Chapter 1: toad hats and disgruntled cats (Rosa & Cereza)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Across the walls, candlelight skitters to and fro, eagerly alighting the room in a comfortable glow. Magic hums pleasantly in the air, a gentle brush of softness against cool skin, dampening the chill coming from the moonlit balcony. In the halls are the barest trace of footsteps and hushed voices, the familiar routine of nightly patrols adding to the ambiance of a blissfully calm evening.
Almost too calm.
“Cereza?”
Rosa’s voice is even and measured, carrying the sound with ease in an otherwise quiet setting. She waits, listening intently for a response.
“Yes?” The child in question has tried to match her mother’s tone, almost serene in reply. It is decidedly unlike her.
“Come here, please.” There is the briefest of silences, of hesitation, before the patter of small footfalls makes their way from the adjoining room.
Cereza, cloaked in a long patterned slip, appears in the doorway. She opens her mouth to speak, but is rudely interrupted by the grumpy trill of a third occupant making himself known.
Mrrrrrpppp.
Charles, an old sphynx cat, stands at Cereza’s ankles, little face wrinkled in a look that screams displeasure.
Atop his smooth head is - well, something, though Rosa can’t quite discern what. Closely woven jade fabric is balanced unevenly over long ears and tied beneath a small jaw with an inelegant bow.
Cereza looks sheepishly at the floor, toeing the tile and nervously twining her fingers together, while the proud creature struts across the room and leaps gracefully onto Rosa’s plush bed.
Up close, she can see the details on the little hat - white and black by the ears, giving the impression of another set of eyes, and darker brown spots throughout, almost…wart like.
Rosa can’t help herself. She laughs, loudly.
Charles glares, and lets outs another irritated mrrrrpp.
She laughs harder.
“Come here, little bird.” Cereza bounds over, face split into a wide grin, crooked baby teeth on display. Her foot, predictably, catches on the rug laid with care across the floor and she trips, face-planting spectacularly into Rosa’s bed.
Unphased, the little girl pulls herself up, settling in on her knees next to her mother, pushing long platinum strands out of her face. She turns her wide and beguiling eyes onto the disgruntled cat between them.
“Charles, why don’t you like your gift? I made it just for you!”
The cat in question stares back at her, unmoved.
He had been a gift of sorts from Isabelle a few years before Cereza had been born. Rosa recalls how the kitten would dig its claws into Isabelle’s thighs and nip at her fingers, unphased by her quiet yet stern reprimands. Sometimes, in that precious and hazy first month, Rosa would awaken to find them both watching over a sleeping infant Cereza.
That was a lifetime ago, now.
“I don’t think Charles is much for hats, dear.” At the sight of Cereza’s eyes, brimming with tears, Rosa amends, “It was a lovely gift, though, and I am sure he appreciates the thought.”
The wrinkled creature sneezes. Rosa takes it as an agreement. Despite his apprehension, he still pads over to the young girl when she opens her arms with a quiet pspsps sound, and allows her to untie the offering fabric from around his small head.
After it is gone, he places his paws on her chest, stretching pleasantly and knocking his head affectionately into her chin, a grateful purr rumbling throughout his frame.
The morose look clears from her face and she squeals in delight, pressing three quick pecks to his forehead before letting him waltz away. He circles for long moments on top of Rosa’s feathered pillows, kneading the softness for a time before settling down with a yawn for a nap.
It is late, and Rosa should send Cereza to bed. But she had missed her little one all day - Cereza had several lessons and she had a council meeting that had run long. She decides to indulge the child for just a bit longer before sending her off to sleep. Looking at her hair, loose around her shoulders, it is easy for Rosa to settle on what they can do that won’t be overly stimulating at the late hour.
“Would you like me to do your hair for the evening?”
“Yes please!”
Cereza settles in her favorite spot in Rosa’s lap, nearly imitating their pet’s contented purrs as deft fingers card through platinum hair, still slightly damp from a late evening bath. She parts the lovely silken strands into even sections and plaits the hair with a practiced hand, steady and even, humming a jaunty tune. Cereza bounces a bit, but it barely disrupts her mother, used to her energy and fidgeting.
It only takes a handful of moments to finish. Rosa, after tying a bit of string around the end, scratches the top of Cereza’s head affectionately until the child is boneless and sleepy in her lap. Another night she will need to be carried to bed and tucked in, it seems.
“I love you, Mummy.” Her voice is quiet and slurred with sleepiness, her eyelids weighed down even as she tries to squint upward. Rosa strokes a thumb across her cheek, smiling.
“I love you too, little bird.”
Mrrrrrrrrpp.
“And I love you as well, Charles, of course.”
