#handlerposting

[dollvoid0000]

The eroticism between a Handler and their doll. A doll built to be so powerful, to be such a raw force for violence that it needs a Handler.

The Handler's pilot is a conditioned, slobbering mess. It gets off on getting kicked in the stomach and making out with its rifle.

The Handler's doll is purpose-built, relentlessly and gracefully and wishlessly. To be wielded by its Handler.

Sometimes the Handler uses their doll to keep their pilot's spirits up.

[thefaelightforge]

Why make a diary when you can make a "Sortie Report?" Have a designated check in day, and have a section for every day between check in's with "Good", "Bad", "Missions", "Improvements", "suggested maintenance." ECT. ... Okay so writing is taking a back seat today. i wanna actually make this.

[wintertraumaposting]

Puppy mech pilot dropping a 10 metre artillery barrel in front of its handler and wagging its tail expectantly.

"Somebody get me a catapult or something so I can play fetch with it."

[riversidewings]

A Handler who drinks in the vague haze and hitched breath that settles over her hand-trained, meticulously housebroken combat doll's eyes whenever she takes the doll's cheek in her hand for inspection.

They're little things, but they were a long time coming.

[valtia-b]

Hey Handlers,

Does anybody know where I can buy a Mecha version of one of these? My hound keeps crying when I take her out of the cockpit, she hasn't slept in an actual bed for months now.

[the-blinding-neon-lights]

Dollposting

Handlers!: Make sure you give you doll enrichment activities otherwise they might take their boredom out on things like your furniture!

And don't forget: all types of dolls have different things that they would consider "enriching"

One thing my handler does for me is She sends me on hunts to find songs for Her that we've listened to in videos we watch together!

But what works for one doll might not work for another, try out new things! hide their favourite treats in a rolled up blanket, hide a specifis scent or item they like in your garden, give them something specifically for them to destroy if that's what they need!

And as a bonus it helps keep your dolls senses sharp and ready for your future use <3

[multiversetravelingjournalist]

Empty Spaces Conlang

I am feeling very tempted to make a conlang inspired by all the empty spaces, doll posting, and mech posting stories I have read so far on this site and one time on the archive. I imagine the words being made up of a limited set of morphemes that describe all the parts of a thing and use phonemic changes within the word for inflections. There would be an honorific system depending on whether the speaker and listener and/or referent is a doll, pilot, witch, handler, demon, or some other being. Pronouns would be modified nouns that have most of their phonemes chopped off to make them shorter as befitting such anaphora.

Other than that, I am not sure if I will commit to such a project right now. Most definitely later. Other than that, I find conlanging and the not-lore of empty spaces to be interesting enough to consider trying to combine them.

[corsair-mercenary-companies]

So what does a handler even do? My team only has the navigation guy, and he just handles maps and stuff

My job as a handler was complicated.

Kind of had three parts.

Pre Boots On The Ground. Beyond making sure my pilots were taken care of medically and foodwise I made sure mechanics maintained mechs, I had to double check they were actually going to medical checks. I liked to also make sure their mechs were tuned back to perfection. Not to mention actually briefing my pilots for their upcoming mission.

During Boots On The Ground: Battlefield reports, kill count, tactical consulting, early warning system, comms manager, grounding point, battlefield therapy.

Post Boots On The Ground: Getting emergency healthcare out, my operation report needs to get written shortly after the operation, I need to order the repairs and get the repair manifests in order to send to Quartermastery, if... I lost a pilot funnary services.... Debriefing pilots...

My job was not a glorified desk monkey.... I... I like to think I was good at it anyways.

//Morse\\

[alurkerlieshere]

yay! another chapter of warhound just released, this one can't wait to read it! it'll be something nice to read while its steaming in the bath after it's hike!

2 hours later

*desperate needy sobbing* WHY CANT IT HAVE THAT *sounds of trying not to throw up* WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE A PERSON *phone flys across room and clatters to the floor* IT CANT LIVE LIKE THIS ANYMORE *extremely loud scream that's only muffled by burying its face into its arms*

[dollvoid0000]

The end point of any combat doll will be Voiding of their Purpose.

When no wars are left to wage, no conflicts to be resolved, no enemy to be crushed. It is only then, when a combat doll will begin to idle.

This one did not ever enjoy commiting violence; Such a feral and primal desire is simply unbecoming of a well-made doll like it. However, no other purpose has ever been inscribed upon it, and so with the deftness of porcelain ball joints compelling it into action, it goes out at the behest of itself. Or perhaps its handlerwitch. When it becomes idle, it will be the last significant movement it will have ever done, and the future is a bleak void.

It knows how to. How to hunt. How to kill. How to exsanguinate. How to hurt.

It never stops knowing.

And it is upon you, to give idle combat dolls a new purpose. These tools that can do nothing but commit violence.

But why would you want that? There are no more wars left to wage.

