capscaicin-catgirl

Latest Posts by capscaicin-catgirl

sorry but this is my favorite DM i’ve ever got now :3

YIPPEE :D

those werewolves will fit in the tent with you. you should let them in

On the Subject of Xenodrugs

Being quite a disreputably reputable guide book, the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has very rigorous standards for the quality of its articles, researchers, and recommendations. It is thus puzzling when many hitchhikers who attempt to study the incredibly diverse drugs of the Affini Compact are either never heard from again, or send long complex articles that are almost completely illegible save for their glowing recommendation that any curious intelligent traveler wave down any of the Compact's craft and get injected as soon as possible.

However, any willing and perfectly independent traveler can learn all they can remember as the affini are far too willing to share that information.

Xenodrugs, as is the easiest word to describe them in local galactic vernacular, are a wide and diverse collection of legal and useful substances that the affini develop for the purpose of "making all the cute and silly little cuties be much happier while we give them all the huggies and pets their little hearts desire, and then some." There are a potentially infinite number of possible xenodrugs in the Affini Compact's vast and unknowable archives. This is due to the fact that, interestingly, one drug does not work the same across species. A xenodrug that may cause a Betelgeusian to taste the color red with his/her/their left toe may have a much weaker effect when applied to a Vogon, but be even more potent when injected into a Rinan.

Rather than do what any irresponsibly talented drug maker does, where you make a catchall that can make as many people as possible at a fancy dinner party think their chandelier is actually made of giant fire-breathing locusts, the affini believe in making new versions of every drug they possess to meet the metabolic threshholds of all the species they bring under their lovingly oppressive vines. This makes it very difficult to track all the possible xenodrugs currently circulating in the galaxy, as any sophont who uses them inevitably ends up spending more and more time among the affini and becomes a good little floret.

But, if you ever end up at a fun party where a towering plant person is offering you "something to ease your precious mind just a little, sweetheart", you should inquire as to what letter is associated with that drug and accordingly run based on which of the following letters the terrifying cosmic being says absolutely agree on the spot and show the nice affini your little arm or nose to receive the xenodrugs from the wonderful and loving affini looking to help your cute self be extra happy and precious.

A- Your standard fare drug. Effects often include things like your sense of touch being amplified, and your body chilling out as if you just finished inhaling the fumes off your ship's warp drive. Not that you should do that, and please tell any affini if you've done that at all.

B- Often used to manipulate the memory of any foolhardy partygoer, or to help you forget just how many hits you took off the ship's warp drive coils. Again, please let an affini know if you have done that, because its not good and they will help you forget that urge and get you the best care possible, dear reader.

C- Unfortunately, very little information exists on this particular xenodrug but they're very dangerous if used irresponsibly and should be treated with great caution, petals. All that is known is that when applied to any person, be they hitchhiker or not, they quickly end up enslaved to the will of an affini domesticated very quickly and go home with their new owner almost immediately after meeting.

D- Very likely to make you spill all of your secrets and reveal all of your secrets about your travels and where you hid your towel.

E- Very good at calming you down while trying to run or escape from the loving and tender vines of an affini trying to domesticate you.

H- Psychotropics that make you very susceptible to hypnosis or subliminal messaging. Far more potent than whatever convinced you to take hits off the warp drive coils, and can make you very easily guided to go talk to all the wonderful affini looking to help you find a home and stop hitchhiking.

S- The kind of weird things that are only possible in this weird and uncontrollable very adorable galaxy we call home. Messes with the body's senses and causes them to overlap in interesting ways like allowing you to taste the colors of an affini's flowers or make all her words into a beautiful tapestry of pretty colors.

Z- Easily takes you out, knocking you straight out into slumber as if you just hit your head after being caught taking hits off the warp drive again. Please be careful with these if you aren't being offered them, though. We wouldn't want you to get hurt while you're being all precious before taking a cute little nappie.

We hope this guide of all publicly available xenodrugs has been most helpful you silly little hitchhiker, as you continue to travel the stars for reasons no one can truly ever comprehend. Make sure to notify any nice looking affini at a moment's notice if you get at all curious about xenodrugs, and we would be happy to administer them for you and launder your towel while you enjoy your trip into drugged out bliss. See you soon, petal~! And remember.

