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It’s a little weird, having to plan things like this and agree on them. Maybe it’s Don Quixote’s general courteousness that doesn’t allow her to just wink and follow a woman into her room quietly, especially considering what confusing mess the relationship they two had was. She hasn’t even figured out if Ryoshu would prefer this type of a verbal agreement or a quick silent one. She keeps doing it nonetheless, sneaking as close to Ryoshu as possible and whispering into her ear, flushed in shyness, “wouldst lady Ryoshu mayhap wish to…”. Ryoshu has declined her proposal only once but every other time she smirked like that was a wildly ridiculous thing to ask about.
It’s not like it doesn’t work. It’s efficient, communicative and well-mannered. And Don Quixote would really like to leave Ryoshu her favorite method of making a peculiar face and dragging Don Quixote away at random times, usually after a violent battle, or a kissing encounter. This one’s not that bad either. It’s just that Don Quixote would feel kind of bad.
Well, this one doesn't start out communicative and well-mannered, really. Ryoshu stares at her when they are dismissed, and Don Quixote heads to her room after waiting it out for a little bit, where she is quickly dragged in for a kiss.
Don Quixote wasn’t under the impression that Ryoshu wanted to talk or play a game, oh no, and yet the fervor is surprising, and Ryoshu is already half unclothed, with eyes so insane it frightens Don Quixote for a fleeting moment. “Lady Ryoshu? Art thou faring well?” she asks. Ryoshu shrugs. Just horny, she responds simply, bringing a terrible blush to Don Quixote's face.
Don Quixote guesses correctly that she wants to pick up where they left last time, as shameful as it is to remember. The cigarette smoke and the slight threat of restraint got her in a way she didn't expect it could, in a way that still would make her shiver as just a simple memory, albeit a vivid one. Ryoshu remembers it, too, because she seems to have something in mind, dragging Don Quixote around.
It is very fast that Don Quixote finds herself undressed, atop the bed, trapped and caressed by Ryoshu. There’s something a bit different but hard to pinpoint in her. The absent-minded gaze, the pushiness, this devious air about her maybe, but whatever this is awakens feelings and thoughts in Don Quixote as well as she looks and looks.
It has been some time since they last really touched each other. Don Quixote tries to convince herself it is actually okay to get excited quickly by a person she likes, and it is okay to moan if that person grinds into her by accident when moving her legs, wielding Rocinante and striped legwarmers underneath, apart to settle in between them. The person grins like a predator, squeezing her thighs on the sides, then wandering up her body, causing the warmth to coil in her stomach.
Ryoshu halts to light up a cigarette. Click, click, just two of them to get it to work, one hand still weighing upon Don Quixote's skin. She looks at Ryoshu’s graceful fingers, at the cherry of the cigarette, exhales a bit shakily, hit by the realization how easy she is today.
"Thou can p, put it out on... on mine body," she says quietly and slightly regrets saying it out loud immediately. It’s a thought that weirdly came into her mind a couple of times already, that she was hesitant to say and shunned away – probably for a good reason. Don Quixote’s legs twitch, and Ryoshu doesn't give her a single chance to bashfully pull them back together, jabbing an elbow into the meat of her thigh and giving her a look.
"Ha-ah," she breathes out. "Really."
"If thou wanted to," Don Quixote explains after a pause, face flooded with deep heat. Ryoshu does want to, clearly, based on what knowledge Don Quixote has of her. Also based on how the corner of her lips stretches upwards. “I wouldst not be… opposed.”
Ryoshu wordlessly takes a drag and shakes her head a little, getting the hair out of her face — it's not a denial, this gesture. The trailing of her gaze up Don Quixote's torso resembles the one she takes on as she searches for the spot to deliver the deadliest hit, only much slower. This understanding alone makes the gaze palpable. The inside of Don Quixote's thighs, the lower part of her belly, then right between the ribs, then the sternum, then the side of her breast, then the collarbone, then her neck, surely right over the pulsing point where Ryoshu has bitten already.
"Making it sound like you don't want it," Ryoshu says, not even looking Don Quixote in the eye, just evaluating. “I.B.”
Don Quixote’s heart flutters. She doesn’t get the exact meaning of the words, but it comes out biting and mean, as if she spits it out, right atop wherever she’s staring.
Ryoshu’s hand lingers above Don Quixote’s skin, here and there, for a while, interrupted by occasional drags of her cigarette. She barely touches for now, except for when her hand gets too low where the body curves, the side of the hand, cool, soft, roughed up by the scarring – ah, not to mention her thighs propping up Don Quixote’s, or the unyielding stranglehold on Don Quixote’s wrists. Not that those are forgettable – it’s just that, her breath catches every time she idly imagines herself trying to break free.
