Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Horrible.

Absolutely. Horrible.

The bedroom door clicked shut, leaving the burning flame seething in the comfort of her bed. Silence crashed back, thick and suffocating. She stared at the ceiling, fists clenched in the silk sheets. Why this? Why now? Emotions, real, un-muted, viscous things, churned like overheated sludge in her chest. Four years drowning them in violence and whatever she could get her hands on, five more locked behind alchemical bars... and this was the result? This raw, shuddering fracture? Breaking open?

Heat prickled beneath her skin again, relentless. Mortifying.

Pathetic.

With a sharp exhale, she flopped onto her back. Red hair fanned across the pillow like spilled wine. Her expression was pure, undiluted Ragnvindr exasperation.

Brows furrowed into a storm, lips pressed into a thin, displeased line… Like a disgruntled owl glaring at the marble above.

Gods.

She snatched the nearest pillow, yanked it over her face, and let loose a stifled, furious groan into the feathers. The sound vibrated through her bones.

Laughable. This is what it’s come to. Rolling in silk, drowning in… in feelings.

Diluc Ragnvindr, scourge of Fatui supply lines, master of the Dawn Winery, reduced to… this. Trembling in bed. Flushing like a debutante. Aching.

The scent of feathers and faint lavender couldn’t mask the lingering traces of him. The scientist. The damned Chief Alchemist of the Knights of Favonius. Her physician. Chalk, skin, the sharp tang of solvents. It clung to the air, a presence that feeds the heat in her veins.

The words hammered against her temples. She’d faced down Harbingers with less internal chaos than this… this somatic… uprising?

She squeezed her eyes shut, but the images flashed behind her lids: Albedo’s bloodshot, focused eyes, the knowing tilt of his head, the way his gloved fingers had felt against her pulse point. All clinical, yet… possessive. And that damned, quiet command: "Be good." It echoed, igniting fresh sparks of fury and something far more treacherous low in her belly.

The ghosts of Snezhnaya’s back alleys flickered. Rough hands, predatory smiles, the hollow exchange of safety for submission. Was this any different? Letting him see? Letting him know?

No.

The denial was a silent scream. It’s not the same. She wasn’t that girl anymore. She wouldn’t be.

With a surge of frustrated energy, she hurled the pillow aside with a small grunt. It hit the floor with a soft thump.

She turned her face sharply into the cool fabric of the remaining pillow, muffling another groan. Not of fury this time, but of sheer, overwhelming defeat. The battle wasn’t over.

In the bedroom of the renowned Dawn Winery master, a certain redhead patient lies face down on her pillow, hair tousled about as she avoids the gaze of a prodding alchemist.

The door clicks open.

Two pairs of footsteps.

One paused. "Hm." Distinctly Albedo, as he noted the pillow on the ground. Probably has an amused glint in his eyes as he evaluates the scenery before him.

The other pair of footsteps moved closer, accompanied by the clicking of plates and utensils on top of wood, right beside Diluc's bed. It also moved to put a tray farther away, presumably Albedo's desk, right across her bed. "Your food is here, Master Diluc."

Adelinde had said as she put the pillow back on the bed. Tried not to slip any amusement in her tone—but Diluc knows her.

The scent of perfectly seared steak, melted cheese, and the tangy sweetness of grape juice finally breached her fortress of pillows. Diluc froze, her stomach betraying her with an embarrassingly loud growl.

She peeked one crimson eye out from beneath the disheveled curtain of her hair, just in time to see Adelinde's barely-contained smile as she set the last tray down with far too much cheerful precision.

Traitor.

The second the door clicked shut, she lifted her head fully, eyeing the meal with the wariness of a stray cat offered a suspiciously generous hand. Three thick-cut steaks, layered with gooey cheese, juices pooling beneath them. Her dish, exactly how she liked it. And beside it, a chilled glass of Dawn Winery’s finest grape juice, condensation already beading on the surface.

Damn him. Damn them both.

She hesitated, pride warring with hunger, before finally dragging herself up onto her elbows. Her fingers twitched toward the fork, then paused.

Albedo sat at his makeshift desk, his back mostly to her, but the angle of his chair left him just within her periphery, close enough to observe if he wished, far enough to pretend he wasn’t.

He had his own tray, something far lighter and more sensible (probably soup, because of course it was), and his journal lay open beside it, quill moving in quick, efficient strokes.

Diluc scowled. The bastard was ignoring her. Good. She snatched the fork, stabbing into the first steak with unnecessary force. The first bite was—gods. Heaven. Hell. A reminder of simpler times, before alchemy and blood anomalies and feelings boiled inside her like a storm.

She chewed slowly, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge anything beyond the food, the juice, the quiet scrape of Albedo’s quill. Then—she hears a soft, short hum. Another one, coming from the alchemist. She stiffened.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him glance up from his notes, teal eyes flicking to her plate, then to her face, just for a second. Like a scientist noting an expected reaction. A man noting her.

What the fuck is there to watch?

She swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the juice lingering on her lower lip, the way the cheese stretched between her fork and the next bite, the flush creeping back up her neck. His lips quirked—just barely—before he returned to his work.

Diluc glared at her plate.

Insufferable.

But she didn’t stop eating. She needed this. Desperately. Days of tension melted with each bite of perfectly cooked steak, her rigid posture finally unwinding. For once, he wasn’t watching, wasn’t dissecting her like one of his damn experiments, just scribbling in that journal, focused and distant. Safe.

She glanced back at him, the way his eyes still looked tired yet so focused on his research, the way some of his hair fell to his forehead. A harmless look, a harmless glance. Her chewing slowed.

His fingers flexed, gloved knuckles shifting as he adjusted his notes. A faint sigh as he leaned back, stretched his neck, his blonde hair falling back, the line of his throat—

Their eyes met.

She jerked away, twisting toward the headboard, red hair a flustered curtain as heat seared up her neck. The wall was suddenly fascinating.

A beat of silence stretched long enough that she dared to hope he hadn’t noticed.

Then she hears the soft tap of his quill being set down. The creak of his chair shifting slightly.

Diluc didn’t turn. But she felt the weight of his gaze, that quiet, knowing focus settling over her.

"You’ll choke if you keep eating like that." Albedo said, his voice infuriatingly calm.

Her jaw clenched. She wasn’t eating like anything. She was eating normally. (If ‘normal’ now includes stabbing her food with slightly more aggression than strictly necessary.)

Still staring resolutely at the wall, she took another deliberate bite, chewing with exaggerated slowness before swallowing. See? Perfectly fine.

Albedo exhaled, something between exasperation and amusement. She can both hear it and imagine it, the rustle of fabric as he leaned back in his chair, the faint click of his gloves against wood. "The wall isn’t going to answer your unspoken questions."

She turned her head just enough to glare at him. "What questions?"

She shoved another bite into her mouth, chewing with deliberate aggression. The fork clinked too loudly against the plate. "I don’t have any questions." She practically grumbled.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, Albedo observed with quiet fascination as she practically murdered her steak. The way her jaw worked with each overly forceful chew, the tension in her shoulders, the barely-contained tremor in her grip. All that suppressed fury.

He propped his chin on one gloved hand, watching her with undisguised amusement, his quill abandoned.

"None at all?"

His voice was light, almost conversational, but his eyes—sharp and knowing—cut through her like a scalpel through tissue.

She stabbed another piece of steak. "None."

Silence.

"Not even about the non-human markers in your blood?"

Her fork froze mid-air.

His smile was small, infuriatingly smug as he leaned back, watching the shock—which then turned into indignation—flare across her face.

"Or perhaps," he continued smoothly, "about why your body reacts the way it does?"

The fork hit the plate with a loud clang.

"Don’t. Speak."

Her voice was low, dangerous. The kind of tone that sent lesser men scrambling.

Albedo merely tilted his head, unfazed. "Ah. So you do have questions."

She huffed. "So?”

Her voice was a blade of ice, sharp enough to draw blood. Crimson eyes burned into him, furious, flustered, because—

Damn him.

Damn his perfect jawline, his infuriating smirk, the way his stupid teal eyes saw right through her.

She crossed her arms, spine rigid, her voice laced with venom.

"Explain."

The ice in her voice didn't faze him. Albedo merely leaned back in his chair. The amusement faded, replaced by that familiar, unnerving focus.

"Very well." His voice was low, measured, but devoid of its earlier teasing edge. "The vial Alice gave nine years ago, the one that facilitated your initial transition, contained more than Rhinedottir's standard alchemy. It carried a signature. A marker woven into the very fabric of the transformative matrix." He paused, his teal eyes fixed on her.

"It acted as a... fail-safe. Likely embedded by my master herself—or possibly someone else. Its trigger appears to be the systemic stress combined with the prolonged suppression of your fundamental nature. The seizure wasn't just a breakdown, it was an activation."

He rose, moving not towards her, but to the other side of his makeshift lab table. He picked up a vial—her vial—holding it up to the fading afternoon light filtering through the window.