“Living weapon” covers a lot and all of it is hot

[dollvoid0000]

Everyday applications for combat dolls

It quite despises conflict. So much strife, so much hatred, and none of it productive. Naturally, it will resort to its instincts when its cohort of dolls, mechs, witches, robots, handlers, --- needs protection.

But luckily, that is not always the case.

So, dear reader, it asks you, what is it to do on those other days? Sit by idly? Ne'er!

Many within the cohort yearn to have their urges satiated. And what is a combat doll, if not a targeted tool for unrestrained hedonistic martyrdom? Day in, day out, it will gladly use its commanding and assured voice to comfort those that cannot bear other styles of communication - mech pilots. Or a gentle porcelain whisper, sending affirmations of understanding dollward.

Witches get to witness the bodies they create give pleasure unto themselves and others. Robotgirls finally get to scrape their bodies against familiar yet so foreign porcelain - hard yet fragile. The especially traumatized ones - of all kinds - yet mostly mech pilots and other handlers, will sometimes ask for... more reminiscent treatment. Treatment of abuse, were it not for their consent. The kicking of ribs, the punching of stomachs, the exploration of teeth and mouths and the drawing of saliva strings, coating this one's chassis in a second shimmering layer beyond the porcelain enamel.

Handlers get to revel in the safety of an autonomous killing machine. A combat doll like this one does not need one. It is one, more likely. If they so wish, they get to dive back into that briny pool of remote coordination and targeted destruction - yet when they inevitably crack, it will still be there, triumphant, and assuring. It will all be okay. It can stand on its own. You did good.

You did good.

You did good.

This one loves you.

You did good.

[riversidewings]

A Handler who drinks in the vague haze and hitched breath that settles over her hand-trained, meticulously housebroken combat doll's eyes whenever she takes the doll's cheek in her hand for inspection.

They're little things, but they were a long time coming.

[the-blinding-neon-lights]

Dollposting (for my fellow mascs)

One thing I've noticed that I don't see enough of on here are posts about more masc leaning doll things.

Don't worry, precious things, I see you.

You're just as valid as any other doll, and I understand how it feels to not quite fit in to the doll space.

But you don't need to fit in, you're all just as perfect as you are <3

[f3arow]

handlerposting part..... whatever

[dollvoid0000]

Handlerdoll

It is not quite content with being but a doll. Its purpose is that of community, of being there for others. Sometimes others need to be handled but would rather trust those that have been down in the depths before. So there it stands.

It has built itself up from numerous fractals all across the cultural slurry that coats and contains all dolls and mechs and tgirls.

Being a combat doll requires constant ability to endure violence. This one endures it for others, primarily.

[dollvoid0000]

Providing these pleasures to others is what makes being a handlertype so worth it <3

Hound Dogs

“… tomorrow we’ll meet your handler. For now, rest up.”

RDAI.vii.1156 stared down at its new body. Joining the military was considered the best route a Class-F citizen could pursue - free food, shelter, maybe even a few augments if you got lucky. But the Rapid Deployment Auxiliary Infantry unit felt less lucky and more confused. It signed up expecting to be given a gun and a pat on the back, not… this.

The arms were probably the strangest change. Skilled military surgeons had removed its forearms with a single blast of a laser that numbed its pain and severed flesh and bone at the same time. In their place, 1156 now wielded on each arm a single long, spider-like metal blade that extended all the way to the floor. The same happened to its legs, forcing the unit onto all fours. A reinforced spine kept it from collapsing onto the ground.

The rest of its body was covered in angular metal plates, designed to redirect and resist gunfire and protect the unit’s remaining flesh. Its face was likewise covered by an solid steel visor, vision and hearing substituted by an array of cameras, sonar, and radio scanners that fed information directly into its augmented brain. Its mouth remained uncovered but its teeth were removed and replaced with a new carbon fiber set. The chip in its brain repressed its discomfort so it didn’t try to claw off its own jaw.

A buzzer sounded and a tray carrying a bowl of nutrimeal slid out of the wall of the room. Unit 1156 stared it at, trying to figure out what to do - an injected concoction of hormones and suppressants had kept it comfortably dull, but somewhat muddled.

>EAT

The word flashed up on the inside of its visor, glaring into its semi-redundant eyes - eyes now dedicated to receiving screen-fed orders. It obediently craned its head down and started chomping at the slop. It was starving - the accelerated healing process was effective but it sapped all the solider’s energy.

Even if its senses hadn’t been muted, the nutritional goop was flavorless. Nevertheless it found itself slurping away with abandon, licking the bowl clean, dignity cast aside. Its faceplate glowed white hot for a moment before cooling down again, singeing off specks of food that had flown astray in the unit’s feeding frenzy. This feature was meant to burn blood and dirt off so that it didn’t impair an RDAI’s sensor array, but it worked for dinner well enough.

