Synopsis: Aubade, meaning a love song sung at dawn. It would be hard for him to sing one when you hated him.
Pairing: king!yuma x advisor!fem!reader
Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, oral (f rec), fingering, MUNCH YUMAAA, p in v, unprotected sex (not for you), lowkey soft dom yuma idk, yuma's a meanie, ONE BED TROPEEEEE, taki very kawaii, dramatic confessions
A/N: yeah i uhh dont really fw with the flow of this fic too much, but i fear this is all i can do in this imaginary word restriction I've given myself. I did love writing yuma losing his braincells though like fuck yeah yearn blueberry boi. As always, enjoy, my babies!
Word Count: 17.2k (died proofreading this)
SERIES MASTERLIST
When the wanting shows, it is embarrasing sometimes.
How badly you wanted somebody's hands on yours, a soft voice to call you out of sleep, somebody to sip on coffee with as the sun stretches her arms and gets to work.
It is nice, to not have love, to be so numbed out until all you can feel is water against your tongue. But then you remember how lovely it feels to be loved.
And then you're crying out for someone to pretend, for one afternoon, that you are not too much.
That your laughter does not arrive too loudly, that your silences are not burdens to be carried, that your heart is not a room cluttered with things nobody wants to sort through.
The wanting arrives quietly at first. It sits beside you while you wash dishes, while you wait for the kettle to boil, watching strangers crossing streets hand in hand. It says nothing. It only points.
There. Look.
Look at how easy tenderness seems in other people's lives.
You only wanted someone to remember how you take your tea, to notice when your smile is a little forced, to reach for your hand as naturally as breathing.
Someone to stay long enough that wanting can finally put down its bags and rest.
"So you're telling me this one is the actual blueprint and this one is a fake?"
Atleast you could find comfort in the fact that that someone would never be Nakakita Yuma.
"Your Majesty." You said, with as much patience as you could muster at the moment, "That one is the disposable one and this one is the one you'll be taking to the meeting."
"So it's a fake." He flashed his stupid grin at you, "Why else would it be disposable? What does it have to hide?"
This damn idiot.
You exhaled through your nose, the way you did when you were counting to ten in your head. You had learned that trick in your first week on the job, three years ago, when you had realized exactly what you had signed up for.
Three years. Three years of this. Three years of watching Nakakita Yuma grin at you like he knew something you didn't, like he had already won whatever game he was playing while you stood there clutching maps, treaties and the fraying edges of your composure.
You had been a clerk in the Ministry of Records, content to spend your days cataloguing trade routes and rainfall patterns, when the summons had arrived. The young king had requested you personally.
The story went that he had read a report you had written on coastal defense logistics and had found it entertaining. That was the word the messenger had used. His Majesty found your report quite entertaining.
You had wanted to scream.
Instead, you had packed your things, moved into the palace and discovered within the first hour that Nakakita Yuma was nothing like the kings in the storybooks. He did not sit solemnly on his throne, dispensing wisdom.
He lounged. He sprawled. He balanced his crown on the edge of his desk like a paperweight and laughed too loudly at his own jokes. His black hair was always slightly disheveled, as if he had just run his hands through it, and his sharp, cat-like eyes missed nothing even when his expression suggested he was bored out of his mind.
He had a single, slightly prominent snaggletooth that showed when he smiled, which was often. It made him look like a fox who had just found the henhouse door unlocked.
One of Yuma's hobbies was teasing you.
From the very first day, he had found ways to get under your skin. He would ask for your opinion and then argue with it just to watch you explain yourself. He would misplace documents and then produce them from his sleeve with a wink. He would call you into his office for urgent matters that turned out to be him wanting to know if you thought the sky looked more cerulean or sapphire that afternoon.
You had spent the first six months convinced he was the worst possible person to hold the crown of Eldanith.
Then you had seen him at a war council, watched him listen to every general, noble and strategist, his eyes tracking the room like a predator sizing up its prey. You heard him dismantle a flawed offensive plan in three sentences, then propose an alternative that made everyone in the room go silent.
He was good, annoyingly, infuriatingly so. He had strategy in his bones, instinct honed so sharp it cut. He just chose to hide it behind that lazy grin. It made you want to throttle him and respect him in equal measure. On most days, the throttling impulse won.
"You're staring at me like you're imagining my demise in creative ways again." Yuma said, tapping the rolled map against his palm.
"I am not imagining anything, Your Majesty."
"Liar." He grinned, his tooth catching the light. "Your left eye twitches when you lie. Did you know that? It's adorable."
You felt your jaw tighten. "The meeting starts in fifteen minutes. If you could please take the correct documents—"
"Which one is the correct one again?"
"The one in your left hand, Your Majesty."
He looked down at his hands, then back up at you, his expression one of theatrical confusion. "Left? Is that the one I write with or the one I wave at my subjects with?"
You were going to snap. You could feel it building, a pressure behind your teeth, a wordless noise of frustration clawing its way up your throat. You had spent three years developing a tolerance for his nonsense, but some days, the tolerance ran thin.
A knock at the door saved you.
"Enter." Yuma said, and his voice shifted, just slightly, the playfulness receding like a tide pulling back from shore.
The door opened, and King Euijoo of Iriandel stepped inside.
He was everything Yuma was not. Tall, composed, hair swept back from a face that seemed carved from marble, eyes calm. He wore his dignity like a second skin and when he looked at you, you felt like you were standing in the presence of someone who had never once misplaced a document in his life.
You had always respected Euijoo. He was the kind of king you had imagined serving when you first took this job. He spoke in complete sentences. He never made you want to throw a map at his head.
You straightened immediately, stepping back from the desk, composing your features into something professional. Euijoo's gaze flickered between you and Yuma, and the faintest suggestion of a smile touched his lips.
"Am I interrupting?" He asked, his voice smooth as polished wood.
"Not at all." You said, before Yuma could answer.
Euijoo's eyes lingered on you. "You were glaring at His Majesty with considerable intensity. I felt it from the hallway."
Your face heated. "I was—"
"She was helping me with my maps." Yuma cut in, slinging an arm over the back of his chair. "She's very passionate about maps. It's endearing."
You turned your glare on him. He winked.
Euijoo observed the exchange with the quiet patience of someone watching a play he had seen before. "I see. Well, I am here for the meeting, if you are ready."
"Ready as I'll ever be." Yuma stood, tucking the correct map under his arm. He paused as he passed you, close enough that you caught the faint scent of sandalwood and ink. He leaned in and lowered his voice.
"Try not to miss me too much while I'm gone, kitty."