Or every time she takes in Ryoshu’s current form, honestly. Back so casually bent, the line of her body broken off into angles as she looms over, holding Don Quixote both at the top and the bottom. She knows little about art composition, shallow bits and pieces from years, decades and centuries ago, but even an unmoving image taken of her would convey enough to feel something. This moment in reality, on the other hand, makes Don Quixote feel small – insignificant, miniscule, pathetically caught in the wire, trapped, oh god, pushed into this little space and crowded in it too, not allowed the very idea of privacy. She can feel every exhale Ryoshu makes on her skin and in her nose. Burnt tobacco, unpleasant, all-consuming, chokes her up and stings at her eyes, especially at such moments Ryoshu doesn’t consider exhaling the smoke to the side worth it, genuinely transfixed by some detail on Don Quixote’s body or maybe entirely purposefully, following the instruction to the letter. Then the warmth hits after a moment, and Don Quixote can’t help but shudder, causing Ryoshu to squeeze at her arms even harder, warning, some sharp nail to it. “Uhhh, my lady,” she whines in response. Ryoshu looks pleased, takes another drag, then shakes the ash off on top of Don Quixote’s breast.
“You’re such a freak,” she breathes out with the smoke.
Don Quixote stares up at her, a little teary-eyed. It’s hard to find something “in-character” to say. There are only two things that float up quickly: one is pointing out what an insane person Ryoshu is herself, clearly getting off on feeling like she’s forcing her down and hurting her; the second one is repeating to please just do what she was begged for or maybe kiss Don Quixote at least. “Ah?” she says in the end, voice weak.
“I could’ve guessed it from the beginning but,” Ryoshu moves her hand down as if she’s about to do that, then just squishes her breast up with a thumb, “I did underestimate you. N.B.M.”
The end of the cigarette almost grazes Don Quixote when Ryoshu busies herself with handling her chest, fingers rough and stiff, pinching at the side, cupping it underneath with a degree of uncharacteristic gentleness. It’s like she’s holding a bunny: Don Quixote imagines it and laughs. A fluffy little bunny, or a baby kitten, in her burn scarred palm, yawning and snoozing, propping its head on the bend of her fingers, cozying itself up, all the while Ryoshu stares at it, sweet, caring, just a bit of confusion and concern in her gaze. Ryoshu tilts her head in curiosity but doesn’t ask, dipping down instead.
She mouths at the skin of her breast, dry lips and wet tongue, then doesn’t waste any more time and bites violently on as much of a chunk as she can, next to another bite that already has bloomed deep burgundy. Don Quixote can feel just how much she’s focusing on the incisors specifically. She grinds them in like she’s trying to rip flesh and pull it apart, like she is the bloodfiend with a mind fractured by starvation and denial. Oh, it does enough. Don Quixote gasps, her whole chest seizing, tensing so hard the gasp barely has a voice to it. Ryoshu dribbles a strand of saliva on her chest and comes up with her tongue slightly out and her lips red. She’s beautiful, Don Quixote thinks; such a beautiful person, such an enigmatic one, and her smooth movement gets so weirdly attractive, erotic even, when she puts just a bit of flair on her normal disposition. Don Quixote considers if it’s a subjective thing or something other sinners could agree on, but doesn’t really get to an answer, because Ryoshu, eyes half-lidded, takes another smoke, then moves her arm.
Papery cigarette stub bends and crushes under the press of Ryoshu’s fingers, exactly like Don Quixote does. She digs in under the collarbone, above the chest, somewhere in the middle there – it’s a difficult thing to figure out the exact spot clearly because it burns, the sting spreads around, the pressure adding to the hurt and the deep swirling in her stomach. Don Quixote’s spine keeps the strain, keeps the upwards bend, arching into Ryoshu’s hand instead of fleeing. She can only cry out in the short moment of Ryoshu withdrawing, before she throws the stub away and returns with curious prodding fingertips on the fresh burn. The stub hits the floor with a tiny noise and syncs up to another heatwave down Don Quixote’s belly that makes her quiver.
“Is that what you’ve imagined? Was it nice?” Ryoshu cackles, pushing at the burn.
It’s a peculiar thing to vocalize. Asking for something insane like that is way easier than saying you actually enjoyed it after the fact. Don Quixote rolls a possible response over on her tongue, considers nodding, saying a short yes, just keeping quiet – it’s a bit unfortunate Ryoshu doesn’t like not having her questions answered, especially in this domineering state of mind. Ryoshu reminds her of it quite quickly too, digging claws into her collarbone. “O-Oh, lady Ryoshu, yes,” she says.
“What a predicament,” Ryoshu drones, a smirk transferring to her eye, giving her those pretty creases in the corners that convey nothing but mockery now, “Nursefathers used to punish me this way, and H.Y.A.”
It takes a second to really register, with Ryoshu’s short nails rummaging around her chest. Don Quixote can feel her limbs twitch in response, not out of desire this time. “Um!!” she gets out before she knows it, “I beg thy forgiveness if this brings up any such thi–”
“Oh, S.I.,” Ryoshu cuts her off with a palm sharply traveling up Don Quixote’s neck, squishing down the windpipe momentarily on its way, “It doesn’t bother me.”
