biluu💤

It is nice, to not have love, to be so numbed out until all you can feel is water against your tongue. But then you remember how lovely it feels to be loved.

And then you're crying out for someone to pretend, for one afternoon, that you are not too much.

That your laughter does not arrive too loudly, that your silences are not burdens to be carried, that your heart is not a room cluttered with things nobody wants to sort through.

The wanting arrives quietly at first. It sits beside you while you wash dishes, while you wait for the kettle to boil, watching strangers crossing streets hand in hand. It says nothing. It only points.

There. Look.

Look at how easy tenderness seems in other people's lives.

You only wanted someone to remember how you take your tea, to notice when your smile is a little forced, to reach for your hand as naturally as breathing.

Someone to stay long enough that wanting can finally put down its bags and rest.

"So you're telling me this one is the actual blueprint and this one is a fake?"

Atleast you could find comfort in the fact that that someone would never be Nakakita Yuma.

"Your Majesty." You said, with as much patience as you could muster at the moment, "That one is the disposable one and this one is the one you'll be taking to the meeting."

"So it's a fake." He flashed his stupid grin at you, "Why else would it be disposable? What does it have to hide?"

This damn idiot.

You exhaled through your nose, the way you did when you were counting to ten in your head. You had learned that trick in your first week on the job, three years ago, when you had realized exactly what you had signed up for.

Three years. Three years of this. Three years of watching Nakakita Yuma grin at you like he knew something you didn't, like he had already won whatever game he was playing while you stood there clutching maps, treaties and the fraying edges of your composure.

You had been a clerk in the Ministry of Records, content to spend your days cataloguing trade routes and rainfall patterns, when the summons had arrived. The young king had requested you personally.

The story went that he had read a report you had written on coastal defense logistics and had found it entertaining. That was the word the messenger had used. His Majesty found your report quite entertaining.

You had wanted to scream.

Instead, you had packed your things, moved into the palace and discovered within the first hour that Nakakita Yuma was nothing like the kings in the storybooks. He did not sit solemnly on his throne, dispensing wisdom.

He lounged. He sprawled. He balanced his crown on the edge of his desk like a paperweight and laughed too loudly at his own jokes. His black hair was always slightly disheveled, as if he had just run his hands through it, and his sharp, cat-like eyes missed nothing even when his expression suggested he was bored out of his mind.

He had a single, slightly prominent snaggletooth that showed when he smiled, which was often. It made him look like a fox who had just found the henhouse door unlocked.

One of Yuma's hobbies was teasing you.

From the very first day, he had found ways to get under your skin. He would ask for your opinion and then argue with it just to watch you explain yourself. He would misplace documents and then produce them from his sleeve with a wink. He would call you into his office for urgent matters that turned out to be him wanting to know if you thought the sky looked more cerulean or sapphire that afternoon.

You had spent the first six months convinced he was the worst possible person to hold the crown of Eldanith.

Then you had seen him at a war council, watched him listen to every general, noble and strategist, his eyes tracking the room like a predator sizing up its prey. You heard him dismantle a flawed offensive plan in three sentences, then propose an alternative that made everyone in the room go silent.

He was good, annoyingly, infuriatingly so. He had strategy in his bones, instinct honed so sharp it cut. He just chose to hide it behind that lazy grin. It made you want to throttle him and respect him in equal measure. On most days, the throttling impulse won.

"You're staring at me like you're imagining my demise in creative ways again." Yuma said, tapping the rolled map against his palm.

"I am not imagining anything, Your Majesty."

"Liar." He grinned, his tooth catching the light. "Your left eye twitches when you lie. Did you know that? It's adorable."

You felt your jaw tighten. "The meeting starts in fifteen minutes. If you could please take the correct documents—"

"Which one is the correct one again?"

"The one in your left hand, Your Majesty."

He looked down at his hands, then back up at you, his expression one of theatrical confusion. "Left? Is that the one I write with or the one I wave at my subjects with?"

You were going to snap. You could feel it building, a pressure behind your teeth, a wordless noise of frustration clawing its way up your throat. You had spent three years developing a tolerance for his nonsense, but some days, the tolerance ran thin.

A knock at the door saved you.

"Enter." Yuma said, and his voice shifted, just slightly, the playfulness receding like a tide pulling back from shore.

The door opened, and King Euijoo of Iriandel stepped inside.

He was everything Yuma was not. Tall, composed, hair swept back from a face that seemed carved from marble, eyes calm. He wore his dignity like a second skin and when he looked at you, you felt like you were standing in the presence of someone who had never once misplaced a document in his life.

You had always respected Euijoo. He was the kind of king you had imagined serving when you first took this job. He spoke in complete sentences. He never made you want to throw a map at his head.

You straightened immediately, stepping back from the desk, composing your features into something professional. Euijoo's gaze flickered between you and Yuma, and the faintest suggestion of a smile touched his lips.

"Am I interrupting?" He asked, his voice smooth as polished wood.

"Not at all." You said, before Yuma could answer.

Euijoo's eyes lingered on you. "You were glaring at His Majesty with considerable intensity. I felt it from the hallway."

Your face heated. "I was—"

"She was helping me with my maps." Yuma cut in, slinging an arm over the back of his chair. "She's very passionate about maps. It's endearing."

You turned your glare on him. He winked.

Euijoo observed the exchange with the quiet patience of someone watching a play he had seen before. "I see. Well, I am here for the meeting, if you are ready."

"Ready as I'll ever be." Yuma stood, tucking the correct map under his arm. He paused as he passed you, close enough that you caught the faint scent of sandalwood and ink. He leaned in and lowered his voice.

"Try not to miss me too much while I'm gone, kitty."

And then he was gone, striding out the door beside Euijoo, leaving you standing in the middle of his office with your hands clenched at your sides and your heart doing something complicated that you refused to examine.

The door clicked shut. You exhaled. Something sat down beside you and pointed at the empty room.

There. Look.

_______________________

Death would have been more pleasurable than whatever was coming for you at the moment.

Usually, dearest reader, when two people get only one bed to sleep on, they'd arrive at a compromise someway or the other.

When you and Nakakita Yuma get only one bed to sleep on, it summons the four horsemen of the apocalypse itself.

You stood in the doorway of the inn room, your bag still slung over your shoulder, staring at the singular bed like it had personally offended your entire bloodline. It was not a small bed. That would have been its one redeeming quality—if it had been small, you could have argued for separate sleeping arrangements on the floor with dignity. But it was a generous size, almost obscenely so, draped in cream-colored linens and piled with pillows that looked far too soft for a town inn.

It was a bed designed for two people who liked each other.

You and Yuma did not like each other. You tolerated each other.

"Well," Yuma said from behind you, his voice carrying that infuriating lightness, "this is cozy."

You did not turn around. You were afraid that if you turned around, you would see his grin, and if you saw his grin you would say something that would get you dismissed from your position and possibly executed.

"It's one bed." You said.

"I can count."

"Your Majesty, perhaps I should find another inn—"

"And leave me all alone?" Yuma brushed past you. The movement was unhurried, like he had not just suggested the two of you share a bed without a single shred of royal decorum. "I would be devastated. Truly, I might weep."

You finally turned to look at him. He was already settling onto the edge of the bed, testing the mattress with his palms, his hair falling into his eyes. The lamp light caught the sharp lines of his face, the curve of his jaw as he smiled up at you.

"You brought an entire company of soldiers." You said. "Surely one of them could—"

"Could what? Share a tent with me on the palace grounds while you take the warm inn room?" He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "That would be terribly improper. A king should not sleep on the ground while his advisor takes a feather bed. Think of the scandal."

"You could have stayed at the palace."

"The palace has too many ceilings." He said it simply, like it made perfect sense, and in a way, it did.

Yuma had always been strange about places like that—grand halls, high walls, rooms that felt more like cages than chambers. He preferred the open air, the crowded streets, the chaos of real life. It was one of the things you had grudgingly come to admire about him, even if it meant you were now standing in a modest room in the kingdom of Phileon, preparing to share a bed with your king.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "This is a terrible idea."

"Most of my best ideas are terrible." He patted the space beside him on the bed. "Come. Sit. I don't bite. Well—" He paused, thoughtful, and you felt your face go hot before he added, "—not without permission."

You threw your bag at him. He caught it, laughing, and the sound was so unexpected that you felt something in your chest loosen against your will.

This was the problem.

This was why you had learned to tease him back, to volley words with him like a game of shuttlecock. Because when he laughed like that, when his eyes crinkled at the corners, you forgot, for a moment, that he was your king. You forgot the weight of your position, the careful distance you were supposed to maintain. You forgot that you were meant to be professional, composed and untouchable.

The remembering always left you feeling a little more lonely than before. Here, in this small inn room in Phileon, with the distant sounds of the town filtering through the window and the bed taking up most of the space between you, the loneliness felt farther away than usual.

You sighed, defeated, and crossed the room to sit on the opposite edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight and you kept a foot of space in between.

"I'm not sharing the blankets." You said.

"Fine."

"And you stay on your side."

"Obviously."

"If you snore, I'm smothering you with a pillow and claiming the throne."

He grinned, slow and sharp. "I don't snore. I purr."

"You're insufferable." You said.

"Yet you are still here." He leaned back on his hands. "Why do you think I brought you along instead of Taki?"

You had wondered the same thing during the journey here. Taki was younger, more energetic, more likely to laugh at Yuma's jokes without that half-second of hesitation you always had. Taki would have handled this bed situation with grace and good humor, would have probably ended up arm-wrestling Yuma for the pillows and losing spectacularly.

You, on the other hand, had been mentally composing your resignation letter for the past ten minutes.

"Because Taki would have accidentally set the inn on fire," you said.

Yuma laughed again, softer this time. "True. But that's not the reason."

Then what would be the reason? That you were genuinely someone he wanted to talk to? That you were worth being listened to? You'd sooner have believed one of his ridiculous fantasies about komodo dragons.

Yuma's bath took long enough that the lamp oil had begun to burn low, casting the room in a honeyed glow that softened the edges of everything. When he finally emerged, his hair was damp and pushed back from his face and he had traded his traveling clothes for a loose shirt and trousers. He looked softer like this, younger. Less like a king and more like a boy who had been caught in the rain.

You immediately looked away.

"The crown," You said, because you needed to say something, anything, to fill the silence that had settled between you. "at the coronation today. You looked ridiculous."

He paused mid-step, one eyebrow lifting. "Ridiculous? I'll have you know I looked dashing. The princess—" He stopped and thought, for the princess of Phileon was now its Queen "the queen told me I looked very regal."

"The queen was being polite. You looked like a cat wearing a party hat."

He pressed a hand to his chest, mock-offended. "A cat? I am the sovereign ruler of an island kingdom. I—"

"You kept fidgeting with it." You said, smiling just a little, unable to help yourself. "Every five minutes, you reached up to adjust it. The ambassador from Iriandel asked me if you had an earache."

Yuma groaned, dropping onto his side of the bed with a dramatic flop that made the mattress bounce. "That crown is uncomfortable. It's too heavy. And the pearls dig into my temples. I don't know how my father wore it for thirty years."

"Perhaps he had a stronger head."

"Perhaps he had less hair to cushion it."

You snorted, the sound escaping before you could stop it and Yuma grinned, rolling onto his side to face you, propping his head on his hand. The movement brought him closer, but not too close, still a careful distance between you, the no-man's-land of the middle of the bed.

"You're funny when you're flustered." He said.

You had no response to that, so you stared at the ceiling instead, counting the wooden beams as if they held the secrets to the universe. You could feel his gaze on you, light and curious, and you wondered, not for the first time, what he saw when he looked at you. Someone competent, you hoped. Someone worth keeping around.

Not someone worth listening to. That was a fantasy you had long since abandoned.

"Anyway," you said, steering the conversation back to safer ground, "you looked odd because you never wear it. You're no really a crown person. You're a—" You paused, searching for the right word. "—a wind person, something that doesn't like being contained."

The silence that followed seemed oddly soft. You risked a glance at him and found him watching you with an expression you could not name.

"That's," he said, "that's surprisingly poetic of you."

"Don't get used to it."

"Too late. I'm writing it down. Framing it and putting it in the royal archives."

"Then I'll tell everyone about the incident with the ceremonial spear and the swan."

He groaned, flopping onto his back. "That was one time. And the swan started it."

You laughed. Yuma turned his head on the pillow to look at you, and neither of you spoke. Then he sighed, long and theatrical.

"Alright. Sleeping arrangements." He gestured vaguely at the space between you. "I propose a treaty. A border down the middle. No crossing into foreign territory."

"That's surprisingly diplomatic of you."

"I have my moments." He sat up, reaching for the extra pillow at the head of the bed, placing it squarely between you. "Sacred boundary. Do not cross." Yuma settled back down, pulling the blanket up to his chin, and you noticed, with a small pang, that he had left most of the blanket for you. He closed his eyes. "I'll leave the room when you need to change. Just say the word."

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to." His voice was softer now, edged with sleep. "I want to."

And then, before you could respond, his breathing evened out. The king of Eldanith fell asleep. You lay still for a long time, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breath. The lamp burned low until the room was bathed in shadow and the silver of moonlight through the curtains.

Eventually, your body gave in. You shifted, letting yourself sink into the mattress, the warmth of him radiating across the space—neither too close nor too far, just enough to make the night feel less empty. You closed your eyes.

When you woke, hours later to the pale light of dawn, you found that the pillow barrier had shifted. His hand had drifted in sleep, to rest palm-up on the mattress, close enough that yours could have reached out to meet it.

You did not pull away.

___________________

You should never have laughed in front of Nakakita Yuma. In fact you should never have revealed this fact to Nakakita Yuma that you even had emotions.

Because currently he was trying to place the royal crown of Eldanith, the highest accessory in all the land, onto your head because he 'wished to see how ridiculous it truly looked'.

You ducked, sidestepping him with the kind of agility you usually reserved for avoiding drunk sailors at the docks. "Your Majesty, this is highly inappropriate—"

"It's a crown." He said, as if that explained anything, advancing on you with the crown. "It's meant to be worn. Consider this a field test."

"I am not wearing the crown." You circled your desk, putting the wooden surface between you. He mirrored your movement, eyes bright with mischief. The crown—ocean-colored sapphires and pearls, wrought in silver—dangled from his fingers like bait.

"It's too heavy." You said. "It'll give me a headache."

"It gives me a headache. That's the point. I want to know if it's universally uncomfortable or if I'm just particularly delicate."

"You are many things, Your Majesty. Delicate is not one of them."

He tilted his head and the look he gave you was sharp and pleased all at once. "Was that a compliment?"

"It was an observation."

"I'm putting it in the compliment column."

Yuma lunged. You yelped—a sound you would deny to your dying day—and scrambled around the desk, but he was faster, his free hand catching your wrist and pulling you to a stop.

You stumbled, caught off balance and suddenly you were chest-to-chest with him, the crown hovering just above your head.

"Hold still." He murmured.

"Your Majesty—"

"Yuma."

He had never asked you to call him that before. You had never offered. It was a line you had both respected, a distance you had maintained, a boundary that kept the world in order.

Yuma lowered the crown onto your head. It settled against your hair, heavier than you had expected. You felt the weight of it, the weight of every king who had worn it before him and for a moment, you understood why he so rarely put it on.

He stepped back, studying you with his head tilted. His hand was still loosely wrapped around your wrist, warm and calloused.

"Hm…" Yuma said.

"Well?"

"You look..." He paused and something flickered in his eyes, there and gone before you could name it. "You look like you're going to kill me."

"Because I am."

"Fair." He grinned Then he reached up and lifted the crown off your head, his fingers brushing against your hair as he did. He set the crown on your desk, casual as anything and leaned against the edge of it, crossing his arms.

"So," he said, "do you have any plans tonight?"

You blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. "Plans?"

"Evening activities. Social engagements." He waved a hand vaguely. "Taki and I were going to have a few drinks at the tavern near the eastern gate. The one with the terrible fish stew." He was looking at you with that expression that made you feel like he was seeing something you had not meant to show. "Would you like to join us?"

An invitation. A hand extended.

You thought about it—the dim lights of the tavern, Taki laughing at his own jokes, Yuma's shoulder brushing yours if you sat close enough. You thought about the warmth of belonging somewhere, even for an evening.

And then you thought about the safety of solitude.

"I can't." You said. "I have plans."

The lie came easily. It always did.

Yuma's expression did not change, but his posture shifted a fraction of a degree. "Ah. Shame." He pushed off from the desk, stretching his arms above his head with a casual grace that drew your eyes, "I would have liked your company." He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. He did not turn around. "Don't work too late." He said. "The reports will still be there tomorrow."

And then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving you alone in your office with the crown still sitting on your desk and the ghost of his fingers in your hair.

You had not had plans in a long time, not since you had realized that you never quite fit anywhere. That your laughter was too loud or too quiet, that your silences made people uncomfortable, that your heart was a cluttered room nobody wanted to sort through. So you had learned to fill your evenings with the comfort of being alone.

It was easier and safer. Wanting nothing meant never being disappointed.

I would have liked your company.

He had extended his hand, and you had let it hang in the air, unanswered. You looked at the crown, gleaming softly in the lamplight. You thought about the warmth of his hand on your wrist.

You picked up your pen and returned to your reports and it was a long time before you wrote anything at all.

____________________

To enjoy soltitude is a talent, one that you'd developed all these years.

Your cottage sat at the edge of the palace grounds, tucked behind a row of oak trees. It was not much—a sitting room, a bedroom, a kitchen—but it was yours. No servants, visitors, anybody to fill the silence with questions you did not know how to answer.

The evening had settled into its usual rhythm. You had lit a fire in the small hearth, the flames casting long shadows across the floor. A pot of tea steeped on the counter, chamomile and honey, the same blend you had drunk every night for the past two years. Your book lay open on the armchair, a worn volume of poetry that you had read so many times the spine had cracked.

You settled into the chair, tucking your feet beneath you and took a sip of tea. The silence wrapped around you like an old shawl and you sank into it without resistance.

This was the talent you had honed over the years. The art of being alone without feeling lonely. The careful craft of filling your own space so completely that there was no room for wanting.

It had not always been this way.

You remembered, with the distant ache of an old bruise, the first time you had realized you did not fit. You had been seven, maybe eight, standing at the edge of a game of tag while the other children ran past you, laughing. You had not been excluded, not explicitly. No one had told you to leave. But the game had moved around you, through you, as if you were a tree rooted to the spot. You had walked home alone, and you had told yourself it was fine.

In your adolescence, there had been a girl. She had been your first real friend, the kind you told secrets to, the kind you stayed up late with, trading stories and laughter until your voice went hoarse. You had thought, finally, finally, you had found someone who saw you.

But then she started sitting with the other girls at lunch. She saved them seats, waved you over with a smile that was just a little too bright and you had sat at the edge of the table, listening to jokes you did not understand, watching them exchange glances that skimmed right past you. You had stopped coming to lunch after a while. She had not asked why.

In your young adulthood, there had been a boy. He had courted you with flowers and poetry and you had let yourself believe, for a few dizzying months, that you could be loved. But when you had fallen ill, when you had needed someone to sit with you and hold your hand, he had sent a letter instead. I'm not good with sickness, he had written. I hope you understand.

You had understood. You had understood that you were worth flowers and poetry, but not the messy, inconvenient reality of being needed.

There had been your first posting years ago, in a coastal office where you had worked alongside a team of clerks who laughed easily and invited each other to dinners and gatherings. They had invited you too, at first. But you had always been a little too quiet and after a while, the invitations had stopped coming. You had watched them leave together at the end of the day, their voices bright and overlapping. You had stayed behind to finish the work they had left on your desk.

And then of course there had been 'that' incident. But it was better to stay off the tongue with that one.

You had told yourself it was fine. You preferred the quiet and soltitude anyway. Eventually, it had become true.

That was the thing about loneliness. It was a skill, like any other. You practiced it long enough, and it stopped hurting. You filled your evenings with books and tea and the soft crackle of the fire and you stopped waiting for someone to knock on your door.

An ounce of love given to you haunted you.

A kind word from a stranger could keep you awake for hours, turning it over in your mind, searching for the hidden meaning, the catch, the moment it would be taken back. A hand on your wrist, brief and warm, could echo through your chest for days. A simple I would have liked your company could lodge itself beneath your ribs like a splinter, impossible to remove, aching with every breath.

It was easier to have nothing. Easier to want nothing. Easier to sit alone with your tea and your poetry and your silence, for silence did not leave. Silence did not forget to save you a seat. Silence did not promise flowers and then abandon you when you needed someone to stay.

You took another sip of tea. The fire crackled. The pages of your book rustled as you turned them, though you had not read a single word.

In the back of your mind, a voice said, I would have liked your company.

You wished, not for the first time, that you had never learned what it felt like to be wanted. It was so much harder to forget.

_____________________

There were certain times when you wished to be a mind reader, just so you could understand what it was the king of Eldanith was thinking about.

His mind was a cornucopia of shiny trinkets that did not match with one another, a collection assembled by someone with no regard for coherence, no sense of theme or category—just objects that caught his interest and were deemed worthy of keeping.

Military strategy sat beside absurd jokes about komodo dragons. Political insight sat beside an inexplicable fondness for terrible fish stew. He could discuss trade routes with the same earnest enthusiasm he applied to convincing you that swans were, in fact, secretly plotting against him.

You had never met anyone so impossible to predict.

His eyes were deep and dark, like the ocean at midnight or the space between stars or the bottom of a well where light went to die. They were deep, fathomless in a way that made you feel like you were falling every time he looked at you.

It was, you hated to admit, part of why you could never quite figure him out. His eyes said depth, said secrets, said I am more than I appear.

But his smile said mischief, said play, said I am going to put this crown on your head whether you like it or not. Yuma was a king who wore his crown like a burden and his laughter like armor. He was a strategist who could read a room in seconds but pretended not to notice when you stared at him too long.

You had spent years learning to read people. It was a survival skill, a way to anticipate their needs before they had to voice them, to make yourself useful enough to keep around. But Yuma defied every attempt. Every time you thought you had him figured out, he said something that flipped your understanding on its head.

Like now.

You had been working in his office for the better part of two hours, the silence broken only by the scratch of pens and the rustle of parchment. He was reviewing a trade agreement with the northern provinces, his brow furrowed in concentration. You were cross-referencing supply ledgers, your work spread across the table in the corner of the room where you had claimed your usual spot.

It was comfortable and quiet—the kind of silence you had learned to cherish.

"You fit in well."

Your pen stopped moving. You turned your head slowly, certain you had misheard. "I'm sorry?"

"You fit in well." Yuma repeated, still not looking at you, scanning the document in his hands as if he had not just said something that had upended your entire understanding of the afternoon.

You stared at him. He did not elaborate. You waited. Five seconds. Ten. He merely continued reading, his expression utterly unreadable as if he had commented on the weather or the quality of the ink.

"Your Majesty," you said carefully, "I don't understand what you mean." He hummed, a noncommittal sound and turned a page. You set down your pen. "You're going to have to explain that."

"Do I?"

"Yes." You were aware that you were speaking to your king with a tone that bordered on insubordination but you could not bring yourself to care. "You can't just say something like that and then go back to work."

He looked up then, finally, and his dark eyes met yours. "Why not, kitty?"

"Because—" You stopped, trying to find the words that would make him understand how deeply, how fundamentally, his statement had shaken you. "I do not agree with what you said."

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze steady on yours. Then he set down his papers, leaned back in his chair, and regarded you.

"You work here." He said flatly.

"Yes, I work here. That's my job. That doesn't mean I fit here."

"You do." He said it without hesitation, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You know where everything is. You know how everyone works. You anticipate needs before they're voiced. You make yourself indispensable." He paused, tilting his head. "I fear that's the behavior of someone who has made a place for herself."

"I—" The word came out strangled. You cleared your throat and tried again. "That's not the same thing. That's just…..being good at my job."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

Yuma held your gaze for a long moment, and then he shrugged and picked up his papers again. "If you say so." And then he went back to work.

Just like that.

As if he had not just reached into your chest and pulled out something you had spent years burying. As if he had not just told you, in his strange, roundabout way, that he saw you. That he thought you belonged.

You fit in well.

The words echoed in your mind, refusing to settle. They were said less like a compliment and more like a statement of fact.

You had always been the one on the edge of the group, the one who was invited out of politeness, not desire.You had learned to accept that, to build your life around it, to find comfort in the margins where no one expected you to be anything other than what you were.

Yuma had looked at you and seen someone who fit. You did not know what to do with that.

You picked up your pen again, because you did not know what else to do. You returned to your ledgers; they did not say unexpected things that lodged themselves in your chest and refused to leave.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world to see you and think: she belongs here.

You worked in silence for the rest of the hour and when you finally gathered your papers to leave, Yuma did not look up. He did not say goodbye. He simply continued reading, his presence filling the room like a tide.

You walked to the door.You paused with your hand on the frame. You did not turn around.

As the door clicked shut behind you, you found yourself standing still, your heart beating a rhythm you were unfamilliar with.

What were you supposed to do with all that?

____________________

There had been a moment during Yuma's childhood when he'd picked up his first stray seashell on the aquamarine beaches of Eldanith.

It was an absolute beauty, a thing of light pink covered in sand. He'd proudly held it up to his mother, his small fingers wrapped around it like it was the greatest treasure in all the realm. The sun had been setting, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose, the waves lapping at his bare feet as he'd stood there, beaming, waiting for her to see.

She had smiled. She had taken the shell from his hands, turned it over and then she had handed it back to him and said, "It's lovely, Yuma. But you know it's empty, don't you? The creature that lived inside it has already left. What you're holding is just the shape of something that used to be alive."

Yuma had been too young to grasp the weight of her words, too caught up in the simple joy of finding something beautiful. He had kept the shell , placing it on his windowsill where it sat among his other treasures—a smooth stone, a dried starfish, a feather from a bird he had never learned the name of.

Yuma had kept it for years, long after he had understood what his mother meant.

He thought of that shell now, as he sat in his office with the evening light slanting through the windows. He thought of how he had held it up to the light, marveling at its perfect imperfections, never once considering that it was hollow. That the thing that had given it life had moved on. That beauty could exist in the absence of something.

Yuma thought of you.

He did not know why his mind had wandered to that particular memory or why it had settled on you like a ship finding harbor. But there it was.

You were not hollow though. You were not a shell, beautiful but empty, waiting to be filled by someone else's meaning. You were full of sharp observations and quiet strength, a wit that could cut him to the bone when you chose to wield it.

Yuma oddly loved it when you put him in his place.

He loved it with a fervor that surprised him every time, because he was the king and no one put the king in his place. His advisors bowed. His courtiers flattered. His enemies schemed in whispers and shadows.

You looked him in the eye and told him when he was being ridiculous and you did it without the deference that everyone else wrapped around their words like armor.

You had told him once, that he was being an insufferable brat right to his face, in front of Taki. Taki's eyes had gone wide with horror, and Yuma had felt something crack open in his chest, something terrifying and wonderful, because no one had ever spoken to him like that.

The thing that undid him the most was the fact that you had stayed.

You were brilliant, your mind a labyrinth of sharp corners and unexpected turns that he loved getting lost in. You could have gone abroad, taken your talents to a court that would have welcomed you with open arms, built a life far away from him.

But you had not. Yuma knew it was duty, your obligation, the path you had chosen for reasons that had nothing to do with him. He was not naive enough to mistake professionalism for affection.

But still.

Wvery morning when he walked into his office and found you already there, your pen moving across the page, your brow furrowed in concentration, he felt something fluttery settle in his chest.

You matched his intellect, his sharp tongue, his restless mind that never seemed to quiet. You challenged him in ways that no one else could, parried his words with your own, met his gaze without flinching. You were the only person in the entire kingdom who could make him feel like he was not performing, not wearing a mask.

With you, he could just be.

Yuma thought of your voice, sharp and dry, telling him that he was being ridiculous. He thought of the way your lips twitched when you were trying not to smile. He thought of the way your hand inches from his on the mattress in an inn in Phileon.

Yuma thought of the way you had lied about having plans.

He always knew when you were lying—in the way your shoulders tensed, the way your gaze flickered just slightly to the left. But Yuma wished you had not. He wished you had said yes.

He picked up his pen, dipped it in ink and returned to his work. The evening light faded, and the shadows grew long and he did not think about the seashell again.

A lie.

_____________________

It was no secret within the shell-studded palace halls of Eldanith that you liked to work yourself to the damn bone.

But hey burnout felt so good and plus, it was a mechanism of distraction from everything else going on in the dark world.

The weight of your thoughts, the echo of a voice saying you fit in well, the way your chest tightened every time you replayed that moment, your loneliness—all of it could be buried beneath enough ledgers, reports and hours of relentless productivity.

So here you were. The palace library, two hours past midnight with a stack of books balanced precariously in one arm, your eyes fixed on the highest shelf.

You needed the coastal trade records from three autumns ago. That was the official reason for your presence.

But tucked beneath your arm, hidden between dry economic analyses and agricultural reports, was a slim volume on the musical traditions of the southern provinces—a guilty pleasure. Something to read when the numbers blurred and your mind needed a different kind of exercise.

The ladder creaked beneath your weight as you climbed higher. The library was vast, its ceilings soaring, its shelves stretching toward the shadows where the lamplight could not reach. You had always loved this room—the smell of old parchment and dust—the kind of place where you could disappear, and right now, disappearing sounded wonderful.

You shifted your weight, reaching up on your tiptoes. Your fingers brushed the spine of the book you needed but it was wedged tightly between its neighbors, stubborn and unyielding. You stretched further. The ladder groaned.

And then your foot slipped.

You felt the world tilt horribly. The books in your arm slid, your balance shifted, your heart lurching into your throat as gravity took hold and pulled you backward into empty air. You braced for impact.

Which never came.

Instead, strong arms caught you, one around your waist and the other bracing against the ladder to steady it. You landed against something solid and warm and a familiar voice—low, amused—spoke directly above your head.

"Now, now. I know the library is impressive, but there's no need to throw yourself at it."

Your breath hitched. You had not heard him come in. Not a single footstep, not a whisper of movement. But that was hardly a surprise, was it?

They called him the nimblest cat of Eldanith's army for a reason.

He set you down gently, his hands lingering at your waist for a beat longer than necessary before he stepped back. You turned to face him, your heart still pounding, your face flushed. He was smiling.

"Your Majesty," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I know." His dark eyes glinted with amusement. "That's rather the point."

Yuma had spent years honing the art of moving unseen, slipping through shadows and appearing where he was least expected. It was the skill that had made him such a formidable spy before he had taken the crown. Itwas the skill that now made him an absolute menace in everyday life.

You straightened, trying to reclaim some semblance of dignity. "You could have announced yourself."

"And miss the opportunity to catch you?" He tilted his head, his smile widening just slightly. "I think not." He glanced up at the shelf you had been reaching for, then back at you. "What were you after, anyway? Besides a broken neck."

"Some trade records."

"At this hour?"

"I couldn't sleep."

He hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. "Neither could I." He paused, and then, without waiting for permission, he stepped past you and climbed the ladder with an ease that made your earlier struggle look pathetic. He plucked the book from the shelf and handed it down to you with a flourish.

"Here."

You took it, your fingers brushing his. "Thank you."

Yuma did not let go immediately. His gaze held yours and for a moment, the library felt smaller and warmer, the air between you charged with an unspoken entity.

Yuma released the book, descended the ladder, and said, quite casually, "You should be more careful. I won't always be here to catch you."

You did not know what to say to that. So you said nothing. You clutched the book to your chest, your heart still hammering from the near-fall.

I won't always be here to catch you.

Yuma paused at the library doors, his hand resting on the frame. Then he turned, his gaze catching on the edge of the slim volume peeking out from beneath the trade records.

"Interesting choice of bedtime reading." He said, nodding toward it. "The music of the southern provinces. I've read it before."

You blinked, startled out of your spiraling thoughts. "You have?"

"Twice, actually." He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. The lamplight caught the sharp angles of his face, "The section on wind instruments is particularly well-researched, though I disagree with the author's assessment of the reed flute's origins."

This was familiar ground, so you let yourself relax. You had had conversations like this before—late-night debates in his office, arguments over historical accounts, shared moments of intellectual camaraderie that felt almost like friendship.

"The reed flute," you said, stepping closer despite yourself, "originated in the eastern marshlands. That's well-documented."

"The eastern marshlands," he repeated, pushing off from the doorframe and walking back toward you, "produced a version of the reed flute. But the earliest known examples were found in the northern foothills, predating the marshland variants by two centuries."

You raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realize you were such an expert on musicology, Your Majesty."

"I contain multitudes." He smiled, that familiar crooked smile that made him look less like a king and more like someone who'd enjoy picking seashells by the beach, "You'd be surprised what I find interesting when I'm supposed to be reading trade agreements."

"I'm not surprised at all."

He laughed, his eyes narrowing afterwards, studying you with that unnerving intensity he possessed.

"You look exhausted." He said.

You waved a hand dismissively. "I'm alright."

"You're not alright. You look like you haven't slept in days."

"I've slept."

"When? Last week?" You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off. "Tell me everything you did this week."

"That's hardly—"

"Everything, kitty."

You sighed, because you knew that tone. It was the tone he used when he was not going to back down, the tone that had made him such an infuriating king. You told him—council meetings, trade negotiations, correspondences you had handled, reports you had compiled, diplomatic letters you had drafted, budgets you had reviewed. The—

"Stop." Yuma said, holding up a hand. His expression had darkened, his jaw tight. "That's...that's three weeks of work. In one week."

"I'm thorough."

"You're going to collapse." He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the sandalwood that always clung to him. "Take a day off."

"I can't. There's too much—"

"There will always be too much." His voice was firm. "The work will still be there when you return. It will multiply, in fact, because that is the nature of work. But if you run yourself into the ground, you won't be able to do any of it."

You looked away, your jaw set. "I'm just doing my job."

"A lot of what you did this week isn't your job." He said, "You took on tasks that should have been handled by other assistants." You did not deny it. "You are allowed to hand things off," he continued. "You are allowed to rest."

You met his eyes again. "I know."

"Do you?"

You wanted to say yes, wanted to convince him and yourself that you were fine, that you had everything under control. But the words would not come.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. Take tomorrow off. Sleep. Read your book about reed flutes. Eat something that isn't bread and cheese eaten over a stack of papers." He paused, his gaze softening. "That's an order."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he raised an eyebrow and you closed it again.

"Fine." You said, the word tasting like defeat.

"Good." He turned and walked toward the doors again. He paused at the threshold, his back to you, and for a moment, he seemed to hesitate.

"I never say it enough," Yuma said, his voice quieter than you had ever heard it, "but... thank you. For all the work you do. Even if I do annoy you sometimes."

You blinked, the admission catching you off guard, "It's nothing."

He glanced back at you, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "It's not nothing. But I'll let you pretend it is." And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, his footsteps fading into the silence of the corridor.

You stood there for a long moment, alone in the library, the lamplight flickering and the shadows pooling around you. The mask you had been wearing all week began to crack.

Because it was not nothing, was it? The work. The endless, grinding, consuming work. You threw yourself into it because if you stopped—if you slowed down, if you let yourself breathe—you would have to face the quiet fear that had been gnawing at you for as long as you could remember.

If you are not useful, nobody will like you.

It was an old wound, one you had carried since childhood. You had learned early that love was conditional, that affection had to be earned, that your worth was measured in what you could provide. And so you had made yourself so vital, so necessary, that no one could afford to let you go.

You had forgotten that being needed was not the same as being loved.

You looked down at the books in your arms. Your fingers traced the spine of the musicology book and you thought of his voice telling you about reed flutes.

If only you knew how the king of Eldanith was blushing as he walked away from you.

If only you knew how his ears burned and his heart raced and his hands trembled slightly as he closed the door to his chambers and leaned against it, pressing his palm to his chest like he could slow the pounding.

If only you knew that he had stood in the corridor for a full minute after leaving the library, composing himself, before he could walk another step.

If only you knew that he had gone to his rooms and sat at his desk and stared at nothing, thinking of the way the lamplight had caught your face, the way your eyes had widened when he caught you, the way your voice softened when you said it's nothing.

If only you knew that the king of Eldanith, the sharp-tongued man who wore his crown like a burden and his laughter like armor, had lain awake that night, staring at the ceiling and whispered your name into the darkness like a prayer.

But you did not know.

You only knew that you were tired and that tomorrow you would rest.And that was enough.

For now.

_______________

Everything felt wrong.

The morning light filtered through your window, pale and golden, casting long shadows across the floor of your house. You had been lying in bed for—you checked the clock—three hours. Three hours of doing absolutely nothing.

Your hands twitched at your sides, itching for a quill, a report, something to occupy them. There was a voice in the back of your head, insistent and sharp, telling you that you were wasting time, that there was work to be done, that you were being lazy and useless.

It's an order from the king.

You repeated the words like a mantra, pressing them against the guilt like a bandage. You were following a direct command from His Majesty, King Nakakita Yuma of Eldanith. To disobey would be treason. Or something.

You sighed, rolling onto your side and stared at the wall. Normally, you filled the silence with work, the rustle of papers, the scratch of your quill and the endless mental lists of tasks to complete. But now, with nothing to do, the silence pressed in on you, heavy and unfamiliar.

Perhaps it was more so the absence.

You realized, with a start, that you had not heard his voice in—you counted—nearly eight hours. No playful jabs or sudden appearances in doorways with his smile.

You actually missed his snarky remarks every five minutes.

You groaned, pressing your palm to your face. What was wrong with you? You spent half your time exasperated by him and the other half wondering if he was going to drive you to an early grave with his antics. And now that he was gone, the space felt like a shell without its occupant.

Like a shell waiting to be filled.

You found yourself wondering what he was doing at that moment. He had left that morning for the kingdom of Sakuryn—a diplomatic visit, something about the delicate dance of international politics. You had offered to prepare his briefing materials but he had refused, telling youthat you were resting and that he would manage.

You wondered if he was managing. You wondered if he was charming diplomats with that crooked smile or if he was sitting in some stuffy meeting hall, bored out of his mind, wishing he was anywhere else. You wondered if he was thinking of you.

Probably not. He was a king on a diplomatic mission. He had more important things to occupy his mind than his exhausted advisor lying in bed, doing nothing. But then again...

The way his voice had softened when he thanked you. Maybe he was thinking of you. You buried your face in the pillow and tried to ignore the way your heart fluttered at the thought.

Rest, you told yourself firmly. That's an order.

But rest, it seemed, was easier commanded than achieved.

Very akin to concentration, Yuma realised, it was easier said than done.

The treaty lay signed and sealed on the table, the ink still glistening in the afternoon light that streamed through the paper screens of Sakuryn's eastern pavilion. The ceremony had been efficient, the negotiations smooth, Yuma being the picture of royal diplomacy for exactly as long as it took for the last brushstroke to dry.

Now, with the formalities concluded and a tray of untouched tea growing cold, Yuma leaned back on his cushion and stretched his arms above his head with a groan.

"So," he said, his voice dropping from formal register to something far more casual, "how is life going?"

King Jo of Sakuryn regarded him with the same flat, unreadable expression he had worn throughout the entire summit. He was a man of few words—quiet in a way that felt less like shyness and more like a personal choice, as if he had simply decided that most things were not worth the breath required to say them.

"Fine." Jo said.

Yuma waited. Jo did not elaborate.

"That's it?" Yuma asked, raising an eyebrow. "We just signed a treaty that will shape the economic future of both our kingdoms, and all I get is fine?"

"You asked how life was going." Jo replied, his tone perfectly neutral. "I answered."

"You don't talk much, do you?"

"No."

Yuma stared at him for a moment, then let out a laugh. "I respect the honesty, but you're killing me here. How do you survive diplomatic dinners? Do you just sit there and let people talk at you?"

"Essentially."

Taki, seated to Yuma's left, let out a quiet snort that he quickly disguised as a cough. Yuma shot him a look, but there was no heat in it.

Jo picked up his tea, taking a slow sip. "You seem restless." He observed. "How is your life going?"

Yuma opened his mouth to give a standard reply—fine, busy, the usual—but something about the quiet of the pavilion (the absence of a certain sharp-tongued advisor back home) made the words catch in his throat. To his own horror, he found himself speaking.

"There's this girl." He said.

Taki's head snapped toward him so fast Yuma heard his neck crack. Jo's expression did not change, but his eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch.

"I mean—" Yuma waved a hand, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. "Not a girl. A woman. My advisor. You know the one I mean, Taki, you've met her—"

"The one you're sometimes insufferable about?" Taki supplied helpfully.

Yuma ignored him, turning back to Jo. "I don't know if it's attraction or just admiration. She's brilliant. She works too hard and she doesn't sleep enough and she has this way of looking at me like I'm both the most exhausting person she's ever met and somehow worth the effort." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "I once caught her as she fell off a ladder and I could not think about anything that night other than her face."

Jo blinked. Taki pressed his lips together, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

"And now I'm here." Yuma continued, gesturing broadly, "I don't know what to do with any of it." He fell silent, suddenly aware that he had just spilled his entire heart to two men he barely knew.

Jo regarded him for a long moment. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched—the first crack in his stoic facade.

"You sound like Fuma." Jo said.

"Fuma?"

"My Lord Commander. He spent six months making moon eyes at a baker before he finally confessed." Jo picked up his tea again, taking another sip. "It was painful to watch. He wrote very bad poetry."

Taki let out a laugh, sharp and delighted and Yuma shot him a glare that only made him laugh harder.

Jo set down his tea and met Yuma's eyes. "My point is," he said, "don't wait too long. Whenever you figure out what you're feeling—attraction, admiration, or something in between—don't let it sit until it turns into regret."

Yuma opened his mouth, closed it, and then said, ".…..Did Fuma's baker say yes?"

"They're getting married next spring." Jo's lips quirked again, and this time, there was something mischievous in his quiet eyes. "If you want, I can have him send you some of his poetry. For inspiration."

"I don't need—"

"It's really bad."

"I said I don't—"

"He rhymed 'pastry' with 'chastely.'"

Taki wheezed. Yuma pressed his palm to his face. "I hate you both," he said, but his voice was light.

"No, you don't." Jo said, and there was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips as he reached for the treaty, folding it neatly. "You're just lovesick."

"I am not—"

"Get some rest, Yuma. And when you go home, talk to her." He rose, smoothing down his robes, and paused at the door. "Before you start writing poetry." He was gone before Yuma could throw a cushion at him.

Yuma thought about whatever words rhymed with 'shell'.

_________________

A letter.

All it took was a single letter to break every logical braincell in your body and have you rushing about like a mad parrot.

You had been in the middle of reorganizing the eastern supply ledgers when a messenger had arrived, breathless, pressing a sealed parchment into your hands.

From His Majesty, the messenger had said. Sent ahead from the road.

You had broken the seal with steady hands. By the time you finished reading, your hands were not steady at all.

The handwriting was wrong.

Not Yuma's—you would have recognized his careless script anywhere, the way his letters slanted forward like he was always in a hurry to get to the next word. This was neat, precise. Wrong.

And the words—

Delayed. Complications. Do not expect my return at the appointed hour.

Your heart had stopped and had launched into a gallop that had not ceased since.

Sakuryn was a war-torn country. Yuma had told you over a map one evening. Decades of conflict, he had said. They're stable now, but the scars run deep.

You had nodded and filed the information away and thought nothing of it.

Now you were thinking of assassins in shadowed corridors, political rivals with long memories, of treaties signed in blood instead of ink. Now you were thinking of a king who caught you when you fell. Now you were thinking of him lying dead in a Sakuryn ditch and the letter was the only warning you would get.