And then he was gone, striding out the door beside Euijoo, leaving you standing in the middle of his office with your hands clenched at your sides and your heart doing something complicated that you refused to examine.
The door clicked shut. You exhaled. Something sat down beside you and pointed at the empty room.
There. Look.
_______________________
Death would have been more pleasurable than whatever was coming for you at the moment.
Usually, dearest reader, when two people get only one bed to sleep on, they'd arrive at a compromise someway or the other.
When you and Nakakita Yuma get only one bed to sleep on, it summons the four horsemen of the apocalypse itself.
You stood in the doorway of the inn room, your bag still slung over your shoulder, staring at the singular bed like it had personally offended your entire bloodline. It was not a small bed. That would have been its one redeeming quality—if it had been small, you could have argued for separate sleeping arrangements on the floor with dignity. But it was a generous size, almost obscenely so, draped in cream-colored linens and piled with pillows that looked far too soft for a town inn.
It was a bed designed for two people who liked each other.
You and Yuma did not like each other. You tolerated each other.
"Well," Yuma said from behind you, his voice carrying that infuriating lightness, "this is cozy."
You did not turn around. You were afraid that if you turned around, you would see his grin, and if you saw his grin you would say something that would get you dismissed from your position and possibly executed.
"It's one bed." You said.
"I can count."
"Your Majesty, perhaps I should find another inn—"
"And leave me all alone?" Yuma brushed past you. The movement was unhurried, like he had not just suggested the two of you share a bed without a single shred of royal decorum. "I would be devastated. Truly, I might weep."
You finally turned to look at him. He was already settling onto the edge of the bed, testing the mattress with his palms, his hair falling into his eyes. The lamp light caught the sharp lines of his face, the curve of his jaw as he smiled up at you.
"You brought an entire company of soldiers." You said. "Surely one of them could—"
"Could what? Share a tent with me on the palace grounds while you take the warm inn room?" He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "That would be terribly improper. A king should not sleep on the ground while his advisor takes a feather bed. Think of the scandal."
"You could have stayed at the palace."
"The palace has too many ceilings." He said it simply, like it made perfect sense, and in a way, it did.
Yuma had always been strange about places like that—grand halls, high walls, rooms that felt more like cages than chambers. He preferred the open air, the crowded streets, the chaos of real life. It was one of the things you had grudgingly come to admire about him, even if it meant you were now standing in a modest room in the kingdom of Phileon, preparing to share a bed with your king.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. "This is a terrible idea."
"Most of my best ideas are terrible." He patted the space beside him on the bed. "Come. Sit. I don't bite. Well—" He paused, thoughtful, and you felt your face go hot before he added, "—not without permission."
You threw your bag at him. He caught it, laughing, and the sound was so unexpected that you felt something in your chest loosen against your will.
This was the problem.
This was why you had learned to tease him back, to volley words with him like a game of shuttlecock. Because when he laughed like that, when his eyes crinkled at the corners, you forgot, for a moment, that he was your king. You forgot the weight of your position, the careful distance you were supposed to maintain. You forgot that you were meant to be professional, composed and untouchable.
The remembering always left you feeling a little more lonely than before. Here, in this small inn room in Phileon, with the distant sounds of the town filtering through the window and the bed taking up most of the space between you, the loneliness felt farther away than usual.
You sighed, defeated, and crossed the room to sit on the opposite edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight and you kept a foot of space in between.
"I'm not sharing the blankets." You said.
"Fine."
"And you stay on your side."
"Obviously."
"If you snore, I'm smothering you with a pillow and claiming the throne."
He grinned, slow and sharp. "I don't snore. I purr."
"You're insufferable." You said.
"Yet you are still here." He leaned back on his hands. "Why do you think I brought you along instead of Taki?"
You had wondered the same thing during the journey here. Taki was younger, more energetic, more likely to laugh at Yuma's jokes without that half-second of hesitation you always had. Taki would have handled this bed situation with grace and good humor, would have probably ended up arm-wrestling Yuma for the pillows and losing spectacularly.
You, on the other hand, had been mentally composing your resignation letter for the past ten minutes.
"Because Taki would have accidentally set the inn on fire," you said.
Yuma laughed again, softer this time. "True. But that's not the reason."
Then what would be the reason? That you were genuinely someone he wanted to talk to? That you were worth being listened to? You'd sooner have believed one of his ridiculous fantasies about komodo dragons.
Yuma's bath took long enough that the lamp oil had begun to burn low, casting the room in a honeyed glow that softened the edges of everything. When he finally emerged, his hair was damp and pushed back from his face and he had traded his traveling clothes for a loose shirt and trousers. He looked softer like this, younger. Less like a king and more like a boy who had been caught in the rain.
You immediately looked away.
"The crown," You said, because you needed to say something, anything, to fill the silence that had settled between you. "at the coronation today. You looked ridiculous."
He paused mid-step, one eyebrow lifting. "Ridiculous? I'll have you know I looked dashing. The princess—" He stopped and thought, for the princess of Phileon was now its Queen "the queen told me I looked very regal."
"The queen was being polite. You looked like a cat wearing a party hat."
He pressed a hand to his chest, mock-offended. "A cat? I am the sovereign ruler of an island kingdom. I—"
"You kept fidgeting with it." You said, smiling just a little, unable to help yourself. "Every five minutes, you reached up to adjust it. The ambassador from Iriandel asked me if you had an earache."
Yuma groaned, dropping onto his side of the bed with a dramatic flop that made the mattress bounce. "That crown is uncomfortable. It's too heavy. And the pearls dig into my temples. I don't know how my father wore it for thirty years."
"Perhaps he had a stronger head."
"Perhaps he had less hair to cushion it."
You snorted, the sound escaping before you could stop it and Yuma grinned, rolling onto his side to face you, propping his head on his hand. The movement brought him closer, but not too close, still a careful distance between you, the no-man's-land of the middle of the bed.
"You're funny when you're flustered." He said.
You had no response to that, so you stared at the ceiling instead, counting the wooden beams as if they held the secrets to the universe. You could feel his gaze on you, light and curious, and you wondered, not for the first time, what he saw when he looked at you. Someone competent, you hoped. Someone worth keeping around.
Not someone worth listening to. That was a fantasy you had long since abandoned.
"Anyway," you said, steering the conversation back to safer ground, "you looked odd because you never wear it. You're no really a crown person. You're a—" You paused, searching for the right word. "—a wind person, something that doesn't like being contained."
The silence that followed seemed oddly soft. You risked a glance at him and found him watching you with an expression you could not name.
"That's," he said, "that's surprisingly poetic of you."
"Don't get used to it."
