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When Sancho stopped to think about it, Don Quixote had been slowly, yet steadily, escalating the level of affection he’d been showing her. In the beginning, he’d barely even deigned to come into physical contact with her, even though he had bitten her in order to turn her into a Bloodfiend that fateful day. It had taken him months, at the very least, to grow comfortable with her brushing his hair back when he neglected it, allowing its knots to ball up out of control, spiraling beyond tangled hair and into solid clods. Despite her much shorter hair, she retained this skill she must have possessed during her brief existence as a human.
Had Sancho’s previous self cared for others once? No, that was an impossibility; there was no reality in which she would have let herself die if she were charged with the lives of another.
But her hands recalled when the mind forgot, and regardless of its origin, she knew how to care for long, matted hair whose owner was unable—or unwilling—to spend the effort detangling.
So months stretched into years, and every night, Sancho found herself standing behind Don Quixote, face-to-face with the large mirror he kept tucked away in his dressing room, a seedling of a routine flourishing into a blossoming tree. When she carefully brushed his hair, her hands would inevitably come into contact with his head, and rarely, face. It only took a handful of weeks to stop flinching away from the irrepressible warmth of his face, a warmth that even nigh-immortality couldn’t strip.
Their nightly rendezvous—their shared secret, for it would be unseemly for a man of his status to rely on his daughter for something as simple as hair care—the tenderness they cultivated behind closed doors, spilled out in public, as was its wont. Don Quixote felt more comfortable giving her hugs, along with the rest of his Kindred. But Sancho felt as if he always lingered just a bit longer with her.
She was special, after all. She was the one who joined him on their adventures into the world. She was his sidekick. It was her—not Dulcinea, much to her endless chagrin—who had been the first human he turned into his Kindred.
So it was natural that he devote her more attention than the rest of his Family. It was natural that he spent more time with her, lavish more affection upon her, even if only in private, to avoid the inevitable jealousy of the rest of the Manchegan Bloodfiends.
At some point—Sancho had no idea when, exactly; time lacked much of its meaning without an end—hugs alone had shifted into occasional cuddles. It was nice to be held by a Father; it was affection she had never received before. The first time, she had instinctively smacked his hand off her shoulder, but it didn’t take long for her to become accustomed to it. It was simply kindness she had never been afforded before; looking at it objectively, he was the first person who had ever even batted an eye at the torment life had forced her to bear. He was the first person who had offered even a momentary reprieve from her anguish.
To someone who had never experienced even the slightest gesture of kindness before, even the lightest touch was akin to a searing flame.
So it was natural that she spurned his affection, at the start. It was natural that she would require time to grow accustomed to love in any form. It was natural that a gesture of kindness, of pure, unadulterated love, be rejected, when its recipient knew nothing of any form of love, including familial care.
Of course a good Father should shower affection upon his daughters. It was the right thing to do.
And, once she got used to it, Sancho relished Don Quixote’s fatherly embraces, his loving caresses, all of his kind gestures. His love for his entire Family was truly overflowing, and this was but one of the uncountable ways he expressed it. He allowed Dulcinea to adorn that ridiculous outfit of his, did he not? And was not this, too, a form of love?
And Sancho, chastising him whenever his flights of passion led him to flit from hobby to hobby, leaving rooms full of abandoned skeins of yarn and sheaves of paper and mountains of half-whittled bits of wood, listening to his meandering, improbable stories, even when they defied all semblance of rationality—was not this, too, her own form of love?
She truly did like—love—to express her gratitude to Don Quixote, for rescuing her from the quagmire of existence as a human, in the few ways she could, in the few ways she had been taught to. People keeping her alive; a vague recollection of a man with gnarled hands brushing her hair out of her eyes and cutting it off when it grew tangled, a woman with scars adorning her face cooking a meal for her, a person with dulled eyes and a bloodied, rusty greatsword fighting off a horde of Sweepers just long enough to shove her into the safety of a building, just long enough before they were overcome and devoured by the undulating, writhing mass.
There had been people who had kept her alive long enough for her to die, and then be reborn. She no longer could remember them, beyond these brief glimpses of a person, who had spared a second thought for a bedraggled child, lacking any family or any stable caretaker. The few people who had decided that it was worth keeping her alive, even to their own detriment. The few people who truly embodied the self-sacrificial spirit of humanity.