"The Hexenzirkel’s interest," Albedo continued, his voice dropping slightly, "Alice’s intervention, Nicole’s... attention... It was never merely tolerance or passing curiosity. Your lineage carries a resonance. Rhinedottir’s—The witches’ vial didn’t introduce this. It activated it. Amplified it. And the suppression... the attempt to force it back into dormancy..."

He gestured towards her, encompassing her current state, the flush still high on her cheeks, the volatile energy radiating from her rigid posture. "...It created pressure. Immense pressure. Until the vessel—you—began to fracture."

"You asked what you are. Biologically, you are Diluc Ragnvindr. But your essence... your blood... now carries an echo of something far older. Something Rhi–they saw fit to harness and bind within you." His gaze held hers, stark and uncompromising. "That is what I found. That is what lives within you now. And that," he finished, the weight of it settling heavily in the quiet room, "is what we must now understand." The unspoken question hung between them: Do you wish to understand it too?

He set the vial down carefully. For a few seconds, he does not hear anything from her.

"...I figured."

The admission is bitten off. She doesn’t meet his eyes. Her knuckles whiten where they grip the silk sheets, not in shock, but in grim recognition. The ghosts of Kaeya’s blade-clash nine years ago whisper words she embedded in her mind for years; Blood means nothing.

And all the other acquaintances she made who had... Atypical blood and heritage…

It truly doesn’t matter. So long as…

"Will it kill me?"

Then, quieter, the real fear, she asks, "Does it make me... unstable?"

Albedo's gloved fingers tightened around the vial. He didn't answer immediately.

"Unstable?" His lips twisted slightly, not quite a smile... Something darker. "No. Not in the way you fear." He turned fully toward her now, his boots silent against the carpet. "Your will remains your own. Your mind is intact. The markers don't rewrite you."

"But will it kill you?" His voice dropped, the clinical detachment fracturing just enough for the gravity beneath to show. "Not if we understand it. Not if you learn to wield it."

He took a slow step closer, the distance between them shrinking. Albedo’s shadow fell over her. "But make no mistake. What lives in your veins isn't passive. It can be dormant, yes. Ignored, even. But suppressed?" A sharp exhale through his nose. He'd witnessed where that path led. "That nearly killed you already, Diluc."

Her fingers twitched against the sheets. He saw the flicker of understanding there. This wasn't only about survival, but acceptance.

Albedo's voice softened, just barely. "You're not unstable, Diluc. You're powerful." The admission hung between them, unavoidable. "And for better or worse... I suspect that's precisely why they marked you. Why they—Alice, mostly—value you."

.

.

.

"Fine."

Her crimson eyes narrowed at the vial—that shimmering thing in her blood—before flicking back to him with something between suspicion and reluctant acceptance.

"...But."

She exhaled sharply through her nose, fingers curling into the silk sheets.

"It's just blood. Some anomaly. It does not… suddenly make me special." The word came out like a curse. "Only difference is I'm harder to kill, apparently."

Her jaw tightened. "And emotions? That part makes no sense. I chose to suppress them. That's discipline, not... this."

She waved a hand dismissively, as if swatting away the weight of his words. "Unless you're telling me my feelings were part of some alchemical fail-safe, then…" She cut herself off, scowling. "Whatever. Doesn't matter."

Albedo watched her with the quiet, unshakable patience of a man who'd spent decades studying all types of creatures. The sharp dismissal in her voice, the waver when she spoke of feelings. Every microexpression was data. Every deflection was evidence.

"Blood is rarely just blood," he countered, tilting his head slightly. "And suppression? Discipline? Perhaps." He took a slow step closer, gloved hands clasped loosely behind his back.

"But tell me this. When you chose to suppress, did it ever feel like the emotions were... lessened? Or simply trapped? Like a river damned, building pressure, rather than drying up?"

He saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes before she could school them back into defiance.

"That," he murmured, "was the fail-safe. Not in your emotions themselves, but in the container you built for them. The witches' alchemy, the markers in your blood... They don't tolerate cages. They amplify. Distort."

A pause. His gaze dropped to her hands, still gripping the sheets like a lifeline. "Harder to kill, yes." His voice softened. "But also... harder to numb."

Then, because he couldn't resist—because she was so frustratingly stubborn—he added, "And for the record? Being 'special' has never been about what you are. Only what you do with it."

***

He turned back to his desk before she could argue, leaving her with that thought and the quiet, unspoken challenge in his words.

Her fork clattered against the plate as she shoved the final piece into her mouth, chewing with deliberate slowness before swallowing hard. Crimson eyes flicked up to meet his, sharp with challenge.

"Congratulations," she bit out, voice edged with frost. "You've diagnosed me. Solved your little mystery." A stiff gesture toward his makeshift lab. "No reason to camp in my bedroom anymore, is there?"

She leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed. A defensive posture, but her fingers dug into her sleeves just a little too tightly.

"I don't need a babysitter. Or a lab. Or—" Her jaw twitched. "—your theories about what I should feel."

The plate rattled as she shoved it away, the sharp clink of silverware punctuating her dismissal. Albedo didn’t flinch. He merely watched, his expression unreadable, as she barricaded herself behind crossed arms and that glacial glare.

"No reason to stay here. Absolutely no reason," she declared.

His lips quirked. A barely-there flicker of amusement.

"Hm."

He turned back to his notes, flipping a page with deliberate calm, quill scratching across parchment as if she hadn’t spoken at all. Then, without looking up, he interrupts the silence. "Interesting theory. Unfortunately, incorrect."

The quill stilled. He finally met her gaze, his own teal eyes sharp with quiet challenge.

He held up the vial again, her blood catching the fading light in prismatic swirls. Colorful, red, around gold. Glittery, almost.

"This isn't theoretical. It's present. Active." A slow, deliberate tilt of his head. "And unless you've suddenly developed a mastery of Khaenri'ahn alchemy when I wasn't looking, I'd strongly advise against self-experimentation."

The unspoken warning hung heavy between them: You need me.

And then, softer, almost too quiet to hear, yet pointedly: "Unless you'd rather I left?"

(He already knew the answer.)

The plate rattled as she slammed her fist down beside it. "Gods—" Her voice cracked, raw with frustration. "What even is there to experiment with?!" Her crimson eyes blazed, pupils dilated with fury and something else, something hotter and more volatile. "You've poked and prodded and theorized enough."

Albedo didn't move. He merely tilted his head, his gaze sharpening, that infuriating calm settling deeper in his expression, in the prickling air. "Oh?" The single syllable was soft and dangerous.

"So eager to be rid of me?" He leaned forward slightly, the chair creaking. "After all," he murmured, voice dropping to a low, deliberate hum, "I am rather... inconvenient."

Diluc flinched as if struck. The flush exploded across her skin, searing her cheeks, her neck, the tips of her ears. "No!" The denial ripped out of her, too loud, too sharp. She recoiled, scrambling back against the headboard, eyes wide with panic at her own outburst.

"I mean—no, gods, of course not—it’s not like—! You’re not—" Her words tangled, choked off. She clamped her mouth shut, trembling, fingers digging into the silk sheets hard enough to tear.

Horrible.

Pathetic.

He sees everything.

Albedo watched her unravel, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched, thick with her humiliation, the air crackling with unspent tension. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pushed his chair back and stood.

He didn’t approach. He didn’t smirk. He simply looked down at her, his teal eyes holding hers with that unnerving focus. "Good," he stated, the word quiet but final. "Because instability requires observation. And destabilizing stimuli—" His gaze swept over her flushed face, her trembling hands, "—like sudden isolation—are contraindicated." He turned smoothly towards his notes. "I’ll be right here."

He sat back down, picked up his quill, and resumed writing as if nothing had happened. As if her world hadn’t just fractured a little more under his gaze. As if her furious, flustered denial hadn’t just confirmed everything he already knew.

Diluc stared at his back, her chest heaving, the heat in her skin burning like a brand.

He wasn't leaving.

And the worst part?

She was glad.

“I just…” Her knuckles whitened, nails biting into her palms. The words tore out of her, raw and trembling, “You’re not doing anything. About this. The… emotions.” Crimson eyes locked onto his, blazing with frustration.

“You push, then pull away. You watch. You… You speak, you touch. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

A shaky breath. The heat under her skin flared. Anger, humiliation, exhaustion crashing together. Her courageous stare, meeting his eyes once before flicking away.

“Stop toying with me.”

The quill paused mid-stroke. Albedo didn’t look up immediately. First, he set it down precisely, along the spine of his journal. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze.

Tsk.

A single, soft sound. Disapproving. Amused.

With a notebook in one hand, he stood.

He dragged his chair over to her bedside, but didn’t sit down. He only steps closer.

Diluc’s breath hitched as his shadow fell over her, his presence suddenly too close, too real. He braced one hand against the headboard beside her, leaning down just enough to trap her in his scrutiny. His scent wrapped around her, suffocating.

