meli-writes

[meli-writes]

got fucking nuclear @'d by this image on discord so im blasting all of you too now

[meli-writes]

world where your subby little femmes are scarce prey. where you lock yours in a wolf collar to stop other butches from claiming her. finding her on the floor, legs splayed out to her sides, covered in your rivals' blood. its dripping off the spikes down into her tits. you can taste it on her lips.

[meli-writes]

I'll fuckin do it pal don't tempt me

---

"Number three reactor's going critical! Repeat, cascade event imminent! Clear the bay!"

"Eject, 43!"

"Negative, command." 43 wiped blood from her eyes as she watched the countdown on the monitor tick. "There's still time to get it under control, but I have to be here to do that." There was an awful crunching noise from her left leg, the mechanisms finally failing after the beating they'd taken. 43 howled in agony as the force-feedback sensors let her know just how bad it was. She stopped for a moment, hunched and panting at the controls, sweat and blood dripping off her chin. She spat, and adjusted her reactor dials to give herself another precious handful of moments. She dragged herself forward, through a haze of pain and half-heard shouting over the comms. The lip of the bay turned out to be too much, and she collapsed, a long, drawn-out process she felt every inch of. Darkness pulled at her vision, and she tried to blink it away, to will herself to get back up, keep the reactor stable. She heard the sounds of laser cutters, and then suddenly there were hands all over her, disconnecting the force feedback systems, smearing the blood and oil she was covered in, tearing her hands off the controls. She fought back, kicking and screaming, desperate to get back to the monitor, to keep the countdown from finishing just a moment longer-

It stopped. "REACTOR STABILIZED," read the screen. "TIME REMAINING BEFORE MELTDOWN" was paused at 0:03.

43 collapsed, allowed herself to be pulled away, made small again. After some amount of time which might have been seconds or could have been years, a hand reached down to pull her chin up.

"You look like hell, 43."

43 tried to stumble to her feet, to salute, but only managed to fall off the chair onto her knees. Behind her handler, the ground crew was spraying coolant foam at the reactor casing they'd pulled out of her. A crane had been enlisted to move her shattered leg so the bay door could close properly, and the ground crew was already cutting and pulling at the twisted mass of metal that had been her left arm. 43 blinked, hard, and rubbed her biological left arm, trying to restore feeling to it.

Her handler ran her fingers through 43's hair. "You've had a rough day," she cooed at her. "Let's get you patched up, and then you can get your reward."

43 shivered.

---

The med room was bright - far too bright, after the warm soft red lighting of the cockpit - but the checkup didn't take long. Some dermis sealant for the lacerations taken when the cockpit caved in on her, and every other wound was psychological. Her leg still dragged behind her, and she had to remind herself not to hobble.

Her handler met her at the exit, holding a package. "Hit the showers, 43. You've earned it. I got you something to wear," (43 looked down at her flight suit, stained with every kind of fluid and sliced half to ribbons) "so meet me in the larboard lounge when you're done."

43's heart skipped a beat as she accepted the package. Larboard lounge? That was only a two-person space, nicknamed "lover's lounge" by the crew. What did her hander want from her there?

The shower, at least, was a godsend. The waters ran black, then burnt red, and finally, eventually, white with suds. 43's hair was short by necessity, but it felt like it had been caked with thick mud. Warm water ran over her, relaxing tense muscles and reminding her that she was in this body, here, at least for now. The package turned out to contain a luxuriously soft towel and, of all things, a set of soft green cotton pajamas, with slippers. 43 slipped them on and threw her old flight suit straight into the waste recycler.

She made her way to Larboard lounge, unsure of what to do. Should she... unbutton her top? A little? Was her handler expecting her to... or would she... 43 was red in the face thinking about the possibilities. It had never happened to her, but, she'd heard stories of... fraternization. Did she want that? Did she have a choice? And why these pajamas?

She was so caught up in her thoughts that she went right past the lounge. A hand on her shoulder caught her. "Hey, 43, you missed!"

Visions of leather and lace boiled up in 43's head as she slowly turned to see her handler... in the standard base uniform. Her handler was pretty, she thought, looking at her face, barely blinking, barely breathing. What now?

"43? You okay?" Her handler gave her a concerned look. "I got something for you, but if you're not up to it..."

43 shook her head, trying to clear cobwebs, embarrassment, fatigue, and the echoes of flashing reactor alarms all at once. "No, Ma'am! I- I'm fine!"

Her handler gave her a look 43 couldn't decipher, her head still half-full of fog, but dropped it. "Here," she said, steering 43 into the lounge. "This will be good for you."

Inside, 43 expected to find - well, she wasn't certain. Whips and chains? A school desk? A simple cot? All wrong, it seemed. Instead, there was a small table, set for two, and a lavish spread - real strawberries, fried protein rations arranged delicately, an artfully twisted nest of long noodles in a sauce that smelled of garlic and herbs, and a few other things set aside under metal domes for later. 43's stomach growled, and she blinked. "Wha?"

Her handler pulled out a chair for her and placed her hand on her shoulder to help her sit down. "Tada! I've been saving this stuff for a special occasion."

43 was at a loss for words as her handler sat down across the table from her. She managed to recover her tongue, but could only think to say one thing: "Why?"

"Why not?"

"I- I failed the mission, is why not! I didn't secure the objective, I got shot up so bad it'll take weeks to refit me - it - whatever! I lost everything! I should be punished, not-" 43 stopped, a hot feeling buzzing behind her eyes.

Her handler got up, walked to her side, kneeled down, and took her hand. "You came back," she said, softly. "That's worth celebrating."

43 resisted for a moment, then broke down sobbing onto her handler's shoulder. Her handler held her for a long time.

Eventually, she pulled back, and her handler offered her a handkerchief. 43 blew her nose, and then looked at her handler again. "Oh, your uniform..."

She waved off the comment. "I've got others. Let's eat, before it gets cold."

43 took a bite, and it was the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted.

[meli-writes]

robot gf and her ice slime gf that lives inside her symbiotically as her cooling system

[meli-writes]

An Affliction

A short story (about 5 pages) about a princess with certain needs. Contains explicit sex. Lesbian sex. Trans lesbian sex. Enjoy!

~

The princess squirmed against the luxuriously cushioned mattress, sighed long and slow. She turned her head to bury her face in goose-down pillows. Satin sheets framed her soft, pudgy body as her fingers worked faster and faster between her legs. Her knight had been so brave today, so very, very strong...

