum in the corner. two adult women who look like 14 year old boys come out of the basement reeking of weed and cum and ask when dinner's gonna be ready and then disappear for another hour. 3 people blasting cigs on the back porch at any given time, castration movie on the TV, trans flags in the windows, ants on every surface, 2 muzzles and 4 collars on the coffee table but no dogs, rusty scratched-up mirror with razor blades and cut-up drinking straws, fridge plastered with promo posters for raves that happened a year ago. bella has changed her name to Manta and is sitting on the couch rubbing t-gel into its/her balls, nobody has brushed their teeth this week but they all smoke so much they can't smell it. clarissa's complaining about how raytheon stopped providing free lattes and only lets you have drip coffee now and using a naked chick as a footrest while she does it. aly steps outside wearing a black mask and work uniform and a nametag that says "Jeff" and starts her 90-minute bus commute to a grocery store that's just outside the city limits so minimum wage is $2 lower. nobody's noticed yet but alice is visiting from canada and she has lice. in a week, everyone in the house will have them. in two weeks, every barista and grocery bagger and dishwasher in the city will have them. natalie really doesn't want to top anymore but Amazing (who goes by Sara at work) makes $230,000 a year and has needs. everyone's fucking but nobody's cumming.
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girl in a mechsuit gets her arm torn off and the blood and hydraulic fluids start seeping down the side of the armour and you can't tell where she ends and the mech begins. you agree
The warrior who kicked down the door looked immediately familiar, though I'd never seen her before. Hers was the face in the mirror, the mold from which I was cast, the one my maker could never let go of.
Then her eyes fell on me, and I watched a whirlwind of emotions collide across those features I knew so well, a war that resolved itself when her mouth twisted into a sneer. Oh, and the perfect curve of her lips made even her contempt look beautiful.
"What the hell is that?" she demanded with a sweeping gesture toward me. But for all the disgust I seemed to provoke, the ire was aimed at my maker.
"The doll is a remarkable substitute for the real thing, wouldn't you agree?" Pride filled my maker's voice. "But this one knows its place is at my side. It knows to be grateful for my attention. It never—"
Interrupting with a snarl, my double lunged forward, the graceful arcs of her blade catching the moonlight pouring through the hall's great window. I had been instructed to run, to preserve the precious cargo I carried, but I could not bring myself to look away. For all the house's protective wards, all the magic crackling through the air, the warrior's ferocity triumphed. Yet even with a sword through the chest and blood pooling on the ground, my maker laughed in the last moments before death. "I'll be back."
Then we were alone together, my model and I, and as she turned to face me, I saw murder in those crystal-clear eyes. If I had a heart to call my own, its pounding would surely have been audible, even above the slap of her boots on the tile floor.
"Gonna draw a weapon of your own, or just stare daggers at me for killing your puppetmaster?"
Oh, was I mirroring her expression? I wasn't even aware. Hard to resist the urge to perfect myself by adopting her mannerisms, and now that I was paying attention, I noticed the way I was shifting my weight in imitation of the way she carried herself.
The warrior closed the distance, and I felt the tip of her sword rest under my chin.
"Please." At last I found my words. "Not there."
She cocked an eyebrow. Slowly, carefully, I brought my hand to her sword. I paused for a moment, hesitating, but with a curt nod she allowed my fingers to rest on the blade and with gentle pressure guide it lower—past so many carefully sculpted curves—until I had the point aimed just below the notch of my belly button.
"My maker's heart." The words came out in a tiny whisper, as though the quiet might help conceal this betrayal. "Hidden inside me for safekeeping."
With a brusque nod, she adjusted her grip to give her better leverage on the sword, readying herself to plunge it into me, but before committing to the motion, her expression softened.
"I'll make this quick."
I smiled. "Don't."
With fascination I watched how my words invited confusion—and something else—to play across her brow. Was I unconsciously imitating even that? I had no way of knowing.
Without further warning, she flexed her muscles, and I felt the pressure of the sword. My unyielding body resisted the sharpened tip, but only for so long. I did not need to look down to feel cracks spread from that small point as those familiar hands applied more force. The pressure building down there kept growing until at last the structural integrity of my exterior gave way, the cracks gaping wide enough to slip through. Slowly—just as I asked—she slid the naked blade inside my body with one smooth motion, right on target, drawing a gasp from me when she pierced my maker's heart.
Her face so close to me, her breath hot on my neck, her lips parted in a perfect mirror of my open-mouth gasp, I couldn't help but lean forward and close the distance between her mouth and mine.
Her kiss was utterly different from those I passively endured from my maker. No selfish hunger inspired her to slobber and suck like a starving beast; she kissed me like one would a person, soft and tender, her warm lips pressed to the cold of mine. She inspired such feats of mimicry in me that I never knew I was capable of, and my tongue danced with hers in almost choreographed precision.
We kissed as long as I was able before my strength failed. I slumped into her strong arms, and the last thing I saw of her was the look of compassion on her face as she laid me down.
---
I awoke in darkness, with sunlight's gentle cascade from the window warming my body. The heavy cloth atop me fell to the side when I sat upright, blinking in the sudden glare of daylight.
Oh, her cloak. Draped over me in a misguided show of respect for the dead? It still smelled just like her.
To my left, my maker's heart, pinned to the wall with the sword. My beloved must have dug the heart out of my body with her bare hands. I scowled (the same way she would have) in distress that I missed seeing that for myself while my self-repair matrix shut me down. I pulled her cloak—mine now—over my shoulders and claimed the sword for myself as well. A few experimental swings of it, and I was satisfied that I could defend myself adequately. I may not have been taught any weapon skills, but I learned a great deal watching her fight.
I was made to imitate her, after all.
Better than a sister, better than a twin, she was an idealized me. I didn't even know her name, and I couldn't let her go. I wasn't finished learning how to be her.
I left the house for good, following her footprints in the snow.
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stormborns
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