"You're right," he murmured, voice low, smooth as polished glass. "I do know what I'm doing." His eyes traced the frantic pulse at her throat, the way her chest rose and fell too fast. "And you're reacting exactly as required."

A beat. His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw, light and fleeting, infuriatingly clinical. "Suppression would have killed you. This?" His lips quirked. "This is progress."

Then he straightened, flipping his notebook back open as he took a step back, sitting down and jotting something down, as if she was just another experiment to log.

.

.

.

Diluc exhaled sharply through her nose, sinking deeper into the plush pillows, arms crossed.

This was ridiculous.

He had been in her room for hours, sitting there with that infuriating look on his face, like she was some fascinating specimen to be examined. And now, after everything, after poking and prodding and knowingly driving her to the edge, he just... sat there.

No demands. No wandering hands. No drunken, sloppy attempts at coaxing her into bed like every other pathetic man who'd ever gotten too comfortable in her presence.

Just that look. That damned calculating look.

Her fingers curled into the silk sheets.

He was playing with her. Not for pleasure, not for power—but for data.

‘How far could he push?’

‘How much could she take?’

‘What would she do when she snapped?’

A test. All of it.

And she was failing spectacularly.

She clicked her tongue, forcing herself to relax against the pillows, tilting her chin up just enough to meet his gaze with feigned indifference.

Fine.

If he wanted a reaction, he’d get one.

Just not the one he expected.

A small, genuine smile touched his lips as he watched the spectacle. A masterclass of defiance. Noteworthy.

His gloved fingers simply tapped a slow, rhythmic pattern against the cover of his journal.

His smile was fleeting, but unmistakable. Not mocking. Appreciative. Like an alchemist witnessing an unexpected, elegant reaction in a volatile compound.

"Better," he murmured, the word soft but carrying clearly in the silent room. His boot tapped the floor once, echoing the rhythm of his fingers. "Much better."

The clinical detachment remained, but beneath it was a palpable curiosity, an almost predatory satisfaction at her shift in tactics. She wasn’t succumbing to blind fury anymore. She was adapting. Engaging on a different level, in a different way. This was infinitely more interesting than mere emotional volatility.

"Indifference is a sharper scalpel than rage, wouldn’t you agree?" he observed, his voice low and smooth. "Less… messy. More controlled." His teal eyes held hers, unblinking. "But just as revealing." He paused, letting the implication hang, that her very attempt to not react was, in itself, a reaction he was meticulously cataloging.

Another test:

He gestured casually towards the forgotten glass of water on her bedside table.

“Hydrate.” It wasn’t a request. It was an instruction embedded within his observation, a reminder that even in her defiance, he was still the one setting parameters. The fact that, whether she drank or not, her choice would be another data point for the ever-growing file labeled Diluc Ragnvindr.

Moreover, he wanted to see just how willingly she follows.

And he has the answer. Despite her play at annoyance and defiance, she follows almost immediately. She glared over the rim of her glass, drank it all in one defiant gulp. Fine. The glass hit the nightstand with a sharp clink.

A rough swipe of the back of her hand across her lips, a gesture too careless, too unguarded. So unlike a noble, but if you asked someone like Adelinde, it was very much Diluc.

"You know..." Her voice was low, frayed at the edges. Crimson eyes narrowed, fixed on the wall opposite, purposefully avoiding him despite his blur in her periphery. "You're the only man I've ever met who would camp in a woman's bedroom for hours..."

A pause. Her jaw tightened, knuckles whitening against the sheets. The words tumbled out, sharp and unchecked, annoyance overriding sense, "...just to ignore her and scribble in a godsdamned notebook instead of—"

Shit. The implication hung heavy the second it left her lips. She paused. Heat flooded her cheeks.

Bold one.

She exhaled shakily, snapping her head away, shoulders stiff.

The notebook snapped shut with a precise thud. Albedo's head tilted slightly, those unnerving teal eyes locking onto her with sharp focus.

The air between them grew heavier, charged with something far more dangerous than scientific curiosity.

"Instead of...?" The unspoken challenge hung between them, his gaze flicking momentarily to her clenched fists, the furious blush creeping down her neck.

He didn't move from his chair. Didn't lean in. Didn't smirk. But the weight of his attention was suddenly different. No longer clinical detachment, but something far more deliberate. Something hungry. Something curious.

Then, with deliberate calm, he leaned back in his chair and reopened his journal to a fresh page. The quill scratched against parchment as he began writing, his voice utterly matter-of-fact,

"Hypothesis confirmed. Subject exhibits frustration toward perceived inaction. Suggests underlying expectation of... alternative engagement."

The corner of his mouth twitched as he continued writing.

"Further observation required."

The bastard was documenting this. Right in front of her. With fucking footnotes.

Her breath hitched, sharp and audible. Her eyes widened for a split second before narrowing, the flush on her cheeks deepening to wildfire.

"You—"

The accusation died on her tongue as she caught his gaze—steady and analytical, with an undercurrent of something amused but also something else, something darker—framed by sunset gold bleeding through the window. Damn the light. Damn him seeing.

With a strangled noise, she yanked the silk duvet over her head, rolling violently onto her side. The fabric cocooned her trembling form.

"Fine," came her muffled growl, sharp enough to cut glass. "Don’t expect anything from me, then."

The scratching of his quill paused. Albedo watched the trembling mound of silk with amusement and detached fascination.

"Don't expect anything..." was truly a fascinating lie. Her very presence, coiled tight and radiating heat, was expectation. It was a demand he felt in the charged silence.

A slow, deliberate breath escaped him. He closed the journal, this time with finality, and placed it on the bedside table, the soft thump echoing in the quiet room.

Then, he walked towards her. Slow. Silent. Boots made no sound on the thick carpet.

He stopped beside the bed, his shadow falling over her trembling form covered by the duvet. For a long moment, he simply stood there. The only sound was the faint, ragged pull of her breath beneath the silk.

One gloved hand reached out, not to yank the cover away, but to gently grasp the top edge of the duvet where it met the pillow. He didn't pull yet, just held it.

“May I?”

A choked sound escaped her.

Why?

Why the games? The notes? The way his gaze stripped her bare while his hands stayed clinically distant? Why make her feel this... This unraveling?

Now he wants her to–to turn around and show him everything? Lay under him like a specimen under a microscope again?

Her knuckles whitened. The word tore out, ragged and raw.

"...Why?"

What will you do to me, now?

The air between them grew thick, charged with unspoken questions. Albedo didn't move, his gloved fingers still just barely touching the edge of the duvet.

Then, calmly, clinically, he answered, "Because," he murmured, his voice steady, yet beneath it ran something darker, more possessive, "you want me to look."

His fingers flexed slightly against the fabric. "Turn over," he instructed, soft but unwavering. Again, it was not a request, but a command.

A second passed. Then five more.

The duvet shifted. Slowly, reluctantly, she obeyed, emerging like a storm breaking, her red hair tousled, cheeks flushed, crimson eyes blazing with something far more vulnerable.

Albedo studied her, his expression impassive save for the faintest gleam in those teal irises. He didn’t touch her, not yet. But his voice, when he spoke again, was low and deliberate.

"Describe it."

A pause. His gaze never left hers.

"What do you want?"

The question hung in the air. Clinical, precise, unbearable in its simplicity.

She could lie. She could refuse. But the way his fingers twitched against the duvet, the way his eyes darkened just slightly… He already knew.

Heat pooled low in her stomach, treacherous and undeniable. She hated the way his voice wrapped around the question, how his gloved fingers flexed like he was already cataloging her reaction.

"Be precise," he added, tilting his head slightly, gaze piercing. "Scale of one to ten. How much?"

Her nails dug into the sheets, gaze averted as the heat rushed all over her body, redness adorning her chest, her neck, her cheeks, her ears… While her breathing quickened.

Bastard.

The words lodged in her throat. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t—"I don't know what you're–"

But Albedo leaned in, just enough for his breath to ghost over her ear. "Subject exhibits verbal resistance," he murmured, "but physiological response suggests–"

"Seven," she choked out, the admission ripped from her like a confession.

A beat of silence. Then his lips curved. Victorious.

"Noted."

Her chest heaved, heat worsening under his gaze and his proximity. The words tore from her throat before she could stop them. Raw, ragged, stripped of all pretense.

"Albedo." A shuddering breath. "Enough with your–your damned notes. Just—" Her voice cracked, crimson eyes burning with frustration. "Fuck me already."

The air froze. Albedo didn’t flinch. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t move an inch. His gaze remained fixed on her, teal eyes sharpening not with arousal, but with intensified focus. The raw, ragged plea hung between them, vibrating in the charged silence.

Then, his head tilted, looking like a predator dissecting its prey.

"Tsk." The sound was soft, chiding. "Impatient." He leaned back slightly, withdrawing the ghost of warmth near her ear.

