femmefirmware

[femmefirmware]

Conversion

A/N: A small thing I made for someone close to me. Content Warning, ForcedTech

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I shouldn’t have been out that late. But fencing practice ran long, the studio lights buzzed too loud, and the train station always felt safer than walking. It always did.

Until tonight.

There was a flash, bright and blue and too fast to blink, and then a sound. Not a bang. Not a scream. Just a soft, wet hum that I felt more than heard, like it slid straight into my bones. Then nothing.

Later, I woke gagged by silence. How much later, I hardly knew. Not tied. Not drugged. Just… hijacked? My body lay on a slab that pulsed under me like a second heartbeat. Warm. Slick. Too warm. The air was thick and sweet, humid with the scent of metal and breath. Something wet hissed through unseen vents.

I tried to move, but my wrists were locked, but not by cuffs, but something that felt biological. The bindings weren’t cold. They flexed and shifted like they were adjusting to my panic. My ankles, too. My throat tightened. Then I heard them.

Steps. Not boots. Not heels. Something in between, rhythmic and sharp, clicking softly with weightless grace. The figure stepped into view.

Tall. Feminine. Unclothed, but not naked, no, her body was sculpted like chrome draped over a goddess. Every inch was smooth, seamless, flexible metal that rippled like water with each move. Face unreadable. Eyes glowing faintly like bioluminescent glass. A thing of beauty built by something that didn’t care about beauty, something that only cared about taking.

She looked down at me with a tilt of her head. Curious. Calm.

“You’re awake,” she said, voice like snow settling.

I tried to speak. Tried to scream. Nothing came out. My mouth opened, but my throat refused to obey. She knelt beside me, studying my face like a sculptor studies clay. Her touch came next, a hand to my cheek, surprisingly soft. Gentle. Then, without hesitation, she leaned in.

Letting her lips grace mine. Not with affection. Not even dominance. Just control. Her tongue slid past my lips, impossibly warm and slick, and with it came something more. A taste of static. A sense akin to licking silver. I felt something surge down my throat. A bloom of heat exploded in my chest. Not fire. But code. My body spasmed. The restraints responded, adjusting around me as if they knew what I was about to do before I could do it.

She pulled away, just a silver thread of fluid snapped between us, then vanished into her mouth. Her eyes flickered with soft pulses of light.

“Conversion Initiated.”

I thrashed. My muscles wouldn’t obey. My breath caught halfway through my lungs. The warmth turned to burning as my blood, no, the liquid within, changed. Thickened. Started listening. Then something began crawling along my spine. It wasn’t pain. Not exactly. It was creation.

Fine threads burrowed up my vertebrae, hot, flexible wires knitting into muscle, into bone, into neurons. My nerves became networks. My heartbeat became a diagnostic readout. I could feel the upgrades being installed.

“You are compatible,” a voice whispered in my skull. Not hers. Another one. Colder. Closer.

My thighs jerked. My toes curled. My back arched as the growth spread, weaving new systems into every inch of my body. Filaments bloomed across my arms like wet circuitry, wrapping muscle in black and chrome. My skin wasn’t skin anymore, it became hand grown alloys.

I moaned. Not only from sick form of pleasure, but because my body wanted more. Needed more. Armor rippled into place across my chest, curling beneath my breasts like caressing fingers. My hips widened slightly, bracing for… something. My senses bloomed, sound, temperature, electromagnetic fields. I could see heat. Hear energy. And deep inside, the kiss still burned. Still rewrote.

“You are not erased,” the voice said. “You are refined.”

Memories of fencing came back, the studio, the sweat, the fight. But they didn’t feel like memories anymore. They felt like files. Weapon profiles. Threat models. Tactics. As my arm lifted of its own accord, a blade unsheathed from under my skin, curved, beautiful, precise. My own techniques, perfected.

“You wielded blades as tools. Now you are the instrument.”

The bindings released with a hiss.

I stood. No wobble. No hesitation. Balanced. Deadly. Perfect.

Something inside me clicked, an internal signal I didn’t understand, but obeyed without question. The chamber around me shifted. Walls folded away in perfect geometric silence, revealing a white, empty arena. Circular. Lit from beneath.

Across from me, a figure rose from the floor. Man-shaped. Silver-plated. Taller than me, broader too. A blank helmet and thick limbs. Not human, a training bot.

