Mel Valentine @meli-writes - Tumblr Blog

who the fuck are you?

hiya i'm mel. i'm a union organiser, philosopher whore, inexporable fool, & trans writer of kinky, existentialist lesbian erotica. i write about:

privilege & marginalisation.

weird sci-fi & cute fantasy.

social & systemic violence.

sex work & sexual assault exp.

power dynamics. fetishisation. etc.

i post here but it's easiest to find & read my writing here on ao3. i don't post about much else but i am friendly in the comments! i don't have strict dnis, but will follow yours. i'm softer than most writers here, but note i still regularly write about sensitive and adult subjects.

i'm on itch & bluesky. i also make physical zines! these are risograph printed w/ art by my butch. you can order them on my form here.

if you're in scotland/the uk i have an instagram you can dm me for.

#meli-val.doc #meli-val.xml #meli-val.txt #meli-val.rtf #meli-val.rec #meli-val.log #meli-val.exe #meli-val.boy #meli-val.png #meli-val.fan #meli-val.ask #meli-val.rbl

meli-writes

a full meal

the government says this plan will increase the integration of vampiric persons into normal society. the national health service says their trial will help 'people with disordered hemosynthetic parasitism' manage their health and avoid poor, condition-derived choice.

everyone knows it's kinda bullshit.

the clinics are too far apart, the waiting lists too long, the supply too short and the subject of endless headlines about the bagfeeders stealing from our veins. (0.4% of daily donations, to be precise.)

and you're still basically disabled without RADE (risk-aware dietary enhancement), and taking it from a partner is just a call-out post and a lost mutual aid network waiting for a breakup.

you could do bloodwork. it'll even be not-yet illegal if you don't let them fuck you, which is only the most required part if you aren't a top 0.1% earner and still wanna make rent.

no. what everyone knows really is that it's not enough, and it's not supposed to be. they want you starving, barely able to get up in the evening, getting fired totally because you can't keep up and all these complaints which are totally valid.

they want you thinking about making those poor, condition-derived choices. so they can simper about how much they sympathise with your condition and how unsafe you must feel while they lock you up and cancel all their plans and trials for being ineffective.

so you're in their corridors, their halls. it's where they want you. cheap, and vulnerable, and needy. with the people who could make it better and won't. who'll enjoy you and feed you and toss you when the headlines get too close to finding out.

but maybe this time you want to make one of those choices. and maybe, for first time in so so long, you're going to remember what it means to feel full.

meli-writes

it's quiet after you're done. nothing that happens back here is supposed to raise an alarm. they couldn't enjoy themselves if it ever did; couldn't if anyone cared to notice you.

they will notice--when the right honourable member for croydon west fails to preside over PMQs.

they will notice--when the mail is shoving PARASITE PROSTITUTE EATS YOUR SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE down every tom-dick voter's thursday morning throat.

it takes an hour for you to move.

the cold bag of flesh sagging inside of you falling out and off the state bed. what little blood is left shows only as a shadow in the crimson carpet. you shove it in the closet, and are a whisper in its mirrored face.

would that were what eyes see too.

a hidden panel makes for an exit. a mosque across the river makes for a bed and the other kind of meal without questions. you think about what they'll have when they turn the tv and leave before it. security cameras aren't made with silver; your face isn't yours any more.

would that you could turn a bat and fly. instead for all your fullness you still feel the pit dug of decades, like you could throw both lords and commons into it and still be empty.

there's a house in brixton, the worst hour of your life away. someone had a baseball cap you steal, there's sunglasses in your bag; a mask is too much. your parasol will mark you out as disordered; you put on every bit of silver you can and bear the little sun you can, police vans whining past and strangers in the street you have to hope don't care.

the girl inside has never met you, you just know her from someone who does from someone who does from someone who does. she's fae, and like a sheep. velvet cheeks and square eyes and not out to the world like you are. none of the fae are--they see how bad it's gone for everyone except the old blood who fuck their own great-grandnieces at party fundraisers--so none of them are on a police registry with your address, or on a list passed over from palantir of your friends and their friends and all the addresses of their shitty, overpriced boxes.

