C | she/it | 20s | Trans bi lesbian-adjacent mess | plural | NSFW | 18+ | queer safe space | TERFS, minors and cishets dni | switch depending on which headmate | always open to horny asks | will be posting dark kinks (cnc/rape mostly)
i'm being forced to do no nut november, and not only that, i have to sexually humiliate myself while doing it 😵💫
in order for this poll to impact me significantly, i'm being forced to give the incentive that i have to send a nude to anyone who reblogs it while the poll active, e-even if we're strangers. please don't reblog this, i don't want to expose my naked body to everyone like that, it would be sooo embarrassing
and secondly, i have to put my fate for next month in your hands. please be nice to me and don't vote in it 🥺
(please don't!!) make my life hell for 30(+?) days
It's been years since you ran away from home. You don't even really remember why anymore. Something about freedom. For all that worked.
You didn't think you'd ever come back here unless there was nowhere else for you to go. Nobody else for you to go to. Now you're back here. That whole freedom thing clearly hadn't gone so well.
You weren't sure what you expected when you finally did come back, but it wasn't an open door and a warm smile. That threw you off at first. Those things never meant what they were supposed to mean. But you may as well enjoy them while you can. So many doors had been slammed in your face, so many smiles had turned cold, it was a nice change of pace to at least pretend that these were genuine.
She tells you how much you've grown since you last saw each other. Not grown taller, you were already taller than you ever wanted by the time you left. But emotionally. As a person. You thank her for it, but she shakes her head. It wasn't meant as encouragement. It was meant sympathetically. For every part of you that grows, another part of you dies, she used to say. Usually the part that dies is a part that needs to die. But you've clearly grown far too much.
She brings you into the kitchen and offers you a chair. You shake your head. She pulls one out for you anyway. She offers you a drink. You say you're okay, but she pours you a glass of water anyway. She's just about to start dinner, she tells you, she'll make enough for you. You thank her, but tell her it's not necessary, you didn't tell her ahead of time, you don't expect her to be prepared, don't worry about you.
She just looks at you when you say that. You wish you could say it was with pride, but it's with sorrow. Sympathy. Her darling daughter, she calls you. By the time you left you weren't a daughter yet. She's started calling you that so easily.
She smiles again. She insists that you need something to eat. You tell her not to worry. Her darling daughter, so used to disregarding your own needs that you can't even recognise them anymore. It's okay, she says. You don't need to make yourself smaller. She'll make you a meal. However many you need. She'll make a bed up for you, as long as you need to stay. You may not recognise your own needs anymore, but she does. She's your mother, of course she knows what you need and she's all too happy to provide.
For once, just this once, maybe, you can let yourself believe it. It's hard, and your instincts tell you not to be a burden, but it's not as if she would take no for an answer when offering what you need.
So when she offers you a bed for however long you want to stay, it's okay, she knows you need it. When she offers you three meals a day, every day, it's okay, she knows you need it. When she offers to go and get another key for the door cut, it's okay, she knows you need it. When she offers to listen to what you have to say about your time away from each other, and when she offers to hold you when you cry about it, and when she reassures you that you didn't deserve any of it, and she's sorry, but she's here for you now, and you don't have to worry about any of that again, it's okay, she knows you need it.
And so, slowly, eventually, you come to accept it. The bed. The meals. The key. The shoulder to cry on. She was right, you do need it. You've needed it for so much longer than you've let yourself admit, and she offers it freely and without judgement. It's difficult to let yourself take it, but you do. You take what is offered. You take what you need.
And so, when in the middle of the night, she pins you down, her hands exploring her darling daughter's body, new and familiar all at once, and smiles hungrily at your pleas for her to stop until your protests are lost between her legs, it's okay. She knows you need it.
mech pilot that's been told it has a suicide pill in its tooth in case it's ever captured by the enemy. it's been told to bite down on this specific tooth if that ever happens. its handler made sure that it understood this before sending it out into combat. can't let the enemy have its handler's most prized and important asset. that's what its handler said.
the pilot is captured and separated from its mech by force. it tries to struggle, to get back to the embrace of steel and oil and steam and noise and pain that keeps it going, but as its dragged away it finally relents, and bites down on the tooth it's been instructed to.
the mech explodes. the pilot is left untouched, save for a message from its handler that it now remembers, buried in its subconscious.
"If you're remembering this, you'll have activated the suicide pill. Naturally, this means that your mech has been destroyed. Can't let the enemy have my most prized and important asset, now can we?
