Amanuensis (amanuensis1) wrote,

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FIC (Kyou Kara Maou): Duties of a King (Yuuri/Everybody, NC-17, ~3300 words)

I wrote Kyou Kara Maou smutfic. I don't think I've mentioned this fandom before, so, here's a picture to entice folk. (And every one of these characters has sex in this fic. :D )

Kyou Kara Maou is the most yaoi-y fanservice series that isn't actually yaoi ever.

Title: Duties of a King
Fandom: Kyou Kara Maou
Pairings: Harem!smut (Yuuri/Conrad, Yuuri/Gunter, Yuuri/Gwendal, Yuuri/Wolfram)
Rating: (Soft) NC-17
Summary: The Maou has to keep everyone happy.
Word Count: ~3300
A/N: I started this after watching just a few episodes, and right now I'm only twenty episodes into the first season, so, don'tspoilmeandforgivemeiflatercanoncontradictsthiswholething. Thanks to nimori for beta duty!

The Maou works very hard. No one knows this better than the castle's servants, who work hardest of all, up before sunrise and to bed after midnight. Maintaining a castle's spotlessness, feeding its inhabitants in the style they deserve, attending those same inhabitants' needs, makes for a long day's work.

This Maou, adorable young Yuuri, keeps up no less a pace than his predecessors. How earnest he is, say the chambermaids, how hard he tries. Especially coming to the position of king knowing so little of the structure of this world. His magic skills come to him slowly and the rest of his trappings of office--swordsmanship, horsemanship, all the skills that mark an aristocrat proper--are worse, but his honesty and compassion are making a diplomat of him despite all the rest. And he does apply himself; the number of cries of, "I'm supposed to what?" that echo in the hallways has diminished over the months.

Doria has told them that more than once she has gone into the Maou's chambers to light the morning fire and found Yuuri already awake and dressing himself alone in the chill--such negligence of them to let that happen! (Now Doria always enters bearing a pot of chocolate and a plate of rolls, just in case.) And Lasagna has been witness to the scandal when a spilled waterglass actually brought the king to his knees on the floor, sopping up the spill with his napkin and not even bothering to call for a servant. Such a dedicated young man.

In one respect Yuuri's schedule does not reflect that of any former Maou. Affairs of state--whether they involve signatures, discussion, or even the reception of an honored guest--are done with by a brisk and early eight p.m. And the king retires to bed. This is not observed; it is enforced.

The chambermaids could tell you why, but they value their positions more than they love gossip. And they love Yuuri even more than that.

As everyone loves Yuuri.


He'd needed peace. He'd never have agreed to it otherwise!

Or...well, he supposed if you pinned him down he'd have to admit the suggestion was his, but it had been a joke. Half of one. Because it was true, he'd really needed peace. Not just his, everyone's. Gunter. Gwendal. Wolfram, God, Wolfram. And Conrad.

And everyone was happy with the arrangement. Everyone except him, but that was the way it should be, shouldn't it, that a leader should take on the greatest burden for his subjects. Not as if it were really a burden, that wasn't fair either. They were all so...attentive. Even hunting the mildest adjective to describe it was enough to make him gulp and blush. Really, any complaint was shameful of him. It wasn't as if he were unhappy, really.

Just so achingly tired.


He hadn't decided the order. He hadn't thought far enough ahead to imagine they'd need an order. Fortunately--he supposed it was fortunate--they'd taken it out of his hands and decided among themselves. Well. Decided was maybe too nice a word. Even removed from them by the distance of a balcony, he'd heard nine-tenths of their discussion (which was also too nice a word). Wolfram had yelled at top volume.

Conrad is the first. Yuuri sees all sorts of logic for this, but he's afraid to voice it aloud in case he misread something, or in case it looks like he's taking Conrad for granted. He never wants to take Conrad for granted.

Because Conrad protects him better than anyone. At exactly eight o'clock p.m., Conrad insinuates himself (if he's not already there) into whatever conversation, whatever dignitary is occupying Yuuri's attentions, and begs forgiveness but the Maou must be excused, his schedule is rigid, he can give no more of his time tonight. No matter who pleas for or insists upon a few minutes more, Conrad's smooth apologies free Yuuri so seamlessly there can be no offense taken. Yuuri himself hardly needs to speak a word.

Conrad escorts him to the Maou's quarters. Yuuri's never allowed to go to the baths before bed; it goes against all Yuuri's sense of what is proper just before this kind of intimacy, but none of the four are willing to risk Yuuri's disappearance just before this, it seems. He gets to bathe in the mornings. Apparently they've decided daytime affairs of state are more expendable. Thinking about it too much makes Yuuri's head hurt.