She arched her back, reaching for release, held there a long moment... and then collapsed back onto the bed with an unsatisfied growl. Nothing was working. No matter how much she held the image of Ser Wilhelmina Fallia's striking figure in her mind, remembering the feel of her lady knight's arm around her body, the firm muscles that must be flexing beneath her gambeson... She shivered again at the memory, but somehow it just wasn't enough.

She pulled the sheets up above her face and kicked her legs in frustration. She wanted to scream. The gods must surely hate her, for cursing her with such a shy orgasm. She wanted more than her own fingers, she wanted to stop imagining her knight taking her roughly by the hips, and actually...

Well, she was a princess, wasn't she? Why shouldn't she have what she wanted? She levered herself out of bed and straightened her nightgown, making sure there were no obvious wet spots down the front. She marched over to her chamber doors, and cracked them open wide enough to see one of her guards standing outside.

“You there!”

The man jumped slightly, and spun to face her, “Yes, your Highness?”

“Fetch me Ser Fallia, I desire an audience with my knight.”

“Right away, your Highness.” He looked flustered, slightly baffled. But he immediately set off to do as she asked. The princess closed the door again.

She smirked, congratulating herself on her brilliance. And then her heart began to flutter as the panic set in. Oh gods, what was she doing? What if her knight wasn't interested? What if she hated her after tonight? What if father found out, he'd surely send Wilhelmina away...

She paced around her chambers as she catastrophized, chewing on her thumbnail. She passed by her mirror, and stopped. Her hair was an absolute mess. She took up a brush and began to disentangle her long blonde locks. She had to look presentable for Ser Fallia, after all, and the process helped to calm her down.

There came a knock at the door. The princess jolted, causing the brush to catch painfully on a knot. She hissed as a familiar voice sounded from outside.

“Your Highness, I am here. You called for me?”

The princess hurriedly put the brush down and came to the door, letting out a long, controlled breath before pulling it open.

“Ser Fallia. Yes. Come in.” She looked to the guards flanking the door, “My knight is with me, you may be relieved.”

One of them, perhaps the one who she had sent scrambling for Ser Fallia, looked at her quizzically, “Highness? Are you certain?”

“Quite certain!” she shot back with just the right amount of royal indignation, “Now begone with you!”

The guards marched away as she opened the door wider, letting her knight enter. She looked her faithful protector up and down. Her knight wore only a sage green tunic, embroidered with ornate orange stitching, a simple belt of black leather, and black cotton trousers over leather shoes. All fine garments, but clearly thrown on hastily at the princess' summons. Her short, auburn hair was wet. She must have been bathing. The princess felt a pang of disappointment that her knight wouldn't still be covered in the scent of her own sweat.

Ser Fallia shifted uncertainly, hands at her side, “Um, how may I serve you, Highness?”

“Ser Wilhelmina Fallia,” the princess took on her most authoritative tone, “my loyal lady knight. You are to... er, that is...” A blush crept onto the princess's face. How indeed to phrase it. She cleared her throat, “You princess requires, ah, that you... You see, I have been b-beset by a... an affliction!”

“An affliction, Highness?” Wilhelmina looked concerned.

“Y-yes, an affliction! A wretched itching that I cannot... s-satisfy.”

“Shall I fetch the royal physician, Highn-”

“No! No, that will not be necessary. I merely require the... the use of your body.” She could not look Wilhelmina in the eye as she said it. Realization crept slowly onto the knight's face.

“Oh!” Wilhelmina's ears turned red.

“Yes, qu-quite,” the princess stammered out, “Now, disrobe.”

“Your Highness...” Wilhelmina sounded apprehensive.

“Yes?”

“For someone of my station, and someone of your station, to, ah...”

“Never you mind!” the princess sounded defensive.

“But should your father learn of-” the knight persisted.

“My father has nothing to do with it!” the princess shot back, “You are my personal knight, and I shall do with you as I please!” She paused a beat, looked slightly chagrined, “That is, if it would also please my knight.”

Wilhelmina cleared her throat, playing for time. “It would... please me, yes your Highness, but-”

“Then disrobe, as I have ordered!”

“Er... yes, your Highness.”

Wilhelmina started to fumble with her belt, then looked back to the princess.

“Are you... quite certain that this is, um, acceptable, your Highness?”

“I am your princess!,” she declared shrilly, “If I say it is acceptable, then it is!”

“Of course, Highness,” Wilhelmina hurried herself, to placate the young royal. Her belt came undone, and she held it awkwardly, looking for a place to set it down. The princess offered no word on the matter, and Wilhelmina settled with the floor. She began to lift her tunic up over her head, and the princess bit her lip as fabric gave way to flesh. She stared hard at her knight's tight stomach, the faint patch of hair leading down from her navel, the low mounds of her breasts, shadows stark in the candlelight. Her expression must have been depraved.

“Shall I continue, Highness?”

“What?” the princess was shaken from her reverie, “Yes! All of it, off now!”

The princess hurriedly shuffled over to her bed and sat at its edge while Wilhelmina stepped out of her boots. The knight hesitated with her thumbs inside the waist of her trousers. She looked at the princess. The princess' hands were balled into tight fists atop her knees, while her legs kicked excitedly off the side of the bed. The trousers came down. The princess stared.

Wilhelmina's legs were long, and well muscled. Slightly hairier than the princess had been expecting, her only frame of reference being her own nigh-invisible leg hair. She let her eyes drift up, and up to... was it meant to be that small? She hadn't ever seen one before, but her reading had led her to believe it would be more... Well, it hardly mattered. Her knight's entire body was rapturous to behold. Wilhelmina looked like she wanted to cover herself with her hands, but restrained herself so that the princess could see whatever she pleased.

“Come here,” the princess said hoarsely. Wilhelmina obediently strode toward her, feet padding silently on the thick rug. She stopped at a respectful distance, but the princess was not content. “Here! Let me t-,” she gulped, “touch you.”

“As you wish, Highness.” Wilhelmina closed the final gap, stood with her legs nearly touching the princess' knees. The princess reached a hand out, paused with it in the air, and then finally laid it on Wilhelmina's stomach. The knight shivered beneath the touch.

The princess gave an absurd little giggle, unable to contain her glee. She ran her hand up and down her knight's midriff, delighting in the feel of it, the warmth beneath her palm.

