STONE BUTCH CYBORG YURI BLUES

Link to article: STONE BUTCH CYBORG YURI BLUES.


body {
  background-image: linear-gradient(180deg, #112254 0%, #000000 100%);
color: white;
background-size: unset;
}

:root {
  --lgurl: url("https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/theme%3A3law/PL_3Law_Logo_2.png");
  --header-title: "Third Law";
  --header-subtitle: "Scientia Potentia Est";
}

#extra-div-1, #extra-div-4 {
  filter: contrast(0.6) brightness(1.4) sepia(1) hue-rotate(190deg) saturate(2);
}

a, a.newpage, a:visited, #interwiki a, #side-bar a {
    color: #07aeeb;
}

div#extra-div-1 {
    opacity: 0.3;
}
#header .top-bar {
  width: 100vw;
  background: var(--gradient-topmenu-mobile);
  margin-left: -5vw;
  margin-right: -5vw;
}

#header#header .top-bar > ul {
  width: 100vw;
  max-width: unset;
  justify-content: center;
  display: flex;
}


#header h2 span {
  font-size: 120%;
}

.largetext {
font-size: 113%;
}

:root:has(.dark-light-toggle .collapsible-block-unfolded:not([style*="none"]))
#extra-div-6 {
  width: 100%;
  height: 100%;
  position: absolute;
  top : 0;
  left: 0;
  pointer-events: none;
  -webkit-backdrop-filter: invert(1) hue-rotate(180deg);
  backdrop-filter: invert(1) hue-rotate(180deg);
  z-index: 999;
}

text-align: right; margin-top: -1em; margin-right: 2em

```
display: none;
```

```
dark-light-toggle
```
```
largetext
```

[[include :scp-wiki:theme:penumbra]]

=====
[[include component:preview
text=
A story about cyborg lesbians in Eurtec and what it means to love with a body of metal.
]]
=====

[[>]]
[[module rate]]
[[/>]]

[[include :scp-wiki:component:author-label-source start=--
|name=xexnoncores]]
**This article contains additional content warnings for:** child abuse and mentions of gore.

STONE BUTCH CYBORG YURI BLUES by [[*user xexnoncores]]
[[include :scp-wiki:component:author-label-source end=--]]
[[div style="text-align: right; margin-top: -1em; margin-right: 2em"]]
⚠️ content warning ↑
[[/div]]

[[include :scp-wiki:component:adult-content-warning
|sexually-explicit=1]]

[[module css]]

body {
background-image: linear-gradient(180deg, #112254 0%, #000000 100%);
color: white;
background-size: unset;
}

:root {
--lgurl: url("https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/theme%3A3law/PL_3Law_Logo_2.png");
--header-title: "Third Law";
--header-subtitle: "Scientia Potentia Est";
}

#extra-div-1, #extra-div-4 {
filter: contrast(0.6) brightness(1.4) sepia(1) hue-rotate(190deg) saturate(2);
}

a, a.newpage, a:visited, #interwiki a, #side-bar a {
color: #07aeeb;
}

div#extra-div-1 {
opacity: 0.3;
}
#header .top-bar {
width: 100vw;
background: var(--gradient-topmenu-mobile);
margin-left: -5vw;
margin-right: -5vw;
}

#header#header .top-bar > ul {
width: 100vw;
max-width: unset;
justify-content: center;
display: flex;
}

#header h2 span {
font-size: 120%;
}

.largetext {
font-size: 113%;
}

[[/module]]

[[div class="dark-light-toggle"]]
[[collapsible show="Switch To Light Mode" hide="Switch To Dark Mode"]]
[[div_ style="display: none;"]]

[[/div]]
[[/collapsible]]
[[/div]]

[[module css]]
:root:has(.dark-light-toggle .collapsible-block-unfolded:not([style*="none"]))
#extra-div-6 {
width: 100%;
height: 100%;
position: absolute;
top : 0;
left: 0;
pointer-events: none;
-webkit-backdrop-filter: invert(1) hue-rotate(180deg);
backdrop-filter: invert(1) hue-rotate(180deg);
z-index: 999;
}
[[/module]]

[[div class="largetext"]]

You’ve never seen a naked cyborg before.

