#mizwrites

Note: This repost-as-is was first posted to Cohost on the 30th of June 2023 in response to a prompt from the Making-up-Mech-Pilots account.

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"You're a kitty!"

Preeyantha hissed softly and rolled her eyes. Humans. "Yes, pilot," she began, sounding exasperated. "Macakalians look a lot like your Earth felines, but we'r—"

"Does kitty want scratches? Does she?"

Preeyantha's hiss of frustration was just a smidge louder this time. Her ears went flat against her skull, and she backed away slightly. This was why she didn't do proximity, and preferred communicating with other species through audio or text. In person encounters were always… awkward.

Note: This repost-as-is was first posted to Cohost on July 2nd 2023 in response to a prompt from Making-up-Mech-Pilots.

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“No! You can’t do this to me!” Valentina’s voice was thick with mounting despair as she looked around the table.

“Oh no no no, you won. Fair and square. She’s all yours now.” There wasn’t even the slightest shred of pity in Jameson’s. In that triumphant grin on his stupid smarmy face as he pressed his thumb on the dataslate and it made a cheery noise of acknowledgement. Sealing her fate. Dooming her. “It’s your own fault for not asking questions, Madcat.” He’d known she’d want the latest Allied Dynamics LRT-15d for her squad’s long range support, and wouldn’t look any further. Ask why he'd want to give up a brand new mech. Why he had one. Bet on it.

They’d all known, Valentina was coming to realize. Now that it was too late. Now that she knew that she was part of the package… Everyone else around the table, everyone in this ‘impromptu’ little pick-up poker game in the officers’ mess had been her CO at one point or another. She could feel the collective sigh of relief in the room now that she was no longer their problem. Wouldn’t ruin their lives any longer with insubordination and reckless behaviour.

Just hers. Again.

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I am machine

you assembled me out of faulty parts

now you're angry when I don't do what you want when I usually

Steve was having the time of his life.

Out with the lads to celebrate his new ink which was radical as fuck, everyone buying him rounds of drinks, and that cool goth bartender chick was totally into him. He was definitely scoring tonight! Everything was coming up Steve!

The next thing he knew, he was halfway up a wall, shoes fruitlessly scrambling for any sort of purchase, clawing at thick green fingers pinning him there by his neck... but not trying to get away too hard, because that axe held against his throat sure felt wicked sharp and bloodthirsty, he could see the blood from the last guy on it still!

"You think this is funny, do you, pinkskin?" the massive at least ten, no, fifteen foot tall orc woman that had caused his sudden change of scenery growled into his face as her blade traced the outlines of his awesome chest ink. "At the battle of the Singing Wells, were you?" She leaned in, and her gigantic tusks almost blinded him. "Slaughtered my clan, did you?"

As her eyes flashed red, Steve desperately tried to talk through his 1000% crushed windpipe. "No! It's just a tribe tattoo! Got it in a shop! Today! Thought it looked cool! I'm sorry! Please don't eat me!"

"Oh, I should eat you. Start on your pathetic pinkskin legs while you're still conscious, so you can experience what my people went through!" the orc woman roared, seemingly ready to chomp his head off.

That's when Steve totally didn't pass out and shit himself, no matter what you heard. No matter what you saw.

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"Thanks for that, Larbash." the head bartender grabbed a freshly cleaned glass, and poured a virgin Shirley Temple for her regular. "Guy's been giving me the creeps all night. On the house."

"You're a peach, Clarissa." Larbash sighed and sat on a stool, before carefully putting her ceremonial axe back in her attorney's briefcase. "Sorry about the stain on your wall. And the puddle on the floor. Feel free to bill me for the clean-up."

"Nah. Don't worry about it. It'll be a good story, and a warning to others." Both women smiled wanly, knowing the Steves of the world thought warnings were always for other people.

Clarissa leaned across the bar conspiratorially. "So..."

Larbash quirked an eyebrow. "So?" she drawled back.

The bartender jerked her head. "That true? About your clan. Sorry if so."