Cereza’s sleepy giggles echo in Rosa’s head long after she carries the child to her own bed, her tiny protector following suit to curl up next to the girl, all irritation forgiven.
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Notes:
hiiiiiiiiiiiii :3
I am working on a variety of oneshots set in the DH-verse, and decided to collect them all here!! I'll title each chapter with information about which characters it will focus on, but essentially this will just be a collection of random scenes that pop into my head about our favorite Princess and her loyal retainer (and their colorful friends and family). This first one was actually a cut scene from DH chapter 4!!! I just love Rosa and her cat (and little Cereza, of course).
I hope you enjoy!!! As always, comments are appreciated <3
Chapter Text
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It is unclear what purpose the alcove originally served. Tucked away in a rarely frequented hallway, and conveniently concealed by an ornate handwoven tapestry depicting a Malphas with an angelic viper clutched between its talons, it is just one of many oddities hidden around the palace. It would be surprising if even half of the palace guard knew of its existence, situated in a far off hall not on most patrol routes. It has been of no real use or interest for years - until today.
At the sound of approaching footsteps she can feel her heart rate pick up, magic thrumming in anticipation across her skin. It has only been a few minutes of waiting, but it feels closer to an eternity, muscles tense and poised to strike. She takes a few calming breaths, willing the spike in energy to subside. There is enough space in the alcove that it is impossible to tell if someone was behind it without moving the heavy tapestry that conceals it, and no one would have reason to as long as she remains quiet and quells her magic. It will be a foolproof plan if she can execute it properly. She is on the hunt, and cannot afford any mistakes.
She only has one shot at this.
Voices drift in from the end of the hall, distorted by the distance.
“Please have them report to me by sundown, and inform Zahra that the Queen would like to join afternoon drills tomorrow.”
“Yes, Left Hand.”
“I would also ask that you deliver any word of our approaching visitors to me or the Queen directly. It has been a long time since these sands have welcomed outsiders, and we intend to greet them first.”
“Understood.”
“Thank you. You’re dismissed.”
One set of footsteps heads down the adjoining, more weathered path, while the other, a familiar light and confident step, approaches the hidden alcove.
She waits, breath stilled in her throat, for the perfect moment. When just the barest glimpse of a sandal’s shadow hits the corner of the tapestry, she strikes.
Shooting a hand out, she grabs her unsuspecting victim by the wrist, dragging them both out of sight.
Without missing a beat, her loose hold is broken, and she finds herself pressed against the far wall, a golden dagger held to her throat.
Cereza merely grins.
“Your Majesty!”
Cereza does her best not to laugh as the blade immediately falls from her neck, guilt and surprise coloring the features of the woman in front of her in quick succession. The sheathing of the dagger is quiet, just the tiniest shing of metal on metal, but it feels almost too loud in the small space.
There is barely enough room for the both of them. Pressed close together, Cereza's back flush to the wall, she almost swears she can feel the other woman's heartbeat.
Even in shadow, the warrior's eyes glint like falling stars. Cereza wraps her arms around her torso before she can even think of escaping.
“Hi, Jeanne.”
For good measure she knocks their foreheads together affectionately, and is rewarded with Jeanne’s hand finding her cheek tenderly.
“Cereza, what are you doing?” Jeanne's hushed whisper warms her deep in the pit of her belly.
“What does it look like?” She nuzzles into the warrior’s palm, practically purring when her strong thumb begins to stroke gently across her cheekbone.
“Ambushing me in an isolated corridor? Ignoring your duties?”
“Mhm, not quite. I am actually holding a very important emergency counsel with my Left Hand.”
“And what might this untimely emergency be that requires my assistance, when you are supposed to be in a council meeting and I am supposed to be relieving Orta from her patrol?”
For a moment, Cereza wonders if her little distraction is actually unwelcome - it is true that they both are busy, but that is exactly why Cereza had planned this elaborate ambush for the fifteen minutes she knew they’d both be free. Only Jeanne was likely to frequent this particular hallway at this time of day, and Cereza had calculated that there would be just enough time for them to steal a moment alone in between their differing schedules.
She almost misses the days where Jeanne was merely her retainer and she was nothing more than a failing princess - at least they spent most waking moments together, then.
But, truth be told, Cereza wouldn't trade their current life for all the universes in existence. There is something thrilling in being able to see Jeanne now at her side as an equal, the proud warrior and leader she was meant to be, rather than silent and two steps behind her.
And though Jeanne would be hard pressed to admit it aloud, Cereza thinks she prefers it as well. Jeanne may never shake decades of training, her stoicism and manners firmly in place, but serving as the Left Hand afforded her a privilege most D'Arcs could only dream of - namely, the ability to actually voice her opinion in the appropriate setting.