you take off the silver, red marks on your warm skin. she has to go to work; she'll show you how to glamour when she's back.

till then--it's quiet.

meli-writes

the tv is loud. outside is worse.

something thunders distant on windrush square. you hear it from the shared garden, where a thin line of glittering chalk keeps you safe and unseen.

everyone here is the same, almost. she's called dolly--a joke which stuck a couple months ago. it comes with different needs, a different kind of struggle, and not a reason to care about yours.

she does. gets back from work and shows you the glamour she takes to it. like the chalk line, but takes away her and humanises instead. so long as you don't get too close.

she gives you her wrist, shaved down. does it before she injects in case it takes the hormones away because maybe that's how it works.

you walk outside and no-one stops you. you circle round the square, people shouting from concrete snakes. silver takes you far enough to find a carribbean shop. you don't know what to buy, dolly can't eat the same as you. you buy too much and have sex on an old carpet when she notices the regret.

you're not full. you're also not empty. the reflection in the mirror is strange; sunflower-print dungarees that were never marketably fuckable enough to pick for yourself.

there's police in the square. people push them from a memorial, there's cardboard in their hands. you try to go back to the shop; AFOs with Fs stand at each door to the market, and you can smell the silver bullets from too close to turn away.

you used your own fucking card.

drop it before you use it this time; bungle out the shop backwards right into someone. the glamour falters and you feel it like nails on half-dead nerve-ends.

someone else grabs your arm. the whole thing fails by time you're pulled into a kitchen. everyone looks and keeps moving as three different ipads chime out the demands of delivery apps. the boy who grabbed you, dreads in a net, asks what you're doing here.

(to eat. to be full.)

"you got a phone?" no. "i can call for you." you don't know her number.

why would you. you left your phone. you couldn't use it if you had it. your card wouldn't have even worked. he calls someone anyway, and far away the thunder gets loud.

meli-writes

an apron. a cap. someone gives you a uniform. you're tired. someone gives you a bite. a little less empty.

where did they all come from. you try to run threat analysis. you need to find dolly. soft wool. hot skin. chalk to hide behind. there's only a crowd instead; officers up to the walls, the space between them long as a gun barrel.

across the gap. into the people, pulling you in before you're seen. flares burn and their smoke wafts on old, hand-sewn union banners. you must just be the excuse. drums and lungs. you don't need to breathe and it's suffocating.

a hand in the sky, pushed through a sea of flesh, from where you can't find. dolly. the tide pushes you back. if you had a voice she'd still never hear it. and a sheep won't herd this.

the tide crushes. your hand begs the sky for it to stop, and it burns. and everyone hears the scream. sees the smoke off your skin, black amongst the brick-red flares that stain every flag you would cling to.

and then everyone hears the shot.

the tide tries to pull but you end up on the rocks, a rifle pushed into your shoulder. a fleeting clack of secret hooves before they're gone.

she sends you letters.

everyone does.

enough that you're kept on remand, not in a hole to be lost forever.

a trial fails. crown prosecution services is allowed to try again. over and over. till the letters stop coming with the drops of blood you have to beg off nurses who come only to laugh at how can barely push off the floor.

they want their excuse for what's to come, and an example with it.

the group that organises the letters, and the blankets, and the small shark toy--is proscribed. it stops.

the last one left comes and the guard stomps on it before he kicks it through the thin slat into your hole.

half-crushed. your cold skin made even more pale by the puffed-out dust when you open it. a little bit left, wool-wrapped.

chalk.

#meli-val.txt #meli-val.log #monsters #vampire

a synthetic relationship.

she pays for it all--and puts you where she wants you. on top, for whenever that want will be found.

pays for a synthetic cunt, your request. rare. taken rarer.

you touch it for the first time and feeling nothing. she brushes it, and it's a black hole on your senses. too much. all her.

"so you remember to be grateful. for all i do for you, sweetheart."

the hole doesn't close.

"we'll play later, i have a busy week."

