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It was her turn now.
Don Quixote was sat on the benches, being in silence for once, watching over the dead skies of the night that brought solemn to most people who dared face it. Despite already becoming used to it in her recent adventures it still managed to create a look of wonder in the sinner's eyes, as if planting her face against the most beautiful painting she has ever seen. She kicked her feet and balance around, maintaining herself entertained by remembering the favorite tales that she has heard of and the countless adventures faced up until now, rephrasing them in order to make as much of a spectacle as possible. Still, fulfilling her duty, the sinner remained in high alert to any of the littlest of threats from a foul villain who could come to cause any harm to the bus, to the point even the opening of the backdoor immediately caused her to grab the massive lance and get up, pointing at the direction of the noise.
Instead of a villain waiting for its demise, there was a familiar silhouette of Ryōshū. A roller coaster of emotions immediately formed in Don Quixote's mind; at first she was going to greet her fellow happily, scream of a respectable title and beg for forgiveness with a smile for her sudden aggression, then her mind switched to be afraid and quiet, to take a step back and observe Ryōshū carefully. After all, she was always a dangerous one if the manager was not around, impossible to read as even in the middle of the night she stood still with that glare, lighting up a cigarette, not allowing herself to be read for even a second.
Don Quixote takes a deep breath, finally deciding to speak as she places her lance down with a hand to her hips, trying to offer some confidence.
"Apologies for mine sudden distrust, it is my duty to watch for Lady Mephistopheles ton—"
"I.K"
She didn't seem to be in a good mood at all, walking to the benches and sitting down, spreading her legs to fully occupy two seats at once, leaving Don Quixote in an awkward stance until she decided to walk back to where she sat, now seeming so disappointed at the awkward silence that filled the hallway, not even her thoughts wishing to speak to her.
"Lady Ryōshū." — the sinner begins, swallowing her saliva before continuing — "wouldst thou wish to speak of what bothers thee tonight?"
So the silent one took a long slow drag of the cigarette that stood in her lips, soon holding it with two fingers and blowing the smoke away, eyes focusing and watching it dance away with the little wind that got inside the bus.
"C.S. Room feels too warm. I'm hungry."
It's all she said, leaving Don Quixote puzzled as her mind did its best to study everything around the two in order to understand what the acronym meant, finally coming to a conclusion in her own mind, nodding to herself as to show a hint of pride for understanding, though it was quickly replaced by concern as the unfamiliar discomfort comes from the lady in the next bench, for she has never seen Ryōshū complain about matters like these before.
"Hm... Ah, perhaps a simple meal tonight should be enough to fulfill the desire of thy stomach—"
"S.T.F.U."
She knows that one well already, and like a dog afraid of the lightning she squirmed on her seat. What could possibly be going on Ryōshū's mind? And how could Don Quixote help? Should she even help? Or was it better to leave things as they are until morning comes? Regardless of what she thought of, the swordswoman raised from her seat quickly after, walking to Don Quixote with that ominous presence of always, standing still in front of her.
All that the bloodfiend did was watch once she felt the shadow being cast upon her, trying to decipher what the other was thinking of... and in the blink of an eye she suddenly felt a burning pain being placed in a singular little spot of her neck as for a second it turned into an ashtray for the cigar. She looked upward in shock, moving her back against the window as the pain made itself known to her nerves, and what met her eyes was the expected sight of Ryōshū's lips contorting into a smirk. Her hand rose to feel the skin that was burnt, hissing in pain.
"F-For what reason?!"
And the fourth sinner kept smiling at her direction. Every time Ryōshū laid her eyes upon Don Quixote there were multiple emotions running through the sinner's mind; of frustration, of amusement and even a slight amount of melancholy, all for the memories of when that mask came to crumble and all the artistic potential she held was revealed from the bloodshed that was caused in that park. How her crimson eyes would shine in the battlefield as guts were spilled everywhere, seemingly at random but it all came together into one majestic, chaotic piece... All for it to change once Rocinante returned, back to that bumbling fool who screamed at the top of her lungs about nonsense after nonsense, of meaningless justice, making the smoker's ears bleed of boredom, and all she wished to do was to find a way to make her stop speaking of this.
Ryōshū launched herself on top of the third, resting one of her knees on the free seat and pushing the other down, hands quick to wrap themselves around the pale skin; it felt so smooth, so clean, and it annoyed the artist to see it unharmed for such a long time. Don Quixote's response is as expected, trying to push Ryōshū back by her shoulders, before quickly shifting focus to the wrists that suffocated her.