It surely does, Don Quixote thinks. She wants to keep talking but she’d be shut down quick and easy again if she does: Ryoshu keeps the scarred hand there right under her chin. The touch is so firm it seems like she’s just about to bear down, just for the fun of it. She’s finally looking at Don Quixote’s face, too, with an evaluating gaze. Don Quixote stares back in an attempt to engage in this silent conversation, even if she isn’t sure what they’re conversing about exactly, with one hand on her throat, one hand holding hers up high. Ryoshu looks calm. There’s not a sliver of distress in any of her features, nor is there the lost in her head expression she gets sometimes when thinking about the shreds of the past that she has – both of which Don Quixote would prefer to avoid at a moment like this. Don Quixote weighs it all up mentally.
Then bares her neck some more, tilts her head to the side, rubs the underside of her chin on Ryoshu’s hand, as if demanding attention. The woman clicks her tongue and moves her fingers up to the jaw, pushing into the bone. “Oh yeah,” she utters, “just go along.” Don Quixote goes along. The worry isn’t too difficult to overcome, especially as Ryoshu puts a hand back on her and slides around. She doesn’t go back to the burn except for putting a kiss onto it, seemingly satisfied.
Her interest shifts to bruises though, touching each one of them she can see as if counting, the newer red ones Ryoshu left, and the older darkening ones – Dante would not turn the clock for a bruise or a dozen of them, unless there’s internal bleeding or broken bone. A couple of those on top of Don Quixote’s stomach connect into a single big one, with barely any edges that define them as separate. Ryoshu’s hand ghosts over them. Oh, if she presses, it would hurt, Don Quixote thinks, and it’s a scarily erotic thought.
“Is it from those Thumb minions?” Ryoshu asks, tracing along the outline.
“Ah, ‘tis right!” Don Quixote says excitedly. “The solar plexus of mine was the target, I recall. But those scoundrels couldst not knap it a single time.”
“Hm,” Ryoshu hovers over the bruise, and the restraint it takes for her not to bear down is so palpable it makes Don Quixote hold her breath, “Y.D.W.”
There's another one she finds, just a bit of purplish tint coming from under Don Quixote's underwear. This one, a smaller, less painful looking thing, she allows herself to push and poke at, hooking her fingers under the band unceremoniously. Don Quixote is close to certain Ryoshu bites at her lower lip momentarily.
“Take those off,” Ryoshu commands as she lets the band of her boxers snap back against her stomach and frees her arms. She even moves aside just a bit, allowing Don Quixote some movement to reach down – even then, she still hesitates for a moment in a surge of embarrassment.
She can guess she’s just short of soaked at this point, and it’s probably noticeable on her underwear anyway, at least noticeable enough that Ryoshu’s noticed even without approaching her there. In itself, it wouldn’t be that bad, it wouldn’t even be surprising for anyone, with how excitable and easy she is. Ryoshu has pushed her around for a little bit, put out a cigarette on her just now, handled her neck and basically threatened to choke her out; it feels different to admit how weirdly turned on she is off of this whole thing. ”Uh-hn,” Don Quixote sobs as she pushes her legs back together and tries to drag the band down.
She attempts to make it appealing, but the struggle is clumsier than she would’ve wished for. She’s shaky and excited, so the process quickly turns almost comedic, with the fabric catching under her pelvis for a moment. Ryoshu is content to watch from beside her, the pose nonchalant to the highest extent with her head propped up on her knee. So attractive – Don Quixote thinks about kissing her and falters in unclothing herself until Ryoshu gives her a pointed look.
She gets back to fondling Don Quixote as soon as she pulls the boxers off. Don Quixote leans into the grasp on her thighs, and Ryoshu gives her a melodic hum, gripping at the flesh tighter. She’s confusingly eager to touch, confusingly physical, despite that general nonchalance. Maybe it’s not despite even; maybe it’s just logical and isn’t supposed to be surprising with how recognizable the wall she sets up is. But Don Quixote would be the first to admit she isn’t the cleverest or the sharpest and she couldn’t figure it out from the way Ryoshu never shied away from getting up close, both in a bloody battle and in a personal interaction. Her usual disposition roused genuine hesitation to approach her at all. Only in hindsight was it clear that, while that wall existed mostly on purpose, she wasn’t that opposed to being approached, and the hindsight, unfortunately, was attainable only after Ryoshu, kindly responding to Don Quixote’s courting endeavors (back then, before the memory's returned), has shoved her into a corner to feel her up and kiss her breathless.
Oh, she loves the touch. Giving it, taking it. Any physicality, really. Don Quixote appreciates it, since she is also plagued by the need for it.
Ryoshu of the present doesn’t appreciate her getting lost in the thought though, so brings her back with a sharp slap. Don Quixote gasps loudly, surprised, and presses her legs together.
“Hm. It’d be great to,” Ryoshu stops to hum, “Tie your legs right here,” she grabs Don Quixote’s legs midway between the hip and the knee, holding them together. “Tie your arms too, the same rope.”