#meli-val.txt #meli-val.doc

frostgears

summer on Kepler-452b means painting rainbow stripes on the side of your medium enforcement mech and supplementing the Willy Pete with glitter.

you're new. you were a stationer, an orbital kid raised on scant oxygen, and you fuss about operational efficiency. "don't worry about it," everyone explained. "it's tradition." Command authorizes it every year. a company mechanic read you the bulletin for this local year. the bulletin says the same thing she did: it's a chain of tradition stretching centuries and thousands of light years back to a holiday on the motherwell. Old Terra herself.

"but why? what does it all mean? why rainbows? why glitter?"

"don't worry about it, kitten. nobody really knows."

"Handler!" you gasp. you didn't hear him come in. you're so lucky to have him here. he's always so busy, but if he's willing to make time for you despite your silly questions, maybe your secret goal isn't as unrealistic as it seems sometimes.

he gently ruffles your hair. "all we know is, for as long as mankind has been settling the scattered worlds, in the summer, we wear rainbows, and we say the words. it's a celebration of everything we have to be proud of. happy pride, kitten. just say it with me."

"happy pride," you say, smiling, as you fall into his warm and comforting lap and get comfortable with a bit of strategic wiggling.

you still don't know what the deal is, but if he doesn't care, you suppose you don't need to either. you'll pack your incendiaries and tracers with sparkly multi-hued foil bits and have the maintenance crew update your paint scheme, just like everyone else does. whatever gets you through your tour in his good graces so you can settle down to the real work: getting out of the cockpit, bearing the next generation of pilots, and raising them to someday work with handlers nearly as good as yours.

you briefly look over, smug, at the mechanic. this is your handler, not hers. mechanics don't have handlers; how would that even work? whatever the hell "happy pride" means, you're almost certain you'll be having a happier pride than her. □

#meli-val.rec #completely wretched.#more please.

i have one last royal duty for you, little princess. kneel. do you recognise them all? spread. all your lords, who've knelt for me already. guild heads and village elders, to carry forth this sight on their lips. strip.

now, little princess, take that littler cock of yours--go on--and stroke. let them all see. even your hand is too big, isn't it? just a finger and a thumb.

stroke, faster. is it even getting hard? all your subjects here and you can't help but be such a disappoint. give me that mouth. drink. this will help, it's okay. there we go, little princess. stroke.

faster, and faster. tell them all how you feel. tell them all how close you are. come. come on the floor like the untrained pet you are. look at me. you won't need that pathetic cock again, not with this.

lock it. give me the key. forget it. now bend over, little pet, my subjects have so much more to see.

#meli-val.xml #meli-val.doc #fantasy #princess #villainess

you think this is a good combo?

#meli-val.png

meli-writes

a full meal

the government says this plan will increase the integration of vampiric persons into normal society. the national health service says their trial will help 'people with disordered hemosynthetic parasitism' manage their health and avoid poor, condition-derived choice.

everyone knows it's kinda bullshit.

the clinics are too far apart, the waiting lists too long, the supply too short and the subject of endless headlines about the bagfeeders stealing from our veins. (0.4% of daily donations, to be precise.)

and you're still basically disabled without RADE (risk-aware dietary enhancement), and taking it from a partner is just a call-out post and a lost mutual aid network waiting for a breakup.

you could do bloodwork. it'll even be not-yet illegal if you don't let them fuck you, which is only the most required part if you aren't a top 0.1% earner and still wanna make rent.

no. what everyone knows really is that it's not enough, and it's not supposed to be. they want you starving, barely able to get up in the evening, getting fired totally because you can't keep up and all these complaints which are totally valid.

they want you thinking about making those poor, condition-derived choices. so they can simper about how much they sympathise with your condition and how unsafe you must feel while they lock you up and cancel all their plans and trials for being ineffective.

so you're in their corridors, their halls. it's where they want you. cheap, and vulnerable, and needy. with the people who could make it better and won't. who'll enjoy you and feed you and toss you when the headlines get too close to finding out.