"Too late. I'm writing it down. Framing it and putting it in the royal archives."
"Then I'll tell everyone about the incident with the ceremonial spear and the swan."
He groaned, flopping onto his back. "That was one time. And the swan started it."
You laughed. Yuma turned his head on the pillow to look at you, and neither of you spoke. Then he sighed, long and theatrical.
"Alright. Sleeping arrangements." He gestured vaguely at the space between you. "I propose a treaty. A border down the middle. No crossing into foreign territory."
"That's surprisingly diplomatic of you."
"I have my moments." He sat up, reaching for the extra pillow at the head of the bed, placing it squarely between you. "Sacred boundary. Do not cross." Yuma settled back down, pulling the blanket up to his chin, and you noticed, with a small pang, that he had left most of the blanket for you. He closed his eyes. "I'll leave the room when you need to change. Just say the word."
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." His voice was softer now, edged with sleep. "I want to."
And then, before you could respond, his breathing evened out. The king of Eldanith fell asleep. You lay still for a long time, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breath. The lamp burned low until the room was bathed in shadow and the silver of moonlight through the curtains.
Eventually, your body gave in. You shifted, letting yourself sink into the mattress, the warmth of him radiating across the space—neither too close nor too far, just enough to make the night feel less empty. You closed your eyes.
When you woke, hours later to the pale light of dawn, you found that the pillow barrier had shifted. His hand had drifted in sleep, to rest palm-up on the mattress, close enough that yours could have reached out to meet it.
You did not pull away.
___________________
You should never have laughed in front of Nakakita Yuma. In fact you should never have revealed this fact to Nakakita Yuma that you even had emotions.
Because currently he was trying to place the royal crown of Eldanith, the highest accessory in all the land, onto your head because he 'wished to see how ridiculous it truly looked'.
You ducked, sidestepping him with the kind of agility you usually reserved for avoiding drunk sailors at the docks. "Your Majesty, this is highly inappropriate—"
"It's a crown." He said, as if that explained anything, advancing on you with the crown. "It's meant to be worn. Consider this a field test."
"I am not wearing the crown." You circled your desk, putting the wooden surface between you. He mirrored your movement, eyes bright with mischief. The crown—ocean-colored sapphires and pearls, wrought in silver—dangled from his fingers like bait.
"It's too heavy." You said. "It'll give me a headache."
"It gives me a headache. That's the point. I want to know if it's universally uncomfortable or if I'm just particularly delicate."
"You are many things, Your Majesty. Delicate is not one of them."
He tilted his head and the look he gave you was sharp and pleased all at once. "Was that a compliment?"
"It was an observation."
"I'm putting it in the compliment column."
Yuma lunged. You yelped—a sound you would deny to your dying day—and scrambled around the desk, but he was faster, his free hand catching your wrist and pulling you to a stop.
You stumbled, caught off balance and suddenly you were chest-to-chest with him, the crown hovering just above your head.
"Hold still." He murmured.
"Your Majesty—"
"Yuma."
He had never asked you to call him that before. You had never offered. It was a line you had both respected, a distance you had maintained, a boundary that kept the world in order.
Yuma lowered the crown onto your head. It settled against your hair, heavier than you had expected. You felt the weight of it, the weight of every king who had worn it before him and for a moment, you understood why he so rarely put it on.
He stepped back, studying you with his head tilted. His hand was still loosely wrapped around your wrist, warm and calloused.
"Hm…" Yuma said.
"Well?"
"You look..." He paused and something flickered in his eyes, there and gone before you could name it. "You look like you're going to kill me."
"Because I am."
"Fair." He grinned Then he reached up and lifted the crown off your head, his fingers brushing against your hair as he did. He set the crown on your desk, casual as anything and leaned against the edge of it, crossing his arms.
"So," he said, "do you have any plans tonight?"
You blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. "Plans?"
"Evening activities. Social engagements." He waved a hand vaguely. "Taki and I were going to have a few drinks at the tavern near the eastern gate. The one with the terrible fish stew." He was looking at you with that expression that made you feel like he was seeing something you had not meant to show. "Would you like to join us?"
An invitation. A hand extended.
You thought about it—the dim lights of the tavern, Taki laughing at his own jokes, Yuma's shoulder brushing yours if you sat close enough. You thought about the warmth of belonging somewhere, even for an evening.
And then you thought about the safety of solitude.
"I can't." You said. "I have plans."
The lie came easily. It always did.
Yuma's expression did not change, but his posture shifted a fraction of a degree. "Ah. Shame." He pushed off from the desk, stretching his arms above his head with a casual grace that drew your eyes, "I would have liked your company." He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. He did not turn around. "Don't work too late." He said. "The reports will still be there tomorrow."
And then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving you alone in your office with the crown still sitting on your desk and the ghost of his fingers in your hair.
You had not had plans in a long time, not since you had realized that you never quite fit anywhere. That your laughter was too loud or too quiet, that your silences made people uncomfortable, that your heart was a cluttered room nobody wanted to sort through. So you had learned to fill your evenings with the comfort of being alone.
It was easier and safer. Wanting nothing meant never being disappointed.
I would have liked your company.
He had extended his hand, and you had let it hang in the air, unanswered. You looked at the crown, gleaming softly in the lamplight. You thought about the warmth of his hand on your wrist.
You picked up your pen and returned to your reports and it was a long time before you wrote anything at all.
____________________
To enjoy soltitude is a talent, one that you'd developed all these years.
Your cottage sat at the edge of the palace grounds, tucked behind a row of oak trees. It was not much—a sitting room, a bedroom, a kitchen—but it was yours. No servants, visitors, anybody to fill the silence with questions you did not know how to answer.
The evening had settled into its usual rhythm. You had lit a fire in the small hearth, the flames casting long shadows across the floor. A pot of tea steeped on the counter, chamomile and honey, the same blend you had drunk every night for the past two years. Your book lay open on the armchair, a worn volume of poetry that you had read so many times the spine had cracked.
You settled into the chair, tucking your feet beneath you and took a sip of tea. The silence wrapped around you like an old shawl and you sank into it without resistance.
This was the talent you had honed over the years. The art of being alone without feeling lonely. The careful craft of filling your own space so completely that there was no room for wanting.
It had not always been this way.
You remembered, with the distant ache of an old bruise, the first time you had realized you did not fit. You had been seven, maybe eight, standing at the edge of a game of tag while the other children ran past you, laughing. You had not been excluded, not explicitly. No one had told you to leave. But the game had moved around you, through you, as if you were a tree rooted to the spot. You had walked home alone, and you had told yourself it was fine.
