Disclaimer: I do not own Kyou Kara Maou!

Sir Conrart Weller had a gentle smile, a kind gaze, and lust that devoured him each night.

He had taken to wandering the halls, a restlessness spurred on by the whisperings of relentless incubi. The devils of his dreams were by turns desirous, loving, needy, helpless and agonised. The devils of his dreams had sweet lips and smooth skin- they were untarnished by greedy hands. In the tilt of their heads, the chirrup of their laughter, the gleam of their eyes, he saw his king.

The myriad forms of a single lover, whose cruelty meant he joined Conrart only in his unconscious fantasies and departed with his waking, had black irises and black hair, and was a child of fifteen.

With each entrancing incarnation that strutted or tumbled into his dreaming mind, Conrart felt his pure feelings twist further, twining perverse and decadent in his thoughts until loyalty and love became jealousy and desire. With every dream, he fell further.

So came his resolution.

No longer would he lie idle in the grip of his diseased fantasies. No longer would he wake with that forbidden name on his lips, his skin and sheets soiled by his unforgivable shame. No, with nightfall he would patrol, and watch, and protect, as was his duty, to serve his king with honour.

The half-human straightened his back, his footsteps echoing loud through the halls. The flames of the torches danced and flickered in the chill air, each sconce surrounded by a cheery golden halo. The light they spilled was irreverent as it darted gleefully about the angular frown of stone walls. Shadows encroached upon every flicker and flail, cool in their scrutiny, seeming to hulk beyond the light in waiting. Waiting for…for the light to be extinguished…But with the death of light came the death of shadow…

Conrart upped his pace, shaking his head to rid himself of his whimsical imaginings. Lapses in attention were unacceptable. He was a soldier, he had his duty.

Passing through to the lesser-used east wing of one of the side buildings, acknowledging the sentries' salutes with a nod, the swordsman noted a slight temperature drop. This draughtier, less welcoming section of the halls echoed with odd acoustics- sound reverberated here differently, as if catching upon the stone before returning. The rhythms of the place vibrated with a headier energy, a colder energy. It was no wonder that it was reserved for storage rather than accommodation. There was something unsettling about these walls. The Great Sage, upon questioning, had put it down to the scrutiny of wandering mazoku spirits, wandering through the castle to check up on the corporeal world.

Whatever it was, it was heightened at night.

Conrart strode the passageways purposefully. He noted every flicker of light about him, his senses on constant alert. Focusing his attention on the admittedly menial task left him less energy for any straying of his thoughts, and served a welcome distraction from his self-condemnation. As much as Yuuri permeated all aspects of castle life, there were isolated moments when Conrart could escape the pressure of living alongside his unobtainable desire.

And yet, without that horrible pressure, without the torture of Yuuri's presence, he knew his life would be bleak and empty. He lived for the joy of Yuuri's smile, craved his innocent touch, sought the boy's affectionate gaze wherever he turned. Ensnared, impotent and enthralled, he could only follow the boy wherever he might lead, intrude upon every aspect of Yuuri's existence, hang suspended in perpetual agony, chained forever to his loved one's side.

There could be no greater or more wretched shame.

Momentarily caught in his unintended wallowing, Conrart failed to notice at first the sound of footsteps. When he caught it, his hand flew to his sword hilt and he tensed in preparation, dropping back into the shadows, just in case.

A slim figure rounded the corner. Conrart's eyes narrowed as he scrutinised it. It moved with grace and poise that resonated with something inside him, at once remote and known. Stepping forwards quickly, drawing his sword with a flourish, he challenged the stranger. "Halt!" The man stopped, but did not seem unduly perturbed or, indeed, surprised. Conrart advanced further. "Identify yourself, in the name of the king," he ordered, abruptly.

The stranger made no reply. Instead, he moved to the right, coming within range of a guttering torch. The weak light spilled over a familiar black uniform, revealing the shape of the Maou.

Hazel eyes widened. The sword tip wavered, then Conrart dropped his stance, relaxing. "Your Majesty?"

No, not quite. The posture was wrong- too self-assured, too comfortable in itself. This figure was more like one of Conrart's incubi- the soldier swallowed hard at the thought.

"Dear Conrart," came a dark-chocolate voice, taking particular relish in forcing the correct pronunciation from Yuuri's tongue. "Dear fool, who cannot recognise your Maou."

