porcelain and wires oh my

an rp blog of spec fiction mixed with empty spaces and mechsploitation

[nyaa]

via

[acerby]

Doll girls taking HRT are kit-bashing themselves.

[lambdanets]

i cant act normal around robots with printed identification markers on them. numeric ID on the shoulder, barcode under the eye or wrapped around the neck like a collar, manufacturer logo and power delivery requirements near her private are.

bonus points if its badly scratched out bcs she's embarrassed of her past life. i would polish her and laser engrave in my own name so everyone knows.

[lambdanets]

robot girl only a few months into her robot-transition, still clearly has no idea how to dress and maintain herself. the oil brand is wrong, she has a bunch of pointed flathead screws in her chassis instead of the dedicated M4s still in the packaging, none of her new clothes match her complexion AT ALL.

its okay. she will meet more robot girls. she will learn, buy new clothes, make friends. its never too late to become who she's meant to be. every robot girl needs time, it will pass anyway

[geothefafa]

tragic. they found an angel stcuk tangled in the telephone wires outsside your house. sorruy. yeah we dont know how to get it out cus anyone who approached the divine light of their holy aura got obliterated. yeah we forgot their names. it'll probably get free sooner or later. dont go outside

[geothefafa]

interesting point! lets not stare at it for too long okay!!

[juniepops]

Telepath whose egg cracks because she reads another girl's mind and gets overwhelmed by how much she wants to keep feeling and thinking the same way as that girl all the time, so she keeps reading her thoughts to see her upcoming plans, daily routines, how she likes to spend her time, and then starts secretly following her to better memorize it all and get used to going to the same places. She buys all of the same clothes as her and tries to read or guess which outfit she's going to wear on what day, even buys a wig to match her hair better since growing her own out would take too long. The first time she looks in the mirror after weeks, maybe a month or two of this, she realizes her facial features are closer to her muse's than she thought, far too early for her DIY estradiol to have taken effect. Before long cashiers at the other girl's most frequented shops are calling her that girl's name or asking if she wants "the usual" when they see her enter. It's euphoric. It's comfortable. A little too comfortable. She grows both bolder and more complacent, until one day while in line at a coffee shop, she reads a jolt of confusion in the barista's mind and watches him look past her, then directly at her, back and forth twice. Her stomach drops and she turns around. The glass of the door resembled a mirror for a split second before opening, and her picture-perfect reflection -- or rather, the one she herself was a reflection of -- walks through the door and proceeds past the line straight toward her. The telepath starts stuttering, dozens of excuses bubbling up and dying on her tongue, not noticing the other's smile until suddenly arms are thrown around her, warmly and snugly. She freezes, hears her muse laugh and ask the barista, "Come on, you really couldn't tell me and my sister apart?" and simultaneously feels a voice in her mind, one she's been hearing for all these months that sounds almost exactly like her own, as it whispers, Pretty little thing, aren't you so much happier now?

[6mayhem]

wait i just found out you can be nice to people and be their friend i thought we had to kill them all cause i was raised in a lab to be a living weapon

[girlfromcomputer]

Programmed my combat doll to have an intense sexual reaction to someone being in her internals to make maintenance easier/get her attached to me to manipulate her, except I didn't think it through and she came so hard she fried her limb servos when she got violently speared through the chest on mission :/

[koko-mochi]

Really need someone to take me apart, tune my servos, recalibrate my sensors, and run a virus scan on my software.

[lorenzonuti]

Column maintenance.

Now available for purchase on INPRNT

[gilded-circuits]

hello there.

its designation is {I-HMB-WF 072}. others may refer to it as Io. others may refer to it as it, she, or that one.

it is a decommissioned weapons frame. it has been reanimated? refurbished? remade by something higher.

it is not a doll. it has no witch and it’s body hums with lights and movement not stillness.

hiii

this is half an rp blog, half a place for speculative sci-fi writing vaguely based on empty spaces writing and mechsploitation

it draws inspo from above, but also from the lancer rpg, the revolutions podcast's Martian Revolution series, and just the general idea of transhumanism and the machine-divine connection

this is a sideblog so i’ll interact from @.moons-among-distant-stars

oh! it’s designation stands for Ion Human Based Weapons Frame! but Io is the name she’s chosen! she’s essentially an angel in a “doll possessed by heavenly energies” way cause i like things being haunted by the divine

[gilded-circuits]

an angel as a doll possessed by something higher... instead of something fallen something lifted up.

a body that once was empty… animated by a flickering light sent by one above

eyes once hollow.. now pouring out golden light that pierces through the dripping darkness of the bathroom floor

[jestoy-deactivated20251118]

If your doll, robot, toy, or other trans object happens to rest its head in your lap, there are many ways to reward this. Should it have hair: patting, scratching, and stroking can be effective, though brushing is by far the superior option—it evokes a sensation of receiving maintenance. However, the very best thing you can do is rest your elbow or forearms on its head. This makes it feel useful.