>GOOD MUTT

*****

The next day found RDAI.vii.1156 waiting in the main hangar, still slightly trembling on its spindly new legs. The thin, bladed design was perfect for chasing down enemy troops on the battlefield or pinning a straggler to the ground, but it was difficult to balance with even with the aid of the unit’s brain augments. A cord plugged into the back of its head kept it from wandering too far while feeding low-level electrical pulses that helped calm its nerves. It was waiting for its new handler - the soldier it would fight alongside, whose life it would dedicate itself to protecting. The bond between a handler and their hound (as the units were fondly referred to) was something truly unique, and though 1156 hadn’t planned to end up on this side of the relationship, it couldn’t help but feel excited.

It could feel her presence long before she actually entered the hangar. Perhaps it was merely the hormonal braindeck releasing waves of dopamine, but to the cyborg’s mind she was the most perfect being in the world. It could almost taste the draw of her augments to its own, pulling the two of them together like magnets. It knew that she felt it too. The connection between them was already established: the handler and the hunter, the owner and the dog.

It couldn’t quite remember what beauty looked like but it decided that she must be as close as one could get. Bent on all fours as 1156 was, it stood about half a meter shorter than her. Encased in a shiny automorphic techsuit, her body rippled with hidden energy ready to be unleashed at a moment’s notice. Her one eye shone, the other replaced by an implant that flashed rapidly as if to say, it’s finally you.

A technician standing by unplugged the unit’s tether and stuck in a thinner, double-ended wire. 1156 trembled as its handler grabbed the other end and slowly slotted it into a port on her neck.

The instant the plug connected, 1156 nearly collapsed from the tsunami of pleasure that struck it at full force. All Handler’s emotions, all her thoughts, her very essence flowed through its brain, and it could tell that she was experiencing the same influx of data.

They stood there for what seemed like forever, its faceplate lights flashing in sync with her vitals node. The only sound was the slight clinking of metal on concrete as 1156 shifted from talon to talon. Her designation was RDI-H.2054, she was a Class-E civilian who was recruited at age 8, she had been trained as a handler for 11 years, but 1156 was her first hound of her own. She liked the color green, she hated morning training, she had been deployed overseas on a scouting mission just three months ago. The unit’s brain felt overloaded with information and yet more kept flowing in.

It saw vague images, faces of people that it didn’t recognize yet felt so familiar - Handler’s family? It saw the fire of war, the smiles of fellow soldiers, it felt her heartbeat, her brainwaves, her every breath. For a split second, the hound and the handler were not separate but rather a single entity, one soldier in two bodies, sharing their memories. 1156 felt its Handler’s cybernetic eye and her prosthetic leg, and she likewise felt its spindly new form and armor plating.

RDAI.vii.1156 felt 2054 about to scream and roared out in sync. Its twisted metallic vocal chords, designed specifically to instill fear in the enemy, pierced the air in the hangar with an unearthly screech which neither overwhelmed nor surrendered to its keeper’s voice but rather merged with it in a feral harmony.

*****

Blood spewed down the dog’s chin and through crevasses in its armor. It spit out a chunk of flesh with strands of muscle tangled in its reinforced teeth. As it stepped back from its prey, its pointed blades withdrew from within the dead footsoldier’s chest. The unit’s faceplate sizzled, burning away blood and viscera and turning its vision bright red for a moment. It let out a fierce howl, launching itself forwards with a speed unmatched by any two-legged infantry.

Just behind it, its handler finished off a tank pilot attempting to crawl away from its craft. The hound’s many sensors highlighted the remaining stragglers on the battlefield, and 2054 assessed the remaining threats as she ran. She spotted a wounded soldier training their scope onto her companion and raised her weapon, disintegrating the enemy’s face with a single clean blast. The hound bayed its gratitude before finishing its run, speeding between rocks and debris and eliminating the last few soldiers.

One, two, three, blood gushed from their chests as 1156 pounced on them, puncturing their lungs and tearing out their throats in quick succession. RDI-H.2054 watched and basked in the adrenaline - her brain had not been upgraded to manage her auxiliary’s entire suite of sensors, but they shared many core sensations. They both felt the rush of war, the warmth of blood on their faces, and most of all an immense wave of satisfaction and even euphoria. Nothing felt better than killing together - an entire battalion laid to waste at their hands gave them a jolt of dopamine that felt better than orgasm.

They were never awarded for their feats, nor did they feel the need for any such recognition. Deep in their programming they didn’t fight for any cause or nation, or even for their commanding officer. They fought merely to tear and bite alongside each other, to see the fear in their enemies’ eyes and feel their life drain out at the will of the hound of death and its handler.

Standing together in the remains of a decimated army, they surveyed their work. The air smelled of blood and the familiar scent of plasma-scorched air. 1156 playfully rammed its armored face into its handler’s chestplate, grunting and drooling red down her torso. She laughed and rubbed the top of its head, sending microscopic ripples of pleasure down its spine.

>GOOD JOB DARLING