#mech handler

[corsair-news-alliance]

People interested in becoming Handlers, those about to be handlers, and those who just became handlers listen up.

You're gonna need this to get through Boots on the Ground after Boots on the Ground.

1. You're going to see everything your pilots see. You're going to see the unfiltered nightmare of the field. Make sure you've got a vice of choice that you can stay steady. Avoid booze. You need to be clear.

2. You're their guardian no matter how much they think they're bulletproof out there you're the one making sure they're actually bulletproof. The information you send them is what makes sure they don't die.

3. They will die. One of your pilots will die. You can't stop it. It doesn't get easier.

4. When they get back to base your job isn't done. You finish the after action report. You make sure your pilots get what they need. Only once they're settled is your job done for the night.

5. One day they're going to ignore an order. You have a choice. Keep yelling at them to try (and fail) to get them on track. Or you can buck command as well and make sure they survive.

6. You are not the pilot's friend. You're their handler. You point the weapon they are. The second they're inside their mech and you're in your chair talking to them on comms they're your ward.

7. Never celebrate right after a battle.

8. Never get comfortable in the chair. No mission is ever as simple as the briefing makes it.

9. Your pilot will prove you wrong.

10. Break all these rules the second it feels right. You're a handler, you manage pilots, the bastards fueled by willpower and spite. You've got to have more will than they do.

//Signal\\

[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.

[skeletalcat]

Fancomic of Armored Hearts by @kaxen After messing up in the field, it takes Temir too long to get back to the hanger and the breathable fluid he is submerged in while piloting his mech is completely out of oxygen. Panicking and suffocating - he's transported into an old memory where someone grabbed him the way his handler did in the present. BITE!

(This took me like 40 hours omfg)

[hemipenal-system]

cuddle the mech pilot you adopted. no, really snuggle her. don’t let her sleep at the foot of your bed. she thinks she doesn’t deserve to curl up with you like a person and will sleep down there huddled up like a dog if you let her. don’t let her. tell her gently but firmly that you want to touch her and that she’s going to get under the blankets with you and you’re going to spoon her

she might cry a bit. pilots aren’t used to that kind of affection. just wipe her tears and tell her you love her and it’s ok for her to cry. and then fall asleep together

[trannydykepuppybot]

Cockpit suspension fluid slimegirl, holding her pilot in the pod, absorbing shock, hardening around the holographic controls projected into her to add a tactile component and serve as a copilot. She also quietly stimulates her pilot's crotch with every kill, helping make it the perfect weapon

@puppygirllaika

[ghostbeam]

Mech pilot yuuta and his mech that’s incredibly possessive over him. He takes to you as a handler almost immediately, excited for the help after his last few handlers were scared off. You’re not allowed inside, your constantly dodging malfunctioning limbs and faulty wires, but you’re not one to back down, and gaining her trust is just as important as gaining his.

Rika only realizes how important you are to Yuuta the day after you spend the night with him, and he’s left alone in the morning with an empty bed and a broken heart. You’re his handler. You’re not supposed to leave him. Not ever.

She lures you into her chest one night, faking some sort of lighting malfunction and allowing you inside for the first time. She keeps you inside all night, enduring all your yelling and banging on her insides to be let out, a nice gift for Yuuta.

[puppynametaken]

Mecha kink people where is all your smut hosted? Does it have certain tags I should look for? I’ve seen some pilot/handler stuff and that’s so hot and lovely and the dynamics are incredible. Where the fuck do I find more???

[hi-im-kaybee]

dynamics

[dollish-shard]

A pilot, a handler, and a technician in a polycule. The handler and technician are dating, and the pilot is more akin to their shared pet or toy. The handler treats her precious weapon so tenderly, while the technician reminds the component of its place.

Every sortie, the pilot straps into its body, ready to be wielded, and feels safe, knowing that its handler will always be there to guide it, and its technician will always be there to fix it. And afterwards, when it is yanked from its true form and crippled into the weak flesh the person it once was viewed as their self, it knows that it will be cared for, until the time it is needed once more.

But until then, it is still a tool. And even with its frail vessel, it knows nothing but the joy of following orders. And what joy it brings in return, to the partners that own it.

[corsair-news-alliance]

One day the pilot will die. One day the reaper takes its toll

We tell them they're bulletproof, that stress is a resource. We laugh and joke about how unbreakable our pilots are.

But one day they will die.

One day they'll push the reactor too far. Get in the line of fire just long enough. Not react fast enough.

The pilot will die.

There are three cases.

The mech dies.

The pilot and mech die.

Or just the pilot.

Some say the mech remembers. Some say the pilot remembers the control of the mech.

But every boots on the ground is a risk. A risk we all live with.

//Broadband\\

[valuillu]

AC6 // IB-CO3C: HAL 826

[ori-anna-v-58008]

It's so, so cold at the foot of Handler's bed. It's cold everywhere; a pilot unplugged from its mech naturally feels uncovered, unprotected. The air digs at your mostly synthetic skin like a thousand tiny needles. You had gotten so used to your cockpit, so accustomed to the invincible feeling of metal and weaponry, that being outside of it felt so vulnerable it hurt. You hadn't been permitted clothes in your Handler's quarters; you love that she knows what she wants, that she tells you exactly what to do. A construct like yourself isn't supposed to have need for them anyway. The fact that you are cold is itself a failure for a mechanic to inspect.