"ACK— R-Release me!" — the sinner attempted to scream, but it was useless as the air was running short every second.
The smirk grew wider, seeming satisfied at once for how Don Quixote struggled on her seat, and Ryōshū found an opening to overwhelm the poor sinner even more, sliding her knee forward to violently strike against the sinner's crotch, a faint whimper violently escaping her lips, forcing the little air she had left out of her lungs as the area that was hit became to heat up. The grasp around Don Quixote's neck did not waver, the desire to leave a mark on it using her bare hands was as clear as the gentle moonlight that entered through the bus' windows.
"You sound better without air in your lungs."
Amber eyes rolled upward, unable to close but desperately wishing to run away from this sight, her vision is quick to turn blurry and her mind to become foggy, struggling to think of anything that could possibly get her out of this situation. The fourth watched in amusement, before she closed her eyes and took a very deep, rough breath, exhaling slowly as her hands suddenly let go of Don Quixote, who immediately gasped for all the air that was forced out of her, saliva spitting out while she loudly coughed, tears would appear and roll down her cheeks. She tried to recompose herself, looking away from Ryōshū in embarrassment, in misery.
...Then, after a moment where the artist only watched her struggle, Don Quixote finally spoke, face covered in red.
"I-Is that... the hunger thoust speak of...?"
Ryōshū squinted her eyes.
"Y."
That smirk returned, filled with malice as her hands slowly trailed down through the sinner's slim body, squeezing and holding the little fat that was present, taking out quiet and shy whimpers from her, the complete contrast from the pained groans from earlier. Finally, scarred hands came to unbuckle the belt, but were quickly interrupted. Her amusement became undone, eyes facing upward in direction of Don Quixote.
"I-It would be most— o-outrageous if we were to p-practice such... i-intimacy... in here..."
Her voice was quickly trailing off into shaky breaths, uncertain of her own desires when it came to something so nasty. But Ryōshū showed little care to what she thought was right or wrong in this situation, proceeding to angrily continue from where she stopped, taking the belt off, unbuttoning her pants, violently pulling it down while Don Quixote could do nothing but hide her face from the embarrassment, putting her arms in front of her face, leaving Ryōshū to see nothing but the gritted teeth in a nervous, sweaty expression. Seeing this pathetic display, she couldn't help but smile.
Now everything that was under her were the Fixer branded boxers, coated in a bright yellow with several different symbols coming all from the same Color, stained by the fluids the sinner has let out in excitement ever since those hands were felt around her neck.
"Ohoh... Y.F."
"D-Do not s-s-speak of mine— Gh.."
But it was impossible to speak with such a hazy brain at that moment, only coming to clear for the few seconds spent without another's hand being felt over her fragile and surprisingly clean skin. The feeling was quick to return, though, as in the blink of an eye the boxers were gone as well, finally showing off exactly the fourth hungered for tonight. Ryōshū then finally moved, crouching on the floor in front of the bench while she pulled and pushed her pray along until Don Quixote was sat, her popliteal fossa meeting Ryōshū's shoulders as a frankly uncomfortable rest... but that didn't matter.
For someone who seemed so hungry, Ryōshū started off slowly, positioning her mouth near the thighs, keeping her gaze on the shaky and sweaty sinner as her teeth would sink themselves into the pale skin with violent bites—the pain quickly sending a sharp sensation to Don Quixote's body, even more of that horrible fight or flight sensation. But she couldn't run from this, it was impossible to do so when it felt so nice to be appreciated in the artist's own, aggressive way, so all that was done to deal with the pain was suck it up and cover her lips to make sure not a single sound would come out other than the uncontrollable whimpers.
A bite here, another there, one that eventually picked some blood out of her thigh, and to Ryōshū's surprise, it twitched. Not out of pain, but in excitement, easily told by the waterfall that stood right in front of her.
"L-Lady Ryōshū—"
The sinner whined, letting her voice escape to the wind for once. The response quickly came with Ryōshū's teeth leaving her skin, replaced instead by her tongue, licking away the droplets of blood. If Don Quixote could not do this on her, then she'd do it herself. The blonde's hand then slowly went to the artist's dark and short hair, that seemed just slightly brighter tonight with the little bit of light that managed to get inside.
"D.R.M."
