Hihi, I wanted to request maybe Albedo with a cardiophilia kink? (The kink mostly has to do with hearing peoples heartbeats and/or feeling their pulse) There’s no need to accept this if it’s outside of your boundaries but if you do, thank you!!
(This is my first time ever requesting something haha)
lol nearly two years later and I was hit with inspiration, so here you go anon o7
it's a bit on the shorter end (just over 500 words) and it's been a hot minute or maybe more like three and a half years but who's counting amirite
Lifeblood
Summary: Albedo adores you and this simple proof of your existence only furthers that.
Contains: Albedo x gn!Reader, suggestive fluff, established relationship, cardiophilia (or, Albedo really loves the sound and feel of your heart beating).
The steady rush, the thrumming that sits just below the surface, is intoxicating.
Lub dub, lub dub.
Eyes flutter shut as his fingertips graze over the warmth of your skin, dancing along gooseflesh to shoulder, and along the slope of your neck. It’s habit now. Second nature, with how quickly Albedo could find it—but he hesitates. Not from fear or uncertainty, but to prolong the feeling that seems to consume his own thoughts. A warmth that blooms and presses against the insides of his chest and forces sea green to hide in anticipation.
So, his touch stills.
Lub dub, lub dub.
As his fingers lift, the dull edge of his nails skim to follow along the curve just past that lovely beat. They slip up until his full palm cups your jaw and the sigh that escapes your lips finally lulls his gaze to fall up on the sight before him.
He wasn’t the only one who was affected, after all. He knew this after countless seconds, minutes, hours, spent with that strange giddiness that seemed to consume him as his hands mapped out your body. The very same routes from head to toe bring a fain flush of warmth that blooms beneath his cupped hand. It was funny how life could be explored in so many different ways.
Perhaps it wouldn’t bring him any closer to finding that meaning, but...perhaps it would if the look on your face, near pleading, was what brought that desire back tenfold.
His palm lifts, leaving fingertips to graze your cheek.
Lub dub, lub dub.
Pinky, ring, middle—they curl to rest against his palm until only a single digit curves down to brush over your lips followed by a knowing glint within his eyes. Patience. Was that word for you or for himself? He could practically hear it already, memorizing that mesmerizing found, that feeling.
Lub dub, lub dub.
From your lips, he drags that finger just past the dip to your chin. There, he stops again.
Lub dub, lub dub.
It only makes sense that he’d be fascinated.
And perhaps he was hearing his own heart beating faster within his chest.
Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub.
His touch makes it down further, slow in its drag.
Lub dub, lub dub.
Down until he can feel the bob of your throat. Then…
Two fingers now shift. He’d removed his gloves at some point. The calloused pads pressing down into the soft flesh of your neck with a gentle pressure. There.
Again, his eyes fall shut until fair lashes brush against his ruddied cheeks, a breath he didn’t know he was holding exhaled shakily. That steady, strong beat lay just beneath his fingertips. The echo of your heart—the one that you’d claimed belonged to him. It wasn’t quite the same as when his hand was flat against your chest, nor did it echo in his ears like when he was engulfed by your familiar scent with the radiating heat of your body warming his cheek.
But it was alluring all the more.
Each beat of your heart pulsed within your jugular to reveal the very essence of your life, the literal blood that ran through your veins.
You sneak into your ex's home in search of something you know he's stolen from you
tags: romance/TEASING/tension, suggestive content, making out, boobs, both of them being bratty, use of Fae magic (glamour) to control you momentarily (he's petty, what can i say).
wc: 4.1k
chuu's note: ty for 1k followers!! I love and appreciate you all so so much truly ♡
“Ah, my favourite little visitor~ I wasn’t expecting you” you hear Flins' smooth voice drawl out – you hadn’t heard a footstep, no less, the creak of a door before he spoke.
You close your eyes shut and huff, turning around to face the man you vowed to never see for the rest of your limited lifespan.
“You clearly were expecting since you came back early” you mumble through gritted teeth. You try to calm down your annoyance, but the fists at your sides were doing you no favors. You knew Flins’ schedule, it never changes, ever – you find it incredibly odd that the one day you’re rummaging through his room, he manages to sneak up on you.
“Did I? Or perhaps your silent begging to keep your arrival a secret didn’t quite work as you wished?”
Those ghosts, they snitched.
You furrow your brows and narrow your eyes out to the empty spaces either beside Flins, hoping at least one of them got shot with your dirty look. Traitors.
The moment you arrived at Flins’ accommodation, you made sure to speak into the air and plead with the ghosts to remain quiet. You were here to find something that was missing, not to reconnect with your ex.
You thought you made it clear to those miserable dead souls, but clearly, you were mistaken.
Flins holds back a chuckle at the sight of you, though you couldn’t see the ghosts, you seemed to have developed a keen sense of pinpointing where they might be – it was likely your time spent with him and avid curiosity about his own abilities that led to your newfound ability. Since Flins himself often considered the ghosts his friends, you too yearned to interact with them, even if you couldn’t see or hear them – it was one of your many charms that lead him to adoring you so much.
Until you left, of course.
Flins tries not to move when he notices the ghosts that were once beside him, retreat and step behind him, as if you’d run up to them and treat them to a new kind of death.
“Ghosts don’t ever concern themselves with loyalty to the living, you should know that” Flins says, curt and polite,
“May I ask why you have graced me with your presence? If I remember correctly, you told me you never wanted to see my face ever again, no?”
You want to spit right in his delicately beautiful face. He wore a mask of innocence, but you knew better. He took something that was yours.
“You stole my protection charm. I know you did”
It was a charm that held strong against any type of Fae magic – Flins had gifted to you when you had first met him, he never quite explained what it was till you were both well and truly in a loving relationship. It was a small yellow pouch – the distinct colour of his eyes, no bigger than a small pebble, but that didn’t mean you ever lost sight of it. No, you kept it safe beside your bed, at all times.
As Flins’ eyebrows knot upwards in a testament of innocence, his lips pout, “That is a most hurtful claim” you scoff sourly and look away when he places his palms over his chest as if he’s been physically struck by your accusation.
“Where is it?” You say, stiff and annoyed “I want it back”
“You think me a thief?” Flins muses, the light in his eyes was teasing, but you wouldn’t let him prod at you any longer.
He knew how to push buttons, he always has. Because he was only your lover, however, you weren’t ever the recipient of this type of teasing. Until now, of course.
“Did you take my charm, Flins?”
“You wound me-” Flins begins, but you’re past caring anymore.
Faeries can’t lie – that was a fact. He was stalling all this time, but you won’t let him get away with anymore jest.
“Answer me. Did you take my charm. Yes or no”
Flins stills and his playful demeanor has dimmed down at the way you’ve called on him – it’s as if a small rope has been tied tightly around his tongue, preventing him from speaking a word that doesn’t answer you directly. He hated that sensation, but he certainly found it exhilarating you were the one utilizing it on him.
“I suppose, I did”
You remain calm and composed even though your mind is raging at you to step up to him and push him down.
“Where is it?”
“Ah, so you couldn’t find it, then?” Flins smiles and you groan at yourself for the way you worded it. When you don’t phrase things right, Fae will always try to skirt around the question they’re being asked. For that reason, it’s always best to ask yes or no questions.
“Is it in this home?”
“Yes, yes it is”
You let out a breath, aggravated at the response. You searched everywhere; you couldn’t find a thing – perhaps if you had more time… You shake your thoughts away. There was no point anymore. Talking to the man in front of you only bubbled your annoyance. There could have been a multitude of ways he was answering you. Home could mean somewhere else to him – it may not even be this physical space.
Fae were tricksters. You can’t trust his words. If you were going to question him, it would take an eternity to find out the truth.
“I can help you search for it?” Flins speaks up and you glare out at him – if he was trying to be funny, you certainly didn’t harbor any appreciation for it.
You don’t so much as give Flins the pleasure of a haughty reply or bid another question to interrogate him – instead, you step to leave. Your angry stomps lead you right to his door, but before you get to pull on it, you feel a force hold it closed.
“Uh uh, you’re not going to leave” you hear his voice as if it were right behind you, but when you turn, he’s still where he always was, beside his bed. Flins smiles a little devious.
You know that smile.
And you know those eyes.
Your stomach drops when you feel your body become lighter. No no no.
“Come” Flins tilts his head to the side, “Walk towards me”
You swallow, your pulse fluttering at your throat as you shake your head – but even that felt too heavy to do now.
You shouldn’t panic at a time like this, it’ll only amuse him even more, but you can’t help it. You fight it, you fight the urge to walk towards him, but you can already feel your leg moving without your approval or command.
A small whimper escapes as you look at Flins, he was more beautiful than ever, you didn’t think that possible – but that was exactly what this type of magic did to humans. You wanted to obey his every command, even if he asked you to eat dirt, you would do it in a heartbeat.
Glamour. Faerie magic that compelled another to do as the other willed.
Flins, he was shameless.
You never expected Flins to use it on you, but you should have expected it after your questioning – you forced him to tell the truth against his will, something Fae don’t particularly enjoy. To make matters worse, you didn’t have your charm with you, he could do as he pleased.
It was at that moment, you realise he was mocking you right in front of your face.
Toying with you, as if you meant nothing, as if you were a mere plaything for his own entertainment.
“Mnn so obedient~” he giggles softly as you’re faced in front of him. When you realise you still have power to do as you please after completing his request, you lift your arms to push him roughly, but they’re caught all too simply,
“Stay still” he sighs, holding onto your wrists, before guiding them back down to your sides. You look at him, angry and frustrated.
“I believe you have something of mine, yes?”
You’re silent for a little while.
“I don’t”
You watch as Flins’ lips turn upward once more, he leans down and drags his gloved index finger up your neck and under your chin. He stares into your eyes for a long moment, and you don’t quite understand why – you see his expression falter a little, pain, hurt, but it returns just as quickly.
You’re distracted by his proximity, till you notice his fingers have left you to dip into the pocket of your coat.
“Being granted the luxury of lying doesn’t mean you should abuse that power, sweetheart.” Flins hums, showcasing one of his emerald colored gemstones he had just taken from your left coat pocket. You scoff and look away, remaining unphased, as if it hadn’t affected you one bit.
“I’m missing four. Where are the others?” he questions but you don’t reply.
You wonder why Flins isn’t utilizing his Glamour to the best of his abilities. He could easily have you sobbing and taking out each and every gemstone you had robbed just moments ago, and leave you to dance until your feet bled as punishment. But here he was, taking his sweet time, giving you enough space to feel your heart ache a little more for him.
“Tell me where they are and you’ll be free to leave whenever darling, I promise” Flins whispers as his fingers tap onto your jaw softly, snapping you out of whatever many thoughts that were running through your head.
“I don’t have anything of yours” you mutter, still unable to move a single step away from him. You drop your head down and let out a weak sound that sounded far too pathetic for your own liking.
Flins sighs and shakes his head, “I know it’s cruel to use you like this, but you’re so stubborn…”
“At least you’re layered properly this ti-” Flins halts himself when he tugs on your scarf, letting a disappointed breath out at the sight of your thin tshirt.
He can’t help but chuckle and shake his head, you never listened. He can’t keep track of how many times he’s scolded you for not dressing warmly enough when visiting him. The cold was dangerous for humans, after all, but you didn’t seem to care one bit for getting sick. It was always a concern for him in the duration of your relationship.
Flins would ask you to take your jacket off, but he ponders if it may look ill, as if he were flaunting his powers even more than he should. So instead, his fingers delicately inch away at your shoulders. You can see him biting onto his lip as he takes off your long coat, helping both of your arms out of the sleeves.
You’re met with the cold stillness washing over you as you watch Flins fold both your coat and scarf neatly, before placing them down on the table beside you both. When he’s back in front of you, his eyes aren’t scared of raking you up and down as you are.
Your cheeks grow warm when his eyes are settled on your thighs,
“You must be aware that your choice tight fitting pants are giving away the location, yes?”
Flins returns his gaze up to you, his head tilting to the side, a playful glint in his eyes. It’s clear he’s giving you some leeway to move your arms to get them out, but you don’t want to make it easy for him.
He was a ‘nobleman’ as he always called himself, it wasn’t proper to be touching someone who wasn’t his lover in such a way. But you knew better – Flins was just as shameless as any other man, he just hid it better.
“If you won’t take them out for me, I suppose, there’s no other choice” Flins states plainly, eyes, cautious on yours as he reaches towards you.
You were expecting him to go for the front pocket, where the most obvious indent was, but Flins had reached for your back pocket instead.
The jerk.
You hold your breath still as you feel his large palm slip into it, cusping at the curve of your hip. Your face presses against his chest and you’re engulfed into his natural scent – it drove you to insanity and back. If the Glamour magic wasn’t enough, this certainly did throw you over the edge.
If you weren’t so preoccupied with calming yourself down, you’d probably spot the smirk on his lips right before he slips out with the next gemstone.
You close your eyes when you feel his palm slide down to your front. It was so clearly just your left pocket, but Flins searched for the other, 'just in case’. You feel yourself shiver when his thumb brushes a little higher, inching towards your core that was already aching for some sort of relief.
This was painful, in every possibly way.
And he was enjoying it.
“There’s one more missing” Flins wears a small frown on his lips, he looks at you, contemplating for a moment before his eyebrows suddenly raise. When his gaze lowers to your chest, you know he’s already understood where you’ve hidden it – but this time, you see a small tint of pink dust his cheeks.
His eyes return to yours, his fingers brushing all your hair away from your shoulders – he did it so delicately, you felt yourself soften in his touch for the first time, “I’d greatly appreciate if you turn it in for me yourself, darling”
Since you’ve already been disarmed over and over by the man, your self-worth is at an all-time low. There’s no more hiding anymore – he’s got you cornered since you first arrived at his place.
Silently, you reach into your shirt and grasp the final gemstone you had hidden in your bra. Once you place it on his palm, he smiles warmly at the sight of it – it wasn’t an ordinary gemstone for him. This one was special; it was obvious with the way his shoulders sag with a certain relief at the sight of it.
You almost feel bad for taking it, almost.
“Thank you, dearest”
It was his favourite gemstone of all, you both knew it – the day he received it, he proudly held it towards you before placing it on your temple, marveling at how it matched the pretty shade of colour in your eyes.
“Can I leave now?”
“You tried to leave with something of mine since I took something of yours” he hums, “But even though I received my items, you did not. Are you satisfied leaving like that?”
“I don’t care anymore”
“I’m not holding you against your will, you should feel that by now” Flins speaks to you slowly, as if he himself is a little confused as to why you were still here. But he isn’t complaining one bit, he quite enjoys the sight of you, “I’d like it if you stayed a while. It’s been so long since I last saw you”
You look at Flins, contemplating, and that is enough for him to relax a little. He seats himself on the edge of his bed and looks up at you with a small smile – you hated how inviting he was, you hated how easily you gave in, even without his Glamour. He didn’t need it at all.
His fingers reach out to yours, tangling into them softly enough so that you're allowed to break free whenever you wish.
When he pats onto his thigh, as if on autopilot, you’re right where you were months ago. Though you’re a little stiff, it’s clear the distance has hinged you into some sort of discomfort towards him, it pains him, but he doesn’t comment on it.
“I’ve missed you, dearly. Exactly as you are, stubborn and adorable, then and now” Flins says softly, you can feel his eyes on yours, ever loving. But you can’t meet them.
“My stubborn girl, you’ve grown so dim.” He hums, pulling you in closer to his embrace, “was I truly that cruel?”
You feel like jelly in his hold, your arms already around his neck as he pulls you close. You rest your head onto his shoulder, closing your eyes, breathing a little softer. You missed this, you missed everything about him.
Was this his plan? Stealing your charm and luring you in here. Touching you so delicately so you'd eventually give in?
“Even for this moment, you’re being far too kind to me. I expected you to have slapped me across the face and left by now” Flins mumbles into your neck and you can’t help but chuckle,
“I want to, but I’m too tired” you sigh, nuzzling into him,
“How can I restore your energy?”
You pull away with an inquisitive brow raised at him, “You want me to slap you?”
“Of course,” he muses, eyes shining in delight – he was being dead serious, “I deserve it. I vowed to myself that I would never use Glamour on a woman I truly adore, and I’ve broken it”
Flins finds your hands and brings them to his lips, kissing both of them before leaning into you. He pauses himself to look up at you, a silent form of asking if it was okay.
You smile and lean in instead, feeling his lips curve into a grin as you press into him. The silence is comforting now, and there’s nothing else on your mind but the taste of his lips and the sounds of his moans when he latches onto you, deeper. Flins craved you more and more, he was awfully deprived of your taste, of your touch, he couldn’t help but relish in finally having you in his arms.
His palms snake under your shirt, his warmth pressed against your skin, his fingers mange to wrangle even under the wire of your undergarments. You whine as his touch presses against your bare breast and onto your hardened nub, before pinching at it.
With a gasp, you push back and frown at him, only to hear a breathy chuckle against your neck, “you really kept my favourite gemstone in here”. You flush at the words and roll your eyes when he speaks again, his other hand is quick to inch off your shirt, “at least you kept it near your heart”
You help Flins out with his endeavor, pulling your top off and unhooking your bra, leaving Flins ogling at you like a man in search of water.
“On Celestia...” he groans, pulling you against him, his face buries into your chest. You feel the vibrations as he speaks into your skin, you don’t understand a thing, but you recognise he’s speaking in Fae. You don’t think you care about any of your arguments with him when you’re this hot and flustered, with his lips kissing at any inch of exposed skin and his large palms grasping at any flesh he can get a hold of.
But, one thing is still on your mind.
“Afterwards…” you speak so softly, it even surprises Flins to stop and look up at you, every bit of his attention is fixed on you, “can I have my charm back, please?”
Flins stills, and you feel a little awkward when his palms fall down to your thighs. You open your mouth to take it back, fearing you’ve ruined the moment, but a small smile curves at his lips.
“Oh? You’re still fixed on it, aren’t you?” he leans in to kiss your lips slow and steady before whispering his next words onto them, “It’s already with you, it has been since I took my second gem”
As you take in his words, you remind yourself of where his second gem was found – your back pocket. You reach for it and your lips part in shock when you feel the familiar fabric against the pads of your fingers.
All this time.
You understand now that Flins wouldn’t have sent you away without your charm – even if you chose to leave after you returned his gemstones, you would end up at your home with your charm with you. Your heart swells with a certain pain at his thoughtfulness. Even if he were the one to steal it from you in the first place, that is.
When he takes the charm from you once again, you feel yourself reaching for it unknowingly – as if you didn’t trust he’d give it back to you. Flins finds this intriguing, but he kisses you as a distraction instead.
You feel yourself emotional as he lays you back on the bed, his figure hovering above you only moments later.
He bites onto the tip of his glove and pulls it away in one swipe, before tending to the other,
“Why’s it so important to you, hm?” Flins mumbles, dipping down to suckle at the sensitive skin on your neck, “I don’t recall ever encountering any other Fae in Nod Krai… Do you wish to travel elsewhere, is that it?”
You shake your head, “That’s not it…”, and you watch as Flins pulls away to wrap the string of the charm around your wrist. He places the small bag into your palm, closing your fingers around it.
Though his speech remains poised, you can see his eyebrows knot upward when as he thinks to himself,
“It’s not… because you despise me, is it? I… I understand I used my Glamour on you just then; I pray it hasn’t spiked an anxiety that I may ever turn on you-”
“It’s the first thing you ever gifted me!”
You blurt it out too quickly at the expense of alleviating Flins’ rampant thoughts about your distrust in him. Flins freezes at that moment, and his eyes blink at you, quickly. He looks innocent for the first time, genuine, pure, innocence laced through his bulb-like orbs.
“It’s special to me… and I have it with me when I miss you. I…”
When your eyes begin to water, Flins’ pupils grow exponentially. His breath quickens and he swears he’s seeing stars all at once without even being touched below the waist. A trail of soft Fae curses slips out from his lips as he closes his eyes to steady himself.
He didn’t think he’d ever hear a confession that enchanting from you. The most stubborn woman he has ever been faced with, laying her feelings out bare.
It was exhilarating.
He wanted to be buried deep inside if you, show his love tenfold, right that instant. But oh, how he regretted stealing it from you now, and every bit of merciless teasing he had employed when you came to his home.
It takes every bit of restraint for Flins to focus on his words, “I apologise” Flins says shakily, “I didn’t know it held that type of meaning, or that you still harbored affection for me”
You look away, but you’re turned to face him that instant with his sharp pull, “I feel awful. I’m sorry, my light. Please do forgive me” he says, desperate, breathless, “I was being childish”
“Please” he lets out a breath, “please yell at me. I deserve it, truly”
You don’t yell at Flins, but you do pull him into another kiss, though, you understand he won’t be satisfied till you do as he’s pleaded, “You can’t take back something that you gifted” you scowl when you pull away, he stares at you wide eyed, “it’s improper and rude”
With a gulp, Flins nods, “I know, sweetheart, I know”
“You’re horrible” you snap back, and you watch as Flins finally regains a little shine back in his eyes,
“I know, I’m sorry”
“And you used…” you gasp when you feel his firm hold on your waist trail down and under your thigh, hooking your leg over his hip, “Glamour when… when I didn’t even have my charm”
“I know” he breaths, “I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you, I promise”
Though Flins’ plan to ultimately have you visit his home was a success, he’s riddled with a new form of guilt when he understands who truly is the most stubborn out of the two. Loud and bratty as you were, you were too precious and pure – he vows to himself he won’t make another mistake with you, ever again.
A long night was ahead, and Flins would truly never forget the way you spoke those words, true and pure. He’d said he would gift you a thousand more charms, but you insisted only the one was needed.
Nothing could ever compare to its sentiment, after all.
The very first, the very last charm you ever needed from him.
You wouldn’t ever use it, of course – and you were sure he wouldn’t give you a reason to. Especially not after the whisper of apologies he's chanted onto every inch of your skin.
chuu's note: I'm sorry it's ass, I wrote it in like 2 sittings because I just needed to stop daydreaming abt this scenario and put it into words. Also fun fact, this mc was inspired by Sandrone and her interaction with Flins - I found it so cute, so naturally, I wanted to write abt it in some sort of way. I think I definitely will write more bratty reader w this man (like actually bratty, bc this time Flins out bratted mc, and then this fic became emotional cos why tf was he so mean to her oml anyway~) bc its just a cute combo. I believe Flins deserves a hot-tempered brat! boo me all you want! oki anyways byeee and ty for 1k again, ily ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა ♡
Wait on another note, I want to say that it is SO romantic for Flins to give his lover a protection charm for Fae magic when he himself is Fae. Like I would like to praise myself for cooking that idea up. Anyways, goodbye for realz!
✦ synopsis. you are a succubus who only ever takes. he is a demon hunter who only ever denies. it comes as no surprise that once your paths cross, sin feels too much like salvation.
✦ content. 24k words. sunday x f!reader. frenemies to lovers? alternate universe. religious guilt. some political commentary blended into the narrative. sacrilegeous themes. graphic depictions of blood and violence. smut (MINORS DNI).
✦ foreword. HAPPY SUNDAY ROAST ANNIVERSARY!!! this is for my lovely @tabenikui who put her faith in me to bring succubus reader n demon hunter sunday to life :') just a heads up that despite the INSANE word count... this is only half finished HAH! i was supposed to post this only when it was complete BUT! i could not let roastiversary go by without a little something to commemorate <3 more notes at the end! hope you enjoy reading!
PART ONE ┊ PART TWO
The Asdana region’s capital was a city that never slept.
Beneath vaulted ceilings strung with gold and glass, Penacony existed on hymns and indulgence alike—incense from sanctuaries curling into neon haze, prayer bells swallowed by laughter spilling from open doors. Devotion and desire lived shoulder to shoulder here, and the locals had long since stopped pretending otherwise. They called it a dreamscape with a straight face, as though dreams were not things that devoured you when you lingered too long.
Sunday haunted the same corners as always.
The bar was a low-lit sprawl tucked beneath a transit bridge, frequented by people who preferred to stay unremembered. Demon hunters gathered here between jobs, their presence marked not by armor or insignia but by the way they occupied space. Their backs were often to walls, and their eyes would scan reflections instead of faces. Sunday blended in easily. Or at least, he tried to.
Tonight, though, he hadn’t felt like hunting. There was no holier-than-thou need to rid the world of the bottom-dwellers lurking in the shadows. No sense of urgency to fulfill a calling that had already shunned him. If he were anyone else, Sunday might have taken it as permission to go home. But he was a man of routine, and routine was a harder god to defy than Xipe ever was.
So he stayed.
A glass sweated beneath his fingers, an order he made out of courtesy than actual thirst. The din of the place started to fade around him like it always did when he was mulling things over. But like always, silence had a habit of shattering when he got too comfortable.
“Wow,” a voice chimed in. “You look like someone sang your favorite church song off-key.”
He didn’t turn immediately, not wanting to dignify Sparkle with a reaction. But the bartender was quick to lean against the counter from her side. She had a way of gracing him with her presence like a punchline he didn’t remember setting up—chin in her palm, eyes bright with amusement that never quite reached sincerity.
“I wasn’t aware I had favorites,” Sunday said flatly.
“That’s because you’re boring,” she replied cheerfully. “But reliable. Which is why I’m here.”
She set a slim dossier on the table and nudged it toward him with one finger. The paper bore no seal or official script. That alone told him enough.
“Golden Hour District,” Sparkle continued. “Reports of a succubus making herself very comfortable. A few patrons drained, a few more shaken. You know the type.”
He glanced down, already knowing what he’d find. Sex demons were common in Penacony—drawn to contradiction like moths to flame. Some hid in dreams, feeding delicately where no blade could follow. Others preened in plain sight, intoxicated by the audacity of it all.
“Solo?” he asked.
“Unless you’ve suddenly developed a fondness for company.” Sparkle’s eyes flicked over him, lingering just long enough to be deliberate. “Xipe didn’t teach you that, did They?”
His jaw ticked. “That chapter is closed.”
“Oh, I know.” She grinned. “Still fun to read between the lines though.”
Exhaling, Sunday got up from his seat before tucking away the sheet. “I’ll handle it.”
Sparkle hummed. “Try not to make it messy. The Church gets testy when things look… personal.”
Sunday paused, just briefly.
“I don’t answer to the Church. Not anymore.”
“No,” she said lightly. “You don’t.”
He left before she could say anything else.
When he arrived at Golden Hour, lights spilled from every doorway—warm and inviting yet false in every way. Pleasure here was a performance, and demons who thrived on it rarely bothered to hide. Sunday moved through the district like a fish barreling upstream, senses attuned for excess that rang hollow. Glamour always cracked eventually. Desire always left fingerprints.
A soft ping came from the smartphone tucked into his back pocket. He wasn’t one for material things but his sister had insisted he keep it. The same sister who remained its only saved contact.
Robin:
I hope you’re eating properly.
The evening service went smoothly today.
If you’re nearby, you should come home sometime. Just to visit.
He stared at the words longer than necessary.
Then he dismissed them with a flick of his thumb.
Casinos in Golden Hour were designed to keep you awake. It was a place where hands constantly moved, where betting chips clacked like gnashing teeth, and the slot machines flashed fast enough to keep your pulse slightly elevated. Time didn’t dissolve here so much as it stalled, caught between one bet and the next. Laughter rang too loud, music pulsed too slow, and the air tasted of ambition left to rot. Desire here was currency. No one bothered to hide it.
You leaned into that truth like a practiced lie.
A smile here, a brush of fingers there. Close enough to be felt, distant enough to be wanted. You’d learned the rhythm quickly—how to hover at the edge of someone’s attention until they filled in the rest themselves.
The man beside you was already unraveling. Late thirties, maybe older. The sleeves of his work clothes were rolled up, collar loosened, eyes glued to the table as though the numbers owed him something. His chips dwindled with every breath. You pressed closer, just enough for your perfume to reach him, just enough for your smile to feel like salvation.
“Just one more,” he muttered.
You waited until the moment the table went quiet.
The dealer swept the last of his chips away with practiced indifference, and whatever hope the man had been clinging to went with them. His shoulders slumped. His stare lingered on the felt as though the numbers might rearrange themselves if he looked hard enough.
You laughed softly and leaned closer, letting your fingers brush his wrist as if by accident. An invitation that promised everything and nothing at once.
“Bad luck,” you murmured, voice warm with sympathy you didn’t entirely feel. “Happens to everyone.”
He looked up at you like you’d pulled him back from the edge of something. Relief loosened his posture. Gratitude did the rest.
He leaned in first, clumsy with it, all eagerness and need. When he kissed you, it was desperate—too much pressure, not enough awareness. You returned it because you had to, and your body knew the rules even if your mind resented them. His hands found your waist, your back, overeager and uncertain. You let them linger. You always did.
But then the taste hit.
That god-awful taste.
It flooded your senses all at once—thick and sour and rancid in a way that had nothing to do with hygiene. Like spoiled wine. Like sweat soaked into old paper. It burned the back of your throat, clinging no matter how shallow you tried to keep the contact.
You nearly recoiled but instead, you smiled.
You always smiled.
He took it as encouragement. They always did. His voice dropped into a whisper as he spoke of whisking you away, of luck finally turning if you stayed by his side. Promises spilled easily from men who mistook attention for absolution. But no matter how sweet the words sounded, they meant nothing once your palate was fouled beyond saving.
You pulled back first, murmuring an excuse you wouldn’t remember five steps from the table. You stepped away before the nausea could crest into something visible. Behind you, the man blinked at you, confused, hands still half-raised as though you’d simply vanished mid-performance.