Truth be told, few you know have either. Chrome nipples, silicone vagina, brass anklets cinched into a model that was always wearing four inch heels—nobody without cash to burn could ever dream of such a useless body, of a body that could dent with a single gunshot or struggled to lift more than one hundred kilos. Nobody without cash could dream of skin so reflective that even light-polluted stars shine on its surface, warping around silver joints and the tiniest of waists.

You can’t take your eyes off of her.

You can’t believe she wants you.

You can’t believe she’s…

…

------

At bars you don’t take your seat anywhere except the darkest corners. If someone spots you, and buys you a drink, you consider the night a total failure.

It wasn’t always like this. Ten years ago you still had all of your skin, all of your organs, all of your hair. You still had bones to break and tendons to ache, still had a spine to hurt and teeth to rot. Those were mundanities you didn’t realize were worth thousands of dollars to convert into lead, as they were worth more regret in hindsight.

But everyone has to sell their soul at some point, right? You needed money for your sister’s funeral. The collection laws in Eurtec extend to //all// relatives, even if you’ve legally estranged yourself from them. If you didn’t pay, you were going to lose so much worse than she did in the accident, so much worse than your mother when she died penniless and alone in the nursing home, separated from everyone she loved because of an ailing mind and an even more ailing body. (Her generation was too late for cybernetic enhancements.)

What a way to live. Your sister was forever a ghost and even in death she still found a way to haunt you.

You click broad titanium hands against the table as you lose yourself further and further in nameless thoughts. As the coolant that was once your blood pumps through nanotube veins, through steel bearings suspended by alloyed cylinders. As your formless chest rests against worn cast iron table trim—cheap bastards. It makes this place look crude, like a shitty country-hick kitchen—

But apparently it was once trendy.

There’s no notice of her when she walks up to your table and cocks her head, unknowingly dragging the attention of the entire room with her.

“Hello? May I sit?”

You swear in that moment something in your engine-heart burst.

“Su-Sure.”

Your sister always told you good girls don’t kiss each other.

------

“I like the way you fit together.”

It’s rude to tell her she shouldn’t.

Lounging on your ragged bed, she looks like a little doll. A perfect lithe mannequin, some man’s wet dream toy, all wrapped up in a pearlescent nightgown you know she bought for just this occasion. Every inch of her curvature is sleek at the right angle, soft in all of the places demanded, silicone between the joints. This look is totally hers, and it belongs to her in a way that rubs you raw and excites every part of you, especially those pieces you’d thought you’d long forgotten.

She grabs your hand, and the two of yours fit together warmly. Her fingers are small enough to snake through yours and press against your palm, which you couldn’t say if you tried this with yourself. Your hands are too cubic to fit together, too clunky and mechanical. Too filled with lock-picking mechanisms, and neodymium laser bullets, nauseous things that were wonderful for expedited euthanasia but now you fear them activating. You fear them scorching and scratching her beautiful chrome.

The image of her burned corpse drills deep into your core, but you trace your hands down her arms anyway.

“How does that feel?”

She sighs dreamily, smiling and pulling you in. Her perfume smells like lavender dancing with bleached moonbeams.

“I love it.”

You shudder, but continue. “Does any of it hurt?”

“Maybe it should,” she replies. “I’ve always wanted to sleep with an assassin.”

You would crack a smile, but you can’t help but frown.

“You shouldn’t hold such dangerous ideals,” you tell her, and you only believe that halfway. The other half simply wishes you were somewhere else right now, running away from this beautiful warmth.

“My work bores me into that,” she replies without pause or hesitation. “If they didn’t want me running around, they should be more interesting.”

“I’m i-interesting?” Your voice is stuttering.