Conrad puts Yuuri to bed. This is the second point where Yuuri is grateful Conrad's the first one with him each night, because this is where his exhaustion from the day slams into him like a fist, and it's comforting to leave himself in Conrad's welcoming hands, those hands which undress him, sponge off the day's sweat and grime (not, Yuuri thinks, as thorough as a bath would be, but at least he gets this concession), arrange a warm robe about his shoulders for the short distance he escorts him to the bed, slip the robe from his shoulders and slide him between crisp laundered sheets, where Yuuri thinks he could lie a year before he would wake completely rested.

Third point to be grateful for Conrad: Yuuri can lie there in the dimness and it feels almost like he's had most of that year to rest--he might actually have fallen asleep for a minute--as Conrad undresses himself noiselessly and slides into the bed next to Yuuri. Arms as agile as they are strong pull the drowsing Yuuri against a warm, broad chest, so whisper-smooth that Yuuri might not even wake yet, but only murmur and burrow closer to that warmth.

He will wake during the kissing. Conrad's mouth tastes like wine and honesty, small coaxing kisses that never offend, only stir Yuuri's body to gentle arousal with the same grace as Conrad does everything. By the time the kisses have moved to his chest Yuuri finds himself sighing, and even when they linger over the ticklish surface of his belly Yuuri wants only to stretch out and allow Conrad anything he pleases, with no sense of shame.

By the time Conrad has Yuuri's hard length in his hand, Yuuri can't predict what he'll decide to do with it, except that it's always the most welcome result. Conrad seems to gauge Yuuri's needs as if they could be weighed, the fullness and eagerness of his arousal transmitting a signal, a mood.

Conrad might decide to take Yuuri into his mouth and suckle him to a spine-arching climax. Or he might shift position upon the bed and engulf Yuuri's organ in an even tighter, slower embrace within his body. And some nights it is Yuuri who is turned, set on his stomach and breached with great tenderness, one hand cupping him beneath and stroking until he spends, the bedclothes absorbing the dampness of it and also the sound of Yuuri's cry. Whatever he chooses, Conrad's own sighs soon follow, his shudders sending tremors through the bed that Yuuri imagines is the wake of his own climax, prolonged in Conrad's.

Before the hour is up, Yuuri again falls into sleep, curled into Conrad who nevertheless manages to slip from the bed without waking his majesty, five minutes before the hour expires.


At nine o'clock, the door opens to admit Gunter, and Yuuri's wide awake.

It's not because of the noise. Well, perhaps it is. Not the volume of the noise, to be clear. The noise is just Gunter's inhalation as the door shuts behind him, leaving him alone in the room with his beloved majesty. The inhalation carries the sigh of a man who fears he might faint from giddiness. Yuuri always hears it.

For someone other than Yuuri, Gunter might go to his head, all mad devotion and worship. But Yuuri is who he is, and for Yuuri, being worshipped is awkward. Nor does it help that Gunter lights several candles when he enters the room, the better to see his beloved. To Yuuri it's like a spotlight, and he tries not to protest. Even the least hint of displeasure, Gunter takes so hard he might weep. (Though Gunter's prettiness isn't diminished by tears. Yuuri was surprised--and flustered--the first time that thought crossed his mind.)

To be honest, Yuuri knows if Gunter were allowed nothing except to watch him sleep, that entire hour, Gunter would consider himself a lucky man. But while that might be a royal action, it wouldn't be noble or fair, and Yuuri never puts any of his guardians off like that.

Gunter always arrives in something thin and easy to remove, because if he didn't, the prospect of undressing himself would be too much for him to overcome, he's so caught up in staring at Yuuri. Yuuri endures the candles, endures the complete removal of the bedclothes, endures Gunter's adoring eyes on him until his blush covers his entire body.

But when Gunter overcomes his reserve and reaches out to lay his fingers on Yuuri's skin, the reverence in Gunter's touch stirs Yuuri in a way that Gunter's worshipful stare alone could not match, could only leave Yuuri shy and flushing. Gunter's fingers touching his arm, or his face or chest or whatever he first dares to caress spurs something in Yuuri. Something...kingly.

Suddenly Yuuri finds it easy to smile, even laugh a little, his embarrassment gone as he remembers that he can't possibly be more bashful than Gunter feels right now. The kindest thing he can do--that a king would do--for Gunter is to put him at ease.