Don Quixote—despite his lack of traditional ‘humanity’—was the only one among them she could remember, and could make new memories with; he was the best person she would ever know, this she knew deep within her. His love wasn’t constrained to a single moment, a fleeting glimpse, of kindness. His love reverberated through all of his actions, even when they were shallow and self-serving. He loved her; this was a fundamental truth, no matter how hard—how impossible—it was to accept.
Sancho loved him, too; how could she not love her Father?
So it was natural that she, in turn, began reciprocating physical forms of affection, even if they were wholly unfamiliar to her. Acts of service, those she understood, but it wasn’t difficult to reframe hugs, cuddles, the odd kiss, as the same. Had this not begun with physical contact, as a part of an act of service? The tenderness intrinsic to brushing the tangles out of a—usually child’s hair, but Don Quixote’s chronic inability to sit still and keep himself from jerking away from the brush made him about as easy to care for as a child—person’s hair, the trust requisite to hover just out of sight, place hands on top of another’s head, the delicate balance between the necessary pain, the good pain when untangling a particularly stubborn knot, and the unnecessary pain, the bad pain when ripping out a strand of hair that could still grow healthily. This physical contact, this act of service—cuddling next to Don Quixote in his bed was the same. If he needed to show his love through his hugs, through tender kisses, then Sancho would accept him and grow to appreciate it in turn.
She had grown to relish the special attention he showered upon her, hadn’t she? It was nice to be held by someone she could trust, by someone who had never shown her anything but unconditional kindness. It was nice to be held by someone who, even as he needed it, knew that she needed it, too.
And, thinking about it even more, she truly had needed it, right? To be cherished, flaws and all, as a beloved daughter, with no expectation. It was a sharp contrast compared with her previous life. One could survive all their life only seeing hues of sepia, like the denizens of T Corp., but once their eyes opened to the joys of an incandescent sunset, the sky painted in vibrant polychrome pink and red and orange, it would be impossible to return and not feel the aching wound of absence.
Sancho had become dependent on Don Quixote’s love, hadn’t she? Her brief time as a human was muted, dull, only fragmented memories she no longer identified with remaining, but it would be impossible to return to that kind of lonely existence—and it was simply an existence, a lengthy survival—rather than the life she lived, alongside him, chasing the impossible dream of a kinder future.
But even with his eyes fixed on the horizon, he remained devoted to making the present the home it never could be for any of them, during their time as humans.
Nestled within his arms became its own type of home, too, a home she cherished as much as their physical castle. It was only silently, in these private moments, with her typical sardonic attitude blunted, she could admit as much to herself.
It was embarrassing to relish being loved, to rely on others when she was previously self-sufficient. It was embarrassing to be known, to be truly known; it was only Don Quixote who was able to understand the fullness of her self. It was only in these moments that she could accept that.
But even considered through the lens of the last several years—however long it had been since she’d begun living as a Bloodfiend—Don Quixote was acting… somewhat strange.
His arms, wrapped around her, weren’t the issue. Neither was the soft, rhythmic sound of his breathing.
It was the uncharacteristic pink flush staining his cheeks. It was the uncharacteristically large size of his pupils. It was how she could feel the pounding gallop of his heart in her own chest.
She wouldn’t mention it, though. She had no frame of reference for how far physical matters could potentially escalate. So this, too, was fine, even if it was far from the normal hour or so of gentle cuddles they had each night before retiring for the evening.
She wouldn’t bring up the bulge in his trousers poking into her thigh. That, at least, had happened on occasion before. Don Quixote didn’t seem to pay it any mind, so she didn’t, either; a purely physical response to physical intimacy. But it never was accompanied by these additional signals, signifying things lacking matching signifiers.
He drew his arms tighter, pulling her closer, until their bodies were flush. His heart was nearly pounding out of its chest; it was almost as if they shared one form, with only their skin and clothes separating them. A faint yearning to shed her skin, to scorn the flesh and bone between them, when their blood already flowed from the same source, passed through her. But, to grow even closer? An impossibility, as long as their physical forms existed. Only in death, if they were to be buried, two corpses in one grave, pressed together by tons upon tons of dirt. But death, once something she had yearned so fervently for? She felt as far from death as she had ever been, a living being in the arms of another, their hearts beating as one—her heart, too, she realized with muted shock, was beating as rapidly as Don Quixote’s. It felt wrong to harbor even the faintest attachment of life, something wholly foreign to her, but could something wrong feel that right? That, too, must have been an impossibility.