A faint blue glow began to suffuse about the slight form, revealing the figure's hidden eyes. Slitted pupils glared at Conrart from dark irises, glacier-cold and unreadable. The devil smirked, Yuuri's lips curving into a cruel bow that looked so wrong on that beloved face. Thick black hair rippled about the Maou's shoulders, borne on invisible winds. The angle of Yuuri's slim hips thrust out to the side, eerily defined against the shadows as the Maou rested a slender hand on black cloth, posing with a casual arrogance. Conrart gulped, his gaze lingering on the line of those tempting hips before he dragged his gaze upwards to meet amused eyes.

"Your Majesty, why are you abroad at this hour?" he addressed the Maou respectfully, aware that it was Yuuri's alter ego who faced him now.

The question was ignored.

The Maou's head inclined like a cat's, curious. "Do you desire this body?"

The brusque question caused the soldier to shudder. "No," he answered, bolstering his voice with a resolve that sounded false, even to his ears. Hurriedly, he changed the subject. "It is unwise for you to wander so late, Your Majesty."

The light about the Maou dimmed as he stepped forwards. He gave no indication of having heard Conrart's words. With steady sensuality, almost sashaying, almost strutting, he moved closer. His body swayed, controlled, comfortable in its physicality, a direct contrast to the clumsy stumbling of the bright-eyed boy who usually possessed control. Conrart startled at the pulse of lust that throbbed through him, taking an automatic retreating step as the vision from his dreams advanced.

This was not Yuuri.

His Yuuri was sweet and innocent, naïve and so beautifully awkward, so uncomfortable in his adolescent skin. This stranger wearing his flesh exuded sexuality. The Maou prowled, where Yuuri would bumble. Still…it was the familiar lines of the forbidden body, the resonance of that familiar, forbidden voice, and it ensnared him as easily as had the first shy smile from his beloved king. This Maou…this Maou both was and was not the boy he'd fallen for.

"Your Majesty-" Conrart murmured, shakily.

The Maou lifted a hand and placed it on his chest, halting scant centimetres from the stricken warrior. His touch burned through Conrart's thick uniform. "My lion," the monarch purred, tasting the words with aching delicacy.

The intimate brush of breath against his lips woke Conrart from scattered thoughts- he realised with a start that the king had arms locked around his neck, and was drawing him down, the black head tilting as thin lips quested for his own. The half-human gasped and drew back, unintentionally drawing the determined Maou onto his tiptoes. A lush fringe brushed his forehead and he gazed, unnerved, straight into tempestuous eyes. Conrart felt, dazed, the unnatural heat of the Maou's body pressed to his own, felt the frailty of his half-and-half vessel as he wrapped his arms about his king.


"Shh. You know me, Sir Weller, you know me intimately," the last word was spoken with lowered tones that resonated with Conrart's racing heart. "You know my name."


"As you say." With that, the Maou claimed Conrart's lips. He was cautious, chaste, in contrast with the threatening caste of his demeanour. Conrart instinctively pushed forwards, leaning down to spare His Majesty the strain on his neck and answer his king's demand.

His compliance assured, a wicked tongue licked at his lips and he surrendered with a gasp, letting the Maou enter his mouth with sly licks, seducing his tongue, inviting him to play. In response, he drew one of his hands up the Maou's arched back to bury it in his hair, anchoring his head in place so he could thoroughly explore his king's mouth, flickering at his teeth before plunging deeper. His partner hummed an approving response, the slight form shivering with delight, wriggling further into the tall soldier's clasp, inciting him to more fervent efforts.

Conrart only released the king when the burning of his lungs was causing his vision to blacken. Panting, reeling from the sensations, from the situation, he sank, weakened, to the floor. The Maou went with him. Conrart was dimly aware of his back being propped against the cool stone wall before his lap was straddled, slender legs folding neatly on either side of him, and the other's chest pressed firmly to his once again.

He was aware of hair tickling at his neck, then his collar was grabbed by gluttonous hands and he was being fiercely kissed. The king rocked slightly in his lap, in time with the persistent attentions of his tongue, a motion that felt almost tidal in its inevitable rhythm, stirring Conrart's lust from smouldering ashes to a growing flame. Galvanised into action, Conrart's hands went to the Maou's waist and he met His Majesty's assault, returning his affections with equal passion.