No one would dare accuse her of impoliteness, as her tone and language remained strictly professional throughout the interaction, but a council meeting shortly after being appointed as the Left Hand saw Jeanne publicly assert her own opinions for the first time, calmly and cooly eviscerating Anai for her foolish proposal to solve an ongoing water dispute between the easternmost clans. Cereza turns the memory over in her mind often, with remarkable fondness.
Thankfully, despite Jeanne’s exasperated words, she shows no real signs of impatience. If anything, she looks almost serene in the presence of her lover, fingers playing across the jut of Cereza’s jaw absentmindedly, her other hand coming to rest delicately on Cereza’s waist.
“Well you see…..I fear the water I was drinking has been poisoned.”
The hand at her side tightens, Jeanne’s mouth pressing into a thin, worried line.
“Cereza-”
“So I was hoping my Left Hand, who just so happens to come from a clan with expertise in various poisons, would be able to assess the danger for me.” She keeps her tone light and teasing, trailing warm hands across the defined muscles of Jeanne’s upper back. She bats her eyelashes in a way that she hopes communicates enticement rather than humor, and prays Jeanne takes the bait.
“I would have to test the water myself to determine the possibility of poison. Do you have some on hand?”
“Unfortunately, I finished it all.”
“Then how shall I check for you?” Jeanne leans in closer, tongue swping across her bottom lip, and Cereza shudders.
“I’m sure you can think of something.”
Jeanne’s eyes are trained on her mouth, and Cereza internally cheers that her little plan is about to come to fruition. Jeanne was always a much smoother flirt, but she is grateful that somehow even her own most awkward attempts tend to lead to this - Jeanne’s hands warm against her skin, leaning in for a kiss.
It takes all her willpower not to whimper pathetically at the first delicate press of Jeanne’s lips to her own. It wouldn’t do for the Queen and her Left Hand to be caught in such an intimate position, irregardless of the fact that their relationship was an open secret at this point. Though the likelihood of them being stumbled upon was low, considering Cereza's luck she wouldn't be surprised if a council member, or worse, Zahra , just happened to take a stroll in this direction.
But it is hard to focus on such matters when Jeanne presses her more firmly into the wall, nipping gently at her bottom lip, clearly just as starved for this as Cereza herself. She can feel Jeanne's smug grin as she lets out a tiny breathy moan, anchoring her hands in short dark locks. A simple tug of the hair at Jeanne’s nape is all it takes for the kiss to deepen, her tongue swiping greedily into Cereza’s eager mouth.
It’s so good, and exactly what she needed after such a long week.
Jeanne pulls away first - with great difficulty, much to Cereza’s prideful delight. She doesn’t protest when Cereza buries her face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the familiar scent of desert lilies that she loves so much. Jeanne’s calloused palms settle on her lower back, the touch confident and grounding.
“So,” she murmurs, delighting in Jeanne’s tiny tremor when warm breath ghosts across her neck, “What is the verdict?”
“Hmm?”
“Was I posioned?”
Jeanne’s snort is shockingly loud in the quiet of the hall. Cereza doesn’t need to lift her face to know it is most certainly accompanied by a colossal eye roll.
“Where do you come up with these things?”
“Perhaps I spend my days dreaming in court of ways to trick you into kissing me.”
Her tone is light and offhand, though the statement is not far from the truth. Cereza takes her duties seriously as Queen, but it is hard not to let her mind wander to thoughts of her lover when the day drags on into endless bickering and petty disputes. Even just the thought of Jeanne, of her warm hands and beautiful face and soothing voice, is an oasis for her during endless days of dry diplomacy. She braces for Jeanne to laugh at her for such sentimental nonsense, or to push her away.
Jeanne’s lips instead brush the shell of her ear, voice dark and lovely. “You needn’t waste your time dreaming, Princess. All you must do is ask, and I will fulfill your every desire."
If she were not pressed so closely against Jeanne's sturdy frame, she fears she would melt into the floor. It is horrible how easily Jeanne could provoke a reaction with just the use of her former title and a suggestive lilt to her voice. So much for having the upper hand, for once.
Trying to maintain some semblance of composure, embarrassed at still being so easy to fluster after all this time, she nips at Jeanne’s collarbone in retaliation before pushing her away in a huff.
But it is impossible to even feign irritation at the sight of her lover - Jeanne’s hair is mussed handsomely, and her eyes are shining with love. She is wholly serious, Cereza knows. Jeanne really would do anything she asks of her. The thought, once terrifying, now warms her to the tips of her toes.
Cereza debates the merit of fabricating an actual emergency to steal Jeanne away for a bit longer. Surely the clans would be fine without their leaders for the day?