And as these thoughts flashed through her mind, their echoes undoubtedly casting faint shadows across her face, he kept staring at her, his breaths growing more and more rapid, more and more ragged.
She couldn’t bear it any longer. “Are you all right?” she said, more of a whisper than anything else.
Don Quixote, at long last, took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, directly onto Sancho’s cheek. “My senses appear to be… compromised.”
His answer failed to provide the clarity one would typically expect from a reply to a question. Sancho waited for him to elaborate without asking.
He finally averted his gaze; his eyelids fluttered closed, his long eyelashes interlocked together, a truly beautiful man. “From the moment I entered my bedchamber tonight, I knew something was awry. My heart was seized with these inexplicable palpitations; my gaze was captured by your ineffable expression. I cannot restrain myself.”
Her brows furrowed in confusion.
“What could you possibly be talking about?”
“Spare me the indignity of casting further attention to the matter,” Don Quixote said, a whine creeping into his voice.
She really, truly didn’t understand what he was referring to; a frisson of anguish passed over his countenance, before his—still abnormal expression—returned to its current resting state.
He took a moment to steel himself for the embarrassment this explanation would apparently cause him; Sancho prepared herself to accept whatever bewildering cause for his behavior might be.
“I noticed a slight injury on your neck,” he began, by way of explanation. “Your blood welling up, the scratch still yet unhealed, coagulation hardly having set in yet—the scent was, in all senses of the word, irresistible. The complex emotions steeped in it…”
He trailed off, at a complete loss for words.
“It has taken every ounce of my willpower to not place my mouth over it and truly experience what you have felt.”
What was his desire, if not love? He wanted to understand Sancho, to know her emotions texturing her blood; to be honest, she felt the same way. Even though they shared the same blood, they had lived parallel lives ever since that first bite terminated, and his fangs exited her neck. Was it so strange that he wanted to relive that moment, renew the contract signed in blood between the two of them?
In one corner of her mind, Sancho thought that, yes, this was strange, that Don Quixote was so uncharacteristically abashed by these feelings of his, that there had to be more to them than just this. But it was difficult to deny this new expression of love, when she had been learning the wide variety of ways love manifested itself. This, too, could be love.
And it was right for a Father to love his Kindred, for Don Quixote to love Sancho.
“You don’t need to restrain yourself on my behalf,” she said, whispering the words into his ear. His hair, meticulously combed, rustled under the force of her breath, and then returned to its ordinary state.
As soon as she finished speaking, he gripped her tighter than he ever had before and buried his face into her neck, his lips ghosting over the healing scratch she must have acquired from—she couldn’t remember at all, but it mattered little, not when the faint pressure of his lips, the warm wetness of his tongue, the sheer force of his very presence felt this good, felt this complete.
He was far more restrained than Sancho expected him to be, based on his shy confession mere moments earlier. He nibbled off the bits of coagulated scabs, just starting to form, allowing her blood to flow freely once more. He sucked at her blood in slow, rhythmic oscillations of pressure, increasing and then releasing, not enough to hurt but enough to certainly leave a mark.
She lifted her hand from its position between his shoulders to caress the back of his head, threading her fingers into his detangled hair.
At that motion, he bit down and moaned into the newly-reopened wound. Sancho gasped reflexively, a sharp intake of air; but it wasn’t just a response to the expected pain. His teeth cut into her skin as if they had been designed to break it, parting the muscle and tendons enclosed mere fractions of an inch underneath it. There was pain, of course, but greater than that was the unceasing sense that this was a rebirth, a second chance at a second life; no pleasure could compare to the ecstasy of blood meeting blood.
His saliva mingled with her blood freely, flowing into her body; they were the same now, again, after years of separation. She was losing blood, but at the same time, it was being replenished with the emotion that bound the two together; a service done in favor of a lonely, dying woman who had never known kindness, never known love, never known a Father. This, too, was an act of unconditional love, an act that bound them, just the same as all of their other expressions of love.
Don Quixote’s joy suffused Sancho, flowing out of his mouth into her neck. As clearly as she felt her own pleasure, the shining brilliance of his very soul flooded into her, pervading her very being. And she was certain that his joy fed on her satisfaction, her rebirth, just as her pleasure fed on his, a self-perpetuating positive feedback loop, both of their sensations always already immanent. It was impossible to prevent another moan from escaping her throat, an aching, choking, guttural sound that caught on her tonsils and filled her mouth just as thoroughly as her blood filled Don Quixote’s own mouth. At that sound, he screamed into her throat; his entire chest vibrated at the same frequency, the same frequency her body had no choice but to accept.