“Closer!” she said excitedly. Wilhelmina stepped forward, stood between the princess' legs, the smaller woman's head barely level with her chest.

The princess' other hand came up to join the first, and she excitedly went about mapping every inch of the knight that she could reach. Her fingertips played across Wilhelmina's nipples, stiff despite the warmth of the royal chambers. Her palms slid across the knight's hips, fingers squeezing gently at her firm thighs, before reaching back to feel the curve of her ass.

Wilhelmina felt a stirring in her loins, and tried her damnedest to suppress it. She dug her fingernails into her own palms, bit down on her tongue. But the princess' exploratory touch, the way she so earnestly wanted to feel out every part of her...

“O-oh!” the princess squeaked, “Oh my...”

“A thousand apologies, your Highness, I did not mean t- hahh!” Pleasure shot up Wilhelmina's spine as the princess' hand closed around her erect cock.

“Your apology is unnecessary,” the princess said haughtily, “I see the books were truthful after all...”

“What was that, Highness?”

“Nothing! Now, erm...” the princess hesitated, “I should... ah, like this?” Her hand moved slowly up and down Wilhelmina's shaft. “This is pleasurable, is it not?”

“Y-yes, your Highness.”

“Excellent,” the princess seemed mightily pleased with herself, “As it should be.” She continued her awkward stroking, enamored by the feel of her knight's cock in her grip, pushing back into the thicket of dark, curly hairs, watching the head poke out from beneath its cowl, and then forward again, curving gently upward. Her own nethers fairly ached with the thought of having it pushed into her, throbbing and eager.

She looked up at Wilhelmina's face. Her knight was diligently looking straight ahead, mouth parted, taking long, measured breaths. The princess frowned. Why was she, a princess, servicing her knight thusly? This was all backwards. She had become confused, that was all. Because of how new it all was. Certainly not because touching Ser Fallia's body made her heart pound. It was time to correct this uncouth reversal.

“Ser Fallia,” the princess said in a voice she reserved for impertinent servants, “I command you to... to fuck me.” The word felt unclean on her tongue, crude and unfit for the mouth of a royal heir. It was exhilarating.

Wilhelmina looked actually scared for the first time. There was no undoing this if she complied. But an order from her princess could not go unheeded.

“Highness, are you truly certain you want this?”

The princess flopped back onto the satin sheets, arms out, somehow still appearing haughty and annoyed.

“Of course I am certain! You are going to fuck me, because your princess has needs that are not being met,” she huffed, “And! You shall call me Sophia while you do so.”

Wilhelmina supposed it could not be helped at this point.

“As you wish, Sophia.”

The princess felt a little jolt of excitement at being called her given name. Nobody outside of her family ever did that. Ser Fallia said it in the same formal, reverent way she said 'Highness,' but it was something. She was leaning down, hands to either side of Sophia's shoulders.

“May I caress you, Sophia?”

“If you must.”

One rough hand touched her shoulder, hesitant. When she did not protest, it moved along her collarbone, the touch electrifying even through her nightgown. The hand drifted down, cupped one ample breast. Sophia began to breathe faster, staring up into Wilhelmina's face. Her knight was looking down at her curves, straining against delicate fabric. The wandering hand crossed her belly, found its way to her thigh, and the hem of the nightgown.

Wilhelmina took the hem in her fingers and looked up to Sophia for permission, who nodded, her face beet red. She lifted the nightgown up gingerly over the swell of Sophia's belly, up past her chest, and put her hand down between her legs.

Sophia gasped, and her legs tightened around Wilhelmina's. Her knight was using one finger to caress the lips of her slit, already nigh soaked in anticipation. It slipped easily inside.

“S-s-ser Fallia!” the princess exclaimed in a shaky voice, “I commanded you to take me carnally, not to, to, to... to toy with me!”

“Forgive me, Highness- Sophia. There's a method to these things.” Her finger continued to explore, and Sophia squirmed under her. “I must be sure that you're, ah, prepared to receive me.”

“V-very well, I shall pardon you this time!” Sophia's voice broke as Wilhelmina found what she was looking for. “Gods, uh, so long as you keep doing that.”

The knight slipped in a second finger and went to work, starting slow, getting faster and faster, until Sophia was panting and shaking, her inner thighs slick with her own fluids. The princess' hands had gripped the sheets, knuckles white with the effort. Wilhelmina slowed to a stop and withdrew her hand, which felt like it was about to cramp.

“Why did you...” Sophia husked.

“You're ready now, sweet Sophia.” She no longer said the princess' name in the manner of a title, but as one might whisper in the ear of a lover.

“I was ready from the start,” the princess whined, trying to regain some of her regal bearing, “But you have been insolent, and deprived me of my desire.”

Wilhelmina couldn't help but smile.

“Then I shall give it to you now, Princess.”

“Very good, that is how a loyal vassal should... should... gods above.”

Wilhelmina had lined the head of her cock up to Sophia's pussy, and was dragging it up and down, up and down, making sure it was nice and wet. Finally, she pushed it in. Sophia took in a sharp breath, and began to tremble. More and more of her knight's cock was coming inside of her, and every inch felt like it must be the last, but there was somehow more. At last she felt Wilhelmina's pelvis meet with hers, and the knight groaned in the back of her throat.

Wilhelmina held there for a long moment, feeling Sophia tense around her shaft experimentally. She intended to start slow, but the moment she began to pull back, she was filled with the urge to plow Sophia as hard as she could. She looked into Sophia's eyes, saw there the same burning need. This was her princess, the woman she had sworn her life to, the beautiful girl she had saved from death or imprisonment more than once. If her princess was so grateful as to take her knight to bed, then she deserved to have a night that she would always remember.

Wilhelmina grabbed Sophia by the hips, dug her fingers in hard, and gave her princess a proper fucking. Sophia cried out in shock, then in delirious pleasure. Her knight made the entire bed shake with the force of her passion.

“Ser Fallia,” the princess moaned.

“Yes, Princess?”

“Wilhelmina...”

“Yes, Sophia?” the knight's voice was strained with the effort of keeping rhythm.

“I- hah, gods, I think I love you.”

Wilhelmina was keenly aware that this was an infatuation that could never be allowed to grow into more. The morning would surely bring the young royal clarity. But for tonight, she would give her princess what she wanted, as she always had.