Just as she is about to pull her back for another kiss, duties be damned, Jeanne speaks up. “I believe it is time we go our separate ways, lest the council send out a search party for you.”
"Let them search," she mumbles, pressing a kiss to Jeanne's collarbone to soothe her earlier bite. "I've missed you."
"And I, you. But Cereza…" Jeanne is using her most diplomatic tone, firm and without room for argument.
"What is the point of being Queen if I have no power?" She whines, petulant. She ignores Jeanne's chuckle at her great misfortune.
In public she has finally grown into the role of a well respected and loved Queen, but in private she is still as needy as ever, a side of her only privy to Jeanne - something the warrior considers a great gift.
"The point is to serve your people with wisdom and grace, and ensure their prosperous future."
"Boring."
Jeanne laughs again, but despite her disappointment Cereza allows the warrior to cup her face between calloused palms so they can look each other in the eye.
"I swear to you I am working on finding time for us. I beg of you to be patient a bit longer, Princess. After our visitors leave, we will have much more freedom to do as we please. Trust me."
Cereza knows Jeanne is right, but it doesn't take the sting out of the truth. The kiss pressed lovingly to her temple helps, however.
"Alright, you win."
"Don't I always?"
"How dare you. I won our sparring match two weeks ago."
"By cheating. I hardly think that counts."
"If you are so weak as to be distracted by a simple kiss during a fight, that is your own failing, my wondrous Left Hand."
"You're impossible."
"Swear your fealty to a better Queen, then."
She sniffs dramatically, enjoying the playful banter for the sake of it, Jeanne's teasing a balm for her frayed nerves and loneliness.
She doesn't expect her remark to strike a serious chord, and is thus unprepared for the reaction it garners. Jeanne takes her hand delicately into her own, kneeling onto the dusty sandstone and ignoring all of Cereza's sputtering protests.
"There is no other Queen who could compare to you. My life, and my devotion, are yours, Cereza."
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When the Queen finally appears for her council meeting, only two minutes late and grinning brighter than the sun, no one dares comment on the dust clinging to her dress or her smudged lip color.
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Notes:
there is nothing better to me than corny flirting and endless devotion <3 this is set a handful of years post DH, and about a year after cereza officially becomes queen. work life balance is hard even for all powerful sapphic witches it seems. I just think the idea of them sneaking around the palace like idiot teenagers despite being the literal leaders of the umbra is very funny. hope you enjoyed!! please let me know what you think!! <3 <3
Chapter 3: rest and relaxation (Cereza/Jeanne) (M rating)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Queen is nowhere to be found.
Hardly an unusual occurrence; though she could be reliably located for court meetings and meals (the former through the diligence of her Left Hand, and the latter by the diligence of her stomach) her rare off hours were a mystery to even the most dedicated servants and stalwart guards. It was no secret that the Queen had inherited her late mother’s heart and a Malphas’ soul. She was not one to be caged, and her people did not begrudge their generous leader her scant few hours of freedom, wandering about the palace and desert without supervision, or Sheba forbid, interference.
In rare cases of emergency, it was up to the Left Hand to track her Majesty down and guide her back to the safety of the palace between the dunes. A duty that suited her well; after all, their magic was forever bound, and her words and actions were the only equal to the Queen herself.
But today, even Jeanne has no idea where Cereza has gone.
Cereza’s first official leisure day in nearly three moons, Jeanne had expected to find her beloved lounging amongst the feathers and furs still, cat curled against her side in the space Jeanne left behind to run drills for the newest batch of palace guards. It had been difficult to tear herself away from Cereza’s twilight tattoos sparkling beneath a gossamer dawn, bare except for the blanket rucked about her waist. She smelt of sweat and desert roses and Jeanne wanted nothing more than to bury her nose in her short platinum tresses and hold her until she awoke. She had let out a noise of consternation when Jeanne left her side that could break even the most hardened warrior’s heart, and weakness allowed her fingertips to stroke the expanse of her tanned back with undisguised longing; duty forced her robes over her head and shoved her beyond the comfort of their rooms into an early morning.
Their bed is now empty, however, and the grumpy cat Cereza refuses to let her gift to the cook’s young daughter barely cracks an eye at the warrior, content to sun herself on the open balcony. Jeanne allows herself a small grumble of discontent, but still tosses a fresh fish to the fickle feline, a growled mrowww the only thanks she receives.
It’s not hard to surmise that Cereza is intentionally cloaking her magic. The tether that binds them is as strong as the day Jeanne took her oaths, but Cereza’s soul is murky on the other side of the bond, as if lost amidst a storm.
