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This History class sucks! Sinclair would enjoy it far more if The City had any history actually worth learning about, but all the teacher ever talked about was pointless drivel about the history of his home district’s Wing and the various fixers that came from there. It was the same boring topics, over and over again, that he had to pay attention to because his chosen course had this attached to it like a tumour.
At least somebody was having fun. This transfer student from District 16 was buzzing like a hyper toddler, butting into the teacher's diatribes to make corrections based on her incredibly encyclopedic knowledge. The girl did not fit in with the rest of the class at all. Her bubbly nature seemed to make her school sweatshirt extra fluffy, just like her golden hair; her backpack was decorated so heavily with fixer memorabilia that there was more plastic than nylon on the bag's surfaces.
To Sinclair, this strange woman was utterly bizarre, and alluring. He was a sexually repressed boy being served the eye candy of a short, nerdy girl who wears fluffy clothes. If love at first sight existed, he didn't expect it to hit him this hard. Even with her only being in the school for a week, his mind was filled with fantasies of the two of them together. Some nice, romantic ones were the most common. He'd take her to see some kind of fixer stage play or sit on her bed as she read him a mountain of comics. But, being that he was still a hormonal boy, he also had thoughts of absolutely ruining her, ripping away the layers of fluff and indulging in her petite little body.
She didn't seem oblivious to his gaze, of course. She'd waved at him during class a few times – not a seductive wave but an energetic, cheery wave. From a brief chat the two had on a shared class activity, he learned that her name was “Don Quixote, with ‘Don’ as the signifier of my nobility”. The way she spoke, too, was absolutely adorable, all chivalrous and confident, as if this young woman were already a fixer of high status. She probably took the history class for fun.
With his obvious stares, somebody other than his target would notice. Other boys in his class, ones whose tastes in women didn't fall under “Autistic gremlin”. Once class is over and he's watching her carefully pack away her extensive collection of novelty stationery, one of Sinclair's friends pulls him aside. That smug expression on his face gives Sinclair enough evidence to know where this is going.
“Dude, there's no way you're into that Quixote girl. Tell me these are platonic wide-eye stares you're doin’.”
“Hey, she's cute…”
“Yeah, and weird! You try to date her and we'll find you behind the school covered in stickers.”
“What's your problem? Am I not allowed to like a girl?”
“I'm just trying to look out for you here, as your best friend.” He leans onto Sinclair, “How often have I told you this? Don't stick your dick in crazy!”
Oh, but he wanted to, badly. He'd stuffed this to the back of his mind, but he'd had wild, lustful fantasies involving undressing her, seeing what her body might look like beneath those layers. He bit back his protests against his friend's statement, hid how badly he wanted to be with her.
“Besides, aren't you and Kromer a thing already?”
“Huh– wh– No?!” He almost yells that, drawing the attention of a few nearby classmates. Thank The Head that Kromer herself didn't have this class, because she'd probably impale him on the school fence for ever insinuating that she and him aren't something.
“Dude, c'mon, that girl is head over heels for you! You've got a tall, older woman lusting after you in public!” He takes an exaggerated breath, “...and you want the weird shortstack?”
“Dude, you just said not to ‘stick it in crazy’. I wouldn't say Kromer is anywhere near stable.”
“Yeah, but she's the good kind of crazy! She's crazy for you, not for fixer crap.” Sinclair wanted to yell that Quixote's interests weren't stupid, hoping she'd hear him and fall for him like this was some romance flick. But that'd be stupid. “I can't stop you, but you know how Kromer is. If you're gonna try and bag Quixote, make sure she doesn't find out.”
“Yeah, I wasn't going to tell her.”
Sinclair walked away from his friend and followed Don Quixote out of the classroom. He caught her skipping through the hallway, a bright smile painting her lovely looking face. His throat closed up when he tried to speak with her, especially so when she turned and just… smiled at him, like she was waiting for him to say something.
“H-hey, Don Quixote…”
“Ah, tell me, thou art Emil Sinclair, art thou not?”
“Yeah, that's me…”
“‘tis very nice to meet you!” She was vibrating with joy, a captivating sight for the young man. “Tell me, how hath thou been enjoying these wonderful lessons in the history of fixers?”
“Oh, they're great! I can… tell you really like them, too.”
“You needn't mask thy hesitance, for I do not hide mine enjoyment of fixers. My interest in the most valiant of heroes and their tales may almost certainly be unmatched by any soul within this district!”
Wings, her verbosity was doing something for him. Why was he so weak to her ramblings?
“Definitely.” He laughs, far too unintentionally awkwardly. “You know, I wouldn't mind… listening to what you have to say about them.”
Her twinkling golden eyes brightened into blazing stars of wonder as somebody finally showed interest in her favourite thing.