“And I love you, Sophia.”

Sophia raised her arms up to Wilhelmina's shoulders, and weakly held on as best she could. With every thrust of her knight's hips, her entire body quaked, tits and belly alike set to bouncing. Wilhelmina thought in that moment that she had never seen anything quite so beautiful. She leaned in close, and pressed her lips to the princess' throat.

“I-I did not give you leave t-to kiss me!”

“Forgive me, Sophia,” she raised her head to look the princess in the eyes, still rutting into her hard. “Might I have the honor of kissing your Highness?”

“You may.”

Their lips met, and Sophia buried the fingers of one hand in Wilhelmina's hair. She felt like she was coming undone, her body barely under her control, shaking as something surged between her legs, and rose up from her throat as one. A scream of ecstasy, muffled against Wilhelmina's intruding tongue, as muscles tensed hard within her. Her fingernails dug into her knight's shoulder as she came harder than she had ever managed alone.

Wilhelmina broke the kiss as Sophia squeezed down on her, so close to her own release, balls slapping against the chubby girl's generous ass. She grabbed one of Sophia's ample tits and growled like a common beast.

“Fucking hells, Sophia. You're too beautiful. Let me pull away, so I can finish.”

“No, don't you dare!” Sophia tried to grasp at Wilhelmina harder, but couldn't actually muster any strength. But she did her best to wrap her legs around Wilhelmina's backside.

“Princess, I can't...” she could easily disentangle herself if she forced the matter, Sophia was too weak to stop her. But...

“You can. I command it. I'm your princess, and you will give me your seed if I desire it!”

“Gods, Sophiaaaa...” Wilhelmina pushed in as deep as she could and held there, legs tensing, balls contracting, as her seed pulsed into Sophia's pussy. She moaned wordlessly, fingers digging painfully into Sophia's hip and breast. The princess gave a small squeal, but didn't object.

The room became quiet, except for the sound of their breathing, Sophia taking fast, shallow breaths, and Wilhelmina heaving great gasps of air. Her cock twitched a final time.

“Princess,” Wilhelmina said breathlessly, “Sophia. Might I be allowed to, uh, withdraw?”

“Yes, my knight,” Sophia let her legs drop down, “You have well pleased me.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Wilhelmina pulled herself out from betwixt the princess' legs, both of them shuddering as the head of her cock finally popped free.

“I, uh...” there were necessities that now must be reckoned with, but Wilhelmina wasn't entirely sure how to broach them, “Your Highness, this was all quite dangerous.” Sophia glared. “Most enjoyable, to be sure! However...” Wilhelmina glanced down at the princess' pussy, where a bit of her seed was slowly dripping out, destined for the expensive sheets. “I must needs make a visit to the apothecary. So that we can ensure nothing, uh, comes of this meeting.”

The princess seemed almost startled, as if she had not considered this before.

“Oh, yes, that is... good, yes. Do so.”

“I will use the utmost discretion, your Highness.”

“I have every faith in you, Ser Fallia.”

“Thank you, Highness.”

As Wilhelmina dressed herself, and Sophia watched lustfully from the bed, she thought about the guards who had seen her enter the royal chambers this night. If the apothecary were ever to be indiscreet, and word should reach those men... She would have to make sure he was well paid for his service, and pray that this would have no lasting repercussions. For either of them.

“Ser Fallia,” Sophia said in her most innocent voice, just as the knight was about to leave, “I do hope that... well, that is...” she cleared her throat and spoke more authoritatively, “I may have need of your service again. Soon. I shall call on you.”

Wilhelmina's throat went very dry.

“As you wish, Highness.”

[meli-writes]

why does my left thigh vibrate

brb installing heated pads into my robot body so my gf can fall asleep on me like a cat

[meli-writes]

just woke up from the installation :)

brb installing heated pads into my robot body so my gf can fall asleep on me like a cat

[meli-writes]

brb installing heated pads into my robot body so my gf can fall asleep on me like a cat

[meli-writes]

fascinated rn by all the lesbians and dudes so enamoured in the comments with this girl's Adams apple, with not a word about trans girls at all.*

im not the transfeminist scholar who can deconstruct the complex sociological trends going on here. I am just some bitch who finds it wild from my POV to see. like it's not bad at all lol, she's so pretty. just huh, okay.

even posting about this feels like ive centered myself too much here. im just like vaguely aware I fit into this somewhere in a cosmic way. my gf got my rambles about this, you don't need them too.

*one girl saying her trans coworker was self-conscious and that she "had to explain" women had them and like I think she knows that

[meli-writes]

me when my futch is busy and cannot give me kissy and goodnight :(

[meli-writes]

Boar and the Lamb - Ch. 02

(Read on AO3) /// (Previous)

She doesn’t speak for an hour.

There’s an occasional break to wince, a pressed-lips whimper as her toes work to hold the rest of her up before she gives up and lets herself hang again.

Kori would like to make it nicer for her, but when she went to slide a box under the girl she immediately tried to use it to slip off the hook. She offered a shrift too — one from when Kori was half the age she is now, which still looked like it’d fit her with room to spare — to cover the nakedness, and still got nothing more than another kick-threatening scowl.

Kori reasons to herself that the chains wouldn’t let her anyway. And as long as the girl isn’t… screaming in pain it seems… okay — to leave her there?

She sets to work on the carcass: cutting the hooves off, starts to trace lines where she’ll skin it. There’s a rattle to the left, as the girl must’ve glanced and quickly looked back down. It’s then she finally has something to say.

“When I get out of these — I’m killing you,” she declares.

Kori huffs in bemusement. Perhaps a little admiration. “So what then, you don’t need my help with it? ‘Cos I feel a little demotivated when you’re mean to me like that,” she softly mocks, confident the girl’s stuck there flopping like a suffocating fish.

“Mean to—!?”

She shuts up and there’s a cold, considerate silence before the girl corrects herself with a simple—

“No.”

“No?”

She sounds like someone who’s never had that said back to her before. Daughter of at least a Duke. Kori tries to offer terms, waggles the knife towards the chains, “How ‘bout telling me how you got into all that? Maybe it’ll make me more sympathetic.”

“No.”

“Huh. Fine,” Kori mutters. Girl must’ve been a real belle-of-the-ball; a lure upon the hearts of every eligible groom in the realm. “Well… Whether you’re chained up or not, you need to eat. Are you hungry?” she asks.