So you had moved.

Soldiers had been mustered, horses saddled, the gates thrown open. You had sent scouts ahead on the road to Sakuryn, had ordered the guard doubled at every entrance, had personally checked the readiness of the royal physician's kit. You had not stopped moving, because if you stopped moving, you would start thinking and if you started thinking, you would fall apart.

Now, three hours later, you stood in the center of the throne room—still in your rumpled clothes, hair escaping its pins, ink smudged on your fingers—directing a pair of guards to reinforce the western patrol route when the great doors swung open.

You turned.

Yuma stood in the doorway.

He was whole and unharmed. A little dusty from the road, perhaps, and wearing a travel-stained cloak, but very, very alive. Behind him, Taki peered over his shoulder, looking mildly confused by the commotion.

Yuma's eyes swept the room—the gathered soldiers, the heightened alert, the maps spread across every surface, and finally, you, standing in the middle of it all like a storm given human form.

He blinked.

his lips curved into a smirk. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, looking for all the world like a cat who had just discovered a particularly entertaining mouse.

"Well, well, well," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. "If it isn't my favorite advisor, standing in the middle of the throne room looking like she's about to declare war on someone. And holding a spear, no less. I didn't know you knew how to use one, kitty."

"I thought you were dead." You said flatly.

Yuma's smirk faltered. "What? Why?"

"Your letter." You thrust the crumpled parchment toward him, "It wasn't your handwriting. It said do not expect my return at the appointed hour. What was I supposed to think?"

Yuma took the letter, smoothing it out and scanning its contents. His eyebrows rose. Then, to your utter disbelief, he laughed.

"Oh, this is Taki's handwriting." He said, waving the parchment. "I dictated it to him because my hands were full." He paused, squinting at the words. "He made it sound significantly more ominous than I intended."

You swore you were going to murder Takayama Riki for never showing you his damned handwriting.

Yuma stepped closer, his playful demeanor softening. He tilted his head, studying your face with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"Were you worried about me?" He asked, and his voice was quieter now, almost gentle.

You wanted to deflect with sarcasm, to hide behind sharp words and a dismissive wave.

"Yes." You said because there was no point in pretending otherwise.

Yuma's eyes widened, just a fraction. Something flickered in their depths before he masked it with a clearing of his throat.

"Right." He said, turning away. "Tea. My office. Now." He paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. "And you are going to tell me every single thing you did while you were supposed to be resting." His voice carried a note of command, but his eyes were soft. "Every. Single. Thing."

He disappeared through the doorway, leaving you standing in the throne room, heart in your throat, wondering how one man could infuriate you and undo you in equal measure.

_______________________________

His office was warm, lit by the soft glow of candles that had been lit in your absence. A fresh pot of tea sat on the table, steam curling lazily into the air. You had set down the spear somewhere in the hallway and your hands were blessedly still as you wrapped them around a porcelain cup.

Yuma sat across from you, having shed his travel cloak and loosened the collar of his tunic. He looked tired, you noted. The journey had clearly worn on him but his eyes were bright as they watched you over the rim of his own cup.

"So," he said, settling back into his chair, "tell me everything."

You told him about the letter's arrival, the panic that had seized you, the mobilization of soldiers, the scouts sent ahead, the doubled patrols, the frantic reorganization of the eastern supply ledgers that had somehow spiraled into a full-scale security review.

Yuma neither teased nor interuupted. He simply listened, his expression thoughtful, his tea growing cold in his hands. When you finally finished, he was quiet for a long moment.

"Sakuryn had some really pretty red flowers." He said offhandedly. "They grew along the road leading out of the capital. Bright crimson, like little flames." He paused, his gaze drifting to the window. "You would have liked them."

You blinked, thrown by the sudden shift in topic. "Why would you even care about that? You merely went for a treaty signing."

"Can I not care about you?"

The words landed like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples spread outward, unsettling everything in their path. Something caught in your jaw—a tension you hadn't realized you were holding.

Care was not a word you trusted. Care was a word that came with conditions, with expectations, with fine print you had never been able to read.

"You would have probably told me their latin name before I could finish saying they were pretty." He said, "I wanted to bring one back for you, but it would have wilted before I crossed the border."

You stared at him, your throat tight, your heart pounding against your ribs. You wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come.

Yuma cleared his throat and reached for the teapot, refilling his cup with studied nonchalance. "Anyway," he said, his voice lighter now, "you should actually rest tomorrow. That's an order."

You nodded, because nodding was safe. Nodding required no words. You finished your tea in silence and when you finally rose to leave, your hands were steady, but your heart was not.

The door clicked shut behind you. Yuma sat alone in the office, staring at the empty space where you had been. He let out a long, slow breath and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.

Attraction or admiration, he had said to Jo. I don't know which.

Yuma had realised the moment he saw you standing in the throne room, spear in hand, eyes wild with terror—for him. He had realised when you said yes so honestly, that it had nearly undone him. He had realied when he watched you leave and the room felt emptier for your absence.

Attraction.

Yuma groaned, dropping his hands to his lap.

Attraction wasn't a road he had conquered yet.

_______________

Why ever did you agree to this task was an answer only the gods themselves would know.

This being accompanying Yuma as he took his usual undercover trip to the streets of the kingdom

You had been buried in ledgers when Yuma had appeared at your desk, dressed in plain linen and a worn leather vest, his hair mussed to look less regal. He had looked like a common laborer, grinning at you like a child with a secret.

"Taki's sick." He had announced. "You're coming with me instead."

You had opened your mouth to refuse. You had a mountain of work. You had no interest in playing dress-up in the lower districts. You had—

"You said yes." Yuma had said, already pulling you to your feet. "I heard it. It was very enthusiastic."

"I said nothing of the sort—"

"Your silence was thunderous with agreement. Come on. Put on something less advisor-like."

You had ended up here.

The streets of Eldanith's lower districts were alive with noise and color. Merchants hawked their wares from wooden stalls, children darted between the legs of adults and the smell of fresh bread and fried fish floated through the air.

Yuma was having the time of his life. He had already purchased a hand-carved wooden bird ("It looked lonely"), a bundle of dried herbs from an old woman ("She needed the coin more than I do"), and a chipped ceramic mug that you were fairly certain was going to give him lead poisoning ("It has character").

"You're being robbed." You said flatly, watching him hand over another handful of coins for a piece of fabric that was clearly dyed with cheap pigment.

"I'm investing in the local economy." He corrected, tucking the fabric into his satchel.

You were about to argue further when your gaze drifted past his shoulder, toward a small gathering of people near a fountain.

You knew those faces. Your breath caught. Your steps faltered.

They were older now, lined with the passage of years, but you would have recognized them anywhere. The same cluster of sycophants around the ringleader, laughing at jokes you had long since forgotten the content of but remembered the feeling of.

Your chest tightened. Your hands grew cold.

They had been your friends once. Or so you had thought.

You had been young, eager, desperate to belong. They had welcomed you into their circle with open arms; you had been so grateful, so naive. You had trusted them with your secrets, your fears, your hopes. You had thought you had found a place where you were wanted.

They had played their trick.

You did not like to think about it. You had buried it deep, locked it away in the same vault where you kept your childhood fears and your mother's disappointed sighs. But seeing them now, laughing by the fountain, the memories clawed their way back up your throat.

The realization that you had never been a friend to them—you had been a joke.

Your breathing quickened. Your vision narrowed. The sounds of the market faded to a distant roar.

"Hey."

A hand closed around your wrist, warm and firm. Yuma was standing in front of you, his playful demeanor replaced by concern. His eyes searched your face, reading something in your expression that made his jaw tighten.

"What's wrong?" He asked quietly.

You tried to speak, but your voice caught in your throat. The group by the fountain hadn't noticed you yet. They were still laughing carefree, utterly unaware of the ghost they had left behind. You wanted to run. You wanted to hide. You wanted to be anywhere but here.

But Yuma's hand was still on your wrist, grounding you, anchoring you to the present.

"Hey," he said again, softer this time. "Look at me."

His eyes were patient and waiting. He did not demand an explanation. He did not push. He simply stood there, holding you together with nothing but his gaze.

"Whatever it is," he said, "we can leave. Just say the word."

"It's nothing." You said, the words scraping past the tightness in your throat. "Let's go."

But before you could turn, before Yuma could guide you away, a voice cut through the market noise like a blade.

"Well, well, well. Is that who I think it is?"

You froze. The ringleader already striding toward you, that familiar smirk plastered across her face. The others followed, a flock of vultures drawn by the scent of old prey.

You were trapped.

"Look at you." She said, stopping just short of invading your space. Her eyes raked over you, cataloging every detail with the practiced cruelty of someone who knew exactly which insecurities to poke. "Still wearing those same old clothes, I see. I thought by now you'd have grown into something presentable."

One of the others—you remembered the one who had laughed the loudest—chimed in. "And you're still so tense. Relax a little. You look like you're about to shatter."

"Maybe she's finally learned that no one wants to be around someone so brittle." Another added.

Your chest constricted. The noise of the market grew distant. Their faces blurred at the edges, but their words landed like stones, each one heavier than the last. You wanted to speak, to defend yourself, but your voice had abandoned you. You were a teenager again, standing in the middle of a circle, watching the people you trusted most tear you apart for sport.

Brittle. Plain. Too much. Not enough.

Joke.

You felt yourself spiraling, the ground slipping beneath your feet—

"Alright."

Yuma's voice cut through the spiral. He stepped forward, positioning himself slightly in front of you, a barrier between you and the vultures.

"This was nice." He said, and there was nothing nice about his tone. "But we must be on our way."

Her smirk widened. She looked Yuma up and down, clearly unimpressed by the plain clothes and the lack of any obvious status markers.

"Oh, I see." She said, voice dripping with mockery. "You've actually found someone to court you. How surprising." The others snickered. "I mean," she continued, gesturing vaguely at you, "with a face like that, I didn't think anyone would—"

Yuma moved.

It was subtle—a shift in his stance, a hardening of his jaw, a coldness that crept into his dark eyes. He did not raise his voice. He did not draw a weapon. But something in his presence changed, a quiet menace that made the air around him grow still.

"I would be very careful," he said, his voice low and even, "about how you finish that sentence."

She blinked, momentarily thrown. The smirk faltered.

"And I would be very careful," Yuma continued, stepping closer, his height suddenly seeming to loom, "about speaking to her at all. Because the next time you open your mouth, I can't promise I'll be in a forgiving mood."

There was a beat of silence. The market noise seemed to recede. Even the vultures looked uncertain.

She recovered quickly, forcing a laugh. "Who do you think you are, threatening me? You're nobody. You're—"

"I'm someone who knows exactly how much force it takes to break a jaw." Yuma interrupted, his voice calm, pleasant and terrifying. "And I'm someone who has absolutely nothing to lose by demonstrating that knowledge in front of a crowd of witnesses who will all conveniently remember nothing."

Yuma sighed, a sound of profound boredom. "You know what? I was going to let this slide. I was going to be gracious. I was going to walk away and let you keep your teeth."

He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small silver medallion—the royal seal of Eldanith, stamped with the crest of the Nakakita line. He held it up between two fingers, letting it catch the afternoon light.

"But then you opened your mouth again. And I realized that some lessons need to be taught more than once."

The medallion glinted. The marketplace went still.

Like a wave crashing over the shore, recognition spread through the crowd. One by one, every person in sight dropped to their knees, bowing.

"Your Majesty/" Someone whispered. And then it spread, a ripple of hushed awe and terror.

Your Majesty. Your Majesty. Your Majesty.

You barely noticed any of it.

You were standing in the middle of the street, your hand still clasped in Yuma's and you were on the verge of tears. The king of Eldanith, the man who drove you up every wall in the palace, had threatened to break a jaw for insulting you.

Yuma tucked the medallion away and turned to you. "Come on." He said, tugging your hand. "Let's go home."

He led you through the kneeling crowd and you followed because you didn't know what else to do. Your legs moved on their own. Your heart raced in your chest. The tears you had been holding back threatened to spill over.

Under the dying sunlight, Nakakita Yuma looked so…..warm.

Warm was that feeling of his hand clutched in yours (somebody's hands on you), the sound of his voice defending you (a soft voice to call you out of sleep) and just the mere existence of him (somebody to sip on cofffee with).

And you were crying because somebody have proved, for one afternoon, that you were not too much.

Why the fuck had he proved that?

You followed Yuma into his office, the door clicking shut behind you. The silence of the palace was a stark contrast to the chaos of the market. Yuma moved to the side, shrugging off his vest and cloak, tossing them onto a chair with little care.

"Why did you do that?"

He paused, turning to look at you. "What?"

"Why did you do that?" You repeated, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to steady it. "Back there, with them. Why did you—"

"Just wanted to." He said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"That's not an answer."

Yuma turned to face you fully, crossing his arms. "Do you not think you deserve at least that much respect?"

The question hit you like a physical blow. You blinked, your throat tightening.

"That's not—" You shook your head, frustration bubbling up through the tears. "You're the king. You shouldn't be wasting your time defending someone like me."

"Someone like you?" His voice sharpened, his eyes narrowing.

"Yes. Someone like me. I'm your advisor. I'm—I'm nothing. I'm replaceable. I'm—"

"Nothing?"

The word cut through your rambling like a blade. Yuma stepped closer.

"Someone like you." He repeated, his voice low. "Do you hear yourself? Someone this smart? Someone who works herself to the bone for a kingdom that doesn't thank her half enough?"

He took another step. Then another. The space between you shrank until you could see flecks of gold in his dark eyes, could count the individual lashes framing them.

"Someone this beautiful?" He murmured, his voice dropping to reverence.

You shook your head, stepping back. Your back hit the wall. "That's—that's not—" You took a break, composing yourself back to your formal tone, "It's odd that you care. It's okay for you not to care. I'm used to it. I expect it. So you don't have to—"

"Don't have to what?"

Yuma was angry now. You could see it in the set of his jaw, the fire in his eyes. But it wasn't the cold, menacing anger he had shown your ex-friends. This was something personal.

"Don't have to pretend." You whispered. "I know what I am. I know what I'm worth. And it's not—"

"Stop."

He closed the distance between you, his hands coming up to cup your face. His palms were warm against your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had finally spilled over.

"Stop." Yuma said again, his voice cracking. "Stop talking about yourself like you're something less than extraordinary. Stop acting like you're not worth every second of my time, every word of my defense, every beat of my goddamned heart."

"Your Majesty—"

"You really have no idea how much I love you, do you?"

Love?

That unfamillair word?

A revelation, spoken with the kind of quiet devastation that comes from realizing someone has been living in darkness their entire life, never knowing what light feels like.

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. What could you possibly say? That you had spent years believing love was transactional? That affection was something earned through usefulness, through making yourself agreeable and necessary? That the idea of someone loving you—truly, unconditionally loving you—was so foreign it felt like a language you had never learned to speak?

Yuma's thumbs traced gentle arcs across your cheekbones, catching fresh tears before they could fall.

"I think about you constantly." He said, his voice low and raw. "I think about the way you smile when you think no one is watching. I think about the way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. I think about the sound of your laugh that escapes when I catch you off guard. You have no idea how much I love that sound."

A sob escaped you and he pulled you closer, his forehead pressing against yours.

"I notice when you skip meals because you're too deep in work. I notice when you're pretending to be fine when you're not. I notice everything about you, and I have been drowning in it since the moment you walked in and told me my tax policy was idiotic."

A wet laugh escaped you, surprised and broken.

"You were right, by the way," he added, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "It was idiotic. And you were the first person in years brave enough to tell me."

Yuma pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own shining and vulnerable in a way you had never seen from him before.

"I love you."

The words were a truth, spoken with the certainty of someone who had long since stopped fighting it. "I love you, and I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how to be near you without wanting to be closer. I don't know how to watch you walk away without counting the moments until you come back. I don't know how to exist in a world where you don't know how much you mean to me."

His voice cracked on the last word, and you felt your heart splinter along with it.

"So please." He whispered, his breath warm against your lips. "Please believe me when I say that you are not too much. You are not nothing. You are not replaceable. You are the most infuriating, brilliant, beautiful, irreplaceable person I have ever met and I am terrified of how much I need you."

Yuma pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering there as if he could pour every unspoken word into that single point of contact.

"I need you to know," he murmured against your skin, "that I will spend every day for the rest of my life proving to you that you are worthy of love. That you always have been."

You stood there, cradled in his hands, tears streaming down your face, and for the first time in years—maybe for the first time ever—you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you were enough.

Yuma's hands were still cradling your face, his thumbs resting against your damp cheeks. Your fingers were curled around his wrists, holding on like he was the only anchor in a storm. The air between you was thick with everything unspoken, everything confessed, everything waiting to be claimed.

Your eyes dropped to his lips. They were so close—a breath away, a heartbeat away.

Your mind raced with a thousand objections. He was the king. You were his advisor. This was reckless. This was dangerous. This was everything you had been taught to avoid.

Those eyes were looking at you like you were the answer to a question he had been asking his whole life. What was a little danger?

You swallowed. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it through his palms.

"Yuma," you tried, and the name felt foreign and precious on your tongue. "Can I…"

You hesitated. The fear clawed at your throat, old and familiar. But his thumbs traced another gentle arc across your cheekbones and the fear loosened its grip.

"Can I kiss you?"

The words came out fragile, almost disbelieving as if you were asking for something you had no right to want.

For a moment, Yuma looked utterly stunned—as if the idea that you would want to kiss him had never occurred to him.

"Yes." He breathed. "Yes. Please. Yes."

You closed the distance.

The kiss was soft at first—hesitating, questioning, neither of you quite believing this was real. His lips were warm and slightly chapped, moving against yours with a gentleness that made your knees weak.

His hand slid into your hair, and yours fisted in his shirt, and the kiss deepened into something hungrier, something more desperate, something that tasted like years of longing finally given release.

The world faded away. The office, the palace, the kingdom—all of it dissolved into nothing. There was only the warmth of his mouth on yours, the steady beat of his heart against your palm, the way his breath hitched when you tilted your head just so.

It felt like flowers were blooming around you, bursting into colour behind your closed eyelids.

Violets for devotion. Roses for passion. Lilies for a love you had never believed you deserved. They spiraled upward in a cascade of petals and fragrance, wrapping around you both like the universe itself was blessing this fragile thing you were building.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and trembling, you kept your forehead pressed to his.

In the golden light of the dying sun, with the scent of phantom flowers lingering in the air, Yuma kissed you again like you were the most treasured thing in all of Eldanith.

And perhaps, to him, you were.

_____________________

There were many, many explanations as to how you could've possibly ended up here.

Ink stained fingers tangled in the soft hair strands of Nakakita Yuma while his tongue worked to pull your tears from you.

You had been working all day in his office. It had become something of a routine in the weeks since that kiss—sharing the space, the silence, the occasional brush of hands when reaching for the same document.

The complicated relationship you had once navigated with a distance had transformed into something that felt close to home.

Yuma would sit at his desk, reviewing treaties and signing decrees, while you occupied the table by the window, surrounded by scrolls and ledgers and half-empty cups of tea. Sometimes you would look up and find him already watching you, a small smile playing on his lips. Sometimes he would rise from his chair just to stand behind you, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder, before returning to his work as if he had simply needed to reassure himself that you were still there.

Wvery night, without fail, before you gathered your things and retreated to your house, he would catch your hand, pull you close and press a kiss to your forehead.

"I love you." Yuma would whisper, his breath warm against your skin.

Every night, without fail, you would feel that flutter in your chest, that same disbelief that this was your life now.

Tonight, the work had piled higher than usual. A trade dispute with a neighboring province. A miscommunication in the treasury. A letter from Jo that had made Yuma laugh and then sigh. The hours had slipped away, the candles had burned low and you had refused to stop.

"Give it up." Yuma had said for the third time, his voice gentle but firm. "Go home. Sleep."

"I'm not sleepy yet." You had mumbled, already reaching for a scroll on a shelf in his office, stretching on your tiptoes, your fingers barely brushing the parchment.

You heard him rise from his chair, soft footsteps crossing the room. And then his arm was around your waist, pulling you back until your back was flush against his chest and his other hand reached up to pluck the scroll from the shelf with infuriating ease.

"Yuma—"

He took the scroll from your hand slowly and placed it on the desk beside you. His lips found the curve of your neck, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss just below your ear.

"How about I help you sleep, kitty?"

His voice was low, sending a shiver down your spine. His arm tightened around your waist, holding you steady as his lips trailed down the side of your neck, leaving a path of warmth in their wake.

Your breath hitched. Your fingers found their way into his hair, tangling in the soft strands, holding him there as his tongue traced a delicate pattern against your skin.

"You've been working too hard." He murmured against your throat. "You've been pushing yourself too much. And I've been wanting to remind you that you're human."

He kissed the hollow of your collarbone and your knees buckled slightly.

"Let me remind you." Yuma whispered. "Let me take care of you tonight."

Your eyes fluttered closed. You leaned back into him, letting him hold your weight, letting him catch you the way he always did.

"Okay," you breathed. "Okay."

In the dim candlelight of his office, with the world outside fading away, Nakakita Yuma turned you in his arms, cupped your face in his hands and kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

Yuma’s kiss was slow and deep, a promise of the devotion he was about to pour into you. He tasted of tea and longing, his tongue sweeping against yours in a soothing dance that melted the last remnants of your professional resolve. With a soft groan, he broke the kiss, though he kept his forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm on your lips.

"Come here.." He whispered, his voice thick with affection.

Yuma guided you toward the velvet sofa in the corner of the office, candlelight casting flickering shadows across the room. He lowered you onto the cushions with tenderness. You sank into the plush fabric, looking up at him with wide, hazy eyes.

Yuma knelt between your legs, his expression one of pure, unadulterated adoration—a king on his knees.

His fingers moved to the fastenings of your dress, his touch light and steady. Yuma took his sweet time, undoing each button and tie with a reverence that made your heart ache. As the fabric slid away, exposing your skin to the cool night air, he let out a shaky breath, his gaze roaming over your body like he was memorizing a sacred text.

"You are so beautiful…" He murmured, his voice trembling . "Absolutely breathtaking."

He leaned forward, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your stomach, his lips grazing your skin in a way that made you arch your back and let out a soft, needy whine. Your fingers curled into the fabric of the sofa, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps.

As he shifted lower, his hands sliding up to grip your thighs, parting them slowly to reveal the damp heat between your legs, Yuma paused. He looked up at you, his eyes searching yours, ensuring you were still with him, still wanting this.

"May I?" he asked, his voice a low, rough plea. "I want to take care of everything you're feeling right now. Is that okay, kitty?"

"Yes," you whimpered, your voice breaking. "Please, Yuma...please."

Yuma started with a softness that was so fucking agonizing. He pressed a tender kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, then another, moving closer and closer to your center. When his tongue finally made contact with your clit, you let out a loud, sharp moan that echoed through the quiet office.

"Ah! Yuma!"

He hummed against you, the vibration sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. He began to lick you with slow strokes, his tongue swirling around your nub with an expert precision. He was treating you like a delicacy, savoring every drop of your arousal.

You began to whine, your hips instinctively bucking upward, seeking more pressure. "More... please, I need more..."

Yuma responded by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. The combination was overwhelming. You gasped, your head tossing from side to side on the cushions, your voice dissolving into a series of high-pitched moans and desperate whimpers.

"That's it, sweetheart," he murmured, pulling back for a second to look at you, his lips glistening with your juices. "Just let go. Give it aaall to me. Let your king take the stress away, hmm?"

Yuma dove back in, his suction increasing, his tongue flicking faster and harder against your clit. You were sobbing now, the pleasure building into a crescendo that felt like it would shatter you. You gripped his hair, pulling him closer, your legs shaking violently.

"Yuma! Oh god, Yuma, I'm—I'm going to—!"

"Go on." He encouraged, his voice muffled against your pussy. "Relax for me, kitty."

With one final flick of his tongue and a deep thrust of his fingers, you peaked. Your body stiffened, a loud, prolonged cry escaping your throat as waves of intense orgasm crashed over you. Your internal muscles clamped tightly around his fingers, your breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps.

Yuma didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, gently licking the remaining sensitivity of your clit, soothing the aftershocks with soft, loving laps until your breathing finally slowed. He crawled up the sofa, pulling you into his arms and wrapping you in a tight, protective embrace.

"I've got you.." He whispered, kissing your temple. "I've got you."

You melted into him, your body still humming with the echoes of pleasure, your mind floating in that hazy, weightless space he always seemed to guide you into. His arms were warm and steady around you, his heartbeat strong against your back, and for a long, perfect moment, you were content to simply exist in his hold.

The haze began to clear and a familiar stubbornness stirred in your chest.

"...I'm still not sleepy." You mumbled against his shoulder, your voice carrying a petulant edge.

Yuma let out a low chuckle, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into your spine. "Is that so?"

You nodded, turning your head to press a kiss to his jaw. "Not even a little bit."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes filled with a fond exasperation that made your heart flutter. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"

You smiled, innocent and cheeky. "I have no idea what you mean."

Yuma studied you for a moment, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your hip. Then, without warning, he shifted, one arm sliding under your knees and the other bracing your back as he lifted you into his arms.

"Yuma!" You gasped, clutching at his shoulders. "What are you—"

"If you're not sleepy," he said, carrying you toward the door that connected his office to his chambers, "then I'll just have to find other ways to tire you out."

Your heart stuttered as he pushed open the door with his shoulder, revealing a room that was unmistakably royal. A massive four-poster bed draped in silk dominated the space. Heavy curtains framed windows that overlooked the palace gardens. A fireplace crackled softly in the corner, casting warm shadows across the walls.

You were in the king's bedroom.

The thought sent a thrill through you, equal parts awe and disbelief. You had been in this palace for years, walked its halls and attended its meetings, but you had never—never—imagined you would find yourself in this most private of spaces, held in the arms of the king himself.

Yuma set you down gently on the edge of the bed, the silk cool beneath your fingertips. He straightened and his hands moved to the collar of his shirt.

"You look nervous." He observed, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"I'm not nervous." You lied, your eyes fixed on his fingers as they worked the first button loose. "I'm just...surprised."

"Surprised?"

"That I'm in the king's bedroom." You swallowed. "It feels...intimate."

He paused, his hands stilling on the second button. "It is intimate. That's the point."

Then he resumed, revealing inch by inch of the skin you had only ever glimpsed in stolen moments. His shirt fell open, exposing the lean lines of his chest, the subtle definition of his abdomen, the trail of hair that disappeared below his waistband.

Yuma let the shirt slide from his shoulders and fall to the floor. Your breath caught. His hands moved to his belt, and he raised an eyebrow at you, a smirk playing at his lips.

"You're staring."

"You're undressing." You countered, your voice coming out breathier than intended.

He let his trousers fall, stepping out of them with an easy grace that belied the intensity in his eyes. He stood before you, the firelight painting golden lines across his skin, and he was beautiful.

Yuma knelt before you, his hands resting on your knees, his eyes meeting yours with a tenderness that stole your breath.

"Tell me if you want to stop." He said softly. "Tell me if you're not ready. Tell me anything and I will listen."

Oh to have the king on his knees.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against his cheek, and you smiled.

"I trust you." You whispered. "I'm right where I want to be."

Yuma’s expression softened, a look of profound love crossing his features at your words. He leaned forward, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to your forehead before sliding his undergarments down, freeing his cock. It was thick and pulsing, weeping a bead of pre-cum that glistened in the candlelight, a testament to how much he had been wanting you.

He moved back over you, his body a warm weight that felt like a sanctuary. Yuma paused at your entrance, the broad head of his cock brushing against your swollen, wet folds. He waited, his eyes locked onto yours, giving you one last moment to breathe.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice a rough caress. "so much."

With a slow, agonizingly steady push, he slid into you. You let out a long, shaky moan, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt him stretch you open, filling every inch of your aching void. He entered you with such care, that you could feel every ridge of him sliiiding against your walls. He stopped when he was buried deep, his hips flush against yours, and he simply stayed there for a moment, letting you adjust to his size.

"You feel.…nghh….incredible," he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "So tight—hah ahh fuckkkk you're so warm."

Yuma began to move, pulling back almost entirely before sinking back in with a soft, rhythmic glide. Each thrust was a slow, loving stroke, a silent promise of devotion. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back.

"Yuma... oh, god, Yuma…." you whimpered, your voice small and needy. The slow pace was a torture of the best kind, building a tension in your lower belly that made you whine for more.

He heard you, his breath hitching. He began to pick up the pace, just a fraction, his movements becoming more fluid. He started to hit your perfect spot with every deep plunge, sending sparks of pleasure radiating through your nerves. Your moans grew louder, turning into desperate, high-pitched sounds as you arched your back, your chest heaving against his.

"That's it.….just like that," he murmured, his voice growing strained, "My girl's sooo good for me, isn't she?"

The slow dance evolved into something more primal. You were both breathless now, the air thick with the scent of sex and yearning. You could feel him trembling, his muscles coiled tight as he drove himself into you with an increasing urgency.

"I'm close…" he gasped, his pace becoming frantic, his hips hammering against yours in a blur of heat and friction. "I'm almost there.….please, stay with me..."

"Yuma…..ohhh oh!" You cried out, your own climax rushing toward you like a tidal wave.

The world narrowed down to the point where your bodies met. You felt the hot, rhythmic pulses of his cum flooding your insides and the sensation triggered your own release. You screamed his name, your internal muscles clamping around him in violent, rhythmic contractions that mirrored his own.

You both collapsed together, chests heaving, hearts drumming a frantic duet against each other. Yuma stayed anchored inside you, his arms wrapping around you in a crushing embrace, holding you as if you were the only thing keeping him down to this earth.

"I've got you…." He whispered, his voice broken and full of love, kissing your sweat-slicked skin. "I've got you, my dearest."

After a long, breathless moment, he finally pulled out with a gentle wince, settling beside you on the silk sheets. He gathered you against his chest, his hand stroking slow, soothing lines down your spine.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Your fingers traced lazy patterns across his collarbone and his lips pressed occasional kisses to the top of your head.

"...So," you murmured, your voice thick with exhaustion, "does this mean I win the argument about staying up late?"

Yuma let out a low, rumbling laugh. "Absolutely not. You lost spectacularly. You're about to fall asleep any second now."

"I am not." You protested, even as your eyelids grew heavy.

"You are." He countered, his voice warm with affection. "Your voice is already getting sleepy. You're slurring your words."

You lifted your head to glare at him, but the effect was ruined by the huge yawn that escaped you instead. Yuma's grin was insufferable.

"Told you, kitty." He whispered, pulling you closer.

You huffed, but nestled into him anyway, your cheek pressed against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you toward sleep. "You're insufferable."

"And you're beautiful." He replied, kissing your forehead. "We're quite the pair."

You smiled against his skin, your hand finding his and intertwining your fingers. "I love you, Yuma."

He squeezed your hand, his voice soft and melodic in the darkness. "I love you too. More than all the stars in Eldanith."

Sleep pulled you under, warm and gentle, wrapped in the arms of the king who had somehow become yours.

Wanting arrives quietly at first.

It sits beside you while you wash dishes, while you wait for the kettle to boil, while you watch strangers crossing streets hand in hand. It says nothing.

It only asks for someone to stay long enough that wanting can finally put down its bags and rest.

Iin the quiet of the king's chambers, with the fire burning low and the silk sheets tangled around your bare limbs, the wanting rests.

It set down its bags the moment your fingers first tangled in your hair. It unpacked its weary heart the night a king whispered "I love you" before you walked out his door. It curled up and fell asleep in the space between his breath and yours, in the hollow of his collarbone where your head now rested.

You had spent so long believing you were too much—too loud, too quiet, too cluttered, too everything.

Yuma had never once asked you to be less. He had only ever pulled you closer.

As the night wrapped itself around the palace, as the stars of Eldanith wheeled slowly overhead, you felt an echo of that loneliness dissolve into nothing.

There were many, many explanations as to how you could have possibly ended up here.

In the end, only one mattered.

You were loved.

And wanting, at long last, had found its home.

fin.

A/N: i think this is one of those rare fics in which i don't have a recurring word or theme if that makes sense. Know that i actually celebrated when i finished editing because oh my god my drafts were terrible Nakakita Yuma you have defeated me. Make sure to tune in for the last fic gang Jojo will be YEARNING

divider by @strangergraphics-archive

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“I really do wonder when you both will stop being such bad examples to our students.” The green eyes of Professor Sera—headmistress of Kairos—stared right into your soul. Then they flickered to the man sitting beside you, in his annoyingly straight posture.

Nakakita Yuma.

What had you ever done to end up in the same environment as Nakakita Yuma?

Sure, he was a pretty guy; sharp, cold eyes and perfect pink lips—most definitely the type you’d read about and fantasize at night. But once an asshole, always an asshole. You couldn't believe that this was the guy by whom you were so taken on your first day.

“If I may, Headmistress,” His canines flashed in the candlelight as he put on that infamous flirtatious smirk, “why am I here? Princess here—” He shot you a pesky glance, “—is the one who decided to scare off all my students.”

“Not all of them!” You shot back, "At least now you know which one of your students aren't absolute nitwits.”

"At least they're not all soft like yours.” Yuma mumbled loudly enough for you to hear.

“And what’s wrong with being soft?” You were on the verge of throwing your chair on him, “What’s wrong with appreciating the softness of magic? Unlike you, I take pride in knowing I can conjure with my bare hands.” Tiny sparks were emerging from your fingertips. Yuma’s smirk only became more annoying.

“As expected from our spoilt, aristocratic princess.” 

“Oh you little motherfu-”

“Alright children, that's enough.” Professor Sera’s words, though silent, were grave enough to make you turn away from Yuma, cross your arms and stare defeatedly at the floor. Just because he embraced the new mathematical version of magic did not mean that he had the right to criticise your traditional methods. So what if you came from an ancient line of mages? You were certainly not the flamboyant peacock he made you out to be.

“Professor Astagne,” The wizened old lady sighed, “could you please apologise to Professor Nakakita and swear not to pull such shenanigans again?” And before Yuma could shoot a cocky retort at you— “And Professor Nakakita, could you swear not to fuel the anger of your fellow professor?” 

At such times, the responsible adult thing to do would be to give your ego up, apologise with all your chest and make childish promises. But who was to say that the both of you were responsible adults? Grudgingly, a few mumbled apologies were uttered and you were soon ushered out of the office, with Professor Sera saying that she had ‘less childish matters’ to attend to. 

You were sure she did. After all, managing a school like Kairos—the famed Academy of The Arcane—was no cake walk. Established a thousand years before your birth, Kairos, in addition to being an institution of knowledge and wisdom, was a place where mad scientists were considered normal. A place for invention, chaos and new birth. 

And the man fixing his coat next to you was one such inventor, the youngest mage to have mixed traditional magic with scientific methods. Nakakita Yuma, however annoying he was, was famed throughout the kingdom for his intellectual prowess. Therefore, it was no mystery that you and him would have detested each other’s guts. 

You were from the famed mage family of Astagne, a family no king nor his kin would have ever dared to go up against. The Astagne Dukedom was rumoured to have been started by one of the oldest witches of the land—the first of her kind: transformation mages.

You took pride in your mana; transformation was no joke for the human body—having taken the lives of many great minds when they ventured too deep into its secrets. Thankfully, medicinal plants had been bred by the time your great grandparents were born and now, you could change your quill into a parrot in front of your students with a wave of the hand. All you had to do was pop a leaf into your mouth once a month.

“Come on princess, get that frown off your face.” Yuma leaned down to match your eye-level (those gorgeous eyes, you were close to breaking), “Proper duchesses don't frown.”

“It’s good that I’m not a duchess then.” You spat back, “I have the sudden urge to wipe that smirk off your face,” You stepped closer to him and glared, “permanently.” 

“Cute.” Yuma chuckled, “Word of advice, don’t mess with my class materials again.”

“I’ll do that when you stop spewing nonsense about my family.” You hissed, “Telling your students that traditional magic doesn't work as well anymore—what utter rubbish!” You poked his chest with your finger, “Mark my words, Professor. One day, when your technology destroys this galaxy, I'll be there to tell you I told you so.” With that, you threw your cape behind you and rushed down the hallway, the sound of your shoes tapping against the hard marble echoing against the walls. 

Yuma stared at the floor for a moment, and then looked in your direction. Even in the dark, you burned like the sun—blinding him and anybody in your path. He sighed and slipped his hands into his pockets, kicking a small pebble. Then he made his merry way out and down the hall to the gardens. Sitting down on his favourite bench, he leaned back and stared at the dusty moon. Eventually, consumed by the smell of flowers and the cold wind, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to be consumed by his thoughts.

The Astagne family matriarch was a puissant mage; your grandmother was a stubborn woman, preferring to fight death rather than embrace it. A brilliant transformations professor herself in the past, she was one of the reasons that Yuma found your posting suspicious. Nepotism, he concluded, when you were hired without giving the professor’s test like everybody else. 

Pure luck, he said, when you turned out to be the biggest hit amongst the students, with more and more third year students flocking to your classes. In the end, he had to accept the fact that you were a good teacher—teaching the students not only how to use their mana, but also the ethics, the kindness, and the deliberations behind every magical decision. When he first saw you teach, he was bewildered. And not in a good way.

What sort of professor could ever teach their students to reject new forms of magic? New inventions? New ideas? Magic erupted from your hands as if it was the way you breathed, your mana floating around the room like snowdrops; how beautiful old magic was—Yuma had forgotten about it in his conquests for unfamiliar, avant-garde forms of scientific magic. 

His final straw however was when you had proclaimed at lunch with the other professors, that you wholeheartedly disliked technology, saying that the olden ways were far better and magnificent. Technology took away the ‘soul’ of it all, as you said. It was a pity that you had to find out in that way, Yuma thought, that you had to be introduced to the other transformations professor in a heated debate, in which a poor macaron got destroyed. 

“Daydreaming all by yourself, asshole?” 

And then there were two.

Yuma slowly opened his eyes and smiled, before he turned his eyes to the side, “That was some great acting back there.” He sat up straight and fixed the collar of his coat, “Why ever did the theatre not accept you?”

“They said they don’t accept the granddaughters of batty old bitches.” You chuckled. Reaching into your pocket, you pulled a thin cigarette and with a snap of your fingers, lit it up. A subtle warmth spread through your chest, a quiet intoxication, evoking a mix of pleasure and melancholy. 

The professor thought for a moment, and then opened his mouth, only to close it again. He settled for a soft hum, “Not going to offer me one?” Yuma turned his gaze back to the starry sky, “I know we’re rivals but that’s just rude, princess.” 

“Fuck off.” You smiled, handing him the cigarette, “I had them custom made—less tobacco. I don't want to wake up tomorrow feeling like shit.” You made a vomiting motion, making Yuma smile softly, “I am sorry about the pigeons by the way.” 

Yuma waved his hand in a dismissive manner, “Technically did help to figure out the dimwits. That idiotic son of that viscount should be tested for the absence of a brain.” He scoffed, “I swear these children of royalty get easy access to all this beautiful knowledge while all the blooming talent in those villages and dumps go unnoticed.” He glanced over and smiled meekly, “Sorry for bringing all that up.”

“It’s alright.” You hummed, “To each their own passion, professor.”

Silence settled between the two of you, but it was not the hostile kind, the ones that usually filled the space between you two in the biting quiet of lecture halls or meeting rooms. This one was softer, stretched thin between the curl of smoke and the rustle of leaves. You watched the ember at the tip of the cigarette glow and fade, like a heartbeat you couldn’t quite steady.

Though he seemed as cold as an icicle on the outside, you knew the other transformations professor was…..how would you put it? Soft? Kind? 

Good?

For how could you ever comprehend any good being left in the world? Not after what happened to your own kin. ‘She could have been saved’, your sister had died from a carriage accident, all because your parents refused life-saving modern medicine. 

The Astagne family was famed all over the realm for their strict use of traditional magic. Any mention of technology within the family meant being cast out. That marked the moment you were set on inheriting the dukedom from your grandmother. Which meant your publicity would weigh heavy on your chances to get the crown. And when a handsome, unconventional professor debated with you on the uses of magic and accidentally crushed a macaron in the process, you knew you had the perfect chance.

A perfect rival, a perfect enemy, a perfect lie. Because hatred was easier to perform than doubt and far easier than grief.

“And what of our appointment, Professor Nakakita?” You took a puff.  “Tomorrow?” 

As the ember ignited, a faint glow pulsed at its tip, sending tendrils of fragrant smoke curling into the air. You handed it to Yuma, who hummed, and took a long swig of the cigarette. Each exhale released a haze that lingered, momentarily shrouding the space in a transient veil of gray, as though time itself had slowed, as it always did when you were with your fellow professor.

“Does 5:30 work for you?” He asked, blowing smoke, “I know you have some academic matters you need desperate help with.” The smoke unfurled like silk in the dim light, swirling sensuously, dancing upward in languid spirals, carrying whispers of tobacco, earth and faint sweetness.

“Of course, my dearest professor.” You said soothingly, cigarette smoke dancing on your lips. 

You reached a hand out and brushed a strand of hair from his face. Bathed in moonlight, Yuma looked ethereal, as if touched by a quiet magic. His eyes caught the lunar shimmer, reflecting a calm otherworldly gleam. The moonlight wove through his hair, setting individual strands aglow, appearing as liquid silver around his face. 

“Are you sure you don't have any other commitments tomorrow?” You stood up with a groan, “I do not want a repeat of last time.”

“I checked my calendar this time, love.” He put on that cocky smirk, “I’m not entirely an idiot you know.”

You chuckled and leaned down, placing your hands on his shoulders, “Only an idiot would help me.” 

Your lips met gently at first. Then, your mouths parted slightly, a thin wisp of smoke—dense, fragrant, and warm—slipped between them. The smoke, smooth and slightly bitter, swirled in the shared space, blurring the edges of sensation, adding a hazy layer to the night. It filled your mouth with a warm, ephemeral presence, neither fully tangible nor fully imagined.

“Tomorrow then, professor.” You pulled away and adjusted your coat, “I’ll make sure to send along a reminder.” You turned on your heel and trotted away, feeling awfully sleepy after your midnight-smoke.

“As if anyone could ever forget you.” Yuma mumbled incoherently. Only an idiot would ever help you. He took a final puff of the dying cigarette and exhaled it out, watching the smoke dance upwards. With a final look to the moon, Yuma got to his feet and followed in your steps.

Well wasn't he the biggest idiot of them all?

_____________

A popular observation amongst the students of Kairos was the fact that Professor Nakakita was nothing like you. Though you two taught the same subject, you were as different as sky and sea. And it was particularly evident in the style of your offices.

His office was a study in shadow and precision, a stark contrast to the sun-drenched, herb-scented chaos of your own workspace. Where yours overflowed with potted plants, sun-bleached scrolls and the clutter of student projects, his was a sanctuary of dark polished wood and cool, muted light. 

No sunlight dared to intrude here, instead, a series of softly humming orbs of stabilized lightning—his own invention—hovered near the ceiling. His desk was a fortress of order. Neat stacks of parchment, a silver compass, several pens that wrote in different colored inks without inkwells, and a small, intricate model of a celestial gear-system sat. And then there were the gadgets—they were everywhere.

Strange contraptions ticked and whirred on every available surface—rings spinning within rings, glass spheres filled with shifting constellations, delicate instruments that pulsed with violet light. Wires snaked between them like veins, connecting one invention to another in a way that made your eye twitch just looking at it. It was hideous. It was fascinating. And currently, you were elbow-deep in one of them.

“This,” you said, squinting at the small cube in your hands, “is either going to explode or summon something unpleasant.”

