meli-writes

[meli-writes]

“You disgust me. With your heroics.” She makes a fist in your hair and deliberately lifts you off the floor. The tip of your sword clatters against the polished marble. Your side hurts. She must have kicked you while you were down. The sun is beginning to set.

“So the world is ending, and evil is in power,” She spits each word with venom, as if she resents having been made to put them in such an unreasonable sequence. Made by you to put them in that sequence. Her grip tightens. The cut on your forehead opens again.

“And you feel that you personally have to fix it?” The bitter laugh at the end is the most galling part of her delivery to you. She lifts you to her eye level now. Her expression is hard to read, your vision was already blurry from being knocked down, and the blood in your eyes doesn’t help. You thrash weakly and gasp something defiant. If she heard, she gives no indication.

“And now you lash out violently against” Now she releases her grip on your hair, and you fall to your knees. You look up again and catch the moment just before her boot connects with your cheek, knocking you flat on your back.

“All perceived injustices.” She takes a few steps over to where you settled in a heap, and delivers another kick to your side. She breaks a rib this time. Now she looms over you, waiting for your writhing in pain to quiet a bit before she continues.

“You want Evil to be something you can crush.” You find her boot pressing against your sternum as she begins again, dirtying your cute, almost princely, blouse. She isn’t digging her heel in yet, although you don’t count on that lasting.

“But you will never crush Evil.” The boot forces the breath and any possibility of a response from your lungs. You helplessly paw for your sword, which is just beyond your reach. You don’t look up at her. You don’t need to. You know the hatred in her eyes, and you would know it even if she blinded you.

“So you are going to choose.” She digs her heel in harder. It hurts. She is doing this to hurt you now. Your head now turns to the vaulted ceiling. You can’t make out any of the ornamentation any more. The confrontation with her seemed so dramatic. She made her declarations and you made your speech. You fought, and you were supposed to win.

“Are you going to die without compromising once” You know that question was rhetorical, but you still try to answer her. She kicks you again to make you stop. She wasn’t finished with her question yet.

“Or swallow lies that give you personal satisfaction?” Despite the stabbing pain in your side, despite the threat of being kicked again, you rise to your elbows. Your blood is staining your blouse and skirt. You’re dizzy. She squats down and looks you in the eyes. You turn away from her.

“Because we both know you will not be a tool for” She grabs your chin and twists you to face her. You’re too weak to stop her now. You can’t make out her expression at all. She sounds almost sad.

“Anything less than ideal.” Pity. It’s pity in her voice. After half-killing you, the truth of the matter is that she thinks you’re a stupid little girl. She feels bad for you. You spit blood in her face.

“And that makes me sick.” She releases your chin and forces you back to the ground. Out of the corner of your eye you see her blurry shape turn away from you. The sun has set.

[meli-writes]

Bloodsuckers - Chapter 3

Full Series

Katie picks at the skin around her thumbnail, fist pressed to her forehead as she sits in the centre of her mobile home.

She’s not getting rescued.

She’s been not getting rescued, obviously, but there’s not getting rescued yet and then there’s not getting rescued at all. She’s out of delays, out of excuses she can make on behalf of a home base she can’t contact. Fuck, it takes maybe an hour to get a mech off the orbital platform and onto the ground, there’s really only so much time a rescue can take. All she has left is the grim, all-encompassing knowledge that this is the rest of her life.

Either her emergency beacon isn’t reaching anyone, or, or-

Well, makes no difference now. Whatever the reason, she’s stuck, and if she doesn’t do something about it she’s never getting out of this tin can. She’s been here for nineteen days, she was stocked for forty-five when she left, the numbers on that aren’t great. The water and air recyclers will keep running past that, but when she’s out of food she’s out. Soft deadline twenty-six days out, hard one maybe three weeks beyond that, but she’d be lucky to actually get anything done after a few days on an empty stomach.

There’d be a simple solution here, if the farms weren’t overrun with fucking vampires.

“Hey!” She barks, clicking her exterior speakers on. “I wanna talk to Samantha again.”