The girl looks hard past the carcass at her. Her eyes are crackling snowflakes.

“Go—”

“Go fuck myself,” Kori finishes off for her; blade pointed up, its flat-side towards her. “Yeah, I get it.”

She can wait another hour, her conscience won’t hurt as bad as the girl’s arms will.

She hopes.

“Guess you can watch me then.”

Gives up for now at least, and starts to work the blade under the deer’s hide to skin it. The girl turns from it so forcefully she slips off her toes, and when Kori wanders over to stir the pot the deer’s bound for, she starts to shake the chains again, as if the hook’s going to loosen just because Kori isn’t looking.

She picks up a ladle and runs it through the for-now thin broth, working it till the smell permeates the modest cabin that’s barely the size of a palace privy.

“It’ll take a few more hours anyway,” she continues. “Maybe you’ll soften up with it.”

The girl is something at least when Kori extracts the deer’s guts — blade down its middle, spilling them into a wooden bucket. Feet off the floor; knees into her chest; she squeals and twists up at the wet slopping to her side. Kori can’t help herself but quip, “Seem a little squeamish for a girl covered in more than her own blood.”

Blood that Kori would’ve loved to bring a little washcloth to, wet with white snow warmed in a pot over the fire. If the bloody girl would let her.

“No? Anything?” she asks, when the girl won’t even huff back.

“They chose to get in my way,” the girl answers — to the question Kori didn’t realise she asked. She finishes through her teeth, “I had to.”

Kori hadn’t meant to pick at that particular, somewhat-dried-in-the-literal-sense scab, moreso was just amused at her possible-duchess getting squeamish over where all her fancy food has to come from.

Kori hunted for herself, and would’ve eaten it raw if she’d been allowed to. There’s a spring-bud of pride in Kori for how determined she was to be like that — never the delicate, fainting flower her mother would read to her about out of books, in some insidious attempt to instill the same ladylike decorum in her — but in her throat it blooms into guilt.

“And out here — I have to,” she jests with a duller edge.

She does have to. It’s not enough to forage, and the land’s too bitter to grow much more than a small patch of hardy tubers outwith the small peak of summer.

“No,” the girl retorts. “Move somewhere else.”

Kori sighs.

“Not as simple as that,” she doesn’t explain. “Really not as simple as that,” for more reasons than Kori is willing to admit to a stranger, especially a probably-noble one like her.

Her hand, the blade in it, falls low and loose to her hips, and it’s hard not to think of how many dozens and dozens of times she’s stood here, hooks loaded, not wanting to count how many times it’s been.

“I’m part of this place now,” she says. “And you’re not, and still need to explain that.”

The girl doesn’t explain anymore than she does.

---

There isn’t another word till it’s done.

Kori’s at least been allowed to prop a pillow under her without getting kicked. But internally she’s cursing how much scrubbing it’ll take to get the blood out of it later.

She pours out the full-bodied stew into a pair of bowls, and hears the soft clink of iron loops as her unintended captive must be trying to peer over Kori’s shoulder to see. Kori draws the table from the corner of the room to the middle, rolls the rug up to the bed, and places the bowls on either, not-very-apart ends.

Treading inside the potential range of humorously-impotent-if-still-painful violence, she asks, “You able to sit down and eat normally, or do I gotta feed you like a gosling?”

It flashes within Kori that she might not mind the labour of that, if she wasn’t sure some of it would get spat back at her. Or maybe the girl is actually too hungry to mind the humiliation of that, despite also still being displayed in miserable nakedness.

Fuck.

She’s still naked.

And silent.

And she doesn’t look pissed at this point. A bit defeated, perhaps, so Kori tries to spare her, “You don’t have to say yes, can just—”

She nods.

“Works for me.”

---

The girl takes to standing like a puppet-show doll of a foal on cut strings, and Kori has to bear an arm under her shoulder to make sure she doesn’t topple. The arm’s accepted till she’s sat down, where then Kori fetches the blanket to cover her and make her feel a little less out of place.

She doesn’t take to the bowl. Sniffs at it with an air of disgust, and Kori has to ask, “When’s the last time you ate—”

“Nine days,” the girl interrupts.

One of Kori’s favourite subjects to be mentored on was siege warfare — mostly for the giant weapons — and one of the lessons she, in hindsight thankfully, never got to put to use was about the defenders who’d manage to survive through brutal starvation but then kill themselves gorging on relief supplies. Their bodies unsuited to so much so soon.

“—an animal?” is what Kori meant.

“Oh,” the girl blurts. It’s the first time she’s said something not laced with indignation. “Never.”

“Never?” Kori gawks. “And here I’d pictured the brave little princess spitting out her first decree to make king daddy spare the spring lamb.”

Kori had asked to kill the lamb herself. Was the moment she realised hunting something grown was far more palatable, and so she relates more than she lets on.

“Not our way,” the girl says.

Something under her ruined, straw-coloured hair twitches.

At least in Kori’s head, where it clicks at last.

She rises from her chair, around the table, and brushes hair past the girl’s ear just as she’s starting to sip from the bowl. It takes longer than it would Kori to brush her own hair back, just long enough for a full, regal point to reveal itself as it shivers in irritation. 

Because she’s a fucking Elf.

Kori’s never known an Elf. Seen them once or twice, also in chains, because the kingdom she's from had always hated the one the Elf must be from, and had invaded it more than once — to a middling-to-nillish effect each time. Maybe it’s gotten worse. Not like news comes to Kori, and that’s more than on purpose. There’s the couple times a year she strays to the local coaching inn, and she never speaks to any but the faces she already knows.

The Elf’s spoon bashes against the table, and Kori sees her hand wrenched around it so hard her fingers have turned the colour of the outside right now.

Kori retreats — fast, “Sorry about that. Not a ‘visitor’ person. Forgetting myself—” 

“Consort.”

Kori gasps cluelessly.

“You said I was a princess,” the Elf explains. Oh, right. “Was a princess. Consort now.”

“Fuck.”

Kori knows what she means. Knows who she means, having grown up around a few of them. 

It’s a polite word for concubine. Some of them peasants who found some small measure of relief, even a happiness, in the comfort of it. And others—

“Yes. Fuck,” the… Princess, Kori supposes, continues. “Too old to be a hostage-ward; too far from first-born for hostage-marriage; still valuable enough to be sold off as trophy for some successive line of violent, uncultured, barely-civilized, filth-ridden warlords.”