“S-Sinclair… doth thou speak truthfully.”
“Uh, yeah…! I'd really like t-to hang out with you and talk about fixers and stuff…” He prayed on his mental hands and knees that she couldn't see through his thinly-veiled crush for her. From the way her legs almost gave out from under her, she seems to have bought it.
“Sinclair… verily, I am filled with many doubts on if you truly understand how happy I am to hear of this!” She almost pounces on him, gripping his wrists tightly as she yanks on his arms, “You must join me within my home, posthaste! Should you wish to listen to mine extensive collection of fantastical tales, I must request that we do so within a specialised environment!”
Okay, wow! She wanted to take him to her home?! This quickly? Was she… interested in him too? Sinclair certainly hoped so, because that would expedite his plan immensely. He was prepared for a month of casual hangouts and replacing all his academic success with random fixer facts to please her, but he could adapt to this escalation.
“Oh, sure, that'd be great actually!” He was doing a poor job at hiding the red on his face. “I'd really like that…”
“‘tis a wonderful day indeed, to find a young, budding enthusiast to mentor!” She flaps her arms in an excited flurry, hopping a short distance away, “Come, fair Sinclair! Adventure awaits thee!” She gallops away before Sinclair can affirm her.
Sinclair glances around nervously, looking for any lingering eyes. Don Quixote, as loud as she was, had attracted a small audience of chuckling students who began to clear away now that their 3 minutes of fun had run off. For a brief moment, though, he caught a wisp of white hair ducking away at the other end of the hall. Sinclair immediately took off after his date, now afraid of a confrontation with his admirer.
Don Quixote's house was a bizarrely spectacular sight. It was some large estate with centuries old architecture, second only in size to Sinclair's own manor. Crap, he hadn't thought about that. If he and Quixote did become a thing, he'd have to show her his parents. How exactly would she react to a whole family made half of metal? How would she react knowing he was on schedule to receive the same “upgrades”. Probably not as bad as Kromer, but her sweet whispers about the glory of the human self had made him anxious about mentioning prosthetics to others.
“Fair Sinclair…” He blushed when she described him as “fair”. She'd used it before, producing a similar reaction from him. “‘tis a strange warning I must impart on thee, yet I wish to give thee a most proper warning.”
“A warning?”
“Forsooth, for those whom I am bound by blood are… comparably bizarre, like myself.”
Oh. Glad to know he wasn't alone in having a weird family.
“Oh, no, don't worry! My family isn't much better.”
“Nay, you…” She sighs, “Never mind.” She gives the door four heavy knocks, “O’ Father? I have acquired a guest!”
When the door opens, the man who answers the door barely fits into the frame. He has to be 7-something feet tall, dressed in an ornate red coat with gold accessories. The person beneath the clothes was pale in all senses of the words, with stark white hair and bleached skin. At least his… oddly bright red eyes matched his coat! Maybe he's albino?
He looked just as joyful as Quixote usually was at the sight of Sinclair on his doorstep. His smile is almost infectious with how it paints his face.
“Ah~ Sancho has brought home a young man of her own!”
Sancho? That was probably her real name. It did sound like the kind of name somebody from District 16 would have. From the looks of things, Quixote wasn't too pleased with her father spilling her real name like that. She pouted and puffed up like an animal trying to be threatening in the most adorable way!
“Good afternoon, sir!” Sinclair's anxiety about meeting her parents seemed to have left him when he talked to this man. For some reason, he felt very approachable. “My name is Emil Sinclair, I'm a friend of your daughter.” He still spoke awkwardly, of course – it's Sinclair we're talking about here – but he didn't stutter. That must count for something.
“Such good manners. You've made a decent catch today, haven't you Sancho?”
“Father, please…”
“Why don't you two come inside?” He marches into the house.
The inside of Don Quixote's home is very similar to her father: ornate and fancy. It wasn't as large as Sinclair's family manor, but that gave it a very homey and warm feeling. Family photos were propped up on the various cabinets in the rooms, showing a family of five people in ornate outfits. Quixote was among them, having much messier hair and a more steely expression. She had a completely different vibe from what he was used to, more handsome than cute. It tickled his other half of his tastes, the more mature girl in the photos just as alluring as the quirky goblin he also loved.
Her father led the pair into their kitchen, where another family member was waiting. He was almost as tall as the head of the house, dressed in a black priest's garbs. If Quixote's father was pale, then this man was a corpse comparatively. His body was withered and frail looking, with those same red eyes peering between his tired eyelids. It was strange, if these two were so tall then why was Quixote so short? Was the gene for height carried in only the men? He watched Sinclair carefully as he entered the room, never speaking until Quixote's father prompted him to.