You weaved quickly through bodies and tables, swallowing the bitter aftertaste like penance. The energy you’d siphoned barely steadied you—enough to keep the hunger you’ve been sitting with at bay, but not enough to feel normal. You’ve forgotten what that word even means for you.
That was the cruel joke of it.
Sexual energy was the only thing that could sustain your kind, but the act of retrieving it repulsed you. Too much sensation. Too many hands. Too much intimacy that wasn’t yours. Kisses were tolerable. Any sort of brief contact, you could stomach. It was enough to sip without drowning. But anything more and your senses overloaded—flavors too vivid, emotions too loud. You’d learned early that restraint was survival.
The hunters in your last city had been thorough. You hadn’t stayed long enough to confirm the rumors of their pursuit—just packed what little you owned and left before the walls started closing in. Penacony was meant to be a reset. A place indulgent enough that someone like you could disappear into the crowd without being hunted for sport.
So far, it had only proven louder, not safer.
You slipped off the casino floor and into the adjoining streets with purpose, letting the neon thin into something more navigable. You asked questions that sounded idle but weren’t. About clubs that stayed open too late. Patrons who never seemed to age. Performers who left people glassy-eyed and giggling to themselves. You framed it as curiosity. As if you were someone looking to indulge.
But the truth was, you were looking for your own.
Succubi and incubi didn’t announce themselves outright, but they left patterns behind—familiar hauntings, familiar rumors, and the same names whispered twice by different mouths. You followed every thread you could find, but nothing came back. Just confused looks. Smirks that went nowhere. Shrugged shoulders from people who didn’t know, or pretended not to.
Your frustration coiled tighter with every dead end, made worse by the aftertaste still clinging to your senses. Bad feedings lingered longer than good ones, souring everything that followed. You swallowed it down and kept moving anyway.
Your hunger wasn’t sharp or desperate, but there was a dull ache that lingered beneath your ribs, an irritation that followed you as you wandered deeper into Golden Hour. The city was new enough to distract you, unfamiliar streets folding into one another beneath neon signs and hanging lights, but your body kept score. That last feeding was mere scraps compared to your usual fill, and the foul taste clung stubbornly to the back of your senses.
That was when you saw him.
He stood near the edge of a crosswalk, apart from the flow of people. Tall, straight-backed, and clad in dark layers that caught the light without reflecting it. Long, silver hair fell just past his shoulders, too pale to belong to the glow around him, untouched by the chaos pressing in from every side.
Above it all, a halo hovered just behind his head, thin and dim. It didn’t shine so much as exist, a quiet ring of light that refused to be swallowed by the neon around it, as if Golden Hour itself had learned to make room for that too.
It takes you only a moment to notice his wings. A delicate, feathered pair sprouting from the nape of his neck, their down catching the glow of his halo when he shifted. They moved almost imperceptibly, a subtle flex that made them undeniably real. You blinked, then frowned faintly as recognition surfaced.
A Halovian.
You’d heard of them in passing. A dwindling people blessed directly by the goddess of Harmony, marked by Xipe Themself. They were rare enough that most only ever saw them in museum sculptures or half-remembered murals. You hadn’t expected to see one standing in the street like this, unguarded and alone.
But it wasn’t the wings or the halo that held you.
His eyes rose to meet yours with quiet inevitability, as though he’d already known where to look. Gold, but not the kind that blazed—this was a deeper warmth, steady and contained, like honey held just shy of boiling. There was no curiosity in them. Yet, when your gazes locked, your breath faltered all the same. Something coiled low in your chest, tight and sudden, a tension you hadn’t asked for and couldn’t dismiss. And then—
The taste.
It bloomed across your senses without warning, rich and startlingly clean. Warm sweetness layered over something cool and unyielding beneath—like hot honey poured over steel. It lingered on your tongue, vivid without overwhelming you, sharp enough to make your breath hitch.
Oh.
You stilled, pulse ticking beneath your skin.
Sexual energy always had flavor. You could eat and drink human food, pretend at normalcy—but without sexual energy, you would wither away. Most people gave it freely through touch, and kisses, and the other obvious routes. But tension worked too. Proximity. Eye contact held just a second too long.
For one reckless moment, you considered it. Just a step closer. Just a glance held longer than polite. Maybe strike up a conversation, and touch him up close. It would be enough to cleanse your palate and push the last of that foulness away. He didn’t look like someone who would chase. He didn’t look like someone who would even understand what you were taking.
You approached him before you could think better of it.
A half step forward, then another—close enough that he could probably hear you breathe. You let your expression soften, lips parting just slightly as you tilted your head, letting the light catch where it would do the most work. It came back to you easily, the mask you wore when you needed to survive. The warmth in your smile, and the promise that you were exactly what someone like him didn’t know he wanted.
“Hey,” you said lightly, as though you’d simply wandered into him by chance. “Wanna go somewhere fun?”
He didn’t answer. That didn’t stop you.
You reached for his wrist, fingers curling around it with practiced ease, and tugged—gentle and coaxing, as if inviting him into a secret rather than dragging him anywhere at all. He came with you without resistance, steps unhurried as you guided him off the main street and deeper into Golden Hour’s quieter veins.
The farther you led him, the thicker the taste of his honeyed energy became. It saturated the air around him, warm and cloying, so rich it made you lightheaded. You hadn’t even fed yet, and already your heartbeat skidded, hunger flaring sharp and dizzying beneath your skin.
You laughed softly, pulling him into a secluded alley when you finally stopped. The noise of the city faded into something distant and irrelevant. “You’re very calm,” you murmured, eyes flicking up to his. “Most people would at least ask where they’re being taken.”
Still nothing.
He simply stared at you with those hypnotizing eyes. Gold rimmed with something deeper at the center, a cool royal blue that anchored the warmth instead of tempering it. It made the taste sharper. More dangerous.
You swallowed. Boldness crept in where caution should have been. You stepped closer, close enough now that you could feel the heat of him, could sense the way tension simmered in the narrow space between your bodies. So taken with your next catch, your glamour began to fall away—afterimages of a smooth, pointed tail and a small pair of bat’s wings flickering in and out of existence.
“Is this a Halovian thing?” you teased, fingers brushing up his sleeve. “Or are you always this quiet?”
The man was steadfast in his refusal to dignify you with a response.
Moments later, your tail betrayed you. It slid free of its concealment completely and curled around his waist in a loose coil that tightened reflexively when the taste of him surged your senses again—so strong it made your vision blur at the edges. You sucked in a sharp breath, instinctively chewing on your bottom lip as you met his stone-cold gaze.
“Sorry.” You giggled, letting your tail climb higher up his forearm. “Force of habit.”
He didn’t move to remove it. He didn’t move at all.
The silence stretched, taut as wire. You tilted your head, searching his face for something—anything—that would tell you this wasn’t a mistake. His gaze never left yours. It pinned you there, warm and unyielding all at once, and for a reckless second you leaned in, drawn by instinct more than intent. Your breath fanned his face in a way that would fluster lesser men, but by now you could already tell this man was anything but.
You were close enough that you could taste him.
His lips parted, and for a heartbeat you thought that you’d finally coaxed a response out of him. But the words that followed weren’t an answer. They were a chant.
It wasn’t speech so much as structure, Harmony shaped into cadence, doctrine braided into breath. You recognized it instantly, even without ever hearing it spoken before—the voice of Xipe invoked not as comfort, but as command.
Its effect on you was immediate.
The pressure slammed into your ribs, sudden and suffocating, driving the breath from your lungs as the sudden taste of his energy began to curdle on your tongue. Your tail snapped loose as you stumbled onto the ground, teeth clenched against the force pressing down on your chest.
“Wait—” you croaked, but his chanting only grew louder.
You realized it then, clear as day. You hadn’t found prey. You’d found a hunter.
Light flared in his hands. It bled into existence from nothing, a sudden, concentrated shimmer that condensed into the shape of a book. A tome bound in pale material that drank in the glow around it, its surface etched with lines that pulsed faintly in time with his voice. The moment it solidified, the pressure doubled.
You screamed.
His incantations tightened around you like a vice, Harmony turned merciless, forcing your essence inward as though trying to peel you out of your own skin. Your limbs locked. Your breath came shallow and panicked. Every part of you that wasn’t human burned.
The rest of your glamour collapsed completely. Your wings tore free into full existence, aching and wrong in the narrow space. Your tail lashed violently as the holy resonance tore through you. The taste of flowers flooded your mouth—white, sharp, and suffocating—so pure it made you gag. The edges of your vision blurred and whitened as the world tried to shrink you down to something smaller. Something manageable.
You clenched your teeth.
No.
You had not run this far to die in an alley.
With what little strength you could muster, your tail whipped out on pure instinct, sweeping low and hard. Metal clattered violently as trash cans overturned, lids skidding across the ground, and glass shattering as something heavy slammed into the wall. The noise broke the man’s rhythmic chanting for half a second.
Taking advantage of the opening, you twisted free of the pressure with a snarl, pain screaming through every nerve as you forced your body to move. You didn’t look back. You ran—barely upright, wings folding tight as you burst back into the main street, swallowed immediately by light and bodies and sound.
But the Halovian followed.
Frantic footsteps pounded behind you. He didn’t shout or curse. His voice cut cleanly through the din, Xipe’s Harmony threading between screams of laughter and music and traffic, trying to pin you down without tearing the city apart in the process.
You weaved through pedestrians, shoved past a group spilling out of a club, nearly collided with a vendor cart. The pressure grazed you again, enough to stumble and make your knees buckle.
But for the first time that night, something shifted.
A car tore through the intersection at the wrong angle, tires shrieking as it clipped the curb and slammed into a street fixture barely a foot from you. The impact split the night open—glass bursting outward, alarms blaring, pedestrians scattering in reflexive panic.
The chant shattered. Harmony unraveled into discord.
You didn’t question it. You took the gift and bolted, white hot agony burning through your limbs as you vanished into the surge of bodies and light. Sirens rose behind you, and your heartbeat roared in your ears as luck, at long last, tipped in your favor.
By the time the chaos settled into stunned voices and flashing lights, Golden Hour’s endless arteries had swallowed you whole.
Sunday’s earliest memories were filled with light.
It always held a steady, sanctified glow that softened the edges of the world. He remembered sunlight through stained glass, candle flames trembling beneath the high ceilings of a cathedral. Choruses rising and falling like an exhaled breath. He also remembered small hands folded neatly in his lap, Robin’s fingers warm where they brushed his own, and the quiet pride that came with being watched by hundreds upon hundreds of onlookers.
They were special. Everyone said so.
High Reverend Gopher Wood told them often with quiet certainty that they were gifts—divine messengers placed gently into the Church’s care. Halovians were precious, blessed directly by the Xipe Themself, marked so he and his sister might guide others toward Harmony whenever the world threatened to fracture.
Sunday had no reason not to believe him.
He was taught that to serve was the highest calling. Discipline was devotion, and to be chosen meant responsibility, not privilege. When he knelt beside Robin during hours of prayer, back when their halos were still faint and their wings were still too small to draw comment, he felt nothing but gratitude.
Being chosen felt like purpose settling neatly into place. There was comfort in knowing what he was meant to be, in having the shape of his life decided before he was old enough to question it. The Church needed him. The people needed him. Their gazes followed his figure with awe and hope and reverence that made his chest swell even as it weighed him down.
Robin needed him too. He learned early how to stand just a little straighter for her, how to speak with certainty even when doubt stirred beneath his calm. If he was steady, she would be too. That was his role. That was what older brothers were for.
The High Reverend watched Sunday grow into his role with an approval that felt earned. He lived for it in quiet ways. A nod after a sermon. A hand on his shoulder after a long service. Praise given sparingly, as though to teach him its value.
When the congregation bowed their heads and listened to his words, when their faith settled into him like an offering, Sunday felt anchored to the role he was given. Necessary. Whole. The idea of being anything less was unthinkable.
So he prayed more often, carried the confidence of a leader in his gait, and learned to be exactly what the Harmony asked of him. But in doing so, he never noticed how small the world became around him—how every path narrowed until there was only one direction left to walk.
He never noticed how the light had dimmed until it was all he had left.
Sunday’s apartment was always quiet at the crack of dawn—no music from neighboring units, no traffic bleeding through the walls. The space was modest but clean, everything arranged only with an eye as meticulous as his.
Its only resident rose and moved through his routine without pause. He stretched, worked his body just enough to keep it sharp, then prepared a simple breakfast and ate it without distraction. His thoughts already aligned with the day ahead. Somewhere between rinsing his cup and wiping the counter clean, he knelt and bowed his head in prayer.
The words came easily, unchanged from years of repetition. Sunday did not ask for forgiveness, nor did he seek guidance. Clarity for what the day has in store was all he required.
But when he stood, the weight in his chest had not lifted.
It had settled there the night before, stubborn and unresolved, rooted in a failure that should not have occurred. The succubus had escaped him. Sex demons were weak by nature. He had never needed assistance to deal with them, never felt compelled to involve other hunters. Yet this one had slipped through his grasp. He intended to see it corrected.
However, as he reached for his coat by the rack, he paused.
Mounted beside the door was a portrait he rarely acknowledged, yet never though to move. He and Robin stood side by side, dressed in ceremonial white, younger and untouched by consequence. Her smile was bright and unguarded. His own expression was calm, composed. The symbol of the Church framed them both like a promise made long ago.
His intuition was an infallible thing. It settled deep in his chest with a pressure he did not bother to question, and by the time his hand fell away from his coat he already knew he would not be going anywhere else before seeing his sister.
Visiting the estate was not something Sunday did often.
Robin invited him frequently, always with the same careful phrasing that made it clear he was welcome but never expected. She spoke of it as though nothing had changed, and his absence were merely a matter of distance rather than consequence. He hated the pity threaded through her words, however unintentional it was, and hated even more that it mirrored the tone she used with the less fortunate citizens of the Asdana region—gentle, patient, unwaveringly kind.
It was easier to maintain distance than to confront the dissonance of being received warmly in a place that no longer belonged to him, easier than enduring the looks that pretended not to measure how far he had fallen. Yet the certainty pressing against his ribs did not ease, and by the time he left his apartment, the decision had already been made.
The estate’s denizens recognized him immediately.
Servants greeted him by name, their bows as practiced and respectful as they had ever been, and the familiarity unsettled him more than outright rejection would have. He wondered briefly whether Robin had instructed them to behave this way for his sake, and the thought irritated him even as it soothed something raw beneath the surface.
When he asked for her, a pause followed.
“Miss Robin is occupied at the moment,” one of them said. “She will join you shortly.”
Sunday nodded and allowed himself to be shown to the reception hall, where tea was poured and pleasantries were exchanged. He waited with his posture rigid, the unease in his chest sharpening with every passing minute.
Conversation drifted in and out of the hall as servants passed by with careful steps and quieter voices than usual. He noted the way their glances lingered, how they avoided meeting his eyes for more than a moment, as though aware of something he was not.
That, more than anything else, decided it.
Sunday rose and moved toward the staircase without another word. A servant hurried after him, voice strained with polite urgency, insisting that he need not trouble himself, but he acknowledged none of it. He knew the layout of the estate like the back of his hand, and he did not slow his pace. By the time they realized he had no intention of stopping, he was already halfway up the stairs, the unease in his chest having sharpened into certainty.
Whatever was delaying his sister, it was not something he was meant to be kept from seeing.
Sunday reached the upper floor and turned down the familiar corridor without slowing. The servants’ protests followed him in hushed voices, but he ignored them still, stopping only when he reached the door to Robin’s study.
It was ajar.
Robin’s voice spilled from the crack in a low, steady melody that unknowingly soothed the tension in his shoulders. It was not a song meant for congregation, nor a performance meant to inspire. This was Harmony shaped into the sound of her voice, each note placed with care to soothe and heal rather than preach. That was her gift.
Sunday pushed the door open.
His sister stood near the window with her hands folded loosely at her chest as she sang in earnest. The morning light caught in her hair and the warm glow of her halo. For a moment the scene looked almost peaceful.
Until he saw the obvious intruder in his old home.
You sat where a guest should not have been, your posture relaxed despite the strain evident in the way your wings folded unevenly at your back. You looked worn, pale, still bearing the marks of the exorcism he had attempted the night before, but your eyes lifted when he entered—and you smiled.
Something smug flickered there the moment you saw him, but it was gone the instant Robin glanced your way. When her gaze returned to you, your expression softened, eyes lowering obediently as though you were nothing more than a patient grateful for care.
Sunday’s jaw tightened.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
Robin’s song tapered off gently before she turned to face him. “Brother,” she greeted him with a tone as even as ever. “You weren’t meant to come up here.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, eyes alight with rage. He was not speaking to his sister.
Your smile sharpened briefly at the address, then vanished again as Robin stepped closer to your side.
“She was barely conscious when I found her,” she explained. “I ran into her on my way back from last night’s service. My intuition told me to bring her here.”
“She’s a succubus,” he deadpanned. “One I was contracted to eliminate. I saw her feed and attempted to do the same with me as well.”
“And I saw someone suffering.”
Sunday sighed before he took a step forward. His hand moved instinctively toward his focus.
“Step aside, Robin.”
But she moved with him, placing herself squarely between the two of you. “No. Brother, you know the price of hasty decisions. Don’t make the same mistake.”
A humorless laugh escaped him. “Mistake?” He gestured toward you without looking away from his sister. “Did you not hear me clearly the first time? That woman is a succubus. Just another demon that spreads evil and discord wherever they go.”
“And maybe,” Robin said quietly, “we should stop naming things evil so arbitrarily.”
Sunday stared at her for a long, hard moment. “Are you hearing yourself?”
“I am,” she said. “Do you not tire of this ceaseless killing, brother? As emissaries of the Harmony, we must be more discerning of those who need it.”
He scoffed before he could stop himself. “You sound like you’ve been charmed.”
Robin met his gaze steadily. “You know that’s impossible.”
He did. Halovians were resistant to psychological tampering by nature, which made Sunday an excellent demon hunter. The thought, however, offered no comfort in these current circumstances.
When Robin spoke again, her voice softened, but her stance did not. “I’ll see that she leaves Penacony once she’s recovered. There’s no need to kill her.”
“Showing mercy to demons isn’t what the Church taught us,” Sunday said coldly.
“And neither was killing innocent people,” Robin replied.
The word innocent stuck in his throat like something unclean.
No demon was innocent. He had lived by that truth his entire life. He wanted to say so. Wanted to remind her of everything Harmony demanded, everything they had been taught.
But this was Robin.
Slowly, Sunday lowered his hand.
“Fine,” he relented at last. “Do as you wish.”
His gaze returned to you, sharp and unyielding. “But when she leaves,” he added, voice tight, “this ends. Sheltering demons would only brand you a heretic when the High Reverend catches wind.”
Robin exhaled, shoulders loosening. “Thank you, brother.”
His attention then settled on you with a scrutiny that had nothing to do with curiosity. You remained where you were, wings folded tight and tail tucked away as if the effort of sitting upright cost you dearly. But he was not fooled.
He remembered how easily you had moved the night before, how eager you had been when you thought you had him cornered. Demons survived on deception as much as hunger, and succubi most of all. Weakness was a language they spoke fluently.
Still, Robin’s presence complicated things.
Her hand rested lightly at your shoulder almost protectively. The sight unsettled him more than your smugness ever could have. Whatever you were, whatever game you were playing, she believed you worth saving, and that belief was not something he could dismantle without turning a blade on his own blood.
His gaze hardened, lingering just long enough for the warning to stick. This was not absolution. It was delay. For Robin’s sake alone, he would let it stand.
For now.
Objectively, you didn’t think you’re a bad person.
You’ve done what you had to do to survive. You’ve taken what you needed, never more than necessary, and never from the same person twice. You’ve learned restraint where your kind is expected to indulge, practiced caution where others mistake excess for nature. If anything, you’ve spent most of your life trying not to become the thing people fear when they hear the word succubus.
And yet…
It felt difficult to argue that point while you were staying in the estate of a deaconess, recovering under her care like a misplaced charity case.
When Robin found you, you had been slumped against a side street not far from the cathedral, the world tilting unpleasantly as the remnants of the exorcism gnawed at your body. Your glamour barely held. Your wings ached. Every breath felt like it scraped on the way in. You hadn’t even noticed her at first—only the warmth that settled around you.
The deaconess had knelt beside you without hesitation, her expression creasing with concern rather than revulsion. She’d only asked if you could stand with a voice that made refusal feel pointless. When you didn’t answer, she’d helped you anyway.
Later, you asked why she helped someone who was clearly a demon. She simply told you it just felt wrong leaving you there.
You didn’t have the heart to argue.
Robin insisted the arrangement is temporary. You’re here, officially, because you’re still healing from the damage her brother’s failed exorcism left behind—a tidbit of news that made her sigh with something like disappointment. Unofficially, you’re here because she wants to understand you—your kind, your nature, the space between demon and monster that the Church refuses to acknowledge.
You suspected she believed there’s a middle ground. It’s optimistic. Admirable. A little naïve.
And you were absolutely taking advantage of it.
Because another thing you discovered was that Robin’s voice does something to you that feeding never quite manages. When she sings, the ache beneath your ribs would dull into something bearable, the hunger loosening its grip without demanding anything in return. You told her it helps and let yourself look small and tired when she asks how you’re feeling. What you purposely avoid telling her is that you could heal yourself faster through feeding.
But you didn’t want to do that.
Feeding has always been a transaction you resented, and there was none of that when it came to Robin’s soothing singing. So you stayed.
Protected by her position. Shielded by her faith. Conveniently placed beyond the reach of a demon hunter who took a contract to end you and now has to live with the fact that you’re sleeping under the same roof as his sister.
Sunday was… less than thrilled.
You could feel it every time he visited, even before he says a word. The tension rolled off him in sharp waves, a coil pulled too tight beneath his calm. He watched you like you’re some weapon left unattended, like the slightest movement might turn you dangerous. The irony would be funny if it weren’t so exhausting.
He was convinced you’re a threat waiting to happen.
Perhaps he even believed you would siphon sexual energy from Robin the moment she turned her back. The thought had crossed your mind only once when you’d unintentionally tasted a trace of sweetness from her, something light and delicate like fondant lingering at the edges of her presence. That alone had been enough to make you recoil.
But your discretion meant nothing to Sunday. Nothing would sway him away from the idea that you’ll corrupt his sister, charm her, poison her faith simply by existing too close to it. The Church had done a thorough job teaching him what demons must be, and it showed.
Robin, meanwhile, continued her duties as though nothing has changed. She left for services, meetings, charity visits, trusting you to remain exactly where she left you. Sometimes you’re alone with the servants, who treated you with careful politeness and pointed avoidance. Other times—
Sunday dropped by.
You learned quickly that this man never entered a room without taking inventory. His gaze often flicked to the windows, the corners, the space between you and the furniture, as if expecting something to lunge. Only after that did he look at you.
“Where is my sister?”
“At the church,” you replied, bored. “Where she goes when she’s not babysitting demons.”
His eyes narrowed. “You are not to be left behind in the estate unattended.”
“I didn’t decide that. Robin did.”
“And you stayed anyway like the parasite you are.”
“Like she asked me to,” you corrected. “You should try it sometime.”
That earned you a cold, appraising look. “You enjoy provoking me.”
“You enjoy assuming the worst of me. Seems fair.”
Sunday’s jaw flexed. “Must I remind you that you are not here by right? You don’t get to act as if you are invincible, little demon, because you are anything but.”
“No,” you agreed easily. “I’m here by mercy. Yours, technically. I’d say thank you, but you look like you’d hate that.”
“…If you so much as inconvenience her—”
“You’ll do what?” you interrupted, still smiling. “Exorcise me? Break your sister’s heart in the process?”
The air shifted again, sharp and uneasy, and if Sunday had not respected Robin’s wishes so deeply, you suspected he would have had you cast back into the streets—or exorcised you outright—without a second thought. For all his posturing as a demon hunter bound by some rigid, self-imposed code, he was surprisingly lenient when it came to her.
“She is not part of this,” he grumbled.
“I know,” you chuckled softly. “That’s why I’m still here.”
You haven’t decided yet whether you’re glad for the interruption in the newfound monotone of your life or furious at the scrutiny he always subjected you to. Conversations with him are rarely pleasant. He’s sharp, curt, unimpressed by every answer you give him, and you returned the favor out of spite if nothing else.
The problem was that none of it was neutral.
Even arguments carried some sort of charge. Every exchange crackled with tension you had no choice but to taste, that maddening warmth bleeding into your senses whether you want it or not. That same honeyed flavor saturated the air between you whenever his gaze lingered too long or your words struck a nerve.
You hated it.
Hated that you noticed. Hated that your hunger stirred at the edges when you weren’t even trying to feed. Even the slightest bit of irritation became a conduit, making your mere proximity from him alone enough to flavor the moment.
You didn’t act on it. You wouldn’t dare.
But every time Sunday visited, every time he stood just a little too close or looked at you like he was measuring the distance between restraint and violence, the taste returns—persistent, unmistakable, and entirely unwelcome.
Remembering the nature of your arrangement with Robin, you reminded yourself that this was temporary. Just until you’re strong enough to leave Penacony without collapsing in the street. Until Robin stops looking at you like a question she’s determined to answer.
And until her brother stopped treating you like a sin he needs to absolve.
The nights in the estate were quiet in a way that felt almost accusatory.
You lay on your back in the guest room they’d given you and stared at the ceiling until the ornate molding blurred into meaningless shapes. It was too large, too pristine, and the sheets smelled faintly of cedar and incense. Robin had come home earlier that evening. She’d paid you a visit before retiring to her own room, her halo soft and warm, her voice gentler than the lamplight.
“May I?” she asked, already stepping inside.
You nodded without sitting up.
She sang for maybe twenty minutes—something slow and wordless, notes laid like cool hands against fevered skin. The hunger that always stirred your ribs had eased to a dull throb, then a whisper, then almost nothing. You closed your eyes and let it wash through you, grateful in a way that felt uncomfortably close to devotion. When Robin finished, she smiled and left without asking for anything in return.
That should have been enough.
But the taste of her brother lingered in the back of your throat like smoke you couldn’t cough out. Not the sour rot of the desperate men in Golden Hour, nor the thin syrup of casual touches. This was heavier, something you couldn't just sleep off.
Every time Sunday would come to the estate these past weeks, he’d left traces of his energy behind like fingerprints on glass. And tonight, with Robin’s song still echoing faintly in your bones, the absence of him felt louder than the relief.
You rolled onto your side, tail flicking irritably beneath the covers.
Dream-walking was expensive. It burned energy you didn’t have to spare and pulled threads of your essence across the veil until your body felt like paper left too long in the rain. You’d only done it twice before—once out of necessity, once out of spite—and both times you’d slept for nearly three days afterward. But your hunger wasn’t logical tonight. It was personal.
So, you closed your eyes and let your consciousness slip away.
The transition was brutal—less like falling asleep and more like being pulled through a keyhole made of broken glass. When the world reformed around you, you were already standing in the nave of a cathedral so vast the vaulted ceiling disappeared into soft golden mist.
You’d never stepped inside the Church of Xipe before, though you’d passed it often enough since arriving in Penacony. You hadn’t expected much. Places of worship dedicated to gods who despised your kind rarely inspired curiosity. But standing there now, even in a dream, it was difficult to deny the quiet awe the interior demanded.
Stained glass windows loomed on either side as they depicted scenes of radiant figures reaching toward one another, hands touching in perfect symmetry. Candles burned in endless rows, their flames steady and unnaturally bright. Incense hung thick in the air, sweet and dizzying.
And there, before the altar of Xipe, stood Sunday.
He wore vestments you’d never seen him in—flowing white layered with gold embroidery, garments that belonged to someone who spoke for gods rather than hunted their enemies. His halo burned brighter here, a perfect ring of light that made the rest of the cathedral feel dim by comparison. At the nape of his neck, his feathered wings were tucked close and still, their pale down catching the candle-glow like polished silver
You almost turned back, wondering if you’d wandered into the wrong Halovian’s dream.
But your limbs brought you forward, bare feet silent against marble. Your own glamour bled away until you were nothing but the shape the Church despised most: small black wings and tail that swayed slow and predatory. The classic image.
You stopped a few feet behind him.
“Hello, Reverend,” you purred, voice pitched soft and sinful. “Thought I’d come confess.”
It took a moment for Sunday to turn to you. But when he finally did, those honey-gold eyes met yours without surprise or fear—only calm, cold assessment.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
The timbre of his voice was strange to you. This Sunday did not sound like a hunter—there was no edge to his words, no impatience beneath the syllables. Only an eerie sort of calm shaped by pulpits and listening crowds. Even his gaze was unsettling, measuring you not as prey but as a trespasser whose presence had already been accounted for.
You flashed him a sickly sweet smile as you let your tail slide along the marble toward him. “You shouldn’t be here either,” you laughed. “If you’re still hunting strays like me in back alleys. Seems beneath a man of your… station.”
Sunday did not rise to the bait.
You moved closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that the taste of that maddening honey bloomed across your tongue once more. It was richer here, in the sanctity of his dream as though it flowed straight from the source rather than a distant echo.
Your fingers brushed the edge of his vestments as you sank to your knees before the altar. You looked up at him through your lashes, reverent in a way you knew could only be read as blasphemy.
“Let me take communion,” you murmured. “One taste. Then I’ll leave you in peace.”
Silence stretched across the empty the cathedral. His attention remained fixated on your prostrating form, not sharp with anger nor softened by temptation, but focused in a way that made your skin prickle. It was the look of someone weighing a transgression rather than reacting to it.
