#hot pilots getting fucked by their mechs and handlers

[dmsr-art]

you got me to read nexus alpha and im shaking its so good omg

OMG RIGHT??? okay so i converted it into an epub so i could run it through a text to speech app to listen to it like an audiobook and i was listening to it last night before bed but that shit was making me so HORNY!! I WAS LIKE 💢⭕💢⭕ WHILE TRYING TO FALL ASLEEP

i ended up having a sex dream bc of it 🙈

here's a snippet from the beginning in case this is of any interest to u guys:

read it here!!

#nexus alpha #hot pilots getting fucked by their mechs and handlers #vee asks

[cutsiewitch]

A Mechanic’s Worries about Pilots.

A gifted mechanic is called in to service a pilot. As The Mechanic begins to head towards her station to work on the pilot, she can’t help but ruminate on her feelings about pilots. She honestly doesn’t like them.

It’s not a personal thing, she’s sure that they were great people at one point, but it’s hard to see them like that anymore. She finds the whole thing creepy and offputting. She see’s what they do to pilots, knows how they’re made. She probably understands the process more than anybody on the base. She’s a prodigy in mecha suit engineering, which also includes pilot systems.

It makes her uncomfortable. The pilots are treated like objects, tools of war. That’s what they are too, what they’re made to be. Their skulls are full of tech that hooks them straight into their mechs, their brains fried with dopamine and other kinds of chemical soup to reward them when they shoot targets into slag. They even end up sharing the space in their head with the onboard ai’s of their mechs. They’re locked into the mechanical nerves and metal muscles of the mech. It makes them amazing killing machines, but their minds are practically crippled outside of the suits, raw and untethered, ungrounded.

The weirdest thing to her is they seem so happy. It doesn’t even look like it’s just the chemicals, it can’t be. They like it, whatever fucked up experience they’re having, it’s making them happy as can be. They want to get back into the suits, they want to push more. They like getting bossed around like dogs by their handlers. They love their ai’s almost like some weird fusion of a lover, a sibling, and a reflection. They can barely even articulate how they feel, most don’t bother, but The Mechanic has worked in this business long enough to learn anyways.

She gets to her workshop. It’s honestly kind of pathetic, barely worthy of the name. She knows that the pilots are treated as tools, but mechanics aren’t treated much better. Human but still not really worthy of respect. They work her and the other mechanics like slaves, cramping them into the crawl spaces where stuff needs fixing. Even with her advanced position all they afford her is this broom closet from hell. The room is cramped and humid, like a small metal sauna. It’s still marginally better than the communal workshop. Even with the bigger and more open room it still somehow manages to be claustrophobic and hot.

The Pilot is already there, sitting on her workbench, completely naked. The Mechanic isn’t surprised, but her face still burns with heat as she blushes when seeing The Pilot’s bare ass resting on the same giant hunk of tungsten-steel alloy she uses to fix delicate parts and machinery. The Pilot’s augs are invasive and take up a good portion of its body. Its arms, its legs, and a good portion of its back are more machine than human at this point. Normally the jumpsuits account for this, but those would get in the way of repairs. Normal clothes would too, and developing some kind of modesty cover for them is more trouble than it’s worth for the higher ups. They don’t have to deal with the nudity, and it’s not like the pilots even care.

The Mechanic wipes the sweat from her brow and crosses the room. She doesn’t actually acknowledge The Pilot aside from the blushing, but The Pilot’s gaze follows her as she makes her way over to a box of tools. She sets the box down next to The pilots thigh and pulls over the ratty stool she uses for a chair.

She starts servicing The Pilot. She pulls out delicate tools and with ingrained precision she begins opening up The Pilot’s augs, starting with the legs and going up. She hooks its systems up to an old box of a diagnostics unit and begins manually inspecting the parts. She pulls wires aside with tiny fractions of force and checks on the tiny sensors and servos that are no bigger than her fingernail, cleaning them with tiny swabs and lubricating them with drops of oil.

The entire time she keeps hearing weird noises. Soft whines and sounds of scraping play at the edge of her attention, distracting her just the tiniest amount. The Mechanic can’t tell where the noises are coming from, and it’s bothering the shit out of her. When she takes a step back to unfocus and wipe the sweat from her forehead, she sees where it’s coming from.