In your adolescence, there had been a girl. She had been your first real friend, the kind you told secrets to, the kind you stayed up late with, trading stories and laughter until your voice went hoarse. You had thought, finally, finally, you had found someone who saw you.
But then she started sitting with the other girls at lunch. She saved them seats, waved you over with a smile that was just a little too bright and you had sat at the edge of the table, listening to jokes you did not understand, watching them exchange glances that skimmed right past you. You had stopped coming to lunch after a while. She had not asked why.
In your young adulthood, there had been a boy. He had courted you with flowers and poetry and you had let yourself believe, for a few dizzying months, that you could be loved. But when you had fallen ill, when you had needed someone to sit with you and hold your hand, he had sent a letter instead. I'm not good with sickness, he had written. I hope you understand.
You had understood. You had understood that you were worth flowers and poetry, but not the messy, inconvenient reality of being needed.
There had been your first posting years ago, in a coastal office where you had worked alongside a team of clerks who laughed easily and invited each other to dinners and gatherings. They had invited you too, at first. But you had always been a little too quiet and after a while, the invitations had stopped coming. You had watched them leave together at the end of the day, their voices bright and overlapping. You had stayed behind to finish the work they had left on your desk.
And then of course there had been 'that' incident. But it was better to stay off the tongue with that one.
You had told yourself it was fine. You preferred the quiet and soltitude anyway. Eventually, it had become true.
That was the thing about loneliness. It was a skill, like any other. You practiced it long enough, and it stopped hurting. You filled your evenings with books and tea and the soft crackle of the fire and you stopped waiting for someone to knock on your door.
An ounce of love given to you haunted you.
A kind word from a stranger could keep you awake for hours, turning it over in your mind, searching for the hidden meaning, the catch, the moment it would be taken back. A hand on your wrist, brief and warm, could echo through your chest for days. A simple I would have liked your company could lodge itself beneath your ribs like a splinter, impossible to remove, aching with every breath.
It was easier to have nothing. Easier to want nothing. Easier to sit alone with your tea and your poetry and your silence, for silence did not leave. Silence did not forget to save you a seat. Silence did not promise flowers and then abandon you when you needed someone to stay.
You took another sip of tea. The fire crackled. The pages of your book rustled as you turned them, though you had not read a single word.
In the back of your mind, a voice said, I would have liked your company.
You wished, not for the first time, that you had never learned what it felt like to be wanted. It was so much harder to forget.
_____________________
There were certain times when you wished to be a mind reader, just so you could understand what it was the king of Eldanith was thinking about.
His mind was a cornucopia of shiny trinkets that did not match with one another, a collection assembled by someone with no regard for coherence, no sense of theme or category—just objects that caught his interest and were deemed worthy of keeping.
Military strategy sat beside absurd jokes about komodo dragons. Political insight sat beside an inexplicable fondness for terrible fish stew. He could discuss trade routes with the same earnest enthusiasm he applied to convincing you that swans were, in fact, secretly plotting against him.
You had never met anyone so impossible to predict.
His eyes were deep and dark, like the ocean at midnight or the space between stars or the bottom of a well where light went to die. They were deep, fathomless in a way that made you feel like you were falling every time he looked at you.
It was, you hated to admit, part of why you could never quite figure him out. His eyes said depth, said secrets, said I am more than I appear.
But his smile said mischief, said play, said I am going to put this crown on your head whether you like it or not. Yuma was a king who wore his crown like a burden and his laughter like armor. He was a strategist who could read a room in seconds but pretended not to notice when you stared at him too long.
You had spent years learning to read people. It was a survival skill, a way to anticipate their needs before they had to voice them, to make yourself useful enough to keep around. But Yuma defied every attempt. Every time you thought you had him figured out, he said something that flipped your understanding on its head.
Like now.
You had been working in his office for the better part of two hours, the silence broken only by the scratch of pens and the rustle of parchment. He was reviewing a trade agreement with the northern provinces, his brow furrowed in concentration. You were cross-referencing supply ledgers, your work spread across the table in the corner of the room where you had claimed your usual spot.
It was comfortable and quiet—the kind of silence you had learned to cherish.
"You fit in well."
Your pen stopped moving. You turned your head slowly, certain you had misheard. "I'm sorry?"
"You fit in well." Yuma repeated, still not looking at you, scanning the document in his hands as if he had not just said something that had upended your entire understanding of the afternoon.
You stared at him. He did not elaborate. You waited. Five seconds. Ten. He merely continued reading, his expression utterly unreadable as if he had commented on the weather or the quality of the ink.
"Your Majesty," you said carefully, "I don't understand what you mean." He hummed, a noncommittal sound and turned a page. You set down your pen. "You're going to have to explain that."
"Do I?"
"Yes." You were aware that you were speaking to your king with a tone that bordered on insubordination but you could not bring yourself to care. "You can't just say something like that and then go back to work."
He looked up then, finally, and his dark eyes met yours. "Why not, kitty?"
"Because—" You stopped, trying to find the words that would make him understand how deeply, how fundamentally, his statement had shaken you. "I do not agree with what you said."
He was quiet for a moment, his gaze steady on yours. Then he set down his papers, leaned back in his chair, and regarded you.
"You work here." He said flatly.
"Yes, I work here. That's my job. That doesn't mean I fit here."
"You do." He said it without hesitation, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You know where everything is. You know how everyone works. You anticipate needs before they're voiced. You make yourself indispensable." He paused, tilting his head. "I fear that's the behavior of someone who has made a place for herself."
"I—" The word came out strangled. You cleared your throat and tried again. "That's not the same thing. That's just…..being good at my job."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
Yuma held your gaze for a long moment, and then he shrugged and picked up his papers again. "If you say so." And then he went back to work.
Just like that.
As if he had not just reached into your chest and pulled out something you had spent years burying. As if he had not just told you, in his strange, roundabout way, that he saw you. That he thought you belonged.
You fit in well.
The words echoed in your mind, refusing to settle. They were said less like a compliment and more like a statement of fact.
You had always been the one on the edge of the group, the one who was invited out of politeness, not desire.You had learned to accept that, to build your life around it, to find comfort in the margins where no one expected you to be anything other than what you were.
Yuma had looked at you and seen someone who fit. You did not know what to do with that.
You picked up your pen again, because you did not know what else to do. You returned to your ledgers; they did not say unexpected things that lodged themselves in your chest and refused to leave.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world to see you and think: she belongs here.
You worked in silence for the rest of the hour and when you finally gathered your papers to leave, Yuma did not look up. He did not say goodbye. He simply continued reading, his presence filling the room like a tide.
