saint-lily
Saint Lily is the spark in the night
trans lesbian, she/her, 23
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Let’s make the most of the time we have left.
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You love her more than you hate yourself
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"tits bouncing as she runs" ok and what about her ears. her little floppy puppy ears. they're bouncing too you know. maybe you didn't notice
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You wonder if you've ever taken the time to watch the sky: white and wanton brushstrokes, colouring the curve of the earth, green sinking into blue.
(Sink you will, into this familiar shape, bowed, curl of her smile, crescent of each embrace. You think of softer thoughts and it shocks you like static, that flinch in the pit of your smouldering heart. You didn't believe in making peace with it. Now you can't remember the war.)
Sink you will, into the soft grassy knolls of the isle, the cliff you find yourself standing on, surrounded by dandelions sprinkled like the land reflecting the stars. You had believed that once, stalwart in your stance, that something so dull could appear so bright in the right company, with the right promise. And you had thought it would last. But as with the dirt beneath your feet, everything returns to dust, and only the ocean could ever come close to mirroring the sky. Deep in your mind, you know you shouldn't have tried to become anything other than what you are: a boulder to step on, stone pillar of regret.
The nature of the isle is blustery and remote. Sanctuary claimed in the aftermath of loss: a cottage by the ocean, she had insisted, for reasons you may never fully understand.
Gusts of wind whip through your hair and your clothes, embedding you in seasalt and the sounds of gulls high above. They soar so freely as you watch, dipping and hovering just out of reach, wings expanded like parachutes to carry them away at a moment's notice. How you've never envied that more.
Hours pass by and you come to lay down entirely. It's simply you and billowing grass tickling at your sides. You and the greying horizon, the incoming storm from across the sea. You and your thoughts and your grief and your newfound joy. Concentrate on what you've held onto with bleeding fists. Concentrate on the present, not the absent; on the catch, not the fall.
Heavy eyelids close to the first raindrops against your skin. They slip down your cheeks, icy beads to join a single crystal tear.
“I knew I'd find you here.”
Ah. The gulls dissipate. The waves pause. Your heart freezes in distant panic.
Above you appears a bright yellow umbrella. And peering down—is Muelsyse. Your pulse settles at the scent of autumn flowers, settles like a great descent, a coming home.
“Hey.” Your voice is hoarse but you smile faintly at her. You don't move.
She crouches down, spinning the umbrella absently in her grip like a watery halo, angel of your heavy heart. She speaks casually, even if you both know the moment is not. “What are you doing out in the rain?”
You allow her to brush your damp cheek, and you know she can tell from just a touch that one particular droplet did not originate from the sky. Her expression stirs, then softens. She runs her thumb beneath your eye, then raises it to her lips.
“I was resting,” you say, watching each motion, content to keep your whole weight upon the earth, where the only view is her and beyond.
“I hope so,” Muelsyse replies. She slides her tongue over her thumb before bending down to kiss you.
It's salty.
“You've needed this for a long time,” she says, tender in your ear. She combs through your hair with one hand as the other releases its grip on the umbrella. It falls to the ground and the sky opens up. Pouring, pelting, soaking. She joins you, drops into your arms, into the green of steady bounds, and buries deep into your shoulder. Still, you don't move other than to pull her close.
Soon, the storm becomes a soothing rhythm, an icy thrum against your skin. You allow another droplet to escape the corner of your eye, then another, and another, until they run rapids down your face, merging into rivers that you hope will drown your sorrow.
You remain as still as you can, as quiet as you can. The only disturbances come from the shuddering of your lungs, and even these sounds are swept away by the wind.
Muelsyse doesn't speak, only holds onto your shirt for dear life. It seems like you would both fall from some unknown precipice should she let go. So she doesn't. Couldn't. And she whispers just above the storm, something that makes the planet halt its spinning.
“I miss her, too.”
You know now that this ache inside may never truly leave.