Spoke in a firm, bothered tone, a statement that quickly became hypocrisy as Ryōshū did follow the movement that the third's hand pushed her in, closing her eyes as if anticipating a delicious meal that has been in preparation for hours, all for her to taste. Her slick tongue finally left her mouth, taking a lick on the needy clitoris of the hero, who immediately squirmed in her seat, taking a tight hold of the hair. Don Quixote was already expecting an angry cry from the other, scared of what would come to her. Instead, what greeted her eyes when she faced down was Ryōshū biting her own lips in excitement, a smug expression on her face, seeming to enjoy this pathetic showcase.
"Sensitive, aren't you?"
She teased in a low groan before shoving herself in again, this time letting her tongue stay in that same sensitive spot, applying pressure as it tasted the pearl like a hungry sailor, forcing Don Quixote to make as much noise as possible. The struggle from the blonde was so amusing to see, how her legs would twitch, lips shaking unable to contain those pathetic whimpers of someone who didn't want to admit how badly they truly needed it. Slowly, but surely, Ryōshū was getting exactly what she wanted; to make Don Quixote drop the act.
"Ryōshū..."
That hand kept gently touching that dark hair, sometimes giving a little push on instinct. Her tongue went down, to the entrance, shoving itself inside while a free hand was raised to keep stimulating the hero's clit with her thumb, moving it in circles while her tongue tasted all the fluids leaving, feeling how Quixote's walls would clench and tighten from this alone. Looking up to check, the poor girl was teary eyed again, now holding onto the bench instead of trying to cover her mouth; breath would come out uneven and desperate, creating a light fog in front of her, face burning and melting under the artist's every touch and move. Oh, how overwhelmed she felt to be taken like this, feeling a violent need for more and more, wishing that Ryōshū would stop all this slowburn and go straight for it, to tear her apart right then and there; it was painful more than anything.
"W.D.Y.W?" — she questioned, still toying with Don Quixote's button.
"M-M-Mine lad— MmGh—" — quickly interrupted as Ryōshū applied even more pressure with her thumb. — "M-More, Ryōshū, please, I want m-more.."
There it was. No more of the valiant hero, no more of that loud, unbearable speech of justice and righteousness, no more of all that miserable acting. This is everything Ryōshū wanted, and she would show her gratitude.
Switching places with her thumb now, her lips and tongue quickly being launched into that warm little spot, licking and tasting it all over with a hunger unmatched so far, sucking on it like a lollipop. And the now free hand kept three fingers raised that were quickly inserted inside Don Quixote, creating a loud wet sound that echoed through the halls as they went in and out of the crying sinner. Arching her back violently, the blonde finally lost all her binds as a loud moan filled with lust escaped to the bus. Her hands, in a quick, sloppy movement grabbed Ryōshū's head, pushing her inward to make sure not even a second was spent where she didn't felt her cunt being devoured.
Now the bench was truly a mess; soaking wet from the pleasure being forced out of the third, the saliva from the fourth, listening to the struggle of both who were looking for any chance to properly breathe under this sinful moment that seemed to last for hours and hours. It could be one, two or even five in the morning and neither had a single care to give about it, focusing only on each other.
This overstimulation would finally make way for that strange sensation the bloodfiend was feeling. Her legs would lock around the artist's neck, not allowing air to come for her at all while she kept a harsh pace with both her tongue and her fingers, feeling the walls clenching around them, the thighs around her neck shaking. And as expected, both of them felt Don Quixote finally releasing all the pent up cum that has been held for Wings knows how long, one final scream of pleasure filling Ryōshū's now satisfied ears as she made sure to taste all that came in her direction.
After only a second of the last few drops coming out, Don Quixote's whole body would come limp, letting go of her predator who ate the very soul out of her, huffing and puffing in sheer exhaustion, feeling her eyelids coming to weight a ton, all the heat leaving her body as the cold night breeze made itself known. Ryōshū was more than happy with the sight, licking around her lips and all her fingers as one last taste of that sweet nectar before getting up and immediately lighting a cigarette.
"Hey, G.U."
...But no response came, the third was out cold in the seat, snoring quietly and peacefully. A sigh of displeasure came from Ryōshū, seeming disappointed she wouldn't get to watch her little dinner scrambling to put herself back together, and all the embarrassment that came from it. Regardless... she was satisfied for the night.
That next morning, the sinners woke up to Ryōshū being the first up on the front of the bus, watching over a still sleepy Don Quixote.
...Except Dante, who could not possibly stare at either of them in the eye for the next few hours out of sheer embarrassment for all they heard.
And then Saude appeared and she fucked Dante for 8 hours straight. #SAUDANTESUNDAY