GTK1989

"I said ALL OF THEM. Did you really think you could hide it under your tongue?

ALL OF THEM. NOW!"

In tears she picked the undissolved pills from the mess and swallowed them back down.

Is that a hound humping your boot under the desk?"

"No."

As she folded her hands to let her stern voice ring throughout the room an audible whince emerged from underneath her desk as her hound apparently climaxed.

In line with some other ongoing discussions, I wanted to add my 0.02 regarding a topic that’s very important to me.

That is, of course, communication; communication is the bedrock of any relationship, not just those that are romantic, sexual, or kink-adjacent. It’s a baseline function of any interaction, the starting point of any conversation, and comes in many, many forms. While I’m sure we’re all quite good at talking, I wanted to dig a bit more specifically into the intricacies of communicating intercommunity in a space like this, and how wires can get tangled, lines can get crossed, and we can end up in some uncomfortable territory.

At times, a space like this corner of Bluesky feels a bit *open* - people flirt with their followers and readers, flesh is posted freely, and everything exists in an atmosphere of psuedo-assumed consent. As a voyeuristic little pervert myself, I’m no stranger to posting nudes or other lewd photography, and I’m also quite familiar with teasing and (less frequently, recently) being teased by others. I tend to stray a bit away from overt, excessive flirting, myself, because I feel that it blurs lines in a way that I’m not fond of, but others lean into it - and power to them.

With that, we often find ourselves brushing against lines and boundaries. It’s happened to me a few times that individuals have left a comment in a thread I’ve posted regarding how it made them feel, and, after not receiving a response beyond a brief acknowledgement or like, have opted to take advantage of my DMs instead to reiterate their feelings. Others have steered benign conversations into sexual territory without invitation nor warrant, or have made open insinuations regarding my status of ownership, or around me wanting to fuck my friends.

Let me be clear; while I don’t mind people drooling over or ogling pictures of me, especially if I’m dressed in some sort of fetish outfit, I do draw the line at the implication that I am anything but my Sir’s sole kept and held. I draw the line even more firmly at insinuations that I belong to any of my close friends, with whom I allow myself to be a bit flirtier, simply because they’re prominent dominants in the community. My pornographic self is for the eyes, but barely for commentary, and not at all for other hands.

Hope to see you all soon!

There’s a terrible screeching of metal as your cockpit is rent open, exposed by a glancing blow from your opponents weapon. Suddenly your senses are muddled, two sources of data now vying for the attention of your shared mind. Your external cameras shift and refocus, as light streams in through the semi-transparent visor of your flight helmet.

Your partner is screaming in the back of your mind, and the terrible phantom pain in your chest tells you exactly why. It’s a huge strain on your mind to try and decipher between the information coming from your metal body, and the information coming from your flesh one. Your cockpit was designed to mimic a sensory deprivation chamber for this exact reason, most full-immersion frames are. The sensory deprivation of the pilot makes it easier to settle into the skin of the mech, fewer external distractions to remind you of your flesh body nestled under all that metal.

All of that is gone out the window now though, as the sounds and sights of combat assault your organic form through your breached cockpit. Distantly you recognize that you’re hyperventilating, and the safety systems are struggling to compensate. You guess this is because your partner’s panic is bleeding through the neural bridge. She did just get a huge chunk torn out of her front, after all.

With a monumental effort, you wrench control back from your panicking IMP, and you feel her systems settle down a bit as you enforce some order on things. The cold air and biting wind howling in your cockpit are doing all they can to distract you, but you’ve got a fight to finish and you’ll be damned if you end up gutted in your own cockpit.

Metal strains as your synthetic body stands and pulls the giant sword from the sheath on its back. You fire the boosters in your legs, feeling the g-forces slam your body back into the pilot’s seat as you charge your opponent. Blade strikes blade, and your damaged servos strain against theirs. A shot of fuel into your boosters breaks the stalemate and you pull back, circling around the opposing mech. You have to be extra careful to protect your cockpit now, one more hit to your chest and you’ll be pulp on your enemy’s blade.

Something shifts inside you, and you feel your IMP having off-loaded some of its processing into your wetware. She’s moving the limbs on your flesh body inside the cockpit, rooting around for something, piloting you the way you’re piloting her.

The lights on the front of your chassis flicker red in glee as you realize what she’s searching for. You send a mental acknowledgment over your shared link and hunch over, preparing for another bout. You’ll get your partner her opening.

According to regulation, mechs are required to have certain items stocked in their cockpits in case of emergency. Rations, a medical kit, an emergency radio, and most importantly: A flare gun. The standard flare gun had always seemed a bit superfluous to you, what difference is a meager flare going to make in spotting a 10-story tall Mech? But you’d convinced both your CO and your IMP to let you keep a few High-Explosive rounds for the thing stored alongside it, for a rainy day like today.

So the next time you clash with your opponent, blade grinding against blade, you feel your organic body move again. Your IMP makes use of the gaping hole in your chest, and manages to plant a high explosive round directly into the emergency hatch on your enemy’s chest, blowing it clean off, and disorienting their pilot in much the same way they had done to you only moments ago. You, however, will not squander this opportunity.

You drop your weapon, slam a hand through the breached hole in your opponents chest, and pulp the bleeding heart within it. The massive weapon of war you’ve been fighting slumps to the ground, the trauma of losing it’s organic half rippling through its systems. You grab the mech’s head and pull, metal screeching and cables snapping as you tear it free from the rest of the metal corpse. You find the glint of the enemy data core and crush it between two of your massive fingers, putting the enemy IMP out of its misery.

And suddenly it’s quiet again.

The faint sensation of wind upon skin echoes over the link, and you realize your IMP has removed your flight helmet. She’s half out of the pilot’s seat, and you can sense wonder radiating through the link as she looks out at the carnage through organic eyes. You decide to let her, regulation be damned.