"hot cocktail of damaged sadgirls and fever-dream prose"
• • •
freelancer, union organiser, & writer of kinky, existentialist lesbian erotica (18+). philosopher whore. inexplorable fool. not that cool.
• • •
90% stories. 10% my butch. 0-1% etc. bio pinned.
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.
my writing tags are:
meli-val.doc : all my writing
meli-val.rtf : full stories
meli-val.txt : snippets
meli-val.xml : concepts
meli-val.rec : other people
full stories and snippets are on my ao3 above. concepts usually aren't.
stories also have genre-based tags like #scifi or #fantasy, and additional tags like #vampire or #princess for frequent archetypes. older stories have buttons to navigate, newer ones have tags.
my other tags are:
meli-val.log : cool posts
meli-val.exe : life stuff
meli-val.boy : my butch
meli-val.png : pictures
meli-val.fan : fandom
meli-val.ask : questions
meli-val.rbl : self-reblogging
tags are there for you to navigate or curate me. i usually avoid general tags. don't be afraid to block if you don't want to see me.
i used to have an index of stories here but have stopped using it.
(technically the inverse but) just gonna leave this little thing from my friend otter here:
“There we go,” Cat says, and scoops Ffion’s head out of her tits in both hands, like she’s cradling something precious, and puts it down with a ceremonious flourish, like some vestigial butler employed by a monarchy specifically to put a particular crown on a particular cushion twice a year As Is Tradition. Ffion settles into the pillow, with a suddenly much better view of her body on the bed, and of Catriona’s poised over it. “How’s the cuck cushion, dearest?”
“Noooo,” Ffion wails brokenly. “You can’t just say something like that—”
“Poor little cuck,” Cat coos, and pinches one of Ffion’s nipples, obliterating whatever protest she was going to make in a shivery whine. “You want to watch from over there while I fuck this helpless tied-up hottie in front of you? You like that?”
(unlikely to apply to you, reading this but) asking people to please stop using watsonian arguments to disagree about the interpretation of a character.
i.e, Vi isn't butch, because that word has specific mean and history that doesn't exist in Arcane/Runeterra.
the argument is correct* but only on a textual level. in this example, it's the specificity of the word that makes it vulnerable to the argument but in truth this argument can be applied to all language.
like not to be a bitch, but all words we have are constructed and unless your world has exactly the same history as ours then from a watsonian perspective any language that matches ours is questionable.
unless. because this is the thing people forget, that subtext is as truthful about the story as the text. but unlike the literalism* of text it requires an interpretation rooted in the real world to understand it.
and what it means is accepting that a story's text is, functionally, a translation.
Tolkein was a lil' freak about this at scale, but his "meat's back on the menu, boys" is the example we need and famous too. do orcs have restaurants? no, but what we're engaging with is a translation. and if i am a pretentious fucking bitch this is, functionally, what everything being said in every story is. even a non-secondary world, contemporary story is a translation because of being dramatised.
also remember those *s? yeah no this means not even the text is literal. to borrow an observation, stories are not documentaries. text still requires interpretation to understand like subtext, it's just engaging in all this translation so you don't have to do as much work.
so please make arguments about characters that exist in dialogue with the real world, and stop trying to be objective. (again this probably does not apply to you, love y'all.)
remember that canon is a tool of marketing, not literacy. don't use the authority of a corporation to add legitimacy to your argument, back it up with reasoning based on the story instead.
(unlikely to apply to you, reading this but) asking people to please stop using watsonian arguments to disagree about the interpretation of a character.
i.e, Vi isn't butch, because that word has specific mean and history that doesn't exist in Arcane/Runeterra.
the argument is correct* but only on a textual level. in this example, it's the specificity of the word that makes it vulnerable to the argument but in truth this argument can be applied to all language.
like not to be a bitch, but all words we have are constructed and unless your world has exactly the same history as ours then from a watsonian perspective any language that matches ours is questionable.
unless. because this is the thing people forget, that subtext is as truthful about the story as the text. but unlike the literalism* of text it requires an interpretation rooted in the real world to understand it.
and what it means is accepting that a story's text is, functionally, a translation.
