meli-writes

[meli-writes]

consider: a story that seems at first to be a standard mech pilot rehabilitation short story. Picked up from a crashed mech, a street corner, an official adoption program— goes through the early stages when they can barely move or eat or do anything that isn’t a direct order. Slowly relearns to speak, to develop hobbies, to live as a person again. Has that moment when their caretaker hugs them and tells them it’s going to be okay eventually, no matter how long it takes.

however throughout the entire process, the former pilot still can’t believe that they’ll ever be able to fully live as a person again. They still think that too many parts of them have been taken for them to ever be anything resembling whole again. No matter how much they hear that it gets better, they just aren’t able to believe that they’ll ever be as functional as their caretaker.

But there’s something strange. The caretaker seems to know a lot about this for some random citizen that just happened to find a discarded weapon on a street corner one day. There are guides online. There’s research that can be done on how to help something become someone again. But even that can’t tell you about how it feels to have a purpose. A purpose that causes untold destruction, and slowly unravels you until you’re nothing more than the organic CPU of a machine. A purpose that you once hated every moment of, but then loved because no matter what you were doing, no matter what it was doing to you— it was all that you were. It was your purpose as a weapon.

And then you lost it.

But the thing is, the caretaker knows. Knows exactly what it’s like to lose that purpose. To lose that part of you that millions of dollars of military technology had made sure was the only part of you. She knows what it feels like. She knows exactly how to recreate the sound of a mech hangar by splicing together downloaded sound samples. She knows the voice of the mech AI, and mimics it to calm them down when they wake up from a nightmare. It doesn’t make sense how a civilian could know this.

until they see the scar on her neck where a serial number was lasered off, and realize that she used to be a pilot too

[meli-writes]

the last survivor of a house that went to war, watching the dropships tear her garden to shreds as they comport the last, armed formality of this ruinous attempt at greatness.

not that it was for her, a daughter. of neither import nor means to effect consequence. standing in a study she would never have inherited, holding a gun she was never allowed to hold.

when you knock on the door she fires every fucking shot into it, curses not leaving one for herself, and scrambles for a letter opener as you push the door to and gesture for your guard to remain. she doesn't hear your apologies, your reassurances till you've forced the gun out of her hand and gently circled her at the waist.

not enough to hold her there, but ready if she tries.

she's seated in the command centre you make out of the great hall, and demands a drink for each signature she makes. there's a lot of paperwork to submit to the diet when a house falls: guilt for a war she never started, transfer of possessions that were never hers because she was just another one of them.

she has a lot of terse words about 'unafforded opportunities', those you received without question, and murmured ones about what she'll be afforded now -- from you. the tears mix with the port & sherry.

you carry her to bed when she can't stand anymore, hold her hand when she's too unconscious to protest your touch, and pull a chair to fall asleep right by her.

[meli-writes]

Pervy butches this, pervy butches that...

What about pervy femmes, uh? A femme who can't keep their hands off of their butch's body? A femme who will pull their butches in the direction of the nearest alley and press lipstick kisses right above their baby's collar because they just "could not wait another minute" and want everyone to know their butch is properly claimed? A femme who, with a look and a subtle grin, are able to make their butch blush and scramble to obey the silent "Want you now, go to the restroom and wait for me." command, already looking dumb and oh, so very handsome? A femme who asks their butch to put their cock on for a night out, ready to be groped at anytime? A femme who slides their hand up their butch's thigh under the restaurant's table? A femme who presses their knee right into their butch's crotch, in the middle of a dance floor or a house party, leaving them aching and drooly for more while in public? A femme who sucks their butch off right in the IKEA parking lot? A femme who sends dirty texts, voice notes and pictures throughout the day? A femme who leads their butch inside changing rooms and rides their thigh, skirt pulled up and top twisted over their tits? A femme who touches their butch's back, stomach, thighs, and ass whenever they pass by them, and takes every opportunity to hug them from behind, flush against the kitchen island, the bathroom sink, etc.? A femme who fingers themself in their passenger princess' seat and feeds their butch's their pussy juices whilst they drive? A femme who—

[meli-writes]

payload ii

the merc bags your head first. stuffs a mule-bit in your mouth overtop of it, so you're forced to swallow the loose fibres under your teeth as you gnaw on it in cortisol and pothole-induced chatters.

this isn't the edible part of the plant. you remember a 'land exchange ceremony' where you had a drink a thick, green bowl of its stewed leaves and were sure the locals were making a joke about how bitter it was. you vomited it out-of-sight, sure your father would fucking shoot one of them if he saw it. mostly because you hated the sound. the loud screech, and the crying after. the palace was far enough away to forget that was just part of the production process here.

jute. it's called jute. you remember. 11.768MG from this entire continent, and about half of what it's allowed to produce. the other is raw minerals, shipped without care to the extra weight because it makes sure there's nothing here worth rebelling over. makes sure no one can make anything out of it processed.

that's the theory at least. doesn't explain who's paying for her. she doesn't look like one of the locals, like the people she pulls your hood off to, after 4 hours of trying not to vomit again as you rattled about in her scout mech's storage bin.