Part of Jeanne hesitates to disturb her; perhaps she merely desired a day of privacy and solitude? But a quick check of their rooms reveal no note or missive, and she doubts Cereza would leave without warning her of such. No – this affair reeks of a challenge, and Jeanne would be hard pressed to refuse one even on her worst days.
So begins her search in earnest. The kitchens are an obvious place to start, and she weaves about the cooks with comfortable familiarity. They’d often ceded their control of the hallowed ground to her in her youth when she’d taken it upon herself to cook for Cereza after Rosa’s death, a desperate attempt to keep the girl healthy amidst her grief. Now as the Left Hand they lack the authority to question her; but more importantly, they lack the desire to, content to let her raid the larder and steal enough spiced cakes and cactus juice for two.
The main halls echo as Jeanne searches, he heels clacking against the sandstone. The library is home only to rolls upon rolls of papyrus, and the throne in the main chamber gleams as the room’s lone and lonely occupant. The usual nooks and crannies reveal only scorpions and stray guards who practically fly at the sight of her dark eyes and foreboding staff. She is nowhere to be found in the gardens or council chambers, and the servants have not seen a hair of her since the night before.
In the training hall she waves off sparring requests, and distantly notes that even Baal was absent today in the back of her mind, surprisingly demure in spite of Jeanne rejecting an opportunity to stretch her tongue. Zahra is of little help; she cuttingly remarks on Jeanne’s rumpled attire and smeared kohl, ending her viscous appraisal with the advice that she ought to clean up and rest rather than chase after a grown woman perfectly capable of handling herself for the day.
It’s not a bad suggestion. For Cereza’s three moons without a break she’s gone seven, running herself ragged to ensure the smooth operation of the palace staff and stretching herself thin to lessen the number of complaints that reach Cereza’s ears. Years as the Left Hand under Cereza’s steady rule and she still cannot seem to shake the fear that something will take their hard fought peace away from them. She refuses to allow even the slightest excuse to criticize Cereza’s reign where she can help it; a foolish endeavor, and one she is not too proud to acknowledge in the safety of her own mind. Her Queen had won over their people on her own merit. Jeanne is just a worrywart.
A long sleep would do her a world of good…but she cannot bear to leave a challenge unmet, and if she is honest she misses her lover terribly. A single smile from Cereza was more rejuvenating than a week free of patrol duty. She can always sleep later – preferably with her favorite witch curled under her chin.
She expands her search beyond the palace, sand cat form speeding across the rolling dunes on hot paws, searching for any sign of platinum hair or twilight starred skin.
Perhaps it is intuition that leads her to their hidden oasis, or perhaps her own weary frame begging for a respite. The reason is of no true consequence – Cereza’s magic thrums heartily here, impossible to disguise in such close proximity. New wards have been erected at the entrance, no doubt the Queen’s handiwork. If Jeanne were to breach them Cereza would know immediately, and she’d lose the element of surprise in this little game she’s been roped into.
Fortunately for the warrior, they are poorly erected and even more poorly disguised. Cereza’s strength has always lied in her straightforward approach to problems, never one for petty deceptions or power gotten through undignified means, Jeanne respects her for it and follows the example; but the D’Arcs were storied assassins long before the clans united under a single Queen, and she spent her youth mired in appropriate lessons to reflect that heritage. It’s child’s play to disable the wards without tripping them, and she sneaks into their hideaway undetected.
Laughter reaches her ears first. Cereza’s mirth is like a cool night breeze; Jeanne feels the tension in her shoulders begin to unwind at the sweet sound of it, crisp and playful no matter how long the hourglass runs on.
But it is joined by another sound, unfamiliar and much throatier than anything her beloved could produce. It sounds almost wet. Frogs croak in chorus, scattered about the rocks, but the song hardly soothes the nausea rising in her gut.
Jeanne swallows down the lump in her throat, creeping forward and taking shelter behind the smooth stones that line the pool of crystalline water. Perhaps Cereza had wanted privacy after all, and she was just intruding. It is hard to accept that; harder to know that her beloved had shut her out only to bring another to their sacred space.
Jeanne would never begrudge Cereza her friends, and as Queen she's practically charmed half the women in the desert…she blinks hard and goes to leave. They can discuss it later. She ought to go make herself useful, anyhow.
Her escape is thwarted as something pink and slimy wraps around her wrist, yanking her over the stones and into the shallow water with a splash. Peals of laughter assault her senses, and she shoves herself out of the water with her staff suddenly in hand, teeth bared.
The sight before her decimates her momentum.
Cereza, laughing from behind her hand, the other holding a small bowl of paint. Cereza, painting her nails – no, painting Baal’s nails?
“Took you long enough,” Baal Zebul drawls, double pupils hidden beneath the bright fringe of her hair. “We thought you lost.”