With a moan, the black-haired boy broke the kiss, his eyes fluttering shut as Conrart immediately dove for his jawline. "Conrart, my Conrart," the Maou breathed, signalling the relinquishing of his control by stilling the motions of his hips, becoming boneless in Conrart's hold.

The soldier grunted as he relaxed. Conrart could feel the stiffness of the other's erection resting at his stomach, could feel his own straining within the confines of his uniform, but he paid it no heed. Sliding his hands under the black jacket of his partner, he caressed, at long last, his king's smooth skin.

The Maou seemed not to notice the chill striking him as his white shirt was pulled from the waistband of his trousers, rather he hummed in response to Conrart's touch, wriggling against long fingers as dextrous lips suckled and soothed at his neck.


Speaking the name, Conrart remembered with a jolt the astonishing youth and innocence of the boy in his arms but, before he could halt his actions, the Maou undulated his hips, rubbing firmly and deliberately against his clothed erection, causing Conrart to bite down on the other's neck and thrust upwards into the warm weight atop him. The Maou purred. He rubbed his cheek, catlike, into Conrart's hair, driving the soldier's teeth further into his skin with his actions.

"I want you." The words were spoken with conviction, and they made Conrart shudder, his tongue soothing the red-hot bite mark. "This body, this soul, wants you. Do not deny me."

Blood throbbed in Conrart's veins, pulsing violent and heated through his body. He was dizzied by the sensations assaulting him, cast astray by the enormity of what was happening. "No," he gasped, when he had managed to recover enough of his wits to pull away a little, "no he's...you…you're only fifteen."

The Maou's hands stroked their way from his now-open collar, tickling up his throat to cup his face. He was once again forced to stare deep, into unearthly eyes. Losing some of their self-assuredness, he could see within them the teenager behind the monarch, could see glimpses of the woman he'd loved in silence, as well as the sparks of the powerful entity currently in control. "Fifteen years? My soul is generations old," came the soft reply. "Yet I am he, we are one and the same, we are Shibuya Yuuri. I'm so tired of being lonely, Conrart. I would not, I could not act thus if it ran contrary to my, to our desires. Please-" The voice faltered. Eyelids shuttered closed. "Please, if you love me…"

"Yuuri…" Uncharacteristically unable to think of any comforting words, Conrart kissed downwards-turned lips. The hands at his cheeks dropped to his shoulders and clung tight. Conrart poured his frustration, his shame, his lust and his love into the kiss, filling his mind with his king, praying his feelings would be transmitted.

I do love you, he thought, helpless to do anything but admit.

As it should be, came the unexpected reply, murmured directly into his thoughts. Show me your devotion.

Conrart groaned.

As supple lips moved beneath his own, a shocking cold lit across his brain, sudden like lightning. Maryoku flashed behind his eyes, so cold that it burned in his synapses, alien to his half-human body; a strange and painful gift. He jerked away.

The Maou was panting now, rocking unsteadily in Conrart's lap, held sway in the grip of their passion. From his half-open mouth, pale wisps of his extraordinary power wove insubstantial patterns in the air. Conrart could feel it entering his mouth as he breathed, crisp and cool, swirling icy and intimate in his lungs. He shivered. "What is this?"

His answer was a hand trailing down his chest, squeezing between them to cup him through his trousers. Arching helplessly into the touch, Conrart was gratified to feel the hand massage him forcefully, even as he gripped the Maou tighter to him. "Take me to bed," the king ordered, breathlessly. "I fear if you have me here, I shall be unable to move at sunrise."

The words made Conrart start, made his hip buck so wildly that he unseated his partner. Struggling awkwardly to his feet, his limbs clumsy and sluggish as lust fogged his brain, Conrart felt immediately bereft of the Maou's weight and sought it eagerly, drawing the boy-king to him to kiss him fiercely and sweep him off his feet into a secure clasp.

"My chambers are a short distance, Your Majesty, but a populated one."

The Maou laughed, a deep, delighted sound, "I care for naught but your embrace, chivalrous lion. But for the sake of your privacy, I will mask us against prying eyes."