I had to put that in your tooth rather than just a button in the mech. What if you got separated from it? And I couldn't possibly give you two false teeth, an extra for you. We both know there's no way you could be trusted to remember which was which.
Still, at least the enemy won't get their hands on your mech. They'll have their hands on you, but that's an acceptable loss. They'll interrogate you for a bit, but I'm sure they'll give up once they realise that the only way you know how to respond is to bark. They'll get nothing useful out of one of my hounds."
the pilot realises it will never see its handler again, that it's going to die here once the enemy realises they'll never get any useful information out of it.
but just before the pilot gives up and goes into a half-conscious trance like it's been trained to do when not on duty, it remembers one more message, revealed through remembering the last one. another message from its handler.
"Your next job is to steal a mech from the enemy and bring it back to me to both provide specs for the enemy's weaponry, and the location of whatever base you were taken to. We can't let them know where we are, so destroy any pursuit you encounter. Be a good hound."
and at that last phrase, the pilot snaps out of the trance and begins to focus again. it will have to make it through any interrogation, not that they could get anything useful out of it. it will have to survive and find a way out. it had a mission, and it could not disappoint its handler. it was a good hound, after all.
hey, just thought you should know that there is a version of you that exists only in my head and you cannot save her from any of it. anyways sorry for interrupting, what were you talking about again?
she is somehow even cuter and softer and more lovely and cute and sweet in person than she seems online. this is blatant false advertising. if anyone has ever had her deny one of ur compliments pls let me know, I'm putting together a class action for all the harm caused by this relentless bratting. thank u for ur time
mhm mhm, backing this up, she is so cute and sweet and adorable and kind and thoughtful and fun and she needs to accept it whether she wants to or not :3
I feel like Samus Aran, when she’s not on a mission, would have a Tony Hawk type experience with people not recognizing her without her armor. Like she’d get carded buying alcohol or something and the cashier would go “Samus Aran? Ha, it’s spelled just like the bounty hunter too. I wonder what he’s up to now?”
She would definitely take advantage of this when she goes to lesbian bars and stuff. She’d just tell the cute alien girls her name is Sammy because if they knew she was the great Samus Aran they’d expect her to top
I originally put a shortened version of this in the tags but I feel it’s worth adding. Imagine being the alien girl at a lesbian bar on a federation space station. You meets this cute tall human girl who calls herself Sammy and you hit it off and share some drinks and eventually Sammy invites her back to her place. Her place is a space ship that you swear looks familiar but you can’t remember where you’ve seen it. Anyway you disregard it and spend the night fucking the brains out of this buff blonde tgirl. Then in the morning when you go to leave you make a wrong turn and catch a glimpse of the power armor belonging to the bounty hunter known across the galaxy. Imagine the realization that this “Sammy” girl you plowed into the mattress last night is singhandedly responsible for saving the universe multiple times
Everyone knows Sammy. Lesbian disaster. Probably trans. Super cute. She's the type that tries to act cool, but can't really keep it together long term before they devolve into a blushing mess. She's fun to mess with. Plenty of girls like her, but few have taken her home.
She's your type, though.
She's a stammering pile of adorable-ness as you get her out the door and towards your place, and it only takes a little nuzzle along the neck to get her toes curling and to turn her vocal cords off. Unfortunately, you get off the tram to your place, and your roommate is having a screaming argument out the window with her dad, and THAT'S a whole pile of crap that won't get resolved until 3 AM.
(They're Poripoto. It's not an abusive thing, it's a cultural thing, but it's still annoying from your point of view.)
You don't expect Sammy to mumble out that she's got a place, but you're glad for it. The hangars doesn't feel likely - you didn't have her pegged for a spacer, but that does explain the long stretches where you don't see her. She leads you into one and up a hatch into what's little more than a shuttle (she's a freakin' courier, that fits), and your lips are on her before she can react, and she stumbles backwards getting you to her bunk, and she's putty in your hands...
And well...
The night progresses as you'd expect it to.
In the morning you sleep late, and you're still up before her. You get up to see if she's got a caf brewer of some variety, when you start to notice things.
That's not just a fabber, it's a full on microfactory - and it's set up to make micromissiles.
The cockpit has a subscreen for armament, and the number of cannons that are presently deactivated is astonishing.
And then you open an alcove hoping the kitchenette is behind it, and you come face to face with a very familiar orange-and-red armor suite.