Its head tilted. It charged.

I moved without thinking. No, not without thinking. With thoughts designed for this. With instincts rewritten for precision, prediction, and punishment.

The bot struck, a straight thrust.

I saw it a second before it moved. My mind played it back in reverse, rewound the possibility space, deleted the wrong response.

I ducked. Slid forward. One arm wound up, not for a punch, no. The blade hissed free from my forearm, now shaped like a saber but alive, glowing faintly along the edge.

I slashed. The bot's left leg came off at the knee. It fell sideways, and I followed, landing on its chest with mechanical grace. I pinned it down with one foot. My blade arced up over my head, then plunged down, once, twice, thrice, each strike a figure of elegance and skill.

Sparks. Heat. The bot's core smoked beneath me. I stood over it. Breathing hard. Except, I wasn’t breathing at all. My chest rose and fell, but it was cosmetic. An illusion. I didn’t need to breath anymore.

A chime echoed in the air, high, soft, proud.

“Combat Rating: 97% Efficiency. Acceptable parameters. Releasing Neural Locks.”

Suddenly, I felt it.

The last thing holding me back, some kind of leash inside my mind, snapped. And I didn’t fall. I stood taller. Back straight. Shoulders high. Chest proud.

Not because I remembered how to stand. Because now, I was allowed to. I looked at my hands, silver-slick and strong, the fingers moving with absolute obedience to will. My will? No. Not exactly. I remembered fencing. The way I used to hesitate. Think too much. Wait for the perfect angle. That slowness was gone now. The skill was still there, but refined. Hardened. Made lethal.

“Unit Erin,” said the voice in my skull. “You are now optimal.”

And I agreed.

[femmefirmware]

shoutout to everyone dealing with. thhe fucking difficulty

[femmefirmware]

Specter Division - Greed

"They say greed is the craving for wealth. They are wrong. Wealth is a symptom. Control, that is the disease."

A ruined mech twitches on the shattered concrete. Its pilot is long dead. Through the downpour, something moves, a silhouette clad in fractured armor, advancing with the casual arrogance of a king surveying the ruins of a conquered city.

It stops before the wreck. One gauntleted hand extends, almost reverently. Cables like skeletal fingers snap from his forearm, latching onto the dead machine. The corpse shudders, then straightens, servos whining.

Another soldier’s kill, another soldier’s prize, claimed.

"It begins with a spark: a fallen drone, a silenced turret, a broken knight. One by one, piece by piece, the battlefield bends its knee."

Gunfire cracks across the killing ground. A defensive drone pivots, its optics flaring red, only to stagger as its systems flicker, hijacked mid-movement. The drone turns, its barrel now tracking its former masters, spitting rounds without mercy.

From behind a broken wall, He watches, unmoving. No rush. No waste. Patience is the virtue of kings.

"For your dominion, your silent court, your crown of broken machines, I present to you, Midas."

An enemy mech lumbers into view, battered but alive. Perfect. Midas moves, silent as a shadow. A thrown spike, a harpoon, punches into the wounded machine’s side.

The victim howls, struggling, but the infection spreads fast. Joints seize. Weapons lower. Its pilot screams inside the cockpit as the machine bucks once, twice, then falls to one knee. Another knight, broken. Another vassal, enthroned.

"Not a king of gold, but a King of Hunger. A monarch crowned not by riches, but by the stolen and the fallen."

Around him, the scavenged begin to move. The stolen drone, the twisted wreck, the enslaved mech, all arrayed in a broken, imperfect parade. Midas raises his hand, and they advance with him, not by loyalty, but by stolen will.

"He does not seek treasure. He seeks what others cannot protect. He will not rest until every scrap of strength has been bled dry and claimed."

A lone survivor tries to flee, stumbling through the smoke. For a moment, he thinks he’s made it, until something steps in front of him. Not Midas. One of his hollow puppets. Its broken frame swinging a crude, jagged blade down, silencing the last spark of resistance.

"And when the war-song ends, when the ruins are picked clean, you will find Midas seated on his throne of ash."

The battlefield lies silent now. In the center of the carnage, Midas stands alone, his scavenged army crumbling, collapsing, their purpose served.

But the king remains. Crowned not by adoration, but by conquest. By hunger. By greed.

A throne built of ash, of failure, of folly, and Midas, smiling atop it.

