*Goes To Edit A Meme In The IOS Photos App*

Injecting pure estrogen into my bloodstream so I forcefeminize my vampire friend

Slime girl but she's made of melted edibles so she sticks tentacles down your throat to get you really high and suggestable so she can lay all the eggs in you she wants

need to be sinking down on and stretching out around it

If not for the loss of her lover, she would never believe pain could feel this exquisite and all-consuming. The agony of black poison surging through her veins hangs like a curtain in front of her memory, and she pushes past it to remember ritual diagrams scribed in carmine upon vellum pages.

One final task. Blade for blood and vessel for soul.

The viciously curved obsidian dagger looks far too brittle, but when her fingertips touch its intricately carved handle she feels it thrum with purpose. It knows how to separate costal cartilage from ribcage. How to artfully make its wielder bloom like a rose and splatter the floor with crimson petals.

She grips the blade in both hands, mouth acrid with fear and body trembling in anticipation. She almost hesitates.

But then she remembers billhooks and pitchforks at midnight. Torchlight twisting familiar faces into grotesque mockeries of her friends and neighbors. Righteous victory seething off of their bodies like smoke off the smoldering stake where they committed their greatest sin in the name of holiness and love while she watched, helpless, from the forest's edge.

The blackened corpse of the woman they "purified", burned brittle and gnarled. Their hatred. Her love.

And she steels herself. Her shaking stills. She draws in a deep breath.

She only gets one chance. You can't remove your own heart twice...

...

A woman wakes to a memory of unbearable heat, yanked from oily darkness still clinging to her mind like film. Her eyes adjust slowly to her dim surroundings.

A few persistent thick candles still burn in the alcoves. Rust-red tendrils of blood spread across the flagstone floor of her tomb from a granite plinth adorned with a letter and an ornate gold box.

Gently, she stands. Her bare feet touch the cool floor and inferno fades further from her mind. Her first halting steps across the room take her to the letter and its contents.

She recognizes the familiar cursive script instantly and reads through a blur of tears as her pulse pounds in her ears.

I had to trade a life to bring you back, but they'd kill me for necromancy anyway. I'm so sorry for this. I'm so sorry I can't be here to wake you.

Please don't look for me. Just flee this place and never look back. I want you to remember me how I was, and I can't bear for you to see me now.

We always wanted to go back to the sea together. Go there, and live.

I ask only that you carry this box with you wherever you go, and that it should be destroyed upon your death. Hopefully at the end of a long, long life full of the happiness you deserve.

I love you. I will always love you.

...

In an ancient town of pastel houses crowding narrow streets on the sea cliffs, a woman sits at an outdoor bistro across the table from the woman who became her wife a few years after she moved here. Countless days and nights of comfort hang in the silence between them as they share a bottle of white wine and playful smiles. Their fingers interlocked, they watch as the sun sets over the water and the night unfolds in front of them like a vast, speckled velvet sheet.

At a table nearby, over the din of the small crowd, she hears a merchant regale his comrades with his recent travels. Kernels of truth embellished with encounters with saucy maidens, daring-if-drunken hijinks, and heroic acts of courage in the face of banditry.

But his tone becomes solemn when he comes to his trip through a backwater village on the edge of the Greatwood where the trees no longer bloom and the soil yields not even weeds. Where the few surviving townsfolk fled so quickly they left their doors unlocked and food still cooking in their stewpots.

Of the crypt entrance littered with splintered bones and broken bodies, where even the crows dare not pick at the desecrated corpses of clerics who tried to exorcise the place of the furious and vengeful lich that dwells within.

She continues to watch the horizon, hoping to hide the tears welling in her eyes, to protect the one secret she'll always keep for herself. Smiling warmly, she reaches into her satchel and traces her fingertips over the familiar inscription on the cover of an ornate gold box.

My heart goes with you, always.

im so tired i need to pass out in a pile of girls

Taking her whole knot and saying “oooooh big stretch :3”

"I feel naked without my armor" was a joke until it wasn't.