Don Quixote chews at her lip. She wants to look at Ryoshu badly enough but knows there’s no way she can hold her gaze when she talks like this, horny and focused on what she’s doing. Oh, the creativity. “And, prithee tell, what then?” she whispers.
Ryoshu snickers, leaning to the side enough that Don Quixote can’t see her fully, covered up by her own thighs, then drags a hand, like a cutting blade, down her cunt, through the slick and squelch. It’s hard for Don Quixote to stop her legs from trembling and kicking up slightly – in fact, it’s impossible, because she does it anyway, then shakily sighs. Ryoshu’s hand doesn’t move away, still lingers around without doing anything except for teasing really.
“I would not desire for dear Rocinante to hit thy face, my lady,” she replies. It is, in fact, quite saddening to never be able to part with it, despite how comforting Rocinante is for her, despite how well it keeps her from losing her mind. Indeed, making the beast with two backs was never the first on the list of things she would like to be barefoot for. But… it would have been nice, still.
Ryoshu makes a thoughtful noise and taps an even rhythm on her skin. She keeps quiet and motionless for a long enough moment for Don Quixote to bend to the side, stretching her neck out to take a peek, only to be met with the image of Ryoshu staring at her own hand, the side of it. She wants to ask if something happened at first, before suddenly recognizing just how wet and glistening it is.
From the pinky to the base, actually. And Ryoshu studies it with that detached look on her face, as if there’s not a single thing in this whole situation that impacts her at all, this feigned general disinterest, with just her brow slightly lifted. Don Quixote, shaken with the feeling of pure horror, can only produce a choked yelp and back away, in time to notice Ryoshu’s satisfied smirk coming up.
“In that case,” she shifts her hands around Don Quixote’s legs, one clean and one filthy, under her knees, before – bending her in half in one fluid movement, pressing hard. Feet up, over Don Quixote’s own head, Rocinante almost touching the headboard. The lower half of her body lifted off the sheets. The only thing that Ryoshu can probably see being her ass and— “Something like this. You’re flexible enough.”
“Lady Ryoshu, oh,” Don Quixote says in a weak voice and gets a hm? in response. There are probably many things she could say right now: confirm that she likes the idea an embarrassing amount, or point out some concerns with it too, just so Ryoshu would push her around some more, or remark how Ryoshu didn’t even need to use more than her arms to fold her, or even just plead with Ryoshu to touch her since she’s really feeling needier by the second. But, oh, she can’t get a single real breath in. Her diaphragm is compressed tight. The words come out unfinished when she tries.
It’s not even the folding in half thing, really. It’s mostly the incessant rush shooting around her body, burning at her insides. It’s the fact that she feels even smaller, more caught up and crowded like this, and Ryoshu, cackling from up above, could just shove her fingers in oh so easily. It’s her damn confusing libido that’s been given sort of a permission to show its face lately.
She shakes her head, gets out a strangled ‘tis nothing, and it thrashes her whole body a little, electricity zapping through her guts, a violent twist in her stomach that doesn’t let up quickly, the muscles in her thighs tensing hard, arms splayed on the sides as if they’re useless to do anything but grab the sheets. Her whole lower body clenches, and oh, how visible it probably is, with her cunt being right at Ryoshu’s face, with the sheer power of it. Ryoshu holds her there for a long enough time to think she has genuinely changed her plans. It’s not that they had any concrete plans, or at least it’s Don Quixote who didn’t. But she sort of knew what was coming before and now she wasn’t sure. A haunting perspective. One that definitely makes her agitated.
Ryoshu, in a gesture of mercy, lowers her down in a measured pace, and Don Quixote, with a long exhale, pulls herself out of this half terrified half aroused to no limits state of mind. It works but not entirely. The strain is still there in her core. She can't really stop considering the possibility of Ryoshu forcing her down until she's just about snapping in half, choking her with only the pressure of her body weight on the diaphragm — ah, surely that's impossible; then she could just stretch a hand out easily enough and squeeze Don Quixote's throat until bruised. Ryoshu stares her down with a devious expression. It seems like she can read into Don Quixote's mind, which would probably never be needed. She has enough awareness to be embarrassed by the conflicted daze that is, most likely, very clear upon her face. She's also embarrassed enough by the thought of asking Ryoshu to light another cig and repeat.
Ryoshu stares her down with a devious expression, stunningly so. She's not putting on a show or playing that up in any way for both of them, it seems: this is a genuine kind of smug satisfaction. Not even because she's leading their little exchange, oh, it's but a pleasant añadido. Putting a finger on what exactly she gets out of this is a more complicated thing — or, maybe, putting a finger on what she doesn't.
This is the delightful agony of dealing with a person like Ryoshu, truly: not even the unpredictableness of her actions, but this streak of sadistic curiosity that moved her, masked by the stoicism of a swordswoman. A youngling’s sense of wonder that hasn’t atrophied but has decayed and turned near-madness by what she has been through. When such a thing is given a clearance, then a channel from which to pour, even without intending to do so, oh – it blossoms fast and gets out of control just as quickly. Ryoshu held her inhibitions close as well as she could, a tight grip, only rarely letting things slip, which couldn’t be anything less than respectable. Don Quixote could see the value and beauty in providing her with an outlet still – even though it involved being thrown around like that. Or especially, maybe. It was never that altruistic, admittedly.