She nods. “That’s why I chose you. …That, and you’re trustworthy.”

You freeze up.

“Trustworthy? Me?”

“Yeah,” she replies, brushing fingers against your cheek. “You don’t look like you’d rape me.”

------

“This is my spot, usually,” she says. Her voice is high, and prissy. It’s cute.

“Is it?” you ask. Your brain still longs for the wetness of a real throat, even after all these years.

“Yes. I come here to get away from work, from all the modeling I do. It’s quite exhausting. So many people looking at me and touching me.”

//You belong back there, not with me,// you think. “Wow,” is what you sputter instead. “I didn’t know modeling was that intensive.”

“I’m sure it’s not to some people.” Huh. “But I was born here,” she says with a simulated sigh, “so I always find myself coming back.”

“You were what?”

Silence.

Your memory banks fire on all cylinders as you try to envision what such a statement could possibly mean. It’s dressed in black silk, hanging over your head like she did that on purpose—did she? Girls like this, they always said things to get rises out of people. Models could just do that, women beautiful enough to be allowed the reinvention of themselves were afforded the luxurious privilege of joking.

Still, she //is// pretty, and because of that, you want to keep listening to her.

“I was born here, in this bar,” she repeats for you again, as if something is chewing her up and wants to be spat back out. “My mother was a raging alcoholic. The first sensation my skin ever knew was the wet stone of this filthy floor.”

You almost laugh. Bark, even. //Almost,// because it’s such a difficult thing for you take seriously at face value. The owners letting an obviously pregnant woman into a bar? Letting her drink and give birth in the place? What kind of stupid idiots were involved in this crazy story?

But her stance is tense. This outlandishness, formed a real person, someone who also had flesh once.

She could also be totally lying to you. No way to tell, really, though if she is, she’s a bad liar.

“Well, I kill people for a living, so I guess we’re not all that different, you and me.”

Dumbass. What the hell is that supposed to mean? She probably figured that out for herself by now too.

But she says nothing for a second until she crosses her legs.

“Hot. I want you to take me home tonight.”

“Excuse me?”

She pushes you back into the corner of the booth so that the overcast shadows are smothering the both of you. Smothering her smooth body, your hideous polygonal one.

“You heard what I said. Do it, please.”

------

Her body is warm. It’s smooth in a way unfathomable by even the Silicon Nornir. Running your hand over her rivets, she clings to you in a way you thought impossible for a one night stand, impossible for someone without any sex characteristics like you, impossible for a reject-trash freak whose anatomy is more tungsten than it is a recognizable form.

You are barely humanoid, after all. Though you can walk, you have no feet, and though you can see, you have no face.

Both end in sharp, pyramidal points. Your face a very shallow angle, your legs a very deep one.

Perhaps in your own way you are reflective, but you do not want to be. This body is yours, but it does not wear as it should. It fits you more like a limp nitrile glove than an ambling corpse, which is the moniker you wore stolidly, until the money came and then you felt nothing at all.

Despite everything, she looks at you with passion.

She too has no eyes.

------

On the train back, you talk. She booked a private ride so nobody would stare at her. In reality, you feel like it was so that nobody would stare at you.

“My brain…it’s not mine anymore,” she starts. “But I suppose everyone feels like this when they undergo the transition.”

Transition. Not transformation. It must have been smooth for her then, one fell swoop. Everyone in upper Eurtec refers to classier morphings like that, with words so couched in toxicity they deceive themselves back into being sweet.

You want to scream. She took home from the bar a Bloody Mary for each of you, and you want to melt. Its ruddy red reminds you of the blood you spill, of the blood you had once. As a kid, you were always picking fights with the boys. Your upper lip was rarely not streaked with crimson.

You slink back into your seat, wondering if it all was different how you could have joined her.

What could you have been if you chose slutting yourself out as a model instead glutting yourself out on contracted violence?