Sunday stepped closer. The shift was subtle yet it collapsed the space between you all the same. You felt it before you saw it—the heat of him, the weight of his presence pressing down on all fronts. His shadow fell over you, haloed light eclipsing your own small defiance.
Gloved fingers threaded into your hair before tilting your head back until your gaze met his. The gesture was impersonal in its certainty, as if it were simply the correct placement of things long decided.
“You misunderstand,” he said calmly. “Communion is not taken.”
His grip tightened just enough to make a cold thrill skid along your spine.
“It is given.”
You let out a low, mocking laugh, the sound curling through the incense-heavy air like smoke.
“Funny,” you murmured, eyes lifting to his, “how you spend your waking life pretending you’re above this and then dream about it anyway.”
Sunday’s expression didn’t flicker. The gold of his eyes stayed steady, almost serene, like your words were nothing more than background noise to the greater rhythm of the cathedral.
“You think you’re in control here,” he said quietly.
“I’m very good at this part, actually.”
He didn’t smile. He simply guided your head forward until your lips brushed the hardening length beneath the layers of white fabric.
“Then prove it.”
You didn’t rush. You worked him free with practiced ease, letting your tongue trace the thick vein along the underside of his length, mapping the very thing the Church had forbidden you to touch. The heavy white silk of his vestments pooled around his hips, gold embroidery catching the candlelight in soft, sacred flashes. His lips were pressed into a thin line, wings folded in perfect repose. But the sight of him like this—untouchable and exalted, yet hard and leaking for a demon on her knees—sent a dark, liquid heat curling through your belly.
You took him deeper, inch by inch, letting your lips stretch around him, letting the weight of him settle heavy on your tongue. The taste bloomed slow and devastating: warm honey lathered onto your tongue, threaded with the slow burn of something you already know you’ll crave again tomorrow. It coated the back of your throat, slid down like ceremonial wine you were never meant to drink.
Above you, Sunday did not make a sound.
But his golden eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide and dark in the candle-glow. One gloved hand rested at the nape of your neck. The other remained at his side, fingers curled loosely like he were still holding an invisible crosier and presiding over a congregation that had long since vanished.
You pulled back until only the head of him remained between your lips, swirled your tongue around it once, twice, tasting salt and sanctity, then sank down again until your nose brushed the silvery curls at his navel. A barely there shudder moved through his thighs but you felt it. You felt everything.
Only then did his composure fracture, just enough to cut.
Sunday’s fingers tightened in your hair, not quite cruel, but inexorable all the same. He drew you off him slowly, letting you feel every slick inch sliding free, staring up at him with wet eyes and a mouth that already ached to be filled again.
“Look at you,” he murmured patronizingly. “On your knees before the altar of the goddess you despise… throat open for the man who was sent to end you.”
The words should have stung. Instead they licked down your body like molten gold.
Sunday guided you forward again, and you felt the drag of his cock over your tongue, the pulse of him against the roof of your mouth. When he hit the back of your throat and you gagged softly, he stilled not out of mercy, but to savor the sensation. To let you feel how perfectly your lips were stretched around him, and how thoroughly you had surrendered the illusion of control.
Only then did he begin to move.
Each thrust carried the same cadence he might use to intone a litany: deep, rolling, and inevitable. The hand in your hair dictated the rhythm; the other finally rose to cup your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheekbone like he was blessing you even while he ruined you. The slick sounds of your own saliva filled the cathedral’s hush every time he guided your head back down—wet, filthy glucks that echoed softly off marble, betraying just how well you were taking him.
Tears slipped free from your waterline, warm against your skin. Your tail curled tight around one of his calves as your wings trembled half-spread. Each drag of his length pulled more of that blinding honeyed energy from him, thick and intoxicating, until your head swam with it, until your cunt throbbed in perfect, aching sympathy. He stifled your quiet moans with his cock, subjugating you into silence.
You were drowning in the taste of him: ambrosia and altar wine and something fiercer underneath, like the heart of a star caged in flesh. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a whisper meant only for you and whatever god might still be listening.
“Swallow your salvation, little demon.”
He pushed deep, held you there, and came.
The first pulse hit the back of your throat like liquid sunlight. You choked on him, on the sheer amount of it flooding every starved corner of your body. Wave after wave poured into you, thick and endless, until your vision whited out and your spine bowed and your cunt clenched hard around nothing, coming untouched in a long, shuddering rush that left you sobbing around his cock.
Sunday held you through it, fingers iron-tight in your hair, letting you milk him dry while your body drank him in like parched earth finally given rain.
When he finally slipped free, a thin strand of saliva and spend still connected your lips to him. He brushed it away with his thumb, then pressed the same thumb to your bottom lip, parting them, studying the wreckage he’d made of you with little remorse.
You stared up at him, wrecked and trembling and so full you could barely breathe, haloed in the glow of his vestments and the aftershock of his release. For one suspended heartbeat, the cathedral was plunged into silence except for the soft sound of your ragged breathing and the slow, intermittent beat of wings that weren’t yours.
Then the world shattered.
You came awake gasping, clutching fistfuls of silk sheets, thighs slick and shaking while the ghost of him still laid thick on your tongue. Your body felt luminous, overflowing, every cell singing with a warmth that felt disturbingly like absolution.
Even in your dark room in the estate, you knew that Sunday had opened his eyes at the exact same moment somewhere else in the city, lips parted on a breath that tasted faintly of ash and sin.
Demons that did not bother with humanoid forms were merciful in their simplicity.
They did not smile or speak or crawl into your dreams and make you question the boundaries between temptation and consent. Instead, they were simply hunger given shape. When confronted, they fought. When bound, they screamed. When exorcised, they vanished. There was no pretense or ambiguity in it. No lingering echoes afterward to haunt the mind. While exterminations were far messier than exorcisms, Sunday had found that he preferred this.
It was why he had taken the job without hesitation when he came to visit Sparkle at the bar again, and why he had agreed to work alongside others rather than handle it alone. Not because it required additional hands, but because stillness had become dangerous lately. Silence invited recollection. Sleep invited… intrusion.
The nest lay beneath a collapsed building on the outskirts of the city, where Penacony’s glow thinned into something colder and less forgiving. The walls were slick with residue, chitinous bodies clinging to the concrete like tumors where they pulsed faintly with corrupted resonance. The air reeked of rot and stagnant ether, thick enough to taste.
Good, Sunday mused. Something uncomplicated.
March was the first to move, fearless and loud as her laughter rang through the corridor. She loosed an arrow in one smooth motion. A quiet glow flared along the enchanted shaft before sinking cleanly through the first creature’s thorax, pinning it to the wall in a burst of ichor and flesh.
Caelus charged in right after with a baseball bat that Sunday had found ridiculous at first. But its owner swung it with a brutal, unrefined force. Bones and shells and exoskeletons cracked under the impact as he drove the demons back, each strike messy but effective. There was no finesse to it—just momentum and refusal to slow down.
Dan Heng slipped between his partners like a serpent in the shadows. His spear moved with precision, the tip finding joints and weak points with clinical efficiency. Limbs severed, bodies collapsed, and what little coordination the nest had dissolved almost immediately.
They were young and green. But not ignorant.
Sunday remained behind them, tome open in his hands, voice steady as he began the exorcism proper. Where their weapons tore through physical form, his incantations unraveled the demons’ essence itself. Sigils flared into existence, binding the remaining creatures in place as Harmony asserted its claim. When he’d uttered the final lines, a wave of bright, holy light washed through the entire corridor.
The nest collapsed into inert matter, ichor dissolving into nothing as the last echo of corrupted resonance was extinguished.
Sunday exhaled only once it was over.
The breath slipped out of him more habit than relief. He closed the tome with a soft, final sound and looked down at himself. Dark flecks of demon ichor clung to the hem of his coat and one sleeve, already evaporating but leaving behind a faint, sour residue that tugged unpleasantly at his senses.
Annoying.
He brushed at it with a gloved hand, muttering a brief cleansing phrase under his breath. The residue dulled, lost cohesion, and flaked away like ash, but the irritation lingered. It always did. Demon ichor had a way of reminding you it had touched you at all.
Behind him, the others had already devolved into noise.
“That last one was definitely mine,” March insisted, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder. “You saw that shot right, Dan Heng? It was the perfect angle!”
Caelus scoffed. “Yeah, after I softened it up. You’re welcome.”
Dan Heng didn’t look up as he wiped his spear clean. “Arguing about it won’t change the count.”
March gasped. “You two are no fun.”
Sunday did his best to tune them out.
The corridor was quieter now—emptied and scrubbed clean by Harmony’s blessing. This was how it was supposed to feel: contained, resolved, and finished.
Unlike the dream that's been haunting him for days.
White marble beneath his feet. Gold light spilling across an altar. The sway of a dark tail tracing the floor as you knelt before him. He remembered the heat of your mouth—a sensation that felt disturbingly real for something born in a dream. The way your lips had parted around him as if his sanctity were nothing more than another indulgence to be tasted.
Sunday straightened abruptly, forcing the memory down before it could take root. It was a dream. Nothing more. A byproduct of proximity, of unfinished business, of a demon left alive when she should not have been.
“Hey,” March called out, peering at him with open curiosity. “You barely broke a sweat back there.”
“That’s because he lets us do all the stabbing,” Caelus supplied.
Sunday cast them a flat look. “That is the arrangement we agreed to, was it not?”
“That may be true but...” Dan Heng glanced at him then. “Your exorcisms are surprisingly thorough.”
“It merely comes from experience,” Sunday replied curtly.
March tilted her head, clearly undeterred. “So—can I ask something?”
“You’re going to aks anyway regardless of my answer.”
“And you're right!” The young woman giggled. “So… Will you spill the tea for us? What happened? Why aren’t you with the Church anymore? I used to sit in your sermons you know!”
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Sunday’s hand paused at his sleeve. Then he straightened fully, posture locking back into something formal and distant.
“That is not relevant,” he said coldly.
March opened her mouth—then closed it when Dan Heng shot her a sharp look.
“March,” he warned.
She huffed, crossing her arms. “What? I was just asking.”
Caelus shifted awkwardly, eyes flicking between them. “Uh. We should probably report the nest and collect the reward. We're kinda burning daylight here.”
“Yes,” Sunday agreed immediately. “That would be best.”
The conversation ended there.
As they headed back toward the city, the young hunters' voices rose again—bickering over kill counts, exaggerated retellings of past exterminations, and March loudly declaring a victory that no one else acknowledged. Sunday walked a half-step behind them in silence, letting the noise wash past without touching him.
Once, he would have been walking at the front. Once, he would have been the one setting the pace, speaking words meant to guide rather than conclude.
He did not miss it.
Still, as Penacony’s lights began to glow brighter ahead, an image surfaced unbidden. A child laid out before the altar. Chalk-white lines marred their skin where symbols had been drawn with hands that did not know better. The awful moment when stillness set in and never lifted again.
That was the last time he'd been inside Xipe's cathedral.
Sunday’s fingers curled briefly at his side before he forced them to relax. He turned his attention back to the noise he’d been deliberately ignoring, letting his companions’ voices crowd the edges of his thoughts. The city took the rest because Penacony was good at that—swallowing ghosts before they learned how to linger.
Your days at the estate often looked like this.
Robin’s lap was a steady, grounding presence beneath your head. The soft fabric of her dress, the gentle pressure of her caress, and the faint scent of lilies that clung to her sleeves no matter how many times the servants washed them. These things were at the forefront of your mind as you stared at the ceiling while she sang. You tried not to think about how easily you had come to rely on this.
Her voice unfurled into the room with unassuming clarity. She needed no grand crescendos or titillating high notes. Robin knew how to weave the Harmony into her song as if it had always been part of her. The tension lying just beneath your ribcage loosened a fraction as it always did, like a knot being coaxed open by patient fingers rather than force.
You breathed out a long sigh.
“There,” Robin murmured, smiling down at you. “Your breathing’s steadier today.”
“So you kept saying,” you replied lightly, even as your body refused to fully agree. You shifted your cheek against her thigh, careful not to disturb her. “If this was a clinical trial, I would start to think I was skewing your data.”
Robin laughed softly, the sound blending seamlessly into the melody. “Healing isn’t linear. Besides, this isn’t just about fixing you. It’s about proving something.”
“Mm. That demons don’t immediately combust when exposed to kindness?”
“That Harmony doesn’t have to hurt to work.”
Her hand moved absently through your hair, fingers gentle and unafraid. The gesture still caught you off guard sometimes—how natural she was about touch, and how she would extend it to any soul that needed it without a second thought. You’d met preachers who wielded compassion like a weapon, and hunters who used mercy as bait. Robin did neither. She simply offered her goodwill without expecting anything in return.
But despite all the convincing you've done for yourself, your hunger refused to ebb.
The song always settled into you like a balm, and for a few blessed minutes, your baser desires quieted. They were distant enough that you could pretend to be comfortable. In these times, you would let your eyes close as the notes wrapped around the sharp edges of your thoughts.
Yet this unbidden memory was a frequent intruder.
Honey-warm liquid poured down your throat. Clean and devastatingly vivid.
You hadn’t meant to think of Sunday. You’d been very careful not to think of him, actually. But your body remembered better than your mind ever could—the weight of his presence, the impossible richness of his energy, and the way it had filled you until you’d felt almost… whole.
Your fingers curled against the hem of Robin’s dress before you realized it. She noticed anyway.
“Still hurting?” the deaconess asked quietly, her voice tapering into something gentler.
“A little,” you lied.
She hummed, clearly not buying it and began again. The melody was a press of warm hands to your ribs, urging the ache to ease. And it did, marginally. But it didn’t do much about the hunger anymore.
The realization was a glass shard beneath your sternum.
You swallowed and opened your eyes, staring past the ceiling and back to the truth. You’d been running on borrowed grace and dwindling reserves for days. Robin’s singing soothed, steadied, and patched the cracks, but it didn’t really feed you. Not after you’d tasted something as potent as her brother.
You hated that it all circled back to him.
Your pride flared hot at the idea of slipping into his dreams uninvited again, of taking something you knew you shouldn’t. You hated that a part of you ached with the knowledge that you could, that it would be easy, and that Sunday had been suspiciously absent from the estate ever since that night.
Coward, you thought.
Though you weren’t sure who the word was meant for.
Robin shifted beneath you, adjusting her posture so you were more comfortable. “We’ll go out again tomorrow,” she said lightly, as though discussing the weather. “The orphanage near the cathedral asked if I’d bring extra hands. You did well yesterday.”
You snorted. “I handed out bread and smiled at children. Truly heroic.”
“You seemed to enjoy it though,” she countered. “That matters, even if you had to use some glamour.”
Right. Glamour.
Normally, it would’ve been effortless—an instinct, a simple rearranging of reality around your bones. But now, with your body gnawing after Sunday’s honey-sweet energy and getting nothing in return, even that small spell had become expensive. Keeping your true form hidden took constant attention, a low, relentless burn beneath your skin, like you were holding your breath for hours without ever being allowed to exhale.
“And we’re still in agreement,” Robin added gently, “no visits to the cathedral itself.”
“Good,” you mumbled immediately.
The thought alone made your skin prickle. Places like that were built with Harmony sharpened into something exclusionary, something that pressed in and rejected. It was one thing to visit that place in some holy man’s dream, it was another to step inside when you’re wide awake.
You weren’t keen on testing how much of yourself would survive prolonged exposure.
Robin’s song resumed, and you let yourself rest there, head heavy in her lap. You focused on the kindness in it. The intent. The proof she was trying to build, piece by careful piece—that the world didn’t have to be as cruel as it insisted on being.
You wanted to believe her.
But as the session drew on and your hunger continued to gnaw, you came to a conclusion you didn’t voice: Harmony could soothe demons.
It just couldn’t replace what you’d already tasted.
The orphanage didn’t really surprise you anymore.
Not the overcrowding or the peeling paint. Not the way the same patch of courtyard had to serve as playground, dining hall, and classroom depending on the hour. Laughter always sounded a little too loud here, as if the children had learned that silence invited thoughts no one wanted.
When you and Robin arrived, the gates were already open. Someone had wedged a piece of wood beneath the latch to keep it from sticking. The garden beds along the side were still intact, though you recognized at least three familiar seedlings that seemed to have been replanted because the smaller kids kept uprooting them like it was a game.
Golden Hour glittered only a district away, buzzing with indulgence and profit and people who spent in one night what this orphanage would need to breathe for a month. Yet this place remained cramped and neglected. A city that thrived off excess, you’d learned, often left behind lives no one wanted to keep.
Thus the orphanage stayed full.
Some of the children would get adopted eventually. You’d seen it happen the last time you were here and Robin had cried quietly afterward. The rest simply… stayed. They learned the corners, the rules, and how to make peace with the fact that this was where the world had decided to place them.
You understood that kind of belonging all too well.
Robin greeted the caretakers first, like she always did. Her halo was muted in the daylight, but her presence still pulled people toward her like moths to a flame. In turn, the staff greeted her with the same smiles that looked exhausted around the edges, while you stood half a step behind.
Your glamour remained firmly in place, as it always did on these trips. Human skin. Human silhouette. Keeping up the disguise still burned, but you’d gotten better at hiding that too.
Robin had made a habit of bringing you out more often on these charity visits lately. “Exposure,” she called it, as if repeated proximity to suffering could somehow turn you into something less haunted.
You didn’t mind the children. Sometimes you even liked them. They were honest in a way adults weren’t. Cruel sometimes, yes—but not calculated. There was something merciful about that. What bothered you in particular was how easily the Church could preach sanctity into existence and then abandon the aftermath to places like this.
The head of the entire place, a Halovian woman named Siobhan began explaining shortages and Robin listened attentively. She promised what she could: donations, supplies, another round of applications for funding. But you already knew how those would go.
You had heard Robin mention it during one of the quieter afternoons back at the estate—how certain measures were forbidden. How the Church refused to recognize any kind of prevention that might have spared people from bringing children into the world unwanted and unequipped to care for them. Because they insisted on one absolute truth: all life was sacred.
No one had the right to decide which lives were allowed to be lost.
So women gave birth whether they were ready or not. And when they couldn’t keep the child… they left them at the gates of the orphanage like offerings no one asked for.
It was almost funny, in a sick way. The Church deemed it a sin to prevent a life from being born, yet they had no issue condemning that same life to a crowded building and the constant knowledge that they had been unwanted.
Of course, you didn’t say any of that out loud.
You followed Robin into the courtyard where she immediately drew children like a tide. A few clung to her skirts. Others grabbed her hands. Some simply watched from afar as if afraid to hope too hard. Robin knelt, brushing hair from faces, and murmuring gentle praise like each child was something holy. All while you kept yourself still.
Your presence unsettled the caretakers less than it used to. Not because they trusted you. But because Robin trusted you, and in places like this, her trust was treated like currency.
While your own caretaker was occupied, you looked around.
There was a boy with a bruised cheek sat in the shade of a tree. A pair of girls braided each other’s hair with all the seriousness of an entrance exam. A toddler dragged a wooden toy across the dirt, humming tunelessly as if sound alone was enough to fill the cracks. Dozens of other children creating a cacophony of juvenile noise.
Too many kids. Too little space. This wasn’t an orphanage anymore.
It was a dam, straining under the weight of quiet consequences.
Robin eventually came to stand beside you.
“We’ll need to bring more rice next time,” she murmured. “And fresh linens. They’re running short.”
“‘Next time,’” you echoed blandly.
The deaconess glanced at you, eyes soft but tired. “I know. It’s quite frustrating isn’t it?”
Frustrating.
That was such a gentle word for something this cruel.
You knew Robin was fighting battles she couldn’t win. She was already trying to fix a system that kept batting her away like an irritant. Proposals to expand the orphanage were always dismissed. Requests for better family planning education for citizens turned down. Anything that addressed the problem at its root was deemed inappropriate, and too controversial.
So she did this instead.
She brought food and clothes, medicine and songs. Submerged herself into the grit of it. Threw herself into the symptoms because the Church wouldn’t let her touch the disease.
“It’s not enough,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.
Robin’s gaze lowered. “I know.”
The admission didn’t carry self-pity. Only resignation.
It made you angrier than denial ever would’ve.
“So the Church gets to keep their hands clean,” you began irritably. “They make the rules and say it was Xipe’s will or whatever. Then when children start showing up at these gates, they hand you a broom and tell you to sweep up after their righteousness.”
Robin closed her eyes briefly, as if the words pained her in a familiar place.
“Please,” she murmured. “Not here.”
You exhaled hard through your nose, biting back the rest.
Complex things made you uncomfortable, not because you didn’t understand complexity. But because complexity meant there was no one clear throat to sink your teeth into. No villain to claw. No hunter to outrun. Just systems, beliefs, and power. All sprawling and faceless and unbeatable.
You didn’t say anything more after that.
For the rest of the day, you stayed half in Robin’s orbit and half outside of it. Your mind kept circling back to your earlier conversation, teeth worrying at it like a sore spot. But you forced it down and turned your attention to the children instead. Robin always said they were far more perceptive than people gave them credit for.
But unexpectedly, someone stepped up to you.
A little girl stood with her hands folded behind her back. She was holding a peony she’d clearly plucked from the garden: something small and stubbornly bright against the grime on her fingers.
She hovered for a moment, cheeks pink with nerves, then held it out.
“For you.”
You blinked.
The kids usually gravitated toward Robin. They called her by name, tugged on her sleeves, begged for another song. You were just… the deaconess’s shadow. The quiet stranger who always kept a little distance. The one who smiled politely but never fully belonged.
You accepted the flower carefully, like you didn’t quite trust it.
“…Thank you,” you replied, unable to mask your frown. “Why did you give it to me?”
The girl tilted her head, studying you with a seriousness that didn’t belong on someone so small. Then she leaned in and whispered, as if sharing a secret meant only for you.
“Because I think your tail is cute, miss,” she giggled.
Your lips parted with mild surprise. Beside you, Robin went still.
The girl continued, sweet as daylight, “And your wings too.”
Before either of you could respond, she darted away, swallowed by the other children like nothing had happened at all. For a moment, you just stood there.
“…What?” you murmured under your breath.
Instinct made your gaze drop anyway. You checked yourself in the only way you could—smoothing down your clothes, glancing behind your back. You didn’t feel anything out of place.
Your glamour was still intact.
You turned sharply toward Robin. “Did she—did I—?”
Robin stared for a beat, equally stunned before letting out a soft, disbelieving chuckle.
“There are children who are gifted,” she murmured. “Not all. But some of them can see through spiritual illusions. No matter well you disguise yourself.”
You stared at her, then down at the peony still clutched in your hand.
Then you found yourself laughing with her, too.
“Great,” you muttered. “So I’m not only a charity case. I’m also spiritually clockable.”
Robin’s smile softened. “She wasn’t afraid of you. She even thought you were beautiful.”
“She said cute. Not beautiful.”
“They’re the same thing to me.”
You didn’t know what to do with that.
Instead, you tucked the flower somewhere safe in your clothes, close to your heart where it wouldn’t be crushed, and let your expression settle before anyone could look too closely at you.
But as you watched the children again, you felt something stir in your chest.
Penacony had decided none of them were convenient enough to keep. Yet here they were anyway. Alive, stubborn, unwanted but still reaching for light.
Just like you.
Robin glanced over once again, her eyes briefly flicking to the flower tucked close to your chest.
“You’re doing well,” she said quietly.
“At what? Standing here?”
“At staying,” Robin corrected gently, as if she wasn’t teasing. “At letting them see you.”
You scoffed under your breath. “They see what they want to see.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
You didn’t answer. Your gaze stayed on the children—running in loose circles, shrieking over some game you didn’t bother learning the rules of. Their joy was loud and messy and momentary. Like it was meant to be.
“I know this doesn’t serve you,” Robin admitted, and for once she sounded… almost self-conscious. “I know you don’t gain anything from coming with me. You’re not obligated.”
You turned your head slightly, finally looking at her. “You brought me anyway.”
“Yes.” She smiled, small and apologetic. “Maybe that was selfish.”
“Maybe,” you echoed dryly.
Robin laughed before adding, “But I’m glad you played along.”
“Played along?”
“With my… little journey,” she said, the words faintly embarrassed. “Trying to understand you. Trying to understand demons better.” Her gaze drifted toward the children again, thoughtful. “I don’t want to keep believing the Church is right simply because it’s all we were taught.”
Something in you went quiet.
It was a strange feeling, being spoken about like you were a concept someone was studying. A faith someone was testing. But when you looked at Robin, she wasn’t looking at you like an experiment. She was looking at you like someone she wanted to protect.
That was worse. Because that kind of sincerity always threatened to become expensive.
You would’ve made some dismissive comment, something sharp enough to keep the moment from settling between you—when a crack snapped through the air.
It took a beat for the sound to register as a gunshot.
Robin jerked beside you suddenly. Her eyes went wide and unfocused. Her fingers rose to her throat as if she’d been stung. You were still watching her face with a petrified look on your own when you saw the red spill between her fingers.
You inhaled sharply. “Robin—”
She tried to breathe in, failed, and made a wet sound that did not belong to her. The warmth drained from her expression as her knees buckled beneath her, and when she collapsed you moved on instinct, lunging forward just in time to catch her before her body hit the ground.
The moment her weight landed in your arms, reality dawned on you.
Blood soaked your hands immediately. It was bright and impossibly warm, slick against your skin, and it kept coming in a steady rush that made your stomach turn. Robin’s halo flickered, dimming erratically like a lantern fighting wind, and her lips parted as if she was trying to speak. No sound emerged. Her gaze lifted to yours, strained and swimming.
Then the rest of the courtyard caught up.
Screams tore through the space. Children scattered in every direction, some bursting into tears instantly, others frozen in place as if their minds could not decide whether to run. A caretaker shouted for everyone to get inside, voice splintering with panic. Another grabbed a child that had started to run toward Robin and yanked them back so hard the child stumbled.
“Inside! Inside, now!”
The staff surged forward, trying to herd a crowd that had already begun to dissolve into chaos. You heard the scrape of chairs, the slam of a door being thrown open, chaos plunging into a merry space.
But you barely registered any of it.
All you could see was Robin crumpled in your arms, bleeding out in the middle of a courtyard like the world had decided her kindness was something it could punish.
Your vision snapped upward, scanning the surrounding buildings. The orphanage was boxed in by high-rises, old and new stacked like monuments to Penacony’s prosperity, windows crowding every floor. There were too many angles. Too many possible vantage points. You could not see the shooter, could not even tell where the shot had come from.
Your instincts screamed a warning a fraction of a second before the next bullet arrived.
You reacted without thinking, dragging yourself and Robin sideways in one harsh motion. The impact struck the stone behind you with a sharp burst of debris, fragments skittering across the ground. Your heart lurched violently, your breath catching hard in your chest.
It was deliberate, then. Someone was taking aim at the orphanage. At Robin.
Cold clarity cut through your shock. You could not stay in the open.
You hauled the deaconess with you as fast as you could manage, half-carrying and half-dragging her toward the nearest wall where the angle of fire would narrow. Your body protested at the effort, but adrenaline shoved you forward anyway.
Pressing your back to the solid surface, you lowered her into your lap with shaking care. Her blood streaked your arms. Her throat was mangled by the entry wound, and the sight of it made your stomach twist again with helpless anger.
Robin was still conscious.
Barely.
Her lashes fluttered as her gaze tried to fix on you. Her mouth moved as though she was attempting to form words, but nothing coherent came out—only a strained, wet whisper of breath that bubbled against the wound.
“No,” you breathed, voice cracking harshly. “No, no. Don’t—don’t talk.”
You pulled her hand away from her throat, then replaced it with your own, pressing down firmly to stem the bleeding. The blood slicked between your fingers anyway, hot and relentless. Panic rose in your chest like bile. You had seen people injured before; you had left cities on the run often enough to witness violence. But this was Robin, and that fact made everything else meaningless.
You did not have time to think about what you were doing, you simply did it.
You pushed healing magic into her wound.
It was not the refined kind of restoration priests performed in the Church nor was it like Robin’s soothing songs. It was demonic in nature—raw and threaded through with your own essence, the sort of magic you had only ever trusted yourself with. Succubi were self-preserving by nature; you healed yourself because you had to, because no one else ever would. Using it on another person felt wrong in your body, like reaching into your own chest and ripping something out.
But the bleeding slowed beneath your palm.
It did not stop, but it was stemmed. Just to buy you time.
Robin’s eyes fluttered shut and then opened again, unfocused but stubbornly present. She made another sound as her fingers twitched against your wrist. Still trying to reassure you even now.
Your jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
You needed help. Not prayers, or comfort, or charity. A healer. A medical team. Someone with authority to clear the streets and trace the shooter and drag him out by the throat.
Your gaze snapped to the bag strapped across Robin’s shoulder. You fumbled for it with your free hand, fingers clumsy with blood and urgency. Her phone nearly slipped from your grasp the first time. You caught it against your thigh, hands shaking as you unlocked it.
Your mind went blank for a brief, horrible second.
Then you realized there was only one person you could call.
Someone who would come running even if he hated you, even if he thought you deserved to be put down, even if the sound of your voice made his skin crawl.
You found the contact and pressed call.
The ringing stretched too long, each second grinding into you like a dull blade. You kept pressure on Robin’s throat and fed your magic into the wound in short, trembling pulses, afraid that if you stopped even for a moment she would slip away.
Robin’s eyes drifted again. Her wings fluttered weakly, her halo flickered.
“Stay with me,” you muttered desperately. “Robin—stay with me.”
The line clicked.
A voice answered, sharp with immediate attention. “Hello?”