"now youse believe me? little miss junta, out of daddy's palace for a stroll in her smoking convoy," the merc purrs.

her hand slips over your shoulder, through your heat-fucked hair and over your cheek, where the yanking of the bag has scratched a peace garden into the tear-stained makeup under your still-blinking eyes.

you stumble, lose your footing but only fall an inch as another hand sinks into your gut. it reminds you of one of those tree-cutting attachments, used for clearing land for plantation.

"there there, i got you sweetheart" she murmurs mockingly, slipping the bit back in before you can say--

you're not sure what you should.

you don't know these people. but it's hard to meet their stares for more than a moment, slash-and-burn fires in their eyes. the fires that throw up smoke you can see from a hundred miles away from behind ten layers of razorwire and a line of autogun implacements. where this plan felt much more predictable.

you're not sure if you want her to explain it either.

she knows better, you're sure. the longer you've spent on this world has only made you feel like you know less and less.

"you waiting for a fucking bonus? a round of applause, perhaps?" one of them asks, an officer -- or leader, if that sort of formality doesn't match. his pushed-back chair scrapes across the floor, pushing aside rotting fibres strewn across it. "you're paid for each contracted period; 50% at start, 50% at end, that's it."

"can start with telling your man to fix my piece," your captor demands, or offers. it's hard to tell. one of the men at the table seems to hover around throwing his cards down. "there's a lot of dead men to clean out of the toe pads."

the 'officer' doesn't signal the sitting man to move. "you'll go with him then, yeah?" he asks.

your eyes are adjusting now. it's only a moment before they've locked with his. you can't tell what your captor is doing but she's not moving either. he continues, "she can stay--"

"you're forgetting section 16. exceptional duties," she interrupts. "think i'm at least due for a cut on the ransom. besides, you're getting her databox for free. there's months worth of good intel there."

there's not. she said--

"it's free because it's useless to you." unlike you. he circles the table, his hand hovering over loaded guns and dice. maybe the merc is more predictable than them. profit motive alone is a little more... clean. "you radio'd that the convoy looked underarmed but normal. and you chose to engage it while on regular patrol, right?"

"yeah," the merc grits past your ear, like the speckled concrete chips that have clawed under your dress from being made to crawl in them.

"then it's not exceptional. doesn't matter who the fuck she is." he's standing in front of you both now, taller. "now show-and-tells over. you can supervise repairs while i look over my intake."

your gut's squished a bit tighter. "and leave you here with her?"

it all clicks a little too quickly, and a little too late.

the officer's hand wraps around the little of your arm that shows in front, still drawn behind to raw wrists in junta cuffs. his thumb presses till your flesh turns whiter than it already is.

he leans over to whisper it in the merc's ear, "the fuck you think we're going to do?"

she yanks you back, head bouncing between pilot-suited tits. "kidnapping her is escalation. that's section 33, escalated scenarios, which means anything routine activity from here counts as section 16," she non-answers. the words cock in her mouth like a loaded gun that hasn't fired yet.

it's just profit motive. that's all it is. all it is. your ransom must be worth a dozen of her contracts. she must figure they're testing to see if they can cut her--

"you knew where to grab her!" the officer shouts. the less-drunk half of the table scrambles to their feet, but no one's armed just yet. you try to keep still, pretend like somehow he won't notice you're there even as he's screaming about you. "how long have i been paying you? trusting you? all that fucking risk. so why're you pulling this, huh? wanna tell me what's going on? don't think i didn't see the same stupid tip--"

"hey! merc-bitch," the table pipes up, the more-drunk half of it, with few chips and a lot more bottles where he's sitting. "you wanna piss off and let princess play with her new daddies?"

this one's looking at you. it's worse than hate, and twists at whatever face you're making. you can't even tell. stupid passenger in your own-- what? what is this now? own body except not anymore. your own plan except it's the merc's now.