What was being fitted for a body like hers like? Was the removal of the eyes smoother? Was the plasma-coolant blending less violent? Were the waist measurements less judgmental and not drawn out with chalk?

She continues heedless of your internal disgust and inability to drink.

“I mean, I was missing a third of my brain when I was born, so it’s like, who am I now? Was I supposed to look like this? Who let me decide this was what I wanted to look like…?”

Ah.

“You didn’t get the choice?” you ask quietly. You wonder where she got the rest of her brain then, if she was missing some.

She shakes her head.

“And yet you’re still a model,” you say coolly, as if it was some grand observation nobody else had noticed yet.

“Yeah, well, what else could I be?”

“Yourself?”

She looks down at the floor with the heaviest of stares, internal fans whirring faster the longer she’s still. First she crosses her arms, second she crosses her feet.

She’s shaking.

------

She asks to touch you down there. You say no.

You don’t want to think about what’s down there. The backyard hacks who cobbled you together made you capable of the most efficient movement, but thinking of what they must have seen between your legs horrifies you. It horrifies you across imagined afterimages of events that most definitely didn’t happen, kaleidoscopic myriads of shame, fear, trepidation, guilt over a disgusting thing that never belonged to you and never will.

It’s all gone now, but really, what’s down there? Does she really need to know? Will you be hurt if it doesn’t align with her expectations?

You haven’t looked, haven’t been punched or kicked there, thank god. Just because you are primed to defend yourself does not mean you want to.

Your wires can still stiffen with cortisol, a fault in the ghost in your blueprints that sadly, you will never be free from.

But she smiles despite this, kissing you as she presses her breasts to where you wish you had some. Your chest is sanded smooth.

------

Digestion is an inflection of disgust, a recursion of need. Her lips kiss the rim of her empty glass, having exhausted all other means of conversation, you can’t help but wonder what else Eurtec has done to someone like her.

You wonder if you’ve seen her before, somehow before behind stuffier clothes and bulletproof glass. It wasn’t uncommon for models to need bodyguards—their parts were built in ways delicate like that of highly sensitive electronics, which meant they sold for high numbers on the black market to snuff-film barons and back-alley sickos for stocking chop-shops. Just last week some guy was arrested for short-circuiting his apartment’s mainframe, killing twelve when a pipe burst and fried part of Eurtec’s power grid. He was trying to generate some AI lesbian gunplay.

Has she ever worn blood silk before, actually? That was something you were paid two months ago to snatch. Paid several million Euros in bounty for a red, sticky blouse for a rich heiress who claimed it was woven from the blood of her enemies. It’s always been the most of noxious of rumors floating around Eurtec, something to be fought by politicians who pretended to care about children and rich bastards who made their pleasure off skinning people alive…

There are times when the sloppiness of your cleanup bleeds into the news, the need for your escape unfurling into the gawking eyes of strangers and bloodthirsty TV watchers, who, even after all these decades, still saw gore on the screen to be a palatable meal.

You think of those red fibers as your conversation with her winds down, as subjects of gab fade into you wishing you could see her body draped in soft, slick ruby…

Dripping down every indent and screw snaking her silhouette…

Her physicality could turn it all innocent. Her body is so without any protective shells that she could turn a bloodbath into a baby shower provided she was posing somewhere within it.

She pulls you in despite everything and holds you firm. Everything about her is jerking you out of yourself, but now you feel you have no choice but to fall.

“Fuck me, please,” she begs. Her core temperature rises as she leans on your shoulder.

You’ve never been more elated to be a woman than right now.

------

When you put your fingers inside of her, you wonder one day if you will have the same experience.

Touch is a currency traded through exchanges more solid than it and yet all the more worthless. It is an act in expectation, in the violent and the unpredictable, coming through in heat and flushed fluff if one was lucky enough, though often it is just…mundane. Ordinary.

Bumping into someone is supposed to be normal, but for you, it can only set you alight. And that flame either burns bright like fireworks or like a hideous jet engine.