“Curiambro, would you kindly fetch the others? I'd like our guest to partake in a few treats before Sancho takes him up to her room.”
“I shall, father.”
Ooh, treats?! Sinclair wouldn't say no to treats, who would? This day just kept getting better and better, a date with his crush and free food from her family! He was the happiest young man alive.
The strange Priest leaves the room, while Quixote's father searches the cupboards for a container of some kind. It was while watching him search that Sinclair noticed a strange detail about their kitchen: it didn't have a sink, nor a dishwasher or washing machine. While the washing machine could just be located in another room, why would they not have some way to wash their dishes here? Maybe it's also in another room, but that'd be stupid. Who would want to lift their plates all the way across the house to wash them, then take them all the way back to the kitchen again to store them?
Eventually, two more people enter the room, both women. One is caked in makeup, another tall figure wearing an expensive looking dress. Yet the colour of her form was lost on her face, which was dull and lifeless. It wasn't like The Priest's, as his was more focused, her expression was none at all, an absence of expression. The other woman was much cheerier, a bright smile on her face and a bright red dress tightly coating her body. She was a little like Don Quixote in that way. She immediately pounced on Sinclair, lavishing his cheeks with pinches.
“Awwww, look at him! Oh he's so cute!” She giggles as she pivots around and flings herself into her seat at the table. The other woman silently joins her. “So~ how long have you two been together~”
“Nicolina, do not jest! I have yet to court my companion.” Court… him…? So she did like him. The feeling in his heart was so violently positive that it was completely indescribable. Nicolina clearly caught the extremely obvious flush on his face, her smirk taunting and teasing.
“Make sure you go easy on him, he seems like the delicate type.” Quixote flushes just like he has. To say Sinclair was excited for the night ahead would be doing disservice to the erection he was trying his best to hide.
The entire family seated, the father plates a set of orange, circular cookies onto the table. Nicolina immediately dives for one, while Curiambro and the father's movements are far more proper and disciplined. Quixote takes one hesitantly, while the woman whose name he didn't know never takes one of her own. Taking a bite, the spicy flavour of cinnamon lights up his tongue. It's far from unpleasant, it's possibly the greatest baked good he's had besides his grandmother's. His satisfaction leaks through his lips, making a happy moan. Quixote, to his left, stares at him with her orange eyes widened.
“Mfh, these are really good! Who made them?” He looks around the room, spotting Don Quixote's flustered face and how she's nervously clutching at her body, then puts two-and-two together. “Hang on, Quixote… you can bake?!” She nods sheepishly to confirm.
“F-forsooth, fair Sinclair… when I put away my sword for the night, I enjoy baking many treats for my family.” That was so adorable!
“Wow, you're actually amazing…”
“Ah–!” She jolts up, bouncing in her chair. The blank-faced woman finally pulls a smile at her sister(?)’s flustered face, “You flatter this knight, Sinclair…”
When Sinclair goes for a second biscuit, he ends up scrutinising everybody's appearances and character. It was really strange that none of these people at this table were similar in facial structure or hair colour or any other genetic trait. They could all just be adopted, which there was nothing wrong with if that was the case, but the few things they did have in common were their pale skin and red eyes. The only one who broke that chain was Don Quixote herself, whose eyes were a sparkling orange. It's a little eerie, being surrounded by all of them like this. They're all… staring at him, too, watching him. They haven't offered him a drink, either, none of them are drinking anything.
“Sinclair?” She broke him out of his train of thought. She's now standing, hand on his shoulder. “Shall we proceed to my room?”
“S-sure, of course!” Ultimately, though, his teenage dreams beat his rational mind. He shoots out of his chair and follows her to the stairs. As he's climbing, though, he turns back and notices Quixote is looking at her father at the foot of the stairs. He nods, and she returns it. The room feels unnaturally still for a moment as the two stare at each other and, when she turns around, there's a flicker of somebody who isn't Quixote in her face that she quickly masks, which is when she hurries him upstairs.
Don Quixote's room is pretty reflective of the woman herself. Not an inch in the room was wasted space, all completely filled with various fixer merchandise in a collection so large it's a wonder how a young woman like her could physically acquire this much stuff. The room’ wallpaper is lost beneath a patchwork of posters, each one unique. Where she couldn't find official merchandise, she used bootlegs or fan-made products to fill the space. Some of this stuff had to date back almost a century, she had official merchandise of colour fixers who've been dead for decades – like, who in the modern day cares about the Burgundy Menace and his stupid, stupid name?
The most notable fixture of her room was the giant bookshelf that spanned the entirety of the western wall. Books were packed into it so tightly that they were being compressed into each other, yet the shelves were organised perfectly based on the time period the stories inside took place in or covered. Even with that, books had still found their way into every corner of the room, laying across every nook and wedged in each cranny, or just sat on the floor.
