Theriohound X9

I have said versions of all this before, but not On Tumblr; which is a problem inasmuch as this is a complaint about the parochial insularity of the Tumblr mechsploitation scene. So, futile as it may be, here it is, theoretically visible at the source of the issue: the terrible shortcoming I see in the Tumblr mechploitation scene is that, for the most part, actually writing, reading, or engaging with mechsploitation only happens in other places — what happens on Tumblr is "jacking off about puppygirls."

Everyone's allowed to jack off about puppygirls, of course, should they so wish, but this shouldn't be mistaken for things it isn't, such as e.g. "reading things" or "understanding a genre" or "knowing what the fuck you're talking about."

Mechsploitation is often mistaken for a subgenre of science fiction, from which Tumblr "fans" often talk about sanitising the horrifying elements. This is a fundamental media literacy error: mechsploitation is a subgenre of horror. You cannot sanitise the horror out of horror; furthermore, the horror in mechsploitation is explicitly fascism. The horror is the horror of fascism breaking its sincere opponents — if not into genuine agreement, then at least into a drugs-and-torture-obtained simulacrum of enthusiastic participation in fascist violence.

Whenever someone says "haha what if mechsplo but nicies to puppy :)" they are saying: it's icky that this horror genre is horror. The breaking people, the bad ends, the intentional feelbad, any of the kinks too edgy for Me Specifically — all that can go, superfluous. Let's take out the horror and breaking and drugs-and-torture and simulacrum and just have the enthusiastic participation, because that's nicies! Puppygirl's nice white affluent middle-class ass Simply signed up to kill the subaltern rebels in the imperial military when a recruiter came round to her school. Uncle Sam says: Off the leash, uwu-rah! :)

And if that criticism is too pointed for your taste, consider: mechsploitation without the things that make it mechsploitation probably isn't "reverse mechsplo" or "mechsplo but". It's probably just "milSF with mechs in," something that substantially pre-dates mechsploitation and has estabished genre language for talking about it. Neither it nor mechsplo is served by trying to define the negative space of Everything That's Not Mechsploitation in terms of mechsploitation; the attempt makes you look, at best, like you should Read Another Fucking Book.

Actually verify you have a bomb inside of you first, one sec.

[bodybombchecking4dummys.pdf]

once you've done that, please just make a fucking commotion somewhere near the rebels if you've disarmed the bomb. Alternatively, Faraday Cage your mech and/or create a lot of white noise signals to prevent your Handler from triggering the bomb.

Request immediate aid and claim that you're seeking asylum and have vital information, or some form of that phrase, and specify that you do in fact have an implanted bomb. Hopefully the rebels have a decent bomb specialist and surgeon on hand.

Should also note, some bombs may be designed to trigger from a lack of signal, but those are more for pilots with known e-war capabilities, so unless you're a known hacker, you've likely got the normal type.

Should also note this advice works for bomb collars too. Also trackers, since the jamming should prevent the trackers from giving away your signal.

...also is this in relation to the shit happening at 451's base, or your own separate bs?

Thanks.

Pilot who always gets assigned to shit missions, they keep coming back stressed and hurting, only to get comforted by their friend who works as a handler.

Over and over, their mech breaks down, they get ambushed. Eventually, they have to make their way back on foot, hungry and cold, only to find their way into their friend’s arms.

They need to relax… the handler promises they can stop at any time. The pilot ends up in a collar, not having to worry about anything but being a good pet…

This happens more regularly, until the pilot ends up on comms with -their- the handler on a mission. Suddenly, the soft voice in their ear directs them away from danger, reassuring them always. The pilot returns safely, and practically collapses into their friend’s arms.

So some fanartist drew a “sexy” (read: booby) version of a (cartoon) character who is traditionally very non-sexualised. Fans of the character got mad about it because it’s kind of groundbreaking how that character is written and portrayed and this art totally ignores the entire point of the character. They demanded the art be deleted. In response to that other people said, well what the fanartist did may be distateful but they have every right to draw what they’re into. The two sides fight for days and each starts a harassment campaign and even report their “opponents’” accounts.

So far so typical. But things eventually come to a head and they decide that this will be settled by votes - not through a poll. Through donations to a children’s education charity via each side’s portal. Whoever can get the highest amount of donation wins.

Once I’m docked back in the hangar, the mechanic opens up the front panel, and gently pulls forth the bulkier vital cables and Handler makes them watch, kneeling, as I can be intimate with my lover. My true body. I tenderly lay in the wires and cables and slowly I begin to move.

I feel the heat resistant cables, still warm from activity wrap around me. My leg raises, and it falls, wrapped in wiring. The soft, flexible plastic kisses my exposed neck and softly gives as I desperately grip it. The only sound I care to hear are the weighty thumps of my body’s veins bumping into one another as I move and grind, getting them between my legs and rubbing the pressure in my pilot suit to the most vital parts of my steel lover. This is love. This is an embrace. This is beauty.

Handler makes the mechanic watch. They grab them by the hair if they try and look away. They whisper things to them while they’re forced to watch. Handler encourages them as they put a hand between their legs and their face burns red. I can hardly hear them over my own bliss, but some things slip through. “They aren’t meant to bear that weight,” or “you’re being too rough with it.” All these small, disapproving remarks about what I do with my better half.

Then, Handler has them slowly remove me, untangling me from my lover, and carefully helping me to my feet. Sometimes after, their face gets really close to me, and I can tell they’re basking in the smell of my breath, and the rhythmic clashing onto their face with every exhale. Other times, they punch me in the tummy and tell me to get lost, however my favorite by far is when they firmly grab me by the hair and kiss me hard and rough. Deep, with dominating tongue. As if trying to assert their dominance over me, but it never means anything. I know they’re jealous, but it’s my body. My steel flesh and bone, and my wire veins that course through me life. I even have the ports in my spinal column to prove it.

This is partly because dragon tails are so fat and have such weight to them, that in attempting to wag a tail, the whole body is affected. So many dragons just choose to go ahead and wiggle the everything they've got

I know that's what you've been thinking. I've been treating you more like a lover. You think that because I let you sleep chained to my bed instead of on the cold basement floor that I'm going to get sloppy, that I'll start trusting you, that you'll have the chance to escape. I know how that brain of yours works. On some level you have to know the truth- you'll never get out of here.

You probably had a better chance of getting out before, when you were still a cold, crying thing in the basement, before I brought you upstairs to stay with me. I hardly cared, then, you were just another pet. A thing pretending to be a person that was just slow enough for me to catch. If you ran off or died or lost your marbles I'd just get a new one. Your cuffs were one-size-fits-all and the basement window has always been broken. You had a chance then. Not anymore. I'm more careful- you're special now. You made yourself irreplaceable.

Oh no, you are now forced to inhabit the beautiful and powerful and badass body of the bandit queen that slayed you! How could such a horrible fate befall you? You poor thing.

Seriously, grow up! You have like E cups now and are like 6'7 without the heels; you know how many other "guys" would kill for the same opportunity?