Your throat tightened until your next breath scraped.
“Sunday,” you whispered shakily.
“You…? Why do you—?”
“It’s Robin.”
You looked down at the deaconess’s throat, at the blood soaking your hands, and the way her fingers trembled faintly against your wrist as if she could still feel you there.
“She’s…” you croaked. “She’s been shot.”
Sunday had loved his sister before he had ever learned the word for love.
They had shared the same womb, the same first cries, the same hands grasping blindly at the world. As children, they had shared everything without thinking to call it sacrifice. When one of them smiled, the other did the same. When one of them faltered, the other steadied.
In his earliest memories, Robin was always there.
And then, one day, their parents were not.
Sunday could not recall the exact moment their world split open—only the aftermath of it. The way grief rearranged the manor’s air into something hollow. How the adults began speaking in gentler voices, as though softness could make tragedy less real.
It was High Reverend Gopher Wood who gathered the pieces.
He did not do it with dramatics. He simply stepped into the vacancy left behind by their parents and became something stable. A pillar. A shepherd. Sunday remembered him as an unwavering presence in those first years—calm hands, reassuring words, eyes that seemed to hold nothing but certainty.
He had been grateful.
They both had.
Halovians were precious. That was what they were told, again and again, until it became bone-deep truth. They were not merely children. They were destined to become the Church’s bright faces—Harmony’s living proof that faith could take flesh.
It never occurred to Sunday to question any of it.
He simply grew into the role like it was second skin.
Robin did too, though her kindness had always been something she carried naturally, not something cultivated. Where Sunday learned discipline, she learned tenderness. Where he learned structure, she learned mercy. Yet somewhere along the way their lives stopped belonging to them at all.
It might have broken lesser bonds, but it only strengthened theirs.
Sunday learned early that if he had one duty that mattered above all else, it was Robin. The Church could demand his devotion, and he would give it. The world could kneel before him, and he would accept it. But Robin was not an obligation.
She was his twin. His mirror. His reason.
He would have done anything to protect her.
So when the Church finally turned its gaze upon him with disapproval, when the stain of excommunication fell onto his name like an unholy brand, Sunday took it lying down, not because he believed he deserved it.
But because he would not allow his ruin to touch her.
If he fought, it would become a spectacle. If he begged, it would become proof that the Church had been right to strip him of his titles. Any struggle would give them reason to speak Robin’s name in the same breath as his disgrace.
So he stepped away.
He abandoned the life they had shared. He left the cathedral, the sermons, the halls of the estate that had once been their home. He did it cleanly. Like an amputation performed without anesthesia. Robin had wept when he told her. Sunday did not.
This was what his love looked like: swallowing pain so she would not have to.
But then, one week ago, you called him.
Sunday could still hear your voice if he thought hard enough.
The way it had sounded strangled—not from seduction or mockery, nor from the usual insolence that curled around your tongue whenever you spoke to him, but from something stripped raw. Something terrified and urgent enough to make his blood run cold before you even said her name.
Sunday… It’s Robin. She’s been shot.
There were some sentences a person was never meant to hear.
That one had felt like the sky splitting open.
But that had been a week ago.
Now, Sunday sat at his sister’s bedside in the soft hush of evening, the room’s thick curtains pulled halfway to keep the light from glaring against her eyes. A tray sat nearby—half-finished broth, a glass of water she couldn’t properly drink without help. The trusted family physician had come and gone with instructions that the servants followed like religiously since the incident.
Robin had been stabilized. That was the word everyone used. Stabilized, as if it meant the danger had passed. Sunday had not left her side since.
Even after his excommunication, even after he had sworn to keep distance so her reputation could remain unsullied, he stayed. He slept in the manor again. He oversaw matters in the estate when Robin could not. He spoke to staff and guards and medical personnel with the same cold authority he used on demons in back alleys.
As usual, the servants welcomed him like he had never left.
They addressed him with the same respectful cadence as always. Some of them even smiled as if his presence meant the manor had returned to its proper shape.
But not everyone had been pleased.
When word of the attempt on Robin’s life reached High Reverend Gopher Wood, the man paid a due visit as expected. He had checked on Robin personally. Stood at the foot of her bed and looked down at her with something like paternal concern.
Then his gaze had shifted to Sunday.
It had been a quiet moment, but Sunday had felt the blade in it.
It was not simply displeasure. It was disgust sharpened by disappointment. Excommunication had already declared Sunday a stain, and demon hunting had only made him worse in the High Reverend’s eyes—a faction Gopher Wood had always been inexplicably biased against, despite how dutifully they eradicated creatures the Church called abominations.
Gopher Wood had said little out loud. He rarely needed to. Robin—still unable to speak—had reached out with trembling fingers and touched Sunday’s hand once, wordlessly insisting it was fine.
So the High Reverend had allowed it.
But he made sure Sunday understood: his permission was not welcome. It was concession.
Since then, Gopher Wood visited periodically, each time with the same suffocating air of ownership over the space, the same spiritual pressure that seemed to settle into the manor like incense.
And each time, Sunday made sure you were nowhere in sight.
It had become a ritual of its own—one with higher stakes than any extermination job.
You were a demon. A creature the Church would have condemned without hesitation, and worse still, you were a secret sheltered beneath the Oak estate’s roof. It was tricky enough to hide your existence and Robin’s quiet little scheme of mercy.
But hiding you from Gopher Wood was a different matter entirely.
The High Reverend was Halovian too. Which meant he was spiritually attuned in ways others were not. He noticed too much. Felt too much. He could sense discord like rot beneath perfume.
So Sunday erased you.
Not literally, though there were days he wished it were that simple. He cleansed traces of your presence, of the faint residue you left when you existed too fully in a space. He made the servants escort you elsewhere before Gopher Wood arrived, moving you through back corridors and guest rooms like contraband.
It was humiliating, dangerous, and strangely exhausting.
Sunday did not know why he did it.
Robin was in no state to argue your case now. She could not speak, could barely swallow without pain, or raise her voice in her usual unshakable defense. If Sunday wanted you gone, he could have ordered to have you thrown out. Banished from the manor, and sent back into Penacony’s outskirts where demons belonged.
Yet when the High Reverend’s visits ended altogether, you remained.
It was in the evenings, after Sunday helped Robin with her dinner, that you would show up.
You never announced yourself. You simply slipped into the room with that strange restraint you had cultivated here—no theatrical seduction, no smug grin meant to needle him. Instead, you sat beside Robin for a few minutes and talked to her as if nothing had changed.
Mostly about mundane things: what the weather was like, which servants had bickered over deliveries, what the children at the orphanage had done that day. Sometimes you complained. Sometimes you made dry little jokes that Robin could only respond to with her eyes and the faintest curve of her mouth. Each time you visited, you took Robin’s hands in yours.
He did not think about it much at first. That was what he told himself, anyway.
But the manor was quiet at night. Robin’s injury had temporarily taken her voice from her, and silence had a way of making certain truths louder than they deserved to be.
And lately, Sunday had begun to notice patterns.
The way you always sat on the same side of the bed, as if you were subconsciously placing yourself between Robin and the window. The fact that your glamour remained flawlessly intact even when you looked tired, as if you refused to give the household even a sliver of your true shape. How your fingers would tighten around Robin’s for just a moment whenever she winced, like you were trying to will pain out of her through sheer stubbornness.
Every time you left the room, his sister always seemed to feel better.
It was subtle at first, easy to dismiss as coincidence, as the natural rhythm of recovery. Robin would blink slower, the tightness in her brow easing. Her hands would stop trembling so much beneath the blankets. She would sleep longer and deeper, like something inside her had finally been soothed enough to loosen its grip.
But he did not pore much on these details.
Time passed in strange pockets at the manor. Daylight drifted in and out behind curtains. Visitors came and left. The High Reverend’s presence had receded, though not entirely; the estate still felt as if one wrong move could invite the Church’s displeasure back in.
Sunday remained at Robin’s bedside anyway.
He watched her swallow her food with difficulty. Watched her rest. Watched the slight rise and fall of her chest like it was a rhythm he was afraid would stop.
Then, one evening, the impossible happened.
Robin stirred as he adjusted her pillows, her lashes fluttering open with unusual lucidity. Her throat was still wrapped in bandages, her voice still meant to be absent for weeks—at least a month, the physician had insisted. The injury had been severe. The healing would be slow. Her body needed time to relearn its own functions.
Yet her gaze fixed on Sunday’s face with rare steadiness.
When she spoke, the sound was thin and hoarse, as if each syllable scraped its way into existence—
“Bro…ther.”
He froze.
For a moment, his mind refused to accept it. It felt too miraculous and abrupt, too much like the world trying to tempt him with relief. His hand stilled on the blanket. His breath caught.
“Robin?” he said quietly. “Don’t strain yourself.”
Her lips curved, faint and stubborn.
“You… stayed.”
Something warm cut through Sunday’s chest.
“Yes,” he answered, because there was no point lying to her. “Of course I did.”
Robin blinked with heavy eyelids. She lifted her hand with effort, fingers finding his wrist beneath the sleeve of his coat. The touch was weak, but steady.
Then she whispered again, each word taking visible work.
“She… helped.”
Sunday’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
He knew who she meant. There was no one else Robin would speak of this way, not with this particular glint of quiet insistence.
He sighed. “You should rest some more.”
But Robin held his wrist a second longer, as if anchoring the truth to him.
“She… helped,” she repeated.
Sunday stayed motionless as her hand slipped away again. He watched her eyes drift shut, watched sleep claim her with a gentleness that felt undeserved.
Then he sat back in the chair at her bedside, staring at nothing.
Miracles did not happen without cost, and demons never gave without taking. So why, then, did Robin’s voice return too soon? Why did her recovery move with unnatural speed? Sunday did not want to know the answer.
But time had taught him that ignorance was a luxury only others could afford.
That day, he’d waited until nightfall.
It was always the same routine. You would slip in like a shadow that had learned manners. You would sit by Robin’s bed like you belonged there. You would offer aimless commentary about the day as if normalcy could be restored through repetition alone.
Sunday usually watched without interrupting.
But tonight, Robin was already fast asleep, and he stood the moment you entered.
You paused at the doorway, taking in his posture and the quiet steel in the air. Something flickered through your eyes—wariness, then annoyance.
“Until when will you keep up this stupid ‘haunt the bedside like a gargoyle’ routine?” you murmured. “Or are you actually here to talk to me for once?”
He did not indulge the jab.
“Robin managed to speak today.”
Your eyes widened.
“…She did?” you asked, and something unguarded slipped into your voice. Relief, genuine and bright. It did not suit you. It made you look too human for his liking.
Sunday watched your face carefully.
Then he said, “She said you helped.”
The relief in you faltered into stillness, and the silence that followed was not empty. It was weighted with confession. Slowly, you exhaled a shuddering breath.
“Ah,” you chuckled. “So she could tell all along...”
Sunday stepped closer. “How?”
You held his gaze, and for a moment you looked ready to lie. It would’ve been easy. Even expected. Succubi thrived on manipulation the way other creatures thrived on air.
But you didn’t.
Your shoulders sagged slightly—an admission before words.
“I’ve been healing her,” you said simply. “Here and there. A little at a time.”
“That is not your role.”
You scoffed. “Trust me. I’m aware.”
He took another step, forcing the space between you to shrink into something confrontational.
“How long?”
You hesitated.
Sunday’s voice sharpened. “How long?”
You rolled your eyes like you were bored, like you weren’t about to hand him the blade to use against you. “A week,” you muttered. “More or less.”
Sunday’s mind churned, cold calculation laced with disbelief. “And the physician said she would not speak for a month.”
Your silence was answer enough.
His hands curled at his sides and he looked at you properly then—not as a nuisance, not as a demon tolerated for Robin’s sake, but as a creature who had done something impossible and reckless and—
His golden-eyed gaze narrowed.
“You’ve been draining yourself.”
You shrugged with false ease. “That’s what healing others costs.”
“Don’t play stupid,” Sunday snapped. The edge in his voice startled even him. “You don’t have the reserves for that. Not without feeding.”
Something almost sheepish crossed your face, then vanished under bravado.
“…I’ve managed.”
Sunday’s eyes raked over you with sudden, sharper perception. You looked fine at first glance. Your glamour was intact. Your posture was steady. Your expression carried its usual flair.
But there were cracks.
Your skin looked a shade paler than it had any right to be. Your eyes were too bright in a way that suggested sleeplessness rather than vitality. Even your movements were slightly too controlled, like you were rationing energy down to the smallest gesture. The realization hit him with cold clarity.
Sunday’s jaw clenched. “When was the last time you fed?”
Your lips parted, then closed again, unable to utter a response.
His voice dropped, dangerously quiet. “You haven’t. Since you trespassed my dreams.”
“I can’t exactly go hunting in Robin’s backyard like a stray cat.”
“There are other ways.”
You barked out a laugh. “Sure. Let me just flirt with the servants. Drain them quietly. I’m sure that’ll go over well.”
Sunday stared at you, disgust warring with something he refused to name. “Then why are you still doing it?”
Your gaze flickered toward Robin’s sleeping form.
“Because it’s Robin.”
Sunday’s patience thinned. “That’s not an answer.”
“Yes it is,” you argued, and suddenly the softness snapped into something bright and furious. “You know it is. It’s the only answer that matters.”
You stepped forward too, no longer retreating from him.
“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” you demanded, voice trembling at the edges. “You think I don’t know what happens to a demon when they burn too long without replenishing? I know. I’ve lived my entire life knowing exactly what it takes to survive.”
Sunday didn’t speak. You did not stop.
“I’m a succubus,” you spat, like the word tasted rotten. “A selfish parasite. A walking sin.”
Your breath hitched.
Then you said, quieter, like the truth hurt more when it wasn’t shouted—
“But I went against all of it anyway.”
Sunday’s mouth trembled, unsure of what to say.
“Why?”
“Because your sister saw me,” you told him with little hesitation. “Robin looked at me and didn’t see a monster. To her, I wasn’t some mistake that needed to be corrected. She still wanted to understand me even when it was a fool’s errand. Even when it made her brother hate her for it.”
He flinched at the implication.
“She was the only one who made me feel like I was worth more than what I was born to be,” you continued. “So yes—when she was bleeding out, I helped. And yes—I kept helping. Even when it hurt. Even when it drained me. Because she would’ve done the same for me without thinking twice.”
Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, gaze burning.
“So don’t stand there and talk to me like I’m reckless and stupid,” you snapped. “I made a choice.”
Sunday’s voice came low and sharp. “You’re going to kill yourself.”
You stared at him like he’d insulted you.
“Maybe,” you hissed. “But at least she’ll live.”
The words landed like a slap.
He had exorcised demons before—dozens, if not hundreds. He had faced succubi who smiled as they fed, who moaned prayers to no god as they drowned men in lust and called it nature. He had seen incubi tear lives apart with indulgent cruelty. He had never once hesitated to name them evil.
But you…
You stood in his sister’s room with fire in your eyes, having chosen to starve yourself for a human who had offered you kindness. You looked nothing like the demons he had been taught to hate. It made something in his chest twist unpleasantly, like old doctrines grinding against reality.
Sunday stared at you for a long moment.
“You’ve been burning yourself to ash all this time… to speed up Robin’s healing.”
Your expression flickered—caught between pride and shame.
“…Yes,” you admitted.
He exhaled, long and controlled, as if forcing himself not to say what he wanted to say.
When he stepped closer, you braced for it, as if expecting him to pull out his tome and exorcise you right there, where his sister lay asleep a few feet away.
But Sunday did not. He simply looked at you before saying:
“You’re a fool.”
You glared at him. “Thank you.”
Then, after a beat, he followed up something you clearly hadn’t expected.
“I can give you energy.”
He might as well have told you he no longer believed in Xipe.
“What?” you demanded. “What are you talking about?”
Sunday’s expression hardened. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“You—” You blinked, then laughed in disbelief. “You’re offering yourself like a snack now? That’s rich.”
Sunday did not laugh. His gaze stayed fixed on you with that same merciless calm he used when cornering a demon. Only now it was aimed at you in a different way—like he was trying to pin you down so you wouldn’t collapse.
“I’m offering you enough to keep you functional,” he said flatly. “So you can continue healing her without dying in the process.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Why?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Because the truth was humiliating, and had nothing to do with demons and everything to do with Robin. And because another smaller truth existed beneath even that—a truth he would rather take with him to the grave.
Sunday had seen what you looked like when you cared about someone.
You were dangerous, yes. But right now you were also… trying. And he didn’t know what to do with that. So he gave you the only answer he could stand behind.
“Because you’re not allowed to die in her room,” he remarked coldly. “Not after everything.”
Your mouth parted, then closed.
A beat passed.
Then you muttered, “You’re insane.”
“Perhaps,” Sunday replied. “But I’m not wrong.”
You stared at him like you were seeing him for the first time.
Then your gaze flicked toward Robin.
When you spoke again, your voice was strained, honest in a way you rarely allowed.
“…If you do this, you can’t regret it later,” you mumbled. “You can’t hold it over her head. Or over mine.”
“I don’t do anything frivolously. Least of all this.”
You swallowed. The room felt smaller now. Too intimate and full of things neither of you knew how to name. Still, Sunday held your gaze, unwavering.
“If you’re going to keep doing this,” he began, “then you’ll do it properly. With enough strength to survive the cost.”
Your hesitation proved strong—pride still twitching, stubbornness still refusing to bow. But the tremor in your hands betrayed you. Your exhaustion was real, and Robin needed you functional more than you needed your dignity intact.
So, finally, you nodded your head.
“…Fine,” you murmured.
Sunday’s gaze sharpened. “Fine?”
You rolled your eyes, but your voice cracked anyway. “Yes. Fine. Whatever. I accept your ridiculous holy donation.”
He didn’t dignify it with a response. He just stepped closer, as if bracing himself for a blasphemy he’d chosen willingly. And for the first time since his excommunication, he realized something with grim clarity:
He would do anything to protect Robin.
Even if it meant feeding a demon with his own light.
Ever since he had carved out this new life from the ashes of his old one, Sunday had never once let anyone cross the threshold of his apartment.
It was not paranoia so much as preservation. His solitude was one of the only things he could still claim as fully his. The Church no longer watched him. He could remove his gloves, unfasten his coat, and become no one in particular. It had been healing, in its own austere way.
He had planned to keep it that way indefinitely.
But then you arrived in Penacony and uprooted everything he had been taught to call true.
Now, as he walked you through the business district, far enough from Golden Hour’s indulgent chaos, and the Church of Xipe’s oppressive radiance, Sunday found himself escorting a demon into the only place he still considered neutral ground.
He refused to look at you as he unlocked the door.
You stood behind him with your posture oddly stiff—probably because you could feel the wards humming faintly through the walls. Sunday stepped in first as he murmured a quick chant to dispel the protective spells. Then beckoned you inside when he noticed your shoulders relaxing.
The door clicked shut.
For a moment, neither of you moved from the entryway.
His apartment was a studio—modest but immaculate. A small kitchenette. A narrow bed he always made every morning he woke up in it. A writing desk near the window with papers stacked into neat piles. There were no decorations that served no purpose.
There was only ever order, just as he liked it.
But now you were standing in the middle of it like a stain he had invited.
Your gaze skimmed the room with restrained interest before landing on him.
“Well,” you remarked. “This is… bleak.”
Sunday’s jaw flexed. “Sit down.”
You made a face at him before moving toward the couch with a wary grace, like a cat deciding whether a new surface was safe. You didn’t sit immediately. You hovered around, eyes tracking the edges of the room again.
Though he had deactivated them for your sake, the warding sigils were still very much present—woven into the walls, into the window frames, into the very air. Sunday had not needed to strengthen them in months. No one came here. No one tried.
Until now.
You exhaled softly, then lowered yourself onto the couch. Sunday remained standing.
He felt suddenly too aware of how his space had shrunk—not in size, but in privacy. His home had never contained another person’s scent or presence. What’s worse was the fact that you were not merely another person.
You were a succubus.
A succubus that looked small on his couch. Not in stature, but in the way you held your shoulders tight, as if exhaustion had become an uncomfortable garment you could not take off. Even with your true form slowly unspooling into reality, you were clearly not at ease.
He forced himself to speak before his thoughts could slip further.
“This is for Robin’s sake,” he reminded. “Nothing else.”
You scoffed. “Trust me. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t be here either.”
Sunday stared at you for a long beat before moving toward the desk. He removed his gloves one at a time before setting them down. Another sacrilege. Another piece of himself exposed.
He turned back to you. “Explain how you do it.”
You blinked. “Explain what?”
“How you replenish your energy,” Sunday shot back, irritation sharpening his tone.
Your eyes narrowed.
But after a short while, you mumbled, “I absorb sexual energy.”
The words sat in his apartment like a profanity.
You went on anyway, your expression tight with annoyance he was not sure was aimed at him or yourself. “It doesn’t matter if I’m giving or receiving,” you said. “It doesn’t matter if it’s… tender or ugly. It doesn’t even have to be physical, technically. But it has to be that kind of energy.”
Sunday’s throat worked. “…So you replenish yourself through sexual acts.”
“Wasn’t that the first thing they taught you about sex demons at Church?” you scoffed, though your gaze slid away as if the words tasted bitter. “That’s clearly what I did in your dream, remember?”
A faint grimace crossed his face. He did not appreciate being reminded of the cathedral, the altar, and your mouth.
“…Then we should simply do it in a dream again,” he said after a beat.
You stared at him incredulously.
“Now you think of that?” you snapped. “Right, because dreamwalking is free, and not the most exhausting thing I can do when I’m already bleeding myself dry for your sister.”
Sunday narrowed his eyes.
“And besides,” you added, tone edged with irritation, “you already dragged me out of my comfortable little bird cage at the estate. If we’re here, if you’re committed to this—then don’t make me start over from nothing.”
“I do not appreciate how difficult you’re being about this arrangement.” The Halovian closed his eyes and sighed. “I am simply trying to understand the functions of a succubus so you don’t die.”
“Congratulations,” you muttered. “That’s the least romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“I’m not trying to be romantic.”
“Good.” Your smile turned sharp. Defensive. “Because you’re terrible at it.”
He ignored the challenge and took a slow breath, forcing his mind to stay in put.
“You said it doesn’t have to be physical,” he said. “Then why—”
“Because it’s not enough,” you cut in immediately, eyes flashing. “Not when I’ve been spending everything I have patching her back together.”
Sunday’s gaze narrowed. “So you want it to be physical.”
Your lips parted.
A very particular silence fell between you then.
Because you didn’t look triumphant. You didn’t look like you were about to purr and coil your tail around his wrist and make a game of it. You looked irritated, embarrassed, almost… shy. As if having to admit what your body needed felt worse than the hunger itself.
“Don’t say it like that,” you muttered. “Like I’m… I’m asking for it.”
Sunday stared at you. You glared back.
When neither of you spoke for a beat too long, Sunday exhaled through his nose, sharp with restraint. “Don’t waste any more time. Just tell me what you need so we can get started.”
You shifted on the couch, shoulders tight.
“Just…,” you started, then stopped, as if the words refused to cooperate. “It’s just… hard, okay?”
Hard.
The word hit him strangely in its honesty. A trait he never would have associated with demons. But you did have a knack for subverting his expectations.
“I don’t… do this,” you admitted through clenched teeth. “Not like this.”
His honeyed gaze stayed fixed on your face. “Not like what?”
“I’ve never fed on the same person twice. Ever.” You looked away, the words coming out clipped as they spilled out. “I hate feeding. I hate what it turns me into. If I could help it, I’d never put my hands on a human like that again.”
Your fingers curled at your side.
“But I’m starving, Sunday,” you admitted without flourish. “And if we want Robin to heal quickly, then I need enough strength to keep doing it.”
For a brief moment, Sunday’s mind went dangerously blank.
He understood enough to know what line he was approaching, and how easily it could become a violation of something he still believed in. He also understood now that you too were bending rules you’ve previously set for yourself—another odd display of restraint.
“Then we’ll just have to manage.”
Your head snapped toward him. “What?”
“We’ll manage,” Sunday repeated, “with you guiding it. You’re the expert in this. I’m not.”
The admission tasted foul in his mouth. Not because it was untrue, but because it stripped him of authority in his own domain. On the other hand, you stared at him like you couldn’t decide whether to scoff or blush.
“…Gods, you’re so going to regret this.”
“I don’t regret what I choose to do willingly,” Sunday argued. “Neither should you.”
Not rising up to the bait, you rose slowly from the couch, as if your body had suddenly remembered it was capable of action. You moved toward him with careful steps, stopping just short of the space where intimacy began. Up close, Sunday could see how exhausted you were.
You lifted your weary gaze to his. “Are you sure?”
The hesitation in your voice irked him more than it should have.
“…You don’t get to do this.”
“Do what exactly?”
“Pretend you care about consent,” he scoffed. “Not after that dream.”
You grimaced. “Might I remind you that this was your idea?”
“I am well aware.”
“And I’m asking again: are you sure?”
Sunday didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped as he willed himself to think this through properly now that you were giving him some grace. For a moment he really felt like walking you right back out the door and pretend none of this had happened.
But… the answer came to him easily anyway.
“Yes.”
You exhaled, as if that single word steadied something in you.
“Okay,” you affirmed. “Follow my lead. And don’t… don’t make it weird.”
You reached for him—not his neck, not his wings, not anywhere provocative. You took his hand first, fingers curling around his like an anchor rather than an invitation.
Sunday let himself be led, every step feeling like blasphemy incarnate and yet, he went.
The bed sat against the far wall like a boundary he’d never intended to share with anyone else. He lowered himself onto its edge. You climbed onto the mattress after him, not bold enough to perform, not fragile enough to flee—just caught in the middle, like this was a job you hated but refused to fail.
Up close, he felt it: your warmth, your breath, and the faint tremor in your hands when you reached for him. His wings twitched at the nape of his neck in response, feathers lifting involuntarily at the change in air. The sensation crawled sharp over his skin, too sensitive, too revealing.
If you had noticed, you said nothing of the fact.
“Have you…” you asked, voice rougher than you meant it to be, “…ever done something like this before? In real life.”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” he grumbled. “Did you ever ask your past targets if they’re virgins before feeding on them?”
“I’m trying to be considerate here, asshole.”
The word hit like an insult. Sunday saw it then: how easily you read the hesitation he hadn’t meant to show. His jaw tightened in reflexive disgust. You didn’t get to pity him, and you certainly didn’t get to pretend you meant it; succubi didn’t feel bad, they played at it.
Sunday’s mouth tightened, but he couldn’t answer—not without admitting too much. Instead he lifted his hands as if to place them somewhere, then stopped halfway, arrested by his own hesitation.
You exhaled, clearly annoyed by the ridiculousness of it all before softening with reluctant patience. Your hands came over his—guiding his palms against the curve of your clothed breasts in a quiet request for him to stop thinking and start moving.
Sunday looked at the ceiling, as if praying for deliverance.
“Don’t make it weird,” you repeated, as if you weren’t the one who initiated the contact.
His voice came out hoarse with restraint. “I’m not.”
You rolled your eyes before squeezing with enough pressure that he could feel the plush give of your tits beneath his fingers. Sunday’s wings trembled at the nape of his neck, betraying him even as his expression stayed carved from stone.
As you leaned in, he realized with awful clarity that this was not like the dream at all.
In his dreams, Sunday was a god before an altar.
But in waking life, he was simply a man in his own apartment, hands trembling just slightly as he tried to offer something sacred without turning it into sin.
At that moment, you were sure you were damned for all eternity.
You had expected many things from Sunday, but not the way his hands hovered an inch above your body like he was afraid the mere act of touching you would brand him forever. Not the faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his fingers when you had guided them to your breasts and made him squeeze. Or even the way his breath caught when you pressed down so he could feel the weight of you in his palms.
You had expected cold disdain, maybe even clinical detachment. Instead you got a man who looked like he was translating every sensation into a language he’d never been allowed to learn.
“Like that,” you murmured, trying not to let the heat of his fingers on your chest get to your head. “That’s how you…start off, so to speak.”
Sunday’s ears were burning. You could see the flush climbing the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the high collar of his shirt. His wings—those delicate, stupidly beautiful little feathers at the nape—kept fluttering in tiny, mortified spasms every time you spoke.
You almost felt bad for him.
Almost.
“How long is this supposed to take?” he grumbled. “You’re dragging this too much. It would benefit us both if we pick up the pace. I can’t possibly be fondling your… breasts all evening.”
You stared at him, incredulous.
The nerve of this man.
“Dragging it?” you repeated. “You’re the one who brought me here because you couldn’t stand the thought of me ‘dying in Robin’s room.’ And now you’re complaining about the pace?”
His mouth opened—probably to deliver another clipped, superior retort—but you didn’t give him the chance. You snatched his right hand off your breast, ignoring the way his fingers twitched in protest, and guided it firmly downward. Without hesitation, you pressed his palm between your thighs, cupping it directly over the heat of your clothed cunt.
Sunday went rigid.
“This,” you said, voice sharp enough to cut, “is the end goal if you want a thorough replenishing. We can’t get there properly if you don’t get me wet enough first. My tits are just one of many ways to get the job done—so if you’d stop complaining for a moment and let me show you more, we can actually get a move on.”
Sunday’s golden eyes widened fractionally as understanding finally crashed over him like cold water. His fingers flexed once against you before he yanked his hand back as though burned. He cleared his throat. Then, with all the dignity of a man trying to salvage the last shred of his composure, he let out a strangled huff.
“Do whatever you have to,” he muttered, looking anywhere but at you. “Just… get on with it.”
