Chapter Text
Emil Sinclair, do not fuck this up.
He’s been repeating this to himself for the past minute as he returns the chess board and pieces to their place. Don Quixote was sitting at the foot of his bead, playing with her hands and staring off into space. The scene was pretty casual, as if they were simply having a sleep over instead of doing what amount to exploring each other’s bodies. He closes his eyes briefly, his shame catching up to him for a second before he could beat it back down. Friends did things like this sometimes, right? It was a normal thing to be curious about, to want to see what it was like touching someone in a certain way. And friends (?) were a convenient way to sate that curiosity, right? (?) Having a fling with his coworker sounded irresponsible, but he and Don Quixote were friends (?) so it was fine, right?
Right.
Sinclair walks over to her, tilting his body to catch her line of sight. Don Quixote startles slightly before looking up at him with a smile. He can still see the nervousness barely below the surface of it. He gently taps her foot with his own, bumping his toe against Rocinante.
“Do you… want to keep these on?” He hadn’t mentioned it before since they were both on the floor, but since they were getting into bed, he figures he should ask. “I wouldn’t mind if you did. I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”
Don Quixote blinks, her smile fading slightly. She waves her foot a bit, conflict clear on her face.
“I am unsure….” She laughs quietly. “For it is Rocinante that allows me to mask for a human.”
He nods silently, waiting for her to continue. Don Quixote sighs, running her hand through her hair.
“...Wouldst thou feel safe with me?” She asks finally, voice quiet.
Sinclair nods again, offering a small smile. “I would. I trusted you with my blood, after all.”
“At the time, we were monitored.” It’s less of an objection, and more of an observation. A way to make sure the two of them were truly on the same page.
“I know, but I still do trust you. I’d be fine with it.” He scratches his cheek and looks to the side. “Of course, you don’t have to if you really don’t want to. There’s no need to force yourself.”
Don Quixote shuffles her feet again, looking down to her running shoes. Her smile had completely faded now, replaced by something more solemn. She sighs quietly, tapping the tips of her feet together and shaking her head.
“A shared bed is no place for a steed, even a steed as noble as Rocinante.” Despite her light tone, her voice is soft. In fact, it might be the softest he’s ever heard her. “I shall disembark.”
Don Quixote hooks a finger into the heel, slowly slipping on shoe off of her foot and placing it besides the bed. She does the same for the other, a wave of crimson coming to color her irises as she did so. Her usual bright and sunny stare settles into something more even and reserved, and he can’t help but stare at her. The woman looks up to him, quietly raising a hand to him and beckoning him towards her.
It was really hard for him to resist her, he’s finding.
Sinclair steps forward, leaning down to meet Sancho’s lips with his own. He pushes forward, slowly nudging her onto her back and moving to hover over her. His legs were on either side of her midsection, and he can’t help but chuckle to himself on how little he was actually restricting her movement. She was already physically stronger than him with Rocinante on, so she could probably just toss him away with them off. Still, he likes the position, and he appreciates that she chooses to humor him.
He decides to continue taking the lead, this time being the one to coax her mouth open as they kissed. He takes his time exploring her mouth, running his tongue over hers and relishing in the way she shivers at the contact. He continues pushing further, trying his best to contain himself despite his eagerness, when Sancho moans quietly into his mouth.
Has he always wanted her like this?
Sinclair breaks away, panting, She stares up at him, eyes dark with want. That piercing gaze was something he would have to get used to, but he can’t say he dislikes it. “Are… are you ready?”
“...Mhm.” Sancho chooses to look away from him. She really was shy, wasn’t she? “Proceed.”
He looks down to the waistband of her pajama pants, then back to her face. Sinclair leans forward, pressing a quick peck to her cheek. Sancho squeaks, her head whipping back to him with wide eyes. He can’t help but laugh in response.
“You shouldn’t tease,” she says, brows furrowing.
“I wasn’t.” He smiles warmly, lowering his voice. “You’re just… very cute.”