Until you got caught in a large-scale breach while off duty, and had to evac with the rest of the civilians. Until you listened for command's orders in your ear but heard only crashing and screaming and the howling of monsters. Until you staggered disoriented through the streets, always looking in the corners of your eyes for a HUD that wasn't there. Until instead of your navigation marker, you saw a woman carrying her crying child, running as fast as she could with a beast snapping at her heels. Until on instinct you put yourself between it and her, figuring it was a lesser one you could take alone, forgetting how small and soft you were. Until your fist hit its face and it didn't even feel anything, but your fingerbones sure did. Until a backhanded swipe of its claw sent you flying across the street and into a wall with your jacket and chest torn open. Until it stalked towards you with hungry jaws and all you could do was pray the mother got away. Until three of your own squadmates dropped from the rooftop, armor gleaming and plasma rifles blazing, and gunned the beast down. Until you were lying in the hospital bed, looking at the paperwork for surgeries and implants you'd need anyway, and thought "why the hell not."

Now you stand head and shoulders over most humans and have to duck under doors. Now your footsteps clink on the floor and your muscles whir when you stretch. Now a heat sword that would crush a human weighs nothing in your hands. Now the laws are stricter about where you can go, and your limbs could be revoked if you're convicted of a crime. Now the oaths you kept in your heart are wired into your brain, and you can't disobey command even if you wanted to. Now your old squadmates still salute you but you technically count as a weapon, not a soldier. Now you can beat a lesser monster singlehanded and turn the tide against a greater one. Now adults awkwardly try not to stare, but small children run up and ask if they can touch your plating. Now everywhere you go, you're always scanning for potential threats, angles of attack, escape routes, cover, improvisable weapons. Now you'll be ready no matter when or where disaster strikes. Now when someone needs saving, you can do a lot more than just die in their place.

Now, even when you're naked, you'll never be without your armor.

(This was written by a transfem, TERFs fix your hearts or die)

At work plagued by thoughts of a mech bigger than you can imagine.

She starts like most of them do, a Titan excavator rig modestly sized for their line: maybe a house or thereabouts, a big house. (Doesn’t matter why she signed up - perhaps a breadwinner, a lone mother or eldest sister, a daughter of aging parents nobody else will take; doesn’t matter what site they sent her to, Earth or Enceladus or Venus or Europa. She’s there, and she lets them strap her in and adapt her for the piloting interface and pump her full of protein ooze and electrolytes and hyperstimulant cocktails as obediently as the next laborer.)

Upgrades come, from big house to bigger, with shovels like hillsides and treads like highways. Still she remains in the cockpit, out only for one day every six months to say hello to her burgeoning family, who have moved nearby to make it easy on her, to meet the baby nephews and nieces whose names she doesn’t yet know.

War comes. The facility hunkers down. It just makes sense to retrofit their biggest digger with shields, to expand her arsenal a little more, give her a better engine, pour all their leftover resources into making her a great guardian, and she rises to the occasion, shielding them from orbital rays, absorbing the energy and taking the pain of it up into her own engines. When the corporate rats who own the site finally turn tail and run the workers and their families band together and do the needful repairs themselves. Her nieces and nephews grow up learning engineering by the light of oil lamps from stolen Old Era textbooks and jailbroken datapads. She hardly ever now glimpses their faces with her own two eyes from within her steel shell but it is a worthy sacrifice to her, to them, for both parties know she is still there, still with them, embracing them in a great steel hug and watching through a thousand glass-lensed eyes.

Years pass. The brightest of her nieces works out how to modify the nutrition cocktail going into her cockpit so she will never age, never die, never fall sick. Somewhere in there all the metal and ceramic encloses her ever-sleeping body like a lotus flower around the benevolent, immortal form of a bodhisattva.

The outpost survives the war, somehow. Refugees hear of the little town on the colony that could, guarded by a goddess the size of a temple, and flock there. It makes sense to add to her control, among her array of sensors and actuators, the new city’s power generation and delivery system, its wall defenses, its waste management, its communications mains. Nowhere is anything safer than with her.

With all these new additions come techs and custodians to keep her in good care. They build modest crew cabins nestled amongst her treads (now rusty from disuse) so they can be close to her, the better to help her.