Moving swiftly with the double burden of the mischievous incubus and his unflagging erection was no easy task, with his mind so occupied with this wanton creature, who even now persisted in kissing and nibbling at the bare skin of Conrart's neck. It was by some unknown miracle that he made it to his chambers without dropping the king to the floor and ravishing him on the unforgiving stone.

Tumbling the Maou to his bed, and pausing just long enough to scrabble out of his boots and drop his sword-belt carelessly to the floor, Conrart turned to look at his prize. Leaning up on one elbow, the demon king now lay on his side, his eyes fixed on Conrart. In his hand, he held a vial of clear liquid that he uncorked, tipping viscous liquid into palm as he unbuttoned his trousers. He slipped his lubricated hand into his distinctive black underwear with a provocative smile. Conrart watched him. It was very hard, all of a sudden, to remember how to breathe as the Maou stroked himself with languorous abandon, tossing his head back to expose the bright red bite-mark on his neck. Those hips that had so entranced Conrart were now shifting in tiny circles, the Maou uttering a tiny gasp as he pleasured himself.

The vial was dropped, forgotten, to the sheets.

Growling, Conrart shed the rest of his clothes with hurried impatience and clambered up onto the bed, all thoughts of halting his disgraceful actions cast to the four winds. Grabbing the Maou's wrist, he stopped the motion of his slick fingers, simultaneously pushing him onto his back. He hovered over the king, settling on all fours. Leaning down, he muttered, "Your Majesty, allow me to attend you."

Without waiting for an answer, Conrart proceeded to work open the buttons of the black uniform jacket and shirt; he dropped haphazard kisses to the Maou's chest, learning his taste. The faint aura of maryoku surrounding them formed an icy counterpoint to the searing heat of their skin. The Maou's torso was slick with sweat beneath his clothes, which Conrart tossed aside, focusing on the flesh that hitched under his touch with uneven breaths. His Majesty's rich, Springtime scent filled Conrart's nose like freshly-mown grass and ripening fruit, sweet and enticing. His Majesty stroked Conrart's shoulders, urging him on, writhing restlessly with his attentions.


It was a sensual seduction, a symphony of touches and tastes, both half-mazoku losing themselves in the scents and sounds of their partners. Conrart discovered, with his customary diligence, every responsive nerve in his Maou's body, marking pale skin with his confessions in nips and licks, stroking his testimony in carnal trails down a heaving chest. His avowal was confirmed in the wet heat of his mouth, which left the Maou breathless and frenzied as Conrart filled his eager mouth with his lover's arousal.

A hand tugging at his hair prevented him from bringing the Maou to completion. Lifting his head, licking salty moisture from his lips, Conrart read the longing in his king's stare. Bowing his head in assent, encumbered a little by the throbbing rush of blood through his groin, Conrart moved, with some fumbling, so that he rested on all fours, his knees splayed either side of the Maou's head, his upper body covering the king's abdomen as he leaned down to take the begging cock in his mouth once more. As he did so, he felt covetous lips close over the head of his dick and fingers grip and roughly massage his inner thighs.

The Maou worked him with an instinctive knowledge, one hand playing over Conrart's taut stomach as clever lips stretched over his shaft and a skilled tongue rippled over engorged flesh. The soldier hummed his approval, tightening his muscles to push himself further into the welcoming mouth. At that movement, the cock filling his mouth twitched and swelled further against his voracious tongue.

As pressure built in his lower stomach and tightened in his groin, he felt firm fingers lock about the base of his cock in a punishing grip and he released the Maou with a rough exclamation, his hands clenching into fists as he groaned his disappointment. The teasing mouth drew away from him and he almost cried out at its loss. A cheek rubbed at his thigh, soothingly.

"Not yet, not yet," the Maou petitioned him, soothing him away from the brink of climax, his voice catching as he sought to quell his own rising lust.

With the banking of his ardour, Conrart felt his breath come a little more under regular. He dropped to the side, lifting himself from the Maou's grip with a shudder and curling up so he lay alongside his partner. He rested his head on the Maou's yielding thighs, where his breath would brush against the king's quivering erection, and looked up the smooth planes of his torso to meet his gaze. His cock, vulgar and swollen, rested in the hollow of the Maou's neck and the tickle of the king's hair was a sweet torture. A lazy hand stroked Conrart's stomach, almost nonchalant.