The orc snorted. "Nah. Guy just got one of those classic culturally appropriative 'badass orc tribe' tattoos that says he's a sucker and his dick is microscopic." She drained her drink, shaking her head at the state of the world. "Singing Wells was over 500 years ago." At the state of human education. "Humies man, I swear. They're so stupid. No offence."

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Note: this is a promptfic for the Orctober list found here:

When Goreasha walked in, her girlfriend couldn't suppress the horde of giggles that bubbled up inside her. The orc turned a stormier shade of green, and looked like she wanted nothing more than to leave.

Sunpetal Neverrain quickly stifled her laughter and rushed over, wrapping her arms around her ladylove — or as much of her as she ever could. "Gore, babe, don't go, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just..."

She gestured at her big strong butch's face. At her tall, magnificent tusks. Or, more correctly, at where she imagined the imposing spikes that stabbed at the heavens in defiance still were.

Somewhere, buried under all that bubblewrap.

The elf maiden's gaze rested too long on the corks capping off her girlfriend's new look — literally — and she was off again, shoulders trembling with uncontainable mirth.

After about another awkward minute, when she could finally speak without cracking up, she looked up into Goreasha's embarrassed, uncertain eyes. "Babe, what did you do? Why?"

Goreasha sheepishly scratched the back of her head. "I really love you, blossom. So when we were kissing last week, and you cried out when my tusks snagged your ears..." Shame clouded her face. "I'm really sorry that happened. I've been beating myself up ever since. I don't want to hurt you, ever again." She squared her shoulders, the picture of iron resolve. "Even if it means I have to look ridiculous."

Now it was Sunpetal's time to be embarrassed, turning into a miniature sun as she buried her face into Goreasha's midriff. She mumbled something against the orc's muscles.

"I didn't catch that. What did you say?" Goreasha cocked her head and knelt so she could look her heart in the eye. Maybe read her lips.

Sunpetal, face aflame, avoided her girlfriend's gaze as she admitted "There's... something I haven't told you yet about elf ears..."

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Note: this is a promptfic for the Orctober list found here:

Jester is too small. Too lightweight. Too weird in her jerry-rigged old combat mech — decommissioned, thankfully — that flirts with the regulations for the sacred game. She might be able to score a three pointer, or even a five pointer, but there was absolutely no way she’d ever be able to hit a thirteen, never mind a twentington, making her useless on the wangball field. So why was she out there for every game?

That was a question head coach Billings of the Dubauer Prowlers asked himself every time he fielded her. There was the fact that she’d come in as a package deal with Dancing Queen, their new star draft pick. If they wanted her, they had to take Jester as well. That had been the one thing she wouldn’t budge on. She needed her, she'd said. He still couldn’t quite understand why a superstar in the making wanted… that on her team, but he’d figured he’d be able to find some way around it, given time.

Unfortunately and more importantly at this late point in the season, he’d been assured by more than one of their own loyal supporters and even his players that if he benched Jester or gods forbid kicked her off the team, very bad things would happen to him, personally. So before every game, Billings grit his teeth, closed his eyes, prayed, and aimed the team’s chaos gremlin in the only somewhat safe direction: at the opposing team.

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Mother Patricia stormed out of the temple, the braying, mocking laughter of the High Priests following her down the steps. Down the street, where she roughly shouldered and weaved her way through the mass of people grateful to finally be leaving work for the day. She was tossed and turned this way or that, a short, dumpy pinball bouncing off people at random. A salmon swimming against a raging stream. Desperately trying to get their cruel words out of her head. Out of her ringing ears. Trying to get away. Trying to get back to somewhere where she could feel... not like this. Feel at home. Safe.

Because her church, the church of Samar, the god of kindness and love, would, could, never be that for her. Never again. Not after seeing where the donations of the faithful actually went. How the high clergy comported themselves, behind closed doors. Not after her prayers to do something about it – and she'd prayed, for so long, so hard – had gone unanswered. Her god didn't seem to care what was being done in His name. Maybe never cared. Or even existed. Maybe the Voice she'd heard all those years ago, when she'd heard the calling... hadn't actually been there, and she'd been deluding herself for decades.

Maybe... there even were no gods at all. Not in this modern day and age.

Read the rest of the story on Dreamwidth

Read the rest on Dreamwidth