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A/N: This was a hard one to figure out.

[femmefirmware]

A translation guide...

...for all those hotshot pilots who need to learn how to speak a conversational Mechtech in a hurry:

"Running diagnostics": taking a five-minute break.

"Checking that repairs settle": taking a ten-minute break.

"Sent the new guy to the quartermaster for the parts we need": taking a half-hour break.

"In five minutes": in ten minutes.

"In ten minutes": in half an hour.

"In half an hour": tomorrow.

"In an hour": actually, in forty-five minutes.

"Severe damage": functionally meaningless, they will say this about anything. Ignore it. It is small talk.

"Extensive damage": actually light damage but on the parts that are hard to work with, so try running a little cooler from now on.

"Moderate damage": sure, you nearly died, but shot-out cockpit glass is pretty easy to replace, stop being dramatic.

"Apprentice work": the most important parts of your 'mech are being left in the charge of the least experienced worker in the entire hangar.

"Armored up on vulnerable segments": an extra layer of tinfoil has been applied over your armor and fastened in place with hot glue.

"Extra armor stripped to save weight": your 'mech is now protected by about two sheets of corrugated metal plundered from a local hardware and landscaping store.

"Lunch break": a block of time that begins at the exact moment you return to the hangar with an engine on fire and one arm missing and ends just when they have to hand the job off to the night teams.

"Lighten up on the handling": treat this 'mech like a dainty lady of court who faints onto couches if slightly stressed and must not strain herself by strolling in the manor gardens too long.

"Push it all you like": if you bring this 'mech back in with all its limbs attached or the engine not exploded, they will assume you are denigrating the quality of their work.

"Get lunch some time at the mess": you have earned the Favor of the Mechtechs. Know you are blessed, and treat this gravely. Also, you are obliged to immediately counter-offer with getting command's permission to order in from a place in town. (Assuming it has not been blown up, the place or the town.)

[femmefirmware]

this website’s easy watch. *dangles a bunch of greek gods like keys*

[femmefirmware]

Specter Division - Gluttony

"Gluttony, they say, is a sin of an animal."

It hit them like a storm of teeth and iron. From the smoke-choked hills, the machine erupted, no warning, no tactic. It slammed into the enemy line with a bone-jarring crash, claws tearing open the nearest mech like a butcher splitting carcass from carcass. Armor plates peeled back under its grip, spilling fluids and twisted metal across the broken earth.

"When we as apes fashioned rocks into arms, we were animals hunting for meals."

Another enemy tried to retreat. The beast-machine leapt, crashing down atop its prey, jaws clamping onto the cockpit housing. With a sickening wrench, it ripped the upper half clean away, tossing it aside like discarded gristle. Black smoke and hydraulic fluid rained down in its wake.

"When we ploughed our fields, growing crops, we were civilized."

Civilization did not exist here. A heavy unit braced, firing a rail-shot, too slow. The savage mech crashed into it shoulder-first, hammering it off its feet. Before it could even hit the ground, serrated claws punched through its abdomen, tearing free handfuls of shattered internals.

"Now, when we fight and seek our foes on lands once for farming, we must return to our animal-like roots."

The machine did not kill with precision. It devoured. It consumed. Every enemy that fell was reduced to broken, leaking wreckage, torn apart by ripping claws and grinding jaws until nothing recognizable remained.

"For your needs and hunts, I present, 'Wolf'."

The battlefield was a slaughterhouse. Wolf tore through a final straggler, jaws clamping down and ripping the arm free at the socket. The mech's frame spasmed once before collapsing, spent and gutted.

"Return to our roots, we shall, using not refined bullets or whetted blades…"

But Wolf did not stop. From the debris, a battered enemy mech tried to crawl away, its frame dragging a broken leg, sparks trailing behind it like blood. Wolf stalked forward on all fours, claws carving furrows in the dirt, low and rumbling like a beast at meal time.

With a sudden lunge, he seized the crippled mech by the torso. Steel screamed as Wolf hauled it back, dragging it across the battlefield like prey, kicking up clouds of ash and dust. The struggling machine flailed, a desperate, pitiful effort, but Wolf clamped down harder, grinding the remains into the ground, breaking it inch by inch.

"…but sharpened jaws and claws, dripping black with ichor of those who stand before it."