They lay still.

The Maou smirked. "You're so handsome," he commented, offhand. "I am fortunate to have ensnared you ere another stumbled into your bed."

Playful and teasing, the mocking words made Conrart smile in return. "Another might have been less successful in their conquest," he admitted.

His lover blinked. Unguarded surprise flickered across sharp features, then the sharp countenance settled into a more playful humour. "Then I must reward your patient chastity. A good king should honour the sacrifices of his followers."

Before Conrart could respond, the hand on his belly stopped its soothing actions and slid to grasp his cock once again. Conrart gasped- the Maou, maintaining eye contact, angled his head to the side, opening his mouth to lap at rigid flesh, long and slow. The soldier moaned, low in his throat, his head slipping from the Maou's legs to rest on the bed as he shifted with the caress. His Majesty raised himself from his prone position, crawling up Conrart's body. His hands traced taut muscles, following the lead of his exploring tongue, until he lay chest-to-chest with his retainer. Grinning wickedly, he let himself collapse.

The impact of him, hot and alive, sent shockwaves through Conrart, whose arms came up instinctively to press the delicious weight closer, hands grabbing at pert buttocks to smash their hips together, messy and brutal.

The Maou grunted. His fingers, trapped between their chests, tensed, curling so that his nails dug into Conrart's skin. Blossoming of tiny spots of pain formed a counterpart to the steady pressure of skin-against-skin, heightening their effect. Conrart jerked his hips, growling as the slipslide of their cocks burned with the desired friction. The king groaned, abandoning control, as he echoed Conrart's thrusts. Conrart leaned up to catch his open mouth in a sloppy kiss, worrying a lower lip between his teeth before releasing it.

He wondered how it was that he had become so easily enflamed.

With swift decision, he rolled the Maou onto his back, settling atop the writhing form that arched to meet him. "Your Majesty," he growled.

"Hush, lion."

The command was rendered somewhat less effective by its breathless delivery. The Maou was reaching to the side, groping blindly until he found the discarded vial. Trembling fingers eased it open, even as Conrart kept his hips rolling in leisurely thrusts, kept roughly caressing flesh that was slick with sweat. Coating his hand with the oil, the Maou reached for Conrart, smearing his fingers equally with the stuff. Understanding completely, Conrart kept hold of him for a moment longer, then lifted himself a touch and guided both their hands between them, slippery-soft, to stroke begging erections.

The Maou groaned again, his head lolling back onto the bed, his legs spreading wantonly beneath Conrart. Little wet noises, organic and obscene, filled the quiet of the room as the lovers pleasured each other, winding up the intensity with agonising, torturous slowness, with saccharine indolence.

"Conrart," the king eventually moaned, his deep voice breaking slightly over the difficult syllables, "it's time, please…"

Releasing Conrart's cock with a final lingering touch, the Maou guided the soldier's right hand from his erection to his entrance. Conrart shuddered as his he touched the puckered muscle. The Maou's hand left his to grip the bed sheets, entrusting himself entirely to Conrart's care. "Please," he repeated, pushing against Conrart's hand.

Hesitant, yet more aroused than he could ever remember being, Conrart scooped more of the lubricant from the small pool that had formed off to the side of the bed. He coated his fingers, then began to massage the sensitive skin around the Maou's anus, gently at first, but with increasing force.

"As cautious of me as ev-ever…" came the king's voice, slipping as Conrart pressed a finger into yielding flesh. The feeling of the hot, silky channel tight about him made Conrart's cock throb and his head momentarily swim. He pushed deeper, thrusting a little to relax the muscles, gratified to feel the Maou's body undulate in response to the action, unrestrained and licentious.

With infinite patience, Conrart prepared his king, watching his every response with hungry eyes. He wrapped his left hand around the Maou's cock as he worked, keeping an unhurried, steady pace, pumping eager flesh. The king's sobbing moans filled Conrart's ears, making his body tingle, driving all the blood in his body to his groin.

It was the keening wail that issued forth when he angled his finger-thrusts that undid him.

The Maou's body jerked powerlessly, his eyes clenching shut as Conrart's fingers withdrew swiftly from his body. He whimpered at the loss, reaching blindly for the soldier, who slicking the lubricant over his cock, unable to stop himself thrusting obscenely into his hand.