It’s the pilot. It’s breathing heavily, like it’s exhausted. Its face is almost as flushed as The Mechanic’s when she walked in. The metal tips of its fingers scratch at the polished surface of her workbench. Jesus fucking christ, was The Pilot turned on right now? With the face it was making it had to be.

Fuck, now The Mechanic was thrown way off. It was already hard enough to try and pretend this was just normal machine servicing when all of the machinery was attached to a sweaty, naked girl, it was impossible to do it when she knew it was getting off to her poking around in its augments.

The Mechanic just couldn’t get back into the same groove she had before. Every stifled moan disrupted her concentration. Every squirm messed up her precise motions. Everything just kept bringing her back into the moment, where her face was inches away from the pilot’s crotch.

The Mechanic slogged through the rest of the grueling work, doing her best to try and travel into that little place in the back of her mind where she could just stop thinking and do what she was good at. She finished with the legs and then told the pilot directly to lay down so she could begin on her arms.

The Pilot laid down like it was told. The Mechanic scooted her stool forward and raised the seat for a better vantage. In the end the new position wasn’t all that much better than the old. The Pilot’s left arm was cradled on The Mechanic’s lap while she popped it open and began working on it.

It was more of the same. Nothing wrong but basic cleanup, which meant The Mechanic wouldn’t be busy enough to zone out. She could see its face clearly now. It looked so human, so lively. When she pressed a sensor its hand tensed and squirmed, pushing against her stomach a bit. A tugged wire elicited a slight yip of surprise. It felt so carnal, to dig into this things innards and just mess around.

Seeing it like this, The Mechanic couldn’t help but wonder about the difference between the two. Right now it looked just as human as she was, so she couldn’t apply the same cold business mentality she usually did with her work. She felt like they were almost one in the same. I mean, look at it, being a pilot can’t be so bad, right?

The Mechanic’s thoughts ground to a halt. Her surprise was so sudden it caused her to tweak a wire hard enough to get The Pilot to let out a proper yelp. Neither could tell if it was a yelp of pleasure or pain.

What had she just thought? Seriously, what the hell was that? Was she serious? Of course being a pilot is bad, being treated like a mindless dog, worked like a machine, and used like a toy. The Mechanic barely knew where that thought had even come from. I mean, it and her were nothing alike.

The Mechanic stewed in those thoughts, trying to reassure herself that she was nothing like it. She wasn’t an it. The Mechanic was a person, and it was just a pilot. The Mechanic tried her best to just focus on the work, but she couldn’t. The thoughts bothered her so much, and she really couldn’t dismiss them.

Because they were alike, very much alike. Not in the sense that The Pilot was a person. In the sense that The Mechanic wasn’t.

The Mechanic couldn’t help but feel it. She was a cog in a much larger machine, a tiny piece. She was treated almost the same as The Pilot

The Mechanic was worked like a dog. She was given shit conditions and forced to do shittier things. She was expendable, one in a million. You could point to almost any outward aspect of the two of them and they would match up.

The thing that frustrated The Mechanic even more was how they were the same on the inside too.

The Mechanic knew what it felt like to become something bigger. Working in the engineering wing was like being in a hive mind. You’re practically shoulder to shoulder with the people next to you. You become parts of the same whole, you work together, you sweat together, you create together. She can’t even remember how many times she had needed something, a part, a tool, a towel, anything, and a mechanic next to her had just known, and given it to her. She knew she had done the same for others all the time.

She could admit to feeling like an it sometimes. Stripped of your identity, down to everything but your use. She didn’t know The Pilot’s name, and The Pilot probably didn’t know her’s. She was a mechanic. She was nothing but the job she did. A function, not a person.

Her head pounded as she adjusted her grip on The Pilot’s arm. Her head buzzed and it felt like her brain was melting in the heat of the room. She could imagine the wires burning up and melting their rubber casings. The copper and metal fusing together into a frenzied mess as her thoughts jumbled into each other.

She shook her head violently. God she was losing it! Her brain wasn’t made of wires, it was made of meat! She wasn’t overheating, she was just getting some kind of headache. She closed up the first arm, not even sure if she was really done, and told the pilot to swap sides through gritted teeth.