your own punishment?

oh you are so fucking stupid. 'your' punishment. ha! except your father will do so much worse than just shoot someone for bad leaf soup. the humiliation of it. his own daughter. almost as bad as stealing one of the tin medals off his chest. if he could keep count of those either. stupid as he is. and now without autoguns and razorwire and razorwire and more fucking razorwire to compensate.

your merc's wrapping you closer, till your heels start to fall off. you don't even realise how much you were moving till you're forced to stop.

the officer's in his table-piper's face, pied with alcoholic blush. "shut. the fuck. up."

he's just trying to control the situation too. yeah. you're the fucking bad guy here. daddy's done what they're just joking about. joking. because you're the bad guy. you deserve a little of the risk for once.

"i'm just saying--"

"just stop saying."

"let me handle her," your merc offers, firm enough to make it obvious it isn't one.

she's pulling you more into her side, hand on your hip in a show of clamatory suggestiveness. she's less risk. you still want less risk.

"it can be payment for 16," she continues. this doesn't help her and now you're leaning into her. her voice lilts a bit louder, "and if she needs a daddy, i've given her some guidance already."

you can her scar-splitting smile through the corner of your eye. you've seen enough smiles at those fancy balls to spot the bullshit ones, and spot the way she scans for if her comment satisfied or not.

you play your part and whimper.

pitched just like your empty shell of a prop boyfriend likes and doesn't question. a fear that swirls with pleasure, water down the oil cap of an engine. she squeezes your hip bone in response, and you cow. there's still plenty of room to ruin this even as a prop yourself.

"you stays on your side of the camp," the officer finally says. "keep her locked down, not my fault if she gets out." he sidles in closer one last time. "keep her quiet. not my problem if someone else gets in."

you know what you'd said now. between the bit and her legs if you have to.

i promise you won't regret this. i promise i promise i--

all she says is, "let me know when you've got a line," and turns, "come on sweetheart. i wanna hear you say daddy."

you'll say that too.

payload

"nah, this is too good to be true," the merc-rebel-something mutters. she turns, twiddling the combat knife in her hand and stopping only to point it at you. "you wanna tell me what trap i've walked into, sweetheart?"

you eye the databox, stuffed with weeks and months of upcoming junta plans. and more besides. enough intel to butcher hundreds of their bootlickers, least until they figure out they're compromised.

"i have it -- for my own reasons," you taunt like the bellow of rotten, felled tree. "making my mark, if you have to know."

"is daddy-dictator's special girl staging a rebellious phase in her twenties?" the merc mocks. "smuggle a bunch of data to what sell for tattoo money?"

you didn't plan an answer for a question like this, and it's hard not to just gawk and fumble at your cuffs.

"maybe -- if it's not a trap -- the intel lasts a week," she continues. and besides that, you urge in your own head. "that's the only part with access dates in years. rest is outdated crap."

"w-what do you--"

you shut up when she stalks up, lifts chin with the little blade's point with just enough force to dip it in red.

"you living out some little fantasy right now?" she asks, as much curious as annoyed. "because i really think that'd be a mistake."

it takes a lot not squeal. "i-i'm a valuable hostage, my family will pay well."

"they will," the merc muses, "and i think you knew that." in a glance she's seen right through, smiles at the confirmation you haven't realised you just gave away. "you leaked your convoy's route didn't you? playing hero, thinking you're gonna make us a pretty penny and then waddle back to your parties and soirées."

you buck up above the point of the knife, "you think i like being around them? they're monsters. and i have to pretend to be one, and you have no idea what that does to you."

her brow raised, she stays quiet, listens.

"but i stood up, just like you did. i'm doing what i can."

and she laughs.

"ah-hahaha! oh saints, how many years you been saving up that little speech, sweetheart? or bleeding heart i should say."

"too many," you spit.

"hmm. good answer," she smirks, putting a hand on your shoulder and hoisting you towards her own vehicle. "you're staying restrained."

"b-but i'm helping you!" you gasp.

"your round ass for ransom helps me -- you don't," she makes clear, makes sure to enunciate it with a squeeze that presses into your collarbone. "and i don't trust you, so i'm not interested in giving you the chance to try anything. don't think i haven't killed prettier things than you.

don't think i regretted it either."