Tolkein was a lil' freak about this at scale, but his "meat's back on the menu, boys" is the example we need and famous too. do orcs have restaurants? no, but what we're engaging with is a translation. and if i am a pretentious fucking bitch this is, functionally, what everything being said in every story is. even a non-secondary world, contemporary story is a translation because of being dramatised.
also remember those *s? yeah no this means not even the text is literal. to borrow an observation, stories are not documentaries. text still requires interpretation to understand like subtext, it's just engaging in all this translation so you don't have to do as much work.
so please make arguments about characters that exist in dialogue with the real world, and stop trying to be objective. (again this probably does not apply to you, love y'all.)
She stood nervously at the street corner, trying to fan herself against the heat while keeping her wings close, tight against the world. Her halo lit up the dingy street corner, but the smog in the air reflected the light right back at her, illuminating her in the otherwise dark red atmosphere. She reached into a hip pouch and pulled out a map, nervously mulling it over as it spilled out in impossible directions.
"Hey girlie," said a sultry voice from behind her. She jumped, her wings half-extended for flight, before turning around to see a slim red-skinned succubus smirking at her. "You lost?"
"Oh, Thank Him," said the angel, making the succubus wince. "Sorry. Yes, I'm Incredibly Lost. I Was Supposed To Meet Someone Here, But I'm Not Even Certain I'm On The Right Corner..."
The succubus regained her composure, moving closer to the angel. "Let me see that map," she purred, slipping around the angel's wing to press against her side. The angel blushed as the succubus's bare flesh pressed into her robes. "Oh, you poor dear, you're all the way across town. I'm afraid you're going to be late to meet your friend." She turned to face the angel directly, causing her to back up. "But I know some other people you could meet. Friends of mine, that could make you feel good."
The angel continued backing up as the succubus advanced, until her wings hit the soot-blackened wall behind her. "N-No, No, That's Quite Alright, I Really Must Be Going, But You're Lovely- I Mean, I'm Sure Your Friends Are Lovely- Not That You Aren't, Miss, Just-"
"Shhh," said the succubus, putting a finger to the angel's lip. "I know what you mean. And I know what you need." She licked her lips as she placed her knee in between the angel's legs. The angel raised her hand to protest, and found it pinned to the wall by the succubus's fingers. Her long tongue wormed its way into the angel's open mouth, who couldn't fully repress a small moan. She bit into the angel's lip, sharp fangs drawing forth fluid that dribbled down the angel's chin.
The succubus blinked, and pulled back. The liquid running down the angel's lip was pitch black, an oily iridescent sheen on the surface. She tried to pull away, but found her wrist and the angel's caught together in some invisible wire.
The angel's halo flickered like a fluorescent lamp, then went out, leaving a mechanical-looking ring floating over her head. "Sorry, Miss," she said. "But Someone Upstairs Has Need Of You."
Before the succubus could react, the mimic grabbed her by the waist and both of them were yanked metaphysically upwards.
An azure wave laps at the unrated sloop; a cutter-shaped, doubly-masted lady whomst fucks the wind and anyone she steers herself roughly and closely against. Those who dared be bigger—which is, near enough, all of them—put into place with a fourteen-gun broadside, whilst she ducks neatly under their own.
Sophie would swear she was firing now, if not for the quiet and pleasant wad rammed into the sinewed barrel of her neck-crook—in an increasingly, dreadfully, familiar manner; runs a hand over whip-bruised arms and the rear-bound wrists of her, evidently captive, guest.
“Godscocker— Lotte?” sputters Sophie, throat pickled in the salt-sodden air.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/59364304
(a reminder of what i wrote for my butch 3 days after meeting her, inspired by her telling me about a time she woke up with only half-on trousers, having tried to get em off to get off after a night out before falling asleep.)
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He walks up to the man, hanging from the ceiling, whimpering. Makes a brief motion to Big Tony, beside the winch, and the man is lowered. Not enough to let his feet touch the ground, but enough to let the iron weights attached to them clang against the floor.