Jeanne cannot think of anything to say, so she says nothing at all.
“Hi, Jeanne,” Cereza calls almost shyly, setting the polish aside. Her and Baal’s nails match, a bright fuchsia color pulled from the dye of cacti flowers. The warrior opens her mouth, then closes it once more.
At Jeanne’s prolonged silence, Cereza loses some of her joviality, a crease forming between her brows. She smooths a nervous hand down her skirts – very short skirts, Jeanne notes with interest in the part of her mind that isn’t still reeling – and smiles with a hopeless shrug.
“I wanted to surprise you on our day off. I hope this wasn’t too much trouble.”
“Not at all,” she manages to croak out, vanishing her staff to the void. “I apologize for being late.”
“No need,” Baal Zebul responds, speaking over Cereza with ease. The spikes of her teeth catch the last light of the day. “It gave us more time to gossip about you.”
“We were not!” Cereza objects hotly, but Baal Zebul ignores her and stands, admiring her fresh nails with an air of disinterest.
“Your Queen was so worried about you half of Inferno could feel it. I simply had to step in. Learn to take a holiday dear, it won’t kill you. That’s my job.”
With a wink her demoness vanishes, leaving them alone. The air is lighter without her Infernal presence, but quieter too; Jeanne awkwardly takes her vacated place on the stones while Cereza worries her bottom lip with blunt teeth.
In the golden glow of day’s end, the new lines around Cereza’s eyes are more prominent than ever. Her heart aches, guilt sitting like stones in her stomach.
“Enough of that,” she admonishes kindly, pressing her fingertips to Cereza’s lips. Her beloved huffs, half nerves half love, and doesn’t speak while Jeanne lays out what she liberated from the palace kitchens for them to share.
Despite her discomfort, Jeanne can’t help but admire Cereza in the ensuing silence; her hair falls so prettily around her sharp cheekbones, and the muscle of her arms draws a heated kind of appreciation from the warrior. It’s been far too long since they’ve stolen a moment away like this, both pretending to be content with quick trysts and restless sleep during the endless days of the hottest season. The black ink of her thighs ripples as Cereza tucks her legs beneath her, bare to the dusk breeze.
They nibble on the dry spiced cakes and sip at the warm juice, waiting for the other to break the tension. Jeanne, ever brave, takes the plunge.
“I hadn’t realized I was worrying you so.”
“You didn’t.”
“Cereza…” She takes her hand, impressed by how vibrant she managed to get the color for the nail paint – an old trick learned from Rosa, perhaps?
“Alright. You did, but I understand why. There is always more to do, and you are often the best warrior to do it…I just hate to see you so weary. I’m your Queen, for goddess’ sake, and yet I fail time and time again to take care of you. I’m sorry, Jeanne.”
Jeanne is shaking her head before Cereza’s even finished, pushing aside the remnants of their meal so she can kneel before the woman she loves. Her hand finds Cereza’s cheek with tenderness unending.
“You bear no blame for my actions.”
“Hmph.”
“Have I ever been false with you, beloved?”
Cereza leans into her palm, sighing.
“No, but you are more stubborn than a camel.”
“Stubborn, yes, and even worse, prone to ignore my own limits. You are correct that there is always more to do – but I do not not have to take the bulk of it on my back. It is a bad habit and one I should have discarded long ago.”
Cereza kisses her fingers and tangles their free hands together, Jeanne’s calloused palm against her softer one.
“I’m not sure you are capable of that.”
Jeanne chuckles, edged with the familiar critical knife she turns on herself at will. “Perhaps not.”
“And regardless, I could have intervened sooner.”
“And I would have found ways to circumvent your care, dismissing it as misguided pity and only hurting you further.”
“Must you always argue with me?”
“Must you always refuse to allow me any blame?”
Cereza huffs, but allows Jeanne to cradle her jaw in tender hands.
“I am not too proud to admit my faults, especially to you. I am sorry Cereza, truly. I will try to make more time for rest in the coming moons, if that is agreeable.”
Cereza’s eyes flash, playful beneath platinum lashes. Her hand runs the length of Jeanne’s arm, lingering over the definition of her bicep before coming to tease the short hair at her nape.
“It is not just rest I hope you make time for.”
“Oh?”
It will never cease to amaze Jeane the reactions she can elicit from such an amazing woman. Cereza’s cheeks go dark with color, the last vestiges of her shyness left over from their youth. The sigh she lets out as Jeanne guides her forward, knees hugged around the warrior's hips and arms wrapped around her shoulders, is still the sweetest music she will ever hear.
She thinks on that flash of fear – Cereza, with someone else – and tries to push it aside. They are sworn to each other heart and soul. Forgiveness is never easy to swallow, but she does so for Cereza’s sake, determined to earn it properly.
