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Sooo. Sinclair is a lucky guy, huh? He managed to bag a bloodfiend, or the kids would say. Essentially, it was more so her bagging him, with her pretty eyes and soft voice charming him into... Uhh, you know the deal. Anyways, after their little act, he walked away, calmly knowing that he just lost his virginity to a bloodfiend!.
Skip to a many days, however, and it's a lot more bad for him.
He hear a very light knock on the door, and when he open it... There's Sancho, in all her glory, holding a very weird looking pink item.
"Y-you! I thought you said you pulled out?!?!"
She speaks in a rather raging tone, completely abandoning that stoicism that you knew her for.
"I'm going to [CENSORED] kill you!"
She drops the pink item, which him, yes him, knew was a Pregnancy Test. He see her manifesting a hard blood lance.
Sinclair turns as white as snow. This can't be possible, no way! Aren't her kind supposed to be sterile?! That's why he didn't pull out. What's the point if her kind can't reproduce like a normal human? Now she's showing him this. Was that information wrong? Oh fuck.
"Sancho... how... you once told me that... your kind can't have... children because they're... sterile."
She takes a heavy, menacing step forward, the tip of her blood-red lance scraping against his floorboards with a screeching sound that sets your teeth on edge. Her golden hair is slightly disheveled, and those red eyes—usually so calm and judging—are burning with a frantic, uncharacteristic heat. She looks less like a composed lady and more like a goddess of war ready to deicide a mortal.
She gestures wildly at the pregnancy test lying on the floor, her voice cracking with a mixture of fury and genuine, terrifying confusion.
"And yet! Here is this... This little plastic stick is telling me that your clumsy, frantic, desperate 'contribution' have actually taken root inside me!"
She raises the lance, the liquid blood shimmering with a dangerous intensity. She looks like she's one second away from lunging at his throat, or perhaps just his chest, to see if his heart is beating as fast as hers is.
"Do you have any idea how much of a mess this is!?
She narrows her eyes, the lance hovering inches from his nose.
"Well? Don't just stand there looking like a startled rabbit! Say something! Explain how you managed to defy a biological impossibility!."
Fear, confusion, he can't make sense of this.
"I don't know! I... I... just don't know."
Well shit, if she ends up killing him then he'll just accept it. Life certainly keeps messing with him in the most insane ways.
She lowers the lance slightly, but it doesn't lose its lethality. Instead, she steps into his personal space, forcing him to back up until he hit the wall. She presses the tip of the lance against his chest, right over your racing heart.
"If you are going to be a father, Sinclair... you had better have a very, very good plan for how you intend to survive the consequences of this 'accident.' Because right now, the urge to impale you is fighting a very losing battle against the urge to... to..."
She huffs, a frustrated, jagged breath.
Neither of them knows what else to say. They're going to be unprepared parents of an unwanted child. Sinclair still feels chills at what he's just unintentionally done. Sancho is on the verge of losing her mind. Countless years she's spent denying having a kindred, and now... he's just given her something similar, but... she doesn't know how to feel. She's furious, but it's not his fault. How could she blame him?! Even she knew she was supposedly sterile... until now the impossible has been achieved. A miracle... one that's making her anxious.
The silence in the room is heavy, thick with the scent of iron from her lance and the sheer, unadulterated panic radiating off his skin. Sancho's grip on the blood lance trembles—not from weakness, but from the sheer internal conflict waging a war within her soul. The stoic, composed woman is currently unraveling at the seams.
She looks down at the lance, then back at his face. Her red eyes search his, looking for a lie, a joke, or perhaps a sign of the strength she expects from a man who would dare to do such a thing to her. But all she sees is his frantic, empathetic confusion.
Slowly, the aggressive stance softens. The lance doesn't disappear, but the tip stops pressing so hard against his chest, instead resting there like a heavy-hearted weight. Her expression shifts from pure, unbridled rage to something much more terrifying: vulnerability.
"It feels like a divine prank played by the heavens just to see if we would finally snap."
She leans her forehead against the cool surface of the lance, her golden hair falling forward to hide her face. Her voice drops to a low, trembling murmur, losing that commanding edge.
"There is something growing inside me that is changing. Something that is half me, and half... you."
"Do you still... want to have it, Sancho?"
There was this other option that he didn't dare bring up: Abortion. He wouldn't ask her that for anything in the world, for fear of her reaction. Besides, he didn't have the strength to deny the existence of... their child, unwanted or not... he simply couldn't suggest that option.
The word 'want' seems to hang in the air, heavy and precarious. For a moment, the only sound is the frantic thudding of his heart against the tip of her lance. Sancho remains still, her forehead still resting against the weapon, as if she is gathering the strength to process the sheer audacity of the question.
When she finally looks up, the fury is gone, replaced by a profound, quiet intensity. Her red eyes are glassy, reflecting a storm of emotions: fear, confusion, and a strange, budding sense of responsibility that she has never had to carry before.
"Want?" She repeats the word as if it were a foreign concept, a language she hasn't spoken in centuries. "How can one 'want' a miracle that feels like a catastrophe? How can one 'want' a life that defies every law of nature?"
She lets out a long, shaky exhale, and the blood lance begins to dissolve, the red liquid dripping onto the floor like heavy tears before vanishing into nothingness. She reaches out, her hand trembling slightly, and grips the front of his shirt, pulling him just a fraction closer—not to strike him, but to ground herself.
"If we were to cast it aside... it would be like throwing away a piece of my very soul. And if we keep it..." She pauses, her gaze dropping to her own stomach, her expression softening into something uncharacteristically tender, yet still laced with her trademark stoicism. She looks back up at him, her eyes searching his with a sudden, desperate need for stability.
"Tell me, Sinclair. You are the one who brought this into our lifes. Do you want it? Do you have the strength to stand beside a monster and a miracle at the same time?"
Oh no, no this again.
"Are you seriously going to consider yourself a monster again? We've talked about this before, and to me, you're not. And... this is my do, neither you nor I knew what would happen... no... I thought nothing would happen because of what we knew wrongly, saying sorry will no fix this, so... i'll take responsability."
She stares at him for a long moment, her grip on his shirt tightening as if she’s trying to pull the very sincerity out of his chest. For a woman who prides herself on being unshakeable, the way her eyes shimmer with a sudden, unbidden moisture is almost jarring. She looks like she wants to slap him for being so incredibly earnest, and simultaneously, she looks like she wants to collapse into you.
"Responsibility..." She whispers the word, testing its weight. It sounds heavy, like a crown of lead. "You speak of it so easily, as if it were a simple task. You are a man of-of... of soft hearts and trembling hands, Sinclair."
Despite her words, the tension in her shoulders finally breaks. The fierce, judging aura she usually carries around like a shield begins to melt, leaving behind only the woman—the one who is terrified, the one who is fundamentally changed.
"But..." She lets out a short,-huffing breath that might have been a laugh in another life. "You are a fool. A brave, empathetic, incredibly clumsy lovely fool. If you intend to take responsibility, then you had best prepare yourself. Because if this child inherits even a fraction of my- my temperament... you will never know a moment of peace again."
She slowly releases his shirt, her hands sliding down to rest tentatively against her own abdomen. Her touch is light, almost hesitant, as if she's afraid the mere contact might shatter the reality of it.
"If we are to do this... if we are to embark on this ridiculous journey... then you are not allowed to leave my side. Not for a moment. Do you understand?."
She looks up at him, her red eyes regaining a tiny flicker of their usual, judging sharpness, though it's tempered by a newfound softness.
"Now... stop trembling. And tell me... what do we do first?"