Behind you, Yuma didn’t even look up from the papers spread across his desk. “If it does, do try not to die on my floor. The paperwork would be unbearable.”

You clicked your tongue, turning the cube over. It whirred in response, a soft pink glow flickering along its edges. “So you admit it might explode.”

“I admit,” he said calmly, scribbling something down, “that you have a remarkable talent for turning harmless objects into hazards.”

“Oh please.” You pressed down on one of its panels. It shifted under your touch, rearranging itself with a click. “Unlike you, I don’t need a hundred moving parts to make magic happen.”

“And unlike you,” he replied, finally glancing up, “I prefer my magic to be stable and not dependent on monthly leaf consumption.”

The cube in your hands suddenly unfolded, pieces sliding apart with mechanical grace until it resembled a delicate, spinning lattice, soft light pulsing through it. Your eyes widened despite yourself. “…Alright,” you muttered, “that was mildly impressive.”

“Mildly?” Yuma leaned back in his chair, arms crossing as that infuriating smirk crept back onto his face. “That, princess, is a self-regulating mana stabiliser. It took me three months to perfect.”

“And yet,” you tilted your head, “I could achieve the same effect with a flick of my wrist.”

“Yes,” he said dryly, “and exhaust yourself in the process. Very efficient.”

“And mine is prettier too.” You grinned, now idly fiddling with another gadget—a multi-layered orb that shifted between states of solid, liquid and gas when you tapped it with a specific rhythm. It was currently a swirling, misty vortex in your palm.

“You’re going to destabilize its calibration,” Yuma said, not looking up from the assignments he’d gone back to grading. 

“It’s fine. It likes me.” You tapped it again, and it solidified into a perfect sphere. “See? It’s more obedient than your students.” 

“Probably registering your annoyance as an output." He finally glanced up, his eyes narrowing. “Put it down.”

“You’re no fun.” You placed the orb back but didn’t move from the cabinet. Instead, you watched him grade. His pen moved with swift, sure strokes, occasionally pausing to scribble a note in the margin. “Who’s that? The viscount’s son with the missing brain?”

“No, thankfully. This one is actually promising.” A faint smile brushed across his face, “She’s proposing a mana-conservation theorem for transformation spells.” He held up the parchment. “See? This is the kind of thinking that bridges our fields.”

“Bridges?” You stepped closer, leaning over to look. “That’s your side of the river trying to build a dam on mine.”

“And yet we achieve irrigation.” He set the paper down. “You’d know that if you ever attended my lectures.”

“And bore myself to death?” You scoffed, “No thank you, I’m quite alright.”

“You’re particularly chipper today.” Yuma sighed, a sound that was both exasperated and fond, “Put that down.” He said, as you plucked a clockwork beetle from his shelf, “I’m serious, don’t toy with that one.”

“Or what?” You said, voice just a fraction of a tone lower. Seductive, of course. He’d promised a 5:30 session and had kept you there for half an hour not doing anything. How was a poor woman supposed to survive?

You turned on your heel and walked toward his desk, the faint hum of his inventions trailing behind you like a chorus. Without a word, you propped yourself up on the edge of the polished dark wood, settling right in front of where he sat, far too comfortable for someone who had been warned not to touch anything in the room. Your hands rested beside you, fingers brushing against neatly stacked assignments, and then you shifted.

You made a small show of adjusting your skirt—a daring piece of fabric that was shorter than your usual attire, in a deep red that contrasted sharply with the somber tones of his office. You let your knees fall slightly apart, the movement casual as a Sunday morning.

Yuma leaned back in his chair, eyes slowly making their way up, taking in the line of your legs and the way the fabric draped. He simply watched, expression unreadable, a slight tilt to his head.

“Is this….” He began slowly, voice quieter now, measured in that infuriating way of his, “your idea of appropriate academic attire?” You smiled sweetly. 

“My, Professor,” you hummed, leaning back on your palms just a little, “I wasn’t aware you paid such close attention to what I wear.”

“It’s hard not to.” Yuma replied smoothly, his own legs spreading just a bit, “Not when our princess wears such scandalous things.” He gasped a faux gasp, “Whatever will the students learn from you, darling?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you said lightly, voice dipped in honeyed mockery, “perhaps they’ll learn confidence. Something your lot seems to lack.” His eyes flickered, “Or maybe,” you continued, letting your foot swing idly where you sat on his desk, “they’ll simply learn how to hold someone’s attention.”

How could he even begin to explain that the sun always held everybody's attention?

Yuma’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood, the sound cutting clean through the low hum of the room. For a moment, he didn’t move—just looked at you from where he stood, something unreadable settling into his expression. You didn’t shift, didn’t so much as breathe differently as he closed the distance, a challenge for him. His hands came down on either side of you, palms flat against the wood, caging you in without a single inch of hesitation.

“You talk too much, darling.” His gaze never wavered from yours. 

“And you don’t talk enough,” you shot back just as quietly. The air stilled and it was barely another second more before his lips were on yours. 

Your lips met his in a fierce clash, the kiss deepening instantly as his mouth claimed yours with a hunger that stole the breath from your lungs. You tasted the faint bitterness of coffee on his tongue, mingled with the sharp edge of his cologne, and you leaned into it, matching his intensity. Time stretched, the world narrowing to the heat building between you, his hands sliding up your sides to grip your waist, pulling you flush to him.

“I think we ought to shut that pretty mouth up, hmm?” Yuma broke the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your chest. But he didn't give you a chance to retort; his mouth captured yours again, rougher this time, teeth grazing your lower lip in a way that sent sparks racing down your spine. 

His arms hooked under your thighs, strong fingers digging into the soft flesh as he hauled you closer, lifting you until your legs wrapped around his waist. The sudden shift pressed your core against the hard line of his erection through his trousers, and he ground against you, building a slow ache that made your breath hitch.

You clung to his shoulders, nails biting into the fabric of his shirt, refusing to yield even as the pressure of his hips rolling into yours drew a soft, involuntary sound from your throat.  Yuma kissed you harder, his body pinning you in place as he rocked forward, the clothed barrier between you heightening every thrust of his arousal against your sensitive folds. The desk creaked under the force, papers shifting forgotten beneath you, but neither of you cared—the room's mechanical hum faded into the background, drowned out by the ragged cadence of your shared breaths.

Finally, Yuma pulled back, his eyes dark and stormy as they locked onto yours. He stepped away to sink into his chair, the leather sighing under his weight as he leaned back, legs spreading wide in invitation.

“Come here, darling.” One hand patted his thigh firmly, the gesture commanding, “Why don't you sit your pretty little self down?” His tone left no room for argument, laced with that mean edge you both loved and loathed.

“Bossy as ever I see.” You slid off the desk, a smirk tugging at your lips despite the flush heating your cheeks, “Pray tell professor, is that why your students listen so well?”

You moved towards him, straddling his lap in one fluid motion. Your thighs bracketed his, your skirt riding up as you settled against him, the heat of his body seeping through. You rocked your hips, grinding down onto the rigid bulge straining his pants, the motion slow and taunting, drawing a sharp inhale from him.

His hands gripped your hips, guiding your rhythm with a firm squeeze, but you resisted just enough to make him work for it, circling your pelvis in lazy figure-eights that pressed your clothed pussy against his erection. Each slide sent jolts of tension coiling in your core, your breaths mingling as you leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“Do you like that Professor? Or should I stop?”

“Stop?” Yuma's response was a dark chuckle, his fingers tightening to halt your movements for a beat, making you whine in protest, “We both know you’d rather die than stop now. Go on love, show me how badly you want this.”

You obliged, picking up the pace, the seam of your underwear dragging just right against you as his hardness throbbed beneath. Emboldened, you reached down, fingers fumbling with his belt, tugging it open and shoving his pants down his hips to free more of him—but before your hand could wrap around the base of his cock, a sharp knock echoed through the office door.

The sound shattered the haze, and you froze, eyes widening as reality crashed back in. Yuma's grip on you tightened for a split second, his jaw clenching, but he released you with a muttered curse.

“Under the desk. Now.” You scrambled off his lap, skirt askew and pulse racing, ducking beneath the heavy wooden desk just as the knock came again. The space was cramped, your back pressed against the cool paneling as you huddled there, while voices began to filter in from the door.

“Professor Nakakita?” The door creaked open, and a hesitant voice broke the tension. “Sorry to bother you, but I had a question about arcane circuits.”

If there was one thing you were known for throughout the entire academy, it was for loving your students like they were your own kids. The gentlest professor to ever exist, as the students had dubbed you—a fairy godmother in her own right. But goddamn did you want to punch a wall when a student interrupted your weekly dick session. They really ought to have more respect for your poor, dying pussy. 

You knelt there in the dim space under the desk, knees pressing into the worn rug, your heart hammering as you peered up at him through your lashes. Yuma's exposed cock stood rigid just inches from your face, still half-freed from his pants, the sight of it making your mouth water despite the risk. You met his gaze with wide, innocent doe eyes, a silent plea mixed with mischief, your lips parting slightly as if begging for permission—or defiance.

Yuma cleared his throat, shifting in his chair to angle his body toward the door. “Of course, come in. What's the issue?” He leaned forward, one hand dropping casually to the desk's edge, but you saw the subtle flex of his jaw, the way his free hand hovered near his thigh, resisting the urge to push you away. The student stepped closer, oblivious, launching into a detailed query, words tumbling out in nervous bursts.

Oh well, dick was dick. And your pussy was screaming, crying and tearing out her soul. And he was right in front of you. 

Emboldened by the shadows and the thrill, you leaned forward, your breath ghosting over the heated length. Slowly, so slowly, you wrapped your lips around the tip of his cock, tongue swirling gently as you took him in inch by inch. The salty taste of him flooded your mouth, and you hollowed your cheeks, sucking softly at first, your eyes never leaving his face. Yuma's explanation faltered for a split second—a brief pause that he covered with a cough—before he continued.

“Yes, the primary coil needs to be aligned precisely……no, not like that.” His fingers twitched against the wood, knuckles whitening as you bobbed your head, taking more of him, your lips stretching around his girth while your hand braced against his thigh for balance.

You worked him with teasing slowness, tongue tracing the underside of his cock, sucking in rhythmic pulls that made his hips jerk involuntarily. The student's voice droned on, asking for clarification on a diagram, and Yuma answered through gritted teeth, his words measured but his breathing uneven. “Refer to page 47, it'll make sense.” Though the only thing making sense right now was the feel of your tongue on him.

Sweat beaded at his temple; he was trying so hard to stay composed, the mean glint in his eyes promising retribution as they flicked down to you. You hummed around him, the vibration drawing a barely suppressed groan that he masked as a thoughtful hum, a side of you reveling in how you unraveled his control.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of your mouth gliding up and down his length, slick with saliva, the student murmured thanks and backed toward the door. “Appreciate it, Professor.” The latch clicked shut, and the room fell silent save for the faint whir of his inventions. Yuma's hand shot down immediately, fingers tangling roughly in your hair, yanking your head back until his cock slipped free with a wet pop. 

“You little minx.” He said, voice low and venomous, as he gripped tighter, forcing your sly gaze up to his furious one.

Without another word, he thrust forward, shoving his cock back into your mouth and fucking your face with brutal snaps of his hips. You gagged at the sudden depth, tears pricking your eyes, but you took it, hands clutching his thighs as he used you relentlessly. 

“Love playing games, don’t we princess?” Yuma snarled, pulling your hair to control the pace, his shaft slamming against the back of your throat over and over. Saliva dripped down your chin, your lips swollen and stretched, his words sending heat pooling between your legs. When he finally slowed, chest heaving, he hauled you up by your arms, pulling you onto his lap. 

“Let's play one then.” Yuma seemed to sneer at you, “Let's see how quiet our princess can be, shall we?” 

Yuma's grip on your hips tightened like iron vices, his fingers digging into your flesh as he yanked you fully down, the chair creaking under the shift in weight. Your skirt bunched up around your waist, the fabric a crumpled mess, and he ripped your panties to the side, the thin material tearing audibly. His cock, pulsed hot against your entrance, slick from your mouth and his own arousal.

You sank down onto him slowly at first, gasping at the stretch as he filled your pussy completely, but he didn't let you set the pace—his hands slammed you down harder, forcing you to bounce on his length, each thrust upward meeting your descent with a punishing force. Mean, mean Yuma, but hey it wasn't like you were complaining. 

“Faster.” He demanded, one hand sliding up to pinch your nipple, the other spanking your ass sharply. You rode him like that, whimpers escaping as his cock hit deep inside you, claiming every inch of your submission.

Your body jolted with each descent, his cock dragging against your inner walls, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Wet slaps echoed through the office as your pussy swallowed him over and over, juices coating his shaft and dripping down to his balls. You tried to match his rhythm, rolling your hips in a defiant grind, but he spanked your ass hard, the sting blooming across your skin. 

“I said, faster, sweetheart.” Yuma demanded, “Ride me properly or I’ll stop.”

Tears of pleasure pricked at your eyes as you bounced on him, thighs trembling from the effort, breasts heaving with each ragged breath. His cock throbbed inside you, stretching you wide, the friction building a fire in your belly. Yuma's hips bucked up to meet every drop, his mean thrusts driving deeper.

“Fuck—nghhh so fucking tight.” He moaned, his breath hot against your neck as he bit down, his canines grazing your skin like wind grazed tall grass, “Milking my cock like you’re made for this, yeah?”

You rode him harder, chasing the edge, your moans turning into pleas as the pressure coiled low in your gut. His hands guided you, one spanking your ass in sharp rhythm while the other held you down, grinding your clit against his pubic bone with every plunge. 

"Fuck, yes…." he groaned, pulling you down for a messy kiss. "So damn desperate aren’t we?” 

His words pushed you closer as you ground down, clit rubbing against his pelvis, until the coil snapped. You came hard, walls fluttering around him, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Yuma followed with a guttural moan, thrusting deep one last time, flooding your pussy with hot cum, spilling out around his base as he held you tight. 

You collapsed forward, your forehead resting against his shoulder as the last aftershocks trembled through you. The air in the office, once crisp with the scent of old paper, was now thick and humid, laced with sex and salt.

Gathering the last of your strength, you pushed yourself up, your thighs trembling as you lifted off him. A soft, wet sound punctuated the motion, followed by a hot, messy trickle down your inner thigh. You reached for your discarded underwear and skirt; the fabric felt strange against your oversensitive skin as you stepped back into it and zipped it up. You smoothed your hands over your hair and used the edge of your sleeve to wipe hastily at the smudged corner of your mouth.

Yuma watched you from his chair, which was pushed back from the desk. His own clothes were in disarray—trousers undone, shirt rumpled and sticking to his chest. He made no move to fix himself yet, his dark eyes heavy-lidded and tracking your every move with a possessive, sated focus. As you bent to retrieve your fallen shoe, he finally spoke, his voice a rough, warm scrape in the quiet room.

“So,” he said, the ghost of a smirk touching his swollen lips. “When’s our next consultation?”

You turned to face him, leaning back against the edge of his now very compromised desk. You crossed your arms, a picture of nonchalance that was betrayed by the flush still high on your cheeks and the knowing glint in your eye.

“Well,” you said, your tone light and cheeky, “I was thinking perhaps after I finish evaluating the mid-term practicals.” You tilted your head. “Say…Thursday? Five-thirty?”

Yuma’s smirk deepened as he slowly began to do up his trousers, his eyes never leaving yours. “Five-thirty,” he repeated. “I’ll clear my schedule. And perhaps,” he added, standing and stepping into your space again, his finger hooking under your chin, “we can finally test the structural integrity of this desk. Properly.”

You laughed, a soft, breathy sound, and swatted his hand away. “Insatiable.”

“Only for you, princess,” he murmured, the words a low promise against your temple before you slipped out of his reach and walked out, leaving him alone in his somber office

________________

Your classroom was awash in golden. 

Sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows in molten sheets, warming the rows of desks and setting the suspended charms above your students’ heads aglow. Vines curled lazily around the ceiling beams, occasionally blooming tiny white flowers. The air smelled of lavender, old books and mana smoke.

“Transformation,” you said, pacing slowly before the class, “is not simply the changing of matter. Anybody with enough mana and half a brain can alter form.” You waved your hand lightly and the silver goblet on your desk melted fluidly into the shape of a dove, “The difficult part is understanding the nature of a thing.” The dove fluttered upward, crystalline wings catching the light.

“A poor transformations mage forces change. A good one persuades it.” Several students scribbled frantically. You smiled proudly and continued, “For example, if I wished to transform—”

The classroom door creaked open and you ignored it. There were very few people in Kairos irritating enough to interrupt your lectures without permission. And only one arrogant enough to do it smiling.

Leaning against the doorway as though he owned the place stood Yuma, dressed immaculately as always, black gloves tucked beneath one arm. His other hand held a sealed letter. The sunlight from your room didn't seem to touch him; he was a silhouette of dark wool and cool indifference. And, unfortunately for your peace of mind, he looked unbearably smug.

Yuma crossed one ankle over the other and inclined his head ever so slightly. “Don’t let me interrupt, princess.” 

“You already are.” You turned back toward the board with a tight smile, “Now, as I was saying—”

“Interesting metaphor, by the way.”

“Excuse me?” You said.

“The whole persuading magic thing.” He gestured vaguely with the envelope. “Very poetic. Very you.” A few students snorted. Little shits. You inhaled deeply through your nose.

“As I was saying,” you continued sharply, “transformation relies heavily upon emotional resonance—”

“Though perhaps,” Yuma interrupted again, “you should explain to them what happened last time you relied on emotional resonance.” A louder laugh this time in response to which you narrowed your eyes dangerously.

“That,” you said sweetly, “was a controlled academic incident.” You scoffed, “And everybody learned valuable lessons.” 

Yuma hummed thoughtfully. “Such as?”

“That they should mind their business.”

The class dissolved into laughter. You were going to kill him. Turning away from the door once more, you clapped your hands together and summoned a swirl of pale blue mana between your palms. “Now then. Emotional imprinting within transformation magic is tied directly to—”

“Professor Astagne.” 

“What.”

Yuma unfolded the letter very very slowly like a man moments away from becoming the cause of a murder. “I have something important.”

“Then perhaps,” you snapped, “you should wait until I am done teaching.”

“Oh, but this concerns you.”

You turned slowly, arms folding across your chest. “If this is another one of your pathetic attempts at public humiliation—”

“The Headmistress requested your presence later this evening. And,” Yuma said, clearly enjoying himself far too much, “she specifically requested that you wear formal attire.” A collective chorus of “ooohs” erupted through the classroom. The students practically vibrated with curiosity now.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Thank you, Professor Nakakita,” you said through clenched teeth, “for your wonderfully timed interruption.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You can leave now.”

“I could.” Instead, he looked around your classroom leisurely, gaze flickering over the vines, the sunlight, the floating charms. “You know,” he mused, “your students look significantly less terrified than mine.”

“That’s because they actually like me.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “A miracle.”

Something inside you snapped at that moment. Of course you didn’t actually hate him all too much, but nobody, nobody, interrupted your classes. 

Your mana slammed into the room in a sudden pulse of heat. Gasps erupted throughout the classroom as crimson butterflies burst violently from seemingly nowhere, swirling upward in furious spirals. Their wings glowed like embers, red light flooding the room as they gathered around you in a storm of irritation. Every student immediately went silent and Yuma’s smirk only deepened.

You stormed toward the doorway, your heels striking sharply against the stone floor, butterflies scattering in your wake like sparks from a fire. Stopping directly in front of him, you jabbed a finger against his chest.

“You,” you hissed quietly, dangerously, “are an unbearable, insufferable menace.”

Yuma glanced down briefly at your finger against him before meeting your eyes again. “Yes,” he said calmly, “and you’re making butterflies again.” Behind you, several students audibly swooned and you were an inch away from strangling his pretty neck.

Without a word, he handed you the folded parchment. Your fingers closed around it, the paper crisp and official against your skin. The red butterflies began to dissipate, fading from solid form into shimmering motes of light, then into nothing. The classroom was utterly silent. You looked at neither him nor your students as you turned and walked back to your desk.

Yuma remained in the doorway for a moment longer, his arms still crossed, but his posture had lost its lazy arrogance. He watched you—the set of your shoulders, your pretty little fingers on the letter—and then, without another interruption, he turned and left.

____________

There were moments in your life that replayed with such terrible clarity that no amount of time could dull them. Your sister’s death was one of them.

The rain that night had poured from the heavens with violence, turning the cobblestone roads slick with mud and water, the wheels of the carriage struggling against the storm as servants shouted over the thunder. You remembered the horses screaming, the sharp crack of wood splintering and the sound of metal collapsing inward. And then you remembered silence.

For one impossible second, the entire world had gone silent. Until your sister cried out.

You had been too young to understand why grown adults panicked the way they did. Too young to understand why your mother kept insisting traditional healing methods would work. Too young to understand why your father looked more horrified at the suggestion of modern medicine than at the blood soaking through your sister’s dress.

You remembered kneeling beside her, her trembling hand gripping yours weakly, the healer saying she could still be saved. There was technology now, he had said—scientific procedures, mana-assisted reconstruction, new methods from the capital. Your sister could live.

Your parents had refused immediately. The Astagne family did not rely on artificial intervention. The Astagne family did not taint themselves with technological procedures. The Astagne family trusted old magic. Old magic that failed.

You remembered screaming at them, begging. You remembered your mother crying into her gloves while your father stood rigid as stone, insisting the family would not abandon its principles. 

Principles. Such a lovely word for cruelty. Your sister had died before sunrise and something inside you had died with her.

Grief was a fascinating thing. At first, it arrived softly. It hollowed you out from the inside, leaving behind an ache so vast you thought it might swallow you whole. For months, you wandered through the Astagne estate like a ghost, listening to relatives murmur the same cursed phrase over and over again.

“She could have been saved.” You heard it at the funeral, in hallways, behind closed doors, sometimes in your dreams. She could have been saved. 

Eventually, grief became anger. Then anger became purpose. You learned very quickly that the Astagne family would never listen to tears. Tradition had rooted itself too deeply into their bones. Your grandmother ruled the dukedom with ancient blood and older ideals, and if you wished to change anything—to drag your family into the future kicking and screaming—you would need power. Influence.

A fucking crown.

And for that, you needed the public to adore you. So you crafted a version of yourself carefully—the traditional prodigy, the noble transformation mage, the beautiful granddaughter carrying on the sacred legacy of House Astagne.

And then came Nakakita Yuma. Brilliant, unconventional, infuriating, perfect Nakakita Yuma

A man publicly associated with scientific magic and modern innovation. A man your family would hate on instinct alone. The ideal enemy for the public to observe while you carefully positioned yourself as the beloved traditionalist.

Now you stood before the towering doors of Professor Sera’s office with that same dreadful feeling twisting in your stomach. Late evening sunlight bled crimson through the stained-glass windows, painting fractured colours across the marble floor. Somewhere below, students laughed faintly in the courtyards, blissfully unaware of how fragile the world truly was.

The butterflies from earlier had long vanished, but irritation still simmered beneath your skin—though whether it was directed at Yuma, your family, or yourself, you no longer knew. Perhaps all three.

Before you could second-guess yourself further, you pushed the doors open. Professor Sera sat behind her desk, eyes unreadable over steepled fingers. Two men occupied the chairs opposite her desk, their presence commanding enough to make the entire room feel smaller.

King Yudai sat lounging slightly back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other with effortless confidence. Gold gleamed against the dark fabric draped over his shoulders, rings catching the low candlelight whenever he moved his hands. His smile came easily—sharp and charming in the way all rulers seemed to be.

Beside him sat his husband, King Fuma. Calm, elegant and composed, with eyes that were far too perceptive for your liking. Silver embroidery threaded across his formal robes like flowing water, his posture straight yet relaxed beside his husband’s more casual demeanour.

Together, they looked every bit the monarchs the kingdom adored. And unfortunately for your peace of mind—they were both looking directly at you. 

“Your Majesties.” You bowed elegantly, “Headmistress.”

Professor Sera gestured toward the empty space before her desk. “Come in, dear.” You obeyed, pulse steady despite the growing unease in your stomach.

Fuma studied you quietly for a moment before speaking. “We’ve heard quite a bit about you, Professor Astagne.”

“That depends entirely on who you heard it from,” you replied smoothly. 

Yudai laughed. “Oh, I like her already.”

“Dangerous statement, Your Majesty. You should reconsider it.” Professor Sera sighed tiredly.

“Most things worth liking are dangerous,” Yudai replied casually. Now you understood why the kingdom adored him.

“Though,” Fuma continued, glancing briefly around the room, “I was under the impression Professor Nakakita would be joining us as well.”

Your brows furrowed faintly. “Professor Nakakita?”

“Yes,” Professor Sera answered. “Did he not mention it?”

“No.” You said, as if scandalised by the very idea of him mentioning something to you (“I said faster, sweetheart), “No he didn-”

“That’s because she stormed out before I could.”

The familiar voice arrived alongside the sudden opening of the office doors. Yuma stood there slightly breathless, hair faintly dishevelled, one hand gripping the doorway as though he had run all the way here. His coat sat crooked on one shoulder.

Yudai snorted softly. “Rough evening?”

“You have no idea,” Yuma muttered, straightening himself quickly before stepping inside properly. His eyes flickered toward you briefly—just briefly—but long enough for you to catch the annoyance buried beneath his expression, or perhaps concern. You chose annoyance—far easier that way.

“Professor Nakakita,” Fuma inclined his head politely.

“Your Majesties.” Yuma bowed. His gaze shifted toward the final empty chair, unfortunately right beside you. 

Professor Sera smiled far too knowingly. “Sit down, both of you.”

You resisted the urge to sigh dramatically. Yuma crossed the room and sat beside you without complaint, though you made certain to shift your chair the smallest possible inch away from his the moment he settled down.

Yudai’s mouth twitched close to a grin. Yuma leaned back in his seat with practiced calm, fixing the cuff of his sleeve as though he hadn’t arrived looking like he’d sprinted through the entirety of Kairos. You crossed your legs and looked in the opposite direction. The performance resumed effortlessly.

“You’re late,” you remarked coldly.

“And yet,” Yuma replied smoothly beside you, “still better company than most.” 

You scoffed loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear. Professor Sera closed her eyes briefly, perhaps reconsidering every life decision that had led her here.

“You two,” she said, voice carrying the exhausted weight of a woman abandoned by the gods long ago, “will behave yourselves for the duration of this meeting.” Neither of you responded, which was response enough. “I mean it.” She pointed between the two of you with surprising severity for somebody her age. “No arguing. No setting things on fire, transforming royal property, sabotaging experiments or psychologically tormenting one another for the next hour.”

You blinked innocently. “I would never.”

Beside you, Yuma gave a solemn nod. “The accusation alone wounds me.”

Professor Sera stared at the both of you in silence. Then she turned toward the kings with the look of somebody moments away from early retirement. “You see my predicament.”

You straightened in your chair, deciding it was perhaps time to regain at least a fraction of dignity. “What exactly is this regarding, Your Majesties?”

Fuma’s sunlit grin softened into something more professional as he leaned forward in his seat. “As you know,” he began, “Kairos has long been considered one of the greatest magical institutions in the realm.”

“Flattery before responsibility, eh Your Majesty?” Yuma beside you gave a small hum. 

“You wound me, Professor.” Fuma placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “I’m being sincere.” Fuma continued smoothly before either of you could resume bickering. “Every few years, the kingdom hosts an academic programme for exceptional upper-year students. The selected students are invited to the capital,” he explained, “where they’ll spend a week exposing themselves to career paths beyond Kairos.” Fuma continued, “There’ll also be practical evaluations, mana demonstrations, collaborative projects between disciplines—”

“And,” Yuma interrupted dryly, “considering this kingdom’s love of spectacle, some sort of social event.”

Yudai pointed at him. “See? This is why I like him.”

“The royal palace,” Fuma said, ignoring the interruption entirely, “will be hosting a formal ball at the conclusion of the programme. A celebration of Kairos, its students and its contributions to the kingdom.”

Several thoughts struck you simultaneously. A royal ball with hundreds of nobles, public visibility and political opportunity. Your grandmother would foam at the mouth from excitement.

Professor Sera watched both you and Yuma with deeply suspicious eyes, “The palace specifically requested two head professors to accompany the students throughout the duration of the visit.”

A horrible, dreadful silence followed. As if Professor Sera had just told you that the world was to end tomorrow and you were to be hung, drawn and quartered. Which, in your defense, you were about to be! Slowly you turned toward Yuma. Unfortunately, he was already looking at you, equally horrified.

“No.” The both of you said simultaneously.

Yudai smiled brightly. “Yes.”

You sat up straighter immediately. “Headmistress, with all due respect, there are far more qualified professors—”

“There are not.” Professor Sera cut in swiftly.

Yuma frowned beside you. “Surely Professor Yixiang would—”

“Professor Yixiang set a laboratory curtain on fire last week. And Professor Euijoo,” Sera continued, “cannot survive three consecutive days without insulting monarchy as a concept. That leaves,” Professor Sera said pointedly, “our two most successful transformations professors.”

“You cannot seriously expect us to supervise students together for several weeks.” You said, with a worried laugh.

“I can,” Fuma said calmly. “And I do.”

Beside you, Yuma rubbed slowly at his temple. “Your Majesties, with all due respect, our teaching methods are fundamentally incompatible.”

“Your students,” Fuma replied, eyes flickering between the two of you, “achieve the highest collaborative scores in the academy.” That shut both of you up. Because annoyingly—he was correct. Your students worked absurdly well together.

Yudai leaned back with a victorious grin. “Besides, the students already adore this whole rivals thing you two have going on.”

You nearly choked and Yuma went perfectly still beside you. Professor Sera suddenly looked deeply interested in literally anything else.

“Excuse me?” you said carefully.

“Oh please,” Yudai waved dismissively. “Half the kingdom probably knows about it by now.”

“Your public debates are very popular.” Fuma added helpfully.

“There are betting pools.” Yudai said. “Mostly regarding which one of you will snap first during faculty meetings.” You stared at him in horror. Beside you, Yuma looked moments away from leaving the kingdom entirely.

Professor Sera coughed awkwardly into her hand. “In any case—the decision has already been approved.” A pause. Then, with the calmness of an executioner delivering a sentence, “You leave for the capital together in two weeks.”

Well wasn’t this a fucking treat? 

By the time you reached your office, irritation had settled so deeply beneath your skin it hummed. The moment the door shut behind you, you kicked your shoes off and made straight for the windows, throwing them open to let the evening air spill inside, your office greeting you like an old friend.

“You walk remarkably fast for someone so dramatic.”

You closed your eyes. Of course he followed you. Without turning around, you reached into your desk drawer and retrieved your cigarette case. “If you’re here to annoy me further, I should warn you that I’m armed.”

Yuma shut the door behind him. “You’re always armed.”

You lit the cigarette with a flick of your fingers, inhaling deeply before offering him one without looking. A familiar routine now, a thought that probably should have alarmed you more than it did. By the time you turned around, Yuma had already settled himself against the edge of your desk, the tip of his cigarette glowing as he inhaled.

“Well,” you muttered, collapsing onto your couch, “this is catastrophic.”

“You say that about most things.” Yuma exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “The students will survive.”

“We both know I am not talking about the students, Yuma.” You groaned loudly, throwing an arm over your face. “Do you understand what this means?”

“That we’ll be supervising magically unstable young adults in the capital?”

“That my grandmother is going to hear about this.”

Yuma hummed quietly, cigarette balanced between elegant fingers. “She’ll probably adore the idea.”

“She’ll adore the publicity,” you corrected bitterly. “Kairos representatives attending royal programmes? Palace invitations? Formal balls?” You sat upright suddenly, thoughts beginning to move faster now.  Yuma narrowed his eyes slightly. That was never a good sign. You stood abruptly and began pacing. “This could work.”

“That sentence concerns me deeply, princess.”

“No, listen.” You turned toward him sharply, excitement beginning to flicker beneath your frustration. “The capital is filled with nobility.” You gestured wildly as you spoke, your mana sparking faintly at your fingertips. “If I handle this correctly, I could massively improve public favour before inheritance discussions even begin.” Yuma’s expression shifted subtly. You continued, thoughts spilling too quickly to stop. “The Astagne elders care about reputation above all else. Somehow I could pressure them into accelerating succession.” 

For the first time since leaving Sera’s office, genuine excitement bloomed in your chest. Finally—an opportunity, a real one. You moved closer unconsciously as you spoke, animated now, cigarette smoke curling around you in pale ribbons. 

“Do you understand what this could mean?” you said, eyes brightening. “If I gain enough influence early, I could start changing things before my grandmother dies. Funding modern healing divisions, integrating scientific magic into traditional institutions—”

“Changing the Astagne family from the inside?”

“Exactly!” The word left you instantly, without an inch of hesitation or doubt. And for a moment, Yuma simply watched you.

The room had grown darker while you spoke, evening shadows stretching slowly across the floorboards, but your office still glowed softly around you. Golden light caught against your hair, against the fierce determination written plainly across your face. You looked so…..hopeful. 

Yuma lowered his cigarette slowly. “How far are you willing to go for this?”

The question settled heavily between you. You studied him carefully before answering. “I’ll do whatever I must.” Something inside Yuma’s chest tightened painfully at how quickly you answered. “I can’t let another person die because my family is too obsessed with preserving old ideals.” Your fingers tightened around the cigarette. “I won’t.”

Yuma stared at you for a long moment through the following silence. And suddenly—all he could think about was the first winter you’d arrived at Kairos. You had been freezing, not metaphorically. Actually freezing—too stubborn to wear the heavy fur-lined cloaks students carried around campus because you claimed they were “hideously ugly.” 

He remembered finding you outside one evening in the snow, hands red from cold, kneeling beside an injured bird trying desperately to heal its wing with trembling mana. You’d looked furious when he draped his coat over your shoulders. Then immediately fallen asleep during faculty briefing the next morning because you’d spent half the night caring for the creature.

Soft—that was the problem. For all your sharp words and theatrical anger and carefully crafted pride—you were so damn soft. And the world had not been kind to soft things, in his experience. 

“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” Yuma looked down at the cigarette burning between his fingers.

You smiled faintly. “Do you expect me to, Professor?” 

You moved closer to him, standing between his legs where he sat perched against the edge of your desk. Your hands went slowly to either side of him, palms resting against the wood as you leaned in just enough for him to catch the scent of smoke clinging to your clothes. Yuma looked at you with a curious expression, eyes flickering between your eyes and your lips, as if he was unsure where his destination would be. 

Sweet, soft girl of magic. Who was he to expect anything from you? Other than the poetry of life? 

“No.” Yuma said, his hands coming up to rest on your waist, as the cigarette lay abandoned somewhere. “No I do not, princess.”

______________

The next morning, Yuma’s office looked worse than usual. Not untidy—god no, the man would rather perish than allow disorder into his workspace—but occupied. Every available surface had become overrun with dismantled mechanical pieces, mana circuits and blueprints layered meticulously atop one another.

At the centre of the chaos sat Yuma, sleeves rolled to his elbows, glasses perched low on his nose, one hand holding a tiny screwdriver while the other adjusted the inner framework of what appeared to be a compass. 

Yuma narrowed his eyes. “…Interesting.” The office door burst open. Yuma didn’t even look up. “Go away, Yixiang.”

Professor Yixiang ignored him immediately and sauntered inside anyway, carrying two cups of coffee and the overwhelming energy of a man permanently moments away from causing trouble. Unlike Yuma’s composed elegance, Yixiang existed in a state of stylish catastrophe. His robes hung half-open over dark clothes, several burn marks decorated one sleeve and his hair looked as though he’d lost a physical altercation with static electricity. Which, considering the curtain incident—was entirely possible.

“You wound me.” Yixiang placed one coffee down beside Yuma’s elbow. “I come bearing peace offerings and this is how you greet me?”

“You set laboratory three on fire yesterday.”

“In my defence,” Yixiang said solemnly, “the experiment was beautiful.”

“It exploded.”

“Beautifully.” Yuma sighed. The compass sparked again in protest. “You know, most people spiral after romantic tension.” Yixiang’s eyes flickered toward it before grinning. “You apparently build increasingly unstable machinery.”

Yuma finally glanced up. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh come on.” Yixiang dragged a chair around dramatically and sat down backwards on it, folding his arms atop the backrest. “The entire academy knows you and Astagne are going to spend several weeks together in the capital.”

“We are supervising students.” Yuma’s eye twitched faintly as Yixiang hummed sarcastically. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yes, that was the goal.” Yixiang took a victorious sip of coffee. “Besides, this is objectively entertaining for everyone except the two of you.” Yuma stared at him blankly. Then went back to fixing the compass with significantly more force than necessary. “It’s like she’s your other half. You spend half your time arguing with her.”

“And you spend half your time arguing with Professor Byun.” Yuma replied smoothly. “Should I inform the academy you’re secretly in love as well?”

Yixiang looked offended. “That is entirely different.”

“Is it?” Yuma raised a brow at his colleague. 

“Yes.” He pointed toward himself proudly. “Our hostility has artistic depth.”

“You threw a textbook at him last month.”

“He threw it first.”

“You set his cape on fire.”

“He was being irritating.”

“And you,” came a voice from the doorway, smooth as silk, “have apparently mistaken arson for courtship.”

The office door stood partially open behind you, golden morning light spilling across the dark wooden floor. Beside you stood Professor Euijoo, posture immaculate as always, robes pristine. Unlike Yixiang, Euijoo looked composed down to the last thread. Which only made the faint twitch near his eye funnier.

Yixiang straightened immediately. “Professor,” he greeted brightly, as though he had not been discussing arson moments ago, “to what do we owe the pleasure?”

You stepped fully inside, arms folded loosely across your chest. “Professor Byun required access to Yuma’s archive records.” Your eyes flickered toward Yixiang knowingly. “Though now I’m wondering if we interrupted something intimate.”

“There is nothing intimate happening here,” Euijoo said flatly.

“Tragic life you live, Professor.” You replied sympathetically.

Yixiang pressed a hand dramatically over his heart. “Finally. Somebody understands me.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Yuma muttered.

You wandered further into the office leisurely, your gaze sweeping over the dismantled gadgets scattered across Yuma’s desk. “Wow,” you sighed, “it somehow became uglier overnight.”

“It’s called progress, princess.” Yuma gritted his teeth.

“It’s called visual assault, Nakakita.” You shot back and Yixiang snorted loudly, to which Yuma shot him a look. You leaned slightly over the desk to inspect the floating compass, the sleeves of your blouse slipping down your arms. “What’s this one for?”

“Directional mana tracking,” Yuma answered automatically before he could stop himself.

You hummed softly. “And does it actually work, or does it just explode?”

Euijoo looked between the three of you with increasing disappointment. “Do all transformation professors behave like unsupervised teenagers?”

“Yes.” You and Yixiang answered simultaneously. 

Euijoo sighed the sigh of a man abandoned by dignity itself and stepped toward Yuma’s shelves. “The archive reports?”

“Second cabinet.” Yuma pointed without looking. “Top drawer.” Euijoo moved toward it efficiently and Yixiang immediately followed. Uninvited.

“Euijoo,” he said conversationally, “if I died tragically in an explosion, would you mourn me?”

“No.”

“What if you caused the explosion?”

“No.”

“What if I left you my books?”

“I already own better books.” Euijoo sighed, looking ready to run away to a countryside barn and live his peaceful life far from Yixiang who was clutching dramatically at his chest, “You destroyed my lecture hall, you idiot.” Yixiang opened his mouth to argue further, only for Euijoo to grab the stack of archive reports from the cabinet with one sharp movement. “We’re leaving before you ignite something else.”

“You say the sweetest things to me.” Yixiang sighed, though you noticed the slight sparkle in his eyes. Euijoo looked physically pained. You smiled into your hand to hide another laugh, but your attention drifted elsewhere before you could stop it.

Unwillingly, to Nakakita Yuma. 

He had returned his focus back to the compass resting open on his desk, dark brows furrowed in concentration as he adjusted one of the inner mechanisms. The lightning orbs above cast silver light across the sharp lines of his face, catching against the bridge of his nose and the strands of dark hair falling over his forehead. Tiny pink sparks flickered beneath his gloves as mana moved through the machinery, illuminating the edges of his hands for fleeting seconds.

How irritatingly beautiful he was.

A thin sheen of sweat glimmered faintly near his temple from hours spent hunched over inventions since morning and you nearly swooned like a Victorian lady at the sight. He was truly terrible for your mind. Yuma suddenly glanced up directly at you. You looked away instantly.

“Are you staring at my equipment again?” he asked mildly.

“Your office is an eyesore,” you replied smoothly. “You should burn at least half these gadgets.”

“Oh?” He said calmly, “Why do you keep touching them, princess?” Before you could retaliate, Euijoo cleared his throat pointedly from the doorway, clearly deciding he’d witnessed enough strange behaviour for one morning. “Professor Astagne.”

“Right.” You adjusted your sleeves and stepped away from Yuma’s desk, though not before noticing the faintest twitch of amusement near his mouth.

Yixiang waved dramatically as you moved toward the door. “Goodbye! Try not to devastate our dear Nakakita too badly during the capital trip.”

“Try not to explode anything before lunch!” You returned sweetly.

Euijoo looked exhausted already. You fell into step beside him once outside the office, the heavy door shutting behind you with a soft click. The bustling sounds of Kairos returned—the hum of magic drifting through open corridors.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Euijoo sighed quietly. “I understand him now.”

You glanced sideways. “Understand who?”

“Yuma.” Your brows lifted faintly. Euijoo stared ahead with the expression of a man making peace

with a terrible truth. “You’re both exhausting.”

You burst into laughter again as the two of you disappeared down the corridor together.

__________

The morning Kairos departed for the capital arrived wrapped in gold.

Sunlight spilled across the academy towers in molten streaks, catching against stained glass windows and marble pathways until the entire campus seemed to glow with anticipation. Students flooded the courtyards in excited clusters, trunks levitating beside them with varying degrees of magical control. The air buzzed with noise, laughter, nerves and the crackle of unstable mana from overly excited third-years attempting to show off before departure. 

You descended the academy steps radiant enough to rival the damned sun itself. From where Yuma stood beside the luggage transport carriage, sleeves rolled as he loaded the last of the students’ trunks, his eyes lifted the moment you appeared at the top of the staircase.

Your cloak rested loosely over your shoulders, crimson fabric shifting around your legs as you walked down the stairs with sunlight caught in your hair. Tiny charms woven into your sleeves glimmered faintly with each movement, reflecting gold against your skin. Yuma looked away before he could embarrass himself.

“Well,” came Yixiang’s smug voice beside him, “that expression was horrifyingly fond.”

Yuma shoved another suitcase into the carriage harder than necessary. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He scoffed, “You take your meds today, Yixiang? You’re projecting again.” 

“I did take them, actually.” Yixiang smoothed down a stray hair, “And the only one projecting here are your sparkly eyes, Nakakita.”

Yuma ignored him with the long-suffering patience of a man who had considered murder multiple times before breakfast. Meanwhile, you reached the courtyard below and immediately became mobbed by students.

“Professor Astagne!” “Professor, is it true the royal palace has floating gardens?” “Professor, can you really turn someone into a frog permanently?”

“Only if they deserve it,” you answered solemnly. Several students looked delighted by this information. 

“Right!” Professor Sera’s voice cut sharply through the chaos. “Everyone collect your assigned transport groups immediately. We leave within the next ten minutes.” Students scattered at once. You adjusted your gloves absently as you approached the line of travelling vehicles waiting outside Kairos’ gates, then stopped. 

Carriages?