Sinclair expected Don Quixote to pick out a meaty entry from her archives and begin reading it to him until his hair turned grey. But, instead, she gripped her sweater and pulled it over her head. She wore just a tank top beneath, flashing the straps of her bra for just a moment before her arms fell back down. For a teenage boy, this was a million ahn dangling in his face.
“Fair Sinclair, thy intentions in coming to my home are obvious.” Her voice was low, yet still carried that typical cheery tone that he loved. Each part of him stood at attention for her, “I wish to tell you… that I share these feelings towards thee.” And, with that, any pretense of this being a night of goofy fun melted away before him.
“You have no idea how happy I am to hear that…”
“Verily?” She chuckles at him, chuckles at him. “‘tis plain to see, thy affection certainly makes itself known.” His eyes darted down to the stiff tent pitched in his pants. He adjusts his legs in embarrassment, yet hiding it didn't do him much good. “If I could make a request of you, may we skip the formalities and… consummate?”
Oh Wings, she was asking to have sex with him. Of course, Sinclair immediately answers with a flurry of affirmative responses, having no rational thought to hold him back from maybe suggesting that they take things slow. As he begins to fiddle with the buttons on his uniform pants, she stops him with a blush on her face.
“Ah… please, my Sinclair…” She shouldn't call him that, his dick can only get so erect! “Could you please… turn around whilst I remove my garbs?” Oh, she was embarrassed about taking her clothes off in front of him? Strange, but he could work with that.
“Y-yeah… it's n-no problem…”
“I thank you, my Sinclair.” She smiles, then watches him turn around.
As he begins to strip his clothes away, his mind wanders away from what he's about to do and towards the bizarre oddities of her house and her family. The fact it had no sinks, no bathrooms from the looks of it, none of the family members drank anything, they were all pale with red eyes, none of them resembled the other genetically. Individually, they're weird. Together… they resemble a monster Sinclair had only heard about in folk tales and movies. All of these things made Sinclair break his agreement. He turned around.
The woman before him was dressed only in her underwear and, strangely, her ragged brown running shoes. They were an odd feature of her outfit, so dirty and gross-looking that he wondered why she even wore them. Yet, when she took them off, the entire room shifted. He could feel the physical blast of air pressure released from her body, saw how it disturbed her hair into the shaggy style the Quixote in the photographs had and watched as a strange red ornament began to flourish from her shoulder. He finally, completely froze when he watched her turn around and stare at him with those same red eyes as the rest of her family.
“You–!”
She immediately pounces on him in an imperceptible burst of speed, tackling him onto the bed and lunging for his arms. She restrains one and keeps trying to grab at the other, but he fights back. He swipes at her face, making her flinch before she bounces back and tries to bite into his neck. A quick knee driven into her abdomen pauses her assault, making her reel back.
“Stay still–!”
She grips his neck tightly, clawed fingers digging into the flesh of his neck. She tries to move her mouth closer again, but he thrashes under her until she releases him.
“Sancho, please–”
“Shut up, don't make this harder than it has to be!” Her funny way of speaking was completely gone. Her voice was low, calm in spite of her frustration with him.
“Just–” He dodges another swipe, “Let me talk to you–!”
Slowly, she pulls away. However, with a swipe of her hand, the room is blanketed in darkness. Blood webbing has coated each window and door thoroughly, trapping him. He sits up, panting, yet tries to keep his cool.
“I could feel the blood in your body… it refused to leave your nether regions. Why?” It sounded like an interrogation. He didn't really know how to answer that. I mean, could he tell her that–
“...being pinned down by a Bloodfiend who's trying to feed on me is really sexy”
She's staring at him slack-jawed. He said that out loud. Fuuuuuck, he's so dead. Or, worse, he's gonna become a shambling Bloodbag for her (he's gonna ignore that he's still aroused thinking about that).
“...you are so strange.” She retreats further away from him, arms crossed and eyes elsewhere… yet her cheeks are red.
“Sancho, Don Quixote… whatever your name is, I love you.” Sinclair tries to get closer, but a sharp glare from her makes him back away from her. “I want to know what you think, and if this was all fake then fine, I'll…” He doesn't finish, she doesn't return her eyes to his.
“...in truth, out of all the others I have courted, you were perhaps the most genuinely flattering I've spoken to.” A flame of hope begins to flicker within his heart. “You saw me for more than my personality or my body. You saw my interests, my hobbies. I can't say the same for most other men.”
“You've done this before?”
“Of course I have, Sinclair. It's how I keep myself fed. Every now and then, I hang around a dense population centre and lure a man or woman away into a private area with the promise of sex with a young-looking girl. Then, I have my fill. It's what everybody else in this family has done, too, with varying methods. Everybody under this roof is a killer hundred fold, except you of course.” She's smiling, like she takes pride in her hunts. It should be scaring her, but it's impressing him instead. It feels like he's the audience to royalty. “Does that scare you off?”