"Release," he stated, voice flat, clinical, "is contraindicated. Destabilizing. Dangerous. You know this."

He watched her chest heave, the flush deepening on her skin, the furious frustration along with something desperate in her crimson eyes.

Fascinating.

His fingers moved to the fastener at his wrist. Not hurried. Not seductive. Precise. Methodical. The soft snick of the clasp echoed in the quiet room as he peeled off one black glove, revealing pale, slender fingers beneath.

He pulls something out of his pocket, another pair of gloves. Disposable, nitrile. Proper this time. He puts them on.

"However," he murmured, his voice dropping lower, rougher at the edges, "observation of the somatic response…" His gloved hand hovered, palm up, above the curve of her hip. Not touching. Yet. "...requires proximity."

His gaze locked onto hers, unblinking.

"Subject exhibits escalating distress and physiological demand," he noted aloud, his tone detached, yet the words felt like a brand. His gloved fingers finally descended, feather-light, tracing the tense line of her jaw. The contact sent a jolt through her. "Describe the sensation," he commanded, his thumb brushing the frantic pulse point below her ear. "Localized heat? Spread? Intensity?"

He traced the delicate ridge of Diluc's collarbone exposed by the loose neckline of her nightgown.

His finger dipped lower, tracing the edge of the silk fabric where it rested against the swell of her breast. He didn't linger, didn't grope. It was a mapping. A survey. It was clinical. Devastating.

"Verbal response?" he prompted, his voice barely above a whisper now, his teal eyes boring into hers, demanding her voice, her confession, her... data. "Scale it now. After contact."

His touch remained, a maddening, scientific torment. He wouldn't fuck her. He’d study her. He’d make her feel everything, deny her release, and force her to articulate every excruciating second of it for his notes. And the worst part? The traitorous heat pooling low in her belly, the involuntary arch of her spine seeking more of that cool, analytical touch… it meant he was right. All his hypotheses.

"Subject," he pressed, his thumb brushing the corner of her parted lips. "Report."

…

“I need it.” She whispered, head turned away, voice quiet.

The air crackled. Diluc’s plea hung like smoke, thin and desperate.

"Louder," he commanded, his voice a low rasp that scraped against her nerves. It wasn't cruelty, it was necessity. He needed the sample. The vocalization. The proof.

Her hips twitched involuntarily against the sheets, the slick heat between her thighs a traitorous, undeniable reality.

She felt everything. The cool air on her flushed skin, the rough texture of the silk beneath her, the unbearable emptiness where she ached.

And him.

Always him. Watching.

"I need it," she forced out, louder this time, the words raw and scraped.

Albedo’s gaze dipped down to the frantic rise and fall of her chest. His thumb brushed the damp skin just below her ear. "Need what, Diluc?" The question was a scalpel, precise and cold. "And where?" His eyes flicked down her body, lingering for a fraction of a second on her thighs, hidden by the silk but radiating heat he could surely feel. "Localize the demand. Quantify the sensation."

The clinical detachment was shattering. Never, never had she been laid so bare.

Past encounters flashed in her mind. The memory of rough hands in dark rooms, transactional silences or disgusting remarks, the hollow ache of being used and taken but unseen. This was different. This was worse because of all the ways it's better.

He wasn’t taking, he was demanding that she gives. Give him her shame, her need, the messy, wet, pulsing truth of her body. And gods help her, she wanted to. She wanted him. Not some faceless noble, some unknown man, but him. The infuriating alchemist with shadows underneath his eyes and Teyvat’s secrets in his gaze. The man who saw her breaking open and called it progress.

Her hips bucked again, seeking friction, seeking anything. "H-Here," she gasped, her hand fluttering uselessly near her lower belly before clenching into the sheet again. "Down... down there. It... burns. It aches." Her voice broke. It's embarrassing, terribly so, but she can't take it anymore. It's only him. But at the same time, the fact that it’s him makes it burn hotter. "Please... Albedo..."

He moved. Not to give into her plea, but to go against it.

His bare hand slid down, firm, pressing her hip flat against the mattress. "Still." His other hand swiped his journal from the bedside, flipping it open, quill hovering over the journal.

"Describe the ache. Is it sharp? Dull? Throbbing?" His thumb traced the sharp ridge of her hip bone, close to where she needed him most. "Scale the intensity. Now."

The pressure of his hand pinning her down, denying the instinctive rock of her hips, was its own kind of torment. She was soaked, her heartbeat a frantic drum against her chest, echoing in her ears.

"T-Throbbing," she choked out, tears of frustration pricking her eyes. "Like... like a heartbeat. Low. Deep. It... it spreads. Up my stomach... down my legs... Everywhere." Her hands were clutching the sheets tightly, her head still turned away as if she won’t feel his gaze if she herself can't see him. Her breath hitched as his thumb pressed slightly harder against her hip bone. "Ten. Gods, it's a ten. Albedo, please... I can't..."

He watched her unravel, his gaze intense. The quill scratched across the paper: 'Subject vocalizes somatic demand at maximum intensity (10). Reports throbbing ache radiating, spreading. Autonomic response includes tachycardia, hyperventilation, and significant vasocongestion.’

"This is necessary. Containment." He murmured, his voice thick with something that wasn't quite detachment anymore. His pinned hand shifted slightly, the heel of his palm pressing deliberately, finally, against the silk covering her heated core. Not inside. Not even truly touching her. Just pressure. Firm and unrelenting. Right there.

The jolt that went through her was electric and white-hot. A ragged sob tore from her throat. "Oh, gods…!"

"Describe the shift," he demanded, leaning closer, his breath warmer against her burning cheek. His eyes were dark pools of teal, holding hers captive. "Upon contact. Scale it."

It wasn't release. It was torture. Exquisite, scientific torture. And she was his perfect, willing subject.

"T-Ten!" The word tore out, ragged and too loud. Humiliation burned hotter than the ache. Begging. Like some desperate—

Her body jolted, hips bucking up against his hand, seeking more, friction, anything.

"Ah—!"

Albedo’s other hand slammed her hip back down onto the mattress. Iron grip. The notebook drops to the floor with a soft thud. Irrelevant.

Her desperate arch against him only ground the heel of his palm harder against the slick, swollen heat beneath the silk. The friction was everything, satisfying for one moment. But it was not enough.

"Ten," she’d gasped, but he didn’t need the confirmation; he felt it. Underneath his gloved hand, as her wetness spread, rendering the thin silks a useless barrier. Translucent. Slippery.

Albedo’s hand remained pinning her hip to the mattress, unyielding.

"Containment," he repeated, his voice rougher now, stripped of its clinical polish.

His hand left her hip and slid up her trembling flank, over the frantic rise and fall of her ribs, to cup the side of her face. His thumb brushed away a traitorous tear, the touch startlingly gentle.

"Subject's resistance correlates directly with amplification of somatic demand," he murmured, his breath hot against her temple. His gaze wasn't detached now. It burned. Hungry. Voracious. "Suppression attempt..." His thumb traced the wet curve of her lower lip, slick with her own tears. "...failed."

He leaned closer, his lips a hair's breadth from her ear. His scent intensified, mixed with something darker. Primal. His gloved hand, slick with her wetness, shifted minutely, the heel grinding in a slow, deliberate circle. Ripping a moan out of her, her hips canting towards his touch again, but he pushed down, a hard pressure against her core, planting the heel of his hand harder against her clit.

She let out an involuntary sob.

"Describe the failure," he commanded, the words a low growl that vibrated through her bones. His fingers tightened on her jaw, forcing her to meet his eyes, the depths of it swirling with heat and ruthless curiosity. An intense smug, unrelenting darkness. A cruel scientific fascination.

"How deep does the ache go? How much wetter does denial make you?"

His thumb pressed against her parted lips, a silent demand, the taste of rubber penetrating through her lips. Show me. Prove it.

Her hips jerked helplessly against his restraining hand, seeking more of that devastating pressure, that maddening friction. Silk clung, soaked through. Her thin lace underneath the silk dress was useless, only providing more pressure, more friction.

The ache wasn't just there anymore, it was everywhere.

In her trembling thighs, her clenched stomach, the frantic hammering of her heart. It was a white-hot brand, leaving raw, needing vulnerability with a pulsing red shame. And he saw it all. Cataloged it. Every single pulse.

"Albedo—" His name was a broken prayer, a surrender.

"Louder," he demanded, his voice cracking like ice over fire. His thumb slid from her lips, tracing a damp path down her throat, over the frantic pulse, pressing against it for a few seconds just to feel it through the thin layer of his gloves. Pulsing quickly. "Tell me what you need."

He wouldn't give her release. Not yet.

Maybe not even today.

But he would make her beg for it.

He adjusted his position, still hovering above her, but for better access, his shin between her thighs as his knee pressed against her thigh just under the junction of her hip, pinning her legs open as the mattress dipped under his weight. She was trapped. Exposed.