Had the first time felt like this? She barely remembered it, but its aftermath was the first clear memory she had; her first experience of the inescapable thirst, in tandem with her first experience of being wanted.
If it felt like this, she no longer wondered why Don Quixote had already made her and Dulcinea his Kindred, why the rest of her siblings had already made Kindred of their own. This consummation—consummate in its joy—was the best she had ever felt, was the most alive she had ever felt, her heart threatening to pound out of her chest, each pulse sending a new shock of blood directly into Don Quixote, and with it, a replenished wave of emotion, its intensity monotonically increasing, and yet, never becoming unbearable; in fact, it only grew more and more welcome. To be the same body once more; this could only be described as sublime, pain sublimated into pleasure until the two were indistinguishable, an apotheosis found at the hands—at the mouth, the fangs—of another Bloodfiend. No, not just another Bloodfiend, her Father, a repetition of the act that brought Sancho into the world, now imbued with additional significance, a truth that she could only skirt around the edges of, gesture at its shape, but existed all the same.
It was a shame that filial piety prevented her from reciprocating, from sinking her own fangs into Don Quixote’s neck, from giving him this very pleasure. But the nature of their blood was such that he understood both receiving and giving this epitome of joy, the same way she received his emotions as hers spilled out of her torn neck.
Every second that passed, the sensation of her heart pounding faster and faster, the blood that flowed through her veins and arteries, carrier of her life and her emotions, seeped out, only to be accepted again; her blood, functionally infinite, would last as long as she could feel.
And each moment, sensation increased, growing almost unbearable; it was only then that she noticed something—not unusual, not the right word, she’d experienced this before, only in private, late at night, alone—her heart, throbbing inside her, inside her cunt.
It was to be expected that such full-body pleasure would truly be that, experienced across the entire body. With how urgently this sensation made itself known, she was astonished that it had taken this long to notice; after only a second after gaining awareness, she felt like she had been ignoring it for an eternity, unbearable in its urgency.
The stiffness poking her jumped at the same time as she realized her—was it lust? Was lust the right word to describe what she was feeling, about Don Quixote?—becoming almost phantasmagorically hard. Don Quixote moaned, a raw, bloody scream ripped from the center of his being. Even through both of their trousers, Sancho was able to feel a growing dampness, right where his hardness touched her thigh. She, too, was suffering from the same affliction; she’d probably soaked through her undergarments already.
She couldn’t bring herself to care, though. They’d have to do laundry tomorrow anyway, but that wasn’t their problem.
The only problem she had was removing the offending garments without taking Don Quixote’s mouth off of her neck.
But that issue resolved itself, as the emotional feedback loop finally grew too powerful for Don Quixote to bear; he ripped himself off, blood dripping from his jaws, staining his usually-pristine teeth a sanguine red. Even still, she felt her—their—blood singing to her, a shared song passed down through the Manchegan bloodline.
Don Quixote’s, too, was undoubtedly singing, just the same as hers. He was her Father, after all.
And it was a Father’s duty to care for his daughter.
He swallowed once and licked his lips. A line of bloodied saliva dripped out of the corner of his mouth, staining the collar of Sancho’s shirt.
“Allow me to rid you of those constricting trousers,” he said, once his mouth was cleared sufficiently to allow the formation of comprehensible speech.
Sancho flushed and looked away; why was this, of all moments, the time when her refusal to be cared for bared its head? She was capable of caring for herself; it was her only choice.
Don Quixote smiled. “You’re not alone anymore, Sancho.
“You have a Father now.”
She sniffed once; she wasn’t going to cry. She couldn’t cry. She removed her hand from the back of Don Quixote’s head and buried her face into her elbow.
The grounding sensation of his presence, his heartbeat, pulled away; no, was he going to leave her, too?
But he cautiously lifted a hand to her forearm, revealing her face yet again. She wasn’t crying, no, she had far too much self-control for that, but her vision was blurred with the presentiment of tears.
She grimaced. “I don’t know what came over me,” she said.
“All emotions are correct to feel, even if they are contradictory. Simply allow yourself to feel—fully, without restraining yourself. That is all I ask of you.”
Don Quixote was the kindest person—human or Bloodfiend—Sancho would ever know.