Now, for example, Ryoshu seems like she's had enough of playing the staring game. She clicks her tongue — just loud and sudden enough to make Don Quixote shiver, — then shoves herself back into Don Quixote's personal space, forcing her limbs to fall apart (with a terrifying squelch from in between her legs) and move out of the way of whatever idea she has. Don Quixote is pliant and behaved through the slightly stilted feel in her joints, and Ryoshu comments on it, smirking. “Your obedience,” she says, “I.L.G.”
Don Quixote doesn't remember ever being described as obedient, because she never really was it in any separate part of her life, but oh is it strange to hear, in this mocking of a tone. It pulls on something, in her chest and her stomach, tangling up in the vertebrae, one long string, rough worn edges, forcing out a sigh noticeable enough for Ryoshu's self-satisfied expression to grow even more so.
She settles to the side, Don Quixote's leg in between hers to keep it nice and unmoving where she needs it. It's a weird positioning, Don Quixote thinks as Ryoshu leans in closer, brushing up the fabric of her half buttoned up shirt against Don Quixote's bare skin; does she want to cuddle? Her pacing, heated mind catches on the thought, contemplates on it. She wants to ask for a moment, bites at her lip, opens her mouth just to close it back up. It would be somewhat out of character, truly. It would be a first. It wouldn't be bad at all though, no matter how turned on Don Quixote is and Ryoshu seems. Cuddling is… nice, probably.
“Hands up,” Ryoshu says, gracious enough to not shorten her words. Huh. Don Quixote slowly abides, letting go of the sheets she forgot she was gripping, yet blinks at her in wonder still.
“Lady Ryoshu, might I query what thou art…” she starts, in a voice raspy and unexpectedly low. Ryoshu’s brow twitches up. Don Quixote trails off right before Ryoshu regains the grip on her wrists – and practically shoves them into the pillow over her head back again, like she’s asserting her dominance.
“No,” she replies with a mischievous little grin. Part of Don Quixote awakens once more with the sole purpose of wanting to roll her eyes; another part is wordless and thoughtless and needy, arching into her. She doesn’t even get to decide on the reaction though, because Ryoshu decides to stop teasing it out a bit quicker and puts a hand over Don Quixote’s hipbone with intention.
A rough stitchline of her shirt brushes against Don Quixote’s side as Ryoshu moves her hand down, smoothing over the curls of hair, the lower, the wetter, sticking together, and over her cunt. Ryoshu’s hands are lukewarm but feel too cool on the hot flesh when she touches, making Don Quixote writhe, – just gliding with the fingertips for a second, then going firm immediately, parting the labia. Don Quixote trembles, thrusts up into the hand, abdomen tightening, bumps her clit into the curved palm, and trembles some more with a hiccuping moan. She stares at the way Ryoshu’s hand keeps in place steadily for that, then flicks up way too quickly, like she’s specifically trying to disrupt the rhythm Don Quixote wanted to set. “Is that what you want?” Her laugh is so close to Don Quixote’s ear she unintentionally turns her head over, only to see that Ryoshu herself isn't looking anywhere but down, at the way the fingers retreat slightly, connected by a string of slick, before going back in.
Don Quixote wants to give a response. She could honestly say that yes, it is what she wants and needs, or play it up a little so Ryoshu showed no mercy. Instead, she cries out, voice breaking, when Ryoshu locks her leg tighter and strokes into her harder.
Ryoshu is rough about it, like she always is. She goes straight for it with preamble – granted, burning and biting might be considered such, – and Don Quixote, untouched for a while now except for kisses and bumping shoulders in a fight, grown unaccustomed to physicality once again, oh so easy and sensitive, can't help but whimper every time Ryoshu’s calloused fingertips, a hint of claw to it, rub just a little too violently, barely having enough time to breathe. She’s so wet it’s downright shameful and also makes it tough to be this harsh, but Ryoshu manages to keep it overly so. Her grasp on Don Quixote’s wrists tightens too. Don Quixote wonders if that’s because of the strain, because she’s holding herself up with that same arm, muscles defined and beautiful. The thought is broken off pretty quickly when Ryoshu strokes so hard the slick splashes onto her thigh, and Don Quixote gasps, and Ryoshu snorts.
It's a lot; unbelievably a lot. Don Quixote goes along but the tension is probably visible. Oh, surely visible: both in her entire body shaking and her hips rolling erratically, but also in her face distorting, because now Ryoshu is looking at her face, eyes lidded and prodding, — Don Quixote catches the gaze as she looks around the room desperately and can’t bear returning it.