The world seemed to narrow all at once. Wooden wheels. Horse reins. The creak of leather. For one terrible moment, sunlight disappeared beneath memory—twisted metal. Shattered glass. Your sister’s hand limp in yours. Blood. “She could have been saved.”

Your stomach dropped so suddenly it felt difficult to breathe. No.

No no no—

You hadn’t prepared for this. Nobody told you it would be carriages. Your fingers curled into your sleeves as the cold spread sharply beneath your skin. Around you, students continued talking and laughing, utterly unaware of the sudden roaring sound filling your ears. A hand caught your wrist.

“Professor Astagne.”

You blinked sharply. Yuma stood beside you now, expression perfectly composed despite the sharpness in his eyes. “Honestly,” he sighed loudly enough for nearby students to hear, “must you stand in the middle of the pathway dramatically? Some of us are attempting to leave this century.”

A few students laughed nervously nearby. You realised what he was doing. Covering it up; giving you an exit before anyone noticed. Your throat tightened unexpectedly. Before you could respond, Yuma tugged you forward beside him, already continuing toward the front carriage as though nothing had happened.

Your feet obeyed automatically. The courtyard noise returned in scattered fragments as Yuma guided you alongside the line of waiting carriages, one hand still lightly closed around your wrist beneath the cover of your cloak. Students rushed past in excited clusters, trunks floating overhead, professors shouting instructions into the chaos.

His grip loosened only once you reached one of the front carriages—a polished black thing lined with silver detailing and enchanted lanterns hanging from either side. Without giving you enough time to think yourself into panic again, Yuma opened the carriage door and looked back at you expectantly. “Get in.”

“This isn’t my assigned carriage.” You blinked. “I was meant to ride with Euijoo.”

“And now you’re not.” 

Before you could argue further, Yuma gently but firmly ushered you inside. The interior smelled faintly of cedarwood, velvet seats lining either side beneath curtained windows. Your heartbeat still hadn’t fully steadied by the time you sat down stiffly against the seat. A second later, Yuma climbed in after you and shut the door behind himself. He sat opposite you calmly, adjusting his gloves as though none of this was remotely strange.

“Professor Nakakita.”

“Hm?”

“This is not your carriage either.” You said, trying to keep your voice as steady as possible, “You cannot simply steal transport assignments.”

“I absolutely can.”

Outside, muffled voices drifted through the carriage walls. Then suddenly a sharp knock against the window.

Yixiang’s deeply offended face appeared through the glass. “Why am I with Euijoo now?”

Yuma didn’t even blink. “Euijoo can survive your company for one carriage ride.”

From somewhere outside came Euijoo’s exhausted voice, “Unfortunately.”

Yixiang gasped dramatically. “You see how cruel he is to me?”

“Yes,” Yuma replied flatly through the door. “Go away.” The carriage jolted as Euijoo dragged Yixiang away from the window. Peace returned and you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. Yuma’s attention shifted back toward you, that teasing edge from moments ago softening as he looked at you again.

“You’re pale,” he said quietly.

Outside, students continued loading luggage and climbing into transport groups. Horses shifted restlessly against stone pathways, leather harnesses creaking. Your stomach twisted again. The carriage dipped slightly as Yuma leaned forward, elbows resting loosely against his knees. His voice lowered carefully.

“Look at me.”

You hated how easily your eyes obeyed. His expression remained calm and steady—the same composed face he wore while solving magical equations or calming unstable mana reactions.

“You’re alright.” He repeated softly.

Your throat tightened painfully. “It was a long time ago,” you whispered, though the words sounded unconvincing even to yourself. You swallowed hard and looked down at your hands instead. “It’s stupid.”

“No.” He said immediately, his gaze not leaving yours. “It isn’t.” Since when had he sounded so damn gentle? Then Yuma leaned back against his seat and crossed his arms. “For what it’s worth,” he said lightly, intentionally shifting the atmosphere before you drowned in it completely, “if this carriage crashes, I’ll save you first.”

You stared at him flatly. “How romantic.”

Outside, Professor Sera’s voice rang through the courtyard. “All carriages depart immediately!” The horses shifted and the carriage lurched gently forward. Your fingers tightened against the velvet seat beside you and a second later, Yuma’s hand rested quietly over yours.

“This will be alright.” He said softly.

And somehow—with him sitting across from you like this—you almost believed it.

_________

If there was one thing they’d called you ever since you were a child, it was intuitive. 

Your grandmother used to say the Astagne bloodline carried a peculiar sensitivity toward the world around it—that transformation mages, by nature, understood change before it arrived. They sensed shifts in the atmosphere the way birds sensed storms.

As a child, you had known when servants were about to enter rooms before the doors opened. You knew when flowers in the garden would wilt days before they browned. Once, at eight years old, you had burst into tears during dinner because you claimed one of your father’s hunting hounds was going to die. It had collapsed from illness the next morning. You simply learned to trust the feeling because your intuition was rarely wrong.

Which was precisely why the sensation sitting at the bottom of your stomach now frightened you so deeply.

The carriage rolled steadily along the roads, wheels crunching over gravel pathways while golden morning light filtered through the curtains in shifting patterns. Outside, distant chatter drifted between the moving vehicles, accompanied by the sound of horses and rattling harness chains.

Everything appeared normal, peaceful even. And yet, something felt wrong, like the silence before lightning struck.

You sat stiffly against the seat, fingers curled into the fabric of your cloak as that awful feeling lingered beneath your ribs. The harder you tried to dismiss it, the worse it became. Was this fear? Trauma? Or intuition? You couldn’t tell anymore.

Across from you, Yuma sat with one leg crossed neatly over the other, a book resting open in his hands. He looked composed as always, dark eyes scanning lines of text while sunlight flickered intermittently across his face through the carriage window. At least, he looked focused, until the page stopped turning. His eyes lifted slowly from the book toward you.

Yuma watched the way your fingers tightened against your sleeve, the way your gaze kept drifting toward the windows and the subtle tension in your shoulders each time the wheels struck uneven ground. A small crease appeared between his brows.

Before Yuma could say anything, a sharp knock sounded against the front driver’s window. The small glass panel slid open with a creak, letting in a burst of cold air alongside the driver’s voice.

“Professors,” the older man called politely, reins gathered tightly in his gloved hands, “we’ll be entering the mountain pass shortly. The roads are snowy this time of year, so the carriage may become a little rough for a few minutes.”

Snow—you felt your heartbeat stumble against your ribs. You forced your expression into something smooth before Yuma could look too closely.

“That’s alright,” you answered lightly. “Thank you for the warning.” The driver nodded once before shutting the panel again. Silence returned, but it no longer felt calm.

The carriage rolled onward steadily for several moments before the terrain gradually began to change beneath the wheels. Smooth gravel paths gave way to rougher stone and uneven earth, the carriage swaying more noticeably with every turn. Outside the curtained windows, sunlight slowly dimmed beneath towering mountain shadows. Your breath caught as a white layer came into view. 

Snow blanketed the world beyond the glass in endless silver-white drifts, thick layers gathered across pine branches and rocky cliffsides alike. Frost clung to the carriage windows in crystalline patterns while cold mountain fog rolled slowly between the trees.

It was beautiful and horrifying. Suddenly all you could hear was splintering wood and metal bending. Your sister screaming once—only once—before silence swallowed everything whole. The carriage jolted sharply over uneven ground and you flinched. 

Across from you, Yuma closed the book in his lap quietly. He didn’t say your name, but you felt his eyes on you anyway. The carriage wheels crunched heavily through snow outside as the mountain road narrowed dangerously along steep cliffsides. Wind howled faintly beyond the carriage walls now, cold enough to rattle the lantern hooks overhead.

Your breathing had become too shallow. Every glimpse of snow beyond the window made your chest tighten worse. The same weather. The same roads. The same awful cold. Another rough jolt shook through the carriage and your hand shot toward the edge of the seat beside you to steady yourself.

Yuma’s hand closed quietly over yours again.  “It’s just snow,” he said softly.

“It wasn’t last time.” The words escaped before you could stop them. 

Outside, the mountain winds howled louder against the carriage walls as snow thickened along the narrow pass. The horses slowed over the icy road ahead, their harnesses rattling with every uneven turn. The carriage lurched violently sideways and your stomach dropped.

What if the wheels slipped? What if the axle cracked? What if the horses lost footing? What if— 

Another sharp jolt. Your breath caught painfully in your throat.

What if the road gave way? What if the carriage overturned? What if you were trapped again—cold hands, blood in the snow, your sister not moving…

You inhaled sharply. Nothing came in properly. The air suddenly felt too thin and too little. Your fingers trembled violently beneath Yuma’s grip as your thoughts spiralled faster and faster, each one crashing over the next before you could stop them.

What if the brakes failed? What if this mountain collapsed? What if everyone died because you ignored your intuition—

Your chest tightened so sharply it hurt. The carriage walls seemed smaller suddenly, the sound of the wheels unbearably loud. Your heartbeat thundered against your ribs so violently you could hear it. You tried breathing deeper. It didn’t work—the next inhale stuttered halfway. Your vision blurred faintly around the edges. Everyone was going to die.

Everyone was going to die and it was all because of you again as alway—

“Professor.” Yuma’s voice sounded distant. You shook your head quickly, one hand flying toward your chest as though physically holding yourself together might help. It didn’t. 

The carriage rocked again. Your breathing broke completely, your lungs refusing to cooperate no matter how desperately you tried to force air into them. Panic clawed viciously up your throat, hot and suffocating and impossible to outrun. The world tilted sickeningly.

“Sweetheart.” 

You barely registered movement before warmth suddenly settled around your shoulders. A cloak, heavy, dark, Yuma’s. The familiar scent of smoke and machine oil wrapped around you as he pulled the thick fabric securely over your shaking form. Your vision swam badly now. You couldn’t focus properly. Couldn’t breathe properly. What if the wheels—

“Look at me.”

Yuma’s voice cut through the panic sharply enough to catch your attention for half a second. You gathered all the strength left in you to look up. At some point during your spiralling thoughts, he had crouched in front of you despite the unstable road, one hand braced firmly against the seat beside your knee to steady himself as the carriage shook beneath you both. 

“Breathe for me, hmm?” 

You tried and your chest seized painfully instead. Another breath shattered halfway through. “I can’t—” 

“Yes, you can.” Yuma reached up, gloved hand resting carefully against the side of your face. Warmer than winter sunlight. “You’re here,” he said firmly. “Not there. Here.”

The carriage jolted again. You flinched violently. His grip on you tightened.

“The wheels are fine,” he continued before you could voice the fear aloud. “The road is stable. The horses are trained for mountain routes.” How did he always know? How did he always know exactly what terror lived inside your head? Your eyes burned suddenly.

“I can’t do this again,” you whispered brokenly.

Something inside Yuma’s expression cracked at that. “You are not going through that again,” he said quietly. The cloak around your shoulders tightened further as he pulled it closed against the cold. “Stay with me.”

Your breathing still came unevenly at first, sharp and shaking. Every inhale caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, but Yuma remained steady in front of you through all of it, one hand warm against your cheek while the other held the cloak tightly around your shoulders.

“Good,” he murmured quietly as you managed a fuller breath this time. “Again.” The carriage continued rocking beneath the mountain road, though somehow the movement no longer felt quite so violent with his voice grounding you through it. “In.” You inhaled shakily. “Slowly.” The air burned less this time. “Out.” You exhaled weakly. 

Your vision remained blurred around the edges, exhaustion settling heavily into your bones now that the panic had begun loosening its claws from your chest. The adrenaline left you trembling in its wake, every muscle aching with the aftermath of fear. Another breath, slower now. Yuma’s thumb brushed lightly beneath your eye before you even realised tears had slipped free.

“You’re alright.” He repeated.

And this time, you almost believed him completely. The carriage swayed gently again over the snowy road, but your body no longer reacted with violent panic. Instead, exhaustion settled over you all at once, heavy and overwhelming. Your head dipped forward slightly and Yuma shifted closer, until your forehead rested weakly against his shoulder. One of his hands moved instinctively to the back of your head, fingers threading slowly through your hair.

Soft, so impossibly soft with you.

“You’ve exhausted yourself.” He murmured quietly above you. You made a faint sound that might have been agreement. Or protest. You weren’t entirely sure. Your eyes felt unbearably heavy now. “Sleep for a while.” Yuma said.

The hand in your hair continued its slow rhythmic motion, smoothing gently through the strands near your scalp in a way that made the lingering panic finally begin melting from your body completely.

Outside, snowstorms and mountain roads continued blurring past the carriage windows. Inside, however, warmth wrapped around you from every side. Your breathing slowed further. Your body gradually softened against him as exhaustion finally claimed victory over fear.

And just as your eyes slipped fully shut, the carriage emerged from the mountain pass. Sunlight flooded suddenly through the windows in brilliant golden streams, washing warmth across the dim carriage interior all at once. Snowy cliffs gave way to open skies and rolling hills beneath the afternoon sun.

Yuma looked down at the sudden brightness spilling across your sleeping figure curled against him. He smiled. That was exactly what you reminded him of. 

Sunlight. Warm enough to soften even the coldest things. Blinding enough to make people forget themselves entirely. 

And so very easy to love. 

___________

You were about to positively jump off the royal bell tower the second you got the chance. Because waking up curled against Nakakita Yuma’s chest had quite possibly been one of the most humiliating experiences of your academic career. 

The moment consciousness returned, you had frozen completely. Warmth, his coat beneath your cheek, one of his hands resting loosely against your waist beneath the cloak wrapped around you both. And worst of all—his heartbeat, a calm metronome near your ear. You had jerked upright so quickly you nearly concussed yourself against the carriage wall.

Yuma, infuriatingly enough, had merely opened one eye lazily from where he sat beside you and said, “Good afternoon.” As if you had not just spent god knows how long asleep on him. As if your dignity had not completely ascended into the heavens.

The rest of the journey afterward had been agonising. You spent nearly the entire ride staring stiffly out the carriage window while pretending immense interest in passing scenery. Forests. Rivers. Villages. One particularly ugly sheep. Anything except the man sitting beside you.

Meanwhile, Yuma simply returned to reading his book with the composure of a saint and the smugness of a devil. Occasionally, you could feel him glance at you over the top edge of the pages. Every single time, your ears grew hotter. Not one word about it was spoken. By the time the kingdom finally came into view at nightfall, you were mentally preparing your own funeral.

The capital glittered beneath the evening sky like spilled gold. Towering palace spires pierced the heavens in elegant silhouettes while thousands of enchanted lanterns illuminated the streets below in amber light. Marble bridges crossed glowing canals, music drifted through crowded plazas and distant bells echoed through the city air.

The carriages barely crossed the outer gates before royal attendants descended upon the exhausted students like a military operation. Trunks vanished and room assignments appeared and the students were herded toward the grand hotel adjacent to the palace district. By the time you finished ensuring your students were settled properly and not attempting illegal spellcasting from balconies, you felt half-dead. Unfortunately, the universe despised you personally.

Because upon receiving your own room assignment—you discovered your suite connected directly to Yuma’s through an adjoining door. Clearly the gods found your suffering entertaining. You had stared at the door for a solid thirty seconds after entering your room. Then contemplated murder.

Now, however, freshly bathed and wrapped in a silk robe, you sat before the vanity mirror near the hotel window, exhaustion slowly melting from your body beneath the warmth of candlelight. Your damp hair fell loosely as you unfolded the letter resting in your hands once more. 

Harua’s handwriting curved elegantly across the page, even his penmanship looked expensive. A small smile tugged faintly at your lips as your eyes skimmed the words. Harua had always written the way he spoke—warmly, dramatically, and with far too much gossip packed into one page.

You leaned back in the vanity chair with a tired sigh, the letter resting loosely between your fingers. Outside your window, the capital shimmered endlessly beneath the stars. For a brief moment, things almost felt peaceful. Three sharp knocks sounded against the adjoining door connecting your room to Yuma’s.

Peace was never an option with him around. 

“Come in before I change my mind.” You called lazily, eyes still scanning the final lines of Harua’s letter.

Yuma strolled inside with the kind of ease belonging only to people entirely too comfortable in your presence. You caught sight of him first through the vanity mirror. That certainly did not help your ongoing efforts to preserve your sanity.

He was dressed in a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms and black trousers sitting low against his hips. The top buttons of the shirt had been left undone, exposing just enough skin to make you suddenly remember you were, in fact, a mortal woman with weaknesses. His dark hair remained slightly damp from a shower, falling messily across his forehead instead of its usual composed styling. Yuma shut the door quietly behind himself before his eyes found you sitting at the vanity. A slow smile curved onto his face.

“Well,” he drawled, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, “that hardly seems fair.”

You lifted a brow at his reflection in the mirror. “What doesn’t?”

“You looking like that while I’m attempting to behave professionally.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Since when have you ever behaved professionally?”

“An excellent point.” His gaze lingered for a second too long over the silk robe draped around you before he pushed himself away from the doorframe and wandered further into the room.

Not once did he mention the carriage. Not your panic or the way you’d fallen asleep against him afterward, nothing. The silence surrounding it felt strangely intimate. Like something precious placed quietly between the two of you without needing acknowledgment.

“What’s that?” Yuma asked, glancing at the letter in your hands. 

“Harua wrote to me.” At that, Yuma’s expression shifted and you caught it immediately in the mirror. You smiled. Oh, this was far too easy. “My,” you hummed innocently, folding the letter carefully, “was that jealousy I just witnessed, Professor?”

Yuma scoffed softly. “Why would I be jealous?” He approached slowly behind you now, hands tucked loosely into his pockets as his reflection grew larger in the mirror.

“Perhaps,” you continued sweetly, “you’re threatened.”

“By a man who uses scented parchment?” Yuma stopped directly behind your chair then, gaze flickering over the open letter resting in your hands. “So this is Harua.” He murmured. “The palace advisor?”

“Assistant royal advisor,” you corrected. Your eyes narrowed at his reflection. “You sound awfully judgmental, Professor.” 

Yuma’s gaze lingered on your reflection quietly for a moment longer before he tilted his head slightly. “You look happy.”

The words caught you unexpectedly. You looked away first. “It’s been a while since I’ve been back here,” you admitted quietly. 

Yuma hummed softly behind you. A faint smile tugged at the corner of your lips. God that smile would kill you one day. 

“You really are beautiful like this, you know.”

The words, spoken so low and with such uncharacteristic softness, hung in the air between you. They were a different kind of magic, one that bypassed all your defenses and settled somewhere warm and vulnerable beneath your ribs. You couldn’t hold his gaze in the mirror any longer. You looked down at the folded letter in your hands, the expensive parchment suddenly feeling trivial. 

Yuma didn’t speak again. He simply stepped forward, closing the final distance. His hands came to rest on your shoulders, his touch firm and warm through the thin fabric. You watched his reflection as he leaned down, his eyes locked on yours in the glass.

Yuma’s lips met the side of your neck, just below your ear, just a soft press of warmth. Then he opened his mouth, and the wet heat of his tongue traced a slow path along your skin. A shiver, violent and delicious, racked your body. Your eyes fluttered shut for a second before you forced them open, determined to watch.

And god, he looked fucking divine.

In the mirror’s frame, you saw the intense focus on his face, the way his lashes lowered as he tasted you. You saw the corded strength in his forearms where his sleeves were rolled, the careless perfection of his disheveled hair. You saw the faint, possessive gleam in his eye when he caught you watching him watch you. He was devouring you, and he wanted you to see it.

Yuma sucked lightly, then soothed the spot with his tongue, his breath hot and ragged against your damp skin. One of his hands slid from your shoulder, down over the silk covering your arm, his fingers tracing idle, burning patterns.

“Mmm,” he hummed against your neck, the vibration going straight to your core. He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes again in the mirror. “You’re tense.” His lips curved against your skin. “Harua’s letters are that stimulating?”

“Bastard.” You whispered, but you arched your neck, giving him better access.

He took the invitation, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp before laving the sting away. Yuma’s free hand came up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head further. “All those plans in your head,” he murmured between open-mouthed kisses along your throat. “All those cunning little performances. It must be exhausting.”

It was. The weight of the dukedom, the memories the city stirred, the performative grace of the palace—it was a cage of gilded pressure. And here he was, offering release.  

Yuma straightened, both hands returning to your shoulders, his thumbs kneading the tight muscles at the base of your neck. His eyes, still holding yours captive in the mirror, were serious now. “Would you like to destress, Professor?”

The answer was in the way your skin hummed under his touch, in the way your breath hitched, in the hungry way you were watching him. You let the last pretense fall away, your voice dropping to a low, wanting murmur. “Would I never say no to that?”

The decision had been made the moment he walked through your door. A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face in the reflection, all sharp edges and dark promise. His hands slid from your shoulders, down your arms. 

In one smooth motion, he leaned down again, his arms wrapping around you from behind. He didn’t kiss your neck this time. Instead, he pressed his lips to the shell of your ear, his voice a velvet-rough command that sent a fresh wave of heat straight through you.

“Then let’s forget about everything for a while hmm?” 

Your robe pooled around you, the fabric clinging to your curves like a second skin, the sash still loosely tied. Yuma knelt before you in one fluid motion, his knees hitting the hardwood floor with a soft thud, his hands smoothing down your thighs, parting them with tenderness.

You watched him carefully—his dark eyes fixed on you, his lips parted, the hungry set of his jaw. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the inside of your left knee, then your right, working inward with a slow reverence that made your breath catch. 

His fingers hooked into the robe's hem, nudging it aside just enough to expose your core, the fabric bunched around your hips. Yuma inhaled deeply, his warm breath ghosting over your slick folds, and a low, appreciative hum vibrated from his throat.

"Already wet for me, sweetheart," he murmured, the words a soft growl against your skin, “You’re too sweet sometimes.” 

“Am I?” You hummed, lips curling to a smirk, “Or are you just that starved, professor?”“Oh?” Yuma tilted a brow, “Someone’s brave tonight.” 

“I’m always brave, Nakakita.” You scoffed, “You just don’t notic—” Of course the bastard shut you up with his tongue before you could finish. 

Yuma’s tongue flicked out, a single bold stroke that parted your lips and circled your clit with clinical precision. You gasped, your hands flying to his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands. 

He moaned into you, the vibration sending a tremor through your entire body, and he repeated the motion, slower this time, savoring. Your grip tightened, tugging sharply as he lapped at your entrance, his tongue dipping inside before dragging back up to your clit. His moans grew louder, muffled against your pussy, the sound filthy and worshipful. 

Yuma buried his face deeper, his nose pressing against your mound as his tongue worked in frantic, circular patterns, alternating between broad licks and focused flicks. You ground down instinctively, your hips rolling against his mouth, and he let you take control, his hands gripping your ass to steady you as you rode his face.

"Fuck…ngh—Yuma…” You hissed, pulling his hair harder, forcing his mouth flush against your clit. 

Yuma groaned in response, the sound vibrating through your core, and he doubled his efforts—sucking your clit into his mouth, lashing it with his tongue, then diving back down to fuck you with his tongue deep inside. 

Your thighs trembled, clenching around his head, and you rode his face with abandon, the chair creaking beneath your frantic movements. Yuma pulled back just enough to breathe, his lips glistening with your arousal, his eyes dark and desperate. 

Though what oxygen did he need when he was in the presence of your sweet cunt?

"That's it—use my mouth like a good little princess." He dove back in, his tongue spearing into you relentless, his thumb pressing on your clit to add pressure, “Mmh so sweet—cum for me, sweetheart.” 

You cried out, your release building like a tidal wave, and you yanked his hair so hard his scalp must have burned. He moaned into your pussy again, the sound pushing you over the edge.

Your climax crashed through you, your body arching, your thighs clamping around his head as you rode his face through every spasm. 

Yuma didn't stop—lapping, sucking, groaning against your slick flesh, drinking every drop until your shaking subsided. Only then did he lift his head, his chin wet, his lips swollen, his eyes full of possessive pride.

“Destressed yet?” Yuma pressed a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then murmured, "Or shall we go another round, professor?”You both knew you were going to have more than just one more round that night.

____________

“Never thought I’d live to see the day you actually step into the capital again.” Harua’s attentive eyes peered at you over the rim of his tea cup as he sipped at it, fondly inhaling the vapours of lavender. 

“And yet here we are.” You smiled, raising your own cup in an invisible toast. 

Around you the cafe was brim with calm catastrophe, conversation and a whole lot of charming confections. The golden sunlight of the afternoon filtered through the gold rimmed windows like light from the heavens, bathing everything—customers and cakes alike—in a radiant sparkly blanket. 

It was a familiar place to you; in the past you’d hang out here almost every other day with Harua when you were both stupid teenagers who had no idea what they were going to do with their life. The cafe’s moonstone layered floor held emotions of every memory—from innocent happiness to teenage angst to gory grief. You could point out the exact place you’d once sat at after your sister passed, and all your stomach could take was tea but Harua had forced down a cupcake telling you that you looked worse than a blue finned fish. 

Now he sat in front of you, picking at the exact same cupcake (his preferences stayed suspiciously constant), dressed in royal blue robes with a silver brooch pinned to his chest—the symbol representing King Fuma. Though he claimed very humbly to be the assistant royal advisor, you knew that sharp tongue of his—sharper than a freshly made quill—was the reason Fuma was renowned for his strategic decisions regarding kingdom welfare. More so, you knew your childhood best friend could make even a spy his friend.

Which was perhaps why he controlled the espionage sector at the palace. Harua certainly was more than he showed himself to be—the youngest member of the royal council. And apparently the perfect candidate to have apprentices only a few months younger than him. 

“Maki put that down.” Harua sighed, glaring over the rim of his teacup. Across the table, Maki froze mid-motion with an entire sugar sculpture swan halfway off the dessert tray.

“I was observing it.” He defended solemnly.

“With your mouth?” Harua deadpanned.

Beside him, Taki continued eating quietly with the expression of a man long accustomed to this exact situation. His black hair fell into his eyes as he calmly slid the dessert tray further from Maki’s reach without even looking up.

“Why are you encouraging him?” Taki remarked flatly toward you. “You’re both terrible influences.”

The capital outside buzzed faintly beyond the windows, though here inside everything felt pleasantly suspended in time. You hadn’t realised how much you missed this place until now, the familiarity of it settling somewhere deep in your chest.

Harua watched you over his teacup for a moment before speaking again. “You look less homicidal than usual.”

“What a lovely thing to say to an old friend.”

“It’s true.” He set the cup down delicately onto its saucer, silver rings glinting against slender fingers. “You disappeared from the capital after the funeral and returned looking ready to set Parliament on fire.” Harua tilted his head slightly. “This is an improvement.”

You looked down briefly at the lavender-hued tea swirling in your cup. The funeral—the word still felt heavy. Taki and Maki exchanged a subtle glance beside Harua before tactfully redirecting their attention toward the pastries instead. They knew, not details perhaps, but enough. Harua always surrounded himself with people he trusted absolutely, which meant they were intelligent enough not to pry.

Harua’s sharp eyes flickered over your face briefly before he leaned back into his chair. “Well,” he said smoothly, “if your plan to overthrow your family’s entire worldview is still progressing, you’ve picked an excellent week for it.”

You leaned forward, the smile of a 16 year old creeping back to your face. How you missed your conversations with your assassin of a friend.  “Who’s attending?” Harua’s smile turned slow and dangerous. Now there was the royal advisor.

“The entire upper court, for starters. Half the noble houses are attending specifically because Kairos is visiting.” He ticked points off elegantly against his fingers. “Three foreign ambassadors. The western trade ministers, several military advisors. And,” he added lightly, “your grandmother.”

“When did she arrive?” you asked.

“This morning.” The Astagne matriarch never arrived anywhere quietly. Harua studied your expression with quiet attentiveness. “She’s already aware you’re here.”

You leaned back slowly in your chair, fingers resting loosely around your teacup as thoughts began moving rapidly behind your composed expression. A ball and a court, bread and circuses, how perfect.

“That look is precisely why the royal family both adores and fears you.” Harua sighed softly. 

“Only fears?” you asked dryly.

Maki, mouth already full of stolen pastry despite previous warnings, pointed vaguely at you with a fork. “For what it’s worth,” he mumbled, “I think overthrowing old corrupt noble systems is very brave.”

Harua closed his eyes briefly. “You cannot say things like that in public.”

“But he’s right.” Taki tilted his head to the side, resembling an oversized puppy.

“You’re both terrible apprentices.”

“You raised them.” You smiled sweetly into your tea. 

Harua looked deeply tired all at once, looking at his apprentices with their mouths covered in sifting sugar.  “I’m assuming you can see who’s waiting outside the cafe, professor?” Harua said, taking a bite of his cupcake, on whose icing Taki and Maki’s were fixed.

“Professor?” You chuckled, maintaining eye contact, “Since when do you call me professor?” 

“Since you started terrifying impressionable young minds professionally.” Harua took another delicate bite of his cupcake while beside him Taki physically wrestled a sugar-coated spoon out of Maki’s hands before he could commit further crimes against public dignity.

The assistant royal advisor, meanwhile, remained entirely unbothered. That was another thing about Harua. Nothing ever truly escaped his attention. Neither politics nor spies and certainly not the man currently lingering outside the café window pretending very badly to admire flower arrangements. You didn’t turn immediately. You already knew. Harua would never have mentioned it otherwise.

Instead, you stirred your tea lazily, watching the liquid swirl against porcelain while afternoon sunlight warmed the table between you all. “How long has he been there?” you asked.

“Since approximately three minutes after you arrived.”

Taki finally glanced toward the café windows. “Tall one by the fountain?”

Maki looked delighted. “Oh, I thought he was an assassin.”

“Aren’t spies technically assassins with better manners?” you mused.

Outside, the capital continued moving in elegant chaos. Nobles wandered crowded streets draped in expensive fabrics, royal guards crossed marble bridges in gleaming uniforms and somewhere nearby a violinist played softly enough to drift into the café whenever the doors opened.

And beside the fountain across the street stood Asakura Jo. Tall and still, dressed in dark robes sharp enough to blend into any crowd while simultaneously commanding attention. Black hair framed his features and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, his posture remaining perfectly composed despite the bustling city around him. An Astagne spy through and through. You had known Jo since childhood. Which unfortunately meant you also knew he never appeared without reason.

“That eager to see me, hm?” Your eyes flickered toward the window finally. The moment your gaze landed on him, he straightened subtly and inclined his head once in acknowledgment. “Well,” you murmured, setting your teacup down carefully, “there goes the remainder of my peaceful afternoon.”

Maki looked genuinely sympathetic. “Should we fake your death?”

Harua pinched the bridge of his nose. “You cannot suggest assassination every time inconvenience appears.”

Taki quietly raised a hand without looking up from his pastry. “Statistically speaking, Maki is unfortunately correct.”

“You see what I endure?” Harua said to you tiredly.

“You trained them.” A laugh escaped you softly as you rose from your seat, smoothing down the fabric of your coat.

“A mistake I regret hourly.”

Outside the window, Jo remained unmoving near the fountain, a shadow summoned by blood itself.  You reached into your pocket and tossed a few gold coins onto the café table before Harua could object. Then paused briefly beside him. “You’ll attend the ball?” you asked quietly.

Harua looked up at you, sharp eyes gentling faintly. “Of course.” A small smile touched his mouth. “Somebody has to witness your catastrophes.”

You snorted softly before turning toward the cafe doors. As you stepped outside into the golden afternoon light, the city noise swelled around you. Jo’s dark eyes lifted to meet yours from across the street. 

You gave the smallest tilt of your head and the spy pushed himself silently away from the fountain at once. You crossed the street, the noise of the capital swelling around you in elegant chaos. Jo met you halfway.

Up close, he looked exactly as you remembered—tall enough to cast shadows over most people, clothes immaculate despite the crowded city streets and sharp black eyes trained instinctively on everything around him. The Astagne family had always preferred their spies intimidating and Jo excelled at it effortlessly.

And yet, the moment you smiled brightly at him, genuine warmth curling across your face, the man visibly blinked in surprise. People often forgot that spies were easiest to read when nobody expected them to be human.

“Well,” you said lightly, folding your hands behind your back as you fell into step beside him, “you look horrifying as ever.”

Jo stared at you for half a second longer before a faint exhale escaped him, “Lady Astagne.”

“Oh don’t sound so formal.” You nudged his arm lightly with your elbow as the two of you began weaving through the busy streets together. “We’ve known each other since I was small enough to bite people.”

“You did bite people.” Jo shook his head faintly, though the sharpness in his posture had softened ever so slightly already. As if he didn’t bite people alongside you. 

The Astagne family hotel stood further within the upper district of the capital, close enough to the palace to remind everybody exactly how influential your bloodline remained. You could already see portions of its towering ivory exterior between the buildings ahead.

For a while, the two of you walked in a comfortable quiet. Then softly, you asked, “How’s your mother?”

“She’s…” He paused briefly. “managing.”  

Your chest tightened. You glanced toward him carefully as the two of you crossed a marble bridge overlooking one of the city canals below. “The illness worsened?”

A muscle ticked once in Jo’s jaw before he nodded faintly. “She can barely stand some mornings now.”

The afternoon suddenly felt colder. You knew his mother. She used to sneak sweets into your pockets when your grandmother wasn’t looking—a gentle woman with tired eyes and soft hands perpetually smelling of herbs.  And like most Astagne household servants—she obeyed the family traditions absolutely. No modern medicine, no scientific intervention and no exceptions. Even if it killed them. 

Jo kept his eyes ahead as he spoke again, quieter now. “She refuses outside treatment.” Of course she did. Because generations of fear and loyalty ran deep enough to become religion inside the Astagne estate. 

Casually—as though adjusting your sleeve, you slipped a small glass vial from the hidden pocket inside your coat, clear liquid shimmering inside. If there was one thing Byun Euijoo was useful for, it was cooking up medicine. 

Jo’s eyes widened slightly. “My lady—”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you murmured under your breath, pressing the vial discreetly into his gloved hand as pedestrians passed around you. “It’s only a month’s dosage.”

Jo looked genuinely alarmed now. “If the matriarch finds out—”

“She won’t.” You continued walking smoothly as though nothing had happened.

Jo remained frozen beside you for half a second before hurrying to catch up. “My lady,” he repeated quietly, voice rougher now, “you shouldn’t—”

“You know,” you interrupted lightly, gaze fixed ahead, “when I was younger, I used to think loyalty meant dying for people.” The city wind stirred gently through your hair as you spoke. “Now I think it means wanting them to live.”

Jo stared at the small vial hidden carefully within his palm. You smiled faintly without looking at him. “Don’t tell anybody.”

Something complicated flickered across the spy’s expression then. Gratitude? Guilt? Or perhaps loyalty? You’d have loved loyalty. 

“Yes, my lady.” He said softly and it no longer sounded like obedience to the Astagne family. It sounded like obedience to you. And fuck did that power feel so delicious.

__________

You’d always hated the colour red. No matter how many times you wore it, there was always a faint dislike for the hue settled deep in your heart. Sitting in front of your grandmother in a room colored entirely in that shade of blood, you understood why. 

Red meant the Astagne family. And the Astagne family meant blood splattered across the bones of the innocent. 

Rich crimson drapes cascaded from towering windows embroidered in gold thread, heavy enough to block sunlight entirely. Red velvet furniture sat arranged with oppressive elegance across polished floors while ruby chandeliers burned overhead like suspended drops of blood. Even the tea served before your grandmother carried a reddish tint from imported herbs.

Everything in the room screamed Astagne—power, purity, control.

You sat perfectly poised across from your grandmother with your ankles crossed neatly and your hands resting gracefully in your lap. The Astagne matriarch watched you over the rim of her teacup with terrifyingly sharp eyes. Time had silvered her hair and thinned her frame but nothing—not death, nor illness, nor gods themselves—had managed to dull the sheer force of her presence. 

“You’ve grown thinner.” She remarked coolly.

“And you’ve grown ruder with age.”

Unexpectedly your grandmother smiled into her tea. “You sound more like your sister every year.”

The words struck cleanly beneath your ribs but you maintained your expression flawlessly. Years of noble training had made sure of that. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Silence settled briefly between you both while servants moved quietly around the suite pouring tea and adjusting candles. None of them spoke above whispers in your grandmother’s presence. Fear had a way of shrinking people.

“So,” the matriarch said eventually, setting her cup down with delicate precision, “tell me about Kairos.”

You nearly laughed; there it was—the real conversation. You smiled politely instead. “It remains chaotic as ever.”

“And Nakakita Yuma?”

Your fingers almost tightened against your lap. You exhaled sharply through your nose in practiced annoyance. “Insufferable.”

A flicker of approval crossed her sharp features already. “He still insists on poisoning young minds with machinery and mathematical theory?”

“Oh constantly.” You scoffed dramatically, leaning back slightly in your chair. “You’d think he personally invented mana itself with the way he lectures.”

In your mind flashed the image of him half-undressed in your office. Shirt loose at the collar exposing his neck, dark eyes, his mouth against yours whispering the filthiest pieces of poetry. Let’s forget about everything for a while, hmm? You took a calm sip of tea.

“Last week he implied transformation magic was becoming obsolete.” You sighed deeply. A blatant lie. But your grandmother’s expression hardened nonetheless. Excellent. 

“Arrogant boy,” she murmured coldly. 

“Oh, impossibly so.” You shook your head with theatrical irritation. “If he speaks about ‘mana efficiency’ to me one more time, I may actually kill him.” Another lie, because unfortunately you rather enjoyed listening to him speak.

Especially when his voice dropped low and soft against your throat. And when he moaned high right at your ear before he licked a stripe up your neck—you really are beautiful like this, you know. 

Your grandmother watched you carefully for a long moment. Then she laughed—a sound that startled even the servants. “You hide it well.” She observed. “The temper.” Her sharp eyes gleamed faintly. “The temper that runs through this family.”

Ah. Not the kisses then……shame.

“You remind me very much of myself at your age.” Your grandmother rarely complimented anybody. The old woman leaned back slowly into her chair, studying you.  “You’ve represented the family well these past months,” she said calmly. “Public opinion continues improving.” 

Of course it did. The brilliant young Astagne professor opposing dangerous modern magic beside the kingdom’s most infamous scientific mage? People adored that narrative. You had crafted it carefully. Piece by piece. Lie by lie.

Kiss by kiss.

Your grandmother continued quietly, “The court speaks highly of you.” You lowered your gaze modestly despite the triumphant pulse already beginning beneath your skin. “And,” she added, “I believe the time may soon come to formally announce my successor.” Your heartbeat thundered once.

There it was. There it fucking was.

Years of careful performance. Years of smiling through grief and fury and hatred. Years of pretending. All crystallising into this moment. You looked back up at her.

“I would be honoured, grandmother.”

The old woman nodded, satisfied, proud and deceived. The meeting continued a little longer after that but the moment you stepped back out into the hotel corridors, the pressure in your chest finally released. Victory tasted sharp and electric beneath your tongue. Your heels clicked against polished floors as you walked away from the crimson suite with your head held high.

The servants bowed lower when you passed now. Even Jo standing near the staircase looked at you differently. Not merely as the matriarch’s granddaughter, but as something approaching inevitable.

And god, you hated how fucking amazing it felt.

_________

“Yuma you do realise we’re supposed to parade as enemies?” “I am aware.” The professor beside you glanced sideways without the slightest bit of shame.

“Then why,” you said slowly, eyeing the alarming lack of distance between your shoulders, “are you walking like you’re attached to me by divine decree?”

Around you, the capital’s main market square surged with life. The students had scattered almost immediately upon arrival—some crowding around enchanted jewellery stalls while others lost their minds over magically animated desserts and street performers conjuring miniature dragons from sparks of mana.

Somewhere to your left, Euijoo was already stopping two students (and one puppy-eyed Wang Yixiang) from attempting to purchase illegal spell crystals. Peacefully, of course, as peacefully as a man could while questioning every life decision he had ever made.

“You’re exaggerating,” Yuma replied calmly.

The bustling square wrapped around you both in waves of sound and colour; merchants yelling over one another, magical trinkets glittering beneath hanging lanterns and the scent of baked sugar and smoke drifting warmly through the air. Above the market, long banners embroidered with the royal crest fluttered lazily in the wind. It would have felt almost relaxing—if Yuma was not currently invading every inch of your personal space.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re impossible.”

“Should have said that two nights ago too, princess.” He mused, adjusting the cuffs of his coat.

You looked moments away from shoving him directly into a fountain. Before you could, however, your expression shifted slightly. Then you leaned closer just enough for only him to hear. “It’s fine anyway.” Yuma’s gaze flickered toward you. You kept your eyes ahead casually as you continued walking through the crowded market together. “Harua helped, and Jo.” Understanding crossed his face almost instantly.

“You reduced surveillance?” He murmured quietly.

“Temporarily.” You smiled faintly. “Harua redirected a handful of palace informants toward the foreign delegates arriving this week.” Your voice lowered slightly. “And Jo managed to pull some of the Astagne spies off our trail.”

Yuma raised a brow. “How?”

You looked delightfully smug. “I may have convinced my grandmother I’m too busy hating you to do anything suspicious.” He snorted softly beneath his breath, “So for now,” you continued lightly, glancing at him finally, “we can relax a little.”

The market sunlight caught against his dark hair as he looked at you. For the first time since arriving in the capital—he truly looked relaxed. The tension that usually lived somewhere beneath his shoulders eased faintly. His posture loosened just enough to notice if one knew him well.

“That dangerous, hm?” he said quietly.

“You have no idea.” You passed a stall selling enchanted flowers, their petals glowing softly in shifting colours beneath crystal jars. One particularly bright bloom unfurled as you walked by, releasing tiny sparks into the air. Yuma’s hand brushed briefly against yours.

“You realise,” he said mildly after a moment, “this is the closest thing to a vacation either of us has had in years.”

You stared ahead at the bustling square. Students laughing, magic humming through warm air, no spies breathing down your neck, no performance required every second, no crimson rooms, no mountain roads. Just this.

Just him beside you beneath the afternoon sun.

“That’s deeply depressing,” you decided finally. Yuma laughed quietly. And god help you—you thought it might’ve been your favourite sound in the world.

___________

Nothing ever remained peaceful for long when Nakakita Yuma existed within your vicinity. The universe simply refused to allow it. Perhaps the gods themselves looked down upon the two of you and decided harmony would be far too generous.

The Royal Museum of Arcane Antiquities towered over the capital’s eastern district. Vast halls stretched endlessly beneath painted ceilings while ancient relics gleamed behind glass displays; crowns humming faintly with dormant mana, cursed swords suspended in containment fields and fragments of celestial machinery older than most kingdoms.

The students had lost their minds approximately ten minutes after entering. Several third years were currently arguing near a reconstructed dragon skeleton while another group attempted to calculate the mana output of an ancient war artifact despite Euijoo repeatedly warning them not to touch anything. Yixiang, meanwhile, had somehow already been reprimanded by museum staff twice. You didn’t ask because you truly did not wish to know.

Warm sunlight filtered through towering stained-glass windows overhead while you and Yuma wandered slower than the students, lingering near older exhibits discussing theories and magical constructs beneath the comfortable murmur of the museum halls.

At one point he’d spent nearly fifteen minutes explaining why an ancient mana stabiliser was historically significant while you pretended not to listen despite understanding every word. At another, you had mocked one of the old Astagne relic displays so viciously that Yuma nearly choked trying not to laugh in public.

You were standing near a display of ancient transformation spell manuscripts when the feeling hit—that awful instinctive tightening beneath your ribs; intuition again. Your gaze lifted slowly from the artifact case and there they stood, across the grand marble hall. 