You nearly snorted in his face but the heat starting to throb between your legs and the thick, golden promise of his energy already leaking into your palm made it impossible to be smug.
You leaned in, slow enough that Sunday could have stopped you if he really wanted to.
But he didn’t.
Your lips brushed the column of his throat, just beneath the sharp line of his jaw. A barely-there kiss at first, then the flat of your tongue, tasting salt and the faint trace of incense that always clung to him. The reaction was instantaneous: a full-body jerk, like you’d shocked him with a live wire. His hands flew to your waist on pure reflex, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise—caught between shoving you off and dragging you closer.
You didn’t stop. You kissed down the side of his neck, letting your teeth graze just enough to make him shudder. Each press of your mouth drew more of that gorgeous, golden energy into you—warm honey, thick and sweet and so rich it made your head spin. It slid down your throat like liquid sunlight, pooling low in your belly, easing the ache that had lived under your ribs for weeks.
When you finally pulled back, your voice came out breathy, almost drunk.
“Did you get that?” you murmured, lips still tingling. “Now you do it to me.”
Sunday stared at you like you’d asked him to recite heresy in the middle of mass.
For a long, agonizing second you thought he might actually bolt. Then he closed his eyes, exhaled through his nose like a man stepping off a cliff, and surged forward.
His mouth found the curve where your neck met your shoulder with startling accuracy. The first kiss was tentative. The second was firmer. By the third, he was sucking at your skin with the same single-minded focus he applied to everything else, and you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek, swallowing the soft, needy sound that tried to claw its way out of your throat.
His hands moved without permission now—one sliding up to palm your breast again, thumb brushing over your nipple through fabric, the other gripping your waist like he was anchoring himself to the earth. His hips rolled once, slow and involuntary, grinding against the mattress as if his body had finally decided to betray him completely.
You were drowning in it.
Warm honey poured over fresh-baked brioche—golden, buttery, so sweet it felt like sin and salvation all at once. It flooded every empty place inside you, thick and addictive, making your thighs clench and your tail curl tight around his calf without thinking.
You hadn’t even taken your clothes off yet.
And already you were soaked, trembling, utterly ruined by the mouth of a man who had probably never kissed anyone before tonight. Sunday pulled back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, eyes glassy. His voice came out rough—almost broken.
“…Will that suffice?”
To his credit, that earned him a shaky laugh.
“No,” you whispered, fingers already curling under the hem of your top. You tugged it over your head in one smooth motion, letting the fabric fall forgotten to the floor.
“You should give me some more.”
The moment your bra came into view, Sunday’s flush deepened to something almost violent. The black lace pushed your breasts together, creating a soft, inviting valley of cleavage that seemed to mock his composure.
You couldn’t resist the jab.
“If you want more,” you murmured, voice husky despite your best efforts to keep it mocking, “you’ll have to take it off yourself.”
You had expected him to fumble. You half-hoped for it, even: some small, human imperfection you could hold over his head later, a quiet reminder that even Sunday, with all his poise and precision, can be undone by something as mundane as a bra clasp.
What you got instead was this blasted demon hunter leaning forward with the same calm he donned the night you met him in Golden Hour. His hands moved behind your back without hesitation, and the clasp gave way on the first try. The bra loosened, straps slipping down your shoulders, and before you could process the betrayal of his competence, he slid off the garment completely.
Your breasts spilled free into the cool air of the apartment. Nipples tightened instantly under his molten-gold stare—hard, aching peaks that felt far too exposed.
Heat flooded your face. You opened your mouth to say something to reclaim control—
But Sunday was already moving.
One arm wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
He latched onto one breast with devastating focus—lips closing around the nipple, tongue swirling once, twice, before he sucked. Hard. The wet heat of his mouth sent a bolt of pleasure straight to your core. Your back arched involuntarily, a choked gasp escaping before you could swallow it down.
You hated him for it.
He switched to the other breast without warning, giving it the same meticulous attention. His teeth grazed just enough to sting, then soothed with slow kitten licks. His free hand cupped the neglected one, thumb rolling over the nipple in maddening circles.
Every pull of his mouth dragged more of that golden energy into you, turning your limbs heavy and your thoughts molten. Pride be damned, your body didn’t care. Your thighs clenched together uselessly, slick heat soaking through your underwear. A tremor ran through you as shame and arousal twisted together until they were indistinguishable.
Sunday pulled back just far enough to speak, breath hot against your wet skin.
“From how you’re writhing, I take it we can move on?”
Mortification burned through you when his hand drifted downward again, fingers finding the soaked crotch of your shorts. You throbbed beneath the thin fabric and there was no way he didn’t feel it.
His eyes lifted to meet yours, hypnotic and unblinking.
“This is the end goal, is it not?” he murmured, the words edged with something that could almost pass for satisfaction. “To prepare you sufficiently.”
You wanted to die.
Before you could think better of it, you shifted your gaze, lashes fluttering down as though staring at something else might make this less real.
“...Take it off then.”
Sunday’s brows lifted fractionally. The barest hint of a smile ghosted the corner of his mouth—gone before you could be sure it was ever there.
“I believe that you are laboring under a slight misapprehension,” he said slowly, each word measured and maddeningly eloquent, “You do not give the orders here.”
And yet his fingers were already moving.
Sunday undid the button holding your shorts together before the rasp of your zipper followed. His fingers hooked beneath the waistband, the fabric peeling away easily. Sliding down your thighs, over your knees, until he drew them off completely and let them fall to the floor. Cool air kissed your soaked underwear as the black lace clung to your folds and outlined every swollen inch.
His gaze dropped, lingering on the ruined garment in a way that made your skin crawl and your cunt clench at the same time. Then, without warning, he traced the seam with two fingers, following the wet line from your entrance to your clit.
Your hips bucked hard. A sharp, involuntary jolt that made his mouth twitch again. You glared at him through the haze of humiliation and want, but he only inclined his head with a serene look.
To your surprise, however, Sunday suddenly shifted, propping himself up with his palms flat against the mattress. He was close enough that you could still feel the heat of his body, but far enough that he could see everything.
You realized then that the position you were in was obscene. Nearly naked on his pristine sheets, breasts still flushed and swollen from his earlier attention, legs parted just enough that the soaked lace between them was on full display. Your black wings folded tight against your back in a reflexive, almost childlike attempt at modesty.
“I believe it would be best for you to give me an example,” Sunday murmured. “I’ll learn better that way.”
Your eyes narrowed. This guy couldn’t possibly—
“Show me,” he continued. “Show me how to pleasure you.”
For one long, suspended second, you couldn’t breathe.
You wanted to scream at him, to crawl under the sheets, to do anything but give him this final piece of vulnerability. The thought of touching yourself while those golden eyes cataloged everything made your stomach twist with fresh mortification. You’d already let him see too much. This was crossing a line you hadn’t even known existed until now.
Even so, your body was already moving.
Trembling fingers sliding down your own stomach, slipping beneath the edge of your underwear. The first brush against your folds made you shudder. Gods, you were drenched. Slick coated your fingers immediately. Your clit throbbed under the lightest graze, every nerve lit up and screaming for more even as your pride tried to strangle the reaction back down.
You hated how much he’d done this to you with so little. Hated that your body was this honest when your mouth still wanted to spit venom.
With a sharp, frustrated tug, you yanked the soaked lace aside, baring yourself completely. Your puffy cunt glistened obscenely in the low light—lips flushed dark, entrance fluttering around nothing.
Sunday didn’t speak a word.
Those golden eyes stayed locked on you with dizzying intensity as your middle finger dipped between your folds and circled your entrance. He drank it in like the sight of you touching yourself was something sacred and profane all at once. His wings were perfectly still at the nape of his neck, but you could see how his fingers flexed like he was physically restraining himself from reaching out.
Shakily, you slid one finger inside—slow at first, then deeper, curling just enough to make your hips jerk. A second joined it soon after, stretching you open with a wet, filthy sound that echoed in the quiet room. You pumped them steadily, thumb finding your clit in tight, relentless circles as your hips rolled up to meet every thrust.
Your tail whipped again before wrapping tight around your own thigh like it needed something to hold onto. You bit your lip until it hurt, swallowing every moan that tried to escape, but the soft, broken whimpers still leaked out anyway.
Sunday’s gaze never wavered. His breathing had grown shallower, the front of his trousers visibly strained, but he didn’t move. Didn’t touch. Didn’t interrupt.
He simply observed.
Somehow that made the slow burn in your core flare brighter, made every stroke of your fingers feel like it was for him, like you were performing for the one person who should never have been allowed to see you like this.
You were trembling on the edge already, thighs shaking, cunt fluttering around your fingers—and still you refused to come until you were sure he’d seen everything. Because if he wanted an example, you’d give him one he’d never forget.
At least, that was the plan.
Sunday watched you for another long, suspended moment. Long enough that the wet sounds of your fingers moving inside yourself became the only rhythm in the room, obscene and unrelenting.
He closed the distance in one fluid motion, settling between your spread thighs like he belonged there. His hand caught your wrist mid-thrust—gentle but firm as he stopped you cold.
“Enough,” he murmured. “You’ve demonstrated sufficiently.”
Your breath hitched, half in outrage, half in anticipation. For the millionth time tonight, you wanted to snap at him but the words died when his fingers replaced yours.
He started slow and experimental. One finger first, sliding in with careful, deliberate pressure, as though testing the give of your body the way he might test the tension of a string on a lyre. The stretch was modest, but the angle was perfect. He curled it immediately, brushing that spot inside you that made your vision white out for a second.
You glared up at him through the haze. “How the hell are you this calm?” you hissed, voice cracking despite your best effort. “You’re supposed to be a virgin, not some… some self-taught expert.”
His mouth curved—just the barest suggestion of a smile. “I observe. I learn.” His finger dragged out, then pushed back in deeper. “And I do enjoy being thorough in everything I do.”
You hated how right you’d been about that last part. The way he held you pinned with his gaze alone, the way his movements were measured and purposeful, like every stroke was calculated to unravel you piece by piece. It was infuriating. It was perfect.
He added a second finger without warning.
Your eyes slammed shut on instinct, a full-body shudder ripping through you as he stretched you further, scissoring gently, then curling both digits against that devastating spot again.
“Look at me.”
Sunday’s command was quiet, but it carried the same weight as his exorcisms. You forced your eyes open, lashes wet, and met that molten-gold stare.
The surge hit you like a tide.
His energy flooded in through the connection—drowning you like an insect encased in amber. It was so achingly sweet it made your tongue ache, your veins hum, your whole body feel caught and held in something timeless and devouring.
Sunday’s fingers pumped steadily now, each slow thrust and curl tracing the sensitive walls of your cunt with quiet, unerring focus. His thumb paused for a heartbeat above your clit, hovering uncertainly, then pressed down with flawless, devastating accuracy the instant you arched your hips to guide him, circling your clit with an unrelenting rhythm that tore a gasp from your throat.
“There,” you choked out, the word raw and helpless before you could cage it. “Right, right there—”
He didn’t gloat. He simply adjusted, tracing tight, merciless loops over your swollen nub while his fingers sank deeper, faster, curling against that spot inside you with the single-minded intensity. Every drag built the pressure until your whole body felt strung taut and trembling on the edge of breaking.
Your hips rolled up greedily to chase every fresh wave of that golden, amber-trapped heat flooding through you. Your thighs quaked. Your breath came in short, ragged bursts. Desperate whimpers slipped past your lips like prayers you never meant to offer, but they kept coming anyway.
Your tail thrashed wildly then unspooled from your own thigh in a sudden, desperate motion. It curled across Sunday’s waist, the tip pressing against the small of his back as though trying to drag him closer while the world narrowed to the golden flood pouring through your veins.
“Don’t—don’t stop,” you managed, voice wrecked and reverent all at once. “Don’t you dare stop, you arrogant—”
“I have no intention of stopping,” he murmured. “Not until you come apart for me.”
The words were your undoing.
Your back bowed off the mattress, wings flaring wide in a final, trembling span as the orgasm crashed through you like divine judgment. Your cunt clenched hard around his fingers, fluttering wildly, slick gushing over his knuckles in a fresh, obscene wave. You cried out before burying your face against his neck, clinging to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to the earth while ecstasy tore you open and remade you in the same breath.
For a suspended second, you felt yourself slip—mind blank, body weightless, as though you’d been lifted out of time and suspended in the golden amber of his gaze forever.
Then reality returned in fragments.
Sunday’s fingers slowed but never stopped, easing you through the aftershocks with gentle, lingering curls. The hand not buried inside you traced idle, soothing circles just below the base of your wings as though he were anointing the place where your divinity and damnation touched.
When the tremors finally ebbed, you collapsed against him, utterly spent.
You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes.
The two of you stared at each other in the aftermath. Sweat clung to your skin, to his, the air between you thick with the scent of sex. Sunday’s golden eyes were blown wide, but his expression remained composed—almost eerily so.
“Surely,” he murmured at last, voice slightly hoarse, “that should be enough.”
You felt the words like a challenge.
Your body still hummed with aftershocks, cunt still fluttering faintly around the memory of his fingers, and yet the stubborn, prideful thing inside you refused to let him walk away thinking he’d won. That you owed him anything less than everything he’d promised.
You lifted your chin, forcing your voice to steady even as your thighs trembled.
“We talked about going all the way,” you reminded him, words edged with deliberate nonchalance. “A thorough, foolproof energy-harvesting session. You made a commitment, Sunday. Or are you planning to back out now?”
“You are being remarkably greedy,” he observed with a huff. “One might even say covetous. I have already given you more than most would consider prudent.”
You didn’t argue with him.
Instead, you hooked your fingers over your soiled underwear and tugged them off slowly. Sunday observed with mild apprehension, especially when you turned over slowly on the mattress. You sank forward until your cheek rested against your folded arms with your hips lifted high.
The position presented you shamelessly—ass raised, slick cunt still flushed and glistening from the orgasm he’d just wrung out of you, wings half-spread like an offering laid at an altar.
“Didn’t you say you enjoy being thorough?” you asked, tail flicking lazily behind you. “Prove it.”
Sunday exhaled—a long, shuddering sound that finally betrayed the iron grip he’d kept on himself all night. You heard the rustle of fabric shortly after. The quiet metallic rasp of a zipper. The mattress dipped behind you as he settled into place.
You couldn’t bring yourself to turn your head and see him: hard, flushed, and finally stripped of that last layer of composure. The anticipation alone made your wings tremble.
Then you felt him.
The blunt head of his cock slid along your seam—hot and slick with your own release. He dragged himself through the mess he’d made between your thighs, coating himself in you again and again. Each pass nudged at your entrance without pushing inside, teasing the fluttering rim, then sliding up to bump against your oversensitive clit.
You forced yourself to stay still, pride locking your hips in place even as every nerve screamed to push back and just end the torment. You wouldn’t be the one to break first.
(In truth, you wanted him to lose that last thread of restraint, to thrust forward and fill you until the teasing stopped being a game and became something neither of you could walk away from.)
Sunday kept moving in long, lazy glides that painted your folds with fresh heat, the head catching briefly at your entrance each time before retreating to tease your clit again. The friction was maddening. Perfect. Every upward stroke sent sparks racing through you, every downward drag made your cunt clench around nothing, aching to be filled.
“Are you messing with me?” you growled, voice cracking with frustration.
A soft, airy laugh escaped him.
His hands found your ass then, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, kneading once before he squeezed your thighs tightly together, trapping his cock in the warm, slick channel between them. The pressure forced your folds to close around him like a second skin, every upward thrust now gliding through the seam of your pussy at the same time he fucked the tight space of your thighs.
The truth of his intentions settled over you like slow-burning heat.
Sunday leaned over you, chest brushing your back, voice velvet-smooth against your ear.
“Perhaps,” he murmured. “You have not quite earned that inside you just yet.”
Your mind fractured—rage, humiliation, desire, all crashing together in a dizzying spiral.
He was taunting you. The bastard was actually taunting you, holding back the one thing you’d wanted, making you feel every inch of his restraint while he took his pleasure from your body anyway. It was too much and not enough all at once.
You could only lie there and take it. But even so, you clung to your own stubbornness like a lifeline. Even when your body rocked with every roll of his hips. Even as his hands dug harder into your ass, holding you exactly where he wanted you. You would not give him the gratification of hearing you beg for it.
During the onslaught, you realized dimly that Sunday might never have come before—not like this, not ever. The thought sent a dark, vicious satisfaction curling through you even as your own pleasure climbed higher, teetering on the edge of another crest you hadn’t asked for.
But then you felt him shudder.
A quiet, broken moan slipped out, and his hips jerked before he spilled.
Hot pulses of come painted your inner thighs in thick white, thick ropes streaking across your skin, some landing in messy splatters on the pristine sheets beneath you. He kept moving through it—shallow, erratic thrusts that dragged his release over your folds, marking you, claiming you in the most filthy way possible.
With that final, shuddering release, the last of his energy flooded in, like molten gold poured straight into your marrow. It wasn’t just satiation, it was abundance overflowing. A reservoir so rich that the hunger that had gnawed at you for months finally went quiet.
When the last tremor finally ebbed from his body, Sunday collapsed beside you.
His face was flushed a deep, feverish crimson. Strands of silver hair clung damply to his forehead, giving him the look of someone who had just stepped out of a storm he never expected to survive. The halo above his head flickered erratically, soft pulses of light dimming and flaring in time with the remnants of pleasure still rolling through his veins.
For the first time since you’d met him, Sunday looked utterly undone. Not the hunter, not the reverend, not the brother who carried the weight of Harmony on his shoulders. Just a man breathing like he’d finally tasted something forbidden and found it sweeter than salvation.
Despite everything—the humiliation and the stubborn refusal to admit how you’d been thoroughly ruined by him—you felt a wicked smile tug at the corner of your mouth.
You’d managed to wipe the composure off his face.
Somehow, it felt like victory all the same.
✦ afterword. YAY!! YOU MADE IT TO THE END <3 okay i said there would be more notes at the end but i'm not sure if i have a lot to add onto this HAHA sunday and succubus reader's story is a straightforward one. a story that i crafted for three weeks with niku as my crutch bc without her, i never would have been able to write ANYTHING for sunday at all! he is one of the more challenging characters to write for me, but i'm glad i was given the chance to fuck off out of my comfort zone to pen this monster LOL! that said, one thing i do like doing in my alternate universe stories is making callbacks to canon even in the most subtle sense. so while this isbn't a complete 1:1 with the penacony stories, events like robin getting her throat injury was one of the things i wanted to explore in a fic! there are a couple more themes i wish to explore with these two when i get around to writing part two (which you will have to forgive me for the delay bc . my semester is keeping me very busy WAHH) BUT OK yapfest over. thank you for giving my writing a chance <3 do let me know your thoughts if you are able ! :3c
What are we, you wonder, as Flins tucks the lock of your hair behind your ear when he sees you in the streets of Nasha Town, shopping for groceries.
What are we, you wonder, when Flins calls you his dearest, even though he literally calls anyone dear or dearest to him, like the esteemed Traveler and hardworking Illuga.
What are we, you wonder, when he keeps attaching himself on your side, instead of mingling with his other drinking buddies inside the flagship. You wonder if you’re really that interesting to talk to when he is connected with the Grandmaster of the Knights of Favonius and the Boss of the Curatorium of Secrets. Or maybe Flins is still beside you because you’re just easy that to tease—an easy prey. An easy victim to his whims.
What are we, you finally ask him, one night, under his sheets, and while he peppers kisses all over your exposed collar bones.
When he hums, you repeat your question again. “W–what are we, Flins?”
He momentarily halts. Then, he lifts his head, blocking your view on the ceiling. He is equally as exposed as you, and equally as littered with bites and red marks. “Mm?”
“What are we?”
“Hm, good question,” He says, before putting a hand below his chin, pondering. “What do you think?”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Hey, I’m asking you.”
“And now I’m asking you.”
“Ugh, we’re going to be in circles, aren’t we, Flins?”
“We are?” He smiles.
You groan, “Flins—“
He chuckles. “I take it, you’re not satisfied with my responses.”
“Responses? More like questions. You’re throwing it back at me!”
He chuckles again, before leaning down, and kissing you. “You get final say.” Then, he buries his face on your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “An amusing query, really, based on our current circumstances.”
His hand slowly find yours—and your fingers intertwine. “You’re beneath me. I’m above you. And I’m kissing you. Kissing you for the past few hours, if we are counting. Also, we have claimed each other with our own marks. What do you think, my dearest? ‘What are we’?”
You pout. “Why can’t you say it out loud?”
“Oh? Does this imply that you want me to be the final say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?”
“Hm.” There’s a fleeting kiss on your skin. “You’re not sure?”
Great treatment. He knows how to make you weak—why must he treat you so delicately, but also bewilder you ponder over his words. Actually, it’s not even a what are we that you should be asking. It should be, why are you like this? Why is he like this? “Umm—“
Another chuckle. Really great. He really knows how to attain the upper hand, even if you were the one who asked the million dollar question.
Then, he looks at you—tenderly, yet you know that there’s something else. Perhaps, he’s teasing you again. “If you’ve made up your mind, I shall give you a final say.”
“What.”
“A final say.”
“I heard you the first time!”
“Alright then.”
“Alright—ugh, Flins. Fine. What are we? I want you to have the final say!”
Another mirthful laughter escapes from his lips, and his eyelids lower. He caresses your cheek, “Should I really state the obvious, now? I mean, I am about to kiss you again. Do we really need to declare our own status? Or is this merely out of societal pressures?”
Again with the stupid circles. You roll your eyes. “Flins!”
“Yes?”
“You know what! Just kiss me or whatever. I just know we’ll take forever.”
“Forever in kissing you? Oh, what a beautiful proposal. We shall implement and execute that as much as possible.”
“N–no, that’s not what I meant—I meant that you were going to take too long in answering—mmph!”
Heyyy idk if you take requests, but can you write something where Mc gets progressively more touchy with tamsy?
nothing to see here — tamsy caines
summary. tamsy elects you as his new run of the mill plaything. unfortunately for him, he oversteps and gets more than he bargained for.
notes. i dont do requests but i was halfway thru writing this trash when i got this so i was like wow thats very convenient. its not exactly what u asked for but i hope this suffices.
warnings. probably ooc as usual because writing tamsy is like willingly sticking my meat stick in a blender, tamsy being tamsy™, you’re a loser and tamsy exploits the shit out of this, nothing explicit but it gets kind of raunchy, tamsy very sexily asks for consent (very kind of him)
Tamsy likes to tease you. Not in the typical way, but just enough to crawl under your skin and keep you itching.
You react in a different way. You leer back in fright while he hangs off your shoulder when he’s bored, easily moulding to your shape like he was made to be yours.
On colder nights he would frequent sneaking his frozen fingers to the back of your neck or splay them against your face to startle you before he’d give you a light pinch and wander off.
It’s just playful teasing that never ends.
It’s not only you, you find. He teases everyone. He’ll tell Enjin the last time he effectively used his Umbreaker was a year ago, or he’ll tell Delmon to raise his voice loud enough for it to crack and echo through the building when he’s up for it. Little, harmless fun he finds amusing to worm his way in.
He’s a lot more physical with you.
Light touches like a ghost’s that linger and leave all too quickly. A poke, prod, jab, a hold every now and then, and he then leans himself against you, remaining far too long, using up so much space it’s difficult to breathe evenly.
But, still, it’s harmless fun.
A harmless beautiful cacophony in the mix of his rather easy day to day. He lives the same each morning and evening. He combats that static with interaction, not too much to delve too close to anyone, but just enough to remain present.
And then you misinterpret his fun.
He should’ve known sooner that this would backfire on him, and hard. It was almost punishing how deep of a hole he dug himself into, constantly touching you and forcing himself into your proximity like he belonged there.
Light touches, featherlight, gentle, all misinterpreted.
Well.
He figures it isn’t really your fault. He thinks you’re a loner as is, so any form of physical contact must be exceedingly special to you, maybe even foreign. You don't jump up when he touches you, but you do glance in his direction nervously and sometimes even gawk.
The touches never frequently wander.
That is until Tamsy decides to dig himself deeper into the hole. For fun, he decides, grabbing the shovel. Maybe if it’s larger he can bury you in it, too.
It’s some form of messy self destruction that he engages in like a life line, dragging you under the depths with him in the process.
So he touches more firmly, his presence and warmth demanding your attention more and more until the others start to notice it. They comment how touchy he is, how close you two always are, how his hands are beginning to wander where plenty of people can see you both. It looks largely suspicious despite the fact you insist he just “does that sometimes.”
He’s just a… touchy guy. It makes sense. He does this with everyone. It’s not just you, which is largely disappointing.
So Tamsy begins to feed on your growing jealousy.
It starts rumours, of course. The Cleaners are so ever bored and need to discuss something over dinner. Delmon insists he’s not interested in petty gossip, but he seems to engage considering that Tamsy can hear his voice rattle through the walls. It’s largely grown ‘mature’ men engaging in it, sitting at their own table and squawking about coworkers like they’re sixteen.
And despite the fact that you are very much in the same room as them. Tomme has elected to sit with you. She’s always been kind. She pities you, obviously. It’s rude to talk about people while they can hear you.
“I mean… he’s touchy-feely, but we’re not together or anything,” you whisper. “He’s just like that.”
Tomme shrugs. “Maybe they’re right, though.” She chews idly at the food on her plate, pointing her fork at the men’s table behind you. “Maybe he likes you.”
“But, he’s so easy-going,” you murmur, poking at untouched meat on your plate. “You’d think he’d confess already.”
“Maybe he’s waiting on you,” Tomme tries. That seems like a Tamsy thing to do. “Or maybe he just wants to f–”
Your fork clatters to the plate. You stutter out a string of nonsense as Tomme grins apologetically. It’s a viable theory, definitely. It would explain everything.
You swallow the food caught in your throat before you choke on it. “You think?”
“Maybe,” she repeats, emphasising the word.
You stare down at your plate. “I dont even think he fucks.” Tomme raises her brows in surprise, though she seems largely entertained. “He’s too… princess-y—”
“I won’t discuss a coworker’s sex life, especially over dinner,” she interrupts quickly. She quickly finishes her dinner. “Just… I don’t know. Own it. Tamsy’s cool. It’s better than Enjin pining after you.”
You try to hold in a laugh.
Tamsy’s cool.
You guess so.
She offers you a consoling pat on the back as she leaves to put her tray away and retire for the night.
You fight the blood rushing to your face, fingers trembling around your fork as you try to eat the rest of your food. It’s not great, and it does barely anything to soothe your churning stomach.
Maybe he does like you.
You don’t get it.
What’s there to like? You don’t have any special qualities that raise you above the others. There’s other people here who are smarter, tougher, and would probably give him a more entertaining reaction.
He seems largely innocent. He doesn’t flirt or anything like that. He seems too above it all.
Still, you stand up, dazed.
Your feet drag you to his room. You’ve only been here once after a mission ages ago when you served as his crutches after he’d sprained his ankle.
You’d held onto the room number like a mantra. Just in case you ever needed him. For whatever.
You check the hallway.
Nobody. It’s not that late. People are still eating.
You knock one, twice, before you contemplate booking it back toward the elevator. Because seriously, why are you here? He didn’t ask you to come here. You don’t know what you’re expecting.
There’s no answer initially. You assume maybe he’s gone out to the city for dinner. You don’t know what he does ever, really, but he seems to know a whole lot about you.
Largely because he spends his off time watching.
Not that you notice.
“Hi.”
You fell for him.
You don’t even notice he has opened the door because you’re too busy mulling over whether to make a run for it.
Tamsy hasn’t opened the door the entire way. A patient, large eye and half his face is present through the crack in the doorway.
Hook, line, and sinker.
He fights the smile curling at his lips. All the cards lay out on the table. If this unfurls according to plan perhaps he’ll have you on his bed.
You manage to pull a grin, though it’s strained, nervous, and exactly what he expects from you.
He almost laughs in your face.
“You…” You clear your throat. “You weren’t at dinner.”
Aww. You noticed. He thought you would. Of course you would. You’re easy to string around on a leash.
Tamsy leans against the door frame gently, hands curling close to the doorknob. Maybe he should slam it in your face and then play with you tomorrow like nothing ever happened. “Mm, no.”
You hesitate. He watches you swallow hard. “You’re aren’t hungry?” You didn’t bring him anything.
“No,” he repeats, softer.
You sound breathless as if you’d been murmuring to yourself all the way up to his floor. Maybe you’d taken the stairs. You look like you’ve taken the stairs. You look frazzled and worried about something.
You peer down the hallway again. Still nobody.
“So… where were you?” you stammer.
Tamsy blinks like you’re stupid. His mouth curls larger. “Here.”
Right. You laugh, though it’s strained. “Doing what?”
He shrugs casually. He’s opened the door slightly wider to see if you’d peek into what’s behind him. Surprisingly you don’t. Your eyes are glued to him.
Cute.
In a weird way. You’re really pathetic, actually. He doesn’t voice it however.
“Waiting to see if I’d get hungry.”
“Oh…” You’re not following. “Did you?”
“Ah.” Tamsy slightly recoils from the door to hide his grimace in the shadows. His heart hammers in his chest. “That depends.”
“On…?”
“On what showed up.” He opens the door wide enough to offer you a way in. He leaves it in your hands to accept or decline his silent and rather forward request.
“I–” What? You blink owlishly at him. You wonder if you’re interpreting his words correctly. You tend to misinterpret a lot of his affections—if you can even call them that.
Your heart flutters pathetically.
Tamsy snickers, out loud.
Oops.
You startle back.