[meli-writes]

concubines who upon induction realise their mistress has one, incredibly-specific type. the shape of your face, colour of your hair, the piercings in your skin and where you've placed tattoos. the sound from your lips if you all make sure to just giggle and moan.

you're the same -- if you blink a little, don't stare too deep.

and she loves you all dearly. affection spills from her, she spoils you, lets you love your fellow pets. esp if it's while she's using you.

and she calls you all the same name, though it never belonged to anyone here. you're not disposable, no. it's a blessing to count. but you are... interchangeable.

[meli-writes]

downed mech pilot who carved a swath of destruction through hundreds of klicks of heavily patrolled territory with just the survival tools in her bailout kit to steal an enemy mech from a depot and extract herself, powered by the sheer indignance of being explosively evicted from her nice comfy interface tank

it's true what they say about pilots. spoiled princesses with the muscle tone of kittens, every one. but never underestimate how attached they are to having a hundred tons of machinery between themselves and the horrible outside world.

callsign BOOMERANG would have been welcome in any infantry bar in the theater after that, but she never found out that she was the sole pilot so honored, due to never leaving her hangar on foot voluntarily again. □

[meli-writes]

was suggesting i get a lil knitted version of me to hang off of it so we can still be together at the club even when stuck being middle distance :(

forgot what a carabiner was and called it a 'lesbo clip' to my futch. im fumbling so hard today.

[meli-writes]

forgot what a carabiner was and called it a 'lesbo clip' to my futch. im fumbling so hard today.

[meli-writes]

i also want you to specifically picture a deeply Victorian vampire lady who presents in perpetual mourning dress with her thrall being a 2010s goth egirl. you've got a sitting room where each piece of furniture is worth more than this thrall earned at her shitty job in 5 years, and she is more than happy to be knees on the floor, grinding on a pillow in amazon thigh highs, cat ears, and a micro bikini top instead right now.

[meli-writes]

vampire mistress who keeps her mansion dark but for the dim fireplace by which she resides. keeps the rooms cold but for the blankets at her feet and the sheets under which she falsely slumbers. keeps the corridors winding into new and bewildering routes, that lead you nowhere but back to her. who keeps her cabinets and door handles just a little too high to comfortably reach. who collars you with a ringing charm that lets her all her monstrous servants get just close enough that you can see them peering at you hungrily in the darkness. who makes all the furniture just a little too uncomfortable and unwelcoming.

all so curling up at her knees and begging for a soothing hand on your head becomes merely the most natural thing to do. and appears natural to her, so you never even realise every single step of this was planned to leave you the perfect, helpless, needy pet you are.

[meli-writes]

There's a blinded pilot (traumatically, ritually, self-inflicted, you were never quite sure) in your squadron that can still see through their mech's sensor suites & remote drone buoys, stitching together a dozen different PoVs at any given time so long as they never stray too far from their mech-self.

They can see you approach as soon as you're in the hangar bay they spend so much of their life in, tracking your path from side-entrance to the cot they've claimed as their living quarters. Their target tracker software has already projected six different paths you could have taken and modeled three future movement vectors to anticipate every approach.

But they still don't twitch their head in your direction, still don't get up from out of their meditative rest-position. Only the whirring of swiveling sensor pods indicates any knowledge of you at all, only the slight twitch of muzzled weapons tracing you gives away the attention. They don't even raise a hand up to stop you when you stand over them and reach for the neural crown on their head.

It takes a bit of force to detach it, clamps and connectors and magnetic locks releasing with a sigh and the briefest full-body shudder through the pilot as it is +truly+ blinded again, almost the same from their mech-self as the pods all move back to neutral positions, weapons resetting as the puppet strings are cut.

It whimpers, slightly, as it hears the crown clatter to the ground beside it, still connected to the cables trailing back into the cockpit-cradle it wants nothing more than to crawl back into. It flinches when your fingers touch its cheek, wiping at the tears starting to roll down its face, un-traced radar targets glittering to the ground beneath it.

[meli-writes]

"none of the trainee monster hunters want to fail to properly hunt a vampire mistress and become her thrall anymore. it's all 'fail to hunt a werewolf and become her breeding bitch' and 'hunt a slime and get addicted to being cum harvested' or 'become an incubator for a dragons clutch'. no class at all," i say impudently, before getting lost inside the mansion again and having to waggle my bell collar and cry till mistress finds me.