Your mother looked exactly as she always had—beautiful in the cold aristocratic way Astagne women were raised to become. Crimson jewels rested elegantly against her throat while her expression remained composed enough to fool anybody unfamiliar with her. Your father stood beside her, posture rigid and severe. Even from a distance, he looked disappointed in something, probably existence itself.

Your mother’s eyes met yours first, then flickered toward Yuma standing beside you. You knew that look on her face. No coincidence existed within noble families, not when inheritance lingered in the air like blood in water.

Your father began walking toward you both and every instinct inside your body stiffened instantly. You hated that they still had the power to make you feel sixteen years old again. Your mother followed elegantly beside him, as nobles nearby subtly shifted aside to allow them passage. Power parted crowds effortlessly. 

“Daughter.” your father greeted you once they reached, like you were a political associate rather than flesh and blood.

You smiled perfectly. “Father. Mother.”

Your mother’s gaze lingered briefly over your appearance before settling on Yuma. “Professor Nakakita,” she acknowledged politely, Yuma bowed his head barely an inch, “How fortunate,” your mother said pleasantly, “to encounter Kairos faculty during our visit.”

A cold fucking lie. You smiled sweeter. “The capital is certainly crowded this week.”

Your mother’s smile never faltered. “We were actually hoping to steal a moment of your time.”

Immediately, every warning bell inside your body rang at once. You kept your expression composed. “I’m supervising students today.” Your tone remained perfectly professional. “Unfortunately Kairos becomes a public safety hazard when left unattended.”

Somewhere across the museum, a loud crash echoed distantly followed by Yixiang yelling something that sounded suspiciously like “IT WAS ALREADY ON FIRE.”

Your father did not blink. “We won’t keep you long.” You opened your mouth to refuse again.

Beside you, however, Yuma spoke first. “It’s fine.” Your eyes snapped toward him instantly. The traitor looked entirely calm. “I can manage the students.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. Manage them? You knew exactly what he was doing—giving you an escape route would have been impossible here. Refusing your parents publicly would only raise suspicion, especially now of all times. Still, you wanted to strangle him a little.

“How noble of you, Professor.” You forced your expression into one of annoyance. 

Your father already looked impatient. “Come.” What you wouldn’t have given to duel your father right there and then. Unbearable man.

The couple guided you away from the museum’s central halls toward a quieter gallery lined with ancient noble relics and enchanted tapestries. Footsteps echoed softly against marble floors while distant chatter faded further behind you. 

Only once you were properly secluded did your mother finally speak again. “You’ve done well. You’ve handled yourself excellently since arriving in the capital,” she continued smoothly. “Public perception remains overwhelmingly positive.”

There it was. Daughter? The word was foreign on their tongue. No, you were an asset.

Your father folded his hands behind his back as the three of you slowed near a towering display of ancient Astagne ceremonial artifacts. “The court speaks highly of your conduct.”

“And your grandmother,” your mother added carefully, “seems increasingly pleased.”

Your father turned slightly toward you then, expression stern as ever. “She intends to make the announcement soon.”

You lowered your gaze modestly despite the victorious pulse beginning beneath your skin. “I’ll do my best to honour the family name.”

Your mother studied you for a long moment, searching for god knows what. She did that to everybody, as far as you could remember. “The kingdom admires your rivalry. You and Professor Nakakita.” She said, “Are there any complications?”

“There are no complications,” you replied smoothly.

“Good.” Your father’s tone sharpened slightly. “Because if you are to inherit this family, perception will matter more than sentiment.”

Something ugly twisted quietly beneath your ribs. Sentiment—as though affection itself were weakness, as though love had not once cost your family everything. You looked away before you said something unforgivable.

That was when you noticed it—your father’s gaze above, toward the chandelier hanging overhead. Massive crystal tiers glimmered beneath enchanted lighting high above the gallery hall, ancient gold chains disappearing into the painted ceiling overhead. And suddenly, that dreadful intuitive feeling returned. Somewhere distant within the museum halls, magic crackled faintly.

The crackle came again, louder this time and your blood ran cold. Every instinct inside you screamed at once—wrong wrong wrong. You turned sharply toward the main gallery hall just as the first chain snapped.

The sound split through the museum like thunder. Gasps erupted instantly and students screamed. And directly beneath the massive crystal chandelier, stood Yuma.

Time seemed to fracture. You saw everything all at once—the collapsing gold framework, thousands of sharpened crystal pieces plummeting downward. Yuma looking up too late. You moved before your thoughts could catch up. Mana tore violently through your body and the world flashed scarlet.

Butterflies.

A thousand crimson wings exploded outward through the gallery hall in one impossible wave as the falling chandelier transformed midair. Crystal shattered into living scarlet forms instantly, butterflies erupting through the museum like a storm of blood-red petals beneath golden light. Students cried out in shock, museum guests stumbled backward and the air filled with wings.

Magic, scarlet, beautiful.

The agony hit you a second later. Pain speared through your body so suddenly your knees nearly buckled. Fuck—you hadn’t taken enough stabilising medicine that morning. You were already running low and transformation magic without proper regulation always exacted its price. Your veins burned and it felt as though something sharp had been driven directly beneath your ribs while molten mana clawed violently through your nerves.

You forced your posture upright—show neither weakness nor pain. 

Across the gallery hall, butterflies swarmed wildly through the air where the chandelier should have crushed Yuma entirely. And at the centre of them, stood the professor himself. Very alive, with his eyes fixed on you, fear in his eyes. Fear…for you?

You looked away first. Your breathing had already become dangerously shallow. Around the museum, chaos erupted fully now. Students scrambled everywhere while staff rushed toward the collapsed chains overhead. Voices overlapped endlessly beneath the storm of scarlet wings still dissolving slowly into glittering mana.

Beside you, your mother spoke first. “How fortunate.”

You nearly turned around and slapped her. Instead, you smiled coldly. “Yes,” you said despite the pain carving through your spine. “How fortunate indeed.”

Your father remained silent—coward. You knew. You knew exactly what that had been—a warning, a test. Or merely an accident conveniently arranged near the kingdom’s most controversial scientific mage.

Either way, they did not care whether Yuma lived or died. Something vicious rose inside your chest and you forced it back down. Your mother’s sharp gaze shifted toward the gallery again where Yuma now pushed through the crowd toward your direction. 

“Control yourself,” she murmured quietly. “People are watching.”

You almost laughed from the sheer insanity of it. Control yourself? You had just ripped apart an entire chandelier with raw transformation magic while your nervous system threatened mutiny. 

“Don’t worry,” you said calmly, smoothing down your sleeves despite the tremor threatening your fingers. “I’ll handle Professor Nakakita later.”

Across the hall, Yuma finally reached the edge of the gallery crowd. His eyes locked onto yours and because he knew you far too well—he noticed the stiffness in your posture, the unnatural stillness in your hands and the way your breathing shortened fractionally every few seconds. You held his gaze for one brief moment longer before subtly shaking your head once.

Don’t. Not here, not now.

The museum chaos blurred around you both while butterflies continued dissolving through shafts of golden sunlight overhead like dying embers. Yuma reached you moments later, coat dishevelled from shoving past panicked students and horrified staff members. You kept your own expression perfectly composed despite the agony still curling violently through your body.

“Professor Astagne.” His voice came smooth and cool once more, the public mask slipping back into place flawlessly. “How heroic of you.”

You nearly laughed from the pain of it all. “Try not to stand beneath falling objects next time, Professor.” Your mother watched the exchange with narrowed eyes while behind you, the final butterflies dissolved slowly into dust.

Yuma turned then, acknowledging your parents with politeness. “Lord Astagne. Lady Astagne.”

Your father’s expression remained cold. “You rely too heavily on unstable inventions, Professor Nakakita.”

Yuma’s posture straightened fractionally. “The chandelier was hardly my invention.”

“No,” your father replied smoothly, “but dependence on modern systems breeds carelessness regardless.”

You could practically feel Yuma swallowing several deeply impolite responses. Your mother sighed softly beside him. “Traditional magic remains safer when handled correctly.”

The hypocrisy nearly made you dizzy. Safer. You wondered if they remembered saying that beside your sister’s grave too.

Beside you, Yuma’s gaze flickered once toward your hands, still trembling faintly beneath your sleeves. Guilt flashed briefly across his face before disappearing immediately beneath calm indifference. “Thankfully,” he said coolly, “Professor Astagne was nearby to compensate for everyone else’s incompetence.”

Your chest hurt for reasons entirely unrelated to mana now and your father looked mildly displeased by the compliment. Good—let him choke on it.

Your mother glanced toward you again then. “You look pale.”

Pain shot sharply beneath your ribs at the exact wrong moment and you smiled anyway. “I’m fine.”

“We can escort you back to the hotel,” your father offered stiffly. “You’ve clearly exhausted yourself.”

Absolutely not. Going anywhere alone with them right now sounded remarkably similar to volunteering for execution.“I still have students to supervise.” Your voice remained light despite the effort speaking now required. “Kairos would burn the capital down within an hour unattended.” As if summoned by fate itself, a loud explosion sounded faintly somewhere deeper within the museum. Yixiang—definitely Yixiang. Your mother looked horrified. You smiled pleasantly. “See?”

Your father inclined his head once. “Very well.” The couple departed soon after, like shadows retreating from sunlight.

Only once they were fully gone did the tension around you snap sharply. Your knees almost gave out immediately and Yuma caught your wrist before you could stumble. You jerked slightly at the contact and his hand loosened instantly. People were still watching. 

“You’re hurt,” he said quietly.

“I’m alive.” You forced your breathing steady again.

“That wasn’t the agreement.” Something about the anger in his voice startled you—a morphed form of guilt. 

“Oh please.” You managed a weak scoff. “You’re the one who nearly got flattened a chandelier.”

Yuma looked at you like he wanted to say something unforgivable. Instead he stepped back, creating distance and rebuilding his mask. Soft girl, he thought bitterly, soft stupid girl.

Since when had he become the kind of man who could not bear seeing you hurt?

___________

The last thing you remembered was the hallway. The hotel corridor had stretched endlessly before you, walls blurring together beneath the soft glow of enchanted chandeliers. Your body had already begun shutting down by then.  Every step toward your room felt distant, disconnected, like walking underwater. You vaguely remembered fumbling with your room key and hearing your own pulse roaring loudly in your ears.

And then there was nothing. Just darkness swallowing you whole before you even reached the door.

When consciousness returned, it did so slowly and it was the warmth that reached you first. The heavy softness of blankets tucked around your body, your limbs felt unbearably heavy, mana exhaustion still lingering deep in your bones like wet cement. Your room sat dimly lit by a single bedside lamp, amber light washing gently across. Night had fully settled now, city lights glittering beyond the windows like scattered stars.

And sitting beside your bed—still in his outside clothes—was Yuma.

He sat slumped in the chair beside you, arms crossed tightly against his chest. His coat was wrinkled, collar loosened, dark hair falling messily across his forehead. His head leaned back against the chair, eyes closed in exhausted sleep. You shifted beneath the blankets, after staring at him for a while. The movement made the mattress creak softly and Yuma’s eyes opened instantly. In fact, his gaze snapped toward you so fast it almost startled you.

For one second, pure relief crossed his face and then it vanished beneath irritation. “You’re awake.”

“Well observed.” You winced and pushed yourself upright against the pillows. That was when you noticed the soft silk nightgown against your skin. You blinked. Then slowly looked toward him. “Did you change my clothes?”

Yuma didn’t even hesitate. “I can dismantle bombs in complete darkness,” he replied dryly. “I’m fairly certain I can manage buttons and fabric too.”

“You changed me unconscious?” You stared at him in horror. “Oh my god.” You scoffed, wanting to throw your hands in the air but failing because they currently felt like lead.

“You’re welcome, by the way.” You narrowed your eyes at him while he leaned forward in the chair, elbows now resting against his knees. “You drooled on my shoulder while I carried you by the way.” “I did not.” Your entire body froze. “I refuse to believe that.”

“Tragic. Because it happened.” You threw the nearest pillow weakly at him, “And you scared the living hell out of me,” he said quietly. The honesty of it stunned you silent and Yuma looked away briefly, jaw tightening. He remembered it too clearly.

The way your body had suddenly crumpled in the hotel corridor before he could even reach you. The awful split-second where his heart had stopped entirely. The violent panic pounding through his chest as he caught you before your head struck marble flooring.

He remembered carrying you upstairs far too fast, how frighteningly light you had felt in his arms. He remembered Euijoo kneeling beside the bed afterward, checking your pulse while Yuma stood there feeling something close to terror.

Mana exhaustion—that was all it had been. Nothing fatal and nothing permanent. But Yuma had still needed several minutes afterward before his hands stopped shaking.

“You should’ve told me you were running low,” he muttered. You looked down at the blanket gathered loosely in your lap, “and don’t you dare tell me you forgot.” His eyes lifted back toward yours sharply. “Beacuse I know for a fact that you ignored it.”

Your throat tightened slightly. “I didn’t think it would get that bad.”

“You turned an entire chandelier into butterflies.” Yuma laughed once under his breath, though there was no amusement in it, “That was borderline suicide.” 

“Oh please.” You looked faintly proud of yourself, “You would’ve become decorative floor art.” Yuma smiled faintly at that. And fuck—the sight of it in the warm amber light nearly ruined you. 

“Go back to sleep, princess.” Yuma sighed softly and leaned back into the chair. “I’m staying here.”

Your heart stumbled stupidly. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.” But he made no move to leave.

____________

You remembered the first ever ball you’d ever attended. 

You had been thirteen and overwhelmed by absolutely everything. The palace had looked enormous back then, all glittering chandeliers and marble staircases that made you feel terribly small beneath the weight of noble expectations. Everywhere you looked, people sparkled. Jewels, gold, silk, smiles sharpened into weapons behind painted masks.

Your mother had dressed you personally that evening in layers of crimson silk that pooled around your shoes whenever you walked too quickly. Red ribbons had been woven carefully into your hair while servants adjusted your little mask for what felt like hours. Astagne red.

Even then, you remembered hating it. But your sister had laughed softly at your miserable expression while fixing the ribbon at the back of your mask. “You look beautiful,” she had whispered warmly.

You had spent nearly the entire evening clutching her hand while hiding behind her whenever nobles approached to speak to you. She had guided you through dances, stolen desserts for you and whispered commentary about noble guests until you laughed loud enough to embarrass the entire family. You remembered the warmth of her hand, the way you had thought, with childish certainty, that nothing terrible could ever happen while she stood beside you. Funny how wrong children always are.

The first ball you had attended since her death was another masquerade. Cruel irony truly did follow you everywhere.

You stood before the mirror in your room while servants fluttered nervously around you making final adjustments to fabric and jewels. Red again—it had to be red. The gown clung elegantly to your figure, deep crimson silk flowing like spilled wine down to the floor while a slit traced sharply up one thigh, the neckline resting off your shoulders. Rubies adorned your neck too—an Astagne heirloom necklace. Your grandmother had insisted upon it, by means of a letter. 

The red masquerade mask concealed the upper half of your face, intricate silver detailing curling across its edges like thorns. Combined with the gown, the entire ensemble transformed you into precisely what the Astagne family adored most: something untouchable, something dangerous, something beautiful enough to distract people from the blood beneath it.

One of the maids adjusted the final clasp behind your neck before stepping back with a soft gasp. “You look stunning, Lady Astagne.”

Outside your windows, the palace glowed against the night sky like something celestial. Golden lights illuminated towering spires while music drifted through the capital streets below. Carriages rolled toward the palace gates carrying nobles from every corner of the kingdom.

Tomorrow Kairos would depart for home. Tomorrow the performances would begin again in full. But tonight? Tonight the kingdom danced.

The hotel lobby buzzed with excitement loud enough to rival a festival. The students filled every corner of the hall, their voices overlapping in waves of laughter, nervousness and complaints about formalwear, jewels and carefully styled hair. Some students looked radiant. Some looked deeply uncomfortable. And some looked one minor inconvenience away from collapsing entirely. Yixiang was currently attempting to pin a flower onto Euijoo’s suit while Euijoo looked seconds away from homicide.

“Hold still, idiot.”

“You’re literally stabbing me, you monster.” 

Near the bottom of the staircase, hands tucked neatly behind his back stood Yuma. He looked……unfair. That was truly the only word for it.

The dark red suit fit him with devastating precision, tailored black embroidery tracing along the cuffs and collar like shadows curling through blood. Gold chains glimmered against the waistcoat while the black masquerade mask sharpened every feature he possessed.

His hair had been pushed back slightly for once, exposing more of his face than usual. Which frankly felt deeply inconsiderate toward your sanity. Several students kept glancing toward him every few seconds like he was some rare celestial event. Yuma ignored all of them completely.

At least, until movement appeared near the staircase. The conversation throughout the lobby softened gradually. Then stopped altogether.

You descended slowly, one gloved hand resting against the staircase railing as crimson silk flowed around your legs like liquid starlight. The slit of your gown flashed briefly with every step downward while rubies glittered softly against your throat and collarbones. 

The entire lobby stared. A student somewhere near the back audibly whispered, “Holy shit.” Euijoo immediately smacked the back of his head.

And Yuma? Yuma forgot how breathing worked for a solid three seconds.

His gaze lifted slowly as you descended the staircase and something in his chest simply ceased functioning entirely. You looked unreal, like something painted into existence by a cruel god with far too much talent.

The colour red wrapped around you like devotion itself, and suddenly Yuma understood why kingdoms fell for beautiful women. Because if you had asked him to destroy the world right there beneath those chandeliers—he genuinely might have considered it.

Meanwhile, you noticed absolutely none of this. The second your eyes landed on Yuma, your brain stopped too. Oh that suit should’ve been illegal. The sharp lines of it against his figure, the gloves, the half-mask resting against his face, the rich crimson beneath warm golden lighting. Was red always such a beautiful colour?

By the time you reached the final staircase step, the silence in the lobby had become almost comical. You glanced around slowly. “…Why is everybody looking at me like that?”

One of the third-year students clutched dramatically at her chest. “Professor Astagne, respectfully I think I just died.”

“You’re all embarrassing,” you informed them calmly.

Yuma moved then, stepping forward smoothly through the stunned crowd until he stood directly before you. Close enough for only you to notice the way his eyes softened beneath the mask, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of your perfume beneath all the gold-lit glamour surrounding you. 

“Red looks good on you.” All you could think was, so does it on you.

__________

Politics, parties, peacock feathers—were there any better words to describe your grandmother? The utterly fucked up matriarch you were going to steal a dukedom from?

The grand ballroom of the palace glittered like the inside of a jewel box, drowning beneath gold light and orchestral music so rich it practically soaked into the walls. Chandeliers floated high beneath enchanted ceilings painted to resemble a living night sky. The kingdom adored spectacle and tonight, spectacle had arrived dressed in silk and deception.

Nobles drifted across the floor in rivers of colour while servants glided soundlessly between them carrying trays overflowing with wine and desserts. Laughter echoed beneath the music, artificial and practiced in the way only aristocrats could manage.

Near the centre staircase stood the kings. King Yudai looked precisely as intimidating as the kingdom adored pretending he was not, shoulders wrapped in black and gold while a silver mask sharpened the elegance of his features. Beside him stood Fuma, more approachable in appearance and therefore more dangerous. He wore deep emerald, rings glimmering against elegant fingers as he smiled through conversations with the ease of a man entirely aware of his own charm. 

Euijoo stood near one of the champagne tables looking painfully dignified in silver-trimmed black formalwear while Yixiang lingered beside him bothering him with relentless dedication.

“So you’re saying you wouldn’t miss me if I disappeared mysteriously.”

“I would celebrate.”

“That’s cruel after I dressed nicely for you.”

“You look like a flammable curtain.”

“See? This is why our love cannot thrive.” Euijoo looked toward the ceiling briefly as though asking the gods for strength.

Across the ballroom, Harua moved through clusters of nobles like smoke, blue silk sweeping elegantly behind him while he smiled his way through conversations and undoubtedly gathered enough information to destroy several political careers before dessert arrived. Taki and Maki followed in matching uniforms, though the two apprentices looked significantly more interested in the stacks of blueberry pie.

Standing quietly near one of the ballroom entrances, half-hidden amongst the shadows, was Jo in a sharp black suit, expression unreadable, ever watchful, your grandmother’s spy. No—your spy now. The realization curled warm and dangerous through your chest.

You stood near one of the ballroom pillars with a glass of wine resting lightly between your fingers, observing the room through the crimson tint of your mask. And there she was, your grandmother.

The great matriarch stood surrounded by old noble families dressed in layers of red silk and jewels heavy enough to rival armour. Peacock feathers adorned portions of her elaborate gown tonight, dramatic and excessive in the way she adored. Her laughter rang sharply through the ballroom while nobles leaned inward around her orbit like devoted planets circling a dying star.

Your family stood nearby too. Your parents smiled,  spoke and laughed. As though none of it had ever happened. As though grief itself had simply become another elegant thing to bury beneath silk and tradition.

Something hot twisted viciously beneath your ribs. Rage—old and poisonous. You watched your grandmother raise her glass, speaking proudly to nobles who would sooner watch villages burn than loosen their grip on power.

And all you could think was—mine, mine, mine. Your fingers tightened around the stem of your wine glass. Your gaze (on instinct) shifted across the ballroom. What else would your enchanted eyes search for except him?

Yuma stood near one of the windows with a champagne glass balanced lazily between his fingers. Red still looked unfairly good on him, his mask shadowing his expression while nobles attempted and failed to pull him into conversation. He looked detached from it all, observing, thinking.

And then, as though sensing your stare—his eyes lifted, locking onto instantly across the crowded ballroom. The noise around you softened strangely. Neither of you moved. But something passed between you, quieter than words. Yuma glanced briefly toward your family then back toward you.

And in that single look—he understood everything sitting behind your eyes. Rage, grief, exhaustion and the weight of performance pressing against your shoulders tonight. His expression softened like he was reminding you silently: you are not alone in this room.

“Well now,” came a warm voice beside you, “that is an awfully dangerous expression.”

Fuma stood beside you now, amusement curling lazily behind his mask. A glass of champagne rested between elegant fingers as he followed your line of sight directly toward Yuma across the ballroom. 

“Professor Astagne,” he said gently, “you’ve looked at Professor Nakakita seventeen times in the last ten minutes.” You looked away immediately, heat rising traitorously into your face beneath the mask. Fuma’s grin widened catastrophically. “Oh,” he sighed dramatically, “you really do like him.”

“I do not.”

“I heard you transformed a chandelier into butterflies for him.” You narrowed your eyes at the king while he laughed softly into his champagne, “You are terrible at denial.” 

Across the ballroom, Yuma still stood near the windows speaking politely to some elderly noble while very clearly wanting to launch himself into the nearest river instead. Your gaze drifted toward him again automatically. Damn it.

“You know,” Fuma said softly, something fond entering his expression. “You have the same look in your eyes as I did when I first met Yudai.” You nearly inhaled wine incorrectly and the king looked pleased with himself. “Absolutely horrified,” he continued smoothly, “while simultaneously willing to ruin your own life for someone.”

“That sounds unhealthy.” You chuckled. 

“It was.” He smiled into his glass. “Still is, actually.” Somewhere across the ballroom, Yudai glanced over toward the two of you as though sensing his husband discussing him from afar. The king’s expression softened then as he looked toward you again. “Funny thing,” he said quietly, “for someone supposedly hating him—you look at him like he is sunlight.”

Before you could respond, the orchestra shifted melodies suddenly. Around the ballroom, couples immediately began drifting toward the dance floor beneath the chandeliers. Fuma tilted his head toward Yuma. “Go dance with him.”

“In front of half the kingdom?” You almost scoffed. “My family is here.”

“Yes,” Fuma said knowingly. “Exactly.” The king leaned casually beside you, lowering his voice. “People already expect hatred from you both.” His rings glimmered softly as he lifted his glass. “Nobody questions enemies dancing at masquerades. Nobles adore drama too much.”

Your eyes shifted back toward Yuma. He had finally escaped the conversation and now stood alone, candlelight flickering gold and crimson across his face beneath the mask.

You wanted him. The way music wanted to be admired. The way the sunsets wanted to be loved. The way a wound wanted to be treated before it festered (how could one treat a wound on the heart?). You wanted his hands on your waist beneath chandelier light. Wanted to hear him laugh softly against your ear while the orchestra played around you. Wanted one selfish moment where neither of you had to pretend so hard.

This was a terrible idea, an absolutely catastrophic idea. But honestly? You were exhausted—of politics, of grief, of pretending every second of every day.

So perhaps—just for one dance—you could allow yourself something selfish. You set your wine glass carefully onto a passing servant’s tray. Then before your courage abandoned you entirely, you walked toward Yuma.

The walk toward him felt far longer than it actually was. Music swelled softly around you, laughter and conversation blurring together into distant noise. Your heels clicked steadily against marble, crimson silk sweeping around your legs with every step.

Yuma’s gaze lifted from the champagne glass in his hand and locked onto yours through the shifting crowd. For one brief moment, genuine surprise crossed his face beneath the black mask. Then amusement followed—slow and beautiful. 

“Well,” he murmured as you finally stopped before him, “either I’m hallucinating or Professor Astagne is voluntarily approaching me.”

“Don’t sound too pleased about it.” You rolled your eyes lightly despite the warmth spreading through your chest. Behind you, the orchestra shifted smoothly into another slow melody. Yuma glanced briefly toward the dance floor and toward you again. The corner of his mouth tilted upward faintly.

You hated how easy this felt tonight. Maybe it was the masks or the exhaustion. Maybe it was simply that for once, you were both too tired to keep fighting each other properly. Yuma set his untouched champagne aside onto a tray before extending one hand toward you.

“You look stupid in red.” You said, noticing him noticing you staring at him.

“Looks better on you, sweetheart.” Asshole. Still—you placed your hand in his, warmth sliding up your arm at the contact.

Yuma’s fingers curled around yours before he guided you toward the ballroom floor, movements smooth and practiced. The second his other hand settled against your waist— your brain stopped functioning entirely. He was warm. Yuma guided you effortlessly into the dance as though he had known your rhythm forever, one hand holding yours while the other rested at your waist.

“You dance surprisingly well,” you muttered weakly.

“I was forced into etiquette lessons as a child.” Yuma’s eyes softened at the sound of your laughter. 

Neither of you spoke, simply moving together while the kingdom glittered around you. The world narrowed to his hand at your waist, to his scent of champagne and cedarwood, to the way his eyes watched you through the mask like you were something precious enough to memorize.

For one selfish moment—you forgot everything else. Forgot your family watching, forgot politics, forgot inheritance, forgot revenge. There was only this. Only him. Yuma’s thumb brushed lightly once against your waist through the fabric of your gown and your breath caught slightly. 

“Why hello there beautiful." He murmured softly, “What is a ruined man like me doing dancing with you?” His quiet laugh nearly ruined you.

Then, suddenly, the music stopped. Conversation softened beneath the enormous chandeliers while nobles turned toward the elevated royal platform at the front of the hall. Standing now beside the kings was your grandmother. The matriarch smiled slowly as Yudai stepped gracefully aside, surrendering the ballroom’s attention to her.

“Honoured guests,” your grandmother began, her voice carrying throughout the ballroom through subtle amplification magic. “Tonight has been a celebration not only of Kairos Academy, but of the future of our kingdom itself.” You already knew where this was going. The matriarch’s gaze swept elegantly across the ballroom before settling directly onto you.

“There comes a time,” she continued, “when every great family must look toward legacy. For decades,” your grandmother said proudly, “the Astagne family has safeguarded the ancient traditions of magic and carried them with honour through generations.” Lie. Lie. Lie. “And now,” she smiled, “it is time to announce the successor who shall inherit that responsibility after me.” The ballroom practically held its breath.

“Lady Astagne.” Your name echoed through the hall like the strike of a bell. “There is no individual more worthy of becoming the next head of the Astagne family.”

For one blinding moment, you forgot to breathe.

Applause thundered through the hall like crashing waves, nobles rising from their seats in approval. Gold and scarlet light blurred beneath your vision. People were smiling, speaking, congratulating, but all of it sounded distant. The word crashed into your chest with enough force to make you feel dizzy. Years of clawing and performing and bleeding yourself hollow suddenly condensed into one single instant. 

Something hot and radiant unfurled inside your ribs, swelling brighter and brighter until it felt unbearable, like the sun itself had lodged beneath your skin. Triumph tasted intoxicating—spreading through your veins warm and molten, sweeter than every bitter thing you had swallowed all these years.

The next Duchess Astagne; you smiled before you could stop yourself—a beautiful, oh so terribly beautiful—smile. 

The sight struck Yuma speechless. The orchestra had resumed softly somewhere in the background. Nobles continued applauding. Your grandmother looked smug beyond belief. But Yuma neither heard nor saw any of it.

Only you—looking incandescent standing there amidst applause and crystal light, like victory had taken human form. Yuma had seen you furious enough to summon storms of butterflies. He had seen you half-conscious in his arms inside a freezing carriage. Seen you smoke cigarettes under moonlight and threaten murder over tea. Seen you exhausted, grieving, manipulative, brilliant, soft. But this?

This might have been the most beautiful thing he had ever witnessed.

The urge to cross the ballroom and kiss you nearly ruined him. And not a subtle kiss hidden behind cigarette smoke or shadows or locked offices, no he wanted a catastrophic one. The kind that would scandalise kingdoms, the kind that would make your grandmother faint into somebody’s champagne, the kind that would wipe that triumphant expression off every Astagne face because suddenly their precious successor would belong to nobody’s expectations but her own.

Your eyes found him again through the crowd. The applause roared, nobles continued talking excitedly, somewhere Yudai was grinning like he had personally orchestrated it all. But the second your gaze locked onto Yuma? Everything softened. Your smile faltered just slightly into something quieter, only for him. And god help him, Yuma smiled back too—small and barely there, but devastatingly genuine. Like he was silently telling you, look at you, princess.

Look what you survived for.

___________

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of noise and too many smiling faces. Nobles approached endlessly, polished congratulations dripping from their tongues. Successor—the word followed you everywhere tonight. Lady Astagne. Future Duchess. Matriarch. Each title wrapped around your shoulders heavier and heavier until they felt less like praise and more like chains made beautiful enough for people to admire.

Still—you smiled. Of course you smiled. This was what you had wanted, wasn’t it?

Your grandmother had even pulled you aside midway through the celebration, red silk rustling around her like fresh blood as she placed a hand upon your shoulder. “You need not abandon Kairos. A proper Astagne can rule and maintain scholarly pursuits simultaneously.” You had nearly laughed in relief. Despite your plans and rage and ambition, you loved Kairos. You loved your students, your sunlit office and the feeling of magic blooming between your fingertips during lectures. You loved teaching.

And you loved him too. 

So you endured the rest of the evening with perfect grace. You danced when required, spoke when spoken to, allowed nobles to fawn over you. By the time midnight bled into the early hours of morning, you finally managed to escape by citing Kairos’ journey home tomorrow and the responsibility of supervising students—only partially a lie.

The moment you returned to the hotel, silence swallowed you whole. Gone were the orchestras and chandeliers and laughter echoing through the halls. Your room greeted you with dim lamps and moonlight spilling through the curtains. Still dressed in your gown and jewels, you sat quietly at the edge of your bed, staring at absolutely nothing. The room felt strangely hollow now. Or perhaps you did. Your heels lay discarded somewhere, your mask rested abandoned beside them, the remnants of another performance finally completed. Outside, the capital still buzzed with nightlife, but here lay only silence.

You should have felt victorious. Instead, there was simply…quiet. Emptiness settled beneath your ribs, spreading through your chest like cooling embers after a fire had burned itself out. You had spent years clawing toward this moment. And now you finally had it, why did you feel so tired? 

Your fingers drifted absently to your ruby necklace. Red jewels, red gown, red family. You hated red. A soft knock sounded against the adjoining door. You didn’t answer. A second later the door opened anyway.

Red wasn’t so bad.

Yuma stepped inside dressed exactly as he had been at the ball, though his jacket had disappeared and the top buttons of his shirt had been loosened. His eyes found you and every trace of amusement left his face. You must have looked awful, sitting stiffly at the edge of the bed, staring blankly ahead with exhaustion carved into every inch of your posture. Yuma looked at you for a long moment before walking closer, slow and careful like approaching a wounded animal.

“The future Duchess Astagne,” he said softly at last, voice quieter than usual. “You look like somebody’s just informed you the world’s ending.”

“That’s because it probably is.” You murmured tiredly. Yuma didn’t reply to your bleak statement. He studied you, gaze tracing the weary lines of your face, the stiff set of your shoulders under the heavy fabric. 

“You should take all this off before you fall asleep in it.” Yuma said, eyes drifting toward the rubies glittering at your throat and woven through your hair. “You look uncomfortable.”

“Can’t.” You glanced down at the gown, the jewels weighing on your neck and hair. “I’m too tired to even lift my arms.”

Yuma stared at you for a second longer. Then he stood. “Up.” He said simply.

You looked at him tiredly from where you sat. “Professor, if this is your attempt at tyranny—”

“Stand up, princess.”

There was no bite to it tonight, only softness, perhaps that was why you obeyed. With a sigh that seemed to draw from the very depths of your exhaustion, you pushed yourself up from the bed. The crimson skirts pooled around you once more as you stood, feeling unsteady and hollow.

Yuma guided you gently to stand before the large mirror. In its reflection, you saw the full picture: the Duchess Astagne, resplendent in her color, yet looking utterly shattered inside it. He stood behind you, a steady contrast to your vivid weariness.

Yuma began with the necklace. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he reached around you, his fingers finding the clasp at the nape of your neck. You felt the weight of the jewels lift away, then the slight tug as he undid the fastening. Next, he moved to your hair. One by one, Yuma carefully removed the pins and combs. His movements were slow, methodical, almost reverent. As each piece was taken away, a part of the armor fell. 

Yuma worked with a quiet focus, his eyes occasionally meeting yours in the mirror. You watched him, watched your own transformation from future duchess to….you. When the last jewel was set aside, he rested his hands lightly on your shoulders again.  “How do you feel?” he asked, his voice low.

The automatic answer rose to your lips, the polite, durable lie. “Alright.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, the words firm but not harsh. “Not here. Not now.” His hands tightened slightly on your shoulders. His reflection’s gaze was piercing, seeing through the facade as easily as he’d removed the jewels.

Yuma rested both hands lightly against the edge of the vanity behind you now, gaze fixed steadily on your reflection. Just waiting, like he would stand here all night if necessary.  You stared at yourself in the mirror, your throat tightening. 

“I should be happy.” You whispered finally. “This is what I wanted.” Your fingers curled slowly against the vanity surface. “I spent years planning for this.” You laughed humourlessly beneath your breath. “And tonight everybody kept looking at me like I’d finally become something worthwhile. But all I can think about is how tired I am.” Your voice cracked at the edges. “I thought it would feel…..bigger than this.”

The words hung in the quiet room. Yuma didn’t offer empty consolation. He didn’t tell you you were wrong. His hands moved from your shoulders. He stepped closer, his body almost touching yours from behind, and his arms came around you, not in an embrace, but to reach for the fastenings of the gown.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured softly behind you, “you’ve spent so long surviving that I don’t think you know what to do now that something good has finally happened to you.”

His words were a key turning in a lock you’d forgotten existed. Surviving—that’s what it had been, for so long. The emptiness inside you wasn’t new; it was the hollowed-out space where everything else had been burned away to make room for that singular, driving force.

The gown loosened beneath his careful hands, one clasp, then another. You watched him—his lowered lashes, the concentration in his expression, the tenderness in movements from a man who usually carried himself like sharpened steel.

“Yuma,” you said after a long silence. He hummed softly behind you, fingers still working patiently at the intricate fastenings. “What do I do now?” His hands paused briefly. You stared at your own reflection, suddenly unable to look him in the eye. “All these years…” Your voice came out smaller than intended. “All I’ve really felt is anger. Rage at my family, at the kingdom, at myself for not being able to save her.” Your fingers tightened against the vanity edge. “Everything I did came from that.” Another clasp loosened. The gown slipped lower against your shoulders.

“And now I finally have what I wanted.” You laughed weakly. “So why do I still feel so empty?” Yuma’s eyes lifted to yours through the mirror. “What do I do with it, Yuma?” you whispered, the question torn from a place deeper than pride and strategy, “What do I do with this…..emptiness?” 

Yuma’s expression softened so completely it almost hurt to look at. His hands left the gown at last. Then slowly, carefully (for you were a wounded animal), he rested them against your waist, warm through the skin. He leaned forward, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice so soft it was almost part of the silence.

“You could try love.” 

The word settled between you both like something fragile. They weren’t even necessarily about him, or about you and him. They were a suggestion, an option placed gently in the hollow space. The most illogical, unscientific, inefficient option imaginable. Given by the most logical person you knew. 

“Love?” you repeated, the word foreign and fragile on your tongue. It felt like trying to name a color you’d never seen. 

“You already know how to grieve people.” Yuma murmured. “You know how to protect them, how to fight for them.” His thumbs brushed lightly against your waist. “Love isn’t as different from those things as you think.”

Your eyes burned again. Yuma, with his ridiculous inventions and quiet understanding. Yuma, who held your panic together in mountain carriages and removed your jewels like they were burdens instead of treasures. Yuma, who saw every ugly aching part of you and stayed anyway.

“How?” you whispered softly, “How do I begin to feel it?” 

Yuma looked at you through the mirror for a long moment, dark eyes impossibly gentle now, as though he were handling something sacred instead of standing behind a girl in a half-undone gown. Then, he bent his head, his lips finding the skin where your neck met your shoulder. The kiss was soft, a question in itself.

“May I show you?” he breathed against your skin, his voice a low vibration. You couldn’t speak. You just gave a tiny nod. He took it as permission.

His lips pressed another kiss, higher on your neck, just below your ear. “May I love,” he began, his voice a quiet murmur, “the way your mana flares crimson when you’re arguing with me?” Another kiss, on the curve of your jaw. “May I love the impossible, stubborn set of your chin when you know you’re right?”

“The way you pretend to hate every invention I make but still touch every single one.” A kiss near the curve of your throat. “The way you care too much. About everyone. Even when the world has given you every reason not to.” Your chest tightened painfully. “The way you laugh before you remember you’re supposed to be angry with me.” Another kiss, slow and tender. “The way you make butterflies when you lose control of your emotions.”

A tiny breath of laughter escaped him then. “The way you threaten murder over minor inconveniences.” Despite everything, you smiled shakily. Yuma’s hands remained steady against your waist while he continued softly, voice low enough to feel like part of the night itself. “May I love the girl who carries grief like armour?”

His lips brushed your jawline. “The girl who still teaches kindness after everything that was done to her.” Your throat burned suddenly. “The girl who thinks she’s become something monstrous for wanting power, when really she just wanted to stop losing people.” Your eyes stung fiercely now.

“And may I love,” he whispered more quietly, “the soft parts of you too?”

He turned you then in the circle of his arms, until you were facing him, the puddle of your gown forgotten at your feet. You were looking up at him, your face bare and streaked with tears, your soul feeling equally exposed. Yuma cradled your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the wetness. His eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, were so soft, holding a universe of quiet intensity. Yuma leaned down and pressed a final, reverent kiss to the crown of your head.

“May I love you?” 

For years there had only been rage inside you. Rage and grief and ambition sharp enough to survive on. But here? Standing in warm lamplight with Yuma holding you like something worth protecting? You looked up at him, at this man who saw every blueprint of your broken parts and didn’t want to fix them, but to love them. To love you.

“Yes.” Your voice, when it came, was raw but clear, the simplest and most complex truth you’d ever uttered.

The word had barely left your lips before his were on yours. Yuma’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you close against the soft linen of his shirt, and you clung to him, your fingers twisting into the fabric at his back. Yuma kissed you like he had all the time in the world to learn how to love you properly. In that kiss, you felt the first, fragile brush of something warm, vast and beautiful, being built, piece by careful piece, in the space your rage had left behind.

You didn’t break the kiss. Neither did he. It deepened, slow and searching, his tongue brushing yours as his hands spread wide against your back, pressing you flush against the warmth of his chest. The lamplight caught the edges of his jaw, the soft fall of dark hair over his brow, and you let yourself sink into him.

Yuma walked you backward without rushing. Your calves met the edge of the mattress, and he followed you down as you sat, then lay back, the sheets cool beneath you. He hovered above, one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand tracing a featherlight path from your collarbone to the hollow of your throat.

Yuma’s smile was soft before he dipped his head to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the sensitive spot just below your ear. He worked his way down your neck, tongue flicking lightly over your pulse point before his lips sealed over the skin, sucking gently until you gasped.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he breathed, already moving lower.

You shook your head, your fingers threading into his hair. “Don’t stop.”

His mouth traced a hot, damp path over your collarbone, down the center of your chest. When he reached the edge of your petticoat, he paused, looking up at you through his lashes. “May I?”

All he needed was your small nod and Yuma was slipping the fabric over your head with unhurried care, his gaze drinking you in as the lamplight spilled over your bare skin. Then he lowered his mouth again, kissing the swell of your breasts, the valley between them, the soft curve of your ribs. Your underwear came next, a slide of cotton and lace, removed with the same reverent slowness. He pressed a kiss to the jut of your hipbone, then the inside of your thigh, spreading you open with gentle hands.

“So beautiful, sweetheart,” he said, his voice roughened with want but still tender. “Every inch of you.”

Yuma settled between your legs, his breath warm against your wet folds. Yuma started with a kiss right where you were most sensitive. You arched, a shaky exhale escaping you, and he did it again, slower this time, letting his lips linger. Then his tongue emerged, flat and broad, dragging up through your slickness in a long stroke. Yuma hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine, as he licked into you with a hunger that never lost its gentleness.

Yuma worked you like a man who had been starved—but not rough. Each flick of his tongue, each circle around your clit, was worshipful. He knew your rhythms like the back of his hand: the way your hips bucked when he focused on that bundle of nerves, the way your fingers tightened in his hair when he dipped lower, tongue pressing inside you before retreating to lap at your folds again.

“Yuma…” His name fell from your lips like a prayer. He hummed in response, doubling his attention, his nose brushing your clit as his tongue fucked you in slow, shallow thrusts. The pressure built, coiled low in your belly, and he felt it—he knew, because he pulled back just enough to suck your clit into his mouth and that was all it took.

You came with a broken cry, your body shuddering through wave after wave as he licked you through it, soft and steady, until you were trembling and oversensitive and pulling weakly at his hair. He lifted his head, lips glistening, pupils blown dark. He crawled up your body, bracing himself above you, and kissed you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You sat up slowly, your limbs still heavy with pleasure. He knelt before you on the bed, and you reached for the buttons of his shirt. Your fingers worked them open one by one, baring the warm skin of his chest. You pushed the fabric off his shoulders, and he shrugged it away. Yuma watched you, breath shallow, as you unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. You tugged the fabric down his hips, and he lifted himself just enough to let you free him. His cock stood hard and heavy, the tip glistening in the golden light. 

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he said. “You lead.” You looked up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs, not from fear, but from a fullness that felt like it might burst. Yuma neither rushed nor took; he waited for you, his eyes searching yours with a devotion that made you feel like the only person left in the world.

When you guided him toward you, he entered you with an agonizing slowness. He paused at the threshold, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hitching as he felt the tight, wet heat of you welcoming him home. He slid inside inch by inch, a low, guttural groan escaping his throat as he filled you completely.

“Oh, darling,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “You feel…..perfect. So perfect ohhhhh….”

Yuma didn’t start moving right away. He simply stayed there, anchored within you, letting your bodies adjust to the union. He began to kiss you again—soft, fluttering presses of his lips against your jaw, then your neck, then the corner of your mouth. Each kiss was a vow, a quiet confirmation that he was here, and he wasn't going anywhere.