The sullen spoils of war.

Where a Human might keep her place for years, a decade even, an Elf wouldn’t be discarded for centuries. Kori had dreamt of some miracle meaning she’d inherit them some day. Imagined taking care of them all, even after they’d left — if they wanted to. That, or she’d bust them out, lead them somewhere like… here.

Thinks-with-her-fists-Kori. Childish of her. Sweet-rotten with the guilt that she’d ever thought that would somehow make them think she was different, or Gods-forbid like her.

“Where were you going?” Kori dares to ask. “Or… I mean taking you.”

“The Vale of Orrik.”

Kori eats her shudder with a spoonful of deer, then shoves her spoon deep into the bowl and lets the thick broth soak up the tremors. To call it a vale is a humbling misnomer for what had long sprawled into empire. It was a noble history, of righteous conquest and divinely-sought expansion — as she was raised to believe.

Mostly noble. Even the most gilded, vaulted halls of Humans were a patch on a pauper’s shoe compared to the smallest of Elfs. Not that the Vale would admit it.

“And… the chains,” Kori inquires, “they didn’t just… do that. I hope?”

“Ran from the first caravan,” the Princess says. “Burnt the second to the ground.” Her survival in the bitter cold makes more sense; she’s tutored in magic. It’s fair then to assume the chains are limiting her, keeping her dull, and that it’s why she hasn’t burnt Kori’s cabin down too. “Chained for the third. Waited till dinner, grabbed the knife and ran.”

And a lot of people decided to get in your way.

“Good thing I made a stew,” Kori jokes at the Princess’ white-knuckled spoon, eager to break the grimy film of pity still on her words.

“Hmm. Yeah,” the Princess agrees, her stare enough to do it.

Kori tries to spoon some more stew down her, mulling on how to spill what she’s been thinking while the Princess has been clitter-clanking away with each tenuously-accepted spoonful of culturally-anathemic nutrition.

“Look. I do have an idea about how to get them off,” she says. “The chains.”

The Princess perks at that. Her stare comes with a straight smile this time, but the eyes are desperate now. “Hacksaw,” Kori elaborates. “But—” she stresses, before the Princess gets up and stops eating like she needs to, “it means going out to the shed and I can’t do that till the blizzard lightens on the morrow.”

The Princess sits still. Tongue and spoon included.

Kori opens her mouth and just has to make it a bit worse, “If it lightens.”

“Fine”, the Princess finally lets out, and puts her spoon back to work.

“Is there anyone out there still… I mean, I guess— hunting for you?” Kori asks. There’s the minor concern for her own safety but— pretty little thing needs her help, and Kori hasn’t done anything interesting in a long time.

Thinks-with-her-clit-Kori.

“No,” the Princess tells her. It’s a relief. “There’ll be more though.”

Ah.

“Well, blizzard isn’t gonna let them go anywhere either,” Kori appeals. “When you do get to leave, you’ll have a headstart.”

The Princess seems to grasp at the concept between quiet, restless mouthfuls.

“You’re gonna let me go?” she asks, like it wasn’t obvious hours ago. But maybe it’s not unfair of her to have the worst assumptions.

Kori feels sweet-rotten at the thought it could be otherwise.

“I didn’t want to keep you here,” Kori spells out, and it seems to click for the Princess too. “Just— promise me you won’t stab me, or burn my house to the ground?”

“Hmm,” the Princess grunts. “Works for me.”

---

(Masterpost) / (Next)

[meli-writes]

Boar and the Lamb - Ch. 02

(Read on AO3) /// (Previous)

She doesn’t speak for an hour.

There’s an occasional break to wince, a pressed-lips whimper as her toes work to hold the rest of her up before she gives up and lets herself hang again.

Kori would like to make it nicer for her, but when she went to slide a box under the girl she immediately tried to use it to slip off the hook. She offered a shrift too — one from when Kori was half the age she is now, which still looked like it’d fit her with room to spare — to cover the nakedness, and still got nothing more than another kick-threatening scowl.

Kori reasons to herself that the chains wouldn’t let her anyway. And as long as the girl isn’t… screaming in pain it seems… okay — to leave her there?

She sets to work on the carcass: cutting the hooves off, starts to trace lines where she’ll skin it. There’s a rattle to the left, as the girl must’ve glanced and quickly looked back down. It’s then she finally has something to say.

“When I get out of these — I’m killing you,” she declares.

Kori huffs in bemusement. Perhaps a little admiration. “So what then, you don’t need my help with it? ‘Cos I feel a little demotivated when you’re mean to me like that,” she softly mocks, confident the girl’s stuck there flopping like a suffocating fish.

“Mean to—!?”

She shuts up and there’s a cold, considerate silence before the girl corrects herself with a simple—

“No.”

“No?”

She sounds like someone who’s never had that said back to her before. Daughter of at least a Duke. Kori tries to offer terms, waggles the knife towards the chains, “How ‘bout telling me how you got into all that? Maybe it’ll make me more sympathetic.”

“No.”

“Huh. Fine,” Kori mutters. Girl must’ve been a real belle-of-the-ball; a lure upon the hearts of every eligible groom in the realm. “Well… Whether you’re chained up or not, you need to eat. Are you hungry?” she asks.

The girl looks hard past the carcass at her. Her eyes are crackling snowflakes.

“Go—”

“Go fuck myself,” Kori finishes off for her; blade pointed up, its flat-side towards her. “Yeah, I get it.”

She can wait another hour, her conscience won’t hurt as bad as the girl’s arms will.

She hopes.

“Guess you can watch me then.”

Gives up for now at least, and starts to work the blade under the deer’s hide to skin it. The girl turns from it so forcefully she slips off her toes, and when Kori wanders over to stir the pot the deer’s bound for, she starts to shake the chains again, as if the hook’s going to loosen just because Kori isn’t looking.

She picks up a ladle and runs it through the for-now thin broth, working it till the smell permeates the modest cabin that’s barely the size of a palace privy.

“It’ll take a few more hours anyway,” she continues. “Maybe you’ll soften up with it.”

The girl is something at least when Kori extracts the deer’s guts — blade down its middle, spilling them into a wooden bucket. Feet off the floor; knees into her chest; she squeals and twists up at the wet slopping to her side. Kori can’t help herself but quip, “Seem a little squeamish for a girl covered in more than her own blood.”