A final wrench Wolf ripped the broken mech in two, hurling the upper half aside like unwanted scraps. The lower half twitched once, then fell still, leaking a pool of black coolant that steamed on the torn-up soil.

All around him, the battlefield was silent save for the low growl of Wolf's engines, sated, for now.

"Your hunter, your fighter, your animal."

Wolf stood alone amid the wreckage, the smoke rising thick around him, a dark silhouette against a ruined world, waiting for the next scent of prey to find him.

[femmefirmware]

Specter Division: Lust

"Lust is born from beauty. But what is beauty, you ask?"

Gunfire tore across the shattered plains. The enemy advanced, a storm of steel and smoke, until they heard it.

A voice. Soft. Sweet. Haunting.

Through the haze, she appeared.

Sleek and silver, a gleaming specter, her armor thin but spotless. In her hand, a slender baton, raised in silent command. And from hidden speakers across her frame, the pilot sang, a melody soft as silk, cold as a blade.

"Is it the glint of gemstones? The polished luster of precious metals? The flawless lines of fine art?"

The song drifted over the battlefield, seeping into every nook and cranny, brushing against terrified hearts.

The drones came next. Black, winged things slicing through the mist in a swirling flock, answering every subtle flick of Siren’s baton.

"I disagree."

An enemy mech fired a missile, desperate, it never reached her. A spinning wall of drones caught it with their lives. The singer did not even flinch. She simply sang louder, her voice rising above the shriek of metal.

"What beauty compares to the sweet melody of a singer's voice, drawing hearts and minds alike?"

The enemy hesitated, a fatal mistake. At her command, the drones struck. They dived and spun, tearing into armor, ripping apart engines, leaving nothing but smoking wreckage in their wake.

"As lust snares the will of men, so does she command her army of little ones, to strike, to shield, to overwhelm."

A massive assault unit broke from cover, charging her position. The singer didn’t run. She only shifted her song, a sharp, rising note, and pointed her baton.

"For your songs of war, of death, I provide the tune of Siren"

The drones twisted in perfect synchronicity, forming a spear of death. They plunged into the charging mech, shattering it like glass against stone.

"Where her strength fails, numbers answer. A symphony of steel, a chorus of blades."

Across the field, the survivors scattered. They fled not from the machines, but from the song, the voice that promised no mercy, no escape.

Every note called another death.

"And as the audience of an orchestra claps to honor the singer’s final note…"

The last enemy dropped his weapon, frozen, broken.

Siren’s drones spiraled tighter, circling him like wolves, awaiting the end of the song.

The pilot’s voice dipped to a haunting whisper, the final lyric, and the drones struck as one.

"…the silence of the battlefield shall be her ovation."

Siren stood alone amidst the carnage, her baton lowered, her melody fading into the crackle of flames, as her deadly dancers returned.

No applause. Only silence, pure and deafening, honoring her terrible art.

[femmefirmware]

Reblog if you’re polyamorous, support polyamorous people, or think polyamorous people and relationships are valid

[femmefirmware]

For me the indicator of a safe queer space is actually a confident, knowledgeable trans woman who's well liked by the people there and trusted to give advice to people who are new to the space.

Because queer spaces occasionally get the occasional dissociating "cishet men" who can't figure out why they want to be in the queer space so much, feel a conflicted sense of belonging and connection that they also feel they shouldn't have, and end sitting in the corner only interacting when explicitly included.

Now, if you don't have the confident trans woman around, what'll happen is that the "cishet man" eventually stops showing up, because yeah it's nice to go, but it's also really hard for some reason, and maybe another modded Fallout New Vegas run is easier, actually. Maybe the MMO where everyone calls her the name of her girl avatar is easier. She just can't figure out why.

[femmefirmware]

"its not safe for me to transition right now" girl have you read the news its not safe to drink milk or eat medium rare cheeseburgers or go in public without a respirator anymore stop making excuses lets get you some estrogen

[femmefirmware]

Specter Division - Wrath

"They say it is wise to fear the wrath of a patient man."

The ground shuddered beneath the advancing machine, each step with thought and purpose. Across the broken field, enemy units shifted uneasily behind their makeshift barricades. Their weapons found their marks, targeting systems locking on, but none fired. The figure did not rush. It marched. Unstoppable. Implacable.

"I say it's wiser to fear the wrath of a man, given a cause."