~

Samantha is-

It’s wrong to say stupid, even if she did willingly stay in an evac zone and seems perfectly fine with letting vampires feed on her. Everyone seems fine with it once it’s happening, that’s what vampires do, they mind control you. You don’t call people you’re trying to rescue stupid, even if they are.

Samantha is… gullible? Yeah, that’s not so bad.

Either way, the point is that Samantha is her in. There’s no scenario where she gets out of this without going through the farms; she needs the food if she wants to make it to the end of the month, she needs whatever repair infrastructure the colony might have if she wants to see the sun ever again, and she needs to get those without becoming food herself.

“Hey pilot.” Samantha says, clambering up the side of her mech. “You wanted to see me?”

“Samantha. Sammy.” Katie says, swallowing as she opens her eyes. “I need a tow.”

“A tow?” Samantha asks. “You’re not that far outside the colony, we can hike it-”

“No.” Katie says, shaking her head. “I’m not leaving, I can’t leave, they’ll eat me alive Sammy.”

“No, listen, they won’t, okay?” Samantha says, pressing her palm to the glass of the cockpit. “I know what you’ve heard, I know you’re scared, but it’s not like that.”

Katie knows what it’s like. She’ll take one step outside and then she’ll be a happy little puppet until her captors get bored of her, and then she’ll be exsanguinated and tossed aside. Just because Samantha is still in stage one doesn’t mean stage two doesn’t exist.

“Sammy you listen, I’m not fucking leaving the mech, okay?” She snaps, and then takes a deep breath to calm her nerves. “I only have so much food. I need a tow to the colony so I can make repairs and get the fuck out of here, or I’m going to starve to death.”

Samantha wears her heart on her sleeve. The idea that Katie- an enemy combatant, by all accounts- might do something awful like die has her all misty-eyed in an instant.

“No, no, I’ll- I can bring you food, okay? I won’t let you starve.” She pleads. “Anything you need, if we have it I can bring-”

“What I need, is a tow.”

“I don’t know if I can do that-”

“Try.” Says Katie. “Please, Sammy.”

Samantha looks conflicted, fidgeting as she switches between peering into the cockpit and glancing back at the colony. It’s time to break out the big guns.

“Please.” Katie says as she places her hand opposite Samantha’s, separated only by a pane of glass. She bats her eyelashes, even manages to summon up a tear. “I’m- I’m scared. I don’t want to die here.”

Samantha crumbles, her lip quivering in sympathetic sorrow.