He quickly corrects himself. “Cold feet?”
“No, no,” you force out. You wave your hands casually, though they tremble anyway. “No, I just–”
“Are you coming inside?” Tamsy taps idly at the frame with a fingernail like a ticking clock. He tilts his head.
You look almost hypnotised. You nod slowly. “I’ll come inside.”
You trudge past him and into his room. You haven’t been in here in a while, and you didn’t stick around long enough to really examine how little he had for decoration. A few posters, one of a fancy red sunset on some sort of sandy plain, another poster largely the same with a more purplish tint.
You don’t even realise Tamsy locks his door behind you. He watches you move closely, back to the door as if waiting for you to make a move.
You’re still shaking. Clammy and hot and flustered, like you’ve watched him spout fifteen new limbs.
Tamsy can’t imagine he’s that scary.
It smells nice in his room. Like fresh linen and soap. There’s a subtle heat wafting from the bathroom as if he’s just finished in the shower. His hair is slightly damp at the roots.
“They’re talking about me,” you tell him. “Well, us. But there’s no ‘us.’ Everyone thinks we’re a thing.”
Tamsy quietly pushes off the door and approaches from behind, one foot in front of the other, unstable, giddy.
Good.
“A ‘thing,’” he echoes lightly. “That’s why you came here?”
“I thought it’d be better if we talked about it,” you defend quickly. “Privately.”
Tamsy nods playfully. “So you came here to my bedroom to talk?”
You nod. He doesn’t look convinced. You don’t either.
He’s close now. Close enough where you can smell the soap still lathered on his skin, close enough the point out he has a light green hairclip holding back half his hair. A layer of blond has fallen from his scalp, following along his jaw softly.
Tamsy rolls his eyes. “Talk, then.”
You do the exact opposite.
Your fingers tremble, loosely following the curve of his arms beneath the light blue cotton. Tamsy waits, patient, observant as always. Your fingertips catch on the fabric, sliding up before falling around his frame.
He lets you experiment freely, hands still and waiting for anything new to spark. Something that excites him may just be felt, and his heart thuds beneath your fingers through his flesh, supple and soft.
Tamsy says nothing.
Quite the definition of ‘talking.’
Your fingers press to the scarred skin at his throat. It's different in a strange way, still soft, not so much like leather, arguably smoother than his unmarred skin. Your thumb outlines the splatter of scar on his neck.
“How’d you get these?” you ask meekly. It’s quiet, barely louder than a whisper.
You follow the line of skin across his jaw.
Tamsy grins. The skin below his eyes crinkle. “An accident.”
Your hand freezes on his cheek. You watch his face morph into a much tighter smile, one unwilling to whisper another word to you. Not if it’s any sort of truth.
“You’re not gonna tell me?”
He giggles before he leans forward, ignoring your warmth for just a moment to envelope his arms around your neck.
“No.” His pupils are huge. “I like keeping my secrets.” He squeezes enough to remind you of his presence. “You didn’t come here to talk about my scars, did you?”
That’d be boring. He snorts inwardly. You’d be wasting your time.
He knows why you’re here anyway. He deliberately planted seeds of doubt in your head. You’re here to clear them all, maybe.
Maybe you want to fuck him. Probably. He bites the inside of his cheek to restrain himself. He should take you on his tiled floor and pluck at the buttons of your shirt with his teeth.
Maybe if he strips you of your dignity he can see just how lonely you really are.
Your thumbs card over his jaw before pushing his hair behind his ears.
He’s really close.
“No,” you whisper. “Just… came to talk.”
Tamsy tilts his head. His hair pools over his shoulder. “You keep saying that.”
You almost stutter out a bunch of gibberish before you clear your throat. “Yeah.” You ignore the way your voice cracks.
Somewhere else, Tamsy is laughing at you. He’s pressed to the back of a loveseat, aching, yearning, but laughing all the same, with his hair so long it touches the floor, just the perfect length for you to tug and pull.
The smile on his face won’t budge. You’re sweating beneath his gaze. This is too easy. Loser.
“Yeah?” he repeats. Teasing, confident, a dreamy lilt in his already airy voice.
“I just…” you start nervously, “…didn’t want to be alone tonight.”
Blegh. Tamsy coos. His fingers find your hair. How pathetically adorable. It’s a miracle how you haven’t caught on yet; how you haven’t realised he’s been dragging you around on a leash this entire time. Maybe you’re blind, or just merely stupid, or both.
There’s a rotten sweetness to it, like sugary confectionery that sticks to his teeth like glue. It’s awful, leaving his teeth feeling fuzzy and his tongue heavy.
A moment of weakness has his heart thudding beneath his ribs desperate for some resurgence up his throat. He’d poke his tongue out and show you the pathetic organ as a piece offering.
Tamsy hums, encouraging. “And what did you want me to do about it?”
You glance nervously at the door. You’re pretty sure he locked it.
Tamsy removes an arm around you to tap your cheek playfully. You’re here for him, you may as well keep your eyes on nothing else.
“I want you to touch me.”
He almost startles back. His fingers falter for a moment. He holds back a gag threatening his throat.
Well.
You concede rather quickly. He was expecting to continue pawing at you and your shirt until you eventually obliged and unbuttoned the stupid thing. Why would you even come fully dressed anyway? If he had it his way he would have you wearing nothing but blue rope and pretty red welts along your flesh.
Blue suits you.
But only a certain shade.
“I already am,” he whispers.
Your jaw tightens. “Keep doing it.”
“Careful,” Tamsy sings lowly, whistling casually as he reaches to prod your shoulder teasingly. “That sounds like permission.”
You’re bold.
This is exciting. Somewhat. You’re defying his hypotheses; skittish, jumpy, yes, but you’re not shying away. Not yet at least. Not so much a game of cat and mouse as he would’ve expected. Interesting.
He was sort of wrong about you.
Sort of.
You only stare expectantly.
His lips are inches from yours.
His face falls.
Then Tamsy pulls away and shoves you backwards. Hard.
You stumble onto his bed, the back of your knees causing you to bounce back on his mattress, messing up the neatly laid sheets in the process.
You watch in awe when Tamsy absentmindedly pulls the green clip from his hair and tosses it on the empty desk. It clatters uselessly onto the wood.
His hair falls over his shoulders as he flexes his fingers towards your chest, pushing you back against the bed just enough to lean over you.
He pulls a knee up around your torso and you yelp.
His fingers reach for something on his bedside table next to a ticking, small red clock.
“We can talk like this,” he decides. His hair spirals around your face. His fingers wander up your shoulders towards the buttons of your shirt.
You look five seconds away from imploding.
Tamsy hits your cheek lightly with his instrument. The string lies dormant around the distaff, but you know better. You raise your fingers to touch it, but Tamsy ends up angling your thumb just enough to pinch the pad of the finger with his teeth.
If he had it his way he’d wet all of your fingers with his mouth to see long it takes you to crack.
You retract your hand. “You didn’t want to eat first?” you try desperately.
He ignores you. He wets his lips. “You’re trembling.”
You squawk, “you’re on top of me.”
“Mhm.” His head dips around your shoulder and he presses his nose into your throat. His tongue touches the pulse point at your jaw and you freeze below him.
Your heart thumps worryingly quickly beneath the muscle. Something rough follows when he presses the flat of his tongue against your neck, following the soft ridges of your throat.
Tamsy feels every throb of anxiety deep within your bones. Every press of flesh on yours replays in his veins, coaxing, demanding, until his teeth sink into your shoulder and he forces a noise from your throat.
“I think I’m just nervous,” you admit quietly through a tight jaw.
Tamsy has you right where he wants you.
“Good,” he says out loud. He kisses the bite mark. Your shoulder relaxes when he soothes over the ache. “You wouldn’t be if I didn’t matter.”
He decides he’ll dig you that second grave after all.
𝜗𝜚 #HONKAI-STARRAIL ── A BODY MADE SACRED, @ SUNDAY! ᡣ ︠ 𓈒. .𓈒 ︡𐑠
𐔌 𝒾. sunday is a priest shaped into holiness, a living symbol of god’s law, disciplined and untouchable. [name] believes in nothing—yet she begins to worship him.
or in which, the holy servant of god gives in to the desire of the serpent’s law.
꣑ৎㅤ. from allie . . sunday x fem!reader, religious au, not proofread. 💌 lowercase narrations, third person's pov. 3.1k words . . religious themes—guilt, blasphemous beliefs. reader worships sunday, this was written from a converted buddhist's point of view ! ! ! more #utc ! ! reqs are also opened + published on ao3 :p
“even the consecrated may fall beneath desire’s dominion.”
chapter i. the first gaze,
sunday learns the weight of being watched before he learns its source.
the cathedral is full. it always is. breath held in stone, light caught in glass, the faithful arranged like a practiced gesture. he stands where he is meant to stand, beneath the dome, beneath god, beneath the idea of himself that has been given shape by years of repetition.
halo steady. wings still. voice measured.
he speaks, and the room listens.
he does not look at faces while delivering doctrine. this is not humility; it is training. the gaze invites distortion. the gaze invites attachment. so he fixes his eyes on the middle distance, on scripture engraved into marble, on the absence where god is supposed to answer back.
yet today, something shifts.
not noise. not movement. something quieter.
attention.
it presses against him, precise and deliberate, not the dull collective weight of belief but a narrow, focused line. sunday does not turn his head. he finishes the verse. he breathes between sentences. the words remain intact. still, the sensation persists, like a hand hovering a fraction of an inch from his skin.
when the congregation kneels, he finally allows himself to look.
she is not difficult to find.
[name] kneels too late, as if remembering the motion rather than anticipating it. her hands fold incorrectly, fingers interlaced instead of aligned. her head bows, but not all the way. her eyes lift when they should close.
they are not reverent eyes. they are observant.
she does not mouth prayers. her lips remain still. her breathing is calm. there is no urgency in her posture, no hunger for absolution. she is present in a way the faithful are not. watching is not a side effect for her. it is the purpose.
sunday looks away.
he finishes the sermon without deviation. cadence unbroken. meaning intact. when the final blessing is given, the congregation responds as one body, practiced and obedient. when they rise, when they disperse, when devotion dissolves into quiet footfalls and fabric, sunday feels the watching continue.
he does not look again.
after the cathedral empties, the silence does not return the way it should.
he remains at the altar longer than necessary, hands folded, head inclined. prayer comes easily to him, but today it does not settle. the words feel performative, shaped for an audience that is no longer there.
when he finally leaves, he does not see her go.
—
[name] attends the cathedral the way one might attend a phenomenon.
she sits through the sermon as if it is weather: not something to be persuaded by, but something to observe closely. she listens to sunday’s voice without attaching belief to it. she traces the structure of his sentences. the restraint. the pauses that feel intentional rather than inspired.
she watches how people respond to him.
how they kneel faster when his tone softens. how their shoulders lower when he lifts his hands. how belief moves through them like instruction, not revelation.
and then there is him.
he does not perform warmth. he does not seek their eyes. holiness clings to him not as fire, but as gravity. people bend without realizing they are doing so.
[name] finds this fascinating.
she does not pray. she has never learned how to pray without feeling foolish. instead, she memorizes him. the angle of his halo. the way his wings remain still even when others shift. the distance he maintains from the crowd, as if touch might bruise something essential.
she kneels because everyone kneels. not because she is compelled, but because the shape feels appropriate. reverence is a language, and she is fluent enough to imitate it.
when his eyes sweep the room, she does not look away.
their gazes do not meet. not truly. but she knows he has felt her. attention like hers does not disappear just because it is quiet.
she leaves the cathedral without hesitation. no lingering. no sign of conversion. faith is not what she came for.
she returns the following week.
—
sunday recognizes her the moment the congregation settles.
this is impossible. faces blur. individuals dissolve into devotion. that is how it is meant to be.
yet she is there again, posture incorrect in the same precise ways. hands folded wrong. eyes lifted at the wrong moments. stillness where there should be need.
she does not look at the altar when others do. she looks at him.
sunday adjusts nothing.
but something in him tightens, infinitesimal and dangerous. the awareness of being seen not as a vessel, but as an object. not of desire—not yet—but of selection.
he speaks of obedience. of humility. of surrendering the self to god.
[name] listens as if he is speaking directly to her, even though he never looks.
she kneels when instructed.
this time, she bows her head all the way.
not to god.
to him.
chapter ii. learning the posture,
by the third week, sunday stops pretending this is coincidence.
she arrives early. not early enough to draw notice, but early enough that the cathedral has not yet filled with noise.
she chooses the same section each time, offset from the center aisle, far enough to avoid attention, close enough to see him clearly when he ascends the altar.
her consistency unsettles him more than fixation would.
fixation is erratic. devotion is disciplined.
sunday conducts the opening rites with precision. incense. invocation. the measured unfolding of habit. he feels her attention before he sees her, the way one feels pressure change before a storm. it does not demand. it does not intrude. it waits.
waiting, he realizes, is worse.
when the congregation kneels, she kneels with them now. perfectly timed. hands folded correctly. head bowed. if not for memory, she would be indistinguishable from the faithful.
that frightens him.
she has learned.
he preaches restraint. the sanctity of distance. the danger of elevating the self above god’s will. his voice remains even, but his awareness sharpens, blade-thin. he knows exactly where she is without looking. knows when her head lifts again, just enough to watch him through lowered lashes.
she never stares.
she observes.
after the sermon, she does not approach the altar. she does not linger near the steps where penitents sometimes wait, eyes red, hands trembling. she exits with the others, head lowered, movements modest. nothing about her suggests excess.
yet the space she leaves behind feels altered, as if something essential has been removed.
—
[name] does not think of herself as patient.
she has simply learned when immediacy is inelegant.
she understands ritual. understands that repetition creates meaning faster than confession ever could. if she wants to be seen without being questioned, she must become predictable. harmless. correct.
today, she kneels properly.
not because she believes, but because she respects the structure. devotion, she is learning, is a language sunday values deeply. to misuse it would be crude.
she listens as he speaks about humility, and she almost smiles.
not because it is ironic, but because it is precise. he believes every word. that is what makes him remarkable. power that does not know itself always believes it is innocent.
when the congregation bows, she bows deeper.
when they rise, she rises slower.
no one notices.
sunday does not look at her, and she is pleased by this. restraint is not rejection. restraint is awareness under control. it tells her she has reached the threshold of significance.
she does not want him to turn yet.
—
after service, sunday remains longer than usual.
the cathedral empties. footsteps fade.
the doors close. he stands alone beneath the dome, wings finally shifting, feathers settling as tension releases in small, involuntary movements.
he prays.
the words come, but they do not settle. his thoughts circle her presence, not as temptation, but as anomaly. an error in the system. attention that refuses to behave like faith.
he tells himself this is not his burden.
still, his gaze drifts—unbidden—toward the place where she kneels.
it was empty now.
he exhales. slowly. deliberately.
this is how it begins, he thinks. not with sin, but with noticing.
—
the following sunday, something changes.
during the final benediction, as the faithful bow their heads, sunday’s eyes lift—just once, just a fraction—and find her.
their gazes do not meet.
she is already kneeling.
already bowed.
already still.
the posture is flawless. too flawless. reverence performed with an intimacy that feels directed, intentional. her submission is not collective. it is precise.
for the first time, sunday feels it clearly.
she is not worshipping god—she is practicing.
and he, without meaning to, has become the altar she is learning to kneel before.
chapter iii. without the altar,
it happens by accident.
or at least, that is how it will be remembered.
sunday leaves the cathedral through the side corridor reserved for clergy, the one that bypasses the nave and opens into the narrow garden where stone saints erode quietly under weather. he chooses it out of habit, not intention. habits are safer when thoughts are not.
the door closes behind him.
she is there.
not kneeling. not hidden among pews. standing near the far edge of the garden, hands folded loosely in front of her body as if she has simply paused mid-walk and forgotten to resume. she is close enough that retreat would be obvious, far enough that advance would be deliberate.
they stop at the same moment.
this is different from being watched.
this is proximity.
sunday feels it immediately, a tightening beneath his ribs, instinctive and unwelcome. without the altar between them, without elevation or distance, the imbalance shifts. he is no longer framed by light and marble. the halo above his head feels suddenly exposed rather than sanctified.
[name] looks at him.
not quickly. not greedily. her gaze rises with care, as though acknowledging something fragile. she takes him in the way one takes in architecture, not possession but study. wings. halo. the fall of white fabric against darker stone.
she does not smile.
she does not bow.
that restraint lands heavier than either would have.
sunday inclines his head automatically, a reflex trained into him long before choice was introduced. it is not a greeting meant for individuals. it is a gesture for the faithful.
[name] mirrors it.
not perfectly. not incorrectly. just enough to acknowledge the motion without copying it.
the air holds.
no words pass between them. none are required. everything that needs to be exchanged has already been practiced over weeks of silence. attention offered. attention received. recognition without permission.
sunday becomes acutely aware of his body.
of how close she stands to the boundary he has never allowed crossed. of how ordinary she looks without the posture of devotion—no glow, no trembling urgency, no hunger for absolution. she is solid. present. unafraid.
human.
and still, something in her stance feels reverent. not submission, but orientation. as if her body knows which way to face.
a breeze moves through the garden. his wings shift, feathers rustling softly before he stills them. the sound feels too intimate in the quiet.
[name] notices.
her eyes flicker—not to his face, but to the movement itself. there is no surprise in her expression. only interest, sharpened by proximity. as though this confirms something she has already concluded.
sunday straightens.
he should leave. this is improper. unsanctioned. the space between priest and congregation is not meant to collapse like this. boundaries exist to preserve clarity.
yet he does not move.
neither does she.
the moment stretches thin, taut as a held breath. sunday senses something irreversible settling into place, not as temptation, but as acknowledgment. this is the first time she has seen him without ritual framing him. this is the first time he has felt her attention without distance protecting him.
eventually, [name] steps back.
just one step. controlled. respectful. an offering of space rather than retreat. she lowers her head—not deeply, not submissively, but deliberately. the gesture is unmistakable now that it is directed at him alone.
then she turns and walks away, footsteps soft against stone.
sunday remains where he is.
and long after she is gone, he understands what has passed between them with unsettling clarity.
chapter iv. a voice answered,
the cathedral is quiet when sunday arrives. quieter than usual. the faithful trickle in slowly, almost hesitant. he moves through the nave, halo and wings catching the morning light, his robe swishing softly over stone. routine guides him, but today there is an undercurrent he cannot name.
she is already seated. not in the corner. not blending with the others. she sits in the center aisle, back straight, hands folded, head lifted just enough to look at him when he ascends the altar.
he notices.
he clears his throat lightly, a prelude to the sermon, and this time—he speaks differently. the words are the same. doctrine. scripture. obedience. but he allows pauses that linger on her. he does not meet her gaze, but the awareness is there.
after the final blessing, the congregation leaves slowly. sunday descends the altar steps, keeping his eyes forward. [name] remains, waiting.
he approaches, careful.
“why do you come here?” his voice is measured, quiet enough that it might be curiosity or rebuke.
she does not flinch. she inclines her head slightly. “because i wanted to see you,” she says. the words are simple. precise. deliberate.
sunday freezes slightly, then recovers. “not god?”
she shakes her head. “i don’t believe in him. not really. not here.” her lips curve almost imperceptibly. “but you… you matter. even if i don’t believe.”
the phrasing is strange. direct, but not flattering. it is not confession. it is recognition.
he studies her. a tremor of discomfort moves through him—not from desire, not exactly, but from the weight of being observed so clearly. “you should not kneel like that,” he says finally. “it… it is improper.”
“improper is only a rule,” she says. “rules are made to guide people. not to define what i feel.” she tilts her head. “i kneel because it feels right. to you.”
the words strike him in ways scripture never did.
he exhales, hesitant. “do you understand what that means? what you are doing?”
“perfectly,” she replies. “and that’s why i do it. i am not praying. i am… choosing.”
sunday steps closer. “choosing?”
“yes,” she says simply. “choosing you, even if i don’t believe in god.”
silence stretches.
“then… we are both walking on dangerous ground,” he says finally.
“maybe,” she says, faint smile appearing. “but i know where this ground quite well enough.”
he realizes, with a weight that almost frightens him, that this is only the beginning.
chapter v. the sin of wanting,
the cathedral smells of candle smoke and stone.
[name] sits in her usual place.
desire arrives quietly.
not hunger. not urgency. awareness sharpened into want.
sunday speaks, and feels himself watched not as symbol, but as man. her gaze does not demand. it waits.
after the service, she stands. does not bow.
“you’re here again,” he says.
“of course,” she replies. “i wanted to see how it feels to be close.”
“danger,” he admits. “what you do… what you are.”
“then perhaps,” she says softly, “we should not care about what should be.”
he wants her.
and for the first time, he does not deny it.
chapter vi. what was touched,
it happens after evening prayer.
the cathedral is dim. candles gutter low. sunday remains near the altar longer than necessary.
[name] stands a few paces away.
he steps down.
“you should go,” he says.
“do you want me to?”
he reaches out.
the kiss is careful. deliberate. placed like ritual.
it feels wrong immediately.
not because it lacks desire.
but because it carries too much meaning.
when he pulls back, his forehead rests briefly against hers.
“we can’t,” he says.
“you already did.”
holiness no longer feels like distance.
it feels like something he has violated with his own hands—and cannot bring himself to regret.
chapter vii. on the seventh day,
on the seventh day, god rested.
sunday did not.
the cathedral is empty again, but this time the silence feels intentional, as if the space itself is waiting to see what he will do with it. candles are unlit. no incense. no ritual to hide behind. only stone, shadow, and the echo of his own breathing.
she is there.
[name] stands where the faithful are never allowed to stand—at the edge of the altar. not upon it. not defiling it outright. close enough to make the distinction meaningless.
sunday stops a few steps away.
he should speak first. scripture demands it. confession, warning, command. instead, guilt moves through him like heat, slow and consuming. it has followed him all week, transformed itself, sharpened itself, turned inward until it no longer feels like remorse but like gravity.
he thinks of creation.
light drawn from darkness. separation made holy. order imposed on chaos.
he has spent his life preserving those divisions.
now he wants to erase one.
“i prayed,” he says finally. his voice sounds strange in the open space. smaller. more honest than he intends. “i asked for distance. for clarity.”
[name] watches him. she does not kneel. she does not bow. she does not interrupt.
“and?” she asks.
“nothing answered.”
the admission lands heavily. it feels like tearing fabric that has held his shape for decades. god’s silence is not new, but it has never mattered before. silence used to be proof of faith. now it feels like absence.
or refusal.
he steps closer.
with every movement, desire sharpens—not as impulse, but as certainty. wanting her feels deliberate now. chosen. the guilt does not stop it. it feeds it. each thought of betrayal makes the pull stronger, as if sin itself is the final permission.
“i know what this is,” he says. “what it makes me.”
[name] tilts her head slightly. “do you?”
he looks at her—really looks. not as temptation. not as blasphemy. but as something real, standing in a world he has always experienced at a distance.
“it makes me someone who wants,” he says. “not what i was told to want. not what i was shaped for.”
she steps closer this time.
the space between altar and man disappears.
“then want,” she says quietly.
the simplicity of it is devastating.
sunday’s halo feels unbearably heavy. not a crown. not a blessing. a marker of a vow he no longer knows how to keep. his hands tremble—not with fear, but with relief at finally being honest about it.
“if i do,” he says, “there is no absolution.”
“i’m not offering forgiveness,” [name] replies. “i never was.”
something settles in him then.
on the first days, god created the world by dividing it—light from dark, heaven from earth, sacred from profane. while on the seventh day, god stopped.
sunday—in contradiction of his name—did not.
he reaches for her again, not as a priest breaking a rule, but as a man choosing a truth. the altar is behind him now. god is above him, distant, unmoving.
his desire no longer feels like temptation.
it feels like creation of a different kind.
not holy.
but chosen.
and in that choice, quiet and irreversible, sunday betrays god—not in anger, not in defiance, but in devotion redirected.
the world does not end.
the cathedral remains standing.
but something sacred is finally, deliberately undone.
an original work published by allie, aka user @unsnoopies on tumblr. ( ˘ ³˘)♥
pairing. albedo x fem!reader
word count. 13.6k (i know. i'm sorry. idk how it happened but please read HAHA)
genre/warnings. war!au, sci-fi!au, super soldier!reader, memory loss, mentions of blood/injury/unethical experimentation, angst and fluff, ambiguous ending
summary.
They call you The Reaper—a super soldier born from a scientific breakthrough that had once been deemed impossible, at the cost of your memories.
Faced with the daunting task of replicating your miracle, Albedo finds himself lost between duty and devotion, chasing the ghost of someone who once knew him.
a/n. this monster of a fic just kind of appeared in my drafts, and i took it upon myself to finish it. if you're a neuroscience major or if you're someone who knows a lot about war, sorry for any inconsistencies, it's just my little fanfic so please be gentle LOL. as always, reblogs/interaction are appreciated!
Dearie Albedo,
It's been so long since I heard from you! I'm happy you wrote me a letter back! I'm doing fine at home! Mom works a lot, so I'm usually by myself, but that's okay! I spend a lot of time making things, just like you! I hope one day I'll be as smart as you! Maybe when you come home, you can teach me a few things? Then we can make things together—
The metallic thud of the door sliding open abruptly tears Albedo from his thoughts, his reading progress grinding to a screeching halt. He glances up to see Sucrose standing at the threshold to his office, a pile of folders clutched white-knuckled in her hands.
Her glasses are askew, a sign that she'd run here. Truthfully, Albedo isn't sure why she'd gotten into the habit—he'd told her long ago that it was fine if she took her time with simple tasks like file transport, but she seems hellbent on maintaining maximum efficiency.
Then again, maximum efficiency seems to be the concept running his life lately.
Largely due to its proximity to the frontlines, there are few moments for respite on Base Alpha. When things move here, they move quickly—units are constantly being assigned and reassigned, and even when they aren't, there's trainings and meetings and debriefings to be held. Even for someone like Albedo, who doesn't tend to be involved in front-facing affairs, there's no end to the tasks that burden his regular work day. And today, it seems even his mandated lunch break is no exception to that rule.
He sighs, neatly folding up Klee's letter and setting it on the corner of his desk. Practical as he is, there isn't much on the wooden surface in the first place—some files, dataset printouts, a smattering of sticky notes, and a single frame with an old picture of his family. He'll make time to read the rest of the letter and write a reply later; hopefully, whatever assignment Sucrose has on hand won't take too long.
She skitters up to his desk nervously, nearly tripping over her own feet in her rush. Even when she reaches him, she merely stares at his expectant, outstretched hand for a moment.
"This one is, um, a little different from the others," she offers, holding the files to her chest with an air of hesitation.
Albedo raises a brow. Nervousness has always been natural for his assistant, but this level of anxiety is treading into the abnormal. He gestures impatiently.
"Just give me the files, Sucrose."
After a few moments of tense, calculated silence, she relinquishes the papers to him, muttering something about how she has other things to attend to. She's not usually so quick to leave, Albedo notes—usually, she'll stick around and ask how she can be of service. Whatever this project is must be especially unsettling.
Before he can get another word in, Sucrose slips through the door, and he finds himself alone again.
Upon first observation, the folders are relatively unassuming, if not plentiful in number—a sizable stack, each plainly labelled with dates and content summaries. His eye twitches in slight irritation; if he’s learned anything over the years, it’s that the size of the stack tends to correlate to the intensity of his headache later on. Still, there's no point in delaying the inevitable; there is no scientist of a higher caliber than his on Base Alpha.
Exhaling slowly out of his nose, he flips open the first folder labelled “Immediate Action Needed", but it's emptier than he expected. A single sheet of paper floats onto his desk, the clean white contrasted with black typewriter font.
The Reaper—
His breath hitches.
—has been reassigned to Base Alpha for the time being. As you know, it is in our best interests that we find a way to replicate her state as soon as possible—please make this your first priority and utilize whatever means necessary to do so. This will be our final attempt at this project; since the original documents detailing her augmentation were destroyed, we are imploring you to give this your best efforts. As you know, she is sturdy, so do not worry about experimentation effects. You are our greatest asset in this area of study, so please feel free to request additional resources as needed. We are willing to pour everything into this project.
The Reaper. It’s a title with which Albedo is horribly familiar, if not against his will. Hailed as the greatest scientific breakthrough that Mondstadt has ever produced, and also their greatest ethical failure. Anyone worth their salt in this war would have knowledge about the whole event.
If it were up to him, he'd never have to dip his hands into this kind of operation. Though he can appreciate the advancement of the science and the relative success of the biological augmentation, it had not come at no cost. Even he knows that there are limits to this kind of research—limits that would be impossible to maintain, should he continue to participate in this project.
He glances at Klee's letter again, noting the small apple sticker that she'd used to seal the paper. It was part of a set that he'd sent her for her birthday, he remembers—in lieu of his absence, he'd opted to send her a collection of gifts instead. She'd been so excited about it in the letters following that day; it had almost been enough to curb the guilt settling in his stomach.
It was practically unheard of to get a day off on Base Alpha, after all.
He sighs, brushing the bangs out of his eyes. His sister likely won't be getting a response from him anytime soon as long as this work is sitting on his to-do list. Mentally, he makes a note to buy her another gift.
Suddenly, the door creaks again, but doesn't open—Albedo's gaze flickers over to it, calculating, like he's waiting for something to happen. For a few moments, nothing moves.
"Sucrose," he finally calls out wearily.
A muted gasp of surprise is audible from the hallway, and then his assistant is cracking the door open again, a single amber eye peering through the crack. So she hadn’t had anything else to attend to, he thinks—she just didn’t want to be here to see his reaction to the assignment.