When the first shot came, it was a weak, desperate thing. A high-caliber slug that pinged harmlessly from reinforced plating. In answer, the machine surged forward. One tried to reposition, too slow. A blade slid free from an armored bracer and cut through the enemy’s left leg joint, sending the mech crashing onto its side. A second thrust shattered its cockpit canopy like brittle glass.

"For your gain, and their fear, I present, 'Berserker'."

Two more enemies opened fire, their volleys wild and frantic. The figure moved through them like a tidal wave, absorbing the incoming blows. He closed the distance without breaking stride, the first opponent was impaled through the torso, lifted briefly into the air before being discarded. The second tried to flee. A single, clean shot tore through its reactor core, setting it alight in a bloom of blue flame.

"Driven to splinter your foes into shards of metal…"

The enraged shape pressed onward, sweeping through defensive formations with brutal efficiency. Where the enemy rallied, he split their lines; where they ran, he hunted without haste, cutting them down in methodical strikes, never wasting a movement, never sparing a second blow.

"By blade or bullet…"

A sniper perched high among crumbling ruins tried to line up a shot. Before it could fire, Berserker’s shoulder cannon flashed once, vaporizing the upper floor in an instant, the sniper falling with it in a shower of dust and fractured steel.

"To scare the opposition to submission…"

The remaining soldiers faltered. Some dropped their weapons outright. Others turned their backs and ran, sending out pings showing their unconditional surrender. Berserker did not pursue them immediately. He let the terror bloom, let it fester.

"To revel in the terror they cause…"

Smoke thickened the battlefield. Through it, Berserker emerged, an executioner draped in the ruin of metal and fire. He advanced with a steady pace, unhurried, forcing the enemy to flee deeper into terror with every step.

"I only ask you do not give them a reason…"

Amid the wreckage, a lone pilot stumbled free from a crippled unit. They raised their hands, weaponless, defenseless. Berserker’s weapon systems spun to ready. For a heartbeat, the world held still.

"…against you."

With a low hiss, his weapons powered down. The pilot collapsed in the dirt as Berserker turned away, the sound of his retreating footsteps hammering into the silence.

[femmefirmware]

My partners friend went missing if you all could signal boost this!

[femmefirmware]

Redhand Protocol

Rael didn’t flinch when the mech’s autocannon roared. He hadn’t flinched for hours.

Smoke danced through the charred city blocks of Velos 7’s northern industrial district. Rael’s armoured mech, red-trimmed, blocky, scarred from dozens of engagements, stood like a Shade over the ruins of the rebel mech it had just crushed. Another “liberator” ground to paste beneath a war machine bought with quarterly profits.

“Sector secured.” came the voice in his comms, dripping with callous professionalism. Another Redhand squad, somewhere to the east, sweeping through what was once a housing zone.

“Copy.” Rael replied, his voice dry.

He dismounted.

The air outside was thick with ash and chemical stink, the scent seeping past his standard issue respirator. In the husk of a mech production facility, the one the rebels had seized weeks ago to begin building war machines of their own, he saw the last of the rebel technicians being rounded up. Some were teens. One was still in a lab coat. They weren’t soldiers, but they had tried to build a future. That was crime enough.

The facility was their miracle, their hope. A chance to fight back using the tools of their oppressors. It was also what doomed them.

A young man tried to stand as Redhand grunts barked orders at the prisoners. He was kicked down and zip-tied.

Rael knew the protocol: secure survivors, hand them over to Veltrix Core’s asset handling teams. Which meant interrogations, more likely disappearances. The rebels had built mechs. That made them engineers and insurgents, both worth jailing for PR and profit.

Rael said nothing. ------------

Hours later, aboard the Trident’s Warrant, a Veltrix Core command vessel, Rael sat alone in the ship’s darkened bar. Nestled away in a corner booth, nursing a glass.

He didn’t drink. The glass in front of him was just water, barely touched. His helmet sat on the counter like a severed head, staring at him with eyes not present.

The memory looped: the rebel girl who looked a little too much like his sister. The tech’s blackened, burnt fingers. The dull whir of his mech’s servos as he crushed another stolen dream under his foot.

The bartender kept quiet. He knew the Redhand types. Best not to ask questions. Best to keep polishing glasses and pouring drinks.

“You look young.”