You walked to the door.You paused with your hand on the frame. You did not turn around.
As the door clicked shut behind you, you found yourself standing still, your heart beating a rhythm you were unfamilliar with.
What were you supposed to do with all that?
____________________
There had been a moment during Yuma's childhood when he'd picked up his first stray seashell on the aquamarine beaches of Eldanith.
It was an absolute beauty, a thing of light pink covered in sand. He'd proudly held it up to his mother, his small fingers wrapped around it like it was the greatest treasure in all the realm. The sun had been setting, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose, the waves lapping at his bare feet as he'd stood there, beaming, waiting for her to see.
She had smiled. She had taken the shell from his hands, turned it over and then she had handed it back to him and said, "It's lovely, Yuma. But you know it's empty, don't you? The creature that lived inside it has already left. What you're holding is just the shape of something that used to be alive."
Yuma had been too young to grasp the weight of her words, too caught up in the simple joy of finding something beautiful. He had kept the shell , placing it on his windowsill where it sat among his other treasures—a smooth stone, a dried starfish, a feather from a bird he had never learned the name of.
Yuma had kept it for years, long after he had understood what his mother meant.
He thought of that shell now, as he sat in his office with the evening light slanting through the windows. He thought of how he had held it up to the light, marveling at its perfect imperfections, never once considering that it was hollow. That the thing that had given it life had moved on. That beauty could exist in the absence of something.
Yuma thought of you.
He did not know why his mind had wandered to that particular memory or why it had settled on you like a ship finding harbor. But there it was.
You were not hollow though. You were not a shell, beautiful but empty, waiting to be filled by someone else's meaning. You were full of sharp observations and quiet strength, a wit that could cut him to the bone when you chose to wield it.
Yuma oddly loved it when you put him in his place.
He loved it with a fervor that surprised him every time, because he was the king and no one put the king in his place. His advisors bowed. His courtiers flattered. His enemies schemed in whispers and shadows.
You looked him in the eye and told him when he was being ridiculous and you did it without the deference that everyone else wrapped around their words like armor.
You had told him once, that he was being an insufferable brat right to his face, in front of Taki. Taki's eyes had gone wide with horror, and Yuma had felt something crack open in his chest, something terrifying and wonderful, because no one had ever spoken to him like that.
The thing that undid him the most was the fact that you had stayed.
You were brilliant, your mind a labyrinth of sharp corners and unexpected turns that he loved getting lost in. You could have gone abroad, taken your talents to a court that would have welcomed you with open arms, built a life far away from him.
But you had not. Yuma knew it was duty, your obligation, the path you had chosen for reasons that had nothing to do with him. He was not naive enough to mistake professionalism for affection.
But still.
Wvery morning when he walked into his office and found you already there, your pen moving across the page, your brow furrowed in concentration, he felt something fluttery settle in his chest.
You matched his intellect, his sharp tongue, his restless mind that never seemed to quiet. You challenged him in ways that no one else could, parried his words with your own, met his gaze without flinching. You were the only person in the entire kingdom who could make him feel like he was not performing, not wearing a mask.
With you, he could just be.
Yuma thought of your voice, sharp and dry, telling him that he was being ridiculous. He thought of the way your lips twitched when you were trying not to smile. He thought of the way your hand inches from his on the mattress in an inn in Phileon.
Yuma thought of the way you had lied about having plans.
He always knew when you were lying—in the way your shoulders tensed, the way your gaze flickered just slightly to the left. But Yuma wished you had not. He wished you had said yes.
He picked up his pen, dipped it in ink and returned to his work. The evening light faded, and the shadows grew long and he did not think about the seashell again.
A lie.
_____________________
It was no secret within the shell-studded palace halls of Eldanith that you liked to work yourself to the damn bone.
But hey burnout felt so good and plus, it was a mechanism of distraction from everything else going on in the dark world.
The weight of your thoughts, the echo of a voice saying you fit in well, the way your chest tightened every time you replayed that moment, your loneliness—all of it could be buried beneath enough ledgers, reports and hours of relentless productivity.
So here you were. The palace library, two hours past midnight with a stack of books balanced precariously in one arm, your eyes fixed on the highest shelf.
You needed the coastal trade records from three autumns ago. That was the official reason for your presence.
But tucked beneath your arm, hidden between dry economic analyses and agricultural reports, was a slim volume on the musical traditions of the southern provinces—a guilty pleasure. Something to read when the numbers blurred and your mind needed a different kind of exercise.
The ladder creaked beneath your weight as you climbed higher. The library was vast, its ceilings soaring, its shelves stretching toward the shadows where the lamplight could not reach. You had always loved this room—the smell of old parchment and dust—the kind of place where you could disappear, and right now, disappearing sounded wonderful.
You shifted your weight, reaching up on your tiptoes. Your fingers brushed the spine of the book you needed but it was wedged tightly between its neighbors, stubborn and unyielding. You stretched further. The ladder groaned.
And then your foot slipped.
You felt the world tilt horribly. The books in your arm slid, your balance shifted, your heart lurching into your throat as gravity took hold and pulled you backward into empty air. You braced for impact.
Which never came.
Instead, strong arms caught you, one around your waist and the other bracing against the ladder to steady it. You landed against something solid and warm and a familiar voice—low, amused—spoke directly above your head.
"Now, now. I know the library is impressive, but there's no need to throw yourself at it."
Your breath hitched. You had not heard him come in. Not a single footstep, not a whisper of movement. But that was hardly a surprise, was it?
They called him the nimblest cat of Eldanith's army for a reason.
He set you down gently, his hands lingering at your waist for a beat longer than necessary before he stepped back. You turned to face him, your heart still pounding, your face flushed. He was smiling.
"Your Majesty," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "I didn't hear you come in."
"I know." His dark eyes glinted with amusement. "That's rather the point."
Yuma had spent years honing the art of moving unseen, slipping through shadows and appearing where he was least expected. It was the skill that had made him such a formidable spy before he had taken the crown. Itwas the skill that now made him an absolute menace in everyday life.
You straightened, trying to reclaim some semblance of dignity. "You could have announced yourself."
"And miss the opportunity to catch you?" He tilted his head, his smile widening just slightly. "I think not." He glanced up at the shelf you had been reaching for, then back at you. "What were you after, anyway? Besides a broken neck."
"Some trade records."
"At this hour?"
"I couldn't sleep."
He hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. "Neither could I." He paused, and then, without waiting for permission, he stepped past you and climbed the ladder with an ease that made your earlier struggle look pathetic. He plucked the book from the shelf and handed it down to you with a flourish.
"Here."