“Sorry, Mr. Albedo…” she murmurs, as if to explain herself. Albedo shakes his head.
“It's fine, it doesn’t matter now,” he says, already flipping the second folder open—an overview of the entire experimental history of the Reaper. This folder is practically overflowing compared to the last one, the stack of paper as thick as his pinky finger is long. “Bring me a coffee if you would, and get yourself one too. We have a lot of work to do.”
/
A week later, Albedo finds himself in the mess hall.
It's not somewhere that he would typically be found; he doesn't actually take his meals here, after all. It’s far too loud, with about a hundred different conversations occurring at once, and he certainly can’t get any work done in this type of environment. Eating in his office just makes sense, both for his peace of mind and for his workload. Still, Kaeya drags him out every now and then just to prove to everyone else on base that he is indeed still alive.
“Everyone’s saying there’s someone special on base today,” Kaeya murmurs, fork poking languidly at the food on his tray. It’s a dismal meal as always, not that it really matters—Albedo stopped being able to taste anything but bitter iron years ago.
Even as solitary as he is, Albedo knows that news travels quickly in Base Alpha. Even the layout of the room lends itself to that fact—long rows of tables outlined by benches of soldiers talking quietly, information shared over meals.
It's the effect of being so close to the frontlines, so close to death—The Edge, as Base Alpha is so lovingly dubbed by its inhabitants. Being stationed here means one of two things: either you're extremely important, so your presence is necessary, or you're extremely unimportant, so you're being sent to throw your body onto the battlefield for the sake of the war effort.
Though he considers himself as a member of the first camp, it doesn't make Albedo feel too much better about his role.
"If you're asking if the Reaper is here," he murmurs lowly in response to Kaeya's pointed statement, glancing up at the other man through his lashes, "then I would say I can neither confirm nor deny that."
Kaeya chuckles, a sound which Albedo finds to be rather joyful and unassuming considering their current situation.
"Good thing I didn't ask anything, then."
The Cavalry Captain is putting on a front, one which Albedo finds to be familiar considering how long they've known each other. Kaeya has probably long since heard and confirmed every rumor surrounding the Reaper's presence on the base; he's only mentioning it now to see if he can scrounge out any last bits from the Investigation Team's wealth of knowledge.
And really, Albedo has to wonder if the wildfire rumor spread was intentional, maybe by someone with a higher title than himself.
Because the Captains' reports don't lie, and it's a fact that both he and Kaeya know—that they’re losing the war, that the casualties are building, that the enlistment numbers are down. There seem to be fewer and fewer victories to report with each passing day.
And Albedo isn't really one to be involved in conversations regarding morale, because he himself doesn't think much about war effort either; most days, all he really cares about is the chunky envelope of cash that arrives in his mother’s hands every month, the same one that ensures his sister will get a proper meal every day. But losing the war is an entirely different story.
So, though he has no part in it, he can understand—news of the Reaper's arrival might be exactly the kind of inspiration that they need.
Her existence was a special kind of rumor. It seemed to grasp the delicate pendulum between misery and hope and thrust it in the other direction for once. An experimental soldier like that, one who could withstand damage that a regular soldier couldn’t, was someone capable of turning the tides of the war.
"Say, are those rumors about her true?" Kaeya asks after a pause, fork tines slipping between his lips. A gleam of curiosity shines in his blue eyes—it seems you already have his interest piqued, for one reason or another.
Albedo regards his fellow Captain with a calculated stare. Annoyingly, that act only seems to fuel Kaeya further—he smirks, leaning forward to rest his chin on his hands.
"Falling in love with me now?" Kaeya asks.
"Rather, I'm thinking of how I might be rid of your questioning," Albedo replies blandly. He struggles to swallow down another flavorless chunk of meat—it sits a little too thick in his throat. Still, he’d assured Klee that he would eat properly, and he doesn’t like to break his promises to her.
Kaeya shrugs, tilting his head. "Only way is to answer."
There's little point in arguing with the Cavalry Captain—he'll always find some way to get through to you. So Albedo sighs in resignation, trying to ignore the growing grin on Kaeya's face as he starts to explain.
"Her endurance, strength, and longevity have been incredibly augmented, at the cost of certain deficits that affect the hippocampus. It's the result of extensive experimentation related to normal neurological limitations and biological—"
“Not everyone here’s a scientist,” Kaeya interrupts, waving his fork around. “Level with me here.”
By now, peak hours for the mess hall are waning—the soldiers around them are rising to their feet and clearing off their dishes, ready to return to their posts. Albedo figures that he should do the same somewhat soon.
"She's extremely strong and durable, but overuse of those abilities leads to consistent memory loss."
Kaeya sets his utensils down, plucking a napkin from the dispenser sitting equidistantly between them. For once, his expression turns rather serious.
"Memory loss? As in, everything?"
Albedo thinks back to the files that he'd spent his entire night reading through, only a coffee and a dim, flickering lamp to carry him through the late hours. Sucrose had helped for a good chunk of time, but she ended up asleep on the chair in the corner as always.
"Not everything," he corrects. "Many of her older memories from when she had just been augmented are rather robust. But the building strain has made it difficult for her brain to store newer memories."
Kaeya nods slowly, letting the information sink in. "So the foundation is there, she just can't keep building on it. But how much time does she lose each time?"
Albedo shrugs. "It depends on the level of exertion. Based on her files, she's lost anywhere from weeks to months each time. The standard deviation is high, and it's too variable to even compose a predictive formula. There's a lot that we still don't know about her and her abilities."
His calm voice echoes over the wide-set walls and vaulted ceilings—the mess hall is practically empty by now. He stands at the same time Kaeya does, stainless steel dishware clanking together on his tray.
"Well, there's where you come in, right? You're gonna fix her right up."
Kaeya jabs a playful elbow into his side.
And Albedo knows that if he were a good person, that's what he would be doing—searching for a way to cure you of this memory loss, of this curse that the demands of war had placed upon you. He just doesn't have the heart to tell anyone that he's supposed to be making more soldiers like you instead, committing them to the same fate.
"Yeah," he murmurs absently, scraping the remnant shreds of his lunch into the trash can. He's lost his appetite completely. "I guess so."
/
The steady scratch of pen against clipboard is the only sound filling the thick air of Albedo's office. Though he'd wheeled a cot into the space for you, the cushion is still hard, and the fluorescent lighting that illuminates the ceiling is too clinical for your taste.
"Please state your current location."
"Base Alpha."
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
"Please state the last memory you have before today."
"Uh, the battlefield? I'm not sure where, though I think—"
A sharp throb splits through your skull before you can finish your sentence and you hiss in pain, both hands clutching at your skull. The ache burns red-hot in your brain, so agonizing that you can't even manage a single thought.
"Hello?" A calm voice cuts through the flare. "Can you hear me?"
Another wave of pain flows over you, then slowly subsides, retreating into some far recess of your mind. A shorter episode than usual, you think—you'd been lucky this time.
When your eyes flutter open, they meet a pool of pure, curious teal. There's concern there too, bubbling shallowly somewhere under the surface. Albedo's expression is still smooth and calm, almost calculated as he scans your face.
"Good, you're still alert." Though you don't mean to, you flinch hard when Albedo leans close. He doesn't seem offended by the action—instead, he nods apologetically. "I apologize, that was rude of me. Is it okay if I touch you for a moment? I just want to assess any physical symptoms."
Wordlessly, you tip your head forward slightly, offering it to him. He places one hand on your chin, tilting it up slightly while the other comes to rest on your nape. You find his grip surprisingly gentle—most others haven't been.
"No noted redness in the eyes," he says aloud, directing his statement to his assistant who stands in the corner of the room, furiously taking notes. Truthfully, you'd practically forgotten that she was there—she's been quiet as a mouse since you got here. "No pupil dilation either."
He takes his time inspecting your face, talking about things like atrophies and sensory deficits. You find yourself staring at the white fluorescent lights again, seeing how long you can gaze into them before your eyes start to sting.
"How often would you say that type of pain occurs?" Albedo suddenly questions. On instinct, you only manage to meet his stare for a moment before the awkwardness forces you to look away.
"Anywhere from zero to ten times a day." He grimaces slightly at your response, practically the first movement you've seen on his face all day. For some reason, it makes you feel guilty. "But you don't have to worry about it. It's happened for as long as I can remember. I'm used to it by now."
He nods solemnly, still too close for comfort. "Yes, as you likely already know, it’s a side effect of your condition and the resulting strain on your cortex. I hope that over the course of our time together, I can develop a treatment to lessen the pain.”
His assistant—Sucrose, you remember her name to be—squirms in the corner, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, like she's dissected something unpleasant in his words. Albedo's attention flickers over to her movement for a moment, and he pointedly clears his throat.
"Sucrose, could you get her some water? It might help."
She flinches in surprise when she’s addressed, but nods hurriedly, seemingly appreciative of the opportunity to escape the quiet room. She scampers out without another word, leaving the two of you alone.
You watch Albedo as this happens—his lips are pressed into a thin line, a sense of tension in his posture as he stands over you. When Sucrose leaves and the door falls shut, that rigidity seems to dissolve, his shoulders loosening beneath his white coat.
"That's not your job, is it?" you guess. He doesn't seem surprised at your line of questioning—instead, he makes his way to his desk, rifling through the stack of folders sitting neatly at the center. "You don't have to worry about my comfort. You're just supposed to clone my condition, right? That's what they told me."
"And I will," he assures. The edges of his words carry a certain sharpness, a warning that this is a touchy subject for discussion. "I can do both."
His declaration gives you pause. Most experimentation that you've experienced did not come easily. It's rarely, if ever, comfortable and painless, and you're sure that it wouldn't be safe for a regular person. But you're acutely aware of your own abilities, and that includes your limitations.
You sit up on your elbows. "It won't be nearly as fast though, right? I know that any attempt to clone my augmentation has failed so far, so it's okay if you pull out all the stops—"
The folder slams shut with a small force that echoes in the space, the shock sending the rest of your sentence tumbling back down your throat. Albedo sucks in a breath—there's a lightning flash of conflict in his expression that's gone as soon as it came.
"There's no need," he replies after a pause, composed. "I'm very good at what I do."
You find that he's much different than previous scientists that you've encountered—the ones that would poke and prod at you at odd hours of the night, needles sinking into your skin and pills being shoved over your tongue. Even the cot you're laying on is an atypical luxury; usually, they just pull up any old lab table and have you lie down on it.
"Okay," you mumble in agreement. It doesn't seem like he's keen on changing his stance anytime soon. "I'll trust your judgment then."
A certain discomfort clings to the air as you lapse back into silence. You don't know why Albedo's caution feels so wrong. It doesn't matter, you convince yourself. In a few days, you'll probably forget this exchange entirely. This meeting, this conversation—all of it will fade into obscurity.
Neither of you speak again until Sucrose returns, a cup of water in hand. She hands it to you with an uneasy smile.
You're used to that kind of perturbation around you. Most seem to be on edge in your presence, as if they're expecting you to blow up at any moment. You can't blame them for thinking that way, not really—no one seems to understand the science behind your augmentation, or how it had even succeeded in the first place. And people will always fear what they don't understand.
You take a cautious sip from the cup, testing for the telltale bitterness of medicine mixed in the water. It's cold and refreshing, absent of any lingering aftertaste. Clean and fresh.
Albedo drops the folder he was reading onto his desk, and it thuds against the wood with a tone of finality. "Well, we'll move onto the physical testing portion next, so we'll need to go outside to the training field. And like I mentioned earlier, Sucrose and I will be in charge of your care. So if there's anything you need while you remain on base, please feel free to come to us."
Anything you need? It's not often that someone asks you about your wants and needs—you're not even sure what you would ask for, given the option. Still, you nod vaguely, sitting up.
"When's your next deployment?" Sucrose pipes up from the corner, twiddling with her fingers. "If you don't mind me asking."
It's hard for you to think about dates and times and calendars. Because of your condition, everything tends to jumble together, and that's if you can even remember it in the first place. The Commander at this base—Jane, you think her name was, or maybe June?—had debriefed you this morning, but it's still difficult to recall.
"Tomorrow, I think," you say, tilting your head thoughtfully. Then, with a mirthless chuckle, you add, "So I probably won't remember any of this."
You don't mean for it to sound as pitiful as it does, but Sucrose's face drops in turn. Years ago, you might have felt the same way; now, though, it's simply normalcy.
As he steps toward you again, you find that Albedo's eyes are disarmingly kind.
"It's no issue," he says, each word feather-soft. "We'll meet again."
/
Albedo is half-asleep at his desk when someone knocks at his door.
He startles at the sound, then settles—there's only one person on this entire base who would bother to knock in the first place. A glance at the clock confirms that it's about half past 3 in the morning; he should've been finished with this paperwork hours ago.
"Come in," he calls blearily.
It's Jean who cracks the door open, nodding politely as she enters. There's no real greeting necessary, and Albedo doesn't even have the energy to entertain one at this time.
He's always thought that Jean would do better as a queen than a Commander—she carries herself with an air of royalty, grace, and authority that seems to fill the room. It's rare to see her around since she's usually tucked away in her office, but she's a constant presence nonetheless. Albedo would likely consider her one of the people he respects the most on this base.
Her gaze flickers over the stray paperwork that sits in front of him. If she holds any judgment about his accidental nap, she doesn't show it. Instead, she wordlessly settles into the plush chair across from him, an expectant look in her eyes. Albedo gathers the folders scattered across his desktop, carefully arranging them in a pile and filing them away—he'll have to see to it that the paperwork is completed at a later time.
His desk drawer falls shut, and three beats of complete silence pass.
"So you've met the Reaper," she starts, one hand resting on the saber at her hip. It's phrased somewhere between a question and a statement.
Albedo can only nod in response. "So I have."
He'd expected that the Commander would make an appearance here at some point (though perhaps not in the early hours of the morning). After all, the pressure of the higher-ups must have been immense to result in the Reaper being stationed here under his care. Only the most critical projects are sent to him so directly.
"And what do you think?"
Noting the dark bags ringing her eyes, Albedo offers Jean a half-smile.
"Nothing that I can't do, given time. I hope they haven't been hounding you too much about it."
The brief twitch at the corner of Jean's lip confirms that the higher-ups had indeed been hounding her about it, probably far more than necessary. But she merely sighs, throwing her hands up in resignation.
"You know how they are. Always talking about results and outcomes. I've been telling them you'll get it done, but good things take time. But I trust that you'll be able to take care of it."
Jean's confidence only makes Albedo feel worse about the entire operation—he'd like nothing more than to be completely uninvolved. But that type of disobedience wouldn't only affect him, but everyone who is counting on him.
Jean, Klee, his mother, even Kaeya. And you as well.
"Well, I haven't been able to see her in about a week anyway," Albedo says, stifling a yawn. "She's been deployed all this time, and I haven't received any update yet."
It's ridiculous, when he thinks about it—the higher-ups want him to replicate your augmentation, but still insist on sending you away for days or weeks at a time. It's completely hypocritical to demand efficiency on his part and then request your continued combat.
Jean nods. "That's part of why I came here to see you. We just received word that she's fallen in battle. She's being transported back to Base Alpha as we speak."
She produces a single printout and slides it to him over his desk, letting him glance over it.
Four platoons singlehandedly defeated… eventual defeat by high-armor tank… reset confirmed.
Reset confirmed.
Albedo sucks in a breath. "So her memory is gone. Do we know how much yet?"
Jean shakes her head. "Not yet. Once she's cleared to be released, I'm sure they'll send her to you for an examination. Unfortunately, it looks like re-introductions might be necessary."
It must be terrifying, Albedo thinks—to wake up, fresh from the battlefield, not knowing where you are and how you'd gotten there. It's a miracle that you've maintained your sanity after all this time, neurological burdens aside.
"I see," he murmurs, still looking over the details of your last deployment. "I'll prepare to receive her then. Rest assured, she'll be in good hands."
Jean smiles appreciatively. "I'm sure she will."
And though Albedo doesn't consider himself the most socially adept person in the world, he's sure that this is the point where most people would get up and leave. It's unimaginably late after all—or early, more accurately—and chitchatting doesn't seem to be a priority for the moment. But Jean remains motionless in her seat, still fixing him with a deliberate stare.
"Is something the matter?" he tries. "If there's nothing else, then I have some paperwork to finish. I'll have it ready for you by sunrise, if that's your concern."
Jean's mouth opens, stalls, then shuts, like she'd swallowed down the words. Clearing her throat, she rises to her feet, clearly restless.
"No, it's nothing. Thank you for your hard work as always, Albedo. I'll be seeing you soon."
When she leaves, the air seems to leave the room alongside her. Albedo leans back in his chair as soon as the door shuts, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the dim light. It seems he has work cut out for him when it comes to you.
Klee's letter is still folded at the corner of his desk. He looks over it once, then twice, then decides against it—it'll have to wait. Instead, he yanks his desk drawer open, plucks out the necessary files, and gets back to work.
/
"Please state your current location."
"Base Alpha."
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
"Please state the last memory you have before today."
"Um, two days ago, I think. Right before I deployed, I met the Cavalry Captain. But I can't quite remember his name—"
"Kaeya."
"Right, Kaeya."
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
"Any pain today?"
You bite your lip, stretching your neck testingly. "Headaches. But nothing abnormal."
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
The Investigation Team's Captain had introduced himself as Albedo when you first arrived back on base after a short stint in the infirmary. It's pretty typical of your schedule, from what you can remember—battlefield, infirmary, back to base, and repeat.
Based on the way his gaze keeps flickering over you, you'd guess that the two of you have met before; he looks over you knowingly, like he's trying to assess whether you're showing any signs of remembering him.
Unfortunately, despite how much you wade through the memories flooding your brain, you find nothing that points to the blond man in front of you. It always feels that way in your head—an endless, cavernous ocean that leaves you constantly drowning. Full, yet empty at the same time, so much left inaccessible.
As far as you know, this man is in charge of replicating your augmentation. You'd practically laughed when you'd first been told—he must be the fifth or sixth scientist to try. For reasons you can't explain, they'd all failed spectacularly, and you can't expect that this will be any different.
"As I'm sure you can tell, your memory has lapsed since we last met," Albedo notes with a frown. "If it's okay with you, I'd like to proceed with a physical exam. Nothing invasive, but observing the rate of your healing will help in my research."
Hesitantly, you sit up, head tilting at his words. "You're asking me?"
He looks back at you as if you've grown two heads, pen stalling against his clipboard. "Asking you for permission is only customary and ethical."
"What would you do if I said no, then?"
"Then I wouldn't do it."
He says it like it's all so obvious. To you, it's an interesting concept. You're the only soldier of your kind; in the event that you rejected his examination, you're sure that he would have no hope of replicating your augmentation. It's a rather odd approach to the research, though you wouldn't call yourself a scientist either way.
Sighing, you lie back down. "Just do whatever you need to do."
He lingers over you for a moment as if he means to say more, but seems to decide against it. Wordlessly, he yanks a pair of gloves from a box in the drawer of his desk. The familiar sound of latex snapping has you flinching on instinct—you force yourself to relax against the cot beneath you, trying to focus your attention elsewhere.
"This is a nice office for just one guy," you observe, looking around the room. "Usually, they have tons of assistants and interns sniffing and crawling all over the place."
"I usually have an assistant," he corrects, seeming slightly amused by your description, "but she's out on an unrelated assignment today. Either way, we don't have any heavy testing planned, so it's fine if it's just me."
"Did I meet her before?" you ask.
He nods. "You did, if only briefly. We conducted an initial examination when you first arrived on Base Alpha."
Base Alpha. You figure it's a miracle that this is the first time you've been assigned here. The reports said that the generals had been hesitant to place you on the frontlines too soon, hoping to thin out the defenses in other areas before gathering your power in one place. You don't have any particular preference with regards to location—the battlefield looks the same no matter where you are.
Then again, you don't remember the other bases much anyway.
As you ponder that fact, Albedo looks over your injuries—the swell of the bruise under your eye, the long cut running from your cheek to your chin, the raised scars that line your entire body. In a way, you're grateful for them. They're the only evidence you have of battles long fought and forgotten.
"The dressing on this wound is horrible," Albedo observes, his expression reflecting disgust as he eyes the gauze wrapped over your arm. The white bandages are fully saturated with blood, and the cloth sticks to you even as he gently peels it away from your skin.
You wince through a shrug, the wound stinging as it's exposed to the open air. "They didn't seem too bothered with patching me up. They know it won't kill me."
In the infirmary, you were of the least concern amongst all the patients. Most seemed to know about your sturdiness, and thus they tended to leave you to your own devices. It makes sense, at least to you—as long as you're not dead, the condition of your physical body isn't a priority.
"The infirmary here did this to you?"
"If I had to guess, it's probably the same everywhere. Doesn't really matter."
A quiet rage flickers in Albedo's eyes as he regards the soaked bandage. "Your wounds can still be infected. Proper care is still necessary in your case."
You're not really sure what "proper care" entails, but you figure that's not what he wants to hear right now.
"When it gets infected, I just let it scar over."
"Infections are painful."
You smile, a touch of bitterness in the stretch of your lips. "Lots of things are. You get used to it."
You expect him to brush it off; most other scientists that you've worked with would. They know that your true value lies on the battlefield—as long as you're still fighting, not much else matters. Even if it results in your pain.
Exhaling through his nose, Albedo strips off his gloves, tossing them into the trash along with the soiled bandage. He replaces them over his hands just as quickly, retrieving a roll of gauze from his drawer.
"That's unacceptable. Even if the efficiency of your healing outpaces others, there is no reason to be careless with your treatment. I'll be having a word with my Commander to remedy this."
You get lost in the precision of his fingers as he gently eases the gauze to the right length and tears it. When he presses it to your wound, the warmth of his skin, even through the gloves, seems to burn against you—you can't tell if it's pleasant or painful.
Your breath sticks in your lungs as he secures the bandage. "You don't have to do that—"
"And you shouldn't be treated with negligence. We owe a lot of our victories to you, they would do well to remember that before showing inattentiveness with your care."
It catches you off-guard. You're aware that you haven't been treated very kindly in your life. You've also been keenly aware of your duties as long as you remember, and they tended to take precedence over everything else. It's odd to think that anything but your pure performance could matter in the grand scheme of things.
Though you're devoid of most memories, there are fragments that linger—feelings that can't be forgotten, emotions that are written into your very DNA, instincts that your mind forgets but your body remembers. So perhaps you have a certain stigma against scientists, researchers, and the like because of those hidden recollections.
But Albedo finishes wrapping your wound, and when he steps away, you notice the disappearance of his warmth instantly—a lonely chill layers itself where he once was.
"I'm sure you're exhausted after everything," he says, completely unaware of your dazed look. "We're finished for today, so you can return to your quarters and rest. If there's anything else you need, you can always feel free to come to me. Usually, I would include Sucrose in that, but since you haven't met her yet, you can rely on me."
You sit up hesitantly, stretching out your limbs. "Are you sure? I can keep going."
With his back turned, you can't make out Albedo's expression, but he replies with the same measured cadence as always. "There's no need to strain yourself on my behalf. The examination we performed today has already given me plenty of data to analyze, I assure you."
Something in your chest stirs. All you've ever known how to do is stretch yourself past your limits, both body and brain. You feel an overwhelming need to be useful to him, to everyone, however possible.
Albedo isn't the type to waste time, already busying himself with something else—some sort of icy liquid in a beaker, light glittering through the crystalline glass. He's measuring it with a seamless level of precision that appears as natural as breathing, frosty light reflected on his pale skin. Something about it is indescribably gentle.
And you don't know why you're suddenly curious, but still you ask, "How many times have we met before, Albedo?"
He pauses, uncharacteristically caught off-guard by your question. "Just once. The first time you came here."
It doesn't feel like just once, and you don't know why. Then again, you don't really know anything. So you chalk it up to a false sense of deja vu, tucking the burdensome nostalgia away. It won't matter in a few days anyway, when your new deployment starts. By the time you end up back in this room, he'll be no one but a stranger to you.
"Does it bother you that next time we meet, I probably won't recognize you?"
The question hangs in the air for a moment before Albedo blinks.
"Not at all. I'll simply introduce myself again."
"Again?"
He pours the beaker with almost inhuman accuracy, not a single tremor present in his hands. It's the first time that you've ever thought that science was beautiful.
"As many times as it takes," he answers without deviating from his task. "That's what it means to be a scientist."
/
[RESET]
"Good morning. My name is Albedo, and I'm the Captain of the Investigation Team on Base Alpha. For the duration of your stay, you'll be under my care—"
[RESET]
"—ful. Don't move too much, and tell me if it hurts. If the pain becomes unbearable, raise your hand or grab at my coat."
"Relax, I can handle it, Albedo. I've taken a needle or two in my life, that you can trust—"
[RESET]
"—worthy. I promise that he's not truly as foolish as he acts. I wouldn't bring anyone here that would be a danger to your progress. If he is a detriment in any way, I will send him out."
"Thank you for that glowing introduction, Albedo. It's great to finally meet you again, Reaper. My name is Kaeya, the Cavalry Captain here at Base Alpha."
"Likewise. Just a bit of sparring today then, yeah?"
"That's correct. I'm assessing whether there have been any changes in your augmentation since we began experimenting."
"In that case, I'll try to make a good impression. Good luck—"
[RESET]
"—ily, you didn't lose too much memory this time. It seems that you remember portions of our last meeting a few days ago."
"Seems to be that way. It's good to be back in one piece for once."
"…It's good to see you back."
"I might not be so lucky next time, though."
"That's fine. I've grown rather efficient in my introductions. Call it experience."
"If you're as good as you say you are, maybe I won't have to lose any memory next time. Or, at least, I can hope—"
[RESET]
"—fully I didn't get any on your coat. Sorry about that."
"Don't worry, it must have been my error. Nausea is quite common when testing medicines like this. And my coat is a non-issue. Are you in any pain?"
"No. Just embarrassed that I threw up on your shoes, mostly."
"Any other symptomatic changes?"
"Hm, not that I can tell. I don't feel any different—"
[RESET]
"—ly back at Base Charlie. Last time I was there, they had way better food. Chicken katsu and rice."
"No way. It's a shame I don't remember it."
"Yup. Maybe if you end up back there you can send us a care package. Right, Albedo?"
"I didn't ask you here to talk about food, Kaeya. Please proceed with the experiment, if you'd be so kind—"
[RESET]
"—ness. That's one thing that I think makes you a lot different than other scientists I've met. Not that I can remember most of the details."
"…I wouldn't call it kindness. That's just part of being an ethical researcher."
"Well, I think you're kind, Albedo. You've put up with me for this long."
"You say that like it's a burden."
"Isn't it?"
"I've never thought of it as such, no."
/
"Please state your current location."
"Base Alpha."
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
"Please state the last memory you have before today."
"A flash of light, probably some sort of artillery. Felt like my skull was being crushed in. A lot of screaming."
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
"So, the battlefield then. Nothing before those events?"
Albedo doesn't know why his whole body tenses as he awaits your answer—he feels the tension in his shoulders first, every inch of him acutely on edge. A thin sweat builds below his collar. Your eyes flutter shut, searching, before you shake your head.
"No, not that I can remember."
A sharp disappointment settles in his chest. It's not a logical emotion, not at all—this should not come to a surprise to him. The reset of your memories is a simple fact of your existence, an undeniable fact. The science does not lie, and neither does the blank look with which you meet his stare.
Faking a cough, Albedo clears his throat. "Right. Well, that kind of memory and subsequent injury aligns with the last deployment that you undertook since we last met."
Your eyes brighten in interest, if only slightly. "So we've met before?"
He laughs humorlessly. "Yes, we have."
Albedo knows that the world exists in facts, in proven truths, in indestructible, evidence-based science. But none of that accounts for the subdued sadness that starts to unravel in his soul at that moment. He'd severely underestimated the weight of this project.
Because while your curse is the loss of everything you once were, Albedo is left knowing everything that you can no longer recall.
"No pain? Any headaches?"
"Today? One or two, maybe."
"Good. That means the treatment is working."
He forces himself through the motions of a physical exam. There's a notable tremor in his fingers when he feels for your pulse—he attributes it to all the caffeine he's been consuming lately.
Demands from the higher-ups had grown more and more frequent. Notes with varying degrees of vicious threats, promises of wealth, and desperate begging seem to arrive on his desk daily. Sucrose delivers them with a pitying smile, watching as Albedo tosses them into the garbage, one after the other.
Science takes time, he tells himself. That's the only reason that the project yet remains incomplete. There is still more data to be taken, more tests to be run—he won't stop until he's sure every avenue has been explored. His notes have grown so numerous that they no longer fit in his desk—he'd had to order a separate filing cabinet entirely. Six months worth of data is no easy task to organize, after all.
Six months of meeting you, then unmeeting you. Six months of watching you go, then watching you return, broken and bruised. Six months of knowing you, and not having that recognition returned.
"Sorry if it's frustrating." The quiet lull of your voice has Albedo's heart stirring. He doesn't expect you to break the silence, but you do, so he pauses his ministrations to meet your gaze. "Working with me, I mean. Having to introduce yourself over and over. I'm sure you're sick of it."
You're looking at him with something akin to pity, like you had easily read his silence as something amiss. He wonders how such a thing could be possible if you don't truly remember him in the first place.
Sick of it. He's never thought of it that way. It's not regret that thrums beneath his skin—it's longing. For the versions of you who knew him, maybe. For the ones that fought so eagerly, endlessly duty-bound. For the versions of you that you will never come to know again.
