9 Works by dubhgloinne
Listing Works
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“Cereza,” she turns onto her side, slowly, the mottled dark red on her chin catching Cereza’s eye yet again. It really was her best colour at the end of the day.
“Are you afraid?”
She swallows.
“Terrified.”
...
Cereza gives a gentle huff when Jeanne leans in to kiss her, their hands intertwining in the process.
It feels like a death sentence.
☽ ☾
A chapter of the Umbra have fallen on hard times, but with the guidance of their leader, Elder Iseult, they look to rebuild, and reclaim their honour. Her most loyal followers, the heiress, and the wretched Outcast make up the set of witches who follow her right into the den of the Tuatha; denizens of the Upper Ríocht, so that they may be slain, and transfigured into the finest of weapons.
In the end, they'll be adequately rewarded.
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Effortlessly, she flips Jeanne—as if she weighs absolutely nothing at all, and presses her back into the length of the sofa. Pushing her hands above her head, Cereza seamlessly pins her wrists to the armrest.
“Keep those hands out of my way, Princess.”
It’s an easy instruction, one that Jeanne has no issue with following. She can feel a flush spreading over her cheeks, her chest, an anticipatory warmth building in her belly when Cereza loosens her hold.
She drags her fingertips along the inside of Jeanne’s exposed wrists, featherlight, almost ticklish in their gossamer touch—and traces the length of her arms, her torso, till she reaches the hem of her tunic.
Cereza smiles at her then, tongue poking out as she bites the tip.
“May I?”
Jeanne has to resist the urge to roll her eyes, to break out in a huge grin; Cereza always had a penchant for chivalry, and the recent change in their relationship only encouraged the behaviour. Not that Jeanne was disappointed, in fact, she secretly delighted in it.
“You may,” she breathes, fingers flexing above her head.
“I can never deny you anything.”
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A nsfw continuation of requiem’s 5th chapter
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When Luka had been offered the chance to go away for the weekend for work they had both breathed sighs of relief, hoping some distance might help. He had held her tightly before he left, a wet kiss pressed to her neck, a quiet “love you, Bayonetta” murmured into her ear. She had laughed, smile plastered on her face, and shoved him out the door with a reminder to not be late for his flight.
………………………
“You could come over.” She doesn’t mean it to sound suggestive, she swears she doesn’t - but she had just gotten herself off to the thought of Jeanne and the perfume is still on her neck and maybe if she sees her it will curb the ache somewhat, and help her get her head on straight.
It does anything but that.
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“We got off on the wrong foot,” she gives the barman a wave and beckons him to her, and gets one of those tequila beers that are a little too easy to drink.
Cereza would never drink that, is the silly thought that immediately comes to Jeanne and she thinks that she might be finally losing it.
“We did,” Jeanne agrees after taking a sip, eyeing Seline as she pays for her drink. She has closely cropped dyed black hair, and is wearing a leather jacket that has clearly been through so much.
“Perhaps we should start again,” Seline smiles, a Cereza smile, Jeanne thinks. It’s gentle and unwavering in how it sets on her lips, but laced with confidence. She stretches out a hand.
“I’m Seline.”
So she follows suit, and shakes. The hold is warm and firm.
“Jeanne, pleasure.”
They stand together in an amicable silence—but Jeanne can feel there’s a current of tension that she has a curdling desire to break.
It’s just as well that Seline beats her to the punch.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
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She’s wearing an ornate mask that’s doubled as a set of glasses, plus a suit made of hair. She has a blanket pulled over her shoulders for that extra bit of warmth; he had happened across her frightened and volatile, pointing ancient pistols at him. She was soaking wet and covered in the blood of angels.
Mostly angels. He could pick up the twang of human—mortal—blood.
“Well, you’re gonna need one,” is his terse reply as he lights a cigar using his thumb, an action she does not even look slightly perturbed by. He chuckles as he exhales.
“How about we spin a wheel and just pick one you like?”
That doesn’t make her laugh, doesn’t even make her crack a smile. Stormy eyes flashing with annoyance right behind her frames.
“I’ll kill you.”
Ok. Damn.
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Rodin makes an interesting friend.
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“If you want something done right, then you do it yourself, no?”
It was pure mischief now, her expression. This was a challenge, surely. Well, Jeanne thinks, if Cereza wants to play this game, then she shall gladly partake.
She gives an audible ‘hmph’ and tosses her long hair over her shoulder; the absolute picture of nonchalance as she schools her face into something cool and collected.
Cereza liked a challenge… But Jeanne always did like them that bit more.
This would be more satisfactory than beating her in battle.
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and you're here, like the sun coming out by dubhgloinne
Fandoms: Bayonetta (Video Games)
20 Jul 2022
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Bloody this again, she thinks, and It takes everything she has to stop herself from rolling her eyes or telling Jeanne off. She didn’t have her mother’s authority, after all, so none of what had transpired was even her fault.
The blame would never fall at Jeanne’s feet.
Never.
“Stop that,” she admonishes with a quick turn of the head. “What would you have done, hm? Attack them?”
“Yes,” the silver witch blinks, replying without any hesitation. “I absolutely would have.”
“Don’t be a fool,” she snaps, eyes narrowing dangerously and desperately attempting to mask the latent anger in her tone. Not anger at Jeanne, no. Anger at this circumstance. Anger that Jeanne will suffer the consequences.
Jeanne breaks up a training session. It changes her relationship with Cereza forever.
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“Do you see something you like?”
…
There’s the touch of leather against her jaw; the rough feel of it making her shudder as Cereza draws a line around down to her chin.
Eyes still locked, Cereza takes her exploring, lingering hand, and delicately traces down the front of her suit from her throat, boldly drawing slowly through the valley of her small breasts, until she halts on her abdomen; hands strong, experienced from battle and weapon handling, gliding over finely gilded embroidery. She licks her lips before she speaks:
“I might.”
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There are lost memories of picnics in a secluded part of Vigrid; hiding away from adults and Umbran elders alike who disapproved of their friendship. Jeanne, helping Cereza sew Chesire’s eye back on. The pair of them nestled together on Jeanne’s childhood bed, laughing like idiots, as they carve a metaphysical scrawl onto Cereza’s prized gem. Later, in their teen years, Jeanne would gently wipe blood off of Cereza’s brow after beating another witch in battle during training; blood spilling down her face, lips turned upward in victory, tainted with iron like lipstick.
That, Jeanne thinks, is the first time she really wanted to kiss Cereza. They were 16. She thought that it suited her. She had looked battle-worn, powerful—a threat—and it made her heart race.
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a conversation about memories brings about untamed feelings.