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Ma Meilleure Ennemie || 18+

Synopsis: Everybody in the academy knew you two detested each other to the ends of the earth and back. But oh that look in his eyes and the taste of his lips, enemies kissed each other, right?

Pairing: professor!Yuma x professor!fem!reader

Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, magic academy au, p in v, unprotected sex (not for you), cock riding, semi public sex (office), fingering, oral (m and f rec), hair pulling, degradation, praise, somehow both mean and soft dom yuma, ballroom type shi, reader has a panic attack, mentions of death, food, smoking and alcohol, nichojoo banter because its a minhosimthings fic

A/N: lemme tell you guys, I was inspired by a Doyoung picture, wrote the first half for Sunghoon and then decided this will be a Yuma fic. And here we are! I like the fucked up plot of this fic im ngl this was sorta inspired by the webtoon The Academy's Undercover Professor so yeah i hope you like this sorta enemies to lovers fic. As always, enjoy, my darlings!

Word Count: 28.9k (was 32.5k before i cut it down)

In another, more expressive universe, maybe you could have been friends. Maybe. Maybe you would have gone on picnics, fed bread to the ducks, saved a galaxy, made blueberry jam all with him. In another universe.

But in this one? You were fated to forever appear as mortal enemies, a rivalry which could destroy the very galaxy you wished to save.

But for now, you settled for turning Professor Nakakita’s demonstrative pigeons into rats, with a flick of your hand.

“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!

@berrybittynetwork my beloveds

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