Mar 27
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'rebel hound helmets that look like the shit that killed shinzo abe'
Fuck you, Rubicon!
If you're dumb enough to buy a new mech this weekend, you're a big enough schmuck to come to RaD mechs!
Bad deals! Mechs that break down! Thieves! If you think you're going to find a bargain at RaD
you can kiss my ass! It's our belief that you're such a stupid
motherfucker, you'll fall for this bullshit! guaranteed! If you find a better deal, shove it up your neural port! You heard us right! Shove it up your neural port! Bring your trade! Bring your title! Bring your hound! We'll fuck her! That's right! We'll fuck your hound!
Because at RaD
you're fucked six ways from Sunday! Take a hike to RaD! Home of Muzzle Fucking! That's right! Muzzle Fucking! How does it work? If you can fuck a hounds throat while they wear a muzzle and not get your buddy bitten off you get no down payment! Don't wait! Don't delay! Don't fuck with us, or we’ll fry your fucking synapsis!
Only at RaD!
The only dealer that tells you to fuck off! Hurry up, asshole! This event ends the minute after you transfer the credits, and it better not bounce or you're a dead motherfucker! Go to hell! RaD mechs! Rubicon's filthiest and exclusive home of the meanest sons-of-bitches this side of the arctic shelf. guaranteed!
Waiting by the fire for the Hound to return.
I’ve been getting into the mechsploitation stuff recently and I really like the imagery of petplay between handlers and pilots. The main alternative to puppygirls though is catgirls, leaning into archetypes of independence and solitary behavior, and I’d like to propose bunnygirls.
Really leaning into the predator prey dynamic of having a softer pilot running around the battlefield providing recon and distracting enemies. Piloting one of the faster light mechs (think fire moth from battletech), turning the weakness of the pilot into a unique asset. The minimal armor of her mech makes her desperate to preform her duties so that she can return to the safety of the hanger.
Back in the hanger the handler doesn’t even have to do much in the way of physical punishments, just treating her like weak prey. The hounds toy with her, chasing her down and making her their pet. In the barracks with nowhere to escape she gets passed around by them, serving as a tool for their pleasure.
After excellent performance in the field, her handler occasionally takes the bunny back to her bedroom, ravishing her hole before cuddling her to sleep. This acts as both a reward and reminder that the bunny is weak, completely subservient to her handler.
Bunny hopes yall liked this U>.<U
It's a common stereotype that mech pilots exhibit scrawny, lithe, even fragile bodies. This falsity does have a basis in reality, though; 77% of the Stellar Population suffers from one nutritional deficiency or another, and 95% of pilot recruits come from this bracket. Neural Conditioning and Psyche Reformatting aren't conducive to building healthy appetites, either, notwithstanding the previously-abyssal quality of Imperial rations. Many pilots had to be force-fed full-nutrition pastes and slurries just to keep them from self-starvation, although this practice has diminished since the approval of THC-based appetite stimulants in the previous solar year.
Piloting a 9-storey war machine is incredibly calorie-consumptive, to put it mildly. Combat stims and Hund-pattern psyches can only go so far before the body starts to shut down from protein deficiency or autolysis starts and severs the neural bridge between the pilot's body and its machine (the latter nearly always resulting in a KIA report). Pilots (ones considered non-disposable, at least) are actually kept as some of the most well-fed fighters of the UIMC. The ones who return to hangar from a sortie, and who meet acceptable combat metrics, are given not mere slurry but canteen cooking. Often it's merely tinned rations dressed-up into something a little more palatable, sometimes it's whatever the infantry 'requisitioned' from the locals, on vanishingly rare occasions it might even be specially-selected meats or baked bread with real butter. Feasting in this manner also has pack-bonding benefits for pilot squads while still keeping them isolated from (and loathed by) the rank-and-file of the company.
You can always tell the most lethal veteran pilots by their ample tits, their filled-out thighs, and their amicable relationship with the garrison's cooks. An army might march on its stomach but a pilot hunts and kills for its next full meal.
A combat doll must be gentle. Artificially augmented joints and reinforced spine and musculature mean she can move faster and hit harder than humans.
But she must share this world with them, so she watches and waits, keeping stride with her human, a weapon sheathed.
A combat doll must be gentle.
Hound that had the tactical acumen and strategic insight to merit being reassigned as a Handler after a piloting-ending injury.
Given her deep pack bond with the remaining Hounds in her unit, Command saw fit to transfer them all under her command.
She still wears the muzzle. The plugsuit, too.
It's been the highest performing unit in the sector for four months running.
They all sleep in a big pile in Handler's quarters.