“N-not at all.” She looks surprised for a moment.
“I see. You're very strange, Emil.” Goodness, hearing her say his first name was really doing it for him. Her eyes narrow. “I can smell the blood rushing through your body. You like it when I say your name, Emil?” Yes, yes he did.
“Mh…” All he manages is a small nod and a hum of affirmation. She laughs a little, then leans forwards until her blood-red eyes consume his vision.
“You're fun.” She slowly brings a pale hand up to his face, then drags it over his cheeks. The way his body overheats at that touch makes her smile grow. “Do you want to kiss me?”
“Yes…” He's breathing so heavily, she's flinching from the impacts of his breaths. “Please, Sancho…”
“I permit you to, then.”
He was slow at first, registering her permission and just who it was he wanted to kiss. The hesitation slowly leaked away as he settled his lips onto hers, arms began snaking over her hips as he clutched her tightly. When she parted her lips for him, he pushed down on her until her back was against the bed. Her mouth tasted of iron, the raw flavour of blood spreading from her tongue to his as they entangled with each other. This kiss was long, one that Sinclair certainly wasn't inclined to break until Sancho pushed him off of her. He expects to find her upset, having broken her boundaries by forcing her down onto the bed. But, as a string of their mixed saliva slowly falls down onto her chest, all he finds is the Bloodfiend out of breath and startled. He reaches out to touch her again, but she puts her hand up to stop him.
“Overstimulated, don't.” He heeds her command and backs off. “It's been a while since I've had such a passionate kiss with somebody.”
Sancho recovers and stands back up. She stares at Sinclair for a moment, giving him an injection of anxiety. Even with everything, she could still decide to kill him at any moment if she wanted to. But, that contemplative blankness slowly turned up into a small smile.
“Well, I'm still thirsty… but I'm actually having a lot of fun with this.” She walks around the side of the bed like a predator. The thin hairs on Sinclair's body stand on end in reaction to the cocktail of feelings he has right now. “Sinclair, will you have sex with me?”
“Huh…?” He's in shock for a moment, more so than when she initially asked to while still playing the character of Don Quixote. Her words barely reach him before she continues.
“This is what you wanted, right? You and I will try this then, if I don't like it, I'll just go ahead with my original plan.”
This was serious. Yes, he wanted to have sex with her, but she'd kill him if he didn't please her? He'd never done this before, this was the first relationship he'd ever had with a girl and now she wants to jump straight to having sex? Well, Sancho was far from any ordinary woman in the first place. Still though, he should think about this for a minute before making his decision. Maybe he could convince her to take this slow and try dating for a bit first?
“Sure…” Or just let your dick talk for you, well done man.
Sancho smiles, gesturing for him to stand. Sinclair follows. He's still dressed in his school shirt with his pants hanging off of his waist after he unbuttoned them before getting pounced on by a Bloodfiend. Sancho takes Sinclair's wrists into her hands, then brings them to her bra.
“Undress me.”
He brings his hands up and tries fiddling with her bra. Being a young man who's never dated a woman before and who hasn't ever interacted with women's underwear on account of the maids always handling the laundry, the only knowledge he had on how to take a bra off came from porn. So, he was fumbling with the latch like an idiot while Sancho's expectant smile faltered a little.
“Oh, I see. Are you a virgin, Sinclair?” He shakily nods in response. Sancho's expression is indescribable, yet it's not the same confident smirk or something resembling disappointment. She just nods and moves his hands away carefully. “I see. I apologise for not realising it sooner.” She walks away, bending over to pick her clothes up off the floor.
“Wait, Sancho–”
“Don't worry, I won't hurt you. It was wrong of me to threaten you like that.”
“N-no, I don't want to stop…” She freezes, turning around to look at him.
“Pardon?”
“Sancho, I want my first time to be with you.”
“I feel like you're forcing yourself to say that.” He wasn't. “If you don't want to have sex, I won't kill you for it.”
“No, no… I meant what I said.” Sancho seems stunned, so he continues. “I love you, Sancho. I don't like you because you're a Bloodfiend or because you're… r-really hot…” He choked a little as he spoke, clearly showing that he did still really like those features. “...you're nice and fun to be around. Out of all the girls in our school, you're the best one there.”
“...thank you.” She smiles, then dives to hug him. “...it's nice to hear you say that, Emil.”
“I can say it more.” He hugs her back, feeling how her head begins to bury into the crook of his neck. "You're lovely, Sancho..."