"Not at all," he replies, forcing composure. His voice comes out tighter than he'd like. "It's merely my duty as a researcher."
"Am I the same? Every time?"
You're chattier today. Typically, after a reset, you delve into a shy silence for a time, still unsettled by the idea of being alone in a room with him. He can't blame you—to you, he is effectively a stranger.
Still, he considers your question for a moment, head tilted.
"No," he answers honestly. "At your roots, similar. Things like your favorite color being red, the way that you speak. They're integral parts of who you are, after all. While you might lose your memory, you aren't losing yourself completely. But there are still minor differences each time."
At his response, you smile vaguely, staring down at your feet. It's all completely odd; Albedo gets a sense that while you aren't lying about not remembering him, something in your brain is struggling—struggling, grasping, hoping to connect with the memories that you had lost.
The current working theory for your condition is that the demand that your augmentation places upon your brain requires that certain neural pathways be pruned—to make room for your enhanced abilities, so to speak. And thus far, it has worked relatively well; you don't seem too obsessed with recovering your lost memories, so your mental load is lessened.
But any attempt by you to recover those past recollections could prove disastrous, Albedo is sure. Your cortex simply would not be able to handle such strain.
(And yet, he hopes that you might remember a piece of him. Just one, if it could be allowed.)
"It's weird, though," you suddenly say, gaze lifting to his. He swallows. "My favorite color, I don't think it's red. I'm not particularly fond of it."
Albedo's brows knit together. Across every single reset that you've experienced, that was one variable that never changed. A relatively innocuous one, sure, but it was still evidence that you were maintaining some foundational level of self. And for something as arbitrary as your favorite color to change—
"What is it, then? I can update the charts if that makes you feel more comfortable."
You ponder that for a moment, humming thoughtfully.
"Teal," you finally decide. Albedo's breath hitches. "A bright teal, like the ocean."
/
—deployment frequency will be increased to maintain frontline strength. Since her stays on Base Alpha will be more limited, feel free to make full use of her time. She has been granted an exception to the mandated break time, as well as a shortened scheduled sleep period, so utilize this time as well. We eagerly await your results—
"They're working her to the bone, huh?"
The lazy drawl of Kaeya's voice draws Albedo's attention away from the mess of paperwork and documentation spread over his desktop, the mahogany wood disappearing beneath a sea of white paper. He'd been so focused that he hadn't even noticed the office door sliding open.
"Ah, Kaeya," Albedo greets, trying not to outwardly sigh. "Timely as ever."
The Cavalry Captain smirks as he enters, swiftly crossing the room and slumping into the chair in front of Albedo's desk. "Aren't I? I figured that you might need the company considering that she hasn't been around."
Albedo wants to say that Kaeya is wrong, but he can't truthfully say so—things are much quieter when you're away on deployment. It gives him more time to think and analyze your augmentation, but it's also much more isolating. He worries about you often, too; the details surrounding your condition are murky, and it's possible that one day, you'll simply forget everything completely.
Including yourself.
Though he'd never been particularly interested in battle reports before, he reads them thoroughly now, poring over every reference to you and your experience.
Gesturing to the stacks of files piled over his desk like daunting mountains, Albedo shakes his head. "On the contrary, I have plenty of work to keep me company. And I have a feeling that you do too."
The war effort has ramped up significantly lately, leaving every single person on Base Alpha working around the clock. He hasn't seen Jean in weeks, and he'd been forced to ask Sucrose to take care of some other projects independently just to keep up with his own workload. Three of Klee's letters now sit at the corner of his desk, still unread and without response.
He feels guilty about his silence, of course, but he simply has too much on his plate at the moment.
Kaeya shrugs flippantly. "What can I say? I have my own ways of staying on schedule. But it seems like you have your work cut out for you with the Reaper situation."
He's referring to the fact that your augmentation still hasn't been replicated, Albedo knows. No one had expected it to take this long, after all. Without the original scientist available to ask for guidance, the process has been painstakingly long, and yet the only official submitted progress that he has to show is in his management of your pain symptoms.
Albedo scrawls his signature over another file, setting it aside. "Looks to be that way. It's a more difficult project than I anticipated, but I'm still confident that it can be done—"
"You already know how to do it, don't you?"
Every cell of Albedo's body freezes—his nerves twist with ice, blood mixing with rime. His previous response dissolves like bitter acid on his tongue.
"What?"
Suddenly, as his gaze lifts, Albedo feels as though he is looking at a completely different person. Kaeya leans forward, slow, a predator to its prey, face completely devoid of humor.
"I know you, Albedo. I've seen you make complete miracles happen, and you like having all the answers. If you truly couldn't figure out how to do it, you'd be losing sleep, studying, running a million tests—hell, you wouldn't even be bothering with this paperwork right now. But you are, because you do know you can create another Reaper. You just don't want to. The only thing I can't figure out is why."
Time seems to stop. Kaeya has always been perceptive, but not this perceptive—Albedo is sure that he had been submitting progress reports in line with what any typical scientist would be able to do. It was a project that had been deemed near impossible in the first place, even for someone of his caliber. Nothing should have looked suspicious from the outside.
But Albedo can feel everything unraveling before him.
"You have to understand, Kaeya, it's not right," he starts, each word like a tiptoe. On the precipice of something disastrous. "You've seen the way that they treat her, the way that she lives—they treat her as a weapon and nothing more. Her memory loss is getting worse and worse. Even if it's for the sake of the war, I won't commit anyone else to that life."
At his words, Kaeya laughs, brows knitting together like he can't quite fathom the ridiculousness of the situation.
"It's not right? So what's right then? Letting all of us die? There's a reason that we're all here, Albedo. If the frontline falls, it's over—for all of us. Not just for you and me, but for everyone relying on us. We need her, and we need more of her if we want to have any chance of winning."
Albedo sets his pen down carefully. "We're talking about augmentation here. It's not something that should be taken lightly. This isn't just about the war, it's about being sworn to a lifetime of living and forgetting, of fighting and breaking—"
Kaeya slams a fist onto the desk, sending the picture frame at the corner careening to the floor. It fractures with an ugly cracking sound, broken shards of glass scattering. Albedo winces, making a move to gather the pieces, but Kaeya's hand yanks at his wrist first, forcing their eyes to meet.
"Then that's their choice to make. You read her file—you've probably read it ten more times than I have. So you know that she volunteered to be augmented back then. Maybe she doesn't remember, but it's all right there, loud and clear. So if she was the one who chose this, let me ask you, are you doing this for her or for you?"
The rare burn of anger starts to flare in Albedo's chest as he tears out of Kaeya's grip.
"I don't need a lecture from you about her, you've barely even met her. She didn't know about the symptoms back then. No one did. We don't know what she would've chosen if she had, but I know for a fact that she wants her memories back. Even now, her brain wants to remember everything it's lost. You accuse me of being selfish in my actions, but why are you even involving yourself in this?"
Kaeya's chest is heaving, each breath loud and heavy, his expression a mix of confusion and fury.
"Some of us have stakes in this war, Albedo. It must be nice to have your family sitting safe at home, but my family is already fighting on the frontlines. So while you sit here dragging your feet and writing think-pieces on ethics, they're risking their lives buying time for you to figure this all out."
Kaeya's brother, Diluc—Albedo vaguely remembers seeing his name on some files regarding frontline battles. He's a formidable soldier in his own right, even rejecting offers to become a Captain in favor of staying in the field.
And Kaeya isn't necessarily wrong—this type of advancement could be the single defining factor in winning this war.
"They're destroying her."
"Oh, come on. You've seen her. Even an artillery shot isn't enough to kill—"
"I mean her," Albedo asserts, desperation lacing his words. "One day, she's going to reset, and it won't be just a few days—it'll be everything."
He sees it sometimes, when you’re curled up against that brick wall that lines the training field, chin tucked to your knees. He’ll mention something about the battle, and it’ll happen: your eyes turn hard, cold, like all your training is catching up to you. You’d been programmed to be a soldier first and foremost, and as each part of you slips away, that might be all that remains eventually.
He’s afraid of that day.
Kaeya's expression flickers with pity. "Then maybe that's what needs to happen."
It stings more than he thought it would. For a moment, Albedo says nothing, merely meeting Kaeya's sharp glare with his own. Then, he collapses back into his chair, exhausted.
"Please, Kaeya. It was never my intention to halt the research indefinitely. I just need some time—I just need to figure out how to suppress the memory loss somehow. Once I'm finished, I swear to you that I will do everything in my power to make the augmentations widely available." He stares down at his hands, flexing his fingers. "I just can't watch her live like that anymore."
The snarl on Kaeya's face softens, if only slightly. He still looks betrayed, in disbelief that his longtime friend would even attempt such a risk with the higher-ups breathing down his neck.
"How long?"
Albedo looks up. "What?"
"How long do you need?"
Each of Kaeya's words is honed, spoken through gritted teeth and punctuated with anger. One hand braced against the desk, he appears as though he's barely holding himself together.
"One more month," Albedo requests softly. "I know it's a big ask, but I only need a little longer. Please, Kaeya. I swear to you that I can do this."
A thin thread seems to stretch between them, on the very brink of snapping. Besides the sound of Kaeya's heavy breathing, the room is near-silent, watching and waiting.
"One month," Kaeya finally agrees, though he doesn't sound ecstatic about it in the slightest. "You get one month. And if it's not done by then, you're finished."
Albedo releases a breath that he didn't realize he'd been holding. "One month, I promise. Thank you, Kaeya."
The Cavalry Captain scoffs. "Don't thank me yet. Talk to me again when you've done your job."
As the tension slowly dissipates, Albedo starts to clean up the shards of his picture frame. Kaeya joins in the effort after a moment, delicately plucking the displayed photograph off the floor.
"Sorry," he mumbles apologetically, "I'll get you a new one—"
His breath hitches when he catches a glimpse of the back of the glossy paper, tally marks scrawled there in dark ink.
Fifty-three tally marks, to be exact.
"Fifty-three. Fifty-three resets. You've been keeping track like this?"
Albedo's expression betrays nothing—he simply continues carefully sweeping up the fragments, depositing them in the trash. But when Kaeya looks closer, he notices the tremor in his fingers.
"You…about her, you—"
Albedo simply shakes his head. And Kaeya understands. They clean up the rest of the glass together, and they both retire to bed.
There are no words that could explain this, no niceties that could make this okay.
Because even after fifty-three resets, fifty-three attempts to restore the lost versions of you, Albedo is still left chasing someone who no longer exists.
/
The man who calls himself Albedo is in charge of your care.
He tells you that it's been two weeks since your last deployment, and that you'd been returned to Base Alpha after an overuse of your abilities, resulting in your exit from the battlefield. You find that to be interesting, considering you don't remember anything past two days ago.
Something about him is intimately familiar.
As a result of being augmented for so many years, you're no stranger to this feeling—the notion that you should know something, but you're lacking the necessary context to make the right connections. Sometimes your intuition is wrong, but sometimes it isn't; it's frustrating to rely on others to supply you with the right answers.
Albedo is thumbing over your pulse when you ask, "Have we met before?"
He presses down a tad too hard—you wince at the feeling, and the pressure disappears as quickly as it came.
"Sorry," he rushes out, immediately releasing your wrist. He flinches when he meets your eyes, like he's just seen a ghost. "But, to answer your question, no. We have not."
Lips pursed, you nod shallowly. "I see."
The man who calls himself Albedo is lying.
You're not sure how exactly you know. Honestly, you're not sure if you're even sure that you know. But your instincts don't lie, and something deep in your chest tells you that you know the man standing before you. Brows furrowed, you ruminate on his presence, trying to pick out any details that you might be able to recollect.
A sharp pain pierces at your temples—you let out a broken gasp, fingers twisting into your hair. Tears spring to the corners of your eyes, and your stomach churns with the urge to vomit. The ache is far worse than usual, throbbing like an alarm, a warning, like you'd tried to access something that you shouldn't have.
"Can you hear me? Are you okay?"
The soft voice filters into your mind, and it relaxes you despite everything—you feel safe in its presence. Clinging to it as your guide, you ride it out, waiting for the pain to subside like it always does.
By the time you gather yourself, you become keenly aware of the sweat gathering at your forehead. The first ray of light that enters your eyes is already overstimulating, stinging as it goes. The next thing you notice is that you're panting, and your lungs squeeze with the need for oxygen.
That, and a pool of clear, bright teal stares back at you.
The sight sobers you momentarily. The swell of your heart doesn't make sense, not if you've never even met Albedo before. Nothing could explain why you feel this way.
"Your eyes," you murmur in a daze, grip curling into the fabric of his coat. It's soft under your touch, not how you expected.
Albedo flinches, stunned. "What about them?"
A lazy smile drags at the corners of your lips.
"They're teal," you say, your tongue seeming to form the words before your brain can catch up. Familiar, again. "That's my favorite color."
/
"Mr. Albedo…"
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
"Ahem, Mr. Albedo?"
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
"Mr. Albedo!"
Even her yell is relatively subdued, but Albedo finally notices Sucrose's presence in the doorway of his office nonetheless. His eyes throb in protest as his gaze lifts, dots of darkness swarming at the edges of his vision.
It's been about a week since he left his desk at all. He's taken all his meals here and slept here when the pull of exhaustion grew too strong to ignore. Calculations, formulas, research papers—they're all he can manage to think about, all that he dreams of when his eyes flutter shut.
He'd glanced at himself briefly in the bathroom mirror earlier. He's aware that he looks haggard, dark circles ringing his eyes and his hair messily tied back at his nape. His assistant has definitely noticed as well, based on the hesitant concern in her expression.
"I'm fine, Sucrose," he assures her, reaching out one hand and continuing his calculations with the other. "Just leave the files here with me and I'll take a look at them."
Sucrose approaches slowly, a single envelope gathered at her chest. "It's not files. It's another letter from Klee."
Klee.
His stare flits to the three envelopes on the edge of his desk, cast even further aside in favor of the paperwork before him. He hadn't gotten a chance to reply to the first letter, nor to read the second and the third. It's been over half a year since he's exchanged any correspondence with her at all. Albedo swallows down the lump that forms quickly in his throat.
He should read and reply to the one in Sucrose's hands—if he were a good brother, he would do it at this very moment.
But he isn't one. He isn't certain whether or not he's even a good person or not at this point, and that's all he can ponder as he stacks the letter with the others on the corner of his desk.
"What about her?"
Sucrose doesn't have to ask who he's referring to. The progress of the Reaper project is practically the only thing that Albedo seems to care about nowadays. Every single assignment that the Investigation Team has been assigned has been placed on hiatus in favor of this work. Even now, as she pulls the latest brain scans out of her folder, Albedo's eyes widen, hands twitching impatiently with the need to study.
"Everything indicates that her memory loss is being exacerbated by her attempts to access the neural synapses that her cortex is trying to prune," Sucrose notes softly. "I think we have to reassess our care plan—"
"Let me see her latest scans."
"Mr. Albedo—"
"Just give me the damn scans!"
Sucrose flinches hard, but the sting of regret isn't enough to make Albedo retract his words. He exhales a long breath between his gritted teeth. It's misdirected anger, he knows, but he has no one left to blame but himself. Kaeya's deadline looms, and before he knew it, he had one week left to achieve the impossible.
His hands are shaking. The pen skips, turning his signature into an ugly scribble. Even as Sucrose slides the documents over to him, it takes a few seconds before he can calm himself enough to pick them up.
A glance over the scans reveals that your condition has worsened far quicker than he anticipated.
Since you'd previously been assigned and reassigned so often, there wasn't much for your mind to cling to. After all, you'd been treated with little care and tossed aside so often that it might have been advantageous for those memories to be forgotten for the sake of your mental health. But since having been introduced to something—or someone—that your brain hopes to recall, the strain has increased exponentially.
He's running out of time in more ways than one.
"If her cortex overloads," Sucrose starts, then trails off. Albedo doesn't need to hear the rest anyway—he already knows.
If your cortex overloads to that extent, you'd lose everything. Your memories, your sense of self, perhaps even your life.
His hand clenches to a fist around his pen; he can feel the plastic bending under his grip. The entire world seems to warp at the revelation, the darkness encroaching further at the boundaries of his vision.
"Prepare the lab," he demands, already rifling through his files, trying to find the right notes. Paperwork be damned, he needs to make progress on your condition now. "We have work to do. Get yourself a coffee if you need it. We'll work through the night if we have to."
Sucrose nods. "Right away, Mr. Albedo."
As his assistant turns away, only then does Albedo realize just how different she looks. Dark bags hang under her eyes, a mirror of the ones under his own, and her clothes hang off her bones a little more than they used to. The slouch of her shoulders, the curve of her spine—somehow, it all looks overwhelmingly sad.
He clears his throat. "Sucrose?"
A pause at the door, one hand on the knob. "Yes?"
"I'm sorry."
And he means it. For tonight, for this project, for everything.
She smiles, though the sentiment doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I know. I am too."
/
There is a crumpled photograph sticking out of the pocket of the scientist's lab coat.
You notice it first when he's leaning over you, one hand gently thumbing under your eye to pull at the thin skin of your lower eyelid. He's looking for redness, he tells you, or any other symptoms related to your vision. You tell him that your vision is fine, but he checks anyway.
The photograph looks to be years-old, based on the way the edges are faded and the corners are dog-eared, but it's still visible enough. You recognize a younger version of the man before you, along with two others—an older woman, and a young girl. His family, you suppose.
It's an interesting thing to keep in his lab coat. Most other scientists you've met only kept pens and needles and pipettes in theirs. It's a sweet gesture, really. It must be nice to have family waiting for you back home, to have a purpose in your hard work.
You're not entirely sure what your purpose is.
You remember being augmented. You don't remember why. You don't remember who did this to you. All you remember are the screams, agonizing pain like skin tears from bone, the white fluorescent lighting overhead. Even now, the distinct scent of chemicals seems to cling to your skin wherever you go.
You'll never escape that part of yourself. And even if you could, you're not sure that you would.
You've been told that you're an essential piece in this war—the only one of your kind. That's why this man is trying to replicate your condition. It makes you useful. You find that you like that feeling, even if it's all that you have.
The scientist tells you that your memories have grown increasingly faint recently. You're forced to believe him, because you can't remember it ever being different. Before today, had you been able to remember the soldiers who fought alongside you? Before today, had you been able to remember yourself?
You ask him for his name. He blinks once at the question, almost in slow-motion, like the slow drip of honey.
"It's better if you don't know," he replies. An odd answer, you think.
Even the worst of the worst scientists that you've encountered always wanted you to know their names. It was an ego thing, or so you assume—these types tended to want their name on everything, so obsessed with their ability to change the world under their personal vision.
But the man before you simply shrugs before telling you you're free to go for today.
He doesn't wait to watch you leave. Instead, he makes a beeline for the three filing cabinets in the corner of the room, pulling drawers open and yanking out random sheets of paper. You don't recognize the symbols on them too well—chemical formulas, biological diagrams, and the like.
In his hurry, the photograph slips out of his pocket. He doesn't notice the motion, but you do. You watch the thin sheet flutter to the ground a few inches away from you, a flake to the first snow.
When you lean down to pick it up, you notice the dark scrawl over the back. It's a series of tally marks, messily scattered about with seemingly no rhyme or reason. You count them.
Sixty.
The number has no meaning to you, and you're not sure why you thought it would. Obviously, it's some sort of personal counter for the scientist before you—perhaps the days that he's been away from his family. That would make sense, you think, especially during a war time.
"Sixty days is a lot," you offer, trying to catch his attention to return the photo. The man stops, a stack of files still clutched in one hand. He looks paralyzed, caught in the passage of time.
"Pardon me?"
"You dropped your photo," you explain. Seeing that he clearly has his hands full, you opt to place it back on his desk. "You have a lovely family. I hope you get to see them again soon."
The man turns to face you. His eyes are half-lidded, and something about his expression reminds you of something delicate—the edges of glass, or the first petal of spring.
"Yes, thank you," he says softly. "We'll meet again."
You smile at the notion, and when he returns your stare, you vaguely think that his eyes are beautiful.
Something in the back of your head stings.
" I probably won't remember any of this."
"It's no issue. We'll meet again."
Your face contorts with confusion and bewilderment.
"As many times as it takes. That's what it means to be a scientist."
The room feels like it's spinning. Everything about this situation feels so acutely familiar, but you can't quite place a finger on it. The sting grows more insistent, more impatient.
"Well, I think you're kind, Albedo. You've put up with me for this long."
"You say that like it's a burden."
"Isn't it?"
"I've never thought of it as such, no."
"Albedo," you breathe faintly.
The man in front of you is named Albedo.
At the sound of his name, an acute horror spreads over his expression. You've only seen such genuine terror from other soldiers on the battlefield. He slams the drawer shut.
"No, no, no. Stop, you don't know what you're doing."
You take a step closer. "You're Albedo, aren't you?"
"No. I'm not. Stop it, now."
The sting escalates even further, and suddenly, your entire brain begins to throb with a hot, flaring ache. There' s a high-pitched ringing that echoes in your skull, and you wince as it pricks at your ears.
Albedo is in front of you now, both hands cradling your face. He looks like he's already succumbing to despair, unable to vocalize anything more than single words.
"Please. Stop. Don't."
A wave crashes hard in your brain, sending your thoughts scattering. The sensation is overwhelming—you can't seem to focus on any single thing, but everything is there. So much forgotten, so much lost, now in the palm of your hand.
Every time that Albedo has introduced himself to you. Every time that he called out your name, every time that he gingerly dressed your wounds, every time that he watched you go, every time that he smiled, every time that he laughed, every time, every time, every time—
Every time you loved him.
The whirlpool in your mind still rages on, but that is the one fact that remains indispensably, undeniably true. You had been in love with Albedo—you are in love with Albedo. You're not sure if he ever felt the same, but you find that it doesn't really matter. You're satisfied just knowing that he had been the one to know you all this time.
Because Albedo isn't like you. He doesn't forget—he's carried all these versions of you, cared for each of them with the same love and care.
His eyes are a clear, bright teal, and they're filled with tears.
"Albedo," you repeat, grasping at his coat, trying to find something to steady yourself. He nods shallowly. "It was you."
The wave drowns you, devouring every part of you whole, and everything goes black.
/
"—at happened?"
"Neural overload…. pushed her over... the lab immediately."
"—okay. Here… carry her… grab whatever you need… meet you there."
You feel like you're floating.
"Too late…lose everything… full reset…"
"—everything? …dangerous."
"…can't handle it… going to die."
"Mr. Albedo—"
"—do it…"
"Please—"
"I'm sorry… Albedo."
Something bright is flashing. White, fluorescent. It hurts.
"…love you… sorry… I'm sorry… sorry… love you… sorry…"
"…too late."
/
The gates outside of Base Alpha are made of white brick.
Albedo can't remember the last time that he had seen them. Ever since he was stationed here, he's practically lived his life in four walls and under artificial lighting. Looking up, he shades his eyes from the blooming sun above.
He wonders if Klee is looking at the same sky. When he gets home, he should take her out on a picnic. It won't be enough to apologize for everything he's done, but it's a start.
"Alright, you damn hoarder. This is the last of it."
Kaeya lumbers up, a stack of boxes nestled in his arms—the last remnants of Albedo's office. A cloud of dust swirls up when he drops them to the ground. It's nostalgic, almost—it reminds him of the first day he ever came to Base Alpha.
And now, after today, he'll never return here again.
"We'll miss you around here," Kaeya says hesitantly. Things had been awkward between them since the project, but time had a way of mending parts that words could not.
Albedo chuckles. "You're in good hands. Sucrose is more than capable of taking over my position."
She'd cried when he told her he was leaving. Her hug had been bone-crushingly tight, tears staining the front of his coat. All he could do was pat her head, assuring her that she had learned all that she could from him—it was her turn now to carve her own path.
"You got a plan after this?" Kaeya asks.
Albedo hums to himself. Truthfully, his resignation had been a spur of the moment decision. After you'd been fully reset, he couldn't bring himself to continue his work. Not after knowing what he'd done, not without you.
"Not sure. I'll go home. Find something new to do."
"It's weird to imagine you doing anything except mad scientist stuff. Gonna take up crocheting?"
Albedo smiles. "Painting, maybe. It'll be a nice change of pace."
It had been hard to convince the higher-ups to let him go in the first place, but the deal had been too damning to refuse. His release in exchange for detailed information and instruction in the process of your augmentation—with those files in hand, the military would be capable of creating thousands of augmented soldiers.
He'd added his own corrections, of course. An enhancement drug that would improve the memory losses until they would only be temporary. Not a perfect solution, but as close as he could get. Time hadn't been on his side, after all.
There was one more caveat to his exchange as well. In fact, it had been the first thing he had demanded, even before his own resignation.
Your official discharge from the military.
After your neurological overload, he'd been forced to reset your memories completely. You'd awoken with absolutely no recollection of who you were, where you were, or what you were. The Reaper, as a whole, had ceased to exist.
And so, any connection he had to you had dissipated as well.
He hasn't seen you since then—not even a glimpse since you'd woken up. He couldn't bring himself to visit you during your infirmary stay, or even afterward. It felt like he'd simply done too much damage to deserve your forgiveness.
"She's supposed to leave today too," Kaeya informs. He approaches each word with uncertainty, still aware of how raw the hopelessness sits in Albedo's chest. "If you still want to see her—"
"Albedo!"
It's Jean who comes running up to them, waving, with you at her side. Albedo sucks in a breath.
You look exactly as beautiful as he remembers you—happier, too. Not weighed down by memories of war and experimentation. It's exactly what he wanted for you, despite the sheer agony of watching you forget.
You introduce yourself by name. Not as the Reaper, but by your name. The words sound so unfamiliar leaving your lips, but the change is welcome, somehow. Kaeya has to shove an elbow into Albedo's ribs to remind him to return the greeting.
The way that you look at him feels weighted, like you're revealing parts of him that he hasn't yet shown to the world. Albedo isn't sure if he's imagining it or not.
"She's being discharged today too, so I figured you both could wait for the shuttle together," Jean supplies helpfully. She exchanges a pointed look with Kaeya, and Albedo feels like they'd both planned something rather nefarious against him.
"If it's okay with you, I'd be glad to wait with you. It's nicer than standing around alone," you laugh.
Albedo nods, trying not to let his doubt show on his face. "Yes, of course."
Jean and Kaeya help you gather your things into a neat pile on the side of the road, right next to Albedo's array of cardboard boxes. It feels like the end of an era, in a way.
As he wipes the sweat from his forehead, Kaeya asks, "How do you feel? Now that you're not getting locked up on Base, I mean."
Jean smacks the back of his head at his callous questioning, though he snickers behind his hand. Luckily, you don't seem affected by his wording.
"It's scary, but also a little exciting," you answer, rocking back and forth on your heels. "It's like I can just go and do anything. That kind of freedom is nice."
Freedom. Albedo's heart warms. Even if nothing else had gone right in the end, this is enough for him.
"Yes, that is nice," he adds genuinely. "I hope you find whatever it is you'd like to do."
Jean and Kaeya bid their goodbyes. They promise to see each other again, but Albedo knows that that reunion is unlikely—at least until the war is over. But they've been his allies for years and years now, and though they might have had their differences, he's grateful for their guidance and presence in his life nonetheless.
As he watches them disappear back into the building, it feels as though something in his chest leaves with them.
And then, it's just the two of you.
You wait in silence, listening to the birds chirp nearby. The presence of nature is so calming, Albedo thinks—it's been so long since he'd experienced it for himself. There are so many little parts of the outside world that he's forgotten about since he moved here.
"Sorry if this is awkward," you finally press, turning away shyly, unable to even meet his eyes. It seems as though you've been psyching yourself up to speak for several minutes now. "Just—I mean, you're basically one of the only people I know, right? And you just seem very easy to talk to, which is nice, and I'm—sorry, I'm just rambling. Just, would it be okay if we exchanged contact info?"
And though his heart skips a beat as he nods, Albedo tells himself that it doesn't mean anything. You're still recovering from your memory loss, after all, so it only makes sense that you would seek out familiar individuals. He isn't anyone particularly special to you. Even when your fingertips brush over his as you hand him your phone, he ignores the blush that rises to his cheeks.
It's just the sun, nothing more.
You're all smiles when he finally returns the phone to you, his contact added to your list.
"Thank you," you gush, hugging the device to your chest. It's infuriatingly cute of you. "And one more thing, if it's alright."
"Yes?"
"I've been thinking this since I met you, but you have beautiful eyes."
Albedo can barely compose himself—a thick lump builds in his throat at your words. It feels like every rotten regret is coming back to him, dragging him back into the guilt that devours him night by night.
After a moment, he chokes out, "You think so?"
You nod. And somehow, he feels like he can see all of you in your eyes—every version, every reset, every single person that he loved.
"Yeah, they're a pretty teal. It's my favorite color."
after seeing the herta and ruan mei lightcone, as well as herta’s animated short, I’ve realized i need to see ruan mei and herta having the SLOPPIEST make out on screen
I hope this message finds you and your family in good health. My name is Eman Zaqout from Gaza. I am reaching you out to seek your urgent help in spreading the word about our fundraiser. I lost both my home and my job due to the ongoing genocide in Gaza and we are facing catastrophic living conditions. 💔
I kindly ask you to visit my campaign. Your support, whether through donating or sharing, will help us reach more people who can make a difference. Thank you for your continued support for the Palestinian cause. Your dedication brings us closer to freedom. 🙏🕊
Note: Verified by several people as 90-ghost and aces-and-angels. ☑
kianamaiart
theartofmadeline
turnnoffyourmind