That realization was enough for her to bury her face into the warmth of his shoulder. She still refused to allow her inchoate tears from falling, but the renewed sensation of his sturdy form, his constant heartbeat, the knowledge that he really did mean what he said, that he would always be there for her, the way a Father should—that was what made her start sobbing like a little girl, right into his shirt. He cradled the back of her head with his hand, gently scratching it, as if he were stroking a cat or a dog. With his other hand, he rubbed circles into her back.
The catharsis of relief felt almost equally as good as the self-perpetuating, self-amplifying ecstasy of oneness of their bite. It was a release, while that bite alone could only increase, never reaching a plateau. Their blood could only destratify the layers separating them without dismantling their selves. There was no body without organs, no plane of immanence, to be found; and yet tears were enough to dissolve the boundary between them. Sancho was no longer Sancho, and Don Quixote was no longer Don Quixote. They shared the same blood, the same emotions, and the same release of tension.
Eventually, she managed to stop crying, and Don Quixote let her go.
She bit her lip, searching for the right words to say, knowing that they didn’t exist, that no mot juste existed for the emotions clogging her throat, clogging her eyes, clogging her blood.
But she didn’t need to say any; they shared the same blood, after all. Don Quixote understood.
Her neck still stung, but in the pain dwelt the memory of pleasure; that memory was sufficient to rekindle her forgotten lust; her insides throbbed, painfully hollow.
That memory, and the constant pressure of Don Quixote’s body, the knowledge that her blood stained his mouth, that her blood continued to pulse out of her own body onto his.
She looped her thumbs under the waistband of her trousers, preparing to take them off; Don Quixote placed his hands over hers—were they really that much larger than hers?—and held them, gently, a layer of sweat seeping into her skin.
He smiled, his expression radiating the inconceivable joy he had to have been feeling, the joy she felt resonating in their blood.
“I insist I help you, even though I know you don’t need it.
“That’s what it means to be a Father.”
Sancho let him drag her trousers off her body. She pushed herself up so that he could more easily remove them. She hissed involuntarily as her sore, throbbing clit was exposed to the cold air. A line of slick connected her to her undergarments; she’d certainly soaked right through them.
Sancho began unbuttoning her shirt, her fingers clumsy with warranted haste. She flung her shirt off in the general direction of the floor. Don Quixote, with surprising deftness, unhooked her bra. Once it slid off her, he discarded it, as well.
Sancho swallowed the saliva that had been collecting in her mouth. “Allow me to help you, as well,” she said; her shaking voice belied the nervousness she only then realized she was feeling.
“Of course.”
Don Quixote guided her hands to his belt, an inversion of the few preceding moments. She fumbled with the buckle for a handful of seconds before managing to loose the belt; she pulled it out of his belt loops in one fluid motion. The belt joined her clothes on the floor, landing with a clink.
The rest of Don Quixote’s clothes, too, soon lay forgotten, superfluous, on the floor. The only thing that covered either of them was Sancho’s blood, still flowing, albeit staunched by the natural process of coagulation, the taste still lingering on Don Quixote’s tongue.
Sancho had always known that Don Quixote was a beautiful man. His hair, while he was wont to neglect it, was long and flowing, and his face was angular and well-proportioned. His incisive red eyes, his Manchegan blood soaking his irises, had the capability to freeze someone with a direct glare. All of these features were ones she had been familiar with.
But his tufts of white chest hair? The thin layer of fat coating his muscles? His angular hip bones? His solid, powerful thighs?
His cock?
His cock, painfully hard, the head purpling, his foreskin fully retracted, was a sculpture, a work of art. It was hard to believe he managed to keep it hidden beneath his trousers for the years she’d known him—no, that wasn’t quite right.
There were a handful of times she’d felt it before, hadn’t she?
It was impossible to believe that his body, his perfect body, his perfect soul, had both remained hidden, when she was witnessing him—feeling him—in his wholeness.
It was impossible to believe that he, too, was witnessing her in all her fullness, and still wanted her, still loved her, still felt drawn to her.
But that was real reality, not a dream; a dream that was so unbelievable it had to be accepted, reality that was so believable it had to be a dream.
It was equally as hard to believe that Don Quixote embraced her once more, allowing their bodies to mesh together again, unencumbered by their clothes. The only gaps between their hearts, their hearts beating as one, were their skin and fat and muscle and bone, all superfluous things. The only thing that mattered was their blood coursing through their veins, diffusing their emotions throughout their bodies—their body.