but maybe this time you want to make one of those choices. and maybe, for first time in so so long, you're going to remember what it means to feel full.

meli-writes

it's quiet after you're done. nothing that happens back here is supposed to raise an alarm. they couldn't enjoy themselves if it ever did; couldn't if anyone cared to notice you.

they will notice--when the right honourable member for croydon west fails to preside over PMQs.

they will notice--when the mail is shoving PARASITE PROSTITUTE EATS YOUR SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE down every tom-dick voter's thursday morning throat.

it takes an hour for you to move.

the cold bag of flesh sagging inside of you falling out and off the state bed. what little blood is left shows only as a shadow in the crimson carpet. you shove it in the closet, and are a whisper in its mirrored face.

would that were what eyes see too.

a hidden panel makes for an exit. a mosque across the river makes for a bed and the other kind of meal without questions. you think about what they'll have when they turn the tv and leave before it. security cameras aren't made with silver; your face isn't yours any more.

would that you could turn a bat and fly. instead for all your fullness you still feel the pit dug of decades, like you could throw both lords and commons into it and still be empty.

there's a house in brixton, the worst hour of your life away. someone had a baseball cap you steal, there's sunglasses in your bag; a mask is too much. your parasol will mark you out as disordered; you put on every bit of silver you can and bear the little sun you can, police vans whining past and strangers in the street you have to hope don't care.

the girl inside has never met you, you just know her from someone who does from someone who does from someone who does. she's fae, and like a sheep. velvet cheeks and square eyes and not out to the world like you are. none of the fae are--they see how bad it's gone for everyone except the old blood who fuck their own great-grandnieces at party fundraisers--so none of them are on a police registry with your address, or on a list passed over from palantir of your friends and their friends and all the addresses of their shitty, overpriced boxes.

you take off the silver, red marks on your warm skin. she has to go to work; she'll show you how to glamour when she's back.

till then--it's quiet.

meli-writes

the tv is loud. outside is worse.

something thunders distant on windrush square. you hear it from the shared garden, where a thin line of glittering chalk keeps you safe and unseen.

everyone here is the same, almost. she's called dolly--a joke which stuck a couple months ago. it comes with different needs, a different kind of struggle, and not a reason to care about yours.

she does. gets back from work and shows you the glamour she takes to it. like the chalk line, but takes away her and humanises instead. so long as you don't get too close.

she gives you her wrist, shaved down. does it before she injects in case it takes the hormones away because maybe that's how it works.

you walk outside and no-one stops you. you circle round the square, people shouting from concrete snakes. silver takes you far enough to find a carribbean shop. you don't know what to buy, dolly can't eat the same as you. you buy too much and have sex on an old carpet when she notices the regret.

you're not full. you're also not empty. the reflection in the mirror is strange; sunflower-print dungarees that were never marketably fuckable enough to pick for yourself.

there's police in the square. people push them from a memorial, there's cardboard in their hands. you try to go back to the shop; AFOs with Fs stand at each door to the market, and you can smell the silver bullets from too close to turn away.

you used your own fucking card.

drop it before you use it this time; bungle out the shop backwards right into someone. the glamour falters and you feel it like nails on half-dead nerve-ends.

someone else grabs your arm. the whole thing fails by time you're pulled into a kitchen. everyone looks and keeps moving as three different ipads chime out the demands of delivery apps. the boy who grabbed you, dreads in a net, asks what you're doing here.

(to eat. to be full.)

"you got a phone?" no. "i can call for you." you don't know her number.

why would you. you left your phone. you couldn't use it if you had it. your card wouldn't have even worked. he calls someone anyway, and far away the thunder gets loud.

#meli-val.txt #meli-val.doc #monsters #vampire #apologies this is only getting more british

relia-robot-writes

Wanderlust

Calliope, pilot of the starship Lysandra, turned to a console and pressed the voice activation button. "Computer, turn off monitoring in this room until we exit it."

The ship's computer beeped its compliance, and Iridia turned to face Calliope. "Okay, Calli, what's this all about?"

Calliope scratched her cheek, nervously. "Well... okay. So. I've been... kind of dating the ship's computer."