Blood that Kori would’ve loved to bring a little washcloth to, wet with white snow warmed in a pot over the fire. If the bloody girl would let her.

“No? Anything?” she asks, when the girl won’t even huff back.

“They chose to get in my way,” the girl answers — to the question Kori didn’t realise she asked. She finishes through her teeth, “I had to.”

Kori hadn’t meant to pick at that particular, somewhat-dried-in-the-literal-sense scab, moreso was just amused at her possible-duchess getting squeamish over where all her fancy food has to come from.

Kori hunted for herself, and would’ve eaten it raw if she’d been allowed to. There’s a spring-bud of pride in Kori for how determined she was to be like that — never the delicate, fainting flower her mother would read to her about out of books, in some insidious attempt to instill the same ladylike decorum in her — but in her throat it blooms into guilt.

“And out here — I have to,” she jests with a duller edge.

She does have to. It’s not enough to forage, and the land’s too bitter to grow much more than a small patch of hardy tubers outwith the small peak of summer.

“No,” the girl retorts. “Move somewhere else.”

Kori sighs.

“Not as simple as that,” she doesn’t explain. “Really not as simple as that,” for more reasons than Kori is willing to admit to a stranger, especially a probably-noble one like her.

Her hand, the blade in it, falls low and loose to her hips, and it’s hard not to think of how many dozens and dozens of times she’s stood here, hooks loaded, not wanting to count how many times it’s been.

“I’m part of this place now,” she says. “And you’re not, and still need to explain that.”

The girl doesn’t explain anymore than she does.

---

There isn’t another word till it’s done.

Kori’s at least been allowed to prop a pillow under her without getting kicked. But internally she’s cursing how much scrubbing it’ll take to get the blood out of it later.

She pours out the full-bodied stew into a pair of bowls, and hears the soft clink of iron loops as her unintended captive must be trying to peer over Kori’s shoulder to see. Kori draws the table from the corner of the room to the middle, rolls the rug up to the bed, and places the bowls on either, not-very-apart ends.

Treading inside the potential range of humorously-impotent-if-still-painful violence, she asks, “You able to sit down and eat normally, or do I gotta feed you like a gosling?”

It flashes within Kori that she might not mind the labour of that, if she wasn’t sure some of it would get spat back at her. Or maybe the girl is actually too hungry to mind the humiliation of that, despite also still being displayed in miserable nakedness.

Fuck.

She’s still naked.

And silent.

And she doesn’t look pissed at this point. A bit defeated, perhaps, so Kori tries to spare her, “You don’t have to say yes, can just—”

She nods.

“Works for me.”

---

The girl takes to standing like a puppet-show doll of a foal on cut strings, and Kori has to bear an arm under her shoulder to make sure she doesn’t topple. The arm’s accepted till she’s sat down, where then Kori fetches the blanket to cover her and make her feel a little less out of place.

She doesn’t take to the bowl. Sniffs at it with an air of disgust, and Kori has to ask, “When’s the last time you ate—”

“Nine days,” the girl interrupts.

One of Kori’s favourite subjects to be mentored on was siege warfare — mostly for the giant weapons — and one of the lessons she, in hindsight thankfully, never got to put to use was about the defenders who’d manage to survive through brutal starvation but then kill themselves gorging on relief supplies. Their bodies unsuited to so much so soon.

“—an animal?” is what Kori meant.

“Oh,” the girl blurts. It’s the first time she’s said something not laced with indignation. “Never.”

“Never?” Kori gawks. “And here I’d pictured the brave little princess spitting out her first decree to make king daddy spare the spring lamb.”

Kori had asked to kill the lamb herself. Was the moment she realised hunting something grown was far more palatable, and so she relates more than she lets on.

“Not our way,” the girl says.

Something under her ruined, straw-coloured hair twitches.

At least in Kori’s head, where it clicks at last.

She rises from her chair, around the table, and brushes hair past the girl’s ear just as she’s starting to sip from the bowl. It takes longer than it would Kori to brush her own hair back, just long enough for a full, regal point to reveal itself as it shivers in irritation. 

Because she’s a fucking Elf.

Kori’s never known an Elf. Seen them once or twice, also in chains, because the kingdom she's from had always hated the one the Elf must be from, and had invaded it more than once — to a middling-to-nillish effect each time. Maybe it’s gotten worse. Not like news comes to Kori, and that’s more than on purpose. There’s the couple times a year she strays to the local coaching inn, and she never speaks to any but the faces she already knows.

The Elf’s spoon bashes against the table, and Kori sees her hand wrenched around it so hard her fingers have turned the colour of the outside right now.

Kori retreats — fast, “Sorry about that. Not a ‘visitor’ person. Forgetting myself—” 

“Consort.”

Kori gasps cluelessly.

“You said I was a princess,” the Elf explains. Oh, right. “Was a princess. Consort now.”

“Fuck.”

Kori knows what she means. Knows who she means, having grown up around a few of them. 

It’s a polite word for concubine. Some of them peasants who found some small measure of relief, even a happiness, in the comfort of it. And others—

“Yes. Fuck,” the… Princess, Kori supposes, continues. “Too old to be a hostage-ward; too far from first-born for hostage-marriage; still valuable enough to be sold off as trophy for some successive line of violent, uncultured, barely-civilized, filth-ridden warlords.”

The sullen spoils of war.

Where a Human might keep her place for years, a decade even, an Elf wouldn’t be discarded for centuries. Kori had dreamt of some miracle meaning she’d inherit them some day. Imagined taking care of them all, even after they’d left — if they wanted to. That, or she’d bust them out, lead them somewhere like… here.

Thinks-with-her-fists-Kori. Childish of her. Sweet-rotten with the guilt that she’d ever thought that would somehow make them think she was different, or Gods-forbid like her.

“Where were you going?” Kori dares to ask. “Or… I mean taking you.”

“The Vale of Orrik.”

Kori eats her shudder with a spoonful of deer, then shoves her spoon deep into the bowl and lets the thick broth soak up the tremors. To call it a vale is a humbling misnomer for what had long sprawled into empire. It was a noble history, of righteous conquest and divinely-sought expansion — as she was raised to believe.

Mostly noble. Even the most gilded, vaulted halls of Humans were a patch on a pauper’s shoe compared to the smallest of Elfs. Not that the Vale would admit it.