“I want to be a part of you,” Sancho mumbled. “I want to feel your heart, to know that it’s the same as mine.”
And that was true. To dig her hand into Don Quixote’s chest, to bare his heart, the seat of his soul, to the world, to witness it in all its glory, to feel its pulsing, its rhythmic pounding, its life-sustaining and life-giving powers—to know what it would be like to keep him alive, to know what it would feel like, without relying on the twin crutches of language and imagination—to know what it would feel like to be responsible for his blood, the blood that created her rebirth; how brilliant, how wonderful, how sublime it would be!
“It is,” he said, the two words imbued with conviction. “Our blood has been the same, ever since you were born.”
Their blood had been the same, and yet they still possessed two separate hearts, two separate circulatory systems; they had four atria and four ventricles between them.
Sancho could feel the very electric field produced by Don Quixote’s heart, the electric impulses keeping him alive, the physical process enabling her to feel his. She pressed her ear to his chest, her desire to only feel his heart, to synchronize their hearts, their electricity, their blood, a desire she had no choice but to yield to.
“You really like that,” Don Quixote murmured.
If it were possible for her face to grow even redder, it would have then. “Of course. It’s your heart,” as if that were a sufficient explanation, when, in reality, there was no explanation for why this entranced her so. She tried to gather her thoughts, but her mind was clouded with a thick fog of pleasure.
As she spoke, a finger—much larger than her own, almost scarily so—gently parted her folds, gathering up enough wetness to provide comfort, before pushing in.
Sancho moaned. It was the only thing she could do. The gaping void in her soul, finally filled by someone—Don Quixote, her Father—who genuinely understood her, who accepted her, who loved her.
One of his fingers was the equivalent of nearly two of hers. The thought sent a shock up her spine, paired with the simultaneous shock from a gentle thrust.
His fingers were longer than hers, too. That had to be his middle finger, right? The pad of his middle finger pressed against the perfect spot; she clenched involuntarily.
“Good?” he asked.
The only answer she could conjure was a full-throated moan, one amplified when he placed his thumb over her clit and began to rub circles.
He added another finger. It slipped in without much difficulty, albeit with some slight pain. It was well worth it, though.
Through the haze of her heartbeat and the sensation of being full, she could just barely make out Don Quixote furrowing his eyebrows.
“Are you a virgin?”
“Ah—no,” Sancho lied, only barely able to tear the word out from her vocal cords and through a guttural moan.
It was probably just her imagination, but it appeared almost as if he wilted at the thought.
“Just… a while,” she managed to add. That one was more of a lie than the previous one; she was quite familiar with the concept of self-pleasure.
It was completely different when it was another person, however. No feedback from the sensation of her own fingers, no strangeness at the texture and warmth and wetness.
It just felt indescribably good; it was almost as good as being bitten, that feedback loop that felt like an eternity and a singular moment all at once.
“Bite me again.”
She wasn’t even aware of the words tumbling out of her mouth before she said them; they were her true feelings regardless.
Don Quixote sunk his teeth into her neck again, the exact same spot; every cell in her body erupted in the pure joy, the sensation of love. She felt his heart, not only in his chest, where it belonged (much to her chagrin), but in his tongue, through his teeth, in her own body. Her heartbeat, speeding up to match his.
Their blood, no longer separated by the constraints of separate bodies.
He began to piston his fingers in and out of her more quickly, the rate speeding to match their heartbeats. At this realization—not a realization, an understanding based on their connection, built from blood—she clenched down hard, and she screamed, her entire soul climaxing.
Through gasps, through the indescribable pleasure she had never previously imagined one could potentially attain, she managed to say, “It’s your heart. My heart.”
The knowledge that he, too, was experiencing this was almost unbearable. Their hearts were one; their entire bodies were merged, in truth.
He helped her ride out her orgasm, his fingers slowing as each wave crashed upon the shore, but still extending how long it took for the waves to fully abate. It wasn’t something she had ever managed to achieve herself, typically relying on rubbing on her clit in rapid circles.
A sense of loss followed Don Quixote’s fingers as he extricated them; the same sense of loss, amplified, as he unlatched his jaw from his neck. Her slick coated his fingers fully; he separated them, a webbing clinging between them. He lifted them to his mouth, as if it were a gourmet meal—no, a fresh source of blood—and licked them clean. His mouth, still dripping with blood, the same blood that gushed out from her neck, the anticoagulation agents in his saliva delaying clotting.