Slowly more and more falls under her purview, new cabins, then mezzanines and stairways and platforms between them; each generation has their own superstitions that they add to those of the last before them, so paintings crop up on her metal panels now, in nooks and crannies, often crude symbols that promise good oil changes or swift code updates, or simply depictions of their goddess, of the war she survived. Still she watches.

Her nieces and nephews are all dead now, and their nieces and nephews look on through rheumed eyes as the city attains new heights, heralded everywhere on every planet that still lives as an oasis of peace and prosperity. Still she watches.

A new company comes, enticed by the stories. They want to buy her. Buy her! The people scoff. As if you could just buy a person! - A person? asks the representative from Acher Spaceways, perplexed. - We heard she was your goddess.

She is both, of course, the goddess who lives, the goddess who is one hundred percent flesh and one hundred percent machine.

Acher doesn’t like this. They send machines - zero percent flesh, entirely drones - screaming down from the stars for a more insistent negotiation, one phrased in metal slugs and incendiary fire.

So your goddess rises up to meet them.

It is over in a short day. The drones lie in pieces; Acher, from orbit, licks their wounds, and the goddess rebukes them with a single laser blast, modified from her very first mining waymaker photonic drill.

The blast is precise and surgical. It tears apart the whole platform, spinning central axis to annular habitat space, which supernovas into a blossom of shining proof in the night sky at which the citizens below cheer.

But the pieces are falling, and soon they will pepper the surface below with molten debris, kick up dust into the atmosphere and make it all but unbreathable. The people could leave, the goddess advises them through short-wave radio bursts. They could use her emergency shuttles to escape gravity before it is too late, or they could go underground and salvage her rarest and most precious resources to survive until the surface is safe again.

Here is the thing - every pilot is augmented, and most augments are for the benefit of the plainly physical, for strength and speed and stamina and sharpness of perception. When her people augmented her, they augmented something else entirely. With every new module, every sensor upgrade, every painted symbol and hidden shrine, they gave her a superhuman capacity not for stamina or speed or strength, but for love.

It is her love that saved them, so they must save her back.

For two days they work tirelessly, the whole city, while above them the shattered pieces of Acher Spaceways looms ever closer. When they are done the treads are gone, the cabins dismantled, only the little drawings carefully preserved under coats of abrasion- and heat-resistant paint. And under her, their city, their Haven, lie rockets, ten of them, repurposed from the old all-ore crucibles, fit to move an asteroid.

She’s out there somewhere by Orion now, they say, the fourth jewel in his belt. And she has only grown: from three thousand then to three hundred million. Creatures from all over come to pay her their respects, or to visit lovers, or to live there themselves. There is always room in a body that is ever expanding, like the cosmos itself. Over all of them, she watches, eternal.

Among all the stories they tell of her, they repeat this one the most - how she tore apart a whole space station for the sake of her people, knowing she would die if she failed, for how can a whole city hope to flee? She guards them, and in turn they do not abandon her. They are two halves of the same whole, they say reverently, love manifest - the people and their city; this pilot, this great machine. This Haven.

Three dicks for the trans femmes under the sky

Seven for the cis gays in their halls of stone

Nine for cishet men doomed to die

One for the Dark Lord on her dark throne

In the land of Mordor, where the shadows lie

One dick to rule them all, one dick to find them

One dick to frot them all, and in the darkness, grind them

In the land of Mordor, where the shadows lie

I'm paid by the woke necromancer to have a bunch of mimic chests in my dungeon to trap and forcibly feminise unsuspecting adventurers. Its a pretty decent side gig honestly, although having to clean up after the trap chests after they fill the cum-drunk 'warriors' with their feminising seed is a bit of a pain, it brings in good money and the influx of bright-eyed young heroes desperate to save the kingdom from the cruel tyranny of the lich king has lead to significant growth in the instantloss forcefem sector of the economy. The low cost of entry is also quite nice as often woke necromancers will reimburse you for the cost of the mimics, although they will take their cut of the mimics and adventurers offspring to carry out their dark plan. Overall i'd highly recommend making a pact with woke necromancer to any aspiring dungeon boss, but if you do want to do freelance herobreaking and breeding then that is an option.