“Mhh…” She moans into his flesh, mouth pressed against his arteries. He flinches as he begins to feel a wet heat lap across his skin, staining it with her saliva. “Smell… good…”
His brain didn't know how to feel when he heard that. Scared, because a Bloodfiend clearly wanted to feed on him and that would spell death for Sinclair? Prideful, because his blood apparently smelled fantastic to such a Bloodfiend? Aroused, because he really wanted her to give into her desires and consume him? Maybe a piece of all three at once, but especially that third one.
“...you thirsty?”
She lifts her head up, her body pressed up against his.
“Don't make jokes with me, Sinclair…” She looks away from him. “You shouldn't tempt me into biting you.”
“...what if you didn't have to bite me?”
She pushes herself off of him, shock scratched across her eyes.
“Wha– you cannot be…” She's taking heavier breaths, yet they’re cold. “...are you sure?”
“F-for you, yeah…” He's obviously nervous, seeing as he has no idea what he's about to get into, but he wants to please Sancho in some way.
She grabs his wrist and guides his palm to her mouth. She presses a clawed finger up to the center. She looks up at him expectantly, he nods.
She quickly carves open a gash in his palm, inflicting a searing pain onto Sinclair that almost caused him to yelp. The encroaching pain was suddenly pierced by Sancho's tongue as she began running it over his wound. He winced as she finished licking up the exterior of the wound and, seemingly dazed by hunger, immediately pierced the gash with her tongue. The feeling was gross and sickening but also really, really arousing to the young man. The way she was moaning as she lapped up his blood like a dog, how her knees buckled and he had to catch her with his other arm, holding her carefully as she kept his hand pressed to her face until she pushed herself away from him. His mind was captured by the sight of her licking the remnants of his blood off of her lips and he momentarily forgot the pain. He suddenly clutches her body tightly, grunting as the hormones in his body run on overdrive.
“Emil–?!” He almost tosses her onto the bed, falling on top of her as it makes a very obvious creak with their impact. With her pinned against the mattress, he begins grinding his erection against her leg like an animal in heat. “Oh…” She's blushing. He dives in to kiss her again, submerging himself in her. Her hands begin to carefully finish removing his pants.
“Want this… badly…”
“What an animal.” She pushes him away. He’s scared that he’s turned her off of him by acting like that, but his fear quickly leaks from the wound on his hand when he sees her slowly strip her panties away. “Go on, then. Make love to me, Emil.”
“W-woah…” Horny as he is, he’s still Sinclair. He’s mesmerised by the sight of her pussy in front of him. A set of pink, wet folds smushed between the chub of her thighs. He thinks he doesn’t deserve this. “Don’t I– uh… need to, like, prepare you first?” His nervousness is obvious.
“Sinclair, I’m almost three hundred years old, you don’t need to baby me.” She starts snaking her fingers under the band of his underwear. She’s so cold it makes him seethe his breaths through his teeth.
“Ah… w-w-what about protection? Shouldn’t I–”
“No, we'll be fine.”
“Huh–?! Wait, I'm only nineteen, I don't want to be a father!”
“Sinclair, all Bloodfiends are infertile. You can't get me pregnant.” She reaches out and cups his cheeks with her hands. She tries her best to look gentle when she does so. “You’re hesitating. It’ll be fine, we can take it slow.”
“Okay…”
He takes a deep breath, then lets Sancho discard his boxers. She took his dick into her cold hands, softly caressing the surface, then lined it up with her entrance. His whole body twitches when he makes contact with the wet, squishy opening. She then guides his hands to her hips, letting him grip the smooth, soft flesh on her waist. She waits patiently for him, lets him start when he’s ready to. And when he slowly pushes inside of her, the immediate tight heat that envelops him is almost paralysing. Every nerve ending on his dick fires off as Sancho’s pussy slowly encompasses his length and he lurches forwards from the shock of just how good it all felt. Sancho herself isn’t reacting much, nothing but a set of flushed cheeks and a gasp as he ends up hitting her cervix. He’s shaking, gripping her as hard as she’s gripping him. The warmth of her insides are such a contrast to the cold of her skin; he can't tell if his shivers are from how cold the room suddenly feels in comparison or if his body can't sit still from all the sudden stimulation.
“Are you alright, Sinclair?”
“Y-you feel… so good, Sancho…”
He starts making small thrusts, grinding his dick against her walls. He feels each sudden flutter and squeeze of her pussy on him and it makes his entire body buck forwards from the pleasure. His fingers gripped her hips so hard that the forming scab on his palm broke open and began spilling some blood onto her tummy.