Eyes on her body parts feel impersonal. Maybe that’s just how Ryoshu works, with the general peculiarity of her mind, or maybe she has noticed being mean gets Don Quixote off quite well, which is a presumptuous but possible conclusion. Eyes directly on her face for some reason feel different. Intimate? No. But deep and close, vulnerable, with an uncomfortable edge. A little torturous – especially paired with the bruising hold on the wrists and the rough pace of the strokes. Don Quixote shivers again, and now it’s a full-body thing, to which Ryoshu responds by catching her clit in between her fingers despite the slip.
She doesn’t really move for a moment. Don Quixote, dizzy and out of it just a little, thinks she’s given some time to calm down. She thinks of how to put the scattered words into the right order to say she’s sorry for thrashing around so much, turns towards her, takes a deep belly breath, then chokes on it with a wheeze when Ryoshu squeezes in a hard stroke and doesn’t let up.
“Thou!” Don Quixote forces out, but can only proceed with a wavering “hnnn–” through her teeth, throwing her head back. Ryoshu doesn’t insist that she finishes her thought and seems perfectly content just listening to her whine incoherently and, ah, getting closer little by little. There’s a rush, another wave in her guts, but this one makes Don Quixote kick up the unrestricted leg and get a very wet sharp slap on the thigh, as if Ryoshu has her hands not only on Don Quixote’s cunt, but tangled up in her insides.
“Hm,” Ryoshu says thoughtfully, shifting her weight and grazing Don Quixote’s side with the sharp side of her pelvis, “V.I.”
“What?” Don Quixote pants, open-mouthed, wide-eyed, eyes shifting from the vicious hand in between her legs to Ryoshu’s pink-dusted face. She isn’t even trying to mask the grin that’s a little bit too evil for comfort. It’s just evil enough for Don Quixote to moan about every time she sees it though.
“Very interesting,” Ryoshu explains in a low voice. She finally eases up on the direct strokes which is better, yet not by much, because she’s still mean and rough and insistent on fucking Don Quixote stupid.
“What?...” She repeats. It sounds like she’s already stupid – there’s no time in between her shallow breaths to even get out a proper sentence, let alone embellish it. She tries to cover her face on impulse but only struggles against Ryoshu’s hold.
“You’re really turned on, so I wonder,” Ryoshu goes for a circle or two with her fingers, smearing the slick around, the thumb digging into the pubic bone. Don Quixote focuses on how pretty her fingers are for a second, before Ryoshu goes back and flicks her clit up. “...did you miss me this much? Or do you like pain this much?”
Oh. The sound coming out of Don Quixote is almost a sob after a crying spell.
She remembers saying all kinds of embarrassing things back at the time of amnesia – that Don Quixote professed love quickly and loudly, vocalized whatever was on her mind, used the most gauche language during sex, oh, she saw not a single boundary. She knew that one is still her, the same persona that helps her heal the wounded heart and the weary soul, so it shouldn’t matter, it shouldn’t be anything at all, yet in particular contexts, it still was – something, that is. She is patient, oh so patient with herself, waiting as the journey unfolded, working with what she has, playing it at times in hopes some day she would not be playing anymore.
But both of those options are sort of horrific, one worse than the other. Don Quixote weighs them in her hectic mind as she digs her flushed cheek into the sheets, somehow cool and pleasant. “I, ah! I hath not felt thy touch for–”
Ryoshu does something that Don Quixote can’t see. It’s sudden and intense enough to startle her into a wordless gasp. “Not that long,” Ryoshu finishes for her while she’s busy shaking, “But you’re always needy.”
Oh, she thinks both are true, Don Quixote can’t prove it but can feel it in her very bones, shame, and arousal, and vulnerability, all mixed into the spinal fluid. Both are true. It’s not hard to deduce. She gives Ryoshu a sideways glance, like she’s scared to face her directly. The woman smirks and then sits back, letting Don Quixote’s wrists and clit out of her grip. She’s a bit late to realize it: she chases the hand and thrusts up into the air, then noisily exhales, trying to regain the noblewoman’s dignity and waiting for the need to mellow out at least a little.
“Hold onto that,” Ryoshu says casually, pointing at the headboard. Now that she isn’t holding them and that Don Quixote can move them, they hurt like they're injured. Oh, that’s going to be a bother, she thinks, and the thought of her weak hands struggling to hold a weapon stirs something in her anyway, just because she's still at her edge and has to keep herself from grinding on nothingness.
She obliges quickly, obediently, grabbing onto the wooden board, cool and sleek. There are indents under her fingers, and she automatically counts them, one, two, three, until Ryoshu leans in closer and kisses her on the open mouth she didn't know was open. The smell of smoke is still there, flooding the nose, potent and harsh, yet now it's dissipated enough to let the human scent come through, the sweat and the musk and the edge of sweetness to the salt so nice Don Quixote shivers for no other reasons. Ryoshu speaks into her mouth, probably saying something like good, she can barely hear it, but she feels it, in Ryoshu's lips moving and tongue clicking right before pushing into hers in such a filthy manner she can't help but reply with a thin breathy noise.