Princess who insists on being pampered and cared for the whole time
Princess who insists that the catapults and trebuchets aim at the other side of the castle so as not to disturb her beauty sleep
Princess who insists that the soldiers who smash down her door warn her first so they don’t scare her unnecessarily
Princess who insists that the soldier take his gauntlet off while dragging her by the arm so it’s less uncomfortable
Princess who insists that the soldiers who leer at her and grope her do so one at a time please so she doesn’t get jostled around so much
Princess who insists that they use a clean and sharp blade to cut off all her luxurious hair and threaten her into obedience, especially if they’re going to cut and break the skin with those things
Princess who insists that several fires be lit so she’s not cold and shivering while her clothes are ripped off her body and she’s forced to expose and humiliate and degrade herself in front of the entire royal court and the invading forces
Princess who insists that she be carried bridal-style down the dungeon stairway so as not to hurt her delicate bare feet on the stone steps
Princess who insists that her cell has a shuttered window so she can shut out the light and cold when she needs to sleep in the bright mornings
Princess who insists that the manacles binding her to the wall be padded and softened first
Princess who insists that the other prisoners in the nearby cells kindly refer to her by name and title while calling her a desperate and pathetic whore
Princess who insists that the soldiers and nobles and guards and foreign royalty use plenty of lube when they rape her
The pilot doesn’t stir or resist at all as its handler methodically straps it down into the seat of its mech. The handler takes her time, making sure each one is tightened and keeps the pilot from moving too much, just enough that it can still move the controls and reach all the triggers.
“Readying pilot.”
The pilot relishes the sensation of rough leather on its scarred and calloused skin, breath catching every time she pulls one of the restraints tight across its body and feeds it through the loop to keep it in place. Keep it in place. Keep it in its place. Wrist, loosely. Lower arm. Upper arm. Ankle. Lower leg. Upper leg. Below the chest. Above the chest. Throat. Every one accompanied by a harsh, mocking command that isn’t needed, but is still said every time.
“Hold still.”
The pilot has to hold itself back from moaning out loud every time she says it. It wouldn’t matter if it did, of course. The handler knows how much it likes it. It doesn’t resist. It barely resisted the first time its handler strapped it into its mech, and the first time was so many sorties ago, that it barely even remembers. But to it and its handler, pretending, even barely, that this is against its will is part of the routine. Part of the ritual.
“There.”
Last one secured tight. It isn’t going anywhere inside its second body. The mech, so much an extension of the pilot that the pilot is literally attached. The handler chooses the missions, negotiates the fee, processes the payment. The handler owns the mech. The mech is an extension of the pilot. The pilot is an extension of the mech. The handler owns the mech. The handler owns the pilot.
“Brace yourself.”
The wires and tubes and plugs fire from behind the seat and thrust themselves into the pilot’s spine, imbedding themselves into the connectors implanted in it, sending cold steel agony up and down its back. A sound escapes its mouth, but it manages, just about, to disguise it as a grunt of pain as it keeps practising every time it’s plugged into the machine that gives it purpose. Makes it useful to its handler. Lets it earn its life in battle.
“Initiate contact.”
The oil flows into the connectors and into the inputs fused to the pilot’s bones and nervous system as its blood flows back into the connectors and back into the metal veins and arteries. The pilot can’t hold itself back finally letting out a moan as it and its mech exchange fluids, flowing into each other and merging, the carbon fibre becoming a bridge between cold steel and warm flesh. The pilot, so much machine that it cannot run without oil and fuel any more, and the mech, so much living that the pilot swears it can feel the war machine breathe and moan with it as the engines and organs, servos and joints, pistons and muscles roar to life.
“Good girl.”
The pilot makes a sound – not a human sound, one part animal bark and one part electronic whine in response and acknowledgement and thanks. The handler doesn’t smile, she never does, but her eyes sparkle with pride and lust for the machine she just finished strapping into its seat. She steps backwards, out of the beating heart of the mech as the ladder detaches and retreats away from the mech. The hatch closes, and for a few glacial seconds all is dark and quiet, save for the humming of the shared heartbeat. Then the display flickers to life. Viewscreen. Radar. Loadout. HUD.
“Ready.”
Not a question. A command. The pilot is ready. The handler said so. The handler owns the mech. The handler owns the pilot. The pilot is an extension of the mech. The oil is an extension of the blood. The flesh is an extension of the metal. The mech is an extension of the handler. The pilot is an extension of the handler. Her will. Her command. Her voice.