His gloved hand gripped Diluc's jaw, thumb digging into her cheekbone, his other fingers splayed against her throat. Forcing her crimson eyes to meet his. Teal irises burned with detached intensity. Expecting. His other hand, still pressed against her pulsing heat, stilled.

Her breath hitched.

"Deep," she gasped, hips jerking uselessly against his restraint. "Fuck, Albedo–need you inside—" Shame scorched her cheeks. No matter where she turns her head, it's useless. She's lying in front of him, served up like she's his to consume with his hungry eyes. "...'m soaked, Albedo, please," She whimpered.

He didn’t move. Didn’t yield. Only watched.

And then, a slow, deliberate grind of his palm down. Clockwise. Pressure like a brand against swollen heat through soaked silk.

"Ah—!"

Her back bowed off the bed, eyes rolling back. White fire tore through her, raw and shameless, as wetness bloomed hotter beneath his hand.

“Tsk.”

His exhale feathered against her temple. Clinical. Fascinated. "Subject reactivity... significant," he murmured, thumb stroking her trembling lip. "Fluid viscosity suggests elevated—"

"Stop talking—" she choked wetly, as her legs trembled.

His grip tightened. Scientist. Doctor. Jailer.

He doesn't obey. That's her job.

A tear falls out her eye, tracing a hot, silent path down her temple, vanishing into the cavity between her wet lips. Albedo tracked its descent with rapt attention, his thumb still pressed against her lower lip, feeling the tremors that ran through her jaw. Her choked plea, "Stop talking—" was irrelevant noise.

Data superseded comfort. Always. (He never believed this—until now.) His gloved hand tightened fractionally on her jaw. His other hand, still grinding that devastating clockwise circle against the soaked silk between her thighs, didn't pause. The slick heat blooming beneath his palm was palpable, the fabric clinging obscenely. ‘Significant fluid production. Elevated viscosity. Marked increase in core temperature.’

"Tear formation noted," he murmured, his voice a low hum against the frantic rhythm of her breathing, bordering on moaning, uncontrolled. His teal eyes, devoid of pity but alight with insatiable curiosity, held hers captive. "Correlated with peak somatic demand and vocalized distress. Physiological indicator of... systemic overwhelm."

He let go of her jaw, now resting his hand on her cheek, his thumb stroked the damp corner of her eye where the tear had escaped, collecting the salt moisture on his glove. "Reason? Frustration? Pain? Or..."

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her skin, his gaze piercing deeper in her eyes, glazed over with pleasure. "...Relief at finally being seen?"

He applied more pressure with the heel of his hand, grinding in faster rhythms, watching her hips strain helplessly against his knee's iron restraint.

Her back arched again, a silent gasp catching in her throat. "Ah—! Albedo—!"

"Designate," he commanded, cutting off her cry. His voice was steel wrapped in velvet. "Assign the tear. Category.... Intensity." His bare thumb, still damp from her tear, traced the frantic pulse in her throat. "Is it frustration at denial? Shame at exposure? Or..." His gaze dropped pointedly to where his hand worked against her, the silk darker and clinging. "...somatic overflow from the denied release itself?"

He increased the friction, the slow, grinding circle becoming more insistent, more invasive through the thin barrier. The wet shlicks from her wetness were audible now, a humiliating counterpoint to her ragged breaths and involuntary moans. Sobs.

"Report, Subject," he demanded, his voice dropping to a predatory whisper. His grip on her jaw ensured she couldn't look away, couldn't hide the fresh tears spilling over. "Quantify the tear. Scale the shame. Measure the ache, the pleasure of being this... open." His thumb pressed harder against her lower lip, an unspoken threat, a promise. Obey. Give me the data.

"F-fuck!" The curse ripped raw from her throat as his palm ground just there—

"Fifteen!"

Her back arched off soaked silk, muscles seizing. A ragged moan tore loose, shaky, shattered, as tremors wracked her frame, one of her hands coming to clutch his wrist that holds her jaw, her palm sore from the way she gripped the sheets tight.

"Tsk."

Albedo’s hand slid from her jaw—cool rubber tracing fire down her throat—to press flat against her sternum. Pinning her down.

His touch retreated from her throbbing core, fingertips skating up her hipbone, stopping short.

Pressure vanished.

"Nnh—!"

A broken whine escaped Diluc's lips. Her hips jerked up, seeking friction, anything as cool air met her thighs, her nightgown spilling above her hips, right on her waist.

Only to meet empty air and slick, shameful emptiness.

The abrupt loss of contact was torture.

A ragged, broken sound tore from her throat, half sob, half whimper.

Pathetic.

She knew it. He knew it.

Albedo watched, teal eyes burning with cold fascination. His gloved hand remained splayed over her sternum, feeling the frantic rhythm of her heart against his palm.

His other hand hovered just above her hip, fingertips tracing idle, maddening patterns in the air mere inches from where she ached.

His gaze swept down her body. Her trembling thighs, the desperate arch of her spine, the damp silk clinging obscenely to her core. "Uncontrolled reflexive seeking behavior. Compromises observational integrity."

His hand descended, not to soothe, but to restrain. Gloved fingers wrapped firmly around her right wrist, pinning it to the mattress beside her head.

Diluc gasped, crimson eyes widening, as if she woke up from her high but not entirely, still confused, still unaware. "Wha—?"

His free hand moved swiftly with practiced efficiency. The silken sash of her discarded robe lay pooled near the pillows. He caught it, the fabric whispering against the sheets.

No.

Panic flared, sharp and bright, shooting out throughout her body. Her left hand shot out instinctively, fingers clawing towards his wrist, nails scraping rubber.

He caught it with ease, bringing both her arms above her head. His face a picture of cool composure,

"Attempted interference with procedure," he stated flatly, binding her left wrist with the cool silk, pulling it and securing it to the bedpost above her head. He repeated it with her right wrist, ensuring the knots are secure. Tight. Inescapable.

"Safety Protocol enacted. Subject immobilization required for continued observation.”

Diluc strained against the bindings, the silk biting into her skin.

No matter how much she twisted around, the bindings won't come loose. Her arms were stretched above her head, exposed, vulnerable. The position thrust her chest forward, her hips tilted up, every trembling inch of her laid bare to his merciless gaze. Shame flooded her, hot and suffocating. Tears blurred her vision again.

Albedo leaned back, observing his handiwork. His gaze traveled the length of her restrained form, from the flush spreading down her throat, the rapid rise of her chest, and the undeniable wetness leaking through the silk between her thighs.

"Optimal positioning achieved," he murmured, almost to himself. His bare hand returned, not to grant relief, but to ghost over the heated skin of her inner thigh, a hair's breadth from where she throbbed. "Now..." His teal eyes locked onto hers, holding her captive far more effectively than the silk around her wrists.

"Tell me, Diluc... Subject,"

He traced a feather-light path upwards, stopping agonizingly short. His voice dropped, "Does it make you wet? The helplessness?”

His fingertip hovered, waiting

Her hands pulled against the restraint, silk pressing against her wrists.

Trapped.

Her nails bit into her palms. Her eyes snapped away, anywhere but his gaze.

"It doesn't." The lie rasped out, brittle. Humiliation burned, a wildfire across her cheeks, down her neck, scorching the tips of her ears. He sees everything.

Diluc's breath came in short, sharp gasps, each inhale making the delicate lace press tighter where she was drenched, each exhale a shudder that only emphasized the unbearable exposure.

The silk restraints held firm, no matter how she twisted her wrists. The more she struggled, the more the fabric shifted, the more the damp lace clung obscenely, betraying her. The sensation of the cold air in contrast with the heat of her warm, wet cunt, the feeling of the lace burning deep, pressing against her pussy…

Slick wetness covers Albedo’s gloved fingers, and he’s not even touching yet.

Every frantic pulse between her thighs only made the lace grow slicker, more transparent, more visible. And he was looking. Not just looking, but studying. Like she was a particularly fascinating slide under a microscope.

Albedo tilted his head, observing the way her chest rose and fell too fast, the way her thighs rubbed against each other, spreading the slick further around his fingers.

He lifted his gloved hand then, fingertips hovering just above the lace, close enough for her to feel the heat of his skin, but not close enough to touch.

"It doesn’t," he repeated softly, echoing her lie. His voice was calm, clinical. But his eyes burned with something darker, something hungry. "Yet the evidence suggests otherwise."

His fingertip pressed—finally—against the soaked lace. Not enough to give relief, just enough to make her jerk against the restraints with a silent gasp.

"S-Scientific fraud—" she hissed, voice breaking.

His thumb circled, slow and deliberate, smearing the dampness further.

"Data doesn’t lie," he murmured, his breath cool against her overheated skin. His other hand trailed up her inner thigh, tracing the trembling muscle there. "And neither does this."

A single finger hooked under the edge of the lace, tugging, before releasing it with a soft snap against heated flesh, like a small slap against her clit.