So he pulls Gunter further into the bed with him, tucking himself into Gunter's arms to show him how well he fits, how Yuuri's just flesh and blood, how easy it should be. Only Gunter makes him this bold; only Gunter rewards him with a gasp of pleasure like this, makes him feel a little of that majesty everyone says the Maou has.

And when Gunter takes his face between his hands to kiss him Yuuri kisses back, encouraging him, watching Gunter's hesitation fall away to be replaced by a fierce show of desire. Yuuri finds himself matching it, and not just in show.

Gunter fierce is a startling and delightful person to have in bed. Between the kisses he whispers endearments to Yuuri, no less adoring than his earlier stares but these are laced with suggestions of what Gunter wants to do with his majesty, and none of them are modest. Each description involves at least two orifices and more fingers than Yuuri thinks they have between them, but this is Gunter and Yuuri's sure he'd find a way.

Gunter literally takes his breath away, kissing him until he's panting, and Yuuri ends up splayed on the bed, attended to with lips and tongue and even teeth in a fearless display of Gunter's worship, gasping as he's mapped from throat to toe by Gunter's eager mouth. Yuuri sighs, giggles, whimpers by turns, depending on where Gunter's got to--a whole feast of helpless reactions--and eventually ends up moaning, arching, clutching, giving up incoherent noises that drive Gunter's own arousal as much as the taste of his majesty does.

Yuuri could drift off in the afterhaze of that experience as he does with Conrad, but Gunter is not as direct about satisfying himself as Conrad is; Yuuri can still feel the pulses of Gunter's desire as if they were audible, and he remembers that Gunter isn't Conrad and won't go further once he thinks he's satisfied Yuuri, not without permission. Yuuri doesn't want to give permission, though--he wants to give. It barely takes more than the touch of Yuuri's hand, let alone his mouth, to have Gunter shuddering, mewling his pleasure through bitten lips, overcome by shame and sweetness as he soils his majesty with the evidence of that pleasure.

Yuuri doesn't sleep after, but that's all right; Gunter's worshipful gaze, half-lidded and happy, bathes him like light and keeps him from relaxing all the way into sleep, but he enjoys running Gunter's pale hair between his fingers and hearing the coos Gunter makes. It's just as soothing for Yuuri.

Gunter makes it easy for Yuuri to be generous, so he wonders if he can even count it as generosity if it's that easy. A king's responsibilities are heavy enough without imagining other burdens, though, so Yuuri stops worrying about it and just enjoys himself. Which surprises him. Pleasantly, though.


It's difficult to be sure if Gwendal's hour is simple or complicated. Much like Gwendal himself.

If Gunter would be content just watching Yuuri while he slept, Gwendal would be at peace--well, at least he'd never betray anything besides contentment--watching everything except for Yuuri while Yuuri slept. A vigil against enemies, against traps and assaults, spent at the door, the fireplace flue, the windows in their turn, his attention directed at anything outside of the room that might cause the king harm.

And Yuuri can't have that. Gwendal is included in the arrangement, and that's that. It's not enough for Yuuri to allow or even encourage him, as it is with Gunter--Yuuri has to give, right from the start.

Which would make it complicated, except that Gwendal's stolid loyalty, the devotion that cloaks itself in obligation for the sake of a man used to denying himself, touches Yuuri. More, it sparks him. Yuuri's always been big on correcting injustice, and Gwendal's conflict screams to him for correction.

But Gwendal himself is an obstacle, with his always-expression of disapproval and his stony posture. Gunter makes Yuuri bold, but Gwendal makes him timid. If not for Yuuri's need to see justice done, he might never have the courage to drape himself about Gwendal's shoulders--well, arms and back; he can't reach Gwendal's shoulders when he's standing--to ask him to come to bed, to ask twice when Gwendal grunts something negative, to tug at Gwendal's arms when words aren't enough. Yuuri may feel his face heating, but he manages all of this.

It's a little like a magic spell, Yuuri thinks, the way he has to tell Gwendal yes, and yes, and yes again, sometimes three times, sometimes more, as if there's ritual to be fulfilled before Gwendal can take Yuuri at his word, so to speak. Because once Gwendal is sure (and Yuuri never knows why Gwendal needs to be sure every night, as if all the nights before haven't meant anything), Gwendal is focused. Yuuri is always surprised at how gentle the stern nobleman can be, and how passionate. There are almost no words once Gwendal is sure, except for the additional ritual-like exchanges where Gwendal asks Yuuri if he is hurting him, and Yuuri answers no, because Gwendal never does. Not with his hands, not with his mouth, not with any part of him. Nothing hurts; it only makes Yuuri want more. After the night he's already had, Yuuri knows it isn't because he's been left wanting. It's Gwendal causing that, and Yuuri clings to him all the tighter.