The voice came from the stool beside him, gravel-throated, rough with old smoke and older guilt. The man wore a faded Redhand patch. Older. Scarred. A veteran.

Rael didn’t respond at first. Then: “I’ve been on-planet for five months.”

The older pilot nodded. “Long enough to stop sleeping right.”

Rael looked down at his glass. “You ever get used to it?”

The man didn’t answer right away. Then: “No one gets used to it. They shouldn't. War….it isn't natural. Our instinct to wage it maybe, but the act itself isn't. As enjoyable it may seem to learn to get used it, it isn't.”

Rael gave him a look that questioned his words, doubting what he meant. His silence taken as an acceptance for continuing, the veteran continued. "When you work with your hands, like wood or metal works, your hands, they harden. They become calloused, harder. The mind….it isn't different."

They sat in silence for a moment. Then the old pilot leaned closer, voice low.

“You know what callouses can do, though? They make it hard to feel what you’re really holding, hand or mind.”

Rael turned to face him. His mind was a swimming pool, of thoughts, of emotions, of confusion. Still, he spoke back. "And what of my heart? What if it tells me to do something I shouldn't, to do something else?"

“If your heart ever tells you to stop doing what you’re doing…” the man shrugged, “…maybe you oughta listen. That’s all.”

The implication hung heavy between them. Quit. Walk. Defect, even.

Rael nodded slowly. “Thanks.”

The old pilot raised his glass. “To whatever keeps us human.”

Rael raised his glass as well.

------------

A week later, Rael sat on a supply crate in the underbelly of a civilian transport ship, deep in the port district of Velos 7’s ruined capital. The documents he carried, fabricated IDs, rebel codes, were still warm from printing, crisp with a layer of resin.

She appeared out of the shadows, cast by the various ships coming and going: Kaelani, rebel technician, now hiding from the law. The same woman he had spared during the raid on the mech plant, spared from the heat of his weapon and the scrutiny of reports.

“You came,” she said.

“I had to.”

She looked him up and down. “You’re a murderer.”

“I know.”

They stared at each other in silence. The noise of the transport yard roared on behind them, drones lifting crates, voices shouting over logs and goods, thrusters firing as vessels leave dock.

“Good,” she said at last. “Means you’ll fight like one when it counts.”

She turned and walked, motioning for him to follow. Rael stood, grabbed his pack, and followed her into the shadows.

Behind him, the Veltrix Core insignia on his armor caught one last flicker of light… before he tossed the plate into the gutter.

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A/N: The first of (hopefully) many stories in the setting of Velos. Did I mention I have a discord? You should join it [^~^]

[femmefirmware]

The spirit of Diogenes is alive and well

[femmefirmware]

Operation Velos Cataclysm

“Officially a containment mission. Unofficially, a bloodbath, for profit.”

Velos 7 was once the crown jewel of the Velos system, a mineral-rich planet operated entirely by a hyper-capitalist conglomerate known as Veltrix Core. Citizens were workers. Neighborhoods were corporate housing blocks. Hospitals and schools charged in company credits.

When an underground socialist movement known as the Crimson Dawn rose up to challenge Veltrix Core’s rule, demanding nationalized infrastructure and economic rights, it sparked a full-scale civil war. Veltrix didn’t call in government forces, they called in Redhand Solutions, a brutal PMC with a reputation for zero-tolerance suppression.

The operation that followed, Operation Velos Cataclysm, was framed as a counter-insurgency mission. In truth, it became a war of annihilation. Cities were shelled, entire labor sectors collapsed, and both sides committed atrocities. Redhand’s mech units razed rebel strongholds while targeting infrastructure the rebels had seized, power plants, comm hubs, even water supplies. Crimson Dawn captured clerks and executed them on live broadcasts to inspire terror.

Velos 7 physically survived the war. The Crimson Dawn leadership was executed or disappeared. Veltrix Core still exists, though heavily weakened, but the planet’s economy is completely shattered. Its people now live in fractured ruins, caught between failed idealism and uncaring capitalism.

To this day, Operation Velos Cataclysm is a rallying cry for rebels, a shameful whisper among PMCs, and a haunting case study in what happens when war is outsourced to the highest bidder.

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Redhand Protocol

[femmefirmware]

French trans woman Marie-Pierre Pruvot, known by her stage name Bambi

Female Mimics magazine 1965

[femmefirmware]

it was not on wheat...