Her expression softens, brows now turning upwards in embarrassment. “...You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not.” He trails a hand over her side, feeling her shiver in response. “Weren’t you asking me what I thought earlier?”
“Yes, and…” Sancho sighs softly as his hand reaches her hip. “You failed to give me a clear answer.”
“I thought I was pretty clear….” His hand passes the waistband of her pants, gently rubbing her through her underwear. She whines. “I told you that I think you’re pretty.”
Sancho huffs quietly, body squirming slightly. “I can’t be a beauty all the time… wherever you’re seeing it…”
“Well, I mean… you can be handsome at times, too.” Sinclair hums, continuing to rub her gently. “I think I’m just… attracted to you.”
Sancho opens her mouth to say something only for her to be cut off with another whine. She bites her lip, looking up at him with an emotion he can’t identify. He feels a bit bad about that. Normally, he’s able to read her pretty well (Not that she was usually trying to hide how she felt about anything), but she was a tad more reserved than what he was used to right now. He figures she wants him to hurry though, so her finally moves his hand beneath her underwear to push it and her pants further down her legs.
As much as he would like to keep watching her face, he wanted to see what he was doing. It’d be horrifically embarrassing to mess up now, so a little bit of uncoolness could be forgiven, right? Sinclair re-positions himself so that he’s sitting at Sancho’s side instead, cheeks reddening as he grazes a finger against her folds. She whimpers, and from the corner of his eye he can see her move a hand to her mouth in an attempt to quiet herself. It was then, he realized, that she would probably struggle with keeping quiet the same way he had. A smile comes to his lips.
Quit being a pervert, he thinks to himself. Not that it was a very serious attempt at scolding, he was still smiling despite himself. He’s rubbing his fingers around her folds, spreading them gently just to familiarize himself with her, when Sancho sits up to look at him. They make eye contact for a moment, and upon seeing his poorly disguised smile, Sancho turns away with a huff. He can tell she isn’t angry and is, yet again, just embarrassed. He wonders what it’d be like to tease her. She seemed like the type to shut it down immediately, but for a moment he allows himself to imagine her with the same pout she frequently wore as Don Quixote. He feels the smile on his lips wiggle at the thought, and decides to shelf it for now. He couldn’t get distracted, especially when his fingers finally brush over the hooded bundle of nerves that he was looking for. That earns him a jolt, a whine, and Sancho biting her lip.
“Does that feel good?” He already knows the answer, but figures he should ask anyway.
He expects her to sigh at him or frown, but all he gets in return is a small nod of the head. He can’t help himself against the affection he feels this time, so he moves closer to kiss her again. He continues to gently rub her clit, alternating which fingers he uses and how they move around it. He kisses her slowly, allowing her to express her own neediness through it. He finds himself absolutely enraptured by her. Every little whine, every little jolt and jerk only serving to make him more endeared by her. Since she was unable to cover her face with her hands they found their ways into his sheets, bunching up in an iron grip. Every time he pulled away she chased after him, eyes half lidded and hazy, mouth pleading for more. If he moved too far away, or broke away too quickly, her sights would immediately fall downwards, shy. It was then that he had to chase after her, pressing his lips to her face and jaw before she felt comfortable enough to face him again.
Eventually, though, she can’t wait any longer. Sancho breaks their kiss, panting, eyes pleading. “Sinclair, please….”
He nods. There wasn’t any need to ask her what she meant, anyhow. Sinclair slides his finger to her entrance, finding himself shuddering at how wet she was and how warm it felt. He’s slow to push inside, stilling when Sancho hisses in response. He looks to her quickly, scanning her face for any sign of pain, but she places a hand on his shoulder and gives him a nod of reassurance. He continues to gradually push his finger in, gently pumping it in hopes of providing her a bit of relief. Sancho gasps and squirms, her head falling forward as one of her hands moves to grab the side of his shirt. She grunts softly, a groan of pleasure pushing itself past her lips before she clamps them shut.
