Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 174 - Two Fresh Ones

The inner robe came off with the same economical motion he applied to everything — not performed, not theatrical, the unhurried removal of a garment by someone who had no particular opinions about the performance of undressing. The dark fabric fell.

"After I’m finished with you," he said, in the same tone he used for the cultivation assessments — the dry, matter-of-fact register of someone conveying information they considered relevant — "I’ll need one of you to help me with something tonight. Small task."

Both of them were sitting up.

Both of them were holding the torn fronts of their dresses against themselves with the specific, urgent, slightly futile grip of women who understood that the engineering situation had become unfavorable and were managing it with available resources.

"What task—" Sora started.

"What are you ’doing’—" Wren said, at the same moment.

They looked at each other briefly — the rapid two-person communication again — and looked back at him.

He was still removing things.

Wren’s eyes went down.

They arrived at the specific location that eyes arrived at and stopped.

Then stopped further.

The physician in him noted, without making it an occasion: Wren’s amber irises had expanded. Not slightly. The full, pupil-dominated expansion of eyes receiving a piece of information that their owner’s nervous system had assessed as requiring all available processing resources. Her mouth had opened. Not to speak — the specific, wordless opening of a jaw whose owner had suspended its other functions.

Sora looked at what Wren was looking at.

Sora’s expression did something complicated.

The warrior’s composure ran its containment protocol and ran it, and ran it, and arrived at a result that the containment protocol had not budgeted for, and what remained was the warrior’s composure with a very significant crack running through the foundation.

"That," Sora said.

She stopped.

"Is not—" she tried again.

She stopped again.

"Senior," she said, with the careful, precise tone of someone reaching for the most relevant word in an emergency, "we are— this is not something we— we are warriors of this tribe and we have responsibilities to the chieftain and the competition is in one week and we cannot—"

He moved onto the bed.

Sora scrambled back. Wren scrambled sideways. The specific, simultaneous scrambling of two people who had arrived at the same conclusion from different directions — ’more space is needed’ — but the bed had its dimensions and his arms had theirs.

He caught Sora first.

His hand went into her hair — the root-grip, the same one he had used in the forest with Rua, the specific, absolute grip that the body followed because the head followed the hair and the hair followed the hand and there was no architecture between those facts that objection could live in.

’"—Hn—"’ Sora.

He pulled her close.

She pushed against his chest with both hands — the flat-palmed, full-force warrior’s push that went into the Dragon-scale fortitude and found a wall and remained there, hands flat, pressing, accomplishing the function of pushing without the result.

"Senior—Senior, please—" she started.

He kissed her.

Not the slow, patient kiss he would build to later. The specific, immediate, complete kiss of a man who had located a protest and had a reliable method for its management — his mouth on hers, full contact, no gap, his hand in her hair keeping her face in position with the loose, absolute grip that allowed no retraction.

Sora made a sound against his mouth.

’—Mmh—!’

It had every shape of objection in it and the specific, involuntary warmth of something that was also not only objection.

His other hand found Wren.

She had put several inches between herself and the previous position and was working on more inches when his free arm looped around her waist from behind and pulled her back — the specific, flat, total pull of someone who had decided the available distance was sufficient and was ending the expansion of it.

’"—AHH~!—Senior—let go—"’

His hand at her waist moved upward.

It found the front of the torn dress where she was still holding it against herself and it pulled — gently, which was a relative term, but compared to what the dress had already been through, gently — and the material gave the last of what it had.

Wren made the specific sound of someone whose last structural defense has been retired.

’"—Ngh~—"’

The warmth of her was there in the morning air.

Full. Bare. The Void Return bloodline saturation having done to her nineteen years of body what it had done to every woman in this territory — the generous, unrefined, completely natural heaviness of breasts that had never been cultivated-managed and were expressing their full mass in the morning light, swaying with the motion of her breathing, the soft and substantial weight of something that had been held compressed inside inadequate leather since dawn and was now free.

He was still kissing Sora.

Sora had stopped pushing.

Not because she had decided to stop — her hands were still on his chest, technically still in the pushing position — but the push had lost its conviction somewhere in the last several seconds and what remained was hands that were occupying an action they had started and had not yet been officially retracted.

He pulled back from her mouth.

She looked at him.

Her lips were slightly swollen. Her dark hair had come half-free of its binding. Her amber eyes had the specific, wide quality of someone who has been kissed like that for the first time and is still processing the aftermath.

"You can’t—" she said. Her voice had lost a layer.

His hands found the waist-tie of what remained of her dress.

The knot gave.

The dress fell.

She grabbed for it — the automatic reflex, arriving a half-second late — and his hand was already at the waistband of the small leather undergarment beneath, the last remaining architecture, and he hooked his fingers and pulled outward.

’RIP.’

Sora made a short, sharp sound that was not a word.

The last of the leather fell away.

He looked at her.

The physician noted: dark, warm, and present — the soft, full curve of the entrance between her thighs, the specific expression of a young woman’s body that had not been managed by cultivation refinement and was at its full, natural state. A soft, dark thatch of hair, neat and close, the specific natural density of something that had never been trimmed for aesthetic purposes because this tribe had no aesthetic reason to trim it.

Beside him, Wren had gone very still.

She was holding her torn dress against herself with both hands — not covering, exactly, the material was insufficient — and watching, the amber eyes oscillating between Sora’s expression and his hands and back.

He looked at Wren.

She looked back with the expression of someone who understands that what happened to her friend is now happening to her, and who cannot locate the vocabulary of the situation because none of her existing vocabulary was designed for it.

"Senior, please—" she tried.

His hand closed around the waistband of her undergarment.

’"—please I’m—"’

He pulled.

’RNGH.’ 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

Wren made a sound that was half-word and half-not-word and held her hands against herself with the specific, frantic futility of someone whose engineering had given out and whose hands were now the only remaining architecture.

He pulled her hands away.

Gently. The specific, patient removal of hands that were not going to stop anything but that their owner deserved to have moved with some consideration.

His fingers closed around both her wrists and he moved her hands to her sides and he looked at her.

The same.