You took it, your fingers brushing his. "Thank you."
Yuma did not let go immediately. His gaze held yours and for a moment, the library felt smaller and warmer, the air between you charged with an unspoken entity.
Yuma released the book, descended the ladder, and said, quite casually, "You should be more careful. I won't always be here to catch you."
You did not know what to say to that. So you said nothing. You clutched the book to your chest, your heart still hammering from the near-fall.
I won't always be here to catch you.
Yuma paused at the library doors, his hand resting on the frame. Then he turned, his gaze catching on the edge of the slim volume peeking out from beneath the trade records.
"Interesting choice of bedtime reading." He said, nodding toward it. "The music of the southern provinces. I've read it before."
You blinked, startled out of your spiraling thoughts. "You have?"
"Twice, actually." He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. The lamplight caught the sharp angles of his face, "The section on wind instruments is particularly well-researched, though I disagree with the author's assessment of the reed flute's origins."
This was familiar ground, so you let yourself relax. You had had conversations like this before—late-night debates in his office, arguments over historical accounts, shared moments of intellectual camaraderie that felt almost like friendship.
"The reed flute," you said, stepping closer despite yourself, "originated in the eastern marshlands. That's well-documented."
"The eastern marshlands," he repeated, pushing off from the doorframe and walking back toward you, "produced a version of the reed flute. But the earliest known examples were found in the northern foothills, predating the marshland variants by two centuries."
You raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realize you were such an expert on musicology, Your Majesty."
"I contain multitudes." He smiled, that familiar crooked smile that made him look less like a king and more like someone who'd enjoy picking seashells by the beach, "You'd be surprised what I find interesting when I'm supposed to be reading trade agreements."
"I'm not surprised at all."
He laughed, his eyes narrowing afterwards, studying you with that unnerving intensity he possessed.
"You look exhausted." He said.
You waved a hand dismissively. "I'm alright."
"You're not alright. You look like you haven't slept in days."
"I've slept."
"When? Last week?" You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off. "Tell me everything you did this week."
"That's hardly—"
"Everything, kitty."
You sighed, because you knew that tone. It was the tone he used when he was not going to back down, the tone that had made him such an infuriating king. You told him—council meetings, trade negotiations, correspondences you had handled, reports you had compiled, diplomatic letters you had drafted, budgets you had reviewed. The—
"Stop." Yuma said, holding up a hand. His expression had darkened, his jaw tight. "That's...that's three weeks of work. In one week."
"I'm thorough."
"You're going to collapse." He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the sandalwood that always clung to him. "Take a day off."
"I can't. There's too much—"
"There will always be too much." His voice was firm. "The work will still be there when you return. It will multiply, in fact, because that is the nature of work. But if you run yourself into the ground, you won't be able to do any of it."
You looked away, your jaw set. "I'm just doing my job."
"A lot of what you did this week isn't your job." He said, "You took on tasks that should have been handled by other assistants." You did not deny it. "You are allowed to hand things off," he continued. "You are allowed to rest."
You met his eyes again. "I know."
"Do you?"
You wanted to say yes, wanted to convince him and yourself that you were fine, that you had everything under control. But the words would not come.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. Take tomorrow off. Sleep. Read your book about reed flutes. Eat something that isn't bread and cheese eaten over a stack of papers." He paused, his gaze softening. "That's an order."
You opened your mouth to protest, but he raised an eyebrow and you closed it again.
"Fine." You said, the word tasting like defeat.
"Good." He turned and walked toward the doors again. He paused at the threshold, his back to you, and for a moment, he seemed to hesitate.
"I never say it enough," Yuma said, his voice quieter than you had ever heard it, "but... thank you. For all the work you do. Even if I do annoy you sometimes."
You blinked, the admission catching you off guard, "It's nothing."
He glanced back at you, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "It's not nothing. But I'll let you pretend it is." And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, his footsteps fading into the silence of the corridor.
You stood there for a long moment, alone in the library, the lamplight flickering and the shadows pooling around you. The mask you had been wearing all week began to crack.
Because it was not nothing, was it? The work. The endless, grinding, consuming work. You threw yourself into it because if you stopped—if you slowed down, if you let yourself breathe—you would have to face the quiet fear that had been gnawing at you for as long as you could remember.
If you are not useful, nobody will like you.
It was an old wound, one you had carried since childhood. You had learned early that love was conditional, that affection had to be earned, that your worth was measured in what you could provide. And so you had made yourself so vital, so necessary, that no one could afford to let you go.
You had forgotten that being needed was not the same as being loved.
You looked down at the books in your arms. Your fingers traced the spine of the musicology book and you thought of his voice telling you about reed flutes.
If only you knew how the king of Eldanith was blushing as he walked away from you.
If only you knew how his ears burned and his heart raced and his hands trembled slightly as he closed the door to his chambers and leaned against it, pressing his palm to his chest like he could slow the pounding.
If only you knew that he had stood in the corridor for a full minute after leaving the library, composing himself, before he could walk another step.
If only you knew that he had gone to his rooms and sat at his desk and stared at nothing, thinking of the way the lamplight had caught your face, the way your eyes had widened when he caught you, the way your voice softened when you said it's nothing.
If only you knew that the king of Eldanith, the sharp-tongued man who wore his crown like a burden and his laughter like armor, had lain awake that night, staring at the ceiling and whispered your name into the darkness like a prayer.
But you did not know.
You only knew that you were tired and that tomorrow you would rest.And that was enough.
For now.
_______________
Everything felt wrong.
The morning light filtered through your window, pale and golden, casting long shadows across the floor of your house. You had been lying in bed for—you checked the clock—three hours. Three hours of doing absolutely nothing.
Your hands twitched at your sides, itching for a quill, a report, something to occupy them. There was a voice in the back of your head, insistent and sharp, telling you that you were wasting time, that there was work to be done, that you were being lazy and useless.
It's an order from the king.
You repeated the words like a mantra, pressing them against the guilt like a bandage. You were following a direct command from His Majesty, King Nakakita Yuma of Eldanith. To disobey would be treason. Or something.
You sighed, rolling onto your side and stared at the wall. Normally, you filled the silence with work, the rustle of papers, the scratch of your quill and the endless mental lists of tasks to complete. But now, with nothing to do, the silence pressed in on you, heavy and unfamiliar.
Perhaps it was more so the absence.
You realized, with a start, that you had not heard his voice in—you counted—nearly eight hours. No playful jabs or sudden appearances in doorways with his smile.
You actually missed his snarky remarks every five minutes.