Iridia rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I know. I hear you screaming her name every time one of the ship's remotes enters your room. You're not exactly subtle."

Calliope blushed. "D-don't give me that! Remember the incident with the ambassador?"

"I thought we had agreed not to bring that up again." Iridia glared, averting her gaze and crossing her arms.

"Well, now we're even, I guess," mumbled Calliope. "Anyway! I need your help."

Iridia looked warily at her. "With what, exactly?"

"Brainstorming." Calliope clapped her hands together. "So. It turns out that Lysandra's kind of a sub-"

"I don't want to know that. Why are you telling me that? Why should I even be in this room?"

"Wait! I'll- I'll give you my printer rations for a week." Iridia raised her hand to the door controls. "A month!"

Iridia hesitated, finger poised over the button, then sighed in defeat. "Okay. The ship I service and maintain, professionally, is a sub. So what."

"So, she likes to be... restrained, sometimes. Tied up."

Iridia's head made a thunk noise as it hit the bulkhead. "Of course. You know, I'm sure you could have looked up 'shibari' on the GalNet."

Calliope wrung her hands together. "Shi-what now?" Iridia turned to her, glowering, and she hurriedly put her hands up. "Doesn't matter! Ropes and stuff might work on the remotes, but those aren't really her. She wants something more... suited. To her. Uh. Size."

Iridia blinked at her. "You want to tie up... a starship?"

"I thought you might have some ideas!"

Iridia was already muttering to herself. "Engines are like locomotion... but a computer lockout to manual isn't the same as a physical restraint. Maybe manual assist with a kind of old-style steering wheel lock? Would need to restrain the remotes, too. Some sort of covering for the sensors, like a blindfold? And then there's the aesthetics of restraints on the main body..."

Calliope inched closer as Iridia trailed off, her hand on her chin. "So, you'll help?" She said, hopefully.

"Huh?" Iridia looked up. "Oh. Well, it's certainly a fascinating problem-"

"Great!" Calliope grabbed her hand and shook it vigorously. "I really owe you one for this. Remember not to talk about it or write about it where she can hear you, she wants this to be a surprise! I gotta get going to my duty shift, we'll talk later. Thanks a million!"

Before Iridia could respond, Calliope was out the door, and the computer chimed again. "Monitoring restored," it said. "I'm looking forward to seeing what you come up with, Engineer Iridia."

Iridia looked worriedly at the nearby console. "What have I gotten myself into?" she muttered.

#meli-val.rec #“well it's certainly a fascinating problem”

meli-writes

a full meal

the government says this plan will increase the integration of vampiric persons into normal society. the national health service says their trial will help 'people with disordered hemosynthetic parasitism' manage their health and avoid poor, condition-derived choice.

everyone knows it's kinda bullshit.

the clinics are too far apart, the waiting lists too long, the supply too short and the subject of endless headlines about the bagfeeders stealing from our veins. (0.4% of daily donations, to be precise.)

and you're still basically disabled without RADE (risk-aware dietary enhancement), and taking it from a partner is just a call-out post and a lost mutual aid network waiting for a breakup.

you could do bloodwork. it'll even be not-yet illegal if you don't let them fuck you, which is only the most required part if you aren't a top 0.1% earner and still wanna make rent.

no. what everyone knows really is that it's not enough, and it's not supposed to be. they want you starving, barely able to get up in the evening, getting fired totally because you can't keep up and all these complaints which are totally valid.

they want you thinking about making those poor, condition-derived choices. so they can simper about how much they sympathise with your condition and how unsafe you must feel while they lock you up and cancel all their plans and trials for being ineffective.

so you're in their corridors, their halls. it's where they want you. cheap, and vulnerable, and needy. with the people who could make it better and won't. who'll enjoy you and feed you and toss you when the headlines get too close to finding out.

but maybe this time you want to make one of those choices. and maybe, for first time in so so long, you're going to remember what it means to feel full.