“And… the chains,” Kori inquires, “they didn’t just… do that. I hope?”

“Ran from the first caravan,” the Princess says. “Burnt the second to the ground.” Her survival in the bitter cold makes more sense; she’s tutored in magic. It’s fair then to assume the chains are limiting her, keeping her dull, and that it’s why she hasn’t burnt Kori’s cabin down too. “Chained for the third. Waited till dinner, grabbed the knife and ran.”

And a lot of people decided to get in your way.

“Good thing I made a stew,” Kori jokes at the Princess’ white-knuckled spoon, eager to break the grimy film of pity still on her words.

“Hmm. Yeah,” the Princess agrees, her stare enough to do it.

Kori tries to spoon some more stew down her, mulling on how to spill what she’s been thinking while the Princess has been clitter-clanking away with each tenuously-accepted spoonful of culturally-anathemic nutrition.

“Look. I do have an idea about how to get them off,” she says. “The chains.”

The Princess perks at that. Her stare comes with a straight smile this time, but the eyes are desperate now. “Hacksaw,” Kori elaborates. “But—” she stresses, before the Princess gets up and stops eating like she needs to, “it means going out to the shed and I can’t do that till the blizzard lightens on the morrow.”

The Princess sits still. Tongue and spoon included.

Kori opens her mouth and just has to make it a bit worse, “If it lightens.”

“Fine”, the Princess finally lets out, and puts her spoon back to work.

“Is there anyone out there still… I mean, I guess— hunting for you?” Kori asks. There’s the minor concern for her own safety but— pretty little thing needs her help, and Kori hasn’t done anything interesting in a long time.

Thinks-with-her-clit-Kori.

“No,” the Princess tells her. It’s a relief. “There’ll be more though.”

Ah.

“Well, blizzard isn’t gonna let them go anywhere either,” Kori appeals. “When you do get to leave, you’ll have a headstart.”

The Princess seems to grasp at the concept between quiet, restless mouthfuls.

“You’re gonna let me go?” she asks, like it wasn’t obvious hours ago. But maybe it’s not unfair of her to have the worst assumptions.

Kori feels sweet-rotten at the thought it could be otherwise.

“I didn’t want to keep you here,” Kori spells out, and it seems to click for the Princess too. “Just— promise me you won’t stab me, or burn my house to the ground?”

“Hmm,” the Princess grunts. “Works for me.”

---

(Masterpost) / (Next)

[meli-writes]

i know im not a real princess bc im too self-aware of the societal pressure to be a functioning adult to let my futch loyal knight call the hairdressers for me but i will ask them to hold my hand while i do it and pretend it's just a bit while secretly im actually totally into it and that should at least make me like the sexy, morally-dubious advisor

[meli-writes]

gus fring going "a dog who bites every owner [she's] had can only be disciplined with a firm hand. or, put down." in better call saul and all i can think about is the freaky little trans-mech-puppygirls on here who'd get wet if a gruff lesbian told them that.

[meli-writes]

i promise my girlfriend that i will stop using the term 'genderfluid' solely in the phrase 'pumping her genderfluid into me'

i promise my boyfriend that i will stop using the term 'genderfluid' solely in the phrase 'pumping his genderfluid into me'

i promise my girlfriend that i will--

[meli-writes]

features, not bugs

your rival takes on the same hit as you. merc board's had a software bug, but you're the only one who notices.

you wait till she's all set up: a cosy stakeout spot, lots of fancy tech to keep watch, a very well-stocked portable fridge, and mmm toys she'd never admit to you she has.

and when she goes out for one last smoke break? grab & bag her. she won't squeal too loud, far too professional to risk the job even now.

at least, not yet. but it'll be coming through a nice, tight gag. better not punish her too hard, in case someone hears. she'll get into it when she stops being so pissed off she's not got the upperhand for once (especially that it's you).

and now you've got the best stakeout you've ever seen -- all for free -- and with the prettiest, brattiest girl in town to keep you entertained while you wait for payday to show his poppable head.

maybe promise her a finder's fee, so she doesn't try sabotaging too badly.

[meli-writes]

So like another thing about the transgender mecha discourse is like... the mech can be a metaphor for empowerment and an extension of the customizable self, but specifically for transfemmes the metaphor also works in the other direction!

The mech is safe. And it is familiar, and you have gotten used to controlling it. You are told that your highest purpose is violence, but that's not true about you, though it might be true of the mech.

The mech is safe. It is many layers of cold steel and machinery between you and the world. When people see the mech, they see power and strength. But you will have to crawl out of it if you wish to be seen and known by your name, instead of your callsign*.

The mech is safe. It does not take courage to pilot - it takes courage to leave. Anonymous, stoic violence in a shell that is not your body vs the horrifying ordeal of crawling out of a numb pile of metal and hoping people will love the weird-looking girl who is a little unused to socializing. On account of all the mech-piloting.

Anyway if I was going to write transgender mecha fiction the robot would be the closet. War is hell, truth is life, get out of the fucking robot, girl, and live!

Other small things I would include in an anti-war transgender mecha story:

"Why did you stop being a mecha pilot? You were so good at it!"

Patriarchal military industrial complex discovers trans people are just better at using the weird neural mech piloting interface. This plays out as badly as you'd expect.

"cis" pilot who has an unusually high sync with the mecha and the veteran pilots who Definitely Know.

Nothing good ever happens as a result of mecha battles and the reader should start to feel anxious about which beloved character Isn't Going To Be The Same after this one.

This would of course be very difficult to pull off in a way that's like... as fundamentally entertaining as giant robot fights where the giant robot is a metaphor for personal agency and the power of the individual, where a very traumatized trans girl incinerates mecha hitler with a blue-and-pink laser beam she got from self-actualizing. I recognize that my version is harder to make and definitely not for everyone. But I think it should be made. Both should be made!

*historical note here about callsigns - in fiction people choose their own but in the military these are chosen for you by your unit - and if yours is cool it usually means that your unit thinks you're a dweeb. If you try to make people use a callsign you chose for yourself, there is no doubt at all about whether you are a dweeb. So for me a callsign is a terrible stand-in for a true name. Knowing this fact ruins movies, because every Cool Callsign Protagonist makes you think "Iceman? Oh, he definitely got caught masturbating in the walk-in freezer".