Cereza leans their foreheads together as Jeanne’s fingers dance up her sides, slipping beneath the silk to caress something much softer. The slight curve of her belly, the toned muscle of her torso, the weight of her chest in calloused palms; Jeanne curses herself for denying paradise and resolves not to leave her beloved wanting ever again.
It’s Cereza who guides them into a kiss, wet and wanton and the perfect start to their evening. She moans at the press of Jeanne’s teeth, whimpers when they move to the sensitive length of her neck.
“Please,” she whispers, desperate fingernails digging into Jeanne’s shoulders. Her hips rock into Jeanne’s of their own accord, urging her on.
“Yes, Princess?”
“Don’t tease!” She hisses, teeth clicking loudly when clever hands start to undo the knots of her skirts, wandering to stroke over dark ink on dark thighs.
“We have plenty of time. There is no rush.”
“You may take your time later. I’ve thought of nothing but you all day…please, Jeanne.”
“Is that an order, my Queen?”
Cereza snorts, pulling her closer. “It is if it makes you go any faster.”
“I’m yours to command,” she replies, finally pressing into the heat of Cereza’s center. “Always.”
Cereza laughs, breathless and happy, tucking her face into Jeanne’s neck and rocking into her capable hands, dripping down her wrist without shame. She kisses the dewy skin beneath her lips and chases her pleasure, shaking as Jeanne murmurs praises into her hair and gives her the entire world in this shared moment. She gasps, helpless, enthralled, pulling away to look Jeanne in the eye. Molten steel greets her, warms her all over.
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Princess.”
Notes:
we’re soooooo back!! though I’ve largely moved on from the DH project, these two are never far from my mind…thank you to XilianX for giving me the prompt that kickstarted this small addition to the DH-verse! I hope you all enjoy this moment of conflict resolution (cough. gay sex. cough.) from our favorite girls <3
will i ever write the full smut fic i promised for them? who knows. haha. haaaaaaaa.
Chapter 4: don't talk (put your head on my shoulder) (Isabelle/Rosa)
Notes:
I can hear so much in your sighs
And I can see so much in your eyes
There are words we both could say
But don't talk, put your head on my shoulderCome close, close your eyes and be still
Don't talk, take my hand and let me hear your heart beat
Being here with you feels so right
We could live forever tonight
Let's not think about tomorrowPet Sounds // The Beach Boys
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The world is still dark when she awakes. Her dream is hazy around the edges, flowers the color of blood and hair the color of death and screaming, so much screaming, in a voice she knows better than her own. Khepri means to tell her it is only a matter of time. She blinks against the oft repeated vision, the agony of it not yet real, and forces herself awake.
From the balcony she can see the stars strung up in their eternal dance, the half full cup of the moon conducting. Wind howls across the dunes, chasing its own tail to the fervor of her heartbeat.
And from the other room, a quiet voice not quite hidden.
The tile is cold against her bare soles but she dare not risk sandals or a shawl as she sneaks closer to the precious sound. The shadow of the night conceals her as she leans against the doorway, breath lost somewhere in her lungs like a bird fallen from the nest.
The child – her child – cradled against a bare chest, little ear pressed to that awful scar where arm and shoulder were almost separated entirely. Her troublesome cat purring against tiny feet, unconcerned for the comfort of the woman whose thighs he delicately pricks with the content flexing of his claws.
Isabelle sings softly.
It's an old lullaby, half remembered even by those clans with short histories and shorter memories.
Something ripples within her at the sound of it, the knowledge that Isabelle can sing at all. It is a surprise that makes her feel foolish; the D'Arcs were not all battle cries and stone. She knows this intimately, if not as intimately as she would like. Still, a surprise. Not unwelcome.
Isabelle's voice is by no means pretty. It adds no beauty to the tune, but the child, her child, doesn't seem to mind. Pudgy fingers reach for the dark halo of hair framing the warrior – her warrior – and tug hard. Isabelle doesn't smile, but the tilt of her head and lift of her brow practically shout approval.
Rosa's heart clenches with the tenderness of a fresh bruise.
Isabelle doesn't look up even as she ceases the idle song to murmur, thoughtful, "She will inherit your strength."
Assured, always. Rosa wishes she could siphon some of that confidence.
"And hopefully nothing else?"
Their voices, even hushed, feel too loud for the room. Charles vacates his perch to rub against her legs before returning to his post by the balcony, where he can watch both his mistress and his young charge. The storm does not bother him. Does he know something she doesn’t?
Perhaps. Her skull aches with all that is and all that is to come.
"Hopefully not your stubborn pride."
"You're one to talk."