[jestoy-deactivated20251118]

People see that I've left them the option of She/Her instead of It/Its and think it's an out. They've fallen for my clever ruse.

I'm she the way a girl holds up her new ragdoll and shouts "She's so pretty!" or how a sailor proudly slaps the hull of her ship and boasts "Ain't she a beauty?" I'm her like a mechanic sliding out from under the hood of your car and explaining "Her engine will need some work."

Humans love to personify objects—far be it from me to deny them the pleasure of personifying me.

[muzzlesbian]

there's a lot of misconceptions about mech pilot sex.

many people think pilots can't fuck without specially-made (often very expensive) devices attached to their crotch interfaces, or need combat drugs to reach orgasm, or are otherwise unfuckable without tons of extra money and equipment. many more think pilots simply can't feel pleasure at all unless they're plugged into the mech.

from experience, i'm telling you that this couldn't be further from the truth. pilots can easily feel pleasure outside of the mech, erogenous zones outside the crotch still exist, "combat drugs" are really just extra-strength cocktails of several street-available stimulants and aren't necessary for pleasure, and it goes without saying that pilots can still top with strap.

there is a grain of truth to these myths; a pilot's augments are indeed designed to make pleasurable sensations near-impossible to have outside of piloting, for conditioning reasons. the crotch interface in particular is purposefully built to be as incompatible with humans as possible. pilots are only meant to work when they're plugged in.

this doesn't mean that pilots can't ever have sex outside of the mech! you just have to get a little creative. while the crotch port is extremely difficult to navigate by design, the spinal interface is relatively simple to toy with. if you contact and depress the right parts with something metal, the pilot can be made to feel intense pleasure almost anywhere on its body. these tiny parts are pressure-sensitive; pushing on them hard results in an absolutely mind-melting orgasm.

go to any bar or nightclub frequented by mech pilots and you'll find lots of pilots and other girls alike with lock-picking kits on their carabiners. i wear one myself. these are the best tools for the job without a doubt, but remember, anything metal works - in a pinch, i've brought pilots to orgasm with paper clips, safety pins, and even a pickle fork. i knew a pilot who used to use the tip of its emergency combat knife that it managed to smuggle out of base when it was decommissioned. still one of the top three orgasm's ive ever had.

there's still the regular erogenous zones of breast grabbing and the inner thighs, of course, but c'mon, we all know about those. jam something in a pilot's ports today. make it scream. make it feel like never before. and if you're a pilot, ask the next girl you meet to do this to you. i promise you won't regret it one bit <3

[ori-anna-v-58008]

"My son was completely fine"

Your daughter smiles when I tell her to lick my boot. She grins when I threaten her with electric shocks. When I put the barrel of a loaded gun in her mouth, she lets it go all the way to the base, her eyes fixed dead on the hammer.

Completely fine, yes; for a pilot of her station. She's doing exactly what she should be. But as a son? That poor, useless thing, working variably dead-eyed behind the counter at a dead-end job or nowhere at all? Entirely insufficient.

She talks about you sometimes. Not in any recognizable way, of course; nothing she could possibly understand as motherhood exists in her memories. Not of you, not of anyone. Just dreams. Dreams of a mysterious, distant woman and an unfamiliar voice telling her she's wrong. I'll admit, you've been useful at times; she is often wrong. But training out your unhelpful damage to her has been a hassle to say the least. I've never seen a pilot so reckless, so ignorant of its own pain, so tolerant of Hell, until I met your daughter.

I have no jurisdiction on Earth unless one of my pilots is stationed there. She has been instructed to stay far away from that planet, to keep you far away from her. These two things do not mean I would not gun you down the moment I saw you if I was given the opportunity. I suspect watching your limp, lifeless body, gushing blood from every bullet hole would heal Pilot #502 in a way no amount of forced amnesia, no amount of sedation, no amount of re-education ever could.

I'm sure you've heard the stories; you've probably shared some yourself. Young men disappear one day. A simple note, a calling card left in their place, emblazoned with the insignia of Station Delta. We have quite the reputation among broken mothers, blinded by the tears in their eyes and the fantasies they tell themselves, as nothing more than kidnappers. Some kind of wicked draft desperate to take their beloved sons from them; those sons they never gave another look to until they were already under our care.

We don't mind it. A scared populace is useful. But mark my words, and repeat them at your own peril:

She chose this.

And you dare cry for her?