/
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Hiii requesting horndragora, having an angry and steamy encounter in a Londonium alleyway
(cw: dubious consent, toxic yuri, enemies with benefits)
---
The order of "pin down the caster" was probably not meant to be taken so literally.
Horn had routed around Mandragora's cadre, covered by the debris that fell in the explosion, and at first contact, she'd managed to get behind her, far at the back lines of the fight.
A hand over her mouth and a chokehold later, and she's dragging the kicking feline into the back alley, unseen in the chaos.
"I'm not going to kill you. Just take a cat-nap until my squad passes over and I won't have to tear your head from your shoulders."
Mandragora's legs go weak faster than she expects them to and she staggers to kneel with her as she collapses to the ground, her knees splayed to either side of Horn's thigh.
They struggle for a few more seconds, in the interim of which, Horn realizes-
Mandragora is absolutely soaking between her legs.
It wouldn't be the first time someone has pissed themselves with fear while fighting with Horn, but that's precisely why she can tell that this isn't that. She's shocked, but not enough to loosen her grip.
"Are you-" Horn flexes her arm, tries to keep focused, but she can't seem to spit out the second half of her question-
-seriously about to cum from being strangled?
It's so beyond anything she could have fathomed that her arm slips in her distraction, and Mandragora throws her head back into her nose the next instant in a way that tells her she didn't even need to say it aloud. Heat trickles fast down both nostrils and through her bitten lip as the caster reverses her position, closes her hands around Horn's throat.
"Fuck, you-" She's coughing the words out. One of her eyes is red with broken blood vessels. Her hands aren't even that tight, or holding her in the right place to do the worst kind of damage. She's probably never been in a physical fight in her life where she had even glimpsed the 'winning' side. "Fuck you, you corn-fed Victorian cunt, it wasn't enough to try killing me? You wanted, to humiliate me too?"
Horn puts all her force into her legs, walking them inside Mandragora's guard to pound her feet hard into her chest. The feline goes flying through a brittle glass storefront, and when she chases her inside, she finds her scrambling to her feet, clutching a bleeding arm. A wall of rocks erupts behind Horn, sealing the door, the window, everything.
"Still want to blow us up, toy soldier?"
Horn growls, wordless fury building in her chest. Her team is on the other side, bleeding, enduring, and she can't clear it without burying them both.
"No, but maybe I'll use that hard head of yours as a battering ram if you keep talking." She wipes blood from her lip and flicks it across the floor.
A surge of energy bursts out of Mandragora and the rocks grow to triple their size, closing in the storefront, leaving about half the room to stand in. Horn staggers in the resulting quake and closes the distance between her and Mandragora, pouncing on her. A wolf on a kill.
Pin down the caster.
"You really want to die so badly?" Horn can't keep the sudden strain out of her voice.
"Don't you dare act like it's unbelievable or something! You don't get to pity me now-you're about a decade overdue! As if you have no idea how I've lived!" She's wiggling her wrists under Horn's grip, twisting from side to side in futile struggle.
"Oh, I've an idea," Horn breathes out, "'Mandragora'. Something that is ripped, screaming and crying, from the dirt. Did you choose that yourself? Or was it a 'gift'-" Her glare is molten, haloed in the curtain of wheat-colored hair obscuring them, "-from that beloved Leader of yours?"
Mandragora roars, thrashing and kicking, her fingers curling downwards and grasping, desperate to scratch.
"I'd do it again-I'd claw myself out from under as many bodies it takes to make you Victorians bleed even another drop-!"
Horn suddenly realizes how she's going to get them out of this.
It's unpleasant. It's nothing she would ever consider in any other circumstance.
She knows it'll work so she knows she's going to do it.
But it is all kinds of wrong.
"Alright, little feline-" Horn grimaces, and pushes her knee between Mandragora's legs, eliciting a scandalized gasp, "-bury us here, then. And when historians come to uncover us, maybe ten years from now, maybe one hundred years from now, they'll find Dublinn's caster and the 'White Wolf of Victoria'-"
She readjusts her arms, one around Mandragora's waist, the other raised to press a palm to her cheek in the most saccharine and overtly romantic display of affection she can imagine as she presses her forehead to hers.