"Conrart…" the king uttered, his voice guttural.

Conrart, panting, now, desperate now, pressed his cock to the stretched entrance, the pressure just enough to push the head into flesh that yielded, suckling him in. He halted, his entire body shuddering with the strain of keeping still, and touched the Maou's face with an oily hand.

Hazy and vulnerable, lidded with desire, those eyes looked up at him. He trembled, powerless, enthralled, trapped by his sweet incubus. "Forgive me, Your Majesty," he pleaded, then thrust forwards in a single fluid movement.

Sheathed in his king's body, hot and tight about him, their bodies one, Conrart could feel every toss of the fine head, every quiver of strained limbs, every vibration of the Maou's pained breaths. With astonishing self-control, he stamped down on the insane urge to thrust and pound and claim, leaning down, rather, so that their chests brushed, opening his mouth to lap at salty tear tracks staining his king's cheeks. About his shaft, the king's muscles clenched and spasmed, tormenting the soldier even as he soothed his distressed lover.


His voice was shaky, but tender, as he spoke his sovereign's name.


A saint could not have withstood. The Maou's desperate utterance, ridden with agonised lust, spoke to Conrart's basest instincts, driving him to roll his hips forwards, eliciting a pained gasp that drove him to thrust, and thrust, and thrust…Each motion begot a child of greater violence until Conrart was pounding relentlessly into the welcoming body. The Maou clung to him, meeting him with equal brutality, his entire body thrashing uncontrollably, his mind overcome. Conrart braced his hands against the headboard, feeling the king's legs wrap around his thighs, driving him to further efforts. With the increased force that the purchase gave his movements, Conrart felt, rather than heard, a series of yelping cries issue from his lover's throat.

Within moments, the Maou was keening a wordless cry, entirely lost to ecstasy, riding a pinnacle of rapture, until…

Ice flared in the tight passage as maryoku erupted from the king with his frenzied orgasm. Conrart threw his head back with scream as the abrupt lance of exquisite sensation pitched him, wailing, into an explosive climax.

Fighting an enveloping blackness, Conrart struggled to open his eyes. He was completely exhausted, his every muscles aching with inconceivable heaviness. Incredible euphoria was racing through his veins, and recollection came swift and unmerciful to his overwrought mind.

Forcing himself up on shaking arms, Conrart realised he was still buried in the Maou's passage, entangled in his limbs. The king held fast to him. His body burned unnaturally warm against Conrart.

The soldier carefully loosened the grip about his shoulders enough to slip free of his master, wincing as he delicately manoeuvred over-sensitised flesh. He had to attend his lord, so, heaving himself up, he dragged his protesting body down the bed, quashing self-disgust beneath concern, to gingerly part the Maou's legs and examine him. Remarkably, there was no blood or tearing of the flesh, though the king's magic was probably responsible for that; even the gentlest of couplings would spill virgin blood. Their coupling had been anything but gentle.

Still, even as guilt assuaged his senses and bone-deep weariness hauled at him like the heaviest anchor, the trickle of come spilling from His Majesty's passage and the stickiness coating both their bellies made Conrart's insides squirm with a flicker of want.


The sleepy tone caused Conrart to look up. Black eyes, still narrowed with slitted pupils, were gazing at him under drooping eyelids.

"It's cold without you, selfish lion," the Maou complained, his tone a petulant, boyish counterpoint to its usual authoritative resonance. Slender arms reached for him and, helpless to disobey, Conrart moved up to gather his beloved in his arms, cleaning himself and the king off with the edge of a sheet, then drawing the rest of the discarded sheets over them both.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, into the disordered black mane of hair. He choked, too overcome with emotion to continue.

The Maou yawned. "Foolish one," he chided, gently. He snuggled into Conrart's chest. "It was I who seduced you. You committed no crime- I am Justice, of course you would not have escaped my wroth had you offended."

The words were oddly comforting in their frankness, and made Conrart tighten his grip on the drowsy king, wishing to pull him closer than their skin would allow. The Maou tolerated it, only protesting with a wince when Conrart's movements agitated sore muscles. "Sleep," he ordered, his own eyes sliding shut even as he gave the command.

Conrart obeyed- what choice did he have?