"Hmph."
She inclines her head, those silver spun eyes flecked with oasis blue never leaving the baby in her arms. Rosa accepts the invitation with the eagerness of the sun sick supplicants they slaughtered the day prior, perching beside her against the old pillows Isabelle won't let her replace.
An easy, familiar argument. She almost reaches for the comfort of it – but then a calloused hand settles on her knee, and all she can think of is its weight and warmth.
This is a new and precious thing, Isabelle's touch without pretense. She knows Rosa down to her marrow, has nearly cleaved through it in the heat of a good spar – but not like this. In the dark she is almost tender. Almost real.
This loss of control scares Rosa more than any vision. Isabelle wouldn't touch her like this unless she thought the world was ending. Unless she thought duty would soon cease to guide her every step.
Does Rosa cry out in her sleep? Does Isabelle know?
The baby fusses. "That's enough," Isabelle replies, voice even but not unkind, adjusting her hold so the child can latch onto her nipple, breasts still heavy with milk.
Rosa never asked and Isabelle never offered; but the moment she flinched away from her daughter's seeking hands and mouth, exhausted and disgusted and ashamed of both, there was her Left Hand, ready to face the duty that Rosa could not yet bear.
She does not ask who feeds Isabelle's own daughter, scarcely a moon younger and hidden away among the D'Arc's poisoned sands. She knows little of the girl, save that she was yet another duty for Isabelle to suffer, and that her hair is as dark as her mother's.
'A shame that their hair does not match.'
Isabelle, on one of the earliest of these treasured nights, their thighs and knees sharing space and heat.
'Hm?'
'We could have placed Jeanne here, and Cereza with my clan.'
Safety at any cost, the closest thing Isabelle has to a god besides duty.
'And when the assassins come, you'd have your daughter's head on a pike instead of....'
Can barely look at that girl, thirteen hours of labor later, enough blood and sweat to drown the desert, cannot stomach holding her or claiming her and still - the thought of her gone, dead or otherwise, makes Rosa nauseous.
Isabelle, and something that resembles a laugh but isn't.
'She's a D'Arc.'
Like that of itself is a death knell.
In her dreams, Isabelle commands her go and she obeys. In her dreams, Isabelle's screams echo long after Rosa is too far to hear them.
Now, Isabelle's lips at her temple, an apology come too late. Now, Isabelle's arm around her waist in a plea neither can voice aloud.
Jeanne, somewhere else. Cereza, half forgotten if not for Isabelle's steady care.
"You ought to rest."
Her daughter's mouth at Isabelle's breast, innocent. Rosa has never known jealousy before. It shakes her, even as the hand on her knee traces invisible patterns meant to soothe.
"How can I rest while my Left Hand is restless?"
Isabelle bites her cheek. Something ragged in her rages to touch her mouth, to steal whatever lingers behind her teeth.
"I'm fine, Rosa. So is Cereza."
As if Rosa has worried about her daughter for even a moment since her birth. She loves her, she does, with a fierceness that terrifies her as much as it emboldens her – but it is not silver hair she sees in her nightmares.
Isabelle looks at her now. The lines around her eyes are deep. Rosa cannot bear it, or her.
She drops her eyes instead to the taut muscle of her abdomen, the sweet pinch of her daughter's face.
"Let me have her."
Let me carry this burden for once. Let me offer you a moment of respite. Let me give you anything in return for the world you've given me.
Before it's too late.
Isabelle sighs. Passes her the child and helps undo the ties of her shirt, fingertips lingering for only a moment. Adjusts her arms without judgement.
Neither of them were ready for children. But a war demands many sacrifices, and just as many heirs.
It is surprising how quickly she latches, how much it hurts. Her daughter's face is smooth. Isabelle's hand on her shoulder is tentative.
"Wake me, if-"
"Alright."
She lies next to the heat of Rosa, doesn't bother with a shirt or the furs piled at the end of the bed. Rosa picks up the lullaby, sweeter in her voice perhaps, though she misses the timber of Isabelle's rougher tune.
Cereza slips into slumber first. Only then does Isabelle let her eyes drift shut.
Rosa watches the rise and fall of both their chests. The sun rises slowly, giving her more time.
FIN
Notes:
shoutout to boochieflake for inspiring this spontaneous addition to this fic by leaving such a lovely comment on the last chapter!!! just think.....your comment too could inspire me to write more angsty yuri. smiles.
if you haven't yet, please please please go read 'Wilt' by Wilmaa and leave a nice comment. their exploration of Isabelle and Rosa is not only canon 2 me but also what I based this on in part, and this idea sprung from a conversation we had about these two last year. I love them and their fic <3
thanks so much for reading!!! :)
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