"-locked together as star-crossed lovers that deserted their battlefield to die in one another's arms."
"You bitc-mmph-!"
Horn kisses her, hard, leans into her with her full weight, pulls at her slight waist and runs her fingers through her hair like she's never loved anyone else in her life.
Mandragora's nails destroy her back. She's screaming against her mouth, biting at her lips, but Horn readjusts for every inch of purchase she makes.
"Fucking Victorians-!" Mandragora howls, as Horn shifts her mouth over her throat, smothers it with bruising kisses, "-Faking's all you're good for-!"
"What about you?" Horn breathes into her ear, "Were you faking it when you nearly came from being choked out? Or are you that much of a pervert in general? Could it have been anyone but me behind you?" Horn strokes her hair out of her eyes, and Mandragora grabs her wrist so hard her nails are drawing blood.
"I don't know, I think you just love me that much that you would die in my arms."
There's something wrong with the kiss that follows. Tears prick the corners of Mandragora's eyes as she tries to force Horn back, but she's no match for her physical force. They're both exhausted.
The kissing becomes ever-so-slightly less performative on Horn's part. Mandragora's lips part just a touch wider, and even though Horn has been avoiding it, she finds her tongue sliding deep into her mouth.
"Hh...Hhah, fuck-" Mandragora whimpers, trembling with the urge to resist using her arts, overshoot her power. Horn's knee rubs slowly between her legs and she swears louder before she's silenced with an even deeper kiss.
"Mmhm." Horn exhales hard and gasps as Mandragora's cold hands slide under her tank, drag it up just over her breasts. This wasn't in the plan, she thinks distantly to herself.
"Victorian pig-" Mandragora spits, "-I bet you're, hah-used to sweating like an animal-on a leash with some crystal-studded plug up your ass, some noble's concubine because they pay big money to fuck their soldiers-"
Disgusting. Horn should be disgusted.
There should be no other emotions present at the revelation of such a filthy fantasy that her enemy has fashioned for her.
"You think about me a lot at night, don't you? All alone with your preoccupying hatred. Hope it keeps you warm, little feline."
"I was born from a grave. I've never been warm in my life."
"Then may my love for you sow warmth anew that entwines us together for the ages. I'll save you. You'll never be cold again under my embrace-"
"SHUT UP!"
The entire store quakes, the roof blowing off into the sky, the rocks vibrating so violently they become dust and powder overhead. Everything comes crumbling down.
On instinct, Horn throws her arms over Mandragora's head, ducks and covers until it's over.
They stare at one another. A voice from afar breaks the reverie.
"Aye! Captain?!"
They're both rolling away from each other, running opposite directions. Mandragora stops at the other side of the store, hand on the doorframe.
"-This never fucking happened, toy soldier."
"-Agreed."
(It's not the first lie they've told.)
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Perhaps something a bit different this time, there was a Twitter prompt I saw of “draw Hatsune Miku in your fav series” and well…. I like Symphogear.
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Happy birthday, Saria!
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Saria and Muelsyse comfort one another, in the absence of Kristen
~~~
An uncomfortable heat rises up Saria's neck, settling on her face. Something about this, about their proximity, the sensation of Muelsyse's fingers beneath the handkerchief, that soft scent, it makes her stomach churn and keeps her rooted to the spot. What is this?
You know what this is.
Gradually, Muelsyse's touch slows, trails down to her jaw, then stops. It hangs there for several seconds, until Saria finally dares to steal another glance at her. Muelsyse has a curious expression on her face, cheeks tinged just slightly red, lips parted. And she’s so very close.
This is… it's… it's dangerous. She forces herself to take a step back, and Muelsyse's hand falls away, and the moment is broken.
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