Ryoshu keeps Don Quixote's mouth busy as she snakes a still wet hand down her body and comes back to what she was previously doing. If she didn't start it all by slow and steady, she certainly wouldn't do so now; Don Quixote jerks up, her chest against Ryoshu's, and wonders if her pounding heart is as perceptible as the way her lower body seizes.
It goes fast after. Don Quixote thrusts up for more, into the blooming heat, into the overwhelming wave. Ryoshu laughs into her mouth, a sound so low it vibrates in Don Quixote's throat, and does some sort of a violent motion with her whole arm — one that makes Don Quixote tremble all over, sob, grip at the board so hard it creaks. Ryoshu's shirt shifts to the side from it too, one of her bare breasts spilling out, and Don Quixote tries to look down, driven by pure reflex, but can only see Ryoshu's eyes from under the dark hair and half-open lids, beautiful and breathtaking, pupils so wide it's frightening. She's compelled to say that or to touch Ryoshu or to do something — but she doesn't have any time to decide because now it's there, a wave so harsh it makes her pant pathetically into Ryoshu's mouth instead of kissing at all, makes her moan in short gasps and arch up, legs trembling from the hip down, eyes shutting, and it's like she's pulsating in her whole body along with the knot in her stomach, deep, shocking.
Ryoshu swallows her cries as she comes, rubbing at her clit in little circles like a gentle lover. There's a smile on her face, wide enough that Don Quixote feels with just her mouth there's something. She bites at Don Quixote's unsteady lip and retreats with a little smack, then does the same with her hand after swiping at the entrance, collecting more slick.
She doesn't really say anything as she looks it over — or shows it off, more likely, since she spreads her fingers so slowly and deliberately, smears it onto Don Quixote's ribcage so firmly it must be on purpose, to make Don Quixote quivering and lightheaded, to test the sentient canvas on her hands some more. She does, although, say something after that, something that Don Quixote doesn't really process before it's too late.
“Keep holding onto it,” she says and shoves her hand back.
Don Quixote does so, barely, even as she seizes so hard it hurts, back arching. “Aah!” she yelps. “This!”
“This?” Ryoshu prods, leaning back to put an arm across her chest, her elbow digging under Don Quixote's collarbone. She's not pushing too roughly now, neither down nor above — there's a fleeting thought in Don Quixote's mind that this masked gentleness is actually sweet, — but it is just too much anyway, with her chest compressed and the fingers directly on her aching clit, on the head of it, pushing it in.
Because now she can't take a proper breath at all, as if Ryoshu licking into her mouth, or scratching at the fresh burn, or stroking so hard it felt violent wasn't doing it well enough.
As if hearing her thoughts, Ryoshu flicks the clit to the side in a gesture wider than necessary, like she's slapping it. It strikes like a lightning, fires through the spine, down and up and down again, and the discomfort turns unbearable electricity in a second. Don Quixote throws her head back with a sob that breaks in the middle, turning into a long raspy cry. Oh, Ryoshu takes it as a confirmation and keeps at it, side to side with big harsh strokes, like a pendulum — Don Quixote wants to laugh at it but it only comes out as a series of high-pitched ahs as she shakes her head at the feeling uncontrollably.
“This, is nothing but unkind and—” she continues persistently, even as she's losing her words, “and atrocious, my lady.” Getting out a full sentence from under Ryoshu's fingertips feels like a thing to celebrate, so she does, with a little smile on her face and looking at Ryoshu bending down once more, softening the pressure on her chest, through a haze in her eyes.
“I think you like it unkind,” Ryoshu near-whispers into the skin over her ribcage, then withdraws the hand and raises it with intent. The thought, no, the feeling of being miniscule and trapped floods her senses for a second, before her mind rushes to rationalize it, but it burns at Don Quixote enough by then, before the slap really comes — once, twice, then thrice on the splayed thigh, before putting the last one right in between her legs and holding her palm there on impact.
The haze in Don Quixote's eyes gets more thick, then spills out over the temple and the bridge of her nose as she pushes her face into the bed again with a moan, mouth open. It's a stilted rhythm at which she grinds on Ryoshu's hand, like she herself can't decide if it's too much or not enough yet – and she really can't.
Instead of getting her fingers back where she wants, Ryoshu moves in closer, nosing at Don Quixote's face. “Right?” she says, and there's that caring edge to it as well, although it takes a moment to recognize, electricity fried brain and all.
“Uh-huh, I,” Don Quixote tries, although nothing connects properly, “I, ah, right.” Ryoshu bites at her neck just as a little physical gesture before shifting the palm.