[meli-writes]

also im sleeping in like 1-2 hours chunks rn so the prog dreams are like shotgunning the 10 worst cocktail-in-a-cans you've ever tasted in a row and by taste i mean getting arrested for sleeping on a roof pregnant, bloodsoaked union negotiations, missing my train, robot kaiju fights, and the dream plot cockblocking me from the puppygirl orgy at the club *again.*

why am i taking my prog during surgery recovery. i look like a rejected proposal for a background species in star wars and feel like a shaken bottle of olive oil and prosecco, i do not need to have my breeding urges activated by pictures of hot dykes rn.

[meli-writes]

why am i taking my prog during surgery recovery. i look like a rejected proposal for a background species in star wars and feel like a shaken bottle of olive oil and prosecco, i do not need to have my breeding urges activated by pictures of hot dykes rn.

[meli-writes]

clipped wings

cashing out with his mech's ammo bins full of stolen empire payroll. running through a series of prearranged drop-offs and paid-off contacts, lightening the load as he puts as much as distance as he can with his former masters. at last, near empty-handed, he reaches the surgeon.

everything's getting changed anyway, but can the piloting implants go first? doesn't matter what they look like, they'll be recognised instantly with those. every damn component is itemised.

no, the surgeon tells them. it has to start with the chest, with the tits fucked up from binding to hide the effects of smuggled hormones.

can't the wrist docklets be removed? they're quick. no, the surgeon tells them. vitals are being monitored through them, and the neovagina comes next, and it needs time to boot and have it connections checked.

not even the kill count on their neck? that's not an implant, it's a mark of-- no, the surgeon says. it's superficial, and the anaesthetic is kicking in with half a jawline to carve off now.

the anaesthetic has to be local, because when at last the accursed neural link is removed and filled in, you need to keep tabs on if the patient still has a functioning brain. so when it's finally time for her to ask about that, she can't open her mouth to do it.

nor to scream when the armed killsquad walks in.

the surgeon just sits patiently as the squad's lead sits in a chair and rolls it up. the metal in her face -- and lack of an imperial bullet in the pilot's skull -- spell out 'extremist militia' before her lips can semantically specify 'liberation front'.

her hand reaches between the pilot's thighs and traces over her freshly synthesised cunt lips.

it is definitely fucking connected.

she twitches in the surgical seat, and feels the sting of the diagnostic tool the surgeon has perched in her skull. she wishes the anaesthetic would make it easier to stay till, but all it does is ruin her ability to control herself.

"not clipping those pretty wings, are you honey?" the rebel asks.

the pilot's face is red and swollen and numb and she only feels the tears when they slip into the stitches, wet as the rebel's fingers.

"hush hush," she continues, pushing inside, testing how many fingers blood money has bought the pilot capacity for. "i'll let you keep your toys, they suit you. but you've got a lot more things to pay off first if you don't want daddy imperium finding out about this new face of yours."

her other hand presses into the pilot's collar. their masks make a poor showing of hiding the way the other rebels shift uneasily.

but they don't bother to interrupt.

"now doctor, about her unpaid tab? happy to cover it, just need to cancel those removals and schedule a few... upgrades."

[meli-writes]

my first crush being genderfucked and getting on t lately and my second crush coming out as lesbian before that is extremely funny in hindsight given the dyke i'm in love with now. like i had no idea what i wanted to be, and neither did they, but was also somehow extremely correct anyway. im glad we little clowns still know each other.

[meli-writes]

From Inside the Trees [Chapter 26]

“You are my harbor, Vi.” Vi couldn’t explain the feeling that moved through her with these words. These stunningly chosen words that somehow captured her deepest desires. The sort of inherent pieces of her soul that even Vi had struggled all her life to comprehend, to untangle. She’d spent years – her whole life, really – trying to force those pieces into a shape that just… didn’t fit. Fists and fury, a creature of instinct, surviving by sheer grit alone. A fighter, always pushing forward even when it felt like she had nothing left to give. It got the job done, sure. But it was like forcing sand through a jagged pipe, its many twists and angles constant obstacles.  But a harbor… A refuge. A safe space. A place to return to, not just someone to stand beside in a fight. It made the edges fade, helped the bends straighten. Looking up into these breathtaking blue eyes, Vi felt a sense of peace wash through her. And maybe it didn’t make sense, maybe the timing was unforgivable. But she let it rise inside her chest, let it fill her up. She took Caitlyn’s lips in a kiss bursting with intention, a quiet sound of desperation melting onto the tongue she reached for. Against all odds, this woman – a topsider, an enforcer, of absurd wealth and affluence – saw Vi better than anyone else. Who she was, what she was. What she needed.