She wanted things to be simpler. She wanted to stop thinking. She just wanted to do her job. The Mechanic missed the engineering floor. She missed the absent thrum as she worked alongside her fellow workers, their thoughts synchronizing into a beautiful and productive symphony. She wanted to be a part of that, of it. She just wanted to be a Mechanic, that was so much easier than all of this.

Is that why pilot’s are so happy? Are they so content because that’s what it feels like? The Mechanic thought about it in her own terms. Would she give up her body to work more efficiently? Would she open up her mind, just to be even closer with the other mechanics? Would she shed all of the cumbersome weight that thinking like a person had, and just become a simple and unbothered it?

The answer was yes. The Mechanic wanted that. The simple, pure existence of it. The Mechanic wanted to be that, and nothing more. When it realized that, it had a much easier time working on The Pilot’s arm.

It finished up The Pilot’s back in no time too. Without all of the messy thoughts clogging up its head, the whole thing went smoothly. The Pilot was sent on her way, on wobbly legs and with shaky breath. The Mechanic might have messed with it a bit more than necessary, but it liked to consider that a reward, for good behavior.

The Mechanic realized it wanted a bit of a career shift. It thought that if being a mechanic was good, then being a pilot must be great! It loved working on machines, but it wanted that sense of empty completion even more. Plus, it’s not like it won’t be allowed to also do mechanic work still. It would be a lot better for everyone if it got to service its own mech. It would be a win win. The Mechanic wiped down its workbench for the last time, and with renewed vigor, went to sign up to become a pilot.

#empty spaces #mechaposting

[hi-im-kaybee]

post-sortie checkup

featuring my characters Kaybee and Guntherie. mild cw for violence, vague dom/sub and petplay themes.

KYB-313's optic processors had switched over to grayscale. That was its formal designation, but its handler Guntherie preferred to call it Kaybee. It was normal for synth pilots like this to jump from a manic, twitchy state down to an almost-sedated one, but the freeze chip Guntherie installed in it had been given a few tweaks outside of the norm.

It could no longer speak. Its mind was foggy and dull, and its reinforced musculature had been turned off, leaving the spindly thing to hold its own weight. Guntherie usually liked to switch this on as they disembarked from the launch deck and into the lower halls, because it was easier for Kaybee to find its footing after making it to the elevator. She relished seeing the fight in its eyes shut down.

It gripped her arm, and let all its weight slump over. It was panting deep and heavy. Spit hung from its mouth in little tendrils. The cockpit of its mech always gets unbearably hot, no matter how many heat retardant layers it packs on or how thick the coolant gel is. Guntherie held tightly to the leash keeping it from wandering too far, or endangering others. Thankfully the elevator was empty aside from the pair.

"You did alright today."

Guntherie's voice, sultry and deep and warm, reverberated in its ears. It tried to let out a soft moan, but the freeze chip kept it from doing anything other than sighing heavily. Its groin became increasingly warm as it began to crumple. Its eyes watered, half-lidded, staring at its feet.

"Hey. Look at me."

Its eyes widened as it struggled to reign its overheating mind to bring attention to its handler. She was wearing a face of dissatisfaction. Almost anger, or contempt.

"You did alright, but you need to keep yourself from collecting small arms fire. It doesn't hurt the craft much, but I have the top brass breathing down my neck about the unnecessary maintenance costs."

This wasn't the praise a good machine was expecting. It hung its head in shame and tightened its grip, before slowly nodding its head. The whiplash from Guntherie gripping its jaw and wrangling it towards her face, bringing them mere inches from another, jolted and shocked the pilot. It bore the face akin to a deer, stuck in the headlights.

"I'm this fucking close to getting reassigned. And I'll be damned if I let anyone else get their hands on you. Do you understand my goddamn words, KYB?"

She never used its assigned name unless she really, really meant it. It nodded its head as much as her grip allowed. The pit of warmth in its core began to grow, and the tears started flowing more effortlessly. All it could muster was a silent whimper. She sneered back in the same venomous tone, this time with an inflection of control, and the barest hint of comfort.

"I hope so. Good girl."

She released its jaw, and it quickly hugged her side. Had the reinforced musculature been turned on, it would have been enough pressure to cut her clean in half. Her hand found its way down its spine, fingers teasing each input port on the first ten vertebrae, before making her way up to the base of its neck. Its mind was on fire trying desperately to hold the information it had received - lest it lose the touch of its beloved handler.