Even if she’s way gentler than she could’ve been, it’s overwhelming and truly just atrocious. Even though the animalistic desire to flee and fight loses its desperate edge little by little, going back to being more pleasant with a slight sting, Don Quixote’s body is still high strung, sweaty and hot against Ryoshu’s shirt, face wet with sweat and a bit of tears too, and she can’t wipe it off because she’s gripping at the board so hard her wrists sting more. She thinks she can smell herself in the air, her own body odor coming through the persistent smoke and soap, possibly even the musk of her nethers every time Ryoshu flicks up, interrupting the pendulum swing movement she’s still sticking to. Don Quixote remembers finding it hot and exciting on Ryoshu, this heady musky scent, but there’s no way of knowing if Ryoshu shares that sentiment – and there’s also no way Don Quixote can bring herself to care about it for more than a moment when the pace picks up.
It takes Don Quixote a moment to realize that Ryoshu has put the arm that was across her chest away. The realization only happens when Ryoshu sits up, a beautiful curve to her torso, and reaches to the side of the bed. Don Quixote hums out a questioning eh?, following the movement through the fog in her gaze. Ryoshu smirks, purposefully shattering the noise into a breathless gasp with a string of firm strokes on her clit, and Don Quixote can’t follow her for a second, eyes shutting down, because it feels bruising – or bruised already, as if Ryoshu’s grinded down the skin and the flesh, scratching at her nerves endings now with those scarred fingers, sliding all the way from the fingertip to the root in the most vicious manner, up and down and up and down–
It’s not like she didn’t realize she can orgasm again, it’s that she didn’t think about doing so, especially so quickly, mind conflicted and confused with the sting and intensity. The feeling of heat dripping into the veins in her legs is an unexpected punch to the gut, and Don Quixote tries to curl in on herself, sob hoarse from in between her clenched teeth, like from a real punch.
The moment is long and heavy but it passes still, and when she can open her eyes again, there’s Ryoshu holding a lighter. It clicks so loud Don Quixote shakes, then doesn’t stop shaking. “You’re so easy to mistreat,” Ryoshu notes, taking the cigarette away from her lips, “you love everything that comes your way.”
Don Quixote's hips bucking up really impacts the tone she tries to employ. It doesn't sound mad or really upset, just needy, when she forces out a lady Ryoshu! Ryoshu laughs, takes a drag, then flattens her hand against Don Quixote. “Alright,” she says, and, admittedly, her disinterested tone is betrayed as well — by the eyes wandering around, catching on everything on Don Quixote, by the tension in her brow, by the way she breathes out heavily, by the redness all over her face, her chest, “I.T.”
She doesn't discourage Don Quixote moving on her own too this time. It's not like Don Quixote needs it, really, because she's almost there and because Ryoshu's focused on making her come now, every movement of her hand leading to it, side to side, with the dizzying, strangling tempo. Don Quixote has enough air to whimper in short spills from her throat, but the sound is close to none, drowned out in her own ears by the squelch every time she thrusts up.
“Ah, dios,” she draws out in between. The tension in her muscles is so raw and jarring it's as if the heat poured into her veins finally tears them open, overflowing from the inside, and it laps at her insides, at her bones like flames. Don Quixote thinks she tries to verbalize it: there's an aftertaste of some words on her tongue, and there's also a peculiar gaze Ryoshu gives her, grinding with a base of her palm harsher.
Ryoshu is quiet for a second, lips just a bit ajar. It cracks into a smile then. “Yeah. So easy,” she drones, letting the hand that holds the cigarette lay on Don Quixote’s thigh casually. The pressure comforting, but the cherry of it so disturbingly close to the skin it almost unwinds the knot in Don Quixote's stomach at once.
She gasps out a please.
“Go. No. Ha. Shi.,” Ryoshu responds and pushes it in against her thrashing and trembling body.
Oh, that does it. Don Quixote, throat locked, can't make a sound as her hands clench onto the headboard, as her mouth falls open, as her shoulders twitch and her thighs seize, as she pulses into Ryoshu's hand in sync with her heartbeat. The soreness all throughout her body peaks, dripping drop by drop into the dizzying release, merging into one another until they're unrecognizable, overwhelming.
Until they let up, and Don Quixote falls back heavily, only then realizing she went up into a backbend. She slaps a hand on her forehead, giggles at it and keeps on giggling until she hears another lighter click.
“What art thou planning, lady Ryoshu?” Don Quixote groans, looking down.
Ryoshu waves a lit cigarette around. She's sitting cross-legged at Don Quixote's side, with the shirt still on and unbuttoned. Don Quixote wishes for another kiss. “Didn't finish,” she simply says.
“Ah,” Don Quixote makes what feels like a very stupid face. There's a moment in between hearing it and actually processing. “Forsooth, let me aid you?” she finally suggests, dragging her legs up and pointedly ignoring the burn she sees on the side.
There’s a press on her knee. “Didn't finish the cig because I put it out,” Ryoshu rolls her eyes at even having to explain herself, “L.D.”
Don Quixote kind of considers protesting, and possibly asking what she meant by that last thing she said while fucking her, and then returning her the freak title because Don Quixote’s clearly not the only one who’s bearing it here. She grins and lies back down for now instead. “Aye, take thy pleasure, lady Ryoshu.”
_________
[Go. No. Ha. Shi.: ごまめの歯ぎしり — Little fish grinding their teeth]