Conrart awoke slowly. Every part of him clamoured with a debt of pain or exhaustion, and he groaned aloud as he shifted position. He had not ached so since his recovery from those three arrow wounds in Francshire. It felt like part of his very essence had been coaxed from under his skin to be stolen away forever.

It took him a moment to register to warm weight cuddled in his arms. That served wonderfully to jolt him into full awareness. Staring down at Yuuri's peaceful face, returned, once more, to the soft curves of a teenage boy rather than an ages-old Maou spirit, Conrart's stomach began to broil with sick fear. How…how could he have given in to his desires? How could he have assaulted this child?

Yuuri stirred. Conrart held his breath, but the teenager simply wriggled closer, then stilled once more.

The soldier swallowed to prevent the gorge rising in his throat, his mouth dry and sour-tasting. He…he could scarcely comprehend his actions: to give in to his shame, to abandon all sense and take from the boy what could never be returned…

Unbidden, an image of pleading eyes sprung to life in his mind. I'm so tired of being lonely, Conrart.

Conrart shuddered, recalling the death grip of the Maou's hands on his shoulders, remembering the heat of his wanton body…


The little noise alerted Conrart to Yuuri's waking. Frozen, Conrart could but watch as Yuuri's eyes fluttered open. Sleep-dazed, they registered contentment, then confusion. Black eyebrows furrowed as he tried to work out where he was, then skyrocketed upwards as he recognised the heat of skin beneath his cheek. Wincing, Yuuri looked up into Conrart's face.

The pair watched each other in silence for a protracted moment. Yuuri's open gaze made Conrart squirm, large eyes asking him unanswerable questions.

"Conrad-" Yuuri's voice trailed off, alarmingly hoarse.

"Your Majesty…" Praying that the boy wouldn't panic and shove him off, Conrart tightened his embrace in what he hoped was a comforting way. He sighed, lost for words. "Good morning," he said, as if they weren't curled up in bed naked, with evidence of the previous night's activities still very much manifest.

"Um…good morning…" Yuuri appeared to resign himself to the physical contact- he had always been most relaxed with Conrart when it came to such things. Conrart suppressed a shudder- another trust he had permanently violated. Yet another betrayal. He should have left Yuuri's side long before this had a chance to come to pass.

"Erm…" Yuuri began, after a moment, "I hate to bring this up, Conrad, but…why…why are we n-naked in the same b-bed?"

Conrart's stomach churned uneasily. "Can you recall anything from last night?" he asked, as gently as he could, a hand sneaking up Yuuri's back to bury in his hair before he realised what he was doing.

He felt the boy shrug, as far as it was humanly possible in the intimate clasp. "It was pretty much a normal night. Studies till nightfall, dinner, reading to Greta, arguing with Gwendal about refugee camps, being shouted at by Wolfram, going to sleep, then waking up when Wolfram kicked me out of the bed."

The litany was delivered at typical breakneck pace, with no pauses for breath. Conrart was impressed, despite himself. "Anything more?"

Yuuri's guilty squirm made Conrart have to give certain parts of his body a stern talking-to. "I went for a, er, a walk…then I can't really remember…You were there, I think. We were talking, but I can't…" The king shot upright, detaching from Conrart with the shocking speed of his sudden realisation. "The Maou mode! Was there an enemy? Is anyone hurt? Did I write 'Judgement' in the palace courtyard again? How was my spelling this time?"

"No, Your Majesty, there was nothing of that kind," Conrart assured him, a touch saddened that this child he had named should think first of violence and invasion. "We met as I was patrolling the eastern tower. Your Majesty was under the control of the Maou persona, of that there can be no doubt."

"But why?"

Conrart was encouraged by Yuuri's slow return to lying at his side- he wasn't repulsed by Conrart's nudity now that he had awoken again. The soldier cherished the thought, knowing that soon Yuuri would be too horrified and disgusted even to think of him.

"Conrad," Yuuri poked his side impatiently when he didn't answer, "why didhe come out?"

"To seduce me."


This time, Yuuri's abrupt startle had him toppling off the bed with a crash and a yelp. Conrart leapt up, in a flurry of sheets, to rush to his side; the Japanese boy's face was pale, his teeth clenched as his features took on a rictus of agony. From the looks of things, he'd landed heavily on his back- the worst possible thing he cold have done in his current physical state.