Diluc’s vision blurred. Humiliation. Shame. Need. They fed into each other, a vicious cycle tightening the coil in her belly, making her thighs tremble, making the lace grow even wetter.

He isn't even doing much. Just watching. He's just watching it all.

His lips curved slightly, not in sympathy, but in triumph.

"Tell me," he murmured, his fingertip tracing the soaked outline of her wet pussy through the fabric, making her jerk against his touch again. He draws a circle around where she needed him the most, it was small, but it was enough to draw moans out of her.

"Does the shame make it worse? Or better?"

She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think. Could only whimper, tugging uselessly at the restraints, her entire body strung tight with denial, her hips jerking involuntarily. Like it's just proving it to him that she's a needy, shameful little–

"F-fuck—! Stop!"

The protest ripped from her throat like shattered glass, too sharp, too desperate to be believed. Her mouth gapes at the sensation of his thumb circling her clit.

Albedo didn't stop. He didn't even slow, the pressure of his touch only increased, pressing harder against her needy core, but it was not enough.

Her chest heaved. Red strands clung to sweat-slicked shoulders as she twisted against silk restraints. The words tasted like ash, "... W–worse. It's worse."

His gloved fingertips traced the damp lace with meticulous precision, mapping every tremor, every reactive jerk of her hips, the way her thighs clenched involuntarily. His gaze flickered between her flushed face and the obscene evidence of her arousal throbbing against his thumb, his eyes sharp with interest. His eyes, god, his eyes, was dark with not hunger, not lust, but the chilling, detached fascination of an alchemist observing a particularly volatile reaction.

“Worse,” he repeated, voice low, tilting his head. His eyes flicked down to her lace-covered pussy gushing slick against his gloved thumb. "Yet your physiological response suggests… Undeniable arousal..." His gaze lifted to hers, unreadable. "Almost as if... the shame feeds the arousal. The arousal feeds the shame. A self-sustaining cycle."

He muses out loud, watching her wrists twist in their silk bonds. "Does being restrained amplify the effect? Or is it the helplessness itself that excites you?”

Diluc's vision blurred. She hated this. Hated how exposed she was, how seen, how every ragged breath only made it worse. Hated that he was right, that the humiliation coiled deep in her stomach, twisting tighter with every clinical observation, every detached assessment of her desperation.

And she hated that she wanted it.

But she doesn't say anything. Her pride has been ruined enough, already violated by the way she's so seen, so exposed, with her dress bunched up on her waist, with her pussy reacting to his every touch, gushing slick on his gloves and he isn’t even fingering her yet.

He stopped his ministrations against her clit, making her whine. He hooks his index finger under her lace, and presses the tip of his finger against her hole, making her hips jerk. He circles his finger, teasing her entrance, never putting it in. The stimulation was enough, still pleasurable enough to make her gasp.

"Tell me," he murmured, his voice dangerously soft. "If I stopped now... would you beg me to continue?"

Diluc's stomach clenched. Yes. The admission burned in her throat, unsaid but known. She doesn’t dare to give him the satisfaction of seeing her give in, however.

Albedo's lips curved, just barely, as if he’d already recorded the answer in his mind.

Then he withdrew his touch entirely.

Diluc made a sound, low and wounded, almost broken, as her hips stuttered up into empty air, "Albedo, please—!” The slap of skin against silk echoed when she fell back, breath ragged.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but that only heightened the rest—the slick slide of lace against overheated flesh, the way her hips kept jerking up on their own, seeking friction that wasn’t there.

Pathetic.

Beautiful.

Albedo didn’t move. His hands remained folded in his lap, gloves pristine, posture immaculate. Only his eyes betrayed the depth of his fascination—teal irises tracking every minute reaction.

"Fascinating," he murmured.

Diluc let out a broken noise, hips lifting again, chasing something—anything—only to collapse back onto the mattress with a frustrated huff. "Y-You bastard—"

He ignores her, his gaze dropping between her legs, taking in the obscene glisten of the lace, the way it clung to her, transparent with need. A slow, measured inhale.

"Interesting. Continued reflexive pelvic tilt despite absence of direct stimulus." He tilted his head slightly, gloved fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to document. "Subject appears unable to suppress autonomous seeking behavior."

Diluc’s breath hitched. Subject. Specimen. Like she wasn’t even a person. She was just a series of reactions to be cataloged. The thought made her stomach clench, heat coiling tighter.

Albedo’s lips parted slightly, a subtle reaction, but telling. He saw it. The way shame and arousal fed each other, spiraling higher.

Then, finally, fucking finally, he moved.

Not to touch her.

But to lean forward, elbows braced on his knees, gaze unwavering.

"You want my hand," he stated, calm as if discussing the weather. "You want my fingers inside you. You want me to make you come, to… fuck you, just like you said."

He paused, his hand lifting to push the soaked lace to the side, revealing her wet, pink cunt, exposed to the cool air, to his piercing gaze.

"And yet…" His gloved fingertips brushed the air just above her inner thigh—hovering, taunting. "You still haven’t answered my question."

Diluc’s throat worked. She knew what he meant.

‘Would you beg?’

Her lips parted—

—And then slammed shut as pride flared, stubborn.

Albedo’s expression didn’t change, but something dark flickered in his eyes.

"No?" He exhaled, almost disappointed. "Then I suppose we’re done here."

He stood, the bed creaking as he left.

Diluc’s entire body locked up. No no no—

Her back arched off the bed, wrists wrenching against the silk. A choked, ragged sound tore from her throat—

"W-wait—!"

Too late.

Albedo was already turning away. His retreat paused mid-step, a deliberate freeze, boots silent against the carpet. He didn't turn. Didn't speak. Only the faintest tilt of his head acknowledged her choked plea.

Diluc’s breath sawed in her throat, dry from how much she'd heaved, wrists straining against silk as her hips lifted again—involuntary, shameless—seeking the ghost of his touch. Tears spilled freely now, running through the sweat at her temples.

"P-Please--" The word scraped raw, foreign on her tongue. Pride shattered like glass. "I just want you to fuck me, Albedo, please."

Shame.

Albedo went perfectly still at her broken plea.

The silence stretched taut, long enough for Diluc’s stomach to lurch with humiliation, long enough for her to register the damp heat of tears on her cheeks, the shame of her own wrecked voice hanging in the air. This must be her punishment, she thought. Then, slowly, he turned back.

"Please, huh?" he echoed, tasting the word like a foreign compound. His gloved hand lifted, fingertips brushing just above her trembling lower lip. "Fascinating. Desperation correlates with increased lacrimation and pupillary dilation." His two fingers hovered, a hair’s breadth from her parted lips. "Open."

Diluc obeyed before she could think, her mouth falling slack, breath hitching as his gloved fingers pressed flat against her tongue. The taste of salt and rubber flooded her senses.

"Good," he murmured, watching her mouth work helplessly around the intrusion, using her tongue, practically sucking as he pushes in deeper. He doesn’t pull out, no, his other hand descended between her thighs.

He was not going to soothe. He was going to experiment. His two fingers traced the soaked lace, rubbing slow, maddening circles just above where she ached most. "Let’s test a theory."

He crooked the fingers in her mouth, pressing down on her tongue as his other hand suddenly dipped beneath the lace.

Diluc jerked, a muffled scream vibrating around his glove as those clinical, glove-covered fingers sank deep into her without warning. No preparation. No mercy. Just deep, ruthless penetration that stole her breath.

"Subject exhibits immediate clenching reflex," Albedo noted, twisting his fingers slowly, watching her hips stutter as he hooked his fingers deep inside, brushing right where she needed. "Significant increase in internal temperature. Viscosity suggests—" He scissored his fingers abruptly, wrenching a ragged sob from her throat. "—compensatory lubrication."

His pace was methodical. Deep, curling thrusts that brushed right against that spot that made her shriek, then retreating to shallow teasing circles near her entrance. He was incredibly unpredictable. Maddening. Diluc was left moaning, shrieking, letting out embarrassing and involuntary noises muffled by his fingers as a result of all the unpredictable ways he fucks her. Just when she thought she might adapt, he changes rhythm. Fast, then agonizingly slow, then fast again—until her thighs shook with overstimulation, until her cunt fluttered around him in helpless, frustrated pulses. Until she was crying.

"Interesting," he mused, watching her clench around his fingers. "The denial appears to enhance contractile intensity rather than diminish it." His thumb pressed against her clit—hard—and immediately withdrew when she arched off the bed with a broken cry. "Not yet." Diluc whined around his glove, drool spilling down her chin. More. Please more. Please let me—

The corner of Albedo's lips quirked up, but the dark look in his eyes showed something darker than smugness.

He leaned down, lips brushing her ear as his fingers curled just right inside her. "If you come," he whispered, cold and sweet as poison, "I’ll stop. Permanently." Another cruel thrust. "So be good, Subject. Enjoy the process."