“Sinclair…” She started making quiet, irregular moans as he sped up, eyes drawn to the blood coming from his hand. She dabbed her fingers into the pool of crimson that had started forming within her navel, sucking on them to get another taste of him. “Ah…”
He could get addicted to this, his slow and hesitant thrusts now turning into a desperate rut into his beloved as he pounds into her over and over and over again. Kept moaning into her ears as she panted into his. The promise to take things slow dissolved under the melting warmth of their embrace, the squelching he hears every time he impacts her body with his hips. He's muttering… something into Sancho's ear, barraging her with praises and rambling about her body, saying words he didn't know he'd ever say to a woman and watching as she made soft moans in response.
He reaches out, gripping her face and forcing her into a kiss. She quickly accepts it, letting the taste of Sinclair's blood on her tongue mix into his spit. When he separates, he's shaking and groaning, pulsing inside of her, clearly and obviously close as any sensibility in him dissolves.
“Ah… ahh… fu–”
Sancho begins shifting her hips to drive him over the edge. The boiling-hot walls of her pussy begin rhythmically clenching around his dick, like she were attempting to wring the pleasure out of him using her pelvic floor muscles. The tight compressions threaten to make him spill over, muscles aching from pounding his love into her in a constant motion.
Then, finally, he falls onto her in a kiss and hits his climax. He's practically convulsing in her arms as he spills thick, hot cum into the deepest recesses of her body, hips twitching forwards and pressing into her in unconscious bursts. All the while, Sancho is stroking his hair and keeping him in their kiss as he wails into her mouth. He keeps twitching, then he slowly, slowly, stops.
Sancho herself hadn’t finished, yet she was satisfied enough with Sinclair being pleased. She took gradual steps to remove Sinclair from herself, then laid him on the bed next to her until he felt ready to move again. He looked absolutely disheveled and exhausted, but he's at least conscious.
“Mh… thank you, Sancho.” He lazily tries to hug her, both of their fluids starting to stain the bedding as they lay there. “Sorry for… not pleasing you…”
“You did fine, Emil.” She gave him a light peck on the cheek, which he reacted to by attempting to tighten his hug, though his own lack of energy defeated him. She chuckled softly, continuing to pepper him with kisses as his strength gradually returned to him. “This was fun. Thank you.”
“N-no, I should thank you. You were amazing, Sancho.” The two cuddle together for a little longer until Sinclair's strength returns to him. Then, he has an idea… “Hey, could I ask for something weird from you?”
“Sure, Sinclair, of course you can.”
“...could we maybe read one of your comics? Together?”
“Wh– wait, you want to– huh?” She's staggered for a moment at his request, yet her smile is Don Quixote's. “Are you sure?”
“It's why I came here, after all!” Sancho's red eyes light up with cheer. She sits up in bed.
“Very well! Fair Sinclair, shall we dress ourselves before we commence with the reading?” Her speaking quirks slip back on as smoothly as her sweater. It's not long before the two of them are sat on her carpeted floor, flipping through pages together and cheering at the action in every panel. The issue Quixote is showing him is an anniversary collection dramatising the best moments of a selection of colour fixers, such as a depiction of what the rumoured battle between the now infamous Black Silence and the menacing Pianist might have looked like. Sinclair was genuinely interested in the events of each page, but was even more thoroughly captivated by Quixote's additional notes and interjections that she explained in laborious and extreme detail. The night was a lot of fun, so fun that he almost forgot to go home. He got yelled at by his father for that, a lot of lectures about how he wouldn’t have this problem if he had prosthetics or something – he didn’t pay attention to any of it. He went to bed that night satisfied, actually happy to go to school for once.
Sinclair stared down at the palm of his hand and the Hardblood stitches that crossed through it. Sancho’s family had been rather confused when he came downstairs intact, since they were all expecting him to come back shambling and covered in blood. Despite that, they were incredibly accepting of him and immediately welcomed him into their family. Nicolina, with her experience as a fashion designer, used Hardblood to sew up the cut on his palm. They should disappear on their own after a few weeks, with the wound having healed at that point.
As for him and Sancho, the two decided to start dating each other. They'd agreed to meet up in one of the club rooms to read more of her books on fixers over lunch, which he was on his way to now. He was in a really good mood for once, on top of The City! Nothing could stop him–
Sinclair is suddenly slammed into a wall by a tall woman and he immediately knows who the culprit is. Kromer is standing over him, staring down at him with the first truly unhappy expression he's seen on her face. It's not rage or anger, just… dissatisfaction. Her grip on his shoulder makes it ache, so tight she could claw her way right through it. She's so close to his face, flecks of white and gold brushing against his eyelashes and a putrid smell leaking from her body and into her nose. She looked ruined.
“Sinclair.” Her voice is low, her words no longer sounding rehearsed or practiced. They had no hidden meaning, just purely emotional. “I saw you with that transfer girl yesterday. What were you two doing?”
