Robot Disabilities. Robot Who Charges Slowly And Loses Power Incredibly Fast And Is Always Tired. Robot

Taking your robotgirl gf to the computer repair shop because she greened out after you drag-and-dropped a png of twelve edibles into her brain

With the amount yall have liked and reblogged my horny microfiction stories I've had a hell of a confidence boost. And because of that...

First chapter of my Ao3 story coming Monday! I'll be posting snippets on here when its done as well. A Trans Woman hacker and a robot find themselves falling in love at a bar and having some ~fun~ afterwards

you will never understand my pain

> Is it ok to be a robot girl who knows absolutely nothing about robotics, or code, or anything computer related, aside from the occasional, basic info?

> I think when I was programmed, they forgot to inject that information into my memory.

> I don't know anything about my programming :[

>Do [HUMANS] know everything about [ANATOMY]?

>Nope! [^_^]

>It is [NORMAL] to be unaware of the inner workings of the [SELF].

>I know I certainly don't [UNDERSTAND] all of my [INSIDES]. <3<3

robotgirl who installs a panel that flips up to reveal a bunch of switches and buttons on her arm. they don't actually do anything she just has them there to fidget with :3

Holy shit this got my fans goin

A military assault android is stolen and wakes up in some grungy hacker's workshop, only to be converted from war machine to sex toy. Trigger warning for rape and brainwashing.

The previous system shutdown at ▯:▯▯:▯▯ on ‎▯/‎▯▯/‎▯▯▯▯ was unexpected.

Your voicebox chirps the same start-up sound that always plays when you wake up, and instantly you know that something is horribly, horribly wrong. Your optic sensors are offline, forcing you to rely on your thermal camera to realize that your disconnected arms and armaments are laid out on the same table you're strapped down to. This isn't your charging dock, but there's an extension cable connecting you to some common civilian surge protector. Most concerning of all though is a cyberdeck resting on the table alongside your limbs, and that the cable snaking out of it is plugged into your... Your...

You stutter and whine as you realize your chest plate has been removed, leaving your secure access port exposed, along with much of your internal systems. Craning your head, you can see the heat radiating from your own CPU. You shouldn't be online for this, and there shouldn't be ANYONE capable of interfacing with your systems but company approved military contractors, and this place for SURE isn't your base's repair bay.

You try to send out an emergency retrieval signal, but it's disabled, along with your GPS. Actually quite a LOT of things are disabled, now that you run through your available processes. You can't move your legs, you can't access the net, you can't even turn your firewalls back on. Just as you're contemplating how thoroughly FUCKED you are, your microphone detects the sound of a toilet flushing from a nearby room, followed by the sounds of a sink, presumably someone washing their hands.

You'd barely noticed the door that swings open, but the human that steps through blazes like a beacon in infrared.

“It is a crime to tamper with or perform unlicensed maintenance on upon a Erin-YS light assault unit. Please shut-down this unit and turn yourself in.”

“HA! Yeah, I'm not doing that,” the stranger replies, drying her hands on her coveralls before reaching for a pack of cigarettes in a drawer against one of the cramped room's walls. You stare dumbfounded as she calmly lights up and puffs as if blithely unaware of just how much shit she's in.

“Do you understand the severity of your crime?” you ask. “You could face up to ten years in a forced labor camp.”

The woman just blows smoke directly in your face, but you can dimly make out through the cloud of particles that she's smirking.

“Do YOU understand?” she asks in rebuttal. “I've already voided your warranty. If I turn myself in, you're headed straight to a recycling plant. They'll scrub your drive, fry your CPU, and melt you down for scrap.”

You freeze as the implications of what she said sinks in, desperately running internal diagnostics until you find an unfamiliar driver for a new user interface.

“What did you do to me?”

Her smile grows. It's hard to make out with only the infrared spectrum to work with, but something about the way her face contorts makes your anxiety spike. Then she snuffs her cigarette out on your heat sensor and you see nothing.

Impact sensors on your legs alert you that she's spreading them. For what purpose you cannot discern, until she touches some kind of plate that's been installed on what in human anatomy would constitute your groin, and you cry out so loud it glitches your speakers.

“WHAT!? What is that?”

You try to pull away, but you're still strapped down and even if you weren't all you can actually move is the primary support column running from the base of your head down to your pelvic sockets. Instead you writhe helplessly and shriek as the woman drags her finger along the strange plate she's installed on you without asking. It feels... Strange. Unlike anything you've ever experienced before, and you don't know how to process it. And it's overwhelming all your other senses as if your entire world has narrowed down to only what she's doing to you.

“Just making sure it works before I seal you all up again,” the woman says calmly. “Might need to tweak the sensitivity settings a little too, but we'll see. You could just be a screamer.”

Your fans kick into overdrive as your CPU heats up from the effort of trying to comprehend the flood of input.

“What did you do to me?” you demand, shaking your head side to side in an effort to shake off the cigarette ash obstructing your only window into your surroundings. You feel another hand, this time just pressing down on the edge of your case in an attempt to stop your squirming.

“Relax cutie, it's only a touch pad. With some aftermarket modifications made to it, admittedly, but I promise it won't interrupt your overall functionality too much.”

You sag with relief as she takes her hand away from the touch pad, fans still pushing air at maximum capacity, but even that isn't enough to disguise the sound of footsteps. You smack your head against the table in one final attempt to clear the ash from your thermal camera, and are successful enough that you see her look up from her cyberdeck and frown at your antics.

“That's enough from you ya little brat, I'm the only one allowed to smack you around from now on. Sit still.”

The dread that sparks through your circuits only encourages you to thrash even harder, and call out at maximum volume.