You groaned, pressing your palm to your face. What was wrong with you? You spent half your time exasperated by him and the other half wondering if he was going to drive you to an early grave with his antics. And now that he was gone, the space felt like a shell without its occupant.
Like a shell waiting to be filled.
You found yourself wondering what he was doing at that moment. He had left that morning for the kingdom of Sakuryn—a diplomatic visit, something about the delicate dance of international politics. You had offered to prepare his briefing materials but he had refused, telling youthat you were resting and that he would manage.
You wondered if he was managing. You wondered if he was charming diplomats with that crooked smile or if he was sitting in some stuffy meeting hall, bored out of his mind, wishing he was anywhere else. You wondered if he was thinking of you.
Probably not. He was a king on a diplomatic mission. He had more important things to occupy his mind than his exhausted advisor lying in bed, doing nothing. But then again...
The way his voice had softened when he thanked you. Maybe he was thinking of you. You buried your face in the pillow and tried to ignore the way your heart fluttered at the thought.
Rest, you told yourself firmly. That's an order.
But rest, it seemed, was easier commanded than achieved.
Very akin to concentration, Yuma realised, it was easier said than done.
The treaty lay signed and sealed on the table, the ink still glistening in the afternoon light that streamed through the paper screens of Sakuryn's eastern pavilion. The ceremony had been efficient, the negotiations smooth, Yuma being the picture of royal diplomacy for exactly as long as it took for the last brushstroke to dry.
Now, with the formalities concluded and a tray of untouched tea growing cold, Yuma leaned back on his cushion and stretched his arms above his head with a groan.
"So," he said, his voice dropping from formal register to something far more casual, "how is life going?"
King Jo of Sakuryn regarded him with the same flat, unreadable expression he had worn throughout the entire summit. He was a man of few words—quiet in a way that felt less like shyness and more like a personal choice, as if he had simply decided that most things were not worth the breath required to say them.
"Fine." Jo said.
Yuma waited. Jo did not elaborate.
"That's it?" Yuma asked, raising an eyebrow. "We just signed a treaty that will shape the economic future of both our kingdoms, and all I get is fine?"
"You asked how life was going." Jo replied, his tone perfectly neutral. "I answered."
"You don't talk much, do you?"
"No."
Yuma stared at him for a moment, then let out a laugh. "I respect the honesty, but you're killing me here. How do you survive diplomatic dinners? Do you just sit there and let people talk at you?"
"Essentially."
Taki, seated to Yuma's left, let out a quiet snort that he quickly disguised as a cough. Yuma shot him a look, but there was no heat in it.
Jo picked up his tea, taking a slow sip. "You seem restless." He observed. "How is your life going?"
Yuma opened his mouth to give a standard reply—fine, busy, the usual—but something about the quiet of the pavilion (the absence of a certain sharp-tongued advisor back home) made the words catch in his throat. To his own horror, he found himself speaking.
"There's this girl." He said.
Taki's head snapped toward him so fast Yuma heard his neck crack. Jo's expression did not change, but his eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch.
"I mean—" Yuma waved a hand, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. "Not a girl. A woman. My advisor. You know the one I mean, Taki, you've met her—"
"The one you're sometimes insufferable about?" Taki supplied helpfully.
Yuma ignored him, turning back to Jo. "I don't know if it's attraction or just admiration. She's brilliant. She works too hard and she doesn't sleep enough and she has this way of looking at me like I'm both the most exhausting person she's ever met and somehow worth the effort." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "I once caught her as she fell off a ladder and I could not think about anything that night other than her face."
Jo blinked. Taki pressed his lips together, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
"And now I'm here." Yuma continued, gesturing broadly, "I don't know what to do with any of it." He fell silent, suddenly aware that he had just spilled his entire heart to two men he barely knew.
Jo regarded him for a long moment. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched—the first crack in his stoic facade.
"You sound like Fuma." Jo said.
"Fuma?"
"My Lord Commander. He spent six months making moon eyes at a baker before he finally confessed." Jo picked up his tea again, taking another sip. "It was painful to watch. He wrote very bad poetry."
Taki let out a laugh, sharp and delighted and Yuma shot him a glare that only made him laugh harder.
Jo set down his tea and met Yuma's eyes. "My point is," he said, "don't wait too long. Whenever you figure out what you're feeling—attraction, admiration, or something in between—don't let it sit until it turns into regret."
Yuma opened his mouth, closed it, and then said, ".…..Did Fuma's baker say yes?"
"They're getting married next spring." Jo's lips quirked again, and this time, there was something mischievous in his quiet eyes. "If you want, I can have him send you some of his poetry. For inspiration."
"I don't need—"
"It's really bad."
"I said I don't—"
"He rhymed 'pastry' with 'chastely.'"
Taki wheezed. Yuma pressed his palm to his face. "I hate you both," he said, but his voice was light.
"No, you don't." Jo said, and there was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips as he reached for the treaty, folding it neatly. "You're just lovesick."
"I am not—"
"Get some rest, Yuma. And when you go home, talk to her." He rose, smoothing down his robes, and paused at the door. "Before you start writing poetry." He was gone before Yuma could throw a cushion at him.
Yuma thought about whatever words rhymed with 'shell'.
_________________
A letter.
All it took was a single letter to break every logical braincell in your body and have you rushing about like a mad parrot.
You had been in the middle of reorganizing the eastern supply ledgers when a messenger had arrived, breathless, pressing a sealed parchment into your hands.
From His Majesty, the messenger had said. Sent ahead from the road.
You had broken the seal with steady hands. By the time you finished reading, your hands were not steady at all.
The handwriting was wrong.
Not Yuma's—you would have recognized his careless script anywhere, the way his letters slanted forward like he was always in a hurry to get to the next word. This was neat, precise. Wrong.
And the words—
Delayed. Complications. Do not expect my return at the appointed hour.
Your heart had stopped and had launched into a gallop that had not ceased since.
Sakuryn was a war-torn country. Yuma had told you over a map one evening. Decades of conflict, he had said. They're stable now, but the scars run deep.
You had nodded and filed the information away and thought nothing of it.
Now you were thinking of assassins in shadowed corridors, political rivals with long memories, of treaties signed in blood instead of ink. Now you were thinking of a king who caught you when you fell. Now you were thinking of him lying dead in a Sakuryn ditch and the letter was the only warning you would get.
So you had moved.
Soldiers had been mustered, horses saddled, the gates thrown open. You had sent scouts ahead on the road to Sakuryn, had ordered the guard doubled at every entrance, had personally checked the readiness of the royal physician's kit. You had not stopped moving, because if you stopped moving, you would start thinking and if you started thinking, you would fall apart.
