mel valentine

@meli-writes.bsky.social

75 Followers 96 Following

organiser w/ iwgb. philosopher whore. not cool. inexporable fool. & trans writer of kinky, existentialist lesbian erotica. prompts @make-up-a-criminal.bsky.social stories, zines & other socials: https://linktr.ee/meli.writes

a large noticeboard hung on my wall. it is a cherry red colour with red ribbon in diamond buttons and silver buttons holding it in. it's about a third full with pinned postcards, photos, and art. each pin is a small flower that's either red, pink, or white.
two panel's from my butch's comic. the right panel shows them with their arm wrapped around me, with the caption "my heart is full."
Screenshot from the Goldeneye video game of Trevelyan saying "Trust can be misplaced, James. My parents trusted the British government."
Cover of a hand-made zine titled Pilsudski Punchkin Pochinko, written by Clara Belaire of Stray Cats Press. It is a simple but beautifully well-made zine with a light blue cover and yellow interior pages. The title is bold and simple with a small clown face underneath.
a spread of dozens of zines and small prints on my bed. they cover all sorts of topics from union histories to ones on trans & queer sexual health to lots of very lesbian prose & other art.
a handmade banner. it is a burgundy silk with a tapered end. at the bottom there is a large felt blood drop with white highlights. above there is 'Mel Valentine' in white letters with a double-venus symbol underneath.
Two of my zines stocked in a bookstore, The People's Letters. It's on a shelf with other zines. In the background is a hand-sewn sign for the store, some posters, and a Palestinian flag.
being held captive by the evil & mysterious dark mother for like at least 4 months while we wait for friends to rescue me and occupying my time with seeing how guilty i can make her feel. kept in the dungeon? it's so cold and... dark, dark mother. sleeping on her bedroom floor? i'm sorry to rattle these chains dark mother, it's just so hard to sleep. she gives an enormous pillow & stuffed shark? dark mother abandon me? dark mother leave me on the floor? without her? don't let me start about the sex. i've worked out this perfect ravaged maiden routine that she can't resist for justtt long enough to give me this awesome tongue-game. and then while i'm blissed out she just clams up and cucks herself out of getting off from the discomfort of how much i enjoyed the totally awful thing she's done to me. if it wasn't for the cuffs & gag (may have tried strangling & biting her the first couple weeks) i'd be down for like another 4 months tbh.
Instagram DM where the sender says "Baby what if I was dumb. Like actually bimbo dumb in an unavoidable way. But still sweet. Would you still like me lol." Replier says: "Smash"
mech pilot whose conditioning makes them feel painfully obligated to do what everyone tells them. handlers have to keep them isolated, to maintain the illusion of control. but anyone just needs the pilot's ear. once there's options, they have choices. because it's not a gun-to-the-head, that's not... economical to produce, comes with too many psychological defects. instead it's that they just don't own their own executive function and know it. rebels know it too. and a few are bleeding hearts enough to risk cracking open a cockpit and just saying "stop." and after have to learn that even posing things as questions, ones like, "do you wanna cuddle?", are still mentally costly to refuse. options. it's any options. "or do you wanna sit with me?" so they can say in return "i'd like to be alone for a while, but later". options that include hope, hope that there's a way out. that there's one where it'll all get better. then maybe one day they can pick it.
stack of printed A4 sheets with two pages of text on each, a pair of metal clips on top, and a long stapler behind.
selfie of me
“You can see it, right?” asks Riannon verch Moril ap Callan ap Dara o Rudlan. she’s standing on the balcony again, where probably she’s stood longer than jory has ever lived. not all once, obv. “what d’you mean?” jory has to ask in kind. “That shadow,” o Rudlan says, a specific that is soft and useless to jory. “Past the mountains.”
“Field Het will burn my contract if I tell her,” Coreny replies, not looking. At least it means they don’t see Petra rolling her eyes. “She will appreciate it, Coreny. Head Office is up her ass about ten-thousand things, don’t make her worry about us rookies too. Let her go to them like, ‘they’re raw but they’re good kids, they’ll do.’ Khalas.” It’s a week till the ship launches. Things just have to be quiet, even if not smooth.
Gods they are blind; Lady Ashford is standing right fucking there. on the threshold, a beast behind her and another in front. There's a helmet in the lady's hands, a neural integrator. A pilot's helmet. “Naught she can do now, your grace. we have her surrounded. she will surrender,” says the previous, useless voice. Pell looks forward to rewarding him with governorship of this overly pretty rock, before leaving it far behind. “Yes,” she grates. “I'm sure.”
Screenshot of a microfic called "reuse. recycle." a flower blooms on the backside of a mech's torso. an exit wound; red-tinged neural-integrator fluid dripping off its petals. once an AM gun-team has pointblanked its joints into uselessness (in case, somehow, it wasn't dead--the mech, that is), you get to work. you peel back its layers, ceramic then gel then metal then at last dig into the cushioned cockpit. the pilot is dead too, obviously; the last of the neu-integ has been left to swill about in the hole where her guts should be. a faint cold wind blows in from the entry wound. there's a list of components to rip out of here, it's best to pull her out first. when you take her wrist you spot a bruise, and curiosity drags you up her arms and to peel back to find her grey-skinned collar. you leave it. cut out panels of padding and force-compensation metamaterials, the cockpit's rated to disspiate 26g (and the pilot to disspiate anything more). it's flexible enough to cut up into personal armour plates. it also means her bruises weren't combat wounds. on the thinly snow-wet ground there's a medic pulling open the pilot's suit. prepping to steal her implants. archivist can pull intel from her internal databox, and there's always more need to spinal nerve-integs. there's also bruises and more besides, the medic points out. scars where it'd be lethal to be shot or stabbed and... she has been. you're the one to point out her guts are there. a bundle of flesh knotted like roots scrambling for what passes for rain on this rock. the pilot chokes, and sits up. this isn't your department, you think.
a screenshot of one of my itch.io pages.
So she’s stuck here. Stuck with her. This girl. This beast. This Princess. One stuck herself. Perhaps that is how Esme loves her—they are both as misbegotten as the other.