"Now," says the capo, "I wasn't there to witness your little outburst. I was sitting up front, like a dutiful father should, witnessing my beloved daughter on the happiest day of her life." He takes a puff on his cigar, slow, and then lets out a breath, the smoke cloying in the enclosed space. "She was beautiful, walking down the aisle. Radiant, even. An occasion of pure joy." He gestures with the cigar to the trussed-up man, who flinches, his bare chest already covered in burn marks. "But, you know, a little bird told me something about you. Said some pretty nasty things, actually. Said you were being disrespectful to my daughter."
The man babbles, a bit, something about I would never and please I didn't mean it.
The capo, for his part, nods to another goon behind the man, and his free-flowing stream of pleading is dammed behind a scream of agony.
"Now, I know you're not questioning the integrity of my men by insisting they were wrong," says the capo. "You wouldn't do that, on top of everything else. So, you disrespected her. Thankfully, my men here removed you before she could hear what had happened. And now I have to decide what to do with you."
He takes another deep puff of his cigar, gazing through the man, drawing out the moment. Sweat and blood drip from the man through the grates on the floor.
"My daughter," the capo decides, "is not a violent woman. She's never agreed with some of the ways I do business. All of this," and he gestures briefly with the cigar, the other hand in his pocket, somehow encompassing the goons, the warehouse, the blood-spattered instruments, the weights, and the chains, all in one small motion, "she wouldn't wish on her worst enemy. She's too pure a soul for the kind of business I'm in. And I have to respect those wishes, on this of all days."
He nods to Big Tony, and the man drops heavily to the floor, chains crashing into his arms and back. He whimpers half-apologies and half-thanks, more prayers to a vengeful God than any real words. But when he looks up, the capo is handing his jacket off to another goon, and loosening his tie.
"See, now, the problem is, when you disrespected her, you also disrespected me. Respect is what this whole town runs on. I can't let it be known that I simply let someone disrespect me and walk away." He accepts an iron poker from Big Tony, the end glowing white. Tests the weight of it in his hand. "So. I will dirty my own hands. I've got plenty of blood on them already, someone like you won't make a difference either way. And, in deference to my daughter, I'll let you go. After," he points the poker down at the man's face, and the room fills with the smell of burning hair, "we've made sure you're very clear on the subject of who my daughter is. And then there won't be any more mistakes like this again. Tony?"
The man's vision goes dark as a black hood is forced over his head, and the warehouse fills with screams.
"If you could just tell us," she pushed onward, in that same put-upon affect, "where the-"
"No."
This had been going on for nearly three hours now. No threats, no beatings, no third degree. Just this one stupid teenager wearing the rebels' stupid insignia asking the same stupid question over, and over, and over again.
"I know it's unpleasant, being held here, and you've probably got orders about not giving up information..." she hesitated, again, as if she was thinking about saying something different this time. Before continuing anyway: "but if you could just tell us-"
"No." For the first hour, you assumed this whole 'awkward new recruit' bit was just a show she was putting on. You'd expected any minute for the door to open and the Bad Cop to bust in and start breaking fingers.
But after a full afternoon of nothing but this, you were starting to get fooled into believing it. You were certainly doubting whether you'd get tired of endlessly repeating the same one-syllable word before she got tired of her whole... thing.
"Please, we just need to know where-"
"No."
Officer Intelligence Training had prepared you for a lot of things – pain, isolation, starvation, collective punishment – but it had not prepared you for whatever bizarre psychological manipulation this was supposed to be.
"If you could just-! Ugh!" Suddenly, your interrogator flailed her hands in frustration, the first crack in the facade in three full hours.
Finally, you thought. You were almost glad to be getting to the physical portion of the process after all that.
"Ugh. Fine. Listen." She leaned on the table, head in hands, shoulders slumping in defeat. "We don't do torture. We don't allow it. It's reprehensible, unacceptable, counter to the entire cause. And it doesn't even work!"
"I was hoping," she continued, "that we could find some other solution. That maybe a different approach might work out better." She sits up to slump back in her chair, apparently giving up. "That we wouldn't have to resort to using the tyrant's tools against it. But we need that intel tonight."