He pulls his fingers out her mouth, and she coughs out accumulated spit that she couldn’t swallow. “Well done.” He eyes his free hand, fingers wet from her saliva, and he then unclipped his collar with a soft snick.

Diluc’s eyes widened.

Oh.

Oh no.

The diamond mark on his neck pulsed, a small sheen, as he reached for the silk tie at her other wrist, his other hand still curled deep inside her.

"Let’s collect more data." The silk slithered free from her wrist, only to be replaced by the scorching heat of his wet gloved hand pinning her hand above her head. His golden mark glowed brighter as he leaned in, his breath ghosting over her parted lips.

"Hypothesis," he murmured, voice low and measured, even as his fingers twisted inside her, wringing another gasp from her throat. "Direct stimulation of erogenous zones while maintaining orgasm denial produces…" His thumb pressed down on her clit, circling just once—enough to make her back arch violently. "...unsustainable pleasure retention. Leading to..."

He withdrew his fingers entirely, watching her cunt clench around nothing with a whimper. Then, in one fluid motion, he hooked the ruined lace aside and licked a stripe up her dripping folds.

Diluc shrieked, her free hand fisting in his hair as his tongue flicked mercilessly over her throbbing clit.

Albedo's teeth grazed her inner thigh in warning before his mouth sealed over her in a slow, scientific suck.

‘Inhibitory collapse in… Three... Two…’

Diluc’s vision whitened out, her eyes rolling back as she arched into his mouth, her jaw slack.

He pulled away at the last second.

"—One."

The sob that tore from her was animal. Denial burned as her body jerked helplessly.

Albedo merely hummed against her thigh, tasting her desperation like fine wine. "As predicted."

He brings one hand to her thigh, right under her knees as he licked one last stripe up her inner thigh, savoring not only the flavor, but also the way he can feel her pelvis twitch and her cunt clench under his tongue. His eyes flick upwards, watching her expression.

Her vision returns, the white-hot need lessened as seconds passed by, but it never left. It only thrums harder in her heat, her core pulsing, her desperation coiling tighter with every withheld touch. Sobs wracked out her body. "F-fuck, Albedooo!" Her voice was thick, wet, shattered. Pride was ash in her throat, "P-please, please, I just need—please let me come!”

She begged, and their eyes met. He looks at her like she’s nothing. She can’t make out the look in his eyes, only that it was dark, hungry, but unwilling, like he isn’t listening to her. As if he’s lost in his thoughts, while Diluc was reduced to a broken thing. As if the scientist was thinking of more ways to break her in.

He pulls away, coming to stand beside her form, now hovering above her.

“Please, Albedo…” She drags her feet up, so that her knees are bent at an angle, and she cants her hips up as if offering herself to him, showing him exactly what she wants him to work with.

He doesn’t acknowledge her.

Instead, he lifts his hand up and—

The sharp crack echoed like gunfire in the silence.

Diluc froze, every muscle locking tight, a choked gasp tearing from her throat. Shock blanked her mind.

He—?

Before she can process it, Albedo’s bare palm connected again, landing a swift, stinging slap against her swollen cunt. Not brutal, but precise. Painful.

"Ahhh—!"

Her hips stuttered up off the bed, a ragged scream ripped from her—pain lancing through the pleasure, white-hot and blinding. Tears spilled faster.

"AH! Nngh—fuck!"

Before she could process it, before she could even breathe—his fingers were back inside her, plunging deep, scissoring, relentless, ripping yet another scream from her throat.

"Increase in lubrication post-impact," Albedo observed, his voice unnervingly calm as his fingers worked her ruthlessly open. His other hand pressed down on her lower belly, pinning her writhing hips flat. "Significant reflexive contraction of vaginal walls. Near-instantaneous swelling. Fascinating."

He leaned closer, breath cool against her flushed cheek, teal eyes locked on where his fingers disappeared into her. "Pain receptors appear to directly stimulate secretory response." Another slow, deliberate curl of his fingers. "Scale the sensation. One to ten."

Diluc sobbed, back arching uselessly, hips jerking around but held down under his iron steel grip. The sting throbbed in time with her pulse, merging with the unbearable ache of his fingers stretching her. All she feels is not just the overwhelming rush of pleasure, soreness, but also the burning heat of humiliation. The violation. And beneath it, a deeper, sick, traitorous desire for worse.

"T-Ten!" she gasped, voice shredded. "Fifteen! Gods—stop—!"

He didn’t stop. His thumb pressed hard against her clit, rubbing in just the way she preferred—according to what he observed. He rubbed, not soothingly, but testing, as his fingers pistoned faster.

"Hm.” He let out a small noise akin to laughter. “Contradictory vocalization observed," he murmured, almost amused as he watched her lose it, eyes rolled back and mouth forming an 'O', overwhelmed at his attacks. “‘Stop’ accompanied by pelvis seeking deeper penetration. This—” he ground his thumb down, making her shriek. “---is not a request for cessation.”

She can’t think anymore, the bundle of heat in her core building up, the coil of pleasure straining, wrapping around her entire body.

His free hand slid up her sweat-slicked torso, fingertips tracing the cloth resting on her breasts, before settling his fingers on her chest. "Elevated heart rate." He noted before sliding his hand back down to her breast and giving one pinch that makes her squeak, before pulling her dress down, forcing her tits to pop right out.

His hand touches below her breast instead, deeming it unnecessary—in his head—to touch her breasts any further. As if he hadn’t gone beyond protocols at this point, with the way his fingers are deep inside his subject’s pussy. “Respiratory distress." He noted, feeling the frantic heaving of her ribs. His gaze lifted to her tear-streaked face. "Tell me—does the shame make the ache sharper? Or does the sharpness make you wetter?"

Another slap, but lighter this time, a stinging tap against her oversensitive clit. He presses her hip down again.

Diluc convulsed, a broken, hoarse wail tearing loose from her throat as her cunt clenched violently around his fingers. Wetness gushed, soaking his hand, the sheets beneath her.

"P-Please—!" The word was a sob. Pride was gone, she’s already been reduced to a begging mess right when this, whatever this was, started. She was only liquid, dripping, reduced to a shuddering thing held open by his hand. “I’m gonna—!” Diluc rolled her eyes back, feeling the white heat approaching again, enveloping her senses.

Albedo hummed, withdrawing his fingers slowly, watching her inner muscles flutter desperately around nothing. He held his glistening hand up to the dim light, examining the viscous fluid coating his skin.

Diluc whined, her hips bucking at the loss of contact, thoroughly unsatisfied. “Nnh—! N-No... no, no—" Sobs hitched violently in her chest, shoulders trembling as her back arched off the sheets. Her eyes squeezed shut—humiliation flowing with need—as the pleas tore loose, voice wet and hoarse.

"No! P-Pleaaase... Albedo, make me cum...! Please, I’ve been—"

‘I’ve been good.’

Her hips jerked helplessly against empty air, thighs slick and shaking. The repeated denial shed her of shame, reduced her to a begging, leaking, convulsing mess.

He ignored her pleas, brushing her needs off as irrelevant data. "Procedure successful. Containment maintained." His eyes flicked to her, his hand pausing mid-air.

Albedo watched, unmoved by tears, yet utterly captivated by the data, the data that mattered: the tremors wracking her frame, the involuntary clench of her thighs, the way her swollen cunt glistened under lamplight, still pulsing around nothing. Evidence that she'd been wrecked just by him, his hand, his words.

He moves picking up a clean cloth from his discarded kit—not to clean her, but to wipe his hands. He removed his gloves with a snap, before cleaning his own hands properly. Methodical and clinical.

Diluc trembled, watching him through blurred vision, small whimpers spilling out her mouth involuntarily.

And the coil in her belly tightened further.

"Denial remains mandatory," he stated, his voice low but unyielding. He reached for his kit, retrieving a small vial of clear gel and fresh gloves. "Release would destabilize the alchemical markers. Counterproductive."

Diluc sobbed, turning her face into the pillow as he snapped on new gloves. The sound alone made her flinch. It was clinical, cold, and cruel, especially with the way she lies like this. Exposed.

Like she feels that he intends to leave her alone like this.

But then his touch returned on her core, not to torment her any further, but to soothe. Cool gel spread over her oversensitive folds, a topical analgesic that numbed the burning edge to a dull throb, both on the surface and inside. He applied it swiftly. She gasped in shocked relief.

"Analgesic application," he murmured, fingertips working with detached efficiency. "Reduces localized inflammation."

He didn’t linger. Didn’t tease. Just smoothed the gel, pulled her ruined lace back into place, and untied her wrist with swift precision. The freed hand fell limply to her side, palm raw from her clenched nails. She feels the cold gel hit her wrists as well, his hand working the cool liquid all over the sore spots.

Exhaustion hit like a physical blow. Diluc trembled, tears still leaking silently as all the overwhelming feelings left her body, left to let shame curdle in her gut.

dark rooms. cold sheets. the click of a door. cold air—

Her breath hitched. She couldn’t bear it. Not again. Not him walking away.