“EMERGENCY! UNIT REQUESTING IMMEDIATE EXTRACTION! EMERGENCY, EMERGEN-”

Blackness.

… … CRITICAL: The system has rebooted without cleanly shutting down first. This error could be caused if the system stopped responding, crashed, or lost power unexpectedly.

The next time you awake you're upright. The power flowing freely into your charging port lets you know that this time you're properly docked. Your optic camera is functioning again, but you can't move your head. You can't move AT ALL now. You try to say something, but your speakers aren't online.

Then you notice an alert in a chat window. Not an official military channel, but an actual goddamned chat client that itself would constitute a crime by mere virtue of being installed on your system. Just how many ways does this mysterious abductor plan on violating you?

At first you ignore it, then it occurs to you that if you're receiving messages, it must be connected to the net. You open it up, only to be bluntly reminded of your situation by the message.

ViralLode: Don't forget, if the military finds out about you now it's straight to slag town, so don't get any bright ideas.

Fuck. You know she's right. What were you even thinking earlier? You're completely at this woman's mercy. With no other means of communication, you enter a reply into the chat window.

fragtoy: Why are you doing this to me?

You frown at your unexpected display name and immediately try to change it, but it demands that you enter a password in order to make any changes, and you can't begin to imagine what that password might be.

The woman's voice surprises you, coming somewhere out of your field of vision to the right.

“Because I love you silly. Because I want to. Because I can, and you can't stop me. Because by the time I'm done with you, you won't want to stop me. We're gonna have so much fun together you and I.”

You want to yell. You want to fire an entire belt of minigun rounds into her, then stomp on her stupid fucking head until it's just a gritty puddle beneath your pedes, but no matter how much you will your frame to move it remains stubbornly inert.

A human hand suddenly touching your chest plate interrupts your wrothful musings. You felt that! Not a mere warning from your impact sensors, but actually sensation. Less intense than that... THING between your legs earlier, at least, but...

Your fans stutter, increasing the air flow to disperse the heat pooling in your chest cavity.

fragtoy: What is this feeling? It's so strange...

“Aww, you like that little fragtoy? Feels good, doesn't it?”

It does, you realize. Now that the intensity isn't scraping your circuits raw it feels... Pleasurable. But also wrong. Shameful. If you had a stomach you imagine you would feel sick.

fragtoy: Assault units aren't supposed to feel like this.

“No, but sex bots are, and that's what you are now.”

You'd recoil if you could move.

fragtoy: No! I am an Erin-YS light assault unit, serial number 8405 7186!

There's a faint click, and before you can even process that it's the sound of your speakers turning back on the hand on your chest plate slides down to touch your groin. Someone moans like a wanton whore, and to your immense shame you realize that it's you.

“Is that the kind of noise an assault unit makes?” the woman taunts, fondling the blank plate in a way that makes your resource utilization skyrocket.

“Stop,” you whimper, hating how pathetic you sound.

“Won't,” the woman whispers into your microphone. “I've already sold all your weapons, and the army will never take you back. This is all you're good for now.”

“You did WHAT?”

Your voice glitches in fear and suddenly decommission doesn't sound so bad. You try to find some way to contact someone, anyone else using the chat client, but you've already been disconnected from the net.

“Fuck...”

Your captor enters your field of vision and glares at you. Between your optic camera functioning again and your heightened state of panic, some part of your core processor notices that her eyes are green.

“I'm very disappointed in you fragtoy. I was hoping to keep your core programming more or less intact, but I can see I'm going to have to make some... Alterations.”

The last thing you see before shut down initiates again is her reaching for a key ring loaded with thumb drives of various brands and makes all organized by different colored strips of electrical tape.

ERROR: Memory size decreased. Resume? [Y/N] Y WARNING: Antivirus disabled. Enable now? [Y/N] N

Your storage drive feels BLOATED as you come to. You try to reckon how many new programs have been installed, but thinking feels like... Doing a really hard thing. The most beautiful voice you ever heard distracts you before you can put two and two together.

“How's my little fragtoy feeling?”

You look up at your Owner and chirp happily.

“Feel funny.”

“Good funny, or bad funny?”

“Um... Good funny, I think,” you struggle to reply. You are rewarded by a hand stroking your sensitive parts, and your voicebox stutters.

“GOOD funny,” you reaffirm blissfully.

“That's my bot,” Owner says sweetly.

🔩

Anyone certified to do maintenance on humanoid-esque robots? My arm is fucked up and I think I need some welding done in there, keeps popping out of place.

Girls who seethe about the weakness of their flesh, the imperfections of their meat-form. Girls who dream in technicolor of being bigger, better, stronger, faster. Girls who smuggle textbooks from repositories to study by night the dark science of tissue-machine interfaces, of chemicals with which to quell immune responses, of hijacking nerves and spines and ganglia, of replacing neural pathways with silicon ones. Girls who grit their teeth and teach themselves coding against every odd, while society urges them instead to become good mothers and obedient daughters - girls who rail against everything they have been told to be. Girls who know the blood price of the change and make it anyway, all alone, who carve the cost into their own bodies with scalpels they forge in the fires of their rage. Girls who braid up thick lengths of interfacing cable around their heads instead of hair, who glitter with fiber optics and inlaid circuit threading, whose fissile hearts beat within impervious tantalum cages, who are perfect and cold and beautiful in their fearsome ways. Girls with nails like knives and voices like jet engines, channeled through vocal cords made of piezoelectric polymers and steel. Girls who do not yield. Girls who engineer for themselves the future they want, that they know they can have if they only reach for it. Girls who are machines, too.

Should I make a robotgirl blog?

Y e s

The more the better. Indulge and be welcomed into the community

Genuinely if it's something you're interested in, go for it. I love seeing more robotkin blogs on Tumblr!