He'd never seen her like this, so rugged and aggressive. She usually chuckled at him or spoke his name with such reverence that he couldn't help but pay attention. She never had to pin him to a wall to get him to listen to her, never had to ask him something outright to get an answer. Yet now, she was clearly, barely holding herself together as her mind ran with what Sinclair might have been doing with another girl. An extremely human worry, one she herself may not have even realised affected her the way it did.
“I was just going over to her house to read…” Then, something shot through him: confidence. He didn't have to lie to her, he shouldn't fear Kromer's reaction to what he has to say. If he needs help, he has Quixote on his side, an actual friend he feels understands him. “...me and Don Quixote are dating.”
“...” Her grip tightens immediately and she looks away. Disgust fills her face, but it's not certain who it's directed to. Perhaps Kromer herself is realising just how deep her affections towards Sinclair ran now that she was faced with the prospect of losing him to another. “...calling her by that stupid nickname she gave herself.” The pressure on his shoulder increases and now he fears she might break it with how hard she's pushing into it. He almost cries, trying to free himself by thrashing against Kromer's grip.
“Sinclair? Art thou alright?” The two turn to look at Don Quixote, with Kromer's fringe whipping Sinclair in the face as she snaps her head to the left. “Ah, lady Kromer! What business hast thou with my Sinclair?”
“Your Sinclair–?!” She stumbles back in shock at her words, breaths shallow like she were on the verge of a panic attack. She gulps down her rising emotions, but her frustration is obvious in her expression.
“Lady Kromer, is something the matter?” She goes to step closer, reaching a hand out. “As thy peer in the culinary arts, I am concerned for thy health…” Kromer's shaking eyes fixated on Quixote's bare flesh for a moment, glancing her over a few times, before putting on a grin.
“All flesh…” She steps away, trying to see the best in this situation. “You haven't been deceived by the filthy lies of a machine.” She recovers from the verge of losing her temper, stepping away. “I'll talk to you another time, Sinclair~” Though, she's still obviously not over this situation.
Don Quixote approaches him and gives him a hug. She's back to wearing her “steed”, Rocinante. She'd told him on their walk back last night that she wears them in public to suppress her instincts as a Bloodfiend, which certainly explained why she wore them regardless of if they looked good with her outfit (not that Sinclair would ever think she could look bad).
“Thanks, San– ah… Don Quixote.”
“‘tis no issue, my love.” She kisses him on the cheek, snuggling up to him in the little crevice that Kromer had shoved him into. “Doth she trouble thou often?”
“Something like that. He glances to his right, spotting his friend from yesterday, the one who had told him to avoid Don Quixote. He makes a show of hugging Quixote close to his body, making her squeal in surprise.
“Emil, thou shouldst hath given me a warning!”
“Sorry about that…” He glances back at his friend, who flashes a thumbs-up at him. “Hey, go prepare the books for me, I have to talk to somebody.”
“Verily?” She glances at his friend, then nods. “Very well, my love. Farewell for now!” She dashes away, where the opening is quickly filled by Sinclair’s friend.
“Dude, you and her are a thing now?”
“Yeah… turns out we just click really well?” His friend stares at him for a moment, eyes squinting and head slowly drifting closer. “...Dave?”
“...you’re hiding something.”
“What? No no, I’m–”
“Don’t bother with it, I’m an expert at seeing through bullshit.” He stares into his soul for a moment, then snatches his wrist. He spots the cut, the slight stains on his school pants that he forgot to wash… “No fucking way dude…”
“What?!”
“You two fucked???” Sinclair’s throat closes up in an instant, like he was having an allergic reaction to the topic of conversation.
“Hey, hey– not so loud…!”
“I underestimated you, Sinclair…” Dave puts his hands on his hips and smirks. “Turns out you’ve got the charisma of a Bloodfiend or something. How did you do it?”
“Haha…” He doesn’t really know how to answer that question. I mean, how could he? Explain that Don Quixote was actually an almost three hundred year old Bloodfiend that found his love for her interesting and wanted to try having sex with him? She’d explicitly told him to not say that!
“Whatever dude, I’m happy for you! Congrats.” He pats him on the back a little too hard for his liking, almost knocking him off of his feet. “Go catch up with her, don’t wanna lose your first girlfriend.”
“Thanks, Dave…” Sinclair backs away, then chases in the direction of Don Quixote.
Over a box full of sandwiches that Don Quixote had prepared that morning, the two would eat away at a stack of comics she’d brought in. She’d talk about where she got them, the meet & greets she visited, all the intricacies of the merchandise she owns of the fixers on the pages and he loved every second of it. He was in love with her rants, and she was in love with his attention. She picks up a small triangle of bread and meat, then slowly feeds it to her lover. The small classroom they’re in is nice like this, warm and cozy and beautiful, just like her.