It's bad today. Everything is so much more difficult without input from Handler. She isn't telling you to sit still, to stop squirming, to stop picking at your skin with the hope of seeing the metal underneath it again. Tugging on it hurts, but the way it hurts makes it harder to pay attention to the stinging cold air.

Handler hates it when you do that. You know she does. It had all but been burned directly into your Personality Matrix that she does. And yet, whenever you're without command, you revert to such basic, primal processes.

You need her. You need command. You pull at the synthetic flesh on your arm again, feeling it easily tear beneath fragile claws. You are not permitted to scream while Handler sleeps. You wonder why that permission had been set, and yet the habit which causes it had not been prevented.

[ERROR. HANDLER'S DECISIONS ARE CORRECT.]

You are malfunctioning. Handler must sleep.

[acerby]

Strategic Advantage

cw: abuse

Not too long ago, our little war was going poorly for my faction. Our enemies had a technological advantage over us, and we needed to bridge the gap somewhere. So naturally we looked at ways that we could make our soldiers far more efficient to train, and much more..... obedient.

We changed the course of this war thanks to our new breed of mech pilots. The old generation of operators were too slow and prone to distraction and disobedience. So we went for a new approach that could make anyone an effective and deadly pilot. Our teams of engineers and surgeons prep the “volunteers” for their new role, removing anything that isn't required to maximize the operation of their suit. Most limbs were replaced with basic robotic prosthetics. A good amount of the stomach is edited for more efficient digestion and to maximize nutrition intake. An artificial spine is mounted into the back and connected to the nervous system. Which allows for a better connection with the control matrix. And a good chunk of the brain is replaced with an advanced neural computer allowing for unparalleled synchronization with the mech’s A.I. systems.

But the genius of it comes from what we do to their minds. After the first few rounds of reprogramming with their new body, the pilots struggle to form their own thoughts. And in just a few weeks they are left as empty little things entirely needy and wanting for orders. Which is how we have kept them entirely obedient to their assigned handler. That and an on-command dopamine trigger doesn’t hurt either.

And this is what has given us the advantage over our enemies. It takes them years and thousands of dollars to train just one pilot. But we can create a combat-ready pilot in a matter of months and at a fraction of the cost. They don’t even have to be from the military. We have used college dropouts, political opponents, enemy sympathizers, pacifists, and a lot of prisoners. We even turned our enemy pilots into our obedient little dogs.

I’m even the handler of one. You should have seen her, she was so feisty when we captured her. She constantly went on and on about the freedom of her little colony planet. She screamed and called us vile monsters for what we were doing. She would go on these long-winded speeches about freedom and friendship. And that her comrades would save her any day now. It was so annoying that after we extracted any valuable information from her, I personally handed her over to our pilot “recruiters”.

 I much prefer her now. Quiet and obedient, I would even call her cute. She is so much more pleasant to be around. You should see the way she bounces right before she is placed into her mech. She practically vibrates with excitement and arousal. Not to mention the little moans she lets out whenever I praise her for eliminating a target. You know, It took us almost a week to clean the cockpit after she slaughtered an entire enemy battalion single-handedly. And the way she cries whenever she's taken out of what she calls her “real body”, it's adorable. I even allowed her the privilege of sleeping in it for a night after our latest successful campaign.

Why am I telling you this? Well dear, our data has told us that the two of you were friends before we took her. I wanted to tell you what happened to her before we do the same to you. Don’t worry I’m friends with your future handler and I will personally ensure you are placed in her unit. We could even schedule enrichment time for you two. See now we are not all vile monsters. 

[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

[breach-doll]

my pilot overslept...

"...Seraphim! Seraphim, this is Pulsar! Come in immediately!" Pulsar paced frantically, hand to her headset, in the "command building", a run-down adobe structure with rain steadily dripping into the buckets placed at the most inconvenient possible spots on the stone tile floor. She kicked one, and it toppled sideways, sloshing water over the floor and some desk jockey's boots. She ignored his glare.

They'd been supposed to intercept 3 minutes ago, and it wasn't like regions of ramshackle villages like this had any dedicated defensive measures. The local council just paid mercs like Pulsar's team to patrol around and hoped they scared off raiders or were lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. Pulsar wasn't feeling real lucky right at that moment. "Private Seraphim, so help me God if you don't-" Finally, FINALLY, her radio crackled, and a groggy voice muttered, "Hey, boss, morning, chill the fuck out or something. What are we working with here, anyway..." "It's a few dozen shard drones, again, 60 klicks south-south-east, whoever's camped out in the canyons is still trying to catch us off guard. Which is apparently working, by the way? Do you want to explain why you weren't up on time?" "Hey, Pulsar, just, like, relax or something. Remember last night? You were all, Oh, let's just watch some TV and cuddle, and then you ended up begging me to fuck your brains out. You were plenty laid back after that." "I did not - " "That kind of exercise tires a girl out, ya know." "Private, this is an open channel - " "Private, you don't outrank me anyway, so just be a good girl and calm the fuck down." Right as Pulsar was about to scream into her headset, an indistinct tremor went through the air, followed by a slight rumbling under Pulsar's feet, and another, quieter voice joined the radio, "Torque here - excuse me misses, apologies for interrupting, but Seraphim's all ready for takeoff - antigrav just kicked in and jets are about to redline. Standard cocktail, Pulsar? Anything nearby on radar?" "Seraphim, you're cleared for takeoff." As the roar of jet engines filled the air, Pulsar smiled, "And, Torque - give her double. Pulsar out."

[diurnaldaysart]

Palm-sized IB-C03: HAL-826