“I’ll see what I can do.” She says, and she scampers back down into the night.

~~~

Like my work? Consider buying me a ko-fi!

[meli-writes]

finished another chapter for cupcakes and we haven't even got to the dicking down lol, just half a blowjob. (noting that the chapter length for this is on the small side at 1-2K). no chapters out till they're all done though, have learned my lesson about that.

it is gonna take like more than a year to fix tho lol. i'm almost done working through my backlog, and then we can get back to the big stories so unfinished they're from my cohost era.

i do really think youse will love truth to be dared (it's both very kinky but also digs into some transfeminist themes), tho i might wanna get my own site finished first so i can bring back the HTML <3

[meli-writes]

firstly, genevieve o'reilly is a gift to the whole world and ungodly talent in acting in a scene paired with another already unbeliveably intense and fantastic one, so remember that. secondly, mommy mothma drunk-dancing her disintegrating life away is like a definitionally-purist MILF and i would eat her out in the imperial senate so hard that for once in her life she might actually be heard by them.

[meli-writes]

wanting to appreciate as well how important fanfiction is to me as a 90% original writer.

firstly that it's fun as hell. really, anything that comes after that is just a bonus to this point. secondly that it's kind of a really good way (reading or writing) to manage and process an obsession lol, to help fill in that hole while it shrinks a bit. it's such a fun way to find a bit of community too, like i adore the folks i've chatted to about their stories or my planned ones. and then like, directly related to working as an original writer and also a freelancer: fanfic is so a vicious test of skills.

like, yes, it's hard to write original fiction; to compose your own themes, characters, plots & arcs. but i honestly think working with someone else's can be even harder. it's a sincere test of how well you know someone else's work, how well you can deconstruct and then reconstruct every piece of their story to be both authentic in what you replicate and that what you're writing is transformative and not just additive to the original text.

for me i think that's how i self-justify writing fanfic when i'm more anxious. mostly, i do it for fun, but i genuinely try to test myself with it and try to use it as a chance to make myself try others' styles and learn from them.

like, picking a favourite from own work is so hard both out of pride and self-consciousness but it genuinely probably my fanfic February Brings the Rain which was based on a peer's work.

fun fact: within only a month of dating me my butch had read this story several times a day for a week. and didn't tell me for most of a year lol bc he was so embarassed and worried i'd think he was weird lol. when like, baby, even that only makes you half as much of a freak as the one who so obsessed that she wrote a fanfic as long as all previous chapters of it. and it makes you my type of freak too <3

read caitvi fanfic for 8 hours today, totally cleared out my 'marked for later' list. like i post very little except my stories and improv but trust me i am obsessed with arcane behind the scenes.

i'm meaning s1 made me a lesbian 3 years ago, made me dream about watching s2 on a couch with my own vi and then that dream came true omg, and it made me remember just how important the show was to me. and since i've read like 2m words of fanfic, so much analysis, and i'm preparing to write two of my own as well.

one has like 12 chapters in its outline, dear god.

[meli-writes]

read caitvi fanfic for 8 hours today, totally cleared out my 'marked for later' list. like i post very little except my stories and improv but trust me i am obsessed with arcane behind the scenes.

i'm meaning s1 made me a lesbian 3 years ago, made me dream about watching s2 on a couch with my own vi and then that dream came true omg, and it made me remember just how important the show was to me. and since i've read like 2m words of fanfic, so much analysis, and i'm preparing to write two of my own as well.

one has like 12 chapters in its outline, dear god.

[meli-writes]

i love giving my sharps bin a lil shake after an injection. it's like getting to play with an unopened lego box except it's dykey and affordable.

[meli-writes]

"knew i shouldn't have come back," she hisses. "time-bombs." that's what you are. the one she thinks has just gone off, has been waiting to hoping it somehow never would because she is surrounded by them so what else is there to hold on to.

"i don't get-- why would they not say something?"

her words roll across her brow, down through a scrunched nose and over quivered lips. they're silent on the floor, sit there a broken and silver loop. you didn't blame her so instead you made it about them. and -- by turn -- you.

"because i would never. and we're so... so fucking normal. ugh. why even bring it up?" there isn't another question from you, as she dresses and packs. suitcases on the soon-to-be-unshared-bed but she hasn't covered her neck. when's she wheeled to the door and struggles to open it you blink from your stupor and hold it open, still not saying anything.

"wait," you finally do when it's too late.

handkerchief from your pocket, she stands like a tree with rotted roots as your contort yourself close and tie it around her neck.