Its eyes were dew-filled and puffy by the time they reached their floor. The steel-gray walls and floors were mixed together like watercolor under the harsh, cool lighting. They made their way to KYB-313's holding unit. It remembered the steps with precision - take the third corridor on the right, follow the left turn, take a left at the T and go down six more doors to the right. They walked at its pace, but it did its best to keep from bothering its handler with a sluggish crawl.

Good girl. It was like a dopamine hit from the best drug in the world. It trudged along, trembling with pleasure after every few steps. It silently swore to the steel up above, and the flesh down below, that it would do better next time. They reached the door and walked in. Kaybee's heart and groin were overheating as hard as its brain now. It could barely keep from squirming as she stripped it of its decksuit, and she definitely took notice.

It already understood to lie down on the coupling chair, the wires automatically snaking their way up and slotting into their proper places. Guntherie slid over it, saddle-style, her groin resting on its stomach. It began to breathe heavy again, and its needy eyes drank in its handler's graceful presence. She began to undo its chestplate, revealing the surprisingly delicate internals - springs, counterweights, circuit boards and wiring, seemingly haphazard but each little bit in its rightful place. Like a handmade watch.

"At least you're all sound inside." Her face couldn't help but betray a little bit of the uncaring mask she wore, as her cheeks flushed ever so slightly. Kaybee could see it, even in the dark and confining space of the room. Even with the greyscale optics activated. She still reached her hands in, feeling it from the inside, despite the clean bill of health. It was almost too much for the poor meat-machine, stuck on the chair, body paralyzed but still feeling to prevent any unwanted movement.

It mouthed a single word - please. It wanted to be ripped apart, piece by piece. It wanted to be tenderly loved and caressed and rode upon. It wanted to be given any sort of attention from the one it loved the most. Its handler. "My handler", it whispered. Guntherie brought her hand and laid it against its throat.

"I didn't give you permission to speak, Kaybee."

Its eyes narrowed, pupils widening from the pleasure, lips tensed into a lovely mix of pleasure and pleading. Her face widened into a smile that would make others' hearts drop in their chests. But Kaybee loved it, for it knew exactly what was happening next.

#kaybee writing #my ocs #empty spaces #falling really hard for this idea now #sorry to the ones looking forward to my other short story to be continued #i will post more soon #:3c

[kaxenart]

The handlers having a break outside for whatever reason.

Shuen having a combination of high stamina and high pain toleration and being too stubborn for her own good means she can put up with a lot. Shuen's parents always insisted she wasn't trying hard enough when she fucked up, so Shuen's mentality turned into "okay then, I guess I can't tap out until this is Shitshow Supreme™" which just made things worse, and debt from one of Shuen's Shitshow Supremes is why she is a mech pilot.

It is a terrible mix with Balik who is careless and impatient and easily frustrated, which leads to more carelessness. I don't think Balik passed training by a comfortable margin.......

The delicate balance between vulnerability and power in being a pilot is heeehhoougghhh

One the one hand, 10m tall rocket-powered death machine.

On the other hand, extreme vulnerability caused by all the augments and drugs used to make it happen. TRUSTING SOMEONE WITH MACHINERY ATTACHED TO YOUR BRAIN.

Balik and Shuen are a bad pairing, but not bad enough to make the commander swap them out. Or at least not bad enough yet...

Shuen is a little envious of Temir having Kergat as the two of them vibe a lot better. Also Kergat is hot (though Kergat does not particularly enjoy being hit on in a professional setting).

Kergat doesn't want to manage two pilots at once at this point in her career. I don't think multi-pilot handling is very gainful in the military (like more work for a minimal raise). Mercenary handlers are more likely to do it because they get paid on commission so it's more profitable to send out more pilots to more jobs.

Headhunting another handler's pilot is kind of a faux pas.

Though Balik probably would not mind shunting Shuen to someone else and getting someone more like Ibarra.

Clark also would not swap with Balik. Shuen being 50 pounds lighter than Ibarra and less likely to be totally zonked out after a sortie would be great for Clark's back pain, but Clark prefers older pilots because he thinks younger folks have too much emotional turmoil.

#tkverse #balik #clark #kergat #shuen #mech pilot #Clark has a Pobody's Nerfect mug #he likes Dad Jokes #Armored Hearts