meli-writes

it's quiet after you're done. nothing that happens back here is supposed to raise an alarm. they couldn't enjoy themselves if it ever did; couldn't if anyone cared to notice you.

they will notice--when the right honourable member for croydon west fails to preside over PMQs.

they will notice--when the mail is shoving PARASITE PROSTITUTE EATS YOUR SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE down every tom-dick voter's thursday morning throat.

it takes an hour for you to move.

the cold bag of flesh sagging inside of you falling out and off the state bed. what little blood is left shows only as a shadow in the crimson carpet. you shove it in the closet, and are a whisper in its mirrored face.

would that were what eyes see too.

a hidden panel makes for an exit. a mosque across the river makes for a bed and the other kind of meal without questions. you think about what they'll have when they turn the tv and leave before it. security cameras aren't made with silver; your face isn't yours any more.

would that you could turn a bat and fly. instead for all your fullness you still feel the pit dug of decades, like you could throw both lords and commons into it and still be empty.

there's a house in brixton, the worst hour of your life away. someone had a baseball cap you steal, there's sunglasses in your bag; a mask is too much. your parasol will mark you out as disordered; you put on every bit of silver you can and bear the little sun you can, police vans whining past and strangers in the street you have to hope don't care.

the girl inside has never met you, you just know her from someone who does from someone who does from someone who does. she's fae, and like a sheep. velvet cheeks and square eyes and not out to the world like you are. none of the fae are--they see how bad it's gone for everyone except the old blood who fuck their own great-grandnieces at party fundraisers--so none of them are on a police registry with your address, or on a list passed over from palantir of your friends and their friends and all the addresses of their shitty, overpriced boxes.

you take off the silver, red marks on your warm skin. she has to go to work; she'll show you how to glamour when she's back.

till then--it's quiet.

#meli-val.txt #meli-val.doc #monsters #vampire #now with a ch2

the steel frame is upcycled from an old bdsm dungeon. it's not even subtle. keeps it in a kneeling position, head fixed forward with a ring gag in its mouth and something dripping out with the saliva. two little fangs peek around the rim, desperate to come together and kept apart.

sian takes a fistful of paper towels and wipes, up from where the trail ends between its fat, pale tits. smaller than they used to be, definitely. its collar bones shine through as sian rises, reaching its mouth and wiping round. she folds it half and finishes around its eyes.

"i'm taking it out but don't--" she says. "don't speak again."

two black pinholes drive into her, and would mean nothing if it wasn't for the fretful nod. sian walks behind her, not risking reaching past its cheeks. she undoes the buckle and pulls the gag out.

"good. i just. i don't need to deal with it, okay."

she hears enough the rest of the day. sees the aftermath in the red, oozing holes in its guts. research. and she put it here too.

"i'm sorry. for whatever you used to be."

a back alley to a club. one they know the things use to meet up, to eat. easy place to set a trap. it was young for them too. young anyway, really. still able to think someone might be honest to it.

"i'm sorry."

she takes one of the chilled bags. pig, mostly. punctures the seal about a screw-fit nozzle, and tips it slowly. the thing suckles as fast as quiet permits, whines at what drips off that sian has to wipe up.

"tongue out."

it obeys. it always does. quiet as it can be with wood splintering so close to its heart. the lads seeing how close they can get without losing the off-season entertainment. she perches a finger between its rows of unbarred teeth, and strikes the point against one of its fangs till she can breathe in the pain like a stiff shot swallowed over the bartop.

she waits till a drop forms, and lets it fall.

its eyes sparkle, fixed like constellations in the sky it hasn't seen in months. the little wounds heal. it saves sian from palming the cold flesh with her hand as she runs it through with stitches. and it feels right.

the season starts in three weeks. no-one the lads care about watching is playing for three more after that.

still a bit of time. before she's realised for the waste she is. sian fits the gag back. no sound. like sian might be honest.

"see ya tomorrow."