She stood up from the table, no longer willing to meet your eyes. You stayed silent, caught off guard by the jarring shift from ineffectual doormat, to tired and frustrated, to jaded, shameful practicality. Your interrogator opened the door and shouted down the hall. A few moments later, another rebel walked in, wheeling on a cart behind them a... well you could really only describe it as a device.
"I'm sorry, Jennet. I know you really wanted it to work out." The new arrival sounded sympathetic, but also a little smug at being right.
"I told you to stop calling me that. Let's just get it done," said your interrogator, making determined eye contact with the floor.
"All right then." The other rebel parked the cart next to your chair and lifted up a silvery dome from the device on it. They lowered it over your head, muffling sound and blocking sight, until you felt a switch flipped on the back of–
rebel who's had her fingers stuck in the mouth of the mech pilot she's captured for hours, because the hound is conditioned to bite down on the cyanide capsule in its tooth but not on a handler. so now it's just mumbling softly around the impromptu gag, while they both wait for someone to come sedate it.
a trouble with being so used to conditional love, is the guilt felt when it's finally given unconditionally. the expectation that a cost is still incurred, and an anxiety about when it too must be paid.
Karrot can't sleep 1-2 is live now on Kickstarter!!! Queer coming of age comic about being the worst kind of person... An art student. There's also monsters and vampires. You'll love it.
A Queer coming of age comic about being the worst kind of person... An art student. There's also monsters and vampires. You'll love it.
Dear readers, as you may know, it is hot as balls. I'm currently looking at extreme heat warnings as far out as the weather announces them, and probably another week of them after that. It's rough.
To that end I'm trying to gather money for an AC unit, which is going to be in the ballpark of 300-400 euros. If you've enjoyed my work, throwing some money my way would be greatly appreciated.
My ko-fi is the most straightforward way to put money directly in my pocket. If you want some goodies in return, epub versions of Better Off Alone, Vandalize My Heart, and the April Fools Story-A-Day Challenge can be found on my itch page. Commissions are also open, starting at 65 euros for 1000 words + 35 for every additional thousand (with a 15 euro discount if you want me to write something with my own characters).
It's not life or death, but I will say that it's hard to write in these conditions, so if you like the writing and want more please consider chipping in!
*getting too in the weeds of the worldbuilding of a horny tumblr post* Okay I get that you're saying princess, but honestly the dynamic you're describing here seems more like you want to be a duchess or even a lower noble
(CWs: sexual assault, british people being british, sex work, current events)
"Okay. Really? What happened?" Eight, maybe nine, years since she vanished.
"Dated a guy who worked signals at the doughnut. One day his boss comes up to him, says 'boys like you cannae be after cunts like her.' Got on the list."
The list. Right. Made sense. We'd all thought she'd ended up on the list. Least everyone else did. Never said it but I thought she'd just run out on us.
"Where'd you go, Albie? It's been years?"
"God! Albie!" She laughs. Really unfair how pretty her laugh is. "I'd almost forgotten that was my name."
"Yeah?"
"Called me Comaetho down there."
"Down where, Albie?"
She shrugs, kicks her feet up onto the cushioned bench. "Argentina, Tahiti, Roratonga, Nauru. Philippines for a while too. Now, are you going to buy me a pint or what?"
Albie had always been bad luck. I shed no tears when she vanished. Her life was a constant state of collapse and she'd always be dragging us down with her. It wasn't just the magic: was the kind of work she did too. How many times was she kicked out on the street? How many times did I get a call from the station to pick her up? How close did I get to ending up on the list?
Hadn't cared though. That long wavy hair, those rosy cheeks, the mottled feathers. She had a way to talking that just stoked the fire inside. I won't say I loved her, but I'd always wanted to fuck her. Never got to though. Kinda unfair, given her line of work.
Well, I mean, she's back now so... Maybe that's why. She's bad luck. She's going to drag me down with her. Don't care. Drag me wherever the fuck you want, Albie. Wrap me in your wings.
"Why the hell not?"