“Does this feel good?” Once again, he already knows the answer. Sancho responds as she did last time, with a nod, and he smiles. “That’s good. Tell me if anything changes.”
Sinclair fingers her slowly, mainly out of worry, but he can’t help but notice how much she squirms because of it. A broken off moan leaves her along with a swear, her shoulders sagging as he continues to work his finger. He really wants to see her face. Would she be mad? He considers the prospect briefly but his body seems to run automatically, tapping her chin to catch her attention. To his surprise Sancho actually looks up at him, red eyes hazy with pleasure. She moves towards him, her free hand resting on his cheek and thumb prodding at his bottom lip. Sinclair acquiesces, allowing her to pull him closer for another kiss. She moans into his mouth again, rough and hungry, and he moves to nudge her onto her back once more. He parts from her and she whines, grabbing his collar to try and force him back down, but he instead moves down to her neck and bites down. Sancho cries out, squirming against him as he begins sucking a mark into it. He’s mostly doing it just to try, but he has to admit the thought of there being evidence of their night together on her skin was also enticing. Plus, they would match.
Once he feels himself satisfied, he goes back to kissing and trying to focus on the way Sancho was gasping and moaning under him. He adjusts the angle of his hand, trying to find a position for it to sit comfortably, when his finger brushes over something different. He’s not given any time to wonder what it is however because Sancho practically keens, her eyes snapping shut as her back arches. He brushes over the spot again, watching as her mouth falls open in a wanton moan, legs scrambling for purchase as she cants her hips into his hand. He pumps his finger, watching her throw one arm over her face while the other grips his sheets tightly. She continues to moan and whine under him, chest heaving as she pants, her hips stuttering against his hand in order to chase any pleasure she could. Her shirt had ridden up at this point, exposing her midriff to him. Sancho pleads something, he can hear his name, but it’s broken off by a huff and a grunt. Sinclair sits and watches as she comes undone by his hand, unable to tear his eyes away. He reaches for the arm over her face, grabbing her hand and pinning it over her head. He wants to absorb every part of her, commit it all to memory so he wouldn’t forget.
“Let--ah--let go,” Sancho mumbles, trembling.
“I…” He swallows, throat dry. “I want to... see you too.”
She blinks. Sancho turns her head for a moment, huffing as another bitten off noise pushes past her lips. “Th.. th.. mm… there’s nothing t.. to see…”
“There’s you.” He kisses her cheek. “You’re beautiful.”
She doesn’t argue with him at that point, simply allowing him to kiss her again. She breaks away quickly, however, brows furrowing and sweat beading on her forehead.
“Ah, mmm… S.. Sinclair…” She gasps and whines, finally opening her eyes to look at him. “Hff… E.. Emil, please…”
Fuck, that wasn’t fair. He swallows, throat suddenly feeling tight. “What is it…?”
“Another…. Please…” She whimpers, desperate. “I need more…”
“Alright.” He leans forward, kissing her forehead as he slowly pushes another finger into her. Sancho groans, her whole body shivering. “Good?”
“Mhmm…” She sighs, head lolling back onto the bed. “Shit, ah…”
He can’t stand how much he wants her. Sinclair moves forward, capturing her lips again and redoubling his hand’s efforts. Sancho moans freely into his mouth, throwing her arms over his shoulder to pull him as close to her as she could manage. He wishes he could immortalize the moment somehow, stupid as it sounds. Everything from the obscene noises coming from his hand and from their mouths, to the way his body tingled from every place they were making contact, to the way she moaned, moaned for him and him only, pleading with him for release in that beautiful voice of hers. He felt it was a bit childish of him to want something like that to persist in his memory, but he couldn’t help it. It was Sancho, and as this night has proven, he could do very little to resist his feelings of affection towards her.