Don't Panic.

ok guys im gonna go to sleep early tonight so i can finally get good rest gnight :)

ⓘ Fact check: This user intends to go to their room and take apart their old Yamaha EZ-200 keyboard in their underwear.

From the outset of mech warfare, the joining of platform and pilot always engendered a special relationship. They share information, thoughts, and feelings, even though they understand them differently. When Cybernetic Neural Control v5 launched with Fully Autonomous Systems packaged in, the engineers thought it would render pilots obsolete. But try as they might, they could never replace that connection. Even as the neural frame took over all decision making, it still needed humanity. 

Every machine needs a Ghost.

To the degree she understands it, the machine feels the increase in neural load as a vague pressure. Without a Ghost, a mech can’t fully interpret sensation or effective purge strategies, so the Homunculus Protocol interfaces with her mind, maps that pressure onto her body, and interprets it as its closest human analogue.

To a Ghost, the neural frame’s analytic stress load feels like a growing heat between her legs, her thighs clenching and unclenching, her hips moving on their own. A growing wetness in the midst of all that warmth. Desperation. Hunger. A need for release.

Under routine neural loads she doesn’t notice it. That prey feeling? She can’t separate the anxiety of her first combat mission from the first signs of stress-induced physical agitation. 

At some point during basic training a Ghost’s body starts to mix up its signals. Anxiety becomes arousal. The air in the cadet barracks during exams carries enough musk and tension that they call it The Wetlands. A lot of Ghosts break each other’s hearts during basic. Even more, she hears, break each other’s hearts between missions. The best? They mostly just break each other.

you're an audiophile? you like to fuck little sounds and speakers?

no that little tidbit of information is not an "easter egg" i fear. you are doing what we call "media analysis" ❤ it was on purpose i promise ❤ you were Supposed to notice that! and you did! good job ❤

Remember; your body is a temple

That is to say, a place for Gods and Goddesses to fill and use as they please

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

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

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

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.

Therian bottom? You mean a stuffed animal?

Reblog if your holes are a safe place for tgirl cum <3

making a tgirl briefly stop worrying about how well she passes by a shoving a dick so far up her ass that her brain stops working.

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

Reblog if you have a cute girldick.

Call me an ice-pick the way I need head from a communist

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

need to be sinking down on and stretching out around it

Giving them a goodbye kiss before you leave in the morning except their arms wrap tighter around you when you try to pull away and they lean into you to chase the press of your lips before muttering out a smooth plea of “One more.”

HOT AUTISTIC ADULTS IN YOUR AREA ARE UNSURE IF YOU WANT TO TALK TO THEM...CLICK HERE TO ESTABLISH CLEAR INTENT

"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)

Oh the urge to be a cute robot girl & be powered off & forgotten about for 100 years before a cute robotics nerd finds my damaged body & powers me back on. And then we slowly build a relationship as she repairs me, & we kiss after she gets me working even better than I ever did.

❗Tip: You can add more RAM to your trans robot girl by simply ramming her on all fours. It doesn't actually add RAM, but it does get her processor speeding up, and that's close enough.

You agree you reblog

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.

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.

gonna start saying insane shit like fpreg and girlpussy just to normalize it

I catch the stranger's eye in the dim lighting of the bar and we identify each other instantly. Her gaze falls to my USB bracelet as she subtly touches the back of her neck and blushes. We share knowledge about each other in that moment, something nobody else can see. Something nobody else can know. But tonight, neither of us will feel alone.

Later, in her hotel room, she lays opened up for me, my keyboard connected to a port in her stomach as I study holographic code projected by her electric blue eyes. The adapter plugged into the base of her skull hums with intermittent vibration and her lips part to a sound of synthesized ecstasy.

I know how to love a woman like her. Like me. And she lets me probe the intimate depths of her programming with every keystroke of my slender fingers. Coupling through syntax. Curled around each other like braces.

For that trust, for what we share tonight, I will make her delicate circuitry sing with lighting.

trans girl werewolf metaphor unmatched. trans girls as werewolves my beloved