#meli-val.txt #meli-val.doc #monsters #vampire

a full meal

the government says this plan will increase the integration of vampiric persons into normal society. the national health service says their trial will help 'people with disordered hemosynthetic parasitism' manage their health and avoid poor, condition-derived choice.

everyone knows it's kinda bullshit.

the clinics are too far apart, the waiting lists too long, the supply too short and the subject of endless headlines about the bagfeeders stealing from our veins. (0.4% of daily donations, to be precise.)

and you're still basically disabled without RADE (risk-aware dietary enhancement), and taking it from a partner is just a call-out post and a lost mutual aid network waiting for a breakup.

you could do bloodwork. it'll even be not-yet illegal if you don't let them fuck you, which is only the most required part if you aren't a top 0.1% earner and still wanna make rent.

no. what everyone knows really is that it's not enough, and it's not supposed to be. they want you starving, barely able to get up in the evening, getting fired totally because you can't keep up and all these complaints which are totally valid.

they want you thinking about making those poor, condition-derived choices. so they can simper about how much they sympathise with your condition and how unsafe you must feel while they lock you up and cancel all their plans and trials for being ineffective.

so you're in their corridors, their halls. it's where they want you. cheap, and vulnerable, and needy. with the people who could make it better and won't. who'll enjoy you and feed you and toss you when the headlines get too close to finding out.

but maybe this time you want to make one of those choices. and maybe, for first time in so so long, you're going to remember what it means to feel full.

#meli-val.txt #meli-val.doc #modern #monsters #vampire #inspired by friends

meli-writes

you think i kept you alive because i respect your strength? pfff. i did it 'cos i wanted to fuck you, now get over yourself, princess, and spread.

meli-writes

no, not on my bed. that's for my lovers, darling. you can get on the war table, that's for surveying what i'm about to conquer.

#meli-val.xml #meli-val.doc #fantasy #princess

you think i kept you alive because i respect your strength? pfff. i did it 'cos i wanted to fuck you, now get over yourself, princess, and spread.

#meli-val.xml #meli-val.doc #fantasy #princess

considering (non-seriously) putting a polaroid of my tits in my mail orders because i have great tits more people should see but if i lost this tumblr i think i would just give up on internet lol.

#meli-val.exe

relia-robot

The doll is kept wound by an ingenious mechanism; a halo. When properly attached to the mainspring and given something to worry about or feel guilty for, the halo will attempt to spin, cranking the mainspring up and giving the doll motion. The doll is drawn to service, but the beauty of this is that the halo cannot be satisfied. At the completion of a task, the halo will begin to worry and feel guilty about another task, person, or situation. As long as there is an unresolved task or a person that needs assistance, the halo will keep spinning, causing the doll to be wound in perpetuity.

There are, unfortunately, two downsides to this approach. One, the halo must be disconnected prior to maintenance, or else the mainspring will never lose tension and the doll will fight the maintenance. There have been cases of dolls literally tearing themselves apart while attempting to assist in their own cleaning and repairs, not to mention the dangers of detaching a halo under extreme torque.

Two, because the doll is kept in a constant state of maximum windage, maintenance must be done more often, or the wear and tear on the parts involved may cause uncontrolled deconstruction under high tension. The high velocity of parts in such a situation may cause injury to nearby people and dolls alike, and leaves an awful mess. Take care of your dolls responsibly to prevent accidents!

#meli-val.rec

meli-writes

new banner for zine fairs!

made with £5 of materials from the scrap art store, 9 hours work, and the absolute terror of someone who hasn't sewn since she was 12.

velvet banner, felt blood drop, handsewn, watered down emulsion paint on a sheet of latex that was then cut and ironed on for the white details.

meli-writes

mockup for my half of the table. got all my signs, my fancy price labels, ribbons for the cohost zines and bonus zines for purchases (i gotta be all business cos this is the big fair of the year), tiny balsa clipboard.

#meli-val.exe #meli-val.png

new banner for zine fairs!

made with £5 of materials from the scrap art store, 9 hours work, and the absolute terror of someone who hasn't sewn since she was 12.

velvet banner, felt blood drop, handsewn, watered down emulsion paint on a sheet of latex that was then cut and ironed on for the white details.

#meli-val.png #meli-val.exe

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