In one hour's time, Yuuri feels as if he's been taken to pieces and reassembled. Gwendal is both needy and generous; he's thorough, keeps a steady pace that can be comforting or maddening, but commands Yuuri to yield to it either way. Which Yuuri does, knowing better than to fight Gwendal's wisdom. In anything, really, but especially this.

Yuuri might beg, at some point. Soft, forlorn pleas of faster, of more. But that doesn't count as arguing.

When Gwendal's had all of him there is to have--Yuuri's sure there isn't a space left on his body, inside or out, that doesn't know him--Yuuri's left both gasping and fulfilled, worn-out and energized all at the same time. In the few minutes of the hour that are left, he falls into a deep and immediate sleep in Gwendal's arms.

Which he's going to need.


Gwendal actually does exit the room before Wolfram enters, and Yuuri would wonder at Wolfram's unusual restraint except he heard the conversation--scolding, to call it what it was--where Conrad threatened to put his younger brother over his knee and spank him if he didn't observe some boundaries of propriety and let Gwendal get his thrice-cursed clothes on and leave Yuuri's room with his dignity intact before Wolfram descended on the room like a jealous harpy at eleven p.m. on the dot, dammit. Wolfram had spat and fussed but Conrad told him he didn't mean the fun kind of spanking, either, which made Yuuri want to stop eavesdropping pretty damn fast.

In any case, Gwendal's gone, but Yuuri hears that tread in the hallway and reacts like Dracula's about to invade the room, all that relaxation squandered as the door's flung open and his fiancé enters, all seethe and spit.

Yuuri knows better than to do anything except groan in exasperation as Wolfram begins his own litany, laced with how dare yous and you'd better not have enjoyed yourselfs and is this any way for a man to treat his fiancés. No point in protesting that Wolfram himself agreed to stand by the arrangement, that it isn't as if Yuuri wants to be sleeping with four men each night--Wolfram doesn't hear a word of it.

Eventually, as Wolfram continues to pelt him with his outrage even as he disrobes, tossing his clothing piece by piece to the floor, he achieves complete nudity and flings himself into the bed and upon Yuuri, swearing none of it matters, as he's going to erase all thoughts of others from Yuuri's mind in a scant five minutes, let alone an hour.

And the ordeal begins. Gwendal at least put Yuuri back together after he unmade him in that previous, pleasant hour--Wolfram, like the boy he is, breaks Yuuri into his component atoms and leaves him that way, twitching, whimpering, even whining for a minute's rest which Wolfram never allows him, as Wolfram insists that Yuuri, as king and as the one who proposed to him in the first place, has a duty to reduce Wolfram to a sobbing limp rag before the hour is up. It's what any man would do--what is he, a fucking pussy?

And Yuuri nearly throws his back out trying to prove to Wolfram he's not, to shut the other boy up as he pounds him into the mattress, hands twisting in Wofram's hair and twisting other parts of Wolfram's anatomy in angry frenzy, enduring his screeches and his insults until Wolfram is howling his surrender, his submission, his devotion, into the bedclothes, into Yuuri's ear, into the echoes of the chamber where Yuuri damn well hopes they carry to the whole damned kingdom, serve the little shit right.

Yet Yuuri always feels a surge of tenderness as Wolfram, post-coital and docile as a lamb, twines his arms about his king, kisses him on the mouth and whispers his name through tears. For a moment, the blond drowsy head on his shoulder makes him feel not only like a king, but a conqueror, with the sweetest of spoils at his side.

And then he realizes that the whole castle probably did hear the two of them, and he wants to get sucked down a drain and flee. It doesn't help that Wolfram usually refuses to leave at midnight, yawning and insisting that it doesn't matter if he just stays to sleep the night away, since no one else is showing up after him, are they, at least they had better not, you filthy two-timing cheater, I hate you so much how dare you.

Bone-deep exhaustion, Yuuri finds, is at least good for a very sound sleep.


And so the Maou and his four closest know the reason for his early evenings, as do three loyal chambermaids. And none of them talk.

Which is why none of them know how Cecilie finds out about the arrangement. And, of course, wants in.

Yuuri is thinking about abdicating.
Tags: fic, kyou kara maou
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