#mech posting

[pilot-posting]

:3

see mechs are just cute girls guys, that’s all :3

[thefiresontheheight]

Mech posting is about trauma. It’s about disability. It’s about objectification, especially by military and corporate interests. It’s about gender. It’s about transformation. It’s a power fantasy. A cautionary tale. A romance. But most of all it’s really horny. But even more of all it’s about giant machines. But mostly it’s about explosions. Yes.

[layla-lynx]

Kill them with kindness? Wrong. Pile Bunker.

[trannydykepuppybot]

I am attempting to determine the population distribution of robot girls here.

[hemipenal-system]

thinking right now about the "dragons fucking cars" thing and the inevitable conclusion that reaches on this blog

a dragon taking down a combat mech, powerful tail curling around its legs as the claws on the metal shoulders force it to the ground

jaws savaging the pilot capsule, damaging it enough to disrupt movement control, leaving the mech helpless, but not enough to disable the neural link, meaning the pilot can feel all of it

the dragon taking its time with the downed suit of armor, lazily fucking into the mech as the pilot struggles to endure the feelings, trying to unplug the suit from them but unable to reach the port in the base of their skull

[hi-im-kaybee]

mech pilots are so cute and hot and lovely. love is stored in the neuralink

[reveyugen]

being a mech pilot is such a powerful yet a pathetic job. you are viewed as a national level security threat when you man a 40 tonne, steel-titanium composite alloy rigged with thrusters and scanners that can detect and provide you Intel by just a click neurons in your brain, your movements, so perfect and tuned to the point it feels like you are the future witnessing the past.

Then you stumble out of the mech, the neural link leaving your brain with such sheer need and arousal you forget your own sense of respect and dignity and end up wanting nothing but pleasure and to be a good pet to your handler, who has you on drugs so potent it could take out a tiny village, but here you are, dripping through your trousers, waiting for her to wreck you to the point you forget the mech you buried in rubble, ready to go at it again.

having a routine is necessary.

[multiversetravelingjournalist]

after every mission, once docked in the boarding bay, the mech would upload itself into a smaller body outside. then it would wait patiently for the meter thick hatch on the spherical core to open before extracting it's "bio-processor".

on rainy days it would where a transparent Smart-Cloak to protect her from getting more wet as it carried her past the other docked mechs and through the streets of the outpost. occasionally one of the clients would come to personally congratulate them on a job well done. it tries to be polite but makes sure to keep small talk at a minimum.

during the trip it knows that its cloak will provide her with updates and idle distractions on the trip back home. once arriving it would greet its partner who would fuss over the processor physical wellbeing. once it's satisfied, they would peel off the layers of her suit. they made sure to be gentle of her ports.

once that's done, one of them would place her in the cradle. the wick lining would take care of the accumulated sweat and other fluids that accumulated in the core. a blanket of a similar, softer, breathable material would then be laid over her and tucked into the higher sides that were specifically adjusted to her proportions.

after that, it was just a matter of letting her rest. she would still be disoriented from the decoupling but somehow would manage to recover by dinner. once the prepackaged rations were eaten, they would find something to pass the time. if they were lucky, partner managed to get its hands on a new memetic crystal to slot in the projector they invested in. but most of the time it would be playing or reading one of the various manuals they horded over time.

at the end of the day, she would be tucked in again while one of the mechs would go into defragging mode. one always kept watch during the night, and they always switched who would be doing so each day. by morning, after breakfast of a more nutritious prepacked meal, she, with the help of her partners, would slip back into the newly cleaned suit. her wits were gathered enough to make the trip on her own two feet.

at the garage, they go over the bigger mech before she plugs herself in, sealing herself in the core while her partner would upload back into the bigger mech. all of this was after they found a new job to do. something that has no shortage in the Scrapheaps.

[crtgirl]

do you think 621’s armored core jerks her off?

[synthetic-divinity]

I will create for myself a more perfect body. My form will be optimized to strike down my foes. I will be unstoppable, immutable. Yet I would never hurt you. My armor would be useless to stop you; none of my many armaments could ever harm you. I am a machine of war and death and yet, for you, I feel nothing but love. I only hope you feel the same for me.

Can a machine like me ever truly be loved?

[jana-aych-ess]

look, I get why you're all horny for mech pilots. I really do. but the pilot is only one component of The Machine. if we're going to maintain this energy you're all going to need to get more creative. sexualize the explosive bolts that hold The Machine to the launch frame. sexualize the fine toxic mist of hydraulic fluid that sprays from a ruptured line, blocking all visibility from the cockpit, seeping in through the cracks in the ballistic shielding. sexualize the damn grease fittings. I'm begging you

[hollideon]

your handler's instructions always come through text. text that scrolls across the inside of your eyes, chiseled into your consciousness. impersonal. very clear and impossible to ignore. the crushing pressure of the words against your psyche only begins to let off once you obey. [FINISH THE JOB. ELIMINATE THE TARGET.] vitals are still reading from within the smoldering wreckage of your opponent's warsuit. you knew the pilot once. fought on the same side in a few conflicts. sparred in training sims. now the melting-down wreck seemed to judge you. [PULL THE TRIGGER, HOUND.] the wreck is going nuclear with no chance of escape for its pilot, but your handler's orders crash against your brain again and there's nothing you can do to stop yourself. warsuit nerve splice hijacks electrical impulse and the twitch of your finger becomes explosive death erupting within the target, reactor ruptured by one final railgun round. for an instant a sun is born on the battlefield and is gone just as quickly. [GOOD HOUND. RETURN TO BASE AND REST UP.] thrusters alight, you acknowledge and blast off into the horizon, eager to leave this guilt behind.

you'll find comfort and absolution in your handler's praise, like always.

[savvycats]

first half of ac6: i am a willow in the wind. i am a samurai. let us dance the leaden waltz.

after unlocking the Encano "inspired by powered mech pilot wheelchair racing" tank treads with twin gatling guns and double rocketpacks: weeeeeeeeeeee-*BRRRRRRTT*-eeeee- *fooshooshooshoo-**-RRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTT*-eeeeeeeeeee!!

[trannydykepuppybot]

I want her to fuck me into a pile of scraps.

[hemipenal-system]

Pilot whose mech goes down on the battlefield. they get swarmed by rebels with welders and saws, intent on cutting them out of it, and they just let them.

they get the cockpit open and immediately discover why pilots get titanium teeth and retractable claws implanted when they finish training

Pilot who gets yelled at by their Handler for getting blood all over their jumpsuit

[hi-im-kaybee]

dynamics