It was then that Sancho noticed that his cock was still just as impossibly, as phantasmagorically, hard as it was before. The purpling at its tip had started to emanate downwards; it was nearly touching his stomach. The difference in shades, between the creamy pale and the sanguine near-bruise, was astonishing.
“Let me help you,” she said as soon as she regained the ability to form complete sentences. “I want to.”
It was the only way she could express the depths of her love for Don Quixote; she wanted to express it in the same way he just had.
Trepidation clouded his expression. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Sancho had never been more sure of anything in her life.
She reached out and pressed one finger to the tip of his cock. A droplet of pre oozed out. He moaned once, a deep sound that reverberated through her entire body.
“I won’t—I won’t last long,” he bit out, as if it weren’t already painfully obvious.
“That’s all right.”
Sancho somehow managed to eke out enough self-control to not push her finger in and instead removed her hand completely. She lifted her entire body up and positioned herself above him, waiting for him to guide himself inside.
The moment before he pressed in felt as if it lasted forever; the anticipation was unbearable, even more unbearable than any of the preceding events, more unbearable than she could put into words.
The moment of penetration was a stretch beyond that she’d felt before; unsurprising, since she was accustomed to only three of her fingers, far thinner than his. He had to be as thick as four of his own.
It was a stretch, and a low, intoxicating burn. He slowly glided deeper, her slick sufficient to banish even the concept of friction itself. She sank back down, lying on her back, allowing him to take the lead. That felt right.
After an eternity, he bottomed out, and they were one yet again. At that moment, Sancho realized that he’d been groaning a deep, wordless moan, the type of sound it seemed impossible he’d be able to make, a sound resounding from the center of his diaphragm. It felt closer to a purr than a noise that was emanating from a person’s throat; at the same time, it was the exact sound that made sense for him to produce.
His eyes, those blood-red eyes, were clouded over; she could see herself reflected in the oceans of his pupils, blown out with lust.
As he pulled out and pushed back in for the first time, she watched her tits bounce with the impact, a hypnotizing motion. The next time, she moaned as well, the sensation of complete fullness, of perfection, only increasing with time, another positive feedback loop. She felt herself clench down as he pushed back in; they moaned in tandem.
“I’ve been waiting so long to do this,” Don Quixote said, his words punctuating his thrusts and throaty moans. “You’re so perfect for me.
“My Sancho.”
As he spoke, his motions grew faster and shallow, rubbing against her favorite spot in the best way, threatening to tip her over the edge again. With one final jerk, he pushed as far in as he could and stopped moving; at the same time, he leaned over and bit back down on the ragged wound in her neck, the wound that didn’t even hurt anymore, the pain had so thoroughly been sublimated, reanalyzed, reinterpreted, as pleasure.
She screamed. It was the only thing she could do. The knowledge that Don Quixote, too, knew exactly what it was like to be so, so perfectly full, was enough to push her to come again; her scream somehow transubstantiated itself into “Don Quixote,” which itself, in turn, became a cry of “Father!”
His cock jumped in response.
It lasted even longer than the first time, with his cock thick enough that she could barely even clench up at all. Each wave wracked her entire body, causing his fangs to dig even deeper into her neck, which amplified it even more, which triggered another wave, which made him bite even deeper. It felt as if it would never end; they would spend the rest of their interminable existences in this peerless ecstasy, in this perfect haze of pure sensation driven by pure familial love.
They remained like that forever, but even forever was forced to end. Don Quixote’s cock inevitably softened, and he had to pull out. It felt as if her entire insides came out with him; she had to bite down on her lip hard when she realized that he, too, felt that. He had the ability to unlatch his jaw from her neck, at least.
“I love you, my dearest Sancho,” he said through his mouthful of her blood; it sprayed out, staining her chest with even more blood than the stream leaking down from her neck.
“I love you, Father,” she said; it was the only thing she could possibly ever say.
She reached down, assessing whether she was hurt. The aftershocks of pleasure still continued to dampen any potential sensation of pain she could feel emanating from anywhere in her body.
Stretched, gaping open, but still fine. She was far wetter than she could ever remember being. When she lifted a finger up, the clear fluid she expected was streaked with the same red that stained Don Quixote’s saliva, but was joined with an unfamiliar white.
Don Quixote took her hand in his and guided it to his mouth. He licked it clean, leaving only a perfectly pristine finger, his hand dwarfing hers.
This, too, was out of love.
Sancho truly loved him.