"Look, it's different people now, Albie. It's not the same." She's got that fire in her eyes. Hadn't expected her to be so angry.
"I'm just as good at the sorceries as ever."
She'd been excited. She'd really thought to just slip back in. Not how it works. "It's different people now."
You could see it, the gears turning in her head as she tried to work out what different people meant. "You ashamed of me?"
"I'm not—"
"Now that you're in your fancy apartment in fancy fucking Durham you don't want to be seen with me anymore. That's it, isn't it? You don't want your fancy fucking friends to know that you used to mess around with sex workers who ended up on the list."
That hurts. No, really hurts. Can't even pretend it doesn't hurt. I'm not that person. Keep telling myself that I'm not that person. Is that why I let her stay here? Just want to prove I'm not that person?
"Albie," I say very carefully "I'm not ashamed of you. You're my oldest pal. It's different people."
She bites her lip. Fuck, I hate myself. "They wouldn't like me?"
"They wouldn't understand you, Albie."
"What kind of fuck-off witches even are they?"
They wouldn't get Albie. Albie wouldn't get them. There's port and there's cheese. Could you imagine Albie with port and cheese? These women aren't the gutter magic we used to do—no, they're academic witches. They wear gowns and sit in SCRs at colleges. They've got fancy Latin letters at the ends of their names and they do proper magic, the kind that doesn't get you on the list.
It's a good meet. We drink the port and we eat the cheese and then we weave a pattern of ink and blood that moves the world to peace. All FCO approved, of course. Speedy negotiations, reopen the strait. Then the downstream Haber-Bosch kind of effects: food prices lower, cheaper holidays to Spain. We all laugh at that one. Weave it in anyway. Would be nice to take Albie to Menorca.
It's good stuff. Not like that larper Baader-Meinhof shit from back in the day. Remember that hat Albie used to wear? With the red star? A wannabe Wolfie Smith. It was the 2010s. Who the shit did she think she was?
Whoever she thought she was back then she still seems to think it now. This is exactly the thing I was worried about. As I storm into the spare bedroom, I see ink and wax and blood (her own blood!!) and there she is, sat on the bed like she was doing nothing wrong.
"What? What did you weave?"
"Same... Same thing I always do."
"Tell me, Albie!" I shout. She's got that fear in her eyes. I can see my anger reflected in them and I'm glad she sees it. I'm glad she knows how bad she fucked up.
"For a rocket to find Netanyahu and send him to fucking pieces." Even though she's scared there's still that fire.
As soon as I begin to think it, a sorcery starts forming that binds her wings. "We don't do that stuff anymore, Albie."
"What are you doing?" She can feel it: the strings pulling at her.
"I'm a stronger witch now."
"Then why did you stop weaving the stuff that mattered?"
No, I'm not going to let her get me like that. What I do matters and, you know, now that I'm doing it properly, through the right channels, it's actually better than back then. "Albie, you're on the list. You can't do this in my house."
The sorcery has her pinned now. Her wings bunched together by invisible ribbons. As I pull tighter she squirms against the bedsheets. "You can't stop me!" Silly thing to say from her position.
"You're on the list, Albie." My voice is soft now. Climb onto the bed next to her. God, the power is so fucking intoxicating. "It'd just take one phone call."
"No..." Oh, how small she sounds, how soft those mottled feathers are. Dreamt of this for over a fucking decade.
Start to unbutton her blouse. There's tears on her cheek. "Just one phone call." I whisper it in her ear.
---
This is the third in a series of microfics that I'm doing with @archangel-roxy! We're going to be doing a different theme every two weeks with this week's theme being "I'd almost forgotten".
You can find Roxy's story here: [link]
If you want to find the previous weeks' stories they are:
Assimilation
A Warning - Roxy's take on assimilation is a quiet and creepy horror story featuring a deadly cloud of spores
Christmas Lights - Mine is about a trans woman mech pilot who works hard to try and be accepted
Crown of Flowers
Transference - A story about an angel whose god has died and her search for some kind of new meaning
Insatiable - A mech pilot and her priestess head towards an apocalypse of their own making