As he began to move, the pace was tentative, almost fragile. He pushed into you with slow, shallow thrusts, his hips rolling in a gentle rhythm that prioritized intimacy over intensity. Every time he sank deep, he let out a shaky breath, his hands framing your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.

“I love you,” he mumbled against your skin, the words muffled by the crook of your neck. “I love you so much, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

The words hit you harder than the physical sensation. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, wanting to erase every millimeter of space between you. You met his slow pace with your own, your hips tilting up to meet him, your breath hitching in time with his.

The golden lamplight blurred around the edges of your vision as the pleasure began to coil again, but this time it was laced with a profound, aching tenderness. 

Yuma continued to worship you, his lips never leaving your skin. He kissed your eyelids, your nose, your lips, whispering fragments of love and adoration between every slow slide of his cock.

“My beautiful girl,” he breathed, his voice cracking. “I love you so much. I love every part of you.”

The tension built slowly, a rising tide of warmth that flooded your chest and belly. You felt the peak approaching—not a crash, but a slow, shimmering dissolve. As you began to peak, Yuma tightened his grip on you, his movements becoming just a fraction more urgent, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

You cried out his name, your body shuddering in a long, slow release that felt like every broken piece of you was finally being glued back together. Moments later, Yuma stiffened, a deep sound of surrender tearing from his throat as he came inside you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his entire frame trembling with the force of his release.

He stayed there for a long time, breathing you in, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your chest. Slowly, with a lingering reluctance, he pulled out of you. Before the cold air could touch your skin, he shifted, pulling you firmly into his arms and rolling onto his side, tucking you against his chest in a protective cocoon.

You lay there in the quiet, the only sound the synchronized thrum of your hearts. You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, the scent of him enveloping you, and you felt a sudden, overwhelming need to say it.

“I love you.” You mumbled, your voice small and thick with emotion, “I love you Yuma.” 

Yuma tightened his hold, kissing the top of your head with a tenderness that brought fresh tears to your eyes.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” He whispered, his voice steady and sure.

The city beyond the hotel windows shimmered beneath the night sky, alive with music and laughter, but here in the quiet warmth of the room, the world felt very far away. Your head rested against Yuma’s chest while his fingers moved lazily through your hair, patient and absentminded like he intended to stay there forever.

And perhaps that was what frightened you most about love was not its intensity, but its gentleness. The way it softened sharp things without asking permission. The way it made survival stop feeling like the only purpose left in the world.

Yuma tilted his head slightly until his lips brushed your temple. “You should sleep.” He murmured softly.

“In a moment.” You replied sleepily, fingers curling loosely into the fabric of his shirt.

He smiled against your hair. The silence settled comfortably around you both after that, no longer empty or aching, but warm and quiet and full in a way you had never quite known before.

Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, a thought crossed your tired mind.

In another universe, perhaps you and Nakakita Yuma would have gone on picnics and fed bread to ducks and made blueberry jam beneath sunny kitchen windows. Maybe you would have loved each other openly there, without kingdoms or grief or bloodstained legacies standing between you.

But perhaps—just perhaps—this universe was not so cruel after all.

Because in this one, against all logic and reason and common sense, you had still found your way to him. And as Yuma held you gently beneath the glow of the capital lights, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, you realised something quietly astonishing.

Maybe saving the galaxy had never meant destroying each other. 

Maybe it had always meant this instead.

Falling in love with your beloved enemy.

fin. 

A/N: i loved writing the nichojoo banter for this so much ugh my boyfriends. Jo was also an interesting character i wish i could have expanded more on him but eh word limit. Very fucked up plot ik ik but hey mona brain works in strange ways yay. Expect another yuma meal soon because i love writing for this lil blueberry boi.

Divider by @honeyluvsw

@eu1joo @kwnnies @nichozzystuffs @blueuijoo @pglpblm @ikigaijo @antonh0lic @dearvampyr @riri4andy @tokunodoll @sunsoomi @makizdoll + Shoot me an ask or comment to be added!

saving a panther and a fox ✔ chapter 00. -> adoption center chapter 01. -> rehabilitation chapter 02. -> hybrid activist side story -> admiration side story -> mine ( 18+ ) side story -> abandoned side story -> pervert ( 18+ ) side story -> our pet ( 18+ )

saving a doberman ✔ chapter 03. -> drunk amnesia chapter 04. -> my angel side story -> learning side story -> corruption ( 18+ ) side story -> competition ( 18+) side story -> triggers

saving two tigers ✔ chapter 05. -> infiltration chapter 06. -> interviews chapter 07. -> crime scene chapter 08. -> black codes chapter 09. -> adapting to five hybrids side story -> protagisnist side story -> pampered side story -> frustration ( 18+ ) side story -> bet ( 18+) side story -> matz show ( 18+ ) side story -> treatment side story -> five hybrids

saving a wolf and a golden retriever ✎  chapter 10. -> trapping thieves chapter 11. -> fostering chapter 12. -> week of hell side story -> therapy side story -> insatiable ( 18+ ) chapter 13. -> case closed chapter 14. -> trouble chapter 15. -> beef or chicken side story -> fantasy side story -> wet dreams ( 18+ ) side story -> kink unlocked ( 18+ ) side story -> switching roomates side story -> triggers prt.2

saving a bear ✎  chapter 16. -> apple-flavored lies chapter 17. -> new employee chapter 18. -> stockholm chapter 19. -> missed funeral chapter 20. -> im sorry sunshine side story -> engagement side story -> never enough room ( 18+ )

saved : bittersweet fantasies -> final chapter ?

BACKGROUND INFORMATION / ANON QUESTIONS / EXTRAS How human are hybrids in Circus? Do hybrids have two sets of ears ? How does the world work in Circus ? How does the world work in Circus ? Prt. II How does the color rank work? Prt II

HALLOWEEN SPECIAL VALENTINE'S CHRISTMAS

NON-CANON ANON QUESTIONS YeoWooSan's children

if you would like to be on the taglist please send an ask or comment under this post. If you message me there might be a chance I don't see if and if you ask on another post such as in one of the chapters it'll be hard to keep up with.

the taglist is closed im no longer taking any more tag requests, the tags are also gonna only be on the chapters to make updating the masterlist easier for me but those who are tagged don't worry

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"Don't panic, god," Yuma muttered. He took a long sip of his soda, the straw slurping loudly in the otherwise quiet room, then let out a long, tired sigh. His sharp, cat-like eyes watched you with a mix of concern and mild exasperation. “Seeing you freak out like this is making my head hurt."

“Listen—I might have a solution. My friend Euijoo owns this big apartment with three other guys. The rent is stupid cheap because they split it five ways now. They've been looking for a fifth roommate for a while. The place is decent, and clean-ish, and I know you might be worried because it's 4 guys, but trust me, Ej is the kindest person you’ll ever meet. He's super nice and responsible. The others are chill too, I think K, Fuma, and Nicholas are there names. want me to text Euijoo for you?”

You were desperate. You said yes without thinking twice.

Within two days, you were hauling your suitcases up the stairs with the help of Yuma. 

Ej is quick to greet you, he stands there in the doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, with that soft, kind boyish smile you’ve seen in the few photos Yuma had shown you. His brown hair falls slightly over his eyes, which are covered by thin-framed glasses. He’s wearing a light grey sweater, which hangs lazily off his thin body, and baggy light blue, ripped jeans that hang a bit low. low enough for you to catch sight of the brand of boxers he wears. “You must be the new roommate,” he says warmly, voice gentle and a little deep. “I’m Euijoo, but you can call me Ej if you want. Come in, come in—Yuma told me you were coming today. Is he with you?”

“Oh no, he just left. helped me bring my suitcases up, though. He said his roommate started a fire in their kitchen.” You shrug, dragging your suitcases past him and into the surprisingly spacious living room. It's cleaner than you expected for an apartment inhabited by 4 boys. The place smells faintly of cologne, laundry detergent, and something warmer, almost sweet. Sunlight pours through the large window, making the walls turn golden. It's far nicer than your old studio.

His eyes flick over you for just a second too long before he smiles again. “Must’ve been Jo. He's not the best cook. Anyway, your room’s down the hall, first door on the left. We cleared it out yesterday. You have your own bathroom, but feel free to use ours if needed. The water pressure in yours can be a bit off.” 

Before you can thank him, two more figures appear from the kitchen.

One is lean and sharp-featured, with blonde hair falling over his rough-featured face, wearing a black tank top, low-slung black sweatpants that show off the chrome hearts logo, and a silver chain. He eyes you up and down with a slow, lazy smirk. “So this is the new girl. I’m Nicholas."

The other one is maybe an inch or two taller, broader in the chest, with dark hair and a soft gaze. He's in a tight white shirt that shows that he definitely goes to the gym. “Fuma,” he says simply, voice deep and a bit raspy, gaze lingering on your legs before he nods once. 

“Ah, yeah!” Ej’s voice raises slightly, still holding that sweet and gentle tone, “K isn’t here. He works a lot, so he’s rarely around. But you’ll probably get to meet him tomorrow.”

He shifted his weight, arms crossing over his broad chest as he gave you a small, reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes the way it had earlier.

You force a smile, trying to ignore the way the air suddenly feels heavier. “Thanks again for letting me move in so fast. I really appreciate it. I needed this.”

“No problem,” Ej says, that kind smile still in place as he grabs two of your heavier suitcases like they weigh nothing. “Let me help you get settled.”

He leads you down the hallway, the others watching you go.

Your new room is small but cute—the movers had already placed the larger items from your previous studio in it. The big window with a decent view catches your eye first, a beautiful view of Tokyo shining into your room. Ej sets the suitcases down and lingers in the doorway for a moment.

“If you need anything… anything at all,” he says softly, eyes warm, “just knock on my door. I’m right across the hall.”

He gives you one last gentle smile before closing the door behind him.

You exhale, finally alone. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

That illusion lasts exactly five hours.

You’re unpacking when you hear it.

The first moan is low, muffled through the wall—coming from the room that sits next to yours. then another, louder. a girl’s voice, breathy and desperate.

thud. thud. thud.

The headboard starts slamming against the shared wall between your room and his. rhythmically. Hard.

You freeze with a folded shirt in your hands.

“Oh fuck—nicho!—right there—”

The moans get louder, wetter. The sound of the bed creaking violently spills in through the thin walls. You can hear the sound of skin slapping skin, the girl crying out every time the headboard hits your shared wall. The noises are so loud that you can even hear them over the music blasting in your headphones, but you don't say anything. You simply turn the music up and try to ignore the obscene noises from next door.

Twenty minutes later, when the girl finally leaves (you hear the front door close), Nicholas walks past your open door shirtless, sweat glistening on his chest, sharp gaze upon you, face remaining still as if he hadn’t been blowing someone's back out just minutes ago.

He pauses, just for a second, before leaning against your doorframe.

“Need help with anything?” he asks innocently, voice soft. His eyes drop. curse him for being extremely attractive, you think. eyes trailing over the sharp lines of his abs, the deep V-line disappearing under the waistband of his black Chrome Hearts boxers.

“N-no, I’m good,” you mumble.

He just nods, still smiling. “Cool. dinner’s in an hour if you want to join us. gonna order pizza.”

The first night passed in uneasy fragments of sleep; it’s not like you weren't tired—you were exhausted, but every creak in the apartment made you tense. The headboard incident from Nicholas’s room still echoed in your mind, but after he’d casually invited you to pizza as if nothing had happened, the rest of dinner had been… normal. almost too normal. Ej kept refilling your water with that gentle smile. Fuma spoke in short, low sentences but offered you the last slice without a word. Nicholas joked about how bad Tokyo traffic is while sprawled on the floor, his shirt still missing, but he never once looked at you for longer than a second.

You told yourself it was just first-day jitters. You were overthinking it. They were guys, of course, there would be situations like that. The rent was cheap. You could handle mild awkwardness if it meant not being homeless.

That’s what you told yourself. 

The morning light filtered through your thin pink curtains, painting golden stripes across the boxes you still hadn’t unpacked. Your phone read 7:42 a.m. Your stomach growled, pulling on an oversized hoodie and loose shorts—nothing revealing—you padded barefoot toward the kitchen, hoping to slip in and out quietly.

The scene that greeted you was unexpectedly domestic.

EJ stood at the stove in a plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, rolling eggs into gyeran-mari with careful precision. His brown hair was still sleep-mussed, glasses perched on his nose. he looked up when you entered and offered that same soft, boyish smile from yesterday.

“Morning. Sleep okay? The walls here are pretty thin. Sorry if you heard anything last night.”

Your stomach twisted. He said it so casually, like he was apologizing for a noisy neighbor instead of his roommate’s loud, explicit hookup that echoed through the shared wall. You forced a small laugh.

“Oh yeah, it’s fine. I had headphones.”

Ej nodded, eyes crinkling kindly behind his lenses. “Good. We try to keep it down, but Nicholas gets… enthusiastic.” he plated two slices of gyeran-mari and slid them toward you with a fork. “Here. consider it an apology breakfast for Nicho’s behavior. 

You murmured a small thanks and took the plate, perching on one of the mismatched barstools at the counter. The kitchen was surprisingly well-stocked for four guys: fresh vegetables in the fridge, containers labeled in a mix of Japanese characters and hangul littered around the kitchen. A bottle of Taiwanese chili sauce sat near the stove, next to a half-empty jar of gochujang that had clearly seen frequent use.

Fuma appeared next, broad shoulders filling the doorway. He wore a tight black compression shirt that clung to the gym-honed chest you’d noticed yesterday, along with black shorts. He mumbled a quiet “good morning” in that deep, raspy voice, then opened the fridge and pulled out a protein shake without looking at you directly.

But when he shook the bottle, his gaze flicked to your bare legs where they dangled from the stool. just for a second. then to Ej.

“Going to the gym. Need me to pick anything up on my way back?”

EJ wiped his hands on a dish towel, thinking for a moment. “We’re low on eggs and milk. maybe some more rice if you see the kind we normally get—and grab whatever snacks you want. new roommate might like something sweet after all the moving stress.”

Fuma’s eyes shifted to you again—brief, unreadable—before he nodded once. “Got it,” as he turned to leave, his broad frame passed close behind your stool. The fabric of his compression shirt lightly brushed your shoulder, warm from his body heat. He didn’t apologize or acknowledge it.

Nicholas finally shuffled in a few minutes later, yawning widely, hair sticking up in every direction. he was shirtless again, black sweatpants slung dangerously low. The silver chain dangling around his neck caught the morning light as he scratched his stomach absently.

“Juju, cooking? wow. He must like you, roomie.” he reached over and stole a piece of egg from the edge of your plate with his fingers, popping it into his mouth with a grin. “You look like you actually slept. Headphones must be noise-canceling.” his tone was playful and carefree. 

You shifted on the stool. “They’re decent.”

EJ signed, swatting Nicholas’s hands from your plate before shoving his own plate towards him. “Be nice, Nicho. She just got here. don’t scare her off before the week is over.”

You kept your gaze on your food, cutting another small bite of the gyeran-mari. It really was good—fluffy, perfectly seasoned. Ej was watching you with that same kind, eye crinkling smile, waiting for your reaction.

“It’s delicious, Euijoo,” you said quietly. “Thank you.”

Ej’s shoulders relaxed a little, as if your approval mattered. “Glad you like it. I can make it again tomorrow if you want. Or try something else—I know how to cook some Japanese dishes too.”

Fuma had already disappeared down the hallway toward the front door, gym bag slung over one broad shoulder. The apartment felt a fraction less crowded without his quiet, heavy presence, but the air still hummed with the low energy of the three remaining men.

Nicholas finished his water and set the glass down with a soft clink. “I’m gonna hop in the shower. " Don’t miss me too much,” he teases, before sauntering off towards the bathroom. Ej chuckles softly, picking up Nicholas’s now-empty plate and turning to the sink. “He grows on you. eventually,” he sighs, turning on the water and grabbing a sponge. “If the noise from his room keeps bothering you, we can switch rooms. mine’s on the other side of the apartment. quieter.”

You shook your head quickly, waving both your hands. “No, no, it’s okay. really. I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

“It’s not trouble,” ej said gently, his voice warm and reassuring. He adjusted his glasses, brown hair falling slightly over his eyes. “We want you to feel comfortable here. That’s the whole point of splitting rent five ways—everyone gets a good deal and a good home.”

The way he said it sounded so sincere. His eyes met yours for a long moment, soft and earnest behind the thin frames. Then he smiled again and went back to washing the plate, humming a quiet tune.

You finished eating and rinsed your plate, placing it carefully in the drying rack. As you turned to leave the kitchen, EJ’s hand brushed your lower back—light, guiding, the same polite gesture he’d used yesterday when showing you to your room.

“Careful, the floor might be slippery. I spilled something and had to clean it. It might still be a bit wet,” he murmured. His fingers lingered just a second longer than strictly necessary before pulling away. “Have a good shift at work today. text the group chat if you need anything—train directions, umbrella if it rains, whatever.” You paused, brows furrowing for just a second before relaxing. You hadn’t mentioned your job schedule yet, but you just chalked it up to Yuma, who must’ve told them. “Thanks… yeah, it’s a long one today. café closes at 9.”

Ej nodded, that kind smile never wavering. “We’ll save you some dinner if you’re late. leftovers heat up easily.”

You changed into your work uniform—a simple black polo and dark jeans—and headed out, the morning Tokyo streets already buzzing. Your shift at the small café in Shibuya was familiar: endless orders, steaming milk, wiping tables, sore feet by hour four. The pay was mediocre, the tips inconsistent, but it kept you afloat. well—before.

With your new living situation, things felt a little lighter. more manageable. You didn’t have to count every coin anymore.

So today, instead of settling for a single fruit sando from the convenience store, you let yourself splurge—ordering a warm, filling katsu curry, the kind that actually made the long shift feel a bit worth it.

When you dragged yourself back to the apartment around 9:30 p.m., exhausted and smelling faintly of coffee and vanilla syrup, the place was warmly lit.

EJ appeared in the hallway almost immediately, wiping his hands on a towel. eyes turning into crescent moons as he greeted you, he was in another soft sweater, sleeves pushed up, glasses slightly askew. “Hey, you’re back. long day?”

You nodded, taking off your shoes, carefully placing them next to someone's Rick Owens—probably Nicholas’s, remembering back to the photos Yuma had shown you. “Yeah. busy rush tonight.”

He smiled softly. “We saved you a plate—bulgogi and rice. Fuma picked up some extra side dishes on his way back from the gym.” His eyes flicked over your tired frame, lingering on the way your shoulders slumped. “Go sit. I’ll heat it for you.”

Before you could protest, he was already moving toward the kitchen. You followed wearily and sank onto the couch in the living room. Nicholas was sprawled on the floor, playing a game on his phone, shirtless as per usual. He glanced up with that lazy smirk.

Fuma sat in the armchair, legs spread wide, soft sounds emanating from the switch in his big hands. He gave you a quiet nod, dark gaze resting on you for a beat longer than casual. 

K wasn’t home yet—still at one of his late training sessions, EJ explained when he brought your warmed plate. The bulgogi was perfectly reheated, savory, and tender. You ate gratefully while the others kept the conversation light: Nicholas complaining about losing a game, Fuma showing you the Pokémon he just caught, and of course, EJ refilling your water with that gentle, reassuring presence. You wondered if it would always be like this. 

When you finished, EJ took the plate without being asked. “Nicholas’s will wash this.” Before the blonde boy could protest, EJ shot him a glare before continuing. “You should rest. shower’s free—the big one has better pressure after a long day on your feet.”

You thanked him and headed to your room to grab clothes. As you passed the laundry area, the washing machine was running again. Ej’s voice floated from the kitchen: “If you have work clothes that need washing, just leave them out. I do a load most nights.”

The offer was practical. kind, even. So you said yes, not thinking anything of it. 

The next morning, you woke to the sound of your alarm and the faint smell of coffee drifting down the hall.

When you shuffled into the kitchen in your sleep shorts and hoodie, K was finally there.

He was taller than you expected—easily over 185 cm—soft, youthful face with gentle features. This was the 28-year-old? god, did he look young. He wore a black tank top that clung to his broad shoulders and gym shorts that did nothing to hide the thick muscle in his thighs. 

He was standing at the counter, pouring himself a protein shake, when his gaze slid over to you.

“Morning,” he said, smoothly, and he gave you a gentle smile. EJ appeared right behind you, carrying two mugs. “Ah, you met K. He got in late last night.” he set one mug in front of you, “I made you matcha.”

When did you tell him you liked matcha? 

You didn’t. You were sure of it. But you decided to let it go; maybe you had forgotten. Maybe Yuma had mentioned it when he set this up. Or maybe you’d said something half-asleep during dinner last night and just didn’t recall. It was fine. EJ was just… thoughtful. That was all.

So you never questioned these small things.

For the first two weeks, your laundry is returned by EJ without incident. Everything comes back clean, folded, exactly as expected—until one day, a pair of pale pink panties is missing. You don’t mention it to anyone, brushing it off as one of those small, annoying mysteries, convincing yourself the washing machine must have eaten them. But it keeps happening. a lacey black pair, a soft pastel blue pair with a bow in the middle, and even a plain white cotton pair adorned with cute bunnies.

You find one pair, though, folded neatly on top of the dryer, smelling faintly like his detergent… and something else.

When you mention it casually at dinner, whispering it to EJ, he tilts his head, that gentle smile in place, brown eyes soft behind his glasses.

“Laundry mix-ups happen a lot here,” he says kindly. “If anything of yours ends up missing again, just ask. It might've ended up with one of us.”

He says it so sweetly, it almost sounds innocent. That’s why you simply let it go. 

You stand up to rinse your plate, when K’s slim but well-defined frame is suddenly right behind you at the sink. His chest brushes your back as he reaches over you to grab a glass from the top shelf. You felt the heat of him, smelled the musky, dry, woody aroma of his cologne. He didn’t apologize for crowding you.

You froze, plate still in your hands under the running water. shifting on your feet, as he stands there, tall body caging you against the counter for a long second. His free hand rested lightly on the edge of the sink beside your hip, close enough that his forearm brushed your side.

And then you felt it.

the unmistakable, heavy outline of his cock pressing against the upper curve of your ass.

It was thick—even through the thin material of his gym shorts and your sleep shorts, you could feel the weight and the slow, deliberate twitch as it nestled firmer against you. not fully hard, but definitely not soft. 

He didn’t say anything. he simply reached a little higher for the glass, his hips shifting just enough to let his heavy cock drag slowly along your ass—one lazy, unhurried stroke—before he finally stepped back with the glass in hand.

“Excuse me,” his voice soft, steady—that gentle smile still on his face when you peek over your shoulder. His eyes were soft, almost innocent, as if nothing had happened. As if his half-hard length hadn’t been pressed against the flush of your ass.

You told yourself it was an accident.

Just like the missing panties.

All of it.

You kept repeating it like a quiet mantra every time another small thing happened.

The next morning was no different than the last.

You shuffled into the kitchen in your sleep shorts and hoodie. The matcha was already waiting on the counter, the smell of steamed rice and miso soup filling the air. ej shot you that soft, almost shy smile as he pushed his glasses up his nose. “Morning, y/n.”

K stood nearby, pouring his protein shake. When you moved to the sink to rinse your empty mug, he stepped in behind you without a word. ‘Again?’ you thought, his tall frame crowded the small space, chest lightly brushing your back as he reached for a spoon from the drawer beside you. the warm, solid press of his body, and then—just for a heartbeat—the heavy, half-hard weight of his cock resting against the upper curve of your ass through his thin gym shorts. It twitched once, slow and subtle, before he grabbed the spoon and stepped away as if nothing had happened.

You quickly stepped away from the sink, cheeks still faintly warm, and sat back down at the counter to finish your breakfast. Ej slid a fresh bowl of miso soup toward you, the steam curling gently between you both.

Before you could even pick up your spoon, Nicholas leaned over and stole a forkful of your scrambled eggs, flashing you a cheeky grin. EJ immediately scolded him in that gentle, fond way of his, reaching over to lightly smack the back of Nicholas’s hand with a pair of chopsticks. “Leave her food alone, you gremlin.”

The kitchen filled with their familiar bickering and soft laughter again, the easy rhythm of morning chaos wrapping around you like a blanket. So you tried to let it pull you back in, not to let the strange tension from your moment with K linger in your chest… but the faint heat on your cheeks refused to fade completely.

Fuma was sitting in the armchair across the living room, legs spread wide in his usual relaxed posture, switch held loosely in his big hands. When the conversation lulled, he glanced at you and muttered in his low, raspy voice, “You play games?”

You nodded lightly. “Yeah. When I'm not busy, I used to play a lot more, though.”

He didn’t say anything else, picking up his phone from the side table and holding it out toward you.

“Here,” he said simply. “New trailer dropped. Looks good.”

You leaned forward a bit to see the screen. It was a gaming Twitter post — a short clip of an upcoming horror game. You hummed in agreement, “Yeah, the graphics are nice…”

Fuma’s thumb scrolled down slowly once, showing a couple of comments.

Then the feed auto-refreshed.

The screen suddenly jumped to the next post in his timeline.

It was a drawing—extremely graphic and depraved one at that. a girl bent over, face pressed into the sheets, tears streaming down her cheeks while a much larger man fucked her roughly from behind, hand fisted in her hair. The art was very detailed, glossy, and unmistakably intense: drool, flushed skin, visible bulge in her stomach, the whole scene dripping with depravity. 

But Fuma didn’t flinch; he didn’t even snatch the phone away or apologize. He simply kept holding it steady for another second before he tapped once, closing the app without a word, and lowered the phone back to the armrest like nothing had happened.

“Anyway,” he grunted quietly, already looking back at his switch. The trailer was decent. think I’ll check the game out when it's released. Let me know if you want to play it with me.”

His voice stayed low and even. no embarrassment. no explanation. just that heavy, quiet stare lingering on you for a brief moment before he returned to his game.

You quickly sat back, taking a sip of water to hide the flush creeping up your neck.

You told yourself it was an accident.

He’s a guy, of course, he watches porn.

even if it’s extremely graphic and kinda vile porn. People have their preferences. You had no room to judge. 

Plus, it wasn’t that big of a deal. Twitter’s algorithm was unpredictable, especially if he followed random accounts. He probably didn’t even notice what popped up before he closed it.

just an accident.

like everything else.

That night, the headboard still tapped rhythmically against your shared wall with Nicholas; it wasn’t the violent slamming from the first few days. The rhythm was slower, more controlled now. The girl’s moans were much quieter—soft, breathy little whimpers that barely made it through the wall, almost like she was trying to stay silent. But Nicholas was a bit louder tonight.

Every few minutes, his low, rough groans carried clearly through the thin barrier. 

“fuck… yeah, just like that.”

a slow, heavy thump of the headboard.

“shit, you’re squeezing me so good…”

another groan, louder this time, rough around the edges.

You lie in the dark, frozen under your covers, heart beating faster with every sound. The girl stayed muffled and quiet, but Nicholas didn’t seem to care as much tonight. His voice kept slipping through—low, filthy, and unfiltered.

“Take it deeper, baby… good girl. just like that.”

You pressed your thighs together, trying to ignore it.

It didn’t work.

Nicholas groaned again, louder, the sound vibrating through the wall straight into your core.

“fuuuck… that’s it. so fuckin’ wet for me.”

god, you hadn’t gotten off since you moved in here.

between the long shifts, the constant low-level tension in the apartment, and the way every small “accident” left you flustered and restless, you simply hadn’t had the chance. Now, lying in the dark with your door locked, the faint rhythmic tapping and Nicholas’s low, filthy murmurs were making it impossible to ignore how empty and needy you felt.

You told yourself you’d just ignore it.

You rolled over and buried your face in the pillow.

But the sounds kept coming—almost slow, deliberate, and teasing.

another low groan. Another soft “good girl” that sounded far too close,

your hand slipped under the waistband of your sleep shorts before you could talk yourself out of it.

You were already wet. embarrassingly so.

Your fingers found your swollen clit and started rubbing slow, tight circles. You bit your lip hard to stay quiet, eyes squeezed shut as you listened to the muffled rhythm next door.

You told yourself the walls were just thin.

Every rough groan from Nicholas made your fingers move faster. Every lazy, vague praise pushed you higher.

Your breath hitched, hips rocking subtly against your hand, chasing the friction. the pent-up need that flooded you.  

“Yeah, just like that. gooood girl.”

You imagined it was you he was talking to.

You imagined it was your pussy he was buried in, his hips snapping against you with that same controlled rhythm, his voice dropping to that filthy whisper right beside your ear.

“Such a good girl for me…”

You imagined his voice was for you—that deep, satisfied tone praising you while he fucked you slow and deep.

Your thighs trembled as you rubbed faster, two fingers pressing firm circles while your other hand gripped the sheets. The headboard’s soft tapping matched the pace you set with your fingers, and every low groan from Nicholas pushed you closer.

It didn’t take long.

Your thighs are trembling—fingers rubbing harder, slick sounds barely audible under the blanket. Nicholas let out another low, drawn-out groan — fFuck… gonna cum” — it tipped you over the edge.

You came hard, back arching off the bed, letting out a small whimper as waves of pleasure crashed through you. Your pussy clenched and fluttered around nothing, thighs shaking while you rode it out with frantic little circles on your clit.

through you, thighs shaking as you rode it out with small, desperate circles of your fingers.

When it finally faded, you collapsed back against the pillows, breathing hard, heart hammering against your ribs.

The apartment had gone quiet. Nicholas’s session must have ended while you were lost in it.

You lie there in the dark, chest rising and falling, a mix of relief and deep shame washing over you.

You had just gotten off to the sound of your roommate fucking someone else through the wall. god, maybe you were the pervert.

You got off to his voice calling someone else a good girl.

But you just told yourself it was nothing.

just stress relief.

just thin walls and a long dry spell.

It didn’t mean anything.

The next evening you came home late, you went straight to shower and then to drop your dirty work clothes in the laundry basket, Ej was already there sorting a load. He was humming softly, folding things with careful hands. When he picked up one of your smaller items—a pair of pale pink panties adorning pretty delicate bows—he paused for the briefest moment. His thumb brushed over the fabric once, almost absentmindedly, before he brought it closer to his face under the pretense of checking a stain. He inhaled quietly, slowly, then folded it neatly and placed it on the growing stack.

He never turned around. He never knew you were watching from the hallway.

You told yourself he was just being thorough.

For the next three days, everything felt almost… normal.

The apartment settled into a surprisingly comfortable rhythm. Mornings started with Ej already in the kitchen, pushing his glasses up his nose as he slid a fresh cup of matcha or a bowl of miso soup toward you with that quiet, warm smile—eyes crinkling behind his glasses. “Morning, y/n,” he’d say gently, voice warm like he really meant it. K would nod at you from across the counter as he mixed his protein shake, his tall frame relaxed rather than crowding. Nicholas kept blatantly stealing your food, ignoring how EJ berated him for it. Fuma seemed a bit more comfortable. no longer just staring quietly from the armchair; he would engage in small banter with you, or even, when he came home with various packs of Pokémon hard, he would occasionally ask you if you wanted to open them with him.

Your laundry came back clean and neatly folded on your bed—panties occasionally going missing, but not as frequently as before. The headboard in Nicholas’s room stayed mercifully quiet; he even mentioned in passing that his “friend” was out of town for a few days. No accidental brushes at the sink. No graphic hentai flashing on anyone’s phone. no heavy outlines pressing against you in the kitchen.

You started to breathe a little easier. Maybe the first couple of weeks had just been an adjustment period—four guys suddenly sharing space with a girl. Maybe you really had been overthinking everything. 

That illusion lasts exactly 3 days.

On the fourth night, you came home exhausted from another long shift, legs aching and eyes burning. You barely managed a quick shower before collapsing onto the living room couch instead of dragging yourself all the way to your room. Your oversized sleep shirt rode up slightly as you curled into the soft cushions, the low murmur of the guys playing games somewhere in the background wrapping around you like white noise. Within minutes, you were out cold.

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

When you woke sometime deep in the night, the apartment was dark except for the faint blue glow of a Switch screen. a warm blanket had been carefully draped over your body, tucked gently around your shoulders and legs, as if someone had taken real care. For a second, it felt comforting—until you shifted under the fabric.

Your sleep shorts were twisted awkwardly high on one thigh, the thin material bunched and pulled tighter than you remembered leaving them. And there, near the inner seam close to the crease of your thigh, was a faint damp spot. The fabric felt slightly stiff, cooler in that one place, like something warm and sticky had been pressed there and left behind to dry. Your stomach gave a quiet, uneasy flutter. You hadn’t been sweating, the rest of your body proof of that, as you didn’t feel any sweat on your skin. You were almost certain the spot hadn’t been there when you fell asleep.

Across from you, Fuma sat slumped in the oversized armchair, legs spread wide in his usual relaxed, dominating posture. The switch rested loosely in his hands, the low volume of what you think is Pokémon barely audible. His face was half-lit by the screen, expression calm and completely absorbed, as if he’d been sitting there the entire time.

He must have felt you stir because he glanced over, warm brown eyes meeting yours without surprise. His voice came out low and raspy, even and unbothered, like he was simply stating a fact.

“You looked cold,” he said simply, thumb still moving over the controls. “I figured I’d cover you.”

You blinked slowly, still groggy, pulling the blanket a little higher as you tried to subtly adjust your twisted shorts beneath it. The damp patch brushed against your skin again—unmistakable now, warm against your inner thigh. Your cheeks burned. had he…?

You internally shake your head. god, Fuma isn’t a pervert. He would never. The dampness was probably just… condensation. Or maybe sweat from the warm blanket that covered your body. or even your imagination running wild because of all those tiny “accidents” from before.

You tried to convince yourself. You really did.

Sleep didn’t come back easily. Every time you shifted under the blanket, the damp spot on your shorts brushed against your inner thigh again. The blue glow from Fuma’s Switch flickered across the dark living room. He hadn’t moved, legs still spread wide, one hand resting lazily on his thigh while the other tapped at the controls. In the low light, you could see the outline of his cock through the thin material of his sweatpants—half-hard, resting thick against his inner thigh. 

god, was he big.

Even soft—well, mostly soft—the heavy shape of him was impossible to ignore. not too long but most definitely thick, the shaft lying diagonally down his leg, the head nudging noticeably against the fabric. You could make out the faint ridge where the bulbous, swollen tip pressed outward, and the way the material stretched slightly over the girth. it looked… heavy. The kind of thick that would stretch you open, make your thighs tremble just trying to take him. The kind of size that would leave a visible bulge in your stomach if he ever pushed all the way in.

Your mouth went dry. ok well, now you were the pervert. definitely the pervert. First getting off to Nicholas’s sexual escapades to thinking Fuma was to defile you, and now staring intently at his dick like some desperate, touch-starved mess.

You told yourself to stop staring, to look away, but your eyes kept drifting back. How was something that thick even real? You’d felt K press against you before, but this… this was on another level. Fuma wasn’t even fully hard yet, and he already looked like he could ruin you.

Before your mind could wander any further, you swallowed and sat up slowly, keeping the blanket wrapped around your waist as you tried to fix your twisted shorts without drawing attention. The movement made the damp fabric drag across your pussy, and you froze. There was another spot right there—right against your covered folds. When you glanced down under the edge of the blanket, you could see the faint stain; it wasn't just damp. It was slick. 

You decided to ignore it, chalk it up to another accident. Just as you did everything else that had occurred whilst you lived here.

You forced your gaze away from the sticky mess between your legs and pulled the blanket higher, pretending the warm, tacky smear of cum wasn’t slowly soaking through the thin cotton and coating your pussy lips. You told yourself it was sweat. condensation. anything but what it clearly was—thick ropes of someone’s load rubbed right against your most sensitive skin while you slept.

You forced yourself to stand up on shaky legs, clutching the blanket tightly around your waist like a shield. The damp, sticky fabric of your shorts clung obscenely to your pussy as you moved, the thick smear of cum sliding wetly between your folds with every step. It felt warm and tacky, meaning that this had occurred recently. 

The short walk down the hallway felt endless. Your bare feet padding softly against the floor, the sticky drag between your legs was impossible to forget. You slipped inside and closed the door behind you a little too quickly, leaning back against the wood as you finally let the blanket drop. The cool air hit your skin, but it did nothing to calm the burning between your legs.

You barely had a moment to steady yourself before a soft, firm knock sounded on the door.

Without waiting for an answer, the knob turned. Fuma stood there, filling the doorway with his tall frame. In his large hand was your phone, screen dark. He held it out toward you, his expression calm and unreadable as always.

“You left this on the couch,” he said, voice low and raspy, barely above a murmur.

His eyes flicked down for a second, just once—slow, heavy—landing on the obvious damp patch darkening the crotch of your sleep shorts. he didn’t comment on it. He didn’t need to. The glossy cum stain was unmistakable in the dim light of your room, the thin fabric clinging to your folds where someone's cum had soaked through while you slept.

He stepped just inside the doorway, not fully entering but close enough that the air felt heavier. He extended the phone a little further, his gaze lifting back to your face after that single, deliberate glance. “Didn’t want you waking up without it,” he added quietly.

You took the phone with quick fingers, hoping he wouldn’t notice how they wouldn’t quite stop trembling. He lingered there for a moment longer, tall and silent, his expression as neutral as ever. His eyes flicked down once more—brief, almost casual—before returning to yours.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked, voice low and even. “It looked like you were having a hard time sleeping out there.”

The question was simple. polite, even. But it carried a weight that made your stomach tighten.

You managed a small nod, clutching the phone against your chest like a lifeline. “I’m fine. just tired. long day at work.”

Fuma hummed softly, the sound barely audible. He gave one slow nod, then took a half-step back toward the hallway, though he didn’t turn to leave just yet. His muscular frame still filled most of the doorway, the faint outline in his sweatpants visible in the low light.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Well, let me know if you need anything.”

With that, he finally turned and pulled the door closed behind him with a quiet click, leaving you alone in your room once more.

You told yourself it was nothing.

Somehow, just another accident.

like everything else so far had been.

It was a little past midnight. You couldn’t sleep. Honestly,  you hadn’t really been able to sleep these last few days. You’d been tossing and turning, mind replaying too many small things at once—k’s heavy cock dragging against your ass at the sink that morning, ej’s quiet inhale over your panties, nicholas’s low “good girl” through the wall two nights ago, and now the concept that fuma had come on your shorts whilst you were sleeping. the same shorts discarded next to your bed. 

The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old building settling. Thirsty and restless, you slipped out of bed in just your oversized hoodie and sleep shorts, padding barefoot toward the kitchen for a glass of water.

The hallway was dark, but K’s door was slightly ajar— just a few inches.

You almost walked past.

But then you heard it.

A low, slow, controlled breath. Then your name.

You froze mid-step.

through the narrow gap, the dim light from his bedside lamp spilled out. There he was, pressed against his headboard, completely naked. long legs spread wide.

His hand was wrapped around his cock.

He was stroking himself with slow, deliberate movements—long strokes from base to tip, thumb lingering over the flushed head every time. His cock was long and, dare you say, pretty; it looked bigger than it had felt pressed against your ass. The veins stood out clearly along the shaft, the head flushed dark and glistening with precum.

K’s head was tilted back slightly, eyes half-lidded, but his expression wasn’t lost in pleasure as you’d expect. It was calm. almost focused. That same gentle, youthful face he always showed you in the mornings—soft features, quiet composure—was still there while he pumped his thick cock in his fist. You would’ve walked away if it weren't for your name slipping from his mouth amongst the soft moans escaping him.

It was quiet, barely more than a breath, but you heard it clearly.

His voice was low and smooth, the same gentle tone he used when he said “excuse me” at the sink. Except now it was laced with something heavier, something hungry.

He stroked himself a little slower, dragging his hand down the full length as he breathed your name again, softer this time.

“Fuuck… y/n…”

Your stomach dropped. heat flooding your face and warmth pooling low between your thighs. You stood frozen in the dark hallway, unable to look away as K continued touching himself— calm, controlled, and breathing out your name as a prayer.

His thumb circled the leaking head once more, spreading the precum before he gave himself another long, smooth stroke. His hips twitched up slightly into his fist, but his expression stayed almost serene, like he was savoring it.

He moaned your name again, quieter, almost reverent.

“…love that cute little ass… bet you’d feel so tight around me…”

Your breath caught.

For the first time, one of the “accidents” no longer felt like an accident at all.

And that was confirmed as he looked straight at you through the gap in the door. He didn’t stop, nor did he flinch. he didn’t even look embarrassed. He simply kept stroking—slow, steady, unhurried—while his dark gaze locked onto yours. The corner of his mouth lifted into that same gentle, almost innocent smile he always gave you when he “accidentally” crowded you at the sink.

You were no longer thirsty. 

Reality had crashed back in.

Heart pounding, face burning, you tore your eyes away from the sight of k slowly stroking his thick cock while groaning your name, and turned sharply on your heel.

You walked away.

Fast.

The second you closed the door, you locked it with shaking fingers and leaned your back against the wood, breathing hard.

Thighs pressed tightly together. The warmth between your legs hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had only gotten worse.

You could still hear his voice in your head.

“…God…Wanna fuck those pretty tits too.”

“…Bet you’d feel so tight around me…”

You squeezed your eyes shut and slid down the door until you were sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to your chest.

You told yourself it was nothing. just another accident. just guys being guys. But this time the lie tasted bitter.

because he had looked straight at you. he had moaned your name. he had smiled that gentle smile while he stroked his cock.

And you had stood there and watched for much longer than you should have. You don't get any sleep that night.

The next morning came far too soon.

You woke up with a heavy, restless feeling in your chest and an annoying ache between your legs that refused to disappear completely. The memory of K’s calm face and the slow, deliberate way he stroked his cock while moaning your name kept flashing behind your eyes every time you blinked.

You told yourself to act normal.

You told yourself nothing had changed.

You told yourself it was still just an accident.

But even your body didn’t believe you.

You shuffled into the kitchen in your usual sleep shorts and oversized hoodie, trying to keep your steps light and your face neutral. 

The familiar scent of fried eggs over rice hit you before you even fully entered the room.

Ej was already at the stove, his glasses falling onto the tip of his nose as he greeted you with a smile. “Morning, y/n. matcha’s ready for you,” he said gently, setting the mug down on the counter exactly where you normally sat

K was standing a few feet away, sipping his americano when you walked in. He looked up and gave you that same gentle, youthful smile—calm, composed, almost sweet, as usual. an expression you’d become accustomed to. just not when his hand was wrapped around his veiny length. “Morning,” he said smoothly, his voice low and kind, as always.

But his eyes lingered. tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. 

Your eyes met, just for a second. just long enough for you to remember how those same dark eyes had looked at you through the gap in his door last night while his hand moved slowly up and down his wet cock.

You forced a small nod, putting on your best “oh, I'm completely okay, definitely not spiraling over seeing my extremely attractive roommate jerk off whilst he moans my name” face and mumbled “morning” before quickly moving to sit at the counter, keeping your gaze fixed on the matcha mug.

Nicholas wandered in a minute later, black tank hugging his well-built frame, baggy jeans just low enough to show off the expensive underwear he wore, silver chain catching the light. He stretched lazily, yawning, then shot you a lazy smirk. “You look a little tired, short stuff. rough night?”

You nearly choked on your first sip of matcha.

Fuma was nowhere to be seen. You assumed he was at the gym, and it even worked. Even with one of the four missing, the kitchen felt a lot smaller than usual.

When you stood up to rinse your empty mug, your stomach tightened.