it smells like you. and you deny in yourself any consideration about the accidental meaning of that -- good or bad.

she just says: "i might... text." [the end.]

meeting an old vampire for coffee, yet somehow she feels as new to the world as you -- still with too few turns to not get called a pup. her silver ring dashes on the glass she hazily reflects in. a ward to make her not-a-vampire enough to sit cosily in the sun, because she's also still human enough not to then burn.

that's a scent on her that's familiar for a moment and shouldn't be for someone who you'd never seen before your dating-app match. but she's easy to talk to, and it's easy to let the imagination of holding her become real in the months after.

she wears the ring when she needs to. you never see her without her scarf. a small, silk thing; different colours every day yet looping on a cycle. not at risk of becoming notable as either fixture of novelty, but noticeable when on-repeat it's the only thing she has on.

she never talks about it. and you never ask.

you walk in your now-shared bathroom one time without thinking and look past her into the mirror. she's naked, not a speck of silver on her. you shouldn't see anything and yet her neck is visible. a thin and tangled slither of scar.

a collar-mark.

[meli-writes]

the name of the one who turned you; made you. guided you through that first turning, taught you the culture and made sure that you were accepted into it. made you happy.

she smells like them.

it's seeped into her like the thin, brown water that pools at the bottom of an uncleaned fridge, wetting and rotting whatever was once fresh. just a trace. and it would be imperceptible, if you hadn't burrowed it inside you, nostril-to-ignorant-brainstem.

how many times did you see the two of them back-to-back and not realise it. how many times in the same goddamn room and not see where she was looking or dared not to.

she makes you happy too, right?

the pin-drop moment you move closer she slinks around you. and you could block the door but that thought passes with the curdled sting of memorised silver.

stop her leaving and she'll never stay.

"i didn't know," are the wrong words to say.

meeting an old vampire for coffee, yet somehow she feels as new to the world as you -- still with too few turns to not get called a pup. her silver ring dashes on the glass she hazily reflects in. a ward to make her not-a-vampire enough to sit cosily in the sun, because she's also still human enough not to then burn.

that's a scent on her that's familiar for a moment and shouldn't be for someone who you'd never seen before your dating-app match. but she's easy to talk to, and it's easy to let the imagination of holding her become real in the months after.

she wears the ring when she needs to. you never see her without her scarf. a small, silk thing; different colours every day yet looping on a cycle. not at risk of becoming notable as either fixture of novelty, but noticeable when on-repeat it's the only thing she has on.

she never talks about it. and you never ask.

you walk in your now-shared bathroom one time without thinking and look past her into the mirror. she's naked, not a speck of silver on her. you shouldn't see anything and yet her neck is visible. a thin and tangled slither of scar.

a collar-mark.

[meli-writes]

old. ancient. collar-mark.

for a band of hammered silver that sat there so long that flesh and curse twisted into each other in knots, as the latter tried to unwind itself from a vampire's soul. a stain that won't wash out of her even here in the one place she's acutally supposed to be invisible.

it's one of those things pups and hounds don't-- speak-- about.

it causes friction with and within the social hierarchy that has kept werewolf society safe and comfortable. because it means asking where that comfort came from; what your centuries-old elders actually did with all that time to make it so; and how much their they've really changed since, still running things today.

the scent is familiar. so so familiar.

and their name pours off your lips before you can stop yourself, leaves you freezing as she does. colder than ther bloodless skin. enough to make the mirror frost over till you can't even look where her eyes are supposed to be.

meeting an old vampire for coffee, yet somehow she feels as new to the world as you -- still with too few turns to not get called a pup. her silver ring dashes on the glass she hazily reflects in. a ward to make her not-a-vampire enough to sit cosily in the sun, because she's also still human enough not to then burn.

that's a scent on her that's familiar for a moment and shouldn't be for someone who you'd never seen before your dating-app match. but she's easy to talk to, and it's easy to let the imagination of holding her become real in the months after.

she wears the ring when she needs to. you never see her without her scarf. a small, silk thing; different colours every day yet looping on a cycle. not at risk of becoming notable as either fixture of novelty, but noticeable when on-repeat it's the only thing she has on.

she never talks about it. and you never ask.

you walk in your now-shared bathroom one time without thinking and look past her into the mirror. she's naked, not a speck of silver on her. you shouldn't see anything and yet her neck is visible. a thin and tangled slither of scar.

a collar-mark.

[meli-writes]