"...Stay."

The word was a whisper, barely audible, muffled by the pillow. But it stopped Albedo as he turned to gather his notes.

He stilled. Slowly, he turned back. Her face was hidden, shoulders hunched defensively, but the raw vulnerability in that single word hung thick in the air.

Vulnerability post-procedure, a variable he did not consider. Different from the way his bulge, unmistakable in his pants, remained an irrelevant variable.

This... This is one that he can't ignore. Can't brush off.

He set the notebook down. Not on the desk. On the floor.

Silence stretched. Then, the soft rustle of fabric as he sat on the edge of the bed, not touching her. His presence was a solid weight in the dim room.

"Fatigue is expected," he said, his voice losing its clinical edge, softening almost imperceptibly. "Physiological and emotional expenditure was... significant."

He paused, watching as sweat dripped down to her temple. "Do you... Do you wish to be cleaned? And do you require assistance?"

Diluc didn’t look at him. But a shuddering breath escaped her, shoulders relaxing a fraction. She didn't answer, but he waited amidst the silence.

She nodded, and he stood. (She couldn't help the way dread settled in her heart, even if she knew he'd stay.)

The sound of running water filled the quiet room, steam curling through the open door.

Diluc watched his silhouette move through the haze, her chest tight with something she couldn't name.

When he returned, it was with a damp cloth in hand.

"Elevate."

His command was quiet, and he didn’t wait for her to obey before carefully sliding an arm beneath her shoulders, helping her sit up. The touch was clinical, efficient—but his fingers lingered a fraction too long against her skin, as if assuring himself of her stability.

The cloth pressed gently to her collarbone, smoothing away sweat and the remnants of their earlier... session. His movements were methodical, but there was an unexpected care in the way he avoided dragging the fabric too roughly over sensitive skin.

"Analgesic residue requires removal," he explained, voice low. "Leaving it may cause epidermal irritation."

A convenient excuse. But the way his thumb brushed the inside of her wrist—brief and fleeting—before continuing his task betrayed him. Exposed him.

Diluc exhaled, shoulders loosening as the warmth seeped into her skin. The grime, the violation of sensation, began to fade as he worked efficiently. She didn’t speak, didn’t thank him. But when his fingers traced the curve of her shoulder, she didn’t stiffen.

Albedo’s breath hitched as if catching himself in the act. His jaw tensed, gaze flickering away for the briefest moment before resuming.

He shouldn’t be doing this.

(He didn’t stop.)

When he reached her thighs, his touch was even lighter, barely there. The cloth skimmed over the irritated skin, wiping away the last traces of the gel, the dried evidence of her arousal. His fingers trembled just once before steadying.

"Recovery necessitates hygiene," he said, as if reminding himself.

Diluc’s fingers curled slightly into the sheets, her face showing no expression beyond exhaustion.

Liar.

But she didn’t call him out. Just watched him, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his usual scientific precision faltered when his knuckles accidentally grazed her inner thigh.

He was still a scientist.

But right now, he was also this.

A quiet, steadfast presence.

A friend.

She reached out before she could stop herself, her fingers brushing his wrist, stopping him mid-motion.

Albedo froze.

Their eyes met.

Something unspoken passed between them. Acknowledgment, perhaps. Understanding.

Then Diluc looked away first, withdrawing her hand as if burned.

"...Sufficient?" he asked after a beat, voice carefully neutral again.

She nodded. A silent truce.

Albedo exhaled, setting the cloth aside. He didn’t move away immediately, lingering just a moment longer than necessary at the edge of the bed.

Then, finally, he stood, returning to his usual measured distance.

But he didn’t leave.

And for now, that was enough.

The washbasin's porcelain clinked as Albedo set the damp cloth down with too much precision. His gloves were off now, discarded beside the basin, pale fingers flexing absently against the counter's edge. The diamond mark on his neck pulsed faintly in the dim light.

What was he doing?

The question coiled tight in his chest. Every action tonight had followed logical parameters: observation, measurement, containment. The hygiene protocols were necessary. The analgesic was clinically indicated. The... lingering he’s doing afterward?

Unnecessary.

His reflection in the mirror wavered, teal eyes darker than usual, pupils still slightly dilated. He inhaled sharply through his nose.

… Fascinating.

Diluc's quiet voice cut through his thoughts.

"You're... still here." A curious statement, her own observation.

Albedo turned, watching as she sat upright against the headboard, her body relaxed, donned in a new silk he'd handed to her.

"Subject remains under observation," he said automatically, then winced slightly at his own clinical detachment. His next words came softer, though no less measured. "Your vitals require monitoring.”

Another convenient excuse.

Diluc's lips pressed into a thin line, and she didn't point it out. Just allowed it. They both need to do what they need to do. She exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping under the weight of exhaustion.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Not like this. Not with him. Not as she's supposed to be... recovering. They both acknowledge that.

Albedo had always been... different. Detached, safe. Not a threat. Someone whom she automatically considered a friend.

But the way his breath had hitched when her thighs trembled…

The way his fingers had lingered—

She swallowed hard, staring at the diamond mark on his neck.

What were they now? Still a patient and her doctor? An experiment?

Albedo's hand twitched, as if to reach for her, then stilled. "Rest," he murmured instead, standing abruptly. "I'll... return in the morning."

But he paused at the door, back rigid, not quite turning.

Diluc's breath caught.

Don't go.

The plea lodged in her throat, unsaid.

The door handle clicked under Albedo's gloved fingers, loud in the heavy quiet. He paused, head tilting slightly, but didn't turn.

Diluc’s voice cut through the stillness, brittle as ice.

"You’re horrible."

A silent pause.

She drew a shaky breath, knuckles white as she gripped the silk.

She continued,

"Didn’t know the Knights of Favonius conducted their experiments like this. Should I file a complaint with Jean?" She added, a small smile gracing her lips. Unseen to many, but heard by the scientist.

Albedo finally turned, just enough for moonlight to catch the sharp line of his profile, the unreadable teal of his eyes. His reply was dry. "Standard procedure necessitates full engagement for accurate data collection. Besides," a faint, almost imperceptible curve at the corner of his mouth, "you did request vigorous testing."

Diluc huffed, a sound between outrage and exhausted amusement. She sank deeper into the pillows, the fight draining out of her. "Tch. Vigorous. Is that what we’re calling it?" Her gaze flickered away, then back, eyes softening just a fraction. "...Didn’t hate it." She grumbled.

Albedo’s rigid posture eased. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Noted. Though future sessions," he added, tone shifting to something resembling dry practicality, "will require better restraints. Silk chafes." He said, eyeing her wrists, her hands folded on her lap.

A choked laugh escaped Diluc. "Proper ropes. Right, of course." She pulled the duvet higher, hiding half her face, but her eyes caught his. "And Albedo?"

Her voice dropped, vulnerability threading through the weariness. "Don’t... tell anyone. About me. About this."

He pushed off the doorframe, stepping fully back into the room. His gaze was steady, devoid of judgment. In fact, it held understanding. The things she’s hiding, not about their… entanglement, but about her. About the reason he’d come here in the first place, feeding her a vial, helping her maintain stability within her transformed body.

"There are no notes on your identity. Only physiological observations." He paused, then added softly, "And they remain here." A gloved hand tapped his temple once. "Moreover... Patient confidentiality is paramount." He said, resolute.

Silence settled again, warmer now, and less charged. Albedo moved to the armchair by the window, its velvet worn and familiar. He didn’t sit, he just stood watch, a silhouette against the moonlit vineyards. Her tired eyes lingered on him through fluttering eyelids.

"I’ll fetch fresh analgesics and monitoring reagents from the lab," he stated, clinical again, but softer. "Be back before dawn."

Diluc nodded, eyes already drifting shut, exhaustion pulling her under, immediately trusting him. She held no doubt, he'll keep his word. "Don’t trip over Sir Fluffboy on the stairs," she mumbled, voice thick with impending sleep, referencing the perpetually napping winery cat.

A flicker of something like surprise, maybe amusement, crossed Albedo’s face. "Noted," he repeated, a whisper this time.

He didn’t leave immediately. He waited, motionless by the window, until her breathing deepened into the slow, even rhythm of sleep. Only then did he slip silently from the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

The cool night air of the winery courtyard hit him, sharpening his senses through a tired, dull haze that thrummed in his head.

Dawn Winery slept, peaceful under the stars. But back in the city, the Knights’ Headquarters would be awake with low lights and lower whispers. News traveled fast in Mondstadt. Jean’s sharp concern, Kaeya’s probing smirk (a mask for his own concern for Diluc,) they’d be waiting. Questions about the Winery’s sudden "urgent alchemical consultation" hang heavy in the air.

Albedo adjusted his coat collar.

Subject stabilized. Trust maintained. Complications pending.