They continue on like that, Sancho chasing pleasure from him and Sinclair watching with awe, until she pushes back with an unintelligible whine. He wants to ask her what she means to say before her hips stutter into his hand one more time and her mouth falls open silently, walls fluttering around his fingers as she orgasms. He slows the pace of his fingers gradually, watching as she rode out her climax until she exhausts herself and collapses onto his bed. Sinclair then pulls out his fingers slowly, noting the newfound dampness of his palm, as well as the needy whimper from Sancho the action had elicited.
He looks down at his palm, and for the briefest moment, the same curiosity that gripped Sancho earlier was now needling him. It was short lived, however, because he becomes more caught up in how strange this all felt. He did this to her. There was the bigger disconnect as well, what with Sancho completely shedding the role of Quixote while in bed with him, and the question of whether or not she would have behaved the same had she not. (She was already breaking character before. Would wearing Rocinante really make a difference?) The questions and dilemmas could wait, though. There was currently someone in his bed, and he did have some concept of aftercare. Sinclair wipes his palm on his sheets, making a mental note to offer himself up for laundry duty. He leans closer to Sancho to ask how she was feeling when she pulls him down for another kiss.
It’s nothing needy like before, and he can’t help the blossoming warmth in his chest when he realizes it was an idle show of affection. When they part, Sancho was looking up at him quietly. She hadn’t smiled this entire time, and even now, she only seemed to be looking at him with worry. He offers a smile to her, and her already flushed complexion begins to flush deeper. Sinclair presses a kiss to her forehead, and he hears her small exhale of relief.
Maybe he’s taken by her after all.
“Sinclair~! Hey~! You’re late, kiddo!”
Sinclair’s eyes snap open, and he's immediately bolting upright. The first thing he notes is that his shirt is off, which, all things considered, isn’t surprising. The second thing he notes is Sancho in his bed next to him, also shirtless (but at some point, she had put her pants back on), blearily sitting up and rubbing sleep away from her eyes. Rodya knocks again, catching her attention, and causing her to quietly begin looking for her discarded shirt.
“Sinclaaaaaaaaaaair~! C’mon, Outie sent me to come getcha.”
“Oh, uh! Sorry!” Sinclair calls back, scrambling out of bed. He looks around for his own shirt, unsuccessful. “I’ll be there soon! I’m sorry, I usually don’t sleep in so late….”
“Mm. Fu...” Was that… was she laughing? “Okay! Don’t forget to clean up properly!”
“H.U.” A lower voice, clearly not Rodya, interjects. Sinclair freezes, and from the corner of his eye he can see Sancho freeze as well. “S.P.A.”
“...Ooh! I got that one!” Rodya chirps, mirth barely contained. “I was gonna be nice, but if you’re insisting, I guess I got no choice~”
Rodya knocks on the door again, this time he’s certain it’s just for show. “Sinclair, make sure you hurry up, okay?” A pause, then a giggle. “And tell Chiquita she needs to hurry too~”
Sinclair stares at his door, stunned silent. If he had a response he wouldn’t even be able to communicate it, given the fact that he hears Rodya and Ryoshu’s footsteps already retreating. His mind races a mile a minute, trying to come up with any way to save face in the wake of Rodya’s inevitable teasing. Sancho, on the other hand, only pulls her shirt over her head as she slides to the end of his bed. There, she gracefully returns Rocinante to her feet. She stands with a stretch, her hands valiantly falling to her hips as she looks to Sinclair with a familiar golden gaze.
“I am so sorry,” are his first words. Apologies are second nature to him, after all.
“Fret not! For there is nothing to apologize for!” She beams again, once again donning the character of Don Quixote. “I quite enjoyed myself!”
Not the point, but he appreciates the sentiment. Sinclair laughs, voice shaky with nerves. Don Quixote lifts his shirt off from the pile in his bed and tosses it to him. When he looks back to her, her smile had faltered somewhat, a very present and familiar awkwardness now in its place.
“...But next time, I won’t keep you up so late. My apologies.”
Sinclair blinks, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. He brings his shirt to his face to hide, making a soft, exasperated noise of embarrassment.
He really was going to die at this rate.