meeting an old vampire for coffee, yet somehow she feels as new to the world as you -- still with too few turns to not get called a pup. her silver ring dashes on the glass she hazily reflects in. a ward to make her not-a-vampire enough to sit cosily in the sun, because she's also still human enough not to then burn.

that's a scent on her that's familiar for a moment and shouldn't be for someone who you'd never seen before your dating-app match. but she's easy to talk to, and it's easy to let the imagination of holding her become real in the months after.

she wears the ring when she needs to. you never see her without her scarf. a small, silk thing; different colours every day yet looping on a cycle. not at risk of becoming notable as either fixture of novelty, but noticeable when on-repeat it's the only thing she has on.

she never talks about it. and you never ask.

you walk in your now-shared bathroom one time without thinking and look past her into the mirror. she's naked, not a speck of silver on her. you shouldn't see anything and yet her neck is visible. a thin and tangled slither of scar.

a collar-mark.

[meli-writes]

putting the subby vampire in mittens and a muzzle because she needs reminding that nipping and scratching her domme is a privilege. you can make it a silvered ball-gag if you like, but i think it's cute to hear her complaints -- and the exact moment they turn to whimpers.

[meli-writes]

attempting to learn how to brat but i'm scared of being actually mean towards my butch so all i do is make increasingly esoteric short jokes.

[meli-writes]

planned obsolescence

so i've been trying to make sure i get priority on mech repairs lately and see there's this cute af shortstack of an engineer that just joined the support crew. so innocent looking. fresh from the coreworlds.

(she's in this council-mutualist militia that voted to attach to us. idk. i don't talk politics with anyone who's hot or important.)

and like, i've spent the last couple months baiting out the obvious crush she has on me: iron-pumping cunty bitch and hero of the third revolution. so like, i give her a wink, a smile when she recalibrates the LRM console. she sets aside some extra smokes for me i'll blow a playful, dubiously-platonic kiss. she does me a full rebuild and--

like, you get it. problem is: pretty sure all i've done is create a perverse incentive for her to:

hack into classified mission briefs and listen in.

calculate the exact time for us to complete our objectives.

engineer planned obsolescence into my fucking mech so that,

she's there right as my mech has a major failure when i re-dock.

it's happened 5/7 times this last month. i swear i'm not bullshitting. and then somehow she repairs it super easy so it must be some error spoofing or she's being super picky about what she fucks up (good).

i should never have let her taste my strap after the last time i uhhh... gave her her own 'full rebuild'. fuck it was behind the tool depot too. ESO is gonna be pissed at me. i'm so fucked dude i--

shit i'll catch you later. this bitch is walking over like right now and-- fuck she's licking her lips already.

[meli-writes]

I probably shouldn't be here as I am definitely not your target audience, but good stuff

i have 'target audiences' i joke about, but aside from aiming to please myself (& my butch), if you like it you're my target.

if there's one line in one story that just hits, you're my target. if there's one detail that blooms endlessly in your mind, you're my target. if it makes you fucking hard, you're my target. i just want it to change one person's life in one little way (and to tell me btw.)

i write deeply -- usually unintentionally -- from personal experience. and whether you share those experiences, or you find a mirror in them to your own, that's cool to me.

you might count yourself out, but maybe your brain's spotted something about yourself that you haven't realised yet *mwah.*

[meli-writes]

thinking about declassified right now and:

(context) imperial pilot that's been taken prisoner; who's far too smart to be loyal, who saved her own life with the self-servedness that now leaves her alone. because she has leverage. a datavault with encoded files for imperial intel: mechs, weapons, bases, VIPs, etc.

and every day after the first, she's letting her control slip handing over another password. not for survival, but for sex. for an intimacy and comfort buried in the purported cheapness of transacting merely for her base desires. for a temporary warmth in a cell that feels so cold, and makes her so small when it's her alone.

that tight-rope she walks because getting to feel safe means making herself vulnerable. an unbearable abyss she finally needs to fall into, giving up a phrase that unlocks all the files. her tears sinking into the rebels skin as she comes, panicking that she's dead. being told she's a good girl, asking if it means she's good like the rebel.

stuck being utterly dependent on the girl who stole her jacket and ripped off the patches and medals. the bottomless, unsateable need to be close. getting to borrow the jacket back. not to be hers, that's unbearable. but to feel her functional owner wrapped around her waist, her neck, filling her nostrils with sandblasted leather.

yeah i uhh, i like thinking about that hehe. mechismo is likely headed for short epilogues for its final part, so might see this there.

[meli-writes]

trying my new 4-inch platform boots on and i think the only thing i own that's hotter is my butch