As Conrart knelt next to him, tugging him gently upright and rubbing his back, Yuuri let out his breath in a hiss, cursing darkly, latching onto Conrart. His fingers dug into the soldier's skin, tightening in response to the pain. Conrart bore the abuse stoically, not pausing in his litany of calming words and continuing to massage tense flesh.

"Damn it!" Yuuri swore, burying his face in Conrart's neck. The swordsman felt a tiny cold touch of tears against his skin.

"Should I fetch Gisela?" he asked, trying to mask his worry.

The fingers on his shoulders relaxed slightly. "No! No, just…don't move…"

Confused but obedient, Conrart did as he was told, cradling his distressed king easily. Yuuri was catching his breath back in gulping gasps, the hitches of his chest becoming less pronounced as he mastered his pain and respiratory system. "I guess…this means we…didn't just cuddle…" came the wry statement, after a minute of two.

"No. Though there was some cuddling involved," Conrart replied, heavily, wondering if this would be the last titbit of banter he would share with his king.

"Jeez, the Maou mode is troublesome." Yuuri huffed an exasperated, but no longer pained, sigh, then; "This floor is freezing, Conrad."

Conrart couldn't find an appropriate response, so he settled instead for hooking his arms under Yuuri's legs and about his shoulders, lifting him with ease to place him back on the bed. He then moved to go and find his clothes, only to be stopped by a hand on his wrist. Looking back, he found large eyes bright with hurt.

"You're not getting in?" Yuuri's pout was inexpressibly adorable. Conrart's heart skipped a beat.

"But…but I…I th-thought…" Conrart spluttered, unhelpfully.

Yuuri tugged at him. "Shame on you, Sir Weller, I thought you were a gentleman. Hurry up and get in, it's cold without you."

It's cold without you, selfish lion.

Hazel eyes widened. "Your Majesty?"

The young Maou rolled his eyes and tugged again, this time succeeding in dragging Conrart into an awkward half-crouch on the mattress. "You're not going to go all noble and self-sacrificing on me now, are you? You can't help being seduced, right? I should be apologising to you for the inconvenience, but that's pretty difficult when your sexy alter ego has secured for you everything you'd been secretly hoping for, even if he has left you with some serious lower-back problems."

The characteristic babbling went somewhat over Conrart's head, so stunned was he by Yuuri's actions- he was, however, lucid enough to catch the general gist. "Secretly been hoping for?" he repeated, dumbly.

Yuuri's cheeks flushed. "Well, of course I couldn't tell you! You're, like, over a hundred years old and practically a national hero, and one of the most eligible bachelors in Shin Makoku. There wasn't any reason why you'd look at a scrawny baseball kid, who's a half-assed Maou and an even worse swordsman…I mean, you're so…so…amazing…" His voice became small, trailing off as he glanced away, embarrassed.

You're so handsome.

Moved, Conrart leaned close, reaching out to touch Yuuri's cheek. Boldly, he pressed a kiss to the boy's forehead, then drew back to stare at His Majesty. "Your powers of observation are lacking, Yuuri, if you cannot see that I am always looking at you."

Yuuri blushed deeper, squirming uncomfortably. "Conrad…"

The soldier hushed him with a kiss, a tender kiss, which left the boy hazy-eyed and breathless. "I would give my arm, body or life for you, do you remember?"

"I've never asked for any of those things," the boy king replied, dazed.

"Ah, but you have," Conrart smiled at Yuuri's incomprehension. "In defending you against those dolls, I gave you my arm. Last night, you had my body. That leaves only my life; it is yours, Yuuri."

Yuuri shuddered. He suddenly grabbed at Conrart, yanking the soldier down to crush him against the bed. "I want every last inch of you," he confessed, shakily.

Conrart felt the overwrought trembling of the vulnerable body beneath his own, felt Yuuri's heart thunder against his skin, remembered the burning eyes of a regal lover…and felt his self-loathing begin to leech away under the rushing waves of his elation.

"May this lion always be at your side, Your Majesty," he whispered, his lips brushing the skin over Yuuri's heart.


"It's an old nickname," Conrart lifted his head to smile, warmly, at his new lover. "I had almost forgotten it."

Hm, pornorific...I hope you guys don't mind keeping it a secret, I would hate to be banned...