Her wiggling is making your clit hard. That’s not what most would call it, but they’re formed from the same anatomy in the womb, aren’t they? What is the dumb little adage everyone says in science class—“everyone is a woman before they’re born?”

But how much does that matter now? When its metal to metal, lead to rhodium plating, her moaning from an artificial voicebox that sounds like it was hand-picked to turn someone else on?

You push through and deeper into her. You pantomime kisses onto her thighs and stomach as she twitches and whines.

It’s not hard to hear her titanium-alloy skeleton creaking with your ultrasonic sensors. Wanting to break under a genuine touch, under the freedom roboticization has given her.

Why did her metallic skin possess no nerve sensors? Was it the trauma of her birth still ingrained within her? Or was it something to do with the muscled hands that longed for her to pose with her mechanized beauty against gossamer too sheer to be thrilling except to the most camera-brained of voyeurs?

Deeper. You’re keeping her at a level clip of pleasure now. It gets you harder the more the act goes on, and her vitals are still active. It’s not that difficult to keep up the pace.

Is this…you?

This…This is you, right?

The giver, eternal in inspiriting pleasure?

It feels wrong, but only because something that isn’t you says it is in the back of your mind.

The woman is both the receiver and the giver. The giver of pleasure while being the receiver of penetration. She is to be expectant and needy while not requiring stimulation herself, not allowed to speak up on the means of pleasure unless it’s proper or for someone else’s consumption.

You wonder sometimes on your off-time watching other women if that was yet another layer holding you back from true…was it nirvana? Or was it self-actualization? What was even the term that applied to rats like you, to heathen stony girls whose curiosities led them to want to try different methods of dominance over submission?

Honestly, you could not be more at peace watching a girl beg for your name, trapped between your fingers. The pillows are bending to her body in a manner that is a lot heavier than she looks—a lot sturdier too.

Maybe she could take a bullet.

Maybe she could take a kick to the neck.

You open your index finger’s gun muzzle, just so the head whirs inside of her. With flesh, there would be the worry of ripping apart precious mucosal skin without any nerve endings, but here, her silicone insides are fat, wet, and lubricate themselves every second.

Oh, she’s trying to—

“Little thing,” you tell her, and the voice in your head telling you to melt doesn’t go away, but it is quieter. It gets quieter as you open your middle finger’s muzzle, letting the hard spasming of her body push your own clit further and further towards its own second coming.

(That was literal—she’s the second girl you’ve ever properly done it with. All of the others wanted you to receive too quickly to be a turn on.)

You grab her legs and hoist her up so you see her throbbing clit easier. God, it’s leaking so much lubricant that it feels like she might vaporize herself. Is this the first time for these components?

Is this her second time doing it properly too? The second is always better than the first.

Whatever the answer, you finish her as her legs lock around your neck, her heels tensing at steep angles that hook the air like thorns. She makes a sound so loud and orgasmic that her voice box gives out for a single second, glitching as it attempts to reach an unknown high note until she slides ass-down onto your crotch.

Not today, but maybe some day. You’ve got to figure out to be a giver with that position, because in the dichotomy of giver and receiver, there is no room for taker. There is no room for pleasure without the other.

Your pleasure is this beautiful girl, this silver goddess of unknowable heartbreak and desire for only your body.

Her pleasure is you, in all your ninety-degree angles and inhuman geometry, built to kill but loved instead.

You slump down next to her, not tired but wanting to pretend.

“You liked it?”

She doesn’t respond, only kissing you and nuzzling into you. It’s a latched hold, as far as her ball joint hands and arms can handle, but it’s enough for you, enough for the world, enough for tonight to feel different, to feel miraculous, to feel like sunshine against the forever night sky of Eurtec.

Yes, even false stars can shine like real ones if you love them enough.

And that includes, against everything you think—

You, and this body you have.

[[/div]]

STONE BUTCH CYBORG YURI BLUES

Module Styles

Inline Styles

Includes

CSS Classes

Page Source