K moved at the same time.

He stepped in right behind you at the sink, tall frame crowding your space like he always did. His chest brushes your back. You felt the heat of him immediately, along with the faint scent of his woody cologne.

His free hand rested lightly on the edge of the sink beside your hip, and then you felt it again, the heavy, half-hard outline of his cock pressing against the upper curve of your ass. again. 

But this time it felt different.

He didn’t make it quick. He let himself linger for far longer than necessary. letting his length rest along your ass for a long second, thick and warm, before slowly rolling his hips once—a lazy, deliberate drag along your ass that made your breath hitch. “Excuse me,” he murmured softly near your ear, voice gentle and polite like always.

But you could hear the faint smile in it now. like he knew you had seen him last night. almost as if he knew you had stood there and watched him stroke his cock while he whispered your name. almost like he was reminding you.

K stayed pressed against you for another heartbeat, letting you feel the full weight and warmth of him, before he finally stepped back with the glass he’d been “reaching” for. You quickly rinsed your mug, hands slightly shaky, and sat back down without looking at anyone.

The rest of breakfast passed in a haze. You barely tasted the food that EJ had made. Every time K moved or spoke in that calm, gentle voice, your mind flashed back to the night before—his long, wet, pretty cock easily sliding through his fist, the soft way he moaned your name, eyebrows crinkled with his head thrown back. 

You left for work as quickly as possible, mumbling a quiet goodbye.

The entire shift dragged. Your mind kept drifting. You burned two orders of tonkatsu, and the latte art, which you usually excel at, looked as if it were made by a kindergartner with two left hands. and nearly dropped a tray because you couldn’t stop replaying the low, controlled way K had whispered “y/n…” while stroking himself.

By the time you got home that evening, you were exhausted, frustrated, and unbearably pent up.

The apartment felt empty when you stepped inside. You glanced at the front door—no shoes on you. No Rick Owens, no adidas, no gym sneakers, or running shoes, nothing. No lights on in the living room. No familiar sounds coming from the kitchen or any of the bedrooms. You assumed everyone was still out—probably at the gym, working, running errands, or wherever they usually disappeared to in the evenings. You let out a small sigh of relief. No one was home. finally

The moment the front door clicked shut behind you, you kicked off your shoes, the soft thud echoing down the quiet hallway. feet carrying you straight to your room as if you were on autopilot. The second the door swung closed, you pushed it with your foot — not realizing you never heard that familiar, satisfying click of the lock.

Only then did you exhale.

You stripped quickly, letting your clothes pool on the floor until you were left in nothing but an oversized hoodie that swallowed your frame. The soft fabric brushed against your bare thighs as you crawled under the covers, pulling the blanket up to your chest.

The moment your head hit the pillow, the images flooded in—unwanted, unrelenting, and far too vivid. K’s calm, gentle face as he slowly stroked his long, pretty cock. the lazy roll of his hips against your ass this morning. the way he whispered your name like it was something sacred within his dimly lit room.

Your hand crept under the oversized hoodie before you could talk yourself out of it. fingers slipping between your thighs, a shaky breath left you. 

You were already soaked. embarrassingly so. The thin fabric of your panties is doing almost nothing to contain the wetness between your legs. 

Your fingers slipped between your thighs as a shaky breath left you.

Your clit was swollen and sensitive from a full day of low-level arousal you couldn’t shake. You began rubbing slow, tight circles, eyes squeezed shut. But it wasn’t quite enough. Finally, you gave in and slid two fingers lower, teasing your entrance before pushing them inside. The stretch made you whimper softly. You hadn’t realized you were this pent up. Your walls clenching greedily around your own fingers, wet and hot, pulling them deeper as you started a slow, shallow rhythm. You curled your fingers, searching for that spot that always made your toes curl, while your other hand kept rubbing firm circles over your clit.

“Fuck…” You shuddered, voice breaking as you rubbed at your swollen clit with frantic little circles, fingers still buried deep inside your soaked pussy.

The pleasure was building up fast now. You rolled onto your stomach, hips lifted in the air, blanket kicked aside—soft, slick noises that would’ve mortified you if you weren’t already so far gone filled the room. Your moans grew higher, less controlled, spilling freely because you were so sure the apartment was empty.

You were getting close. Your moans turned higher, less controlled. The wet, rhythmic sounds of your fingers working your soaked pussy grew even more obvious.

In your mind, it wasn’t your fingers anymore.

You imagined K’s pretty, steady fingers curling inside you instead, his sweet voice murmuring your name like it was something sacred while he watched you fall apart on him. Then, how Nicholas’s thick cock would replace them, pounding into you loud enough that the headboard would slam against the wall and everyone would hear. Ej’s gentle praise whispering “good girl, just like that” as he slowly worked you open. Fuma’s heavy stare burned into you while he held your legs apart and made you take it, just like in the image you had seen on his phone. 

The fantasy consumed you completely. Letting out hushed whines and moans of their names, the sounds turned louder, breathier, desperate. “Nngh— yes— fuck—” The wet sounds grew even filthier as you chased your release, hips rocking back onto your fingers, lost in the fantasy of all four of them using you.

So deep in your thoughts… You didn’t hear the front door open again.

You didn’t hear the quiet footsteps stopping right outside your room.

But Nicholas heard everything, 

And now… He had seen everything, too.

Your door hadn’t latched properly when you’d pushed it shut with your foot. It had left open just a few inches—just enough for the dim hallway light to spill in and just enough for anyone standing there to see you clearly. Fingers pumping in and out of your wet heat.

And Nicholas was standing there.

Leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, that signature lazy smirk slowly curling on his lips. His eyes were dark, hungry, drinking in the sight of you on your stomach with your ass in the air, hoodie ridden up around your waist, two fingers buried deep in your dripping pussy while you fucked yourself desperately. He didn’t say anything at first. He just watched intently—watched the way your hips rocked back onto your fingers, watched the way your thighs trembled, watched the way your moans grew louder and more broken with every thrust.

When you cried out again—a loud, shameless “Fuck— I’m gonna cum..Nghh—” Nicholas finally let out a low, rough chuckle.

“Jesus Christ, short stuff…”

Your entire body jolted at the sound of his voice.

Panic exploded through you like ice water.

Your fingers froze mid-thrust, eyes flying open. In your rush to hide, you scrambled frantically, trying to yank your finger out of your dripping sex, pull the hoodie down, and pull the covers over you at the same time—limbs tangled, heart slamming against your ribs so hard you could hear it ringing in your ears.

You tumbled off the bed in a clumsy heap, landing hard on the floor with a startled yelp. “Ouch—oh my god ow!” The oversized hoodie rode up even higher as you hit the ground, exposing the curve of your ass and the slick shine on your thighs. Your legs were still trembling from how close you’d been, breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

Nicholas’s chuckle turned into a full, low laugh — warm, amused, and way too pleased.

“Shit, baby,” he grinned, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him with a soft click. “Didn’t mean to make you fall. Though… the view from here is even better.”

He leaned back against the closed door, arms crossed over his chest, silver chain glinting as he looked down at you sprawled on the floor — hoodie bunched uselessly around your waist, thighs shiny with your own arousal, face burning with humiliation.

Your voice came out shaky and small, cracking with panic.

“N-Nicholas… I—you—oh god—the door wasn’t—I thought no one was home—”

He tilted his head, that lazy, cocky smirk widening as he watched you try to cover yourself with trembling hands. “Oh, I know what you thought,” he drawled, voice low and dripping with amusement. “You thought you were all alone… sooo you could moan our names nice and loud while you fucked yourself stupid. Is that right?”

He took one slow step closer, eyes dragging shamelessly over your exposed body. 

“Fuck, short stuff. You were really going for it. ‘I’m gonna cum’—loud as hell. Bet the neighbors heard that one.”

Your face burned hotter than it ever had in your life. You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. Your pussy was still throbbing painfully, right on the edge and now completely denied, making everything ten times worse. 

“I’m so sorry—No one's shoes were by the door, and I assumed you guys were not gonna be home for atleast awhil–Oh my god, please don’t tell the others.” You tried to continue, but you paused as Nicholas crouched down slightly, resting his forearms on his knees so he could look at you more closely. His smirk softened into something almost fond, but the hunger in his eyes was unmistakable.

You tried to scramble back, heart pounding, but before you could get anywhere, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping tight around your ankle. With one firm yank, he dragged you across the carpet toward him. A startled squeak tore from your throat as the oversized hoodie rode up even higher, bunching uselessly around your ribs and leaving you completely bare from the waist down.

“Shh. Don’t move,” he ordered, voice dropping into that dangerous register that made your pussy clench despite the panic. He crouched lower, free hand sliding up your thigh, thumb brushing dangerously close to your dripping folds. “Look at this messy little cunt… still twitching, still so fucking wet. You really were right there, huh? Poor thing.”

You whimpered, trying to close your legs, but he easily shoved your knees apart with one powerful thigh, pinning you open. The size difference hit you hard—his broad frame looming over your much smaller one made you feel tiny and helpless.

“Nicholas—wait, I—”

“I’m so sorry,” he mocked in a soft, syrupy voice, repeating your exact words back to you with a lazy grin. “No one’s shoes were by the door… assumed we weren’t gonna be home for a while…”

His thumb finally pressed against your swollen clit, rubbing slow, firm circles that made your hips twitch involuntarily. Another trickle of slick slipped out of you, and Nicholas’s eyes flicked down to watch it with dark satisfaction. “Oh my god, please don’t tell the others,” he continued in that same mocking tone, voice dropping even lower as he leaned in closer. “That’s what you were gonna say, right, short stuff? Begging me not to tell while your greedy little pussy is dripping all over the floor.”

You shook your head frantically, tears of humiliation stinging your eyes. “I didn’t mean— I thought I was alone—”

“Mhm, so you thought no one was around… that’s why you were crying out our names while you played with that pretty pussy like you were in heat?”

“Loud enough that I heard you from the hallway. ‘Fuck—I’m gonna cum…’ Fuck, baby. You sounded so desperate.”

Your body twitched again under his slow, deliberate touch, another broken sob slipping past your lips as fresh tears rolled down your cheeks. The mix of sharp pleasure and deep humiliation made your head spin, your smaller frame trembling helplessly on the floor.

Without thinking, your hips bucked up into his hand — a small, subconscious roll that pushed your swollen clit harder against his thumb and drove his thick fingers a right above the entrance of your dripping heat, teasing the slick folds without pushing inside.

Nicholas’s low chuckle rumbled again, darker this time, as he watched your hips betray you with that small, needy buck.

“Oh?” His voice came out soft and mocking, dripping with that same fake sympathy he had used when stealing your food that morning. “You want more, pretty girl?”

“Fine,” he said, voice dropping into something rougher, meaner. “I’ll give you more.”

Before you could even process the words, his hand flew to your hair, fingers tangling tight in the strands at the back of your head. He yanked you up off the floor with surprising strength, making you cry out as your scalp stung. Your smaller body was pulled upright in one swift motion, legs shaky and unsteady beneath you.

You barely had time to stumble before he spun you around and shoved you forward, bending you roughly over the edge of your bed. The oversized hoodie rode up your back as your chest and stomach pressed into the mattress, ass forced high in the air and legs spread wide by his knee kicking between them.

Your face burned against the sheets, fresh tears soaking into the fabric as humiliation flooded you again. The position left you completely exposed—pussy dripping, clit still throbbing, ass presented like an offering.

Nicholas kept one hand fisted in your hair, holding your head down against the bed while his other hand immediately returned between your thighs. No more teasing at the entrance this time.

He shoved two thick fingers deep inside you in one smooth thrust, burying them to the knuckles. The sudden stretch made you gasp sharply, your walls clenching hard around the intrusion.

“Thereeeee we go,” he growled, voice low and satisfied as he started pumping his fingers faster now — still not frantic, but deeper, harder, curling them relentlessly against that perfect spot with every stroke. His thumb found your swollen clit again, rubbing tight, firm circles that matched the rhythm of his fingers.

 “Fuck… that’s better, isn’t it? Greedy lil’ cunt sucking my fingers so deep. Look at you,” he murmured, eyes dragging over your flushed face, your trembling thighs, the way your pussy clenched greedily around his fingers. “Crying and apologizing… but you’re sucking my fingers in like you never want me to stop. Such a pathetic little slut.”

He pulled his fingers free with a wet pop, bringing them up to smear your own slick across your cheeks before pushing them past your lips and into your mouth. You let out a choked sob as you attempt to swallow around his long digits. He watched you with a satisfied smirk, slowly fucking his fingers in and out of your mouth while his other hand stayed tangled in your hair, keeping you pinned down.

“Taste how wet you got for me,” he growled softly, watching your teary eyes as you instinctively sucked them clean. “Yeahhh, Good girl. But my fingers aren’t gonna be enough anymore, are they, baby?”

Nicholas didn’t even bother straightening up behind you, one hand still fisted in your hair to keep your face pressed into the mattress as he used the other hand to tug off his belt—letting the leather slide free and fall onto the floor with a sharp, metallic clink that caused you to jolt slightly; the noise ringing in your ears. 

The sound of his zipper coming down followed, too loud in the quiet room. You felt the heat of his body shift slightly as he freed his cock, the thick, heavy length slapping against your ass cheek once before he gripped it at the base. He teased your swollen clit with it, slapping the sensitive bud lightly—once, twice—making your hips jerk and a fresh sob tear from your throat.

“Shhh, don’t fight it,” he cooed mockingly, pressing the blunt tip against your entrance. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

You shook your head frantically, tears soaking into the sheets, but the movement only made him laugh—low, dark, and far too pleased. His broad chest stayed pressed to your back, one large hand still fisted tight in your hair to keep your face pinned down while the other guided his cock towards your entrance.

“Liar,” he whispered against your ear, voice dripping with cruel amusement. “You left the door cracked open like a desperate little invitation. Moaning our names loud enough for me to hear every filthy word…and now this tiny cunt is dripping down my cock like it’s starving for it.”

Then he pushed forward.

The thick head stretched you open slowly, forcing your tight walls to part around his girth. The burn was immediate and overwhelming, but so delicious—he was so much bigger than his fingers, so much thicker than you could handle in this position. A broken cry ripped from your throat as he sank in deeper, inch by relentless inch, until his hips finally met your ass and he bottomed out completely. But he didn’t give you time to adjust—beginning to thrust with slow heavy rolls, punching the air from your lungs with each deep stroke. 

The filthy, wet slap of skin on skin echoed louder with every movement. His hips slamming against your ass with a rough, punishing force. The impact jolting your small frame forward with each thrust. He kept you pinned exactly how he wanted: face down, ass up, smaller body folded beneath his much larger one like you weighed nothing. “Fuuuck,” Nicholas groaned, “You feel so good. Can barley move… Fuckk tight cunt taking me so well.” 

His hips rolled in deep, heavy thrusts that drug the air from out of your lungs with each movement. The wet, filthy slap of skin meeting skin filled the room, growing louder and more obscene with every punishing stroke. 

Nicholas showed you no mercy, keeping one hand fisted tight in your hair as he pressed your cheek firmly into the sheets. 

The sound of your cunt was downright filthy—It made you cringe through tears.

Wet, lewd squelching noises echoed with every thrust as his thick cock plunged in and out of your soaked hole. Each time he bottomed out, a messy, obscene schlick-schlick-schlick filled the air—your arousal coating his shaft and dripping down your thighs, making the slide even wetter, even louder. 

“Shittttt…pretty girl… listen to how wet you are,” he laughed breathlessly, the sound almost mocking. “This greedy little pussy is dripping down my balls. You’ve been dying for cock, huh?” 

The slick sounds mixed with the sharp slap of his hips meeting your ass, creating a filthy rhythm that left no room for denial.

He suddenly pulled almost all the way out, leaving just the thick head stretching your hole, before slamming back in with one brutal thrust. The force ripped a broken sob from your throat as your walls clenched violently around him. You shook violently, breathing becoming rapid as you sobbed into the sheets, coating the pink fabric in a different type of wetness.

Nicholas groaned loudly as he felt your pussy flutter and spasm around his cock—grinding his hips deep so you could feel every inch of him buried inside you. He leaned down closer, broad chest now pressing fully against your back, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he fucked you with slow, punishing rolls.

“God, you are such a lil’ slut. Pretty cunt keeps sucking me in. Juju’s gonna lose his fucking mind. He’s been sniffing your panties like a pervert for weeks. k’s been worse though, so patient with you…leavin’ the door open when he jerks off to see if you’d break… and fuma? He’s been waiting to see how pretty you cry when you’re stuffed full,” he whispered, voice dripping with cruel amusement—hand slipping underneath you, fingers finding your swollen clit. He rubbed it tight, mean circles that made your thighs shake uncontrollably, slapped your clit lightly, making you jolt and cry out, then did it again harder.

“You gonna let them take turns with this sloppy little hole after I’m done with it?” 

The words hit you like ice water.

Your breath caught in a sharp, broken sob. Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks, soaking into the already ruined sheets. Your mind spun, a dizzying mix of shame, fear, and unwanted heat flooding your body all at once. 

The thought of them taking turns—passing you around like a toy and using your aching, dripping cunt one after another—twisted your stomach with shame… and made your cunt clench hard around Nicholas’s cock despite the shame coursing through you

You shook your head frantically, the movement limited by his tight grip in your hair.

“N-no… please—” your voice came out in small, cracked, and pathetic moan, the sound barely more than a whimper. “I can’t… not all of them… please, Nicholas—”

Your cries only egged him on; he began to thrust faster and harder, the bed creaking loudly beneath you. You could hear how he laughed—low, dark, yet delighted amongst the creaks and wet obscene sounds of your bodies together.

“It’s okay, pretty” he cooed mockingly, voice rough. “Right now—” He tightened his grip in your hair and yanked your head back just enough to growl against your ear, “This cunt is mine.” He pulls you back even further—grip on your hair forcing your back into an arch as he pounded into you. The new angle making his cock hit that sensitive spot with every thrust, ripping broken sobs and whimpers from your throat. Your smaller body jolted forward with each punishing snap of his hips.

You had already been so close.

Before he walked in, you’d been frantically fingering yourself—fingers pumping in and out of you; deep. hips rocking your swollen clit desperately aganist the palm of your hand as you chased your release. Their names slipping from your lips like a filthy prayer, amongst the soft squelches of your needy cunt.

You had been right on the edge, right there… and then he caught you.

And now that denied orgasm was coming crashing back ten times stronger. Fueled by every savage thrust of his thick cock and every dirty word that fell from his mouth—coated with a nasty edge.

Nicholas could feel it—the way your cunt gripped at his cock, sucking it deeper with each time he pulled out only to thrust into you again with brutal force. “Ohhh, there it is,” he taunted, “You gonna cum? Yea? You were so fucking close before, weren’t you, pretty girl?” his voice dripped with mockery, “Moaning ‘Juju… K… Fuma…’ like a little slut. You wanted to fuck your new roomies that bad, yea?” he cooed, as your pathetic sobs already had began morphing into desperate, breathy moans.

The words sent another humiliating wave of heat through you. Your mind screamed no, begged even— but your body did not listen to. it instead betrayed you completely. Your cunt gushed even wetter, the lewd sounds growing louder as he pounded into you without mercy. The pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter, your clit throbbing under his relentless fingers, your entire body shaking as you teetered right on the edge.

You tried to hold back. You really did. You told yourself that if you could just resist a little longer, maybe you could hold onto some shred of your dignity. But the combination of his thick cock stretching you open, the brutal pace, the sharp slaps to your swollen clit, and the overwhelming shame of his words was too much. Your orgasm slammed into you like a freight train—harder and more intense than anything you’d ever felt before.

Your back arched into his stomach—a broken, sobbing cry tearing from your throat as your walls spasmed violently. Overwhelming pleasure erupted through you in blinding waves. Your vision blurred with tears and your mind went white, eyes rolling back. Your pussy gushed slick around him, soaking his cock and dripping down your thighs in messy rivulets while your body shook uncontrollably.

Nicholas groaned loudly, hips stuttering as he fucked you through every intense spasm. “Fuuuck— that’s it. Cum on my cock, pretty little slut. Look at you… making such a fucking mess.” He kept thrusting through your orgasm, drawing out every last shake of your body until you were whimpering and twitching from the overstimulation, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks.

He kept pounding you until he felt his climax approaching—only then did he pull out.

With a rough groan, Nicholas yanked his heavy length free, leaving your cunt gaping and leaking. He gripped the base of his thick, glistening length and stroked it fast and hard right above your trembling body.

“Fuuuuuck—gonna cum all over you, baby.” His hips jerked. Thick, hot ropes of cum erupted from his cock, splattering across your back and ass in messy white streaks. Some landed on the curve of your spine, even a few drops landing on your swollen, twitching pussy. The warm stickiness coating your bare skin—Milking every last drop until you were thoroughly marked with him.

Nicholas exhaled shakily, a satisfied smirk curling on his lips as he looked down at your ruined state — tear-streaked face, hoodie bunched uselessly around your ribs, swollen pussy still twitching and dripping.

He leaned down, brushing damp hair from your forehead with surprising gentleness.

“Such a good girl for me,” he murmured, voice low and dark. “First one down.”

He pressed one last mocking kiss to your temple before standing up, tucking himself back into his pants. “Rest up, short stuff.” Nicholas gave your ass one final, possessive slap before he walked toward the door, leaving you sprawled on the bed—exhausted, leaking, and utterly used.

Nicholas didn’t tell anyone. 

Well, not that you knew of.

You woke to the familiar scent of matcha waiting on the counter and EJ greeting you with that same soft, boy-like smile as he pushing his glasses up his nose and slid the mug toward you. “Morning, y/n.”

K stood nearby, sipping at his americano, giving you his usual gentle smile when you entered. 

Nicholas wandered in a few minutes later, shirtless as usual, silver chain glinting against his chest. He leaned over and stole a forkful of your scrambled eggs with that signature lazy smirk.

“Morning, short stuff,” he drawled, voice perfectly casual, like he hadn’t spent last night wrecking you until you passed out on his cock.

He didn’t wink. He didn’t smirk knowingly. He didn’t say a single word about what happened.

He just stole another bite, earning the usual gentle scolding from EJ, and acted like nothing had changed. Fuma sat in the armchair, legs spread wide, quietly playing on his Switch. His dark gaze flicked to you for a second longer than usual, but he as usual he gave you a nod—’Good morning.” falling from his lips.

The whole morning felt… normal. Far too normal.

You sat there in your sleep shorts and hoodie, thighs still faintly sore, pussy still tender and aching from how roughly Nicholas had used you. Every shift in your seat reminded you of the way he’d pinned you down, the filthy sounds your pussy had made, the way you’d sobbed and came so hard you blacked out.

Yet none of them acted any different.

It was almost worse than if they had said something.

You kept waiting for the shoe to drop. For Nicholas to make a comment. For one of them to look at you differently. But the day passed in the same careful rhythm as before.

© smidare 2026 ♥︎ likes & reposts r appreciated!

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nsfw under the cut 💬 ♡ 🐰 minor do not interact ✦ must be 18+ !!!

husband!fuma who has a major size kink. he’s tall and so built—he loves manhandling you. picks you up mid-fuck like you weigh nothing, pins you against the wall, or folds you in half in missionary so he can watch your face while he ruins you.

husband!fuma who can go multiple rounds. hhhigh stamina from all that dancing and training. will fuck you until you’re shaking and crying from overstimulation, then pull you into his chest and coo at you while stroking your hair.

husband!fuma who gets rock hard whenever you refer to him as “your husband” in bed. the second the word leaves your mouth he'll flips you over and fuck you harder, groaning “say it again. tell your husband how good he feels inside you.” husband!fuma who gets shy and cocky at the same time when you praise him. if you tell him his dick is perfect or that he fucks you so good, he blushes but will starts thrusting harder like he’s trying to prove your point.

husband!fuma who will fuck you within an inch of your life the second he gets home after a long tour. he’s pent up, needy, and has missed his wife’s pussy for weeks. you will not walking straight the next week.

husband!fuma who's breeding kink is stronggg. even if you are on birth control, his instincts to fuck you full are strong, “wanna put a baby in you so bad… wanna see you all round and full with my kid.” cums inside you every single time and just stays there after, even sometimes plugging you with his fingers so nothing leaks out. but if it does he gets hard again just from watching it drip out of you.

husband!fuma who wakes you up with his head between your thighs at least twice a week. slow, lazy licks while you’re still half asleep, big hands holding your hips down so you can’t squirm away. “shh princess, just let me taste you… missed this all week.”

husband!fuma who is obsessed with eye contact. will hook your legs over his shoulders in missionary just so he can watch every expression on your face while he ruins you. if you look away he'll gently grabs your jaw: “eyes on me, princess.”

husband!fuma who is addicted to the way you sound when he’s balls deep. records short voice memos of your moans (with your permission ofc) and listens to them on tour when he’s jerking off in the hotel room, missing his pretty little wife.

husband!fuma who gets incredibly soft and intense during slow sex. holds your face with both hands, forehead against yours, deep rolling thrusts while he tells you how much he loves you, how perfect you feel, how he never wants to be without you.

husband!fuma who is the king of aftercare! he never fails to make you feel like the most cherished person in the world even after he’s ruined you.

husband!fuma who stays inside you for a awhile after he cums, just breathing with you, pressing soft kisses along your jaw and neck while whispering “you did so well for me, princess… my perfect wife.”

husband!fuma who carries you to the bathroom if your legs are too shaky, sits you on the counter and helps you brush your teeth or wash your face before bringing you back to fresh sheets he quickly changed.

husband!fuma who always has a bottle of water on the nightstand. makes you drink at least half while he holds it for you, then feeds you pieces of chocolate or your favorite snack because “you worked so hard, baby.”

husband!fuma who refuses to let you get up for anything after. if you need the bathroom he carries you there and waits outside the door like a guard dog, then carries you right back.

husband!fuma who falls asleep only after you do, still rubbing slow circles on your arm or thigh, heart so full because taking care of you like this is his favorite part of everything.

authors note: kinda obssessed w husband!fuma,, seeing him with kids n act all husbandy and domestic really does something to me. i never wanted to get married but if it was to fuma? i'd def do it.. got carried away w this because i love fu-chan.

You kept waiting for the shoe to drop. For Nicholas to make a comment. For one of them to look at you differently. But the day passed in the same careful rhythm as before.

And so did the day after that, and the one after that. Before you knew it, a week had passed without incident. The next few nights blurred into the same pattern you had come accustom too before Nicholas fucked you raw. 

The apartment breathes around you in that hushed, late-night way—dim lights, faint hum of the fridge, the lingering warmth of laundry detergent drifting down the hallway. Your feet drag heavier than usual, sneakers kicked off by the door with a soft thud that feels too loud in the quiet. Every muscle aches from the endless shift, shoulders tight, calves burning, but underneath it all there’s still that low, persistent throb between your thighs. A week. A whole week of pretending Nicholas hadn’t pinned you down and fucked you until you blacked out, sobbing his name like a broken prayer. A week of EJ’s gentle smiles and perfectly made matcha, K’s quiet smiles, Fuma’s dark gaze lingering just a second too long. Normal. Too normal. It made the soreness feel like a dirty little secret you carried alone.

You pad toward your room on feet that ache and a uniform far too tight. The door is ajar—only a crack, but enough for the soft glow of your bedside lamp to spill out into the hallway. You don’t remember leaving it on. 

You also remember closing your bedroom door before you left for work. Too tired to think that this is weird—maybe it was an accident. Just like everything before.

But that illusion lasts exactly five seconds.

There he is. 

EJ.

Kneeling beside your bed like he belongs there, broad shoulders curved forward under the familiar tan sweater, baggy jeans covering his long legs. The lamplight catches on his glasses, sliding them down the bridge of his nose as he leans in closer to your open drawer—the one where you keep the delicate things. Your panties.

He’s got a handful already. The pale pink lace you thought you’d lost weeks ago. The soft pastel blue with the tiny bow. Even the plain white cotton dotted with cheerful little bunnies that always made you feel stupidly innocent. They’re all clutched in one large hand. 

Your breath catches—sharp, involuntary.

EJ stills.

For a heartbeat the room is perfectly silent, Then he turns his head, brown eyes meeting yours through the cracked door, that soft, youthful face flushing pink. The gentle smile you know so well curves his lips, warm and reassuring. 

“Y/n…” he breathes, voice honey-soft, almost shy. He doesn’t drop the panties. Doesn’t scramble to hide. He rises to his full height, all that gentle length unfolding until he towers over your much smaller frame in the doorway, rolling his shoulders in that easy, familiar way that makes the tan sweater shift softly across his chest, the pile of your stolen underwear still in his hands. like a confession. “You’re home… earlier than I expected tonight.”

He drops down the fabric, hands come up in a small, almost apologetic gesture, palms open. “They got mixed in with my laundry again,” he says quietly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one long finger. The flush on his cheeks deepens just a touch, but his eyes stay soft behind the lenses, earnest and warm. “I… I was only bringing them back. I didn’t want you to worry about missing things. You work so hard, and I know how much you like these ones. The little bunnies… they’re cute. Like you.”

His voice lingers on that last word, soft as a caress, and for a moment it almost sounds innocent. Almost.

You stand there, heart hammering against your ribs, thighs pressing together instinctively as that familiar ache flares hotter between your legs. He’s so tall. So close. The way he looks at you—kind, thoughtful, like he’d do anything to make your life easier—makes something in your chest flutter even as your mind screams that this isn’t right. That the faint scent clinging to those returned panties weeks ago hadn’t been just detergent.

EJ steps closer, slow and careful, like he’s approaching something fragile. His hand brushes your arm, light as a feather, guiding you just a little further into the room. “You look tired,” he murmurs, that reassuring smile never wavering. “Long shift again? Let me make you something warm before bed.”

He slips past you then, the tan sweater brushing your shoulder in a whisper of fabric and warmth, his taller frame crowding the narrow space for just a moment too long. You don’t see it—the quick, practiced flick of his fingers as he tucks one pair (the pale pink lace, of course, the one that always felt too pretty for everyday) into the pocket of his jeans before turning the corner toward the kitchen.

The door clicks shut behind him, softly. 

You sink onto the edge of your bed, knees weak, breath coming in shallow little bursts that make your uniform shirt ride up against your ribs. The drawer sits half-open, the remaining panties slightly rumpled, as if his hands had lingered. Your mind spins—he was just returning them. He’s always so thoughtful. EJ. Kind EJ who makes your matcha exactly how you like it, who washes everyone’s laundry without complaint, who smiles like he’d never hurt a soul.

But the ache between your legs pulses in time with your heartbeat, tender and slick and traitorously empty. You squeeze your thighs together harder, trying to ignore the way your body reacts to the memory of his tall frame looming over you, the gentle flush on his cheeks, the way his voice had curled around “like you” like a promise.

Minutes blur. The faint clink of a mug in the kitchen drifts down the hall, followed by the low hum of the kettle. You should change. You should lock the door. You should pretend this never happened, the same way you’ve pretended about Nicholas, about the missing pairs that kept vanishing and reappearing with that strange, clinging scent.

But when EJ returns, the steam from the mug curling around his fingers like an offering, he doesn’t knock. He just pushes the door open wider with his hip, stepping inside as if the space is his to enter. The tan sweater is gone now—replaced by a simple black tank that clings to his broad shoulders and the subtle definition of his chest, gym shorts riding low on his hips the way K’s sometimes do after training. His hair is slightly tousled, glasses still perched on his nose, that boyish smile in place as he sets the mug on your nightstand.

“Warm milk with a little honey,” he says softly, voice dropping into that reassuring register that always makes you feel safe. “It helps after long shifts. Drink up, y/n. You deserve to relax.”

The steam from the mug curls lazy and sweet between you, warmth brushing your cheeks and nose as EJ sets it down with that same careful precision he uses for everything—laundry, matcha, the way his fingers had brushed your arm like you are nothing but precious. He lingers—just for a second though, a second longer than necessary. His tall frame bent slightly over your smaller one, the black tank top stretching across his chest as he straightens. His eyes remain soft behind the glasses, offering you that sweet smile that for some reason feels not as sweet as it did weeks ago. now just feels awfully sour, but you swallow it down. It’s just Ej.

“Drink that before it gets cold, okay?” he murmurs, voice like smooth silk. One last gentle brush of his knuckles against your shoulder, then he steps back, the gym shorts shifting low on his hips with the movement. “Goodnight, Y/n. Sweet dreams.”

He slips out without another word, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft, final sound that leaves the room feeling suddenly too large, too empty. The pale pink lace is gone—tucked warm against his thigh somewhere down the hall—and the drawer sits half-open like a quiet confession. One you refuse to acknowledge.

You sit there on the edge of the bed for a long moment, uniform still clinging to your sweaty skin, heart hammering in uneven rhythms while the ache between your legs pulses hot and insistent, slick and tender and utterly traitorous. He was just being kind. Just Ej. The words loop in your head, soft and reassuring, even as your body remembers the way his thumb had circled your thigh, the way his taller frame had crowded you so gently it felt like drowning in slow motion.

You peel off the uniform at last, movements sluggish and heavy, letting the fabric pool on the floor before tugging on an oversized shirt and the softest sleep shorts you own—the ones that ride up just enough to remind you of every sore, used inch of you. The milk goes down in slow, obedient sips, sweet and warm, settling heavy in your stomach like a lullaby. The lamp clicks off. Darkness folds around you, thick and quiet, and you crawl beneath the covers, thighs pressing together tight in a futile attempt to ease the persistent throb.

Sleep drags you under in shallow waves. Hours slip by unnoticed.Then the need to pee pulls you awake, bladder insistent, body heavy with exhaustion. 

You slip from the bed without turning on the light, bare feet padding silently down the hallway, oversized hoodie swallowing your smaller frame, sleep shorts barely covering the curve of your ass. The apartment breathes around you in that late-night hush—fridge hum, distant city murmur beyond the windows—everything still and safe.

Until you round the corner toward the bathroom and collide straight into a solid wall of warmth.

Fuma.

He’s there in the dim hallway light spilling from the living room, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, the soft fabric doing nothing—absolutely nothing—to hide the heavy outline of him beneath. No shirt. Just miles of smooth, toned skin stretched over quiet muscle, broad shoulders and a chest that rises slow and steady as he steadies you with one large hand wrapping around your upper arm. His dark hair falls slightly messy over his forehead, and those sharp eyes—usually half-lidded with that quiet intensity—flick down to take you in, lingering on the way your big shirt barely covers the bare stretch of thigh exposed by your sleep shorts, the faint tremble in your smaller body pressed momentarily against his.

The contact is brief but electric. Your chest brushes his abdomen, soft and yielding against hard warmth, and you feel the heat of him—his skin, the faint musk of clean sweat and something darker, earthier, that clings to him after whatever late-night game or workout he’d been doing. His legs spread just a fraction wider in those grey sweatpants, the thick muscle of his thighs flexing as he holds you steady, keeping you from stumbling back.

You freeze, heart slamming against your ribs, the ache between your legs flaring hotter at the sudden closeness, at the sheer size of him looming over your much smaller frame. Nicholas had wrecked you with rough demand; EJ had teased with gentle patience. Fuma… Fuma just looks at you, dark gaze heavy and unreadable, the corner of his mouth twitching in the barest hint of something that isn’t quite a smile.

“Careful,” he says, voice low and rough from disuse, rumbling through his chest in a way that vibrates against you for the split second you’re still pressed there. His hand doesn’t immediately let go—fingers warm and firm around your arm, thumb brushing once, slow, along the soft skin just below your shoulder. “Didn’t mean to scare you, bunny.”

He towers. Easily. The grey sweatpants hang loose but cling in all the wrong—right—places, the heavy bulge shifting slightly as he adjusts his stance, legs still spread in that casual, commanding way he sits in the armchair during game nights. You can’t help the way your eyes dip for half a heartbeat, the outline too obvious, too thick, making your pussy clench around nothing. How the hell does he walk around with that?

Fuma notices your eyes wander. Of course he does. His gaze darkens, just a fraction. But he doesn’t comment. Not yet. Instead, he releases your arm with deliberate slowness, the loss of his warmth leaving a ghost of heat on your skin, and steps back just enough to give you space—though his taller frame still fills the hallway, still crowds the narrow passage in that quiet, heavy way of his.

“Bathroom’s free,” he murmurs, nodding toward the door behind him, voice dropping even lower, almost gentle but threaded with something heavier, something that makes the air feel thicker. His eyes flick back to your face, dark and steady, holding yours for a beat too long. “You okay? Look a little… flushed.”

The words hang there, simple and concerned on the surface, but the way his gaze drags down your body again—slow, deliberate—says otherwise. The grey sweatpants do nothing to hide how he’s half-hard already, the thick line of him pressing against the soft fabric like an invitation you’re not sure you’re ready for. Your smaller body feels even tinier in comparison, thighs still sore from Nicholas, still tingling from EJ’s teasing touches, now caught in the hallway with Fuma’s quiet intensity wrapping around you like smoke.

You mumble a small and breathless apology, and try to slip past him toward the bathroom. But the hallway is narrow. His frame barely moves. Your hip brushes the front of those grey sweatpants as you squeeze by, the brief contact sending a jolt straight to your core, his low exhale brushing the top of your head like a secret.

He doesn’t stop you.

But as you reach the bathroom door, fingers trembling on the handle, you feel his eyes on your back—dark, patient, heavy with the same quiet weight that makes the apartment feel smaller every time he’s near. The ache pulses harder now, insistent and needy, your sleep shorts suddenly feeling far too thin, far too short against the cool air and the memory of his hand on your arm, his thighs so close, the undeniable size of him barely contained.

Behind you, Fuma’s voice drifts down the hall, low and unhurried, almost casual but laced with that subtle command only he seems to carry without trying.

“Sleep well, y/n. Don’t let the quiet fool you… we’re always around when you need us.”

The bathroom door clicks shut, but the heat in your veins doesn’t fade. Not even close.

You splash cold water on your face, trying to steady your breathing, trying to ignore the way your pussy throbs, the way your nipples have peaked against the hoodie, sensitive and aching. When you finally slip back out, the hallway is empty again—Fuma gone, melted back into the shadows of the living room or his room, grey sweatpants and all.

But the air still feels charged. The apartment still breathes with them—EJ’s gentle patience, Nicholas’s lazy filth, K’s quiet smiles, and now Fuma’s heavy, unspoken presence pressing in from every corner.

You crawl back into bed, thighs squeezed tight, heart racing, the soreness and the new heat twisting together until sleep claims you once more… restless, dreaming of tall frames and grey sweatpants and hands that linger just a little too long in the dark.

Morning arrives wrapped in the same careful illusion. Matcha waits on the counter, sweet enough that you can’t taste the grassy flavour. EJ greets you with that boyish smile, dark blue hoodie soft over his broad shoulders, glasses slipping down his nose as he slides the mug toward you. “Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice honey-warm, eyes crinkling with the same gentle concern that makes your stomach flutter even as your pussy clenches at the memory of his fingers wrapped around your intimates. “Do you have work this weekend?” Nicholas asks mouth full of eggs, sticking his fork into your gyeran-mari to steal another bite of your breakfast, acting like he hadn’t fucked you stupid a week ago. 

You hesitate, fingers tightening around the cold mug. The soreness between your thighs pulses faintly at the sound of his voice, a dirty little reminder you can’t seem to escape.

“No,” you murmur, clearing your throat before speaking up slightly, “I’m off.”

The words feel dangerous the second they leave your mouth.

K, who had been quietly sipping his americano by the counter, sets his cup down with a soft clink. His tall frame shifts, gentle youthful features softening as he looks at you with a soft sweet smile.

“We should watch a movie together tonight,” he says smoothly, voice low and even, almost thoughtful. “As a roommate bonding activity. It’s been a while since all of us just…sat down and relaxed—I’ll even buy the popcorn.”

The suggestion lands softly, innocently, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. But the way his eyes linger on you—dark, steady, knowing—makes the air feel thicker. Like he’s already imagining how small you’ll look tucked between them on the big couch.

EJ’s smile brightens as he sits beside you, still so soft and warm. “That sounds nice,” he says gently, pushing his glasses up. “We can keep the lights low. Pick something calm. You’ve been working so hard lately, sweetheart… you deserve to relax with us.”

Nicholas leans back in his chair, silver chain catching the light as he smirks around another stolen bite of your food. “I’m in. Long as there’s food.”

Fuma hums in agreement, eyes never quite leaving his switch or maybe because you are turned around—you just don't feel his dark gaze eyeing the shorts that ride up your thighs.

You sit there, heart hammering against your ribs, thighs pressed tightly together under the counter. The ache from Nicholas hasn’t faded. The memory of EJ breathing in your panties still burns behind your eyes. And now K—calm, patient, sweet K—is suggesting a movie night like it’s just harmless roommate bonding. 

The apartment feels smaller already.

You force a small nod, voice barely audible.

“…Okay.”

EJ’s hand brushes your arm under the table, light and reassuring.

“Perfect,” he whispers, so softly only you can hear it. “We’ll take care of everything.”

The day drags in that strange, suspended way — every hour stretching longer, every minute laced with the quiet knowledge of what’s waiting for you tonight. You try to distract yourself. You try to pretend it’s normal. But the ache between your legs never quite settles, and every time you shift, you feel the ghost of Nicholas’s hands, EJ’s lingering stare, K’s patient gaze, Fuma’s heavy silence.

By the time evening falls, the living room has been transformed just enough to feel intentional.

The big sectional couch is arranged with extra pillows and that massive blanket EJ loves. The lights are low, warm and golden, casting long shadows across the walls. Takeout bags cover the coffee table — fried chicken, pizza, snacks K actually went out and bought like he promised. The TV hums softly, waiting for someone to pick something.

You hesitate in the doorway, hoodie swallowing your frame, sleep shorts barely peeking out underneath. You feel small. Exposed.

K pats the cushion between him and EJ with that calm, gentle smile.

“Here,” he says quietly. “Sit with us.”

Your heart stutters.

You move anyway.

The moment you sink down between them, the blanket is pulled over your lap — K on your left, EJ on your right. Their thighs press against yours immediately. Warm. Solid. Unmoving. K’s long leg brushes yours, the heat of him seeping through the fabric. EJ’s shoulder rests lightly against yours, his hand slipping under the blanket to rest innocently on your knee.

Nicholas sprawls on the far side of K, arm draped casually along the back of the couch. Fuma takes the armchair across from you, legs spread wide, eyes already locked on you.

“How do you feel about horror, shortie?” Nicholas says, flicking through a catalogue. 

“I don’t have a problem with it.”

“Great.” He grins, selecting some recent horror film, the kind that makes you jump and press closer without meaning to.

The movie starts, opening credits bleeding across the screen in crimson letters. You barely register them. The room feels too warm. Too close. Your pulse is already a traitor, fluttering wildly in your throat as you try to focus on the screen.

But you attempt to relax and let the horror swallow you whole.

Until—

K’s hand moves.

It starts so innocently under the heavy blanket, his palm settling high on your thigh like it belongs there. Warm fingers trace slow, absent circles over the soft fabric of your shorts. Round and round in soothing circles. Like he’s simply grounding you during a scary scene. You don’t even register it at first—too caught up in the movie’s rising dread. The circles drift lower after a while, lazy spirals that slip down the length of your thigh, then back up, each pass taking him a little farther inward.

Still, you’re half-lost in the film. A sudden jump scare makes you flinch, and that’s when his touch shifts again—sliding beneath the hem of your shorts, callused fingertips now drawing those same slow circles on the bare, sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Higher. Closer. The heat of his hand bleeds straight into you. Your pulse kicks up, but you try to stay focused on the screen, cheeks warming as his fingers tease the edge of your panties with every deliberate pass.

Then—his fingertip brushes right over the front of your crotch of your shorts.

Just once. Feather-light. A slow drag along the cotton that sends electricity snapping up your spine.

You jolt.

A tiny, involuntary twitch of your hips—sharp enough that your breath catches audibly. Heat floods your face. 

EJ turns toward you, his hand tightening slightly on your knee. “You okay?” he whispers, voice soft and concerned behind his glasses, brown eyes searching your face.

The words almost tumble out of your mouth—yes, I’m fine, it’s nothing—but they die instantly.

K’s fingers pinch the soft flesh of your inner thigh, hard. A sharp, warning bloom of pain that makes your eyes water and your throat close. You swallow the sound, swallow everything, and simply nod, quick and small, forcing your gaze back to the flickering screen even as heat floods your face.

The words almost slip out from your mouth but are halted as K pinches your thigh hard enough for you to swallow what you were going to say. You simply nod, attempting to focus back on the movie even as K’s finger returns, slower this time, tracing the seam of your shorts like he’s memorizing you, pressing a firm little circle right over your swollen clit through the fabric.

You keep your eyes glued to the screen, cheeks warm, pretending the tension coiling low in your belly is from the movie and not the way K’s fingers are now drawing those same slow circles on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Bare now—his hand has slipped beneath the hem of your shorts without you realizing, calluses grazing soft flesh. The circles grow wider, lazier, teasing the edge of your panties with every pass. Your legs tremble faintly. You press them together on instinct, but his hand keeps solid and unmoving, keeps them open just enough.

Your thighs tremble. You bite the inside of your cheek until you taste copper.

Another jump scare explodes across the television and you jolt again—smaller this time, but K uses it as cover. His long fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, finally, finally touching bare skin. The first glide of his fingertips through your slick folds is devastatingly gentle. Wet sounds are swallowed by the movie’s screams. No one hears. No one sees.

Except him.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” K breathes against your ear, so quiet it’s almost nothing. His voice is velvet and smoke, warm praise that sinks straight into your gut. “All this for me already, baby? Just from a few little touches over your shorts?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your breath hitches as two thick fingers part your folds and drag upward, spreading your wetness, teasing your entrance before sliding back to rub slow, firm circles over your clit. The pressure is perfect. Too perfect. Your hips twitch forward on instinct and he rewards you with a deeper stroke, the pad of his middle finger wiggling just to dip it inside you—barely breaching but just enough to make your walls flutter greedily around the tip.

EJ’s hand is still on your knee. He hasn’t moved it. His thumb strokes once, twice, almost absentmindedly, but you feel his gaze linger on the side of your face a second longer than before. You keep your eyes locked on the screen, cheeks burning hotter than the low lamplight.

K curls his finger deeper on the next pass, sinking in to the first knuckle, then the second. The stretch is slow, deliberate, his thick digit filling you so easily because you’re embarrassingly wet. A tiny, broken sound tries to escape your throat and you choke it back just in time.

His lips brush your temple again. “Good girl. So quiet for me. Taking my fingers like you were made for it.”

He adds a second finger without warning—slow, so slow—scissoring gently as he pumps them in and out in time with the movie’s haunting rhythm. The wet, obscene sounds are hidden beneath the blanket and the film’s audio, but you can hear them. God, you can hear them. Every slick glide. Every tiny squelch as he fucks you open on his hand, right there between EJ and the others.

Your pussy clenches hard around his fingers, greedy and aching. Slick drips down his knuckles, soaking your shorts. Your legs shake. You press them wider without meaning to, and K rewards you by pressing the heel of his palm against your clit while his fingers curl deep, stroking that spongy spot inside you that makes white sparks burst behind your eyes.

EJ leans in slightly, voice soft. “You sure you’re okay? You look flushed.”

K’s fingers thrust harder for just a second—punishment and pleasure at once—before slowing again, innocent as ever. You manage a shaky nod, lips pressed tight, eyes glassy.

Nicholas chuckles from the other side of K, lazy and low. “She’s probably just scared. Cute.”

Fuma says nothing. But when you risk a glance, his dark eyes are fixed on you, heavy and knowing, like he can see straight through the blanket.

K doesn’t stop. He never stops. His fingers keep fucking into you in that maddeningly slow rhythm—deep, curling, dragging—while his thumb finds your clit and rubs tight, slick circles. The pleasure builds like a wave you can’t outrun, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly.

You’re so close already. Pathetically close.

And K knows it.

He leans in one last time, lips against your ear, whispering so sweetly it makes your heart ache and your cunt throb.

“Hold it for me, baby. Don’t cum yet. We’ve got the whole movie left… and I’m nowhere near done playing with you.”

The pleasure coils tighter, vicious and sweet, every slow thrust of K’s thick fingers dragging you closer to the edge only for him to ease back at the last second—cruel, perfect control. Your walls flutter desperately around him, sucking him deeper with every wet glide, but he keeps you right there. Suspended. Aching. The horror movie’s screams blend with the pounding of your own pulse until you can’t tell which is louder.

You’re trembling now. Small, helpless shivers that you try to hide by sinking deeper into the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your fists. Sweat beads at the nape of your neck. Your breath comes in shallow, shaky little puffs that fog the cool air in front of you.

K’s lips stay pressed to your temple, breathing you in like he’s savoring how badly you’re falling apart for him.

“Such a good little slut,” he whispers, so soft, so fond it almost sounds loving. “Clenching so tight around my fingers… you want to cum, don’t you, baby? Want to soak my hand while everyone watches the movie?”

You nod before you can stop yourself—tiny, frantic—and he chuckles darkly against your skin, the sound vibrating straight down to where he’s buried knuckle-deep inside you.

He curls his fingers again, stroking that devastating spot with devastating precision, thumb rolling firm circles over your swollen clit. The wet sounds are louder now, obscene little schlicks that make your ears burn with shame. Slick drips steadily down his wrist, soaking into the blanket, into your ruined shorts. You’re a mess. His mess.

EJ shifts beside you as he hears a small whine escape you.

“You’re burning up,” he murmurs, voice honey-sweet and concerned for the others’ ears. To you, it sounds like sin. “Poor thing… is the movie too scary?”

You can’t answer. K chooses that exact moment to thrust his fingers harder, faster for three devastating strokes—then stops completely, buried deep, simply letting you throb and clench around him while he holds you on the razor’s edge. You cling to his arm, nails digging into his skin.

A broken whimper tries to claw its way up your throat. You bite your lip bloody to keep it inside.

Nicholas stretches lazily on the other side of K, arm still slung along the back of the couch. “She’s shaking like a leaf. Cute as hell.” His eyes flick toward you, lazy smirk sharpening for just a second before he turns back to the screen.

The pleasure coils tighter, vicious and sweet, every slow thrust of K’s thick fingers dragging you closer to the edge only for him to ease back at the last second—cruel, perfect control. Your walls flutter desperately around him, sucking him deeper with every wet glide, but he keeps you right there. Suspended. Aching. The horror movie’s screams blend with the pounding of your own pulse until you can’t tell which is louder.

You’re trembling now. Small, helpless shivers that you try to hide by sinking deeper into the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your fists. Sweat beads at the nape of your neck. Your breath comes in shallow, shaky little puffs that fog the cool air in front of you.

K’s lips stay pressed to your temple, breathing you in like he’s savoring how badly you’re falling apart for him.

EJ shifts beside you, murmuring something soft about the movie, but his hand stays innocently on your knee. Nicholas laughs low at some jump scare. Fuma watches the screen in silence. None of them know.

And K knows that, so he doesn’t stop.

He fucks you harder with those two thick fingers—deeper, faster, relentless now—curling and dragging right against that perfect spot while his thumb presses firm, merciless circles over your throbbing clit. No more teasing. No more holding back. The rhythm turns filthy and sure, like he’s decided you’ve earned it.

“Let go,” he breathes against your ear, voice low and velvet-rough, lips brushing your skin like a secret promise. “Cum for me, baby. Cum all over my fingers like the needy little whore you are. Right here. Right now.”

The coil snaps. Hard.

Pleasure crashes through you in a blinding, white-hot wave—violent and endless. Your pussy clenches hard around his thick fingers, pulsing, fluttering, gushing slick heat all over his hand and wrist as you come undone right there between them. A broken, choked sob slips past your bitten lips before you can catch it; you bury your face into K’s shoulder to muffle the sound, body shaking violently against his. Your thighs tremble uncontrollably. Your back arches slightly. Sparks explode behind your eyes and the world narrows to nothing but the devastating stretch of his fingers and the slick, filthy sounds of your release soaking everything beneath the blanket.

K doesn’t pull away.

He keeps fucking you through it—slow, deep thrusts that drag every last shuddering pulse from your ruined cunt, thumb still working your oversensitive clit in tight, slick circles until you’re twitching and whimpering, tears slipping down your flushed cheeks. More slick drips down his wrist, warm and obscene, ruining your shorts completely. You feel it everywhere. You feel him everywhere.

“That’s it… good girl,” he murmurs, soft and sweet against your temple, pressing a gentle kiss there like he didn’t just wreck you in front of everyone. “Look at you falling apart so prettily for me. Soaking my whole hand… fuck, you’re perfect, baby. So fucking perfect.”

Your orgasm stretches on and on, smaller waves rippling through you as he gentles his touch but doesn’t pull out—just stays buried deep inside your fluttering heat, letting you clench and throb around him while the aftershocks wreck you. Your chest heaves. Your legs feel boneless. The movie screams on, loud and chaotic, covering every tiny broken sound you make.

K finally stills his fingers, buried to the hilt, holding you full and claimed. His thumb strokes one last soothing circle over your sensitive clit before resting heavy against your mound.

The aftershocks are still rippling through you, slow and treacherous, when the panic finally claws its way up your throat.

You can’t stay here. Not like this—ruined, soaked, trembling, with K’s thick fingers still buried deep inside your fluttering cunt and his cum-slick hand claiming every messy inch of you under the blanket. Your cheeks burn hotter than the low lamplight. Your legs feel like they might give out the second you try to move, but you have to.

You shift. Weakly.

K’s fingers curl once more—lazy, possessive—before he finally, mercifully slips them out of you with a wet, obscene sound that makes your stomach twist. He drags them slowly up your slit one last time, spreading your release, before pulling his hand free entirely. You feel the cool air hit your drenched panties and ruined shorts, the unmistakable warmth of your own slick sliding down your thighs.

Your heart hammers.

You suck in a shaky breath, force your body upright, and pretend that you aren’t still reeling from an orgasm.

A big, dramatic yawn stretches your mouth wide, eyes fluttering half-shut like the movie has drained every last bit of energy from you—voice comes out small, hoarse, edged with the remnants of that devastating orgasm.

“I… I’m really tired,” you mumble, already pushing the blanket off your lap, hoodie sleeves tugged low to hide the flush crawling down your neck. “Long day. Think I’m gonna head to bed early…”

You stand too fast.

The room tilts a bit and your knees wobble dangerously—highs slick and sticky, the soaked fabric of your shorts clinging obscenely between your legs. For one terrifying second you think you might actually fall, but you catch yourself on the arm of the couch, cheeks flaming.

K’s hand brushes the back of your thigh as you move—innocent to anyone watching, but you feel the silent promise in the way his fingers linger, sticky with you. His voice is low, calm, almost concerned. “You sure, baby? Movie’s not even over.”

EJ glances up, that gentle smile in place, glasses catching the TV light. “Rest well. We’ll save you some snacks.”

Nicholas just smirks, lazy and knowing, eyes dragging over your shaky frame for half a second too long. “Night, shortie. Sweet dreams.”

Fuma wishes you a small “Goodnight,” watching you with those dark, heavy eyes.

You don’t wait for other words to be said, you simply rush past them.

Bare feet padding quickly across the floor, heart pounding so loud you’re so sure they can hear it even amongst the screams coming from the tv. Every step makes your ruined panties rub against your oversensitive clit, sends another humiliating little aftershock through your core. Slick trails down the inside of your thigh and you pray no one notices the shine under the low lights.

You finally make it to your room, you fall onto your plush sheets, thighs squeezing together as another weak pulse of pleasure echoes through you.

K’s finger soaked in your release. His soft voice in your ear. The way you fell apart right there between all of them.

And you’re still dripping.

You fall onto your plush sheets in a boneless heap, hoodie discarded somewhere on the floor, thighs squeezing tight together as another weak, traitorous pulse echoes through your core. The room is dark and quiet, but your body refuses to settle. Every shift of fabric against your soaked cunt sends sparks skittering up your spine. K’s thick fingers. His velvet voice whispering good girl against your temple. The way you came so hard you had to bury your face in his shoulder while the others laughed at the movie.

Sleep doesn’t even try to come.

You toss and turn, sheets tangling around your legs, skin too hot, mind too loud. The ache between your thighs only deepens, a slow, needy throb that makes you whimper softly into the pillow. Minutes bleed into what feels like hours. Eventually you give up, pushing yourself up with a frustrated sigh. A cold shower. That’s what you need. Something icy to shock your body back into calm.

The good bathroom—the one with the rainfall showerhead and decent water pressure—is down the hall. Right past EJ’s room.

You pad out barefoot in just your thin tank top and damp sleep shorts, arms wrapped around yourself like that could hide how thoroughly you’ve been used tonight. The hallway dark. Everyone’s probably gone to bed but you still keep your steps quiet, and careful.

Then you hear it.

Soft. Breathless.

“…y/n…”

Your name, wrapped in that gentle, honey-sweet voice you know too well. You freeze mid-step, heart slamming against your ribs. It couldn’t be. You keep walking, telling yourself it was all in your head, maybe even the wind, anything. Anything but that.

But it comes again, lower this time, rougher, edged with a groan that sinks straight between your legs.

“Fuck…so pretty, my girl…”

Curiosity burns hotter than the shame buzzing through you. You slow, breath shallow, and drift closer to his door—left slightly ajar, a thin slice of warm lamplight spilling out like an invitation you shouldn’t accept. You press yourself to the wall, pulse roaring in your ears, and peek inside.

The sight steals the air from your lungs.

Ej is sprawled back against his headboard, long legs spread wide, sweatpants shoved down just enough to free his thick, flushed cock. He’s beautiful even like this—messy brown hair falling into his eyes, glasses fogged, cheeks flushed pink. One fist strokes slowly up and down his leaking length, thumb swirling over the glistening head on every upstroke. In his other hand, pressed tight to his face like a sacred thing, is a pair of your panties. Pale pink lace. The ones that disappeared weeks ago.

He inhales deeply, nose buried in the crotch, eyes fluttering half-shut in bliss. His tongue drags out, slow and filthy, licking along the fabric where your dried slick still lingers. A low, wrecked moan vibrates from his chest as his hips jerk up into his fist.

“Such a sweet girl," he whispers into your stolen panties, voice dripping with that same gentle tone he uses when he makes you matcha. “Mmh… taste so good...”

His strokes speed up, obscene and wet, precum slicking his fist as he fucks into it harder. Your name falls from his lips again—raw, desperate, almost worshipful. He sucks on the lace, eyes rolling back, hips stuttering. The gentle, thoughtful EJ who folds your laundry and brushes your lower back is gone. In his place is something darker. Hungrier. Two-faced and depraved.

Your body obeys before your mind can catch up. You take one shaky step back—then another—heart hammering so loud you’re sure it’d give you away. The hallway floor is cold beneath your bare feet, unforgiving. You turn just slightly, trying to slip silently into the shadows.

But your heel catches the edge of the small decorative table pressed against the wall—the one with the stupid ceramic bowl no one ever uses. It scrapes. Loud. Sharp.

A tiny gasp slips from your lips before you can stop it.

The sound cuts through the quiet hallway like a blade.

Inside the room, everything freezes.

EJ’s hand stills mid-stroke, cock twitching hard in his grip, flushed and leaking. His eyes snap open, dark and glassy behind fogged glasses. For one terrifying heartbeat, the only sound is the wet, heavy pant of his breathing and the low hum of the distant TV.

Then—slowly, deliberately—he lowers your panties from his face. His lips are shiny, spit-slick from sucking on the lace. That gentle, boyish smile creeps across his mouth, but his eyes… his eyes are pure hunger.

“Baby?” His voice is soft. Sweet. The same tone he uses when he brings you matcha in the mornings. “Is that you out there?”

You can’t move. Your legs feel welded to the floor, thighs still sticky with your own release from K’s fingers, pussy clenching shamefully at the sound of his voice.

The bed creaks. Footsteps—quiet, padded. Then EJ appears in the doorway, sweatpants barely tugged back up over his still-hard cock, the thick outline obvious and obscene. Your stolen pink panties dangle from his long fingers like a trophy.

He looks at you. Really looks. Flushed cheeks, messy hair, wide terrified eyes, the way your thin tank top clings to your breasts and your ruined shorts stick to your thighs. His gaze drags down slowly, lingering on your thighs pressed together.

A low, fond chuckle slips out of him.

“Baby…” he murmurs, voice so sweet it almost hurts, the same he uses when he asks if you slept well. “You’re shaking.”

His knuckle traces another feather-light path down the side of your neck, barely there, yet it feels like fire licking across your skin. He tilts his head, studying the flush blooming across your cheeks, the way your chest rises and falls too fast beneath your thin tank top.

“You heard me, didn’t you?” he whispers, almost shy, like he’s embarrassed instead of thrilled. “Heard me moaning your name while I fucked my fist with these…” He lifts the panties again, slow and deliberate, pressing the soaked crotch to his nose once more. Inhales deep. His lashes flutter. A quiet, broken little sound escapes him.

“So sweet,” he breathes against the lace, eyes locked on yours the entire time. “Even the ones you wore all day… I can’t stop. I try, baby, I really do. But then I think about how tiny you are, how soft and warm and wet you must get when you’re all alone in your room… and I just—”

His voice cracks, gentle and wrecked, but his fingers hook a little firmer into the waistband of your shorts now. Not pulling them down. Not yet. Just tugging, letting the drenched fabric drag lazily over your oversensitive clit in one slow, torturous pass.

You whimper. The noise slipping from your lips because you simply can't help it.

EJ’s smile softens even more, all concern and tenderness, but his eyes burn darker.

“Poor thing,” he coos, thumb brushing your lower lip like he’s comforting you. “You’re still dripping from whatever happened on the couch, aren’t you? Mmm, I heard the little sounds you tried to hide… felt how the blanket was moving.”

He leans in until his breath ghosts warm over your ear, lips brushing the shell.

“I’ve been so patient, sweetheart. Folding your laundry every night, stealing just one pair at a time so you wouldn’t notice… jerking off for hours with them pressed to my face while I imagine burying my tongue so deep inside this pretty little cunt you’d forget how to speak.”

His fingers press a fraction firmer against your heat through the soaked cotton, rubbing slow, lazy circles that make your knees buckle.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” he whispers, voice still so soft, so loving it twists something filthy in your stomach. “Do you want to run back to your room and pretend this never happened? Or…”

He pulls back just enough to meet your wide, glassy eyes, that gentle smile never wavering even as his thumb drags another deliberate circle over your throbbing clit.

“…are you going to be a good girl and let me take you inside so I can finally taste it for real?”

The hallway feels smaller. Hotter. Your heart thunders so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

And Ej just waits—patient, sweet, and utterly depraved—your panties still clutched in his fist.

You should run. You should shove him away and bolt back to your room, lock the door, pretend this never happened.

Instead your fingers curl into his tank top, clinging like he’s the only steady thing left in the spinning hallway.

Ej’s breath hitches—soft, almost shy. “Mhm…That’s it…good girl.” The praise melts over you like warm syrup, filthy and sweet all at once. He walks backward, guiding you through his doorway without ever letting go, kicking it shut behind you with a quiet click that sounds far too final.

The room smells like him—clean detergent, faint cologne, and something musky, something desperate. Your stolen pink panties are still clutched in his fist like a prize as he turns, backing you toward the bed. The edge hits your thighs and you tumble down onto soft sheets, heart hammering so loud it drowns out everything else. He follows, crawling over you slow and predatory, that gentle smile never fading even as his free hand slides up your thigh, pushing your legs apart with effortless strength.

“Shh, don’t be scared,” he coos, pressing your own panties against your lips like a gag, the lace still warm and damp from his mouth. “I’ve waited so long to taste what’s mine. Just let oppa make it feel good, yeah?”

His voice cracks on the last word—sweet, wrecked—and then he’s sliding down your body, yanking your sleep shorts off in one smooth tug. Cool air hits your soaked cunt and you whimper, trying to close your legs on instinct, but his broad shoulders are already there, wedging them wide. He stares for a long moment, eyes dark and hungry behind his glasses.

You can’t breathe.

Not with the way EJ looks at you—like you’re the only thing in his universe, like every stolen pair of panties was just practice for this exact moment. His glasses slip a little lower on his nose as he drinks in the sight of your bare, glistening cunt, thighs trembling in his grip. A soft, reverent exhale ghosts over your slick folds and you twitch, hips jerking helplessly.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, voice still that same gentle lullaby, the one that makes your chest ache even as shame burns hotter between your legs. “All swollen and dripping for me already… did K leave you like this? Or were you thinking about me, pretty girl? Watching me fuck your pretty panties, hm? That’s what did this, yeah?”

You try to shake your head, try to deny it, but his tongue drags up the entire length of your pussy in one long, filthy stripe and the only sound that leaves you is a broken whine. Ej groans like he’s tasting heaven, eyes fluttering shut for a second as he savors you—slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing every fold, every quiver.

Then he dives in.

His lips seals over your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue flicking in tight, relentless circles that make your back arch clean off the bed. One of his long fingers teases at your entrance before sliding in to the knuckle, curling immediately against that spot that turns your vision white. Another joins it, stretching you open with wet, obscene sounds that should mortify you but only make you wetter.

“Oh my—fuck—jju—ah!” The words tumble out before you can stop them, and his answering moan vibrates straight through your core.

“That’s it,” he praises against your cunt, lips shiny with your slick. “Mm say it again. Let oppa hear how sweet you sound when you’re falling apart on my tongue.”

He fucks you with his fingers faster now, scissoring them, curling, pressing, while his mouth works your clit like he was born for this. Your hands fly to his hair, tugging, pulling, unsure if you want to push him away or keep him there forever. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure, from the sick twist of guilt and need twisting together in your stomach.

You’re so close already—embarrassingly close—thighs shaking around his head, pussy fluttering and clenching around his thick digits. Ej feels it. Of course he does. He’s so fucking observant. He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips glistening, that gentle smile curving like he’s proud of you.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he whispers, pressing a soft, almost chaste kiss right on your throbbing clit. “I want to feel you cum around my cock first. Want this tiny little pussy squeezing me so tight I forget my own name.”

He rises over you like a shadow, shoving his sweatpants down the rest of the way. His member springs free—thick, flushed dark, curving slightly upward, the head already leaking steadily of precum. The sight alone makes you clench around nothing, a fresh gush of arousal sliding down your thighs. EJ notices, of course. His eyes darken behind his glasses as he strokes himself once, twice, smearing precum over the flushed head.

“Look at you,” he coos, hooking your legs over his elbows and folding you nearly in half beneath him. The casual display of strength makes your stomach flip—how easily he manhandles your much smaller body. “So small under me. Gonna look so fucking gorgeous stretched around me.”

The blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance, teasing, pushing just the tip inside before pulling back out again and again until you’re sobbing, hips chasing him desperately.

“Nghh jju—please—”

Something in him snaps at your soft plea.

With one smooth, devastating thrust he buries himself halfway, the stretch burning so good your mouth falls open in a silent cry. Another push and he’s bottomed out, hips flush to yours, so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. Ej drops his forehead to yours, breath ragged, glasses fogged completely now.

“Fuck, baby… so tight. So perfect. Like you were made for me.” His voice cracks, sweet and wrecked all at once. “Been dreaming about this every night while I fucked your pretty panties…mmm—you feel even better than I imagined.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, letting you feel every thick inch of him pulsing inside you. Your walls flutter wildly around the intrusion, too full, too much, yet your hips twitch like they’re begging for more. Ej’s breath fans hot across your lips, his gentle smile twisting into something darker, hungrier.

“That’s it… feel me, pretty girl. Feel how deep I am.”

He rolls his hips once, slow and deliberate, dragging against that spot that makes stars explode behind your eyes. A broken moan rips from your throat. He catches it with his mouth, kissing you like he’s starving—soft at first, then filthy, tongue sliding against yours while he starts to fuck into you.

Long, deep strokes that make the bed creak. Each thrust pushes a wet squelch from your dripping cunt, his balls slapping against your ass. You’re so small beneath him, folded and helpless, and he uses it—uses every inch of that size difference to pin you down and ruin you.

You whimper beneath him, the sound caught between a sob and a plea, your much smaller body pinned so perfectly under his weight that every breath feels borrowed.

“Euij—too deep—fuck, I can’t—Nghh too much…”

The words tremble out of you, cracked and dripping with everything you’re trying not to feel, but your cunt betrays you anyway—clenching hard around his thick cock like it’s starving for more. EJ’s gentle laugh ghosts across your lips, low and velvet-soft, the kind that makes your stomach twist with shame and heat all at once.

“Can’t?” he echoes, rolling his hips again in that slow, devastating grind that drags every ridge along your fluttering walls. “But look at you, baby…sucking me in so greedily. This tiny little cunt was made to take me. Every. Fucking. Inch.”

He punctuates the last three words with three sharp thrusts that leave you breathless and writhing beneath him. He folds you tighter, knees nearly beside your ears. The stretch burns so sweet it blurs the edges of the room. You’re so full you swear you can feel the blunt head of him nudging against your cervix, a pressure that makes your toes curl and fresh tears slip down your temples.

You try to twist away—just a little, just to breathe—but his hands are iron on the backs of your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open like a gift he’s waited years to unwrap.

“Shh, pretty girl. Don't fight it,” he murmurs, voice still that soft, reassuring lullaby even as his length splits you open again and again. “You’ve been teasing me for weeks… leaving those sweet panties for me to steal. Did you know I’d wrap them around my cock every night? Stroke myself raw imagining how tight you’d feel?”

Your face burns hotter than the slick mess dripping down your ass. “I—I didn’t… I swear I didn’t know—”

Another brutal snap of his hips cuts you off, turning your denial into a broken moan. EJ leans down, glasses fogged and slipping, lips brushing your ear as he whispers filth like a secret.

“Liar. You liked finding them, didn’t you? Smelling me on your pretty things… wondering which pair I came in last.” He bites down gently on your earlobe, then soothes it with his tongue. “My good girl. So polite during the day… such a needy little slut for me at night.”

You sob out his name—half plea, half curse—as he starts fucking you harder, the wet slap of skin on skin obscene in the otherwise quiet room. Each thrust rocks you up the bed, your tits bouncing with the force, nipples tight and aching. EJ notices, of course. He seems to notice everything when it comes to you. One large hand leaves your thigh to palm your breast, pinching and rolling the sensitive peak until you arch into him with a whimper.

“Jju—please—slow down, I’m gonna—”

“Gonna what, sweetheart?” His voice drops, dark and sweet like poisoned honey. “Gonna cum already? Go on then. Let me feel it. Give it to me.”

The coil in your belly snaps without warning. Pleasure crashes over you in white-hot waves, your walls fluttering and squeezing around his thick length as you squirt around him, soaking his stomach and the sheets beneath you. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, tears streaming freely now. EJ groans long and low, fucking you through every pulse, drawing it out until your legs shake uncontrollably.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps moving—slower now, deeper, grinding against that oversensitive spot inside you until fresh sparks dance up your spine. “That’s one,” he breathes against your mouth, kissing the tears from your cheeks like they’re precious. “Come on—give me another, baby. Wanna feel this greedy cunt cum again before I fill you up.”

His hand slides down between your bodies, thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight, merciless circles. You jerk beneath him, oversensitive and whimpering, but your hips still chase his touch like you can’t help it.

“Too much—EJ, fuck—too much, please—”

“Shh. You can take it. You’re going to take everything I give you.” He kisses you again, filthy and claiming, swallowing every broken sound as he starts thrusting harder once more—long, punishing strokes.

You are extremely grateful EJ’s room is relatively far from the others’ rooms.

Because how the headboard is knocking now—steady, insistent, like a heartbeat gone feral—each heavy thrust driving it against the wall with a dull, rhythmic thud that would have given everything away if anyone were close enough to hear. But no one is. Just you. Just him. Just the wet, obscene slap of his hips meeting yours and the broken little sounds he keeps pulling from your throat like they belong to him.

EJ’s smile stays so soft, so fond, even as he manhandles your tiny frame exactly how he wants, folding you smaller, pinning you tighter. His thumb never eases on your clit, rubbing slick, relentless circles while his length drags along every sensitive inch inside you, bullying that spot until your vision whites out again. Pulses of wetness gush from you, coating his cock and his abs in your clear juices—soaking into his sheets with each long thrust.

“Fuuuck, sweetheart…you’re squirting all over me,” he praises in that gentle, wrecked lullaby, eyes dark and hungry behind fogged lenses. “Such a messy little thing. Look at you—crying, shaking, creaming all over oppa’s cock. Mmmm…gonna have to change my sheets.” “Can’t—nnghh—too much!” The words tumble out of your mouth, mixed in with high pitched whines and moans. But your body betrays the words that fall from your mouth—hips still roll weakly against him, chasing the ache, and EJ’s eyes darken with satisfaction.

“See? Your body’s honest even when you’re not.” He starts moving again—slower this time, deep and deliberate, letting you feel every inch drag along your oversensitive walls. 

Another orgasm rips through you without mercy, sharper this time, almost painful in its intensity. Your whole body shakes, legs attempting to close as your release gushes out from you—tears spill and your cunt clamps down like a vice, milking him with wet, rhythmic pulses that force a guttural moan from his throat. He fucks you through it anyway—slow, deep grinds that stretch the pleasure into something endless, something overwhelming, even as you’re a trembling, sobbing mess beneath him.

“Thaaat’s it…give it all to me,” he whispers, licking another tear from your cheek before claiming your mouth again, tongue fucking into you in time with his cock. “One more, pretty girl. One more. I know you can give me another—then I’ll fill you up so deep you’ll feel me for days.”

You don’t even have the breath to beg anymore. Just broken whimpers and the wet, filthy sounds of him ruining you—skin slapping skin, your arousal and his precum squelching obscenely with every thrust, the faint creak of the bedframe joining the headboard’s relentless rhythm.

EJ’s pace turns meaner, hips snapping harder, faster, like the two-faced sweetness is cracking wide open to reveal the depraved hunger underneath. His free hand wraps lightly around your throat—not choking, just holding, thumb pressing possessively over your racing pulse as he leans down to growl against your lips.

“Gonna cum, baby. Gonna pump this tiny, greedy cunt full until it’s leaking down your thighs. You’re mine now. Say it.”

You try—god, you try—but all that comes out is a shattered “Jju—yours—” right as he buries himself to the hilt one last time.

His hips snap forward with a final thrust, cock pulsing thick and heavy inside your fluttering walls as he comes undone. Hot, endless ropes of cum flood you so deep you feel it like a brand—thick and heavy, spilling over and over until it’s leaking out around his shaft in creamy white rivulets, mixing with your own mess and dripping down the curve of your ass to soaking into  the sheets even more. EJ’s groan is low, broken against your mouth, his hand tightening just a fraction around your throat as he holds you there, pinned and full and claimed.

You’re still trembling through the aftershocks, cunt clenching helplessly around him like it never wants to let go, every tiny pulse milking another spurt from his twitching length. Tears streak freely down your temples now, and he chases them with soft, open-mouthed kisses, licking the salt from your skin like it’s sweeter than anything he’s ever tasted.

“Mine,” he whispers, voice velvet-rough, that gentle lullaby cracking at the edges with raw possession. “All fucking mine, pretty girl. Say it again while you’re dripping with my cum.”

You break.

The words spill out of you in a helpless, babbling mess, cracked and slurry and dripping with everything you can’t hold back anymore—

“Y-yours—yours Jju, m’yours—fuck, so full, can’t—too much cum, s’leaking everywhere, please—”

You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore. Just fragments, pleas, broken affirmations that melt into wet, hiccuping sobs as another weak ripple of overstimulation rolls through your ruined little cunt—your legs shake and your thighs tremble like they might give out any second.

EJ drinks it all in like a fine wine, that gentle smile never fading even as his cock twitches hard inside your fluttering heat, pushing another thick spurt of his seed deeper with a lazy grind of his hips. The wet, filthy sound of it—his release slowly leaking out around his thick base, sliding down your skin in warm, sticky trails—makes your face burn hotter.

“Shh, pretty girl…listen to you,” he coos, voice still holding that softness, thumb stroking slow circles over your racing pulse where his hand still collars your throat. “Babbling so sweetly for me while your tiny pussy keeps milking every drop. You’re already so messy, baby. All swollen and sloppy and stuffed full of me…mmm just the way I dreamed.”

He leans down, lips brushing yours in a kiss that starts tender—before his tongue slips in to taste your broken whimpers, fucking your mouth in the same lazy rhythm his hips have taken. Slow, deep rolls that drag every sensitive inch of his cock along your oversensitive walls, stirring the warm flood of his cum until it squelches obscenely with every movement. 

Your belly feels heavy with it, slightly bloated and claimed, that faint bulge of his cock pressing against your lower abdomen each time he sinks back in.

Ej’s low, satisfied chuckle vibrates against your lips as he keeps that lazy, grinding rhythm, cock still buried deep and twitching inside your cum-soaked heat. Every slow roll of his hips pushes more of his release out around his thick base, the wet sounds downright obscene in the quiet room—sticky, squelching, filthy. Your thighs are a mess, glistening with it, the sheets beneath you beyond ruined.

“Fuuck, listen to that,” he murmurs, voice husky and warm, almost proud. 

“Your little cunt’s so full it can’t even keep it all inside. Greedy thing…and you’re still trying to milk me even after I’ve emptied everything into you.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your tear-streaked cheek, then the fluttering pulse under his thumb. His hand on your throat stays gentle but firm, a constant reminder of who you belong to now.

You’re floating—overstimulated, dazed, body limp and trembling under him. Another weak, broken sob slips out when he gives one final, deep thrust, pressing that faint bulge against your lower belly like he wants you to feel exactly how much he’s claimed you.

“Shhh… easy, pretty girl. I’ve got you.” His tone softens even more, that sweet EJ resurfacing as the feral edge ebbs. He finally slips his hand from your throat to cradle your face instead, thumbs brushing away fresh tears. Slowly, carefully, he eases his cock out of you with a wet pop. A thick gush of his cum follows immediately, pouring out of your swollen, fluttering hole and running down between your ass cheeks in heavy, warm rivulets.

You whimper at the sudden emptiness, clenching around nothing, and EJ makes a soft, soothing sound. 

He shifts down your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your heaving chest, your stomach, until he’s settled between your trembling thighs. His tongue drags slowly up your messy slit, tasting the mix of both of you, humming like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever had.

“So pretty like this,” he whispers against your sensitive flesh, licking you clean with long, gentle strokes. “All puffy and leaking my cum… my perfect girl.”

He doesn’t stop until you’re shuddering again, another smaller, exhausted orgasm rippling through you under his careful mouth. Only then does he crawl back up, gathering your boneless body against his chest.

He wraps you up tight, one arm banded around your waist, the other stroking slow circles up and down your spine. His lips brush your temple, your hair, your ear—soft, reverent kisses as your breathing slowly evens out.

“My sweet girl,” he says again, quieter this time, like a promise pressed into your skin. “All mine. No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to ruin you and put you back together.” His fingers trace the faint marks he left on your throat, then lower, over the sticky mess still coating your thighs. “Let me clean you up properly…”

And thats the last thing you hear before your overwhelmed body and mind finally give out.

You drift in that hazy, boneless space between dreams and waking, EJ’s warmth still curled around you like a second skin—his heartbeat a steady lullaby against your back, his cum still lingering inside your walls even after he’d cleaned you with such tender devotion. His whispers linger in your ear long after sleep claims you fully: my sweet girl… all mine…

And then—

You wake alone.

Your own bed. Sheets cool and crisp beneath you, the faint scent of your own detergent instead of his skin and sweat and that thick, musky release he’d pumped so deep. Your body aches in the most delicious, filthy ways: thighs sticky, core tender and fluttering like it still remembers the shape of him, a faint bruise blooming at the base of your throat where his thumb had pressed just right. You sit up slowly, oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder, and press trembling fingers to your swollen lips.

Did that…really happen?

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

You pad barefoot down the hall, legs a little unsteady, the oversized sleep shorts you somehow have on again riding up with every step. The kitchen light is on—soft, golden, spilling across the tiles like an invitation. Your heart does something complicated when you see a tall figure at the counter instead of EJ’s gentle silhouette.

K.

He looks even taller in the low light, easily over 185 cm of quiet muscle poured into that same black tank top, gym shorts hugging those powerful thighs. His normal protein shake is long gone; now he’s pouring something else—water, maybe—his movements unhurried, controlled. When his gaze slides over to you, slow and heavy, that same gentle smile curves his mouth, soft youthful features almost deceptive in their kindness.

“Morning,” he says, voice smooth like warm honey, deeper than you remember. He sets the glass down with a quiet clink and turns fully toward you, broad shoulders rolling under the thin fabric. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You freeze near the fridge, suddenly hyper-aware of how little you’re really wearing, how your nipples pebble against the hoodie from the soft chill of the apartment, how your shorts have ridden up, slick soaking the crotch—pussy clenching involuntarily at the way K’s eyes drag down your body—lingering, appreciative, and all knowing.

“I—yeah. Just…um…thirsty.” The lie tastes weak on your tongue.

He steps closer. Not crowding, not yet, but close enough that you catch that same musky, woody cologne, mixed now with something sharper—clean sweat, faint detergent, and underneath it all, something darker. His hand reaches past you to open the cabinet, chest brushing your shoulder just like before, heat radiating off him in waves.

“Here,” he murmurs, handing you a glass of cold water. His fingers linger against yours, thumb stroking once over your knuckles. “You look… flushed. Long night?”

The question seems innocent, but the look in his eyes gives him away.

You take the glass with shaky hands, lips parting around the rim, and he watches—openly, shamelessly—how your throat works as you swallow. A low sound rumbles in his chest, almost too quiet to hear.

You swallow the cold water, clearing your throat before speaking, “Um…Where’s Ej?”

K’s gentle smile doesn’t falter, not even for a second.

It only deepens, soft and almost fond, as he watches the way your voice cracks around EJ’s name. His thumb keeps stroking slow, lazy circles over your knuckles, warm and deceptively sweet, while the rest of him looms so close you can feel the heat rolling off that broad chest in waves.

“EJ?” he echoes, voice low and smooth like velvet dragged over gravel. “Ah…He went for an early run. Said something about clearing his head after last night.”

His eyes flick down to the faint bruise peeking just above the collar of your hoodie—Ej’s mark, left so tenderly—and that dark, hungry flicker returns, gentler than Nicholas but no less dangerous.

“He told me you were still sleeping so beautifully when he slipped out. All soft and puffy and leaking his cum like a good girl.”

Your breath stutters. The glass nearly slips from your fingers.

K catches it easily, setting it aside with one hand while the other—tugs at the waistband of your shorts. Pulling you close enough you can smell the notes of his cologne. Cedar and olibanum.

A broken sound slips from your throat—half protest, half whimper—and his fingers slip lower, bolder now, sliding under the hem of your shorts and straight between your thighs. Two thick digits drag through your wetness, spreading the slick along your swollen folds before pushing inside you without warning. 

A wet, filthy sound fills the quiet kitchen as he pumps them once, twice, slow and deliberate, dragging EJ’s dried spend and your fresh arousal along your fluttering walls.

God, how were you this wet already?

It’s almost as if K can hear your thoughts. 

“This wet at 9am in the morning?” K mocks, voice low and dripping with cruelness, that soft youthful face twisting into something mean and sharp as his thumb grinds slow circles over your throbbing clit. “Fuck, you really are just a pathetic little slut, aren’t you? EJ pumps you full like a good breeding toy and you still wake up dripping for the next one. Greedy. Fucking. Hole.”

You can’t even catch your breath before he spins you around roughly. Your back pressed against his chest as two long fingers plunged into your dripping cunt with a wet schlick that makes your knees buckle. He catches you easily—big palm splayed across your lower belly, pressing you flush against his hard body like you weigh nothing at all. 

“Pathetic,” he growls right against your ear, voice no longer velvet-soft but edged with cruel amusement. “Still leaking EJ’s load and your greedy little pussy is sucking me in like a desperate whore. You really are just a free-use cumdump for this apartment, huh?”

His hand clamps tight over your mouth the second you try to whine, fingers digging into your cheeks hard enough to bruise. You can hear faint footsteps in the hallway—lazy, unhurried—But K doesn’t stop. He finger-fucks you faster, meaner, the heel of his palm grinding against your swollen clit with every brutal thrust. Your juices run down his wrist, soaking into the fabric of your sleep shorts, the obscene sounds muffled only by how tightly he’s crushing you against him. Your lips part against his palm in a desperate, muffled plea—“please, K, someone’s—” but the words dissolve into a broken whimper as his hand presses harder, crushing the sound before it can escape.

Oh god, someone’s going to see—

“Shut the fuck up and take it,” he hisses, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “Someone will see if you don’t keep your mouth shut—if you make a single fucking noise, I’ll bend you over this counter and make sure whoever’s coming gets to watch me ruin this sloppy hole.”

Your walls clench violently around his fingers at the threat, shame and heat flooding through you in equal measure. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes—it only fuels him, its exactly what he wants—he laughs softly, darkly, twisting his digits deeper, stretching you wider. The size difference is obscene; his broad frame dwarfs your much smaller one, making you feel tiny, helpless, breakable.

You whimper, hips twitching involuntarily into his touch despite the shame burning through you. This can’t be happening again—But you only gush around his finger—it's like your body had become accustomed to being used like this.

“Mmm…EJ’s not the only one who’s been patient,” he continues, lips trailing down the side of your neck to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss over the fading bruise. 

“Watching you prance around in those tiny shorts. Fuck…I’ve jerked off to the idea of fucking this sweet cunt more than you can think.”

His confession hits like a spark to dry tinder. Your pussy clenches hard around his fingers, another rush of slick flooding out to coat his hand, and K groans low in his throat—still so gentle, still smiling against your skin.

“Good girl,” he praises, nipping at your earlobe. “See? Your body knows who it belongs to now.”

The footsteps pause just outside the kitchen.

K yanks his fingers out so suddenly you nearly sob into his palm, your empty cunt fluttering and clenching around nothing. 

He spins you around again, shoving your back against the counter, and brings those glistening fingers straight to his mouth. His eyes—still deceptively soft in that youthful face—lock onto yours as he sucks them clean with a filthy moan, tongue dragging slow between the digits like he’s savoring the mix of your fresh slick and what remains of EJ.

“Mmm. Tastes like a used-up little slut,” he murmurs, voice dripping with degradation. One big hand stays wrapped around your throat now, not choking yet, just a heavy warning as he leans.

“I’m not done with you yet, short stuff,” he murmurs, voice soft and dark as he tucks your hoodie back down with careful hands, almost reverent. “Not even close. Next time…I’m sinking every inch into this sloppy little cunt.”

© smidare 2026ㅤ ❤︎ㅤ likes & reposts r appreciated!

© 2026 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱.  𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾  𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌  𝖺𝗋𝖾  𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅  𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽.  𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽  𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽𝗎𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗈𝗋  𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇  𝗂𝗌  𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗁𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽

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