Now, three hours later, you stood in the center of the throne room—still in your rumpled clothes, hair escaping its pins, ink smudged on your fingers—directing a pair of guards to reinforce the western patrol route when the great doors swung open.
You turned.
Yuma stood in the doorway.
He was whole and unharmed. A little dusty from the road, perhaps, and wearing a travel-stained cloak, but very, very alive. Behind him, Taki peered over his shoulder, looking mildly confused by the commotion.
Yuma's eyes swept the room—the gathered soldiers, the heightened alert, the maps spread across every surface, and finally, you, standing in the middle of it all like a storm given human form.
He blinked.
his lips curved into a smirk. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, looking for all the world like a cat who had just discovered a particularly entertaining mouse.
"Well, well, well," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. "If it isn't my favorite advisor, standing in the middle of the throne room looking like she's about to declare war on someone. And holding a spear, no less. I didn't know you knew how to use one, kitty."
"I thought you were dead." You said flatly.
Yuma's smirk faltered. "What? Why?"
"Your letter." You thrust the crumpled parchment toward him, "It wasn't your handwriting. It said do not expect my return at the appointed hour. What was I supposed to think?"
Yuma took the letter, smoothing it out and scanning its contents. His eyebrows rose. Then, to your utter disbelief, he laughed.
"Oh, this is Taki's handwriting." He said, waving the parchment. "I dictated it to him because my hands were full." He paused, squinting at the words. "He made it sound significantly more ominous than I intended."
You swore you were going to murder Takayama Riki for never showing you his damned handwriting.
Yuma stepped closer, his playful demeanor softening. He tilted his head, studying your face with an intensity that made your breath catch.
"Were you worried about me?" He asked, and his voice was quieter now, almost gentle.
You wanted to deflect with sarcasm, to hide behind sharp words and a dismissive wave.
"Yes." You said because there was no point in pretending otherwise.
Yuma's eyes widened, just a fraction. Something flickered in their depths before he masked it with a clearing of his throat.
"Right." He said, turning away. "Tea. My office. Now." He paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. "And you are going to tell me every single thing you did while you were supposed to be resting." His voice carried a note of command, but his eyes were soft. "Every. Single. Thing."
He disappeared through the doorway, leaving you standing in the throne room, heart in your throat, wondering how one man could infuriate you and undo you in equal measure.
_______________________________
His office was warm, lit by the soft glow of candles that had been lit in your absence. A fresh pot of tea sat on the table, steam curling lazily into the air. You had set down the spear somewhere in the hallway and your hands were blessedly still as you wrapped them around a porcelain cup.
Yuma sat across from you, having shed his travel cloak and loosened the collar of his tunic. He looked tired, you noted. The journey had clearly worn on him but his eyes were bright as they watched you over the rim of his own cup.
"So," he said, settling back into his chair, "tell me everything."
You told him about the letter's arrival, the panic that had seized you, the mobilization of soldiers, the scouts sent ahead, the doubled patrols, the frantic reorganization of the eastern supply ledgers that had somehow spiraled into a full-scale security review.
Yuma neither teased nor interuupted. He simply listened, his expression thoughtful, his tea growing cold in his hands. When you finally finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
"Sakuryn had some really pretty red flowers." He said offhandedly. "They grew along the road leading out of the capital. Bright crimson, like little flames." He paused, his gaze drifting to the window. "You would have liked them."
You blinked, thrown by the sudden shift in topic. "Why would you even care about that? You merely went for a treaty signing."
"Can I not care about you?"
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples spread outward, unsettling everything in their path. Something caught in your jaw—a tension you hadn't realized you were holding.
Care was not a word you trusted. Care was a word that came with conditions, with expectations, with fine print you had never been able to read.
"You would have probably told me their latin name before I could finish saying they were pretty." He said, "I wanted to bring one back for you, but it would have wilted before I crossed the border."
You stared at him, your throat tight, your heart pounding against your ribs. You wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come.
Yuma cleared his throat and reached for the teapot, refilling his cup with studied nonchalance. "Anyway," he said, his voice lighter now, "you should actually rest tomorrow. That's an order."
You nodded, because nodding was safe. Nodding required no words. You finished your tea in silence and when you finally rose to leave, your hands were steady, but your heart was not.
The door clicked shut behind you. Yuma sat alone in the office, staring at the empty space where you had been. He let out a long, slow breath and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.
Attraction or admiration, he had said to Jo. I don't know which.
Yuma had realised the moment he saw you standing in the throne room, spear in hand, eyes wild with terror—for him. He had realised when you said yes so honestly, that it had nearly undone him. He had realied when he watched you leave and the room felt emptier for your absence.
Attraction.
Yuma groaned, dropping his hands to his lap.
Attraction wasn't a road he had conquered yet.
_______________
Why ever did you agree to this task was an answer only the gods themselves would know.
This being accompanying Yuma as he took his usual undercover trip to the streets of the kingdom
You had been buried in ledgers when Yuma had appeared at your desk, dressed in plain linen and a worn leather vest, his hair mussed to look less regal. He had looked like a common laborer, grinning at you like a child with a secret.
"Taki's sick." He had announced. "You're coming with me instead."
You had opened your mouth to refuse. You had a mountain of work. You had no interest in playing dress-up in the lower districts. You had—
"You said yes." Yuma had said, already pulling you to your feet. "I heard it. It was very enthusiastic."
"I said nothing of the sort—"
"Your silence was thunderous with agreement. Come on. Put on something less advisor-like."
You had ended up here.
The streets of Eldanith's lower districts were alive with noise and color. Merchants hawked their wares from wooden stalls, children darted between the legs of adults and the smell of fresh bread and fried fish floated through the air.
Yuma was having the time of his life. He had already purchased a hand-carved wooden bird ("It looked lonely"), a bundle of dried herbs from an old woman ("She needed the coin more than I do"), and a chipped ceramic mug that you were fairly certain was going to give him lead poisoning ("It has character").
"You're being robbed." You said flatly, watching him hand over another handful of coins for a piece of fabric that was clearly dyed with cheap pigment.
"I'm investing in the local economy." He corrected, tucking the fabric into his satchel.
You were about to argue further when your gaze drifted past his shoulder, toward a small gathering of people near a fountain.
You knew those faces. Your breath caught. Your steps faltered.
They were older now, lined with the passage of years, but you would have recognized them anywhere. The same cluster of sycophants around the ringleader, laughing at jokes you had long since forgotten the content of but remembered the feeling of.
Your chest tightened. Your hands grew cold.
They had been your friends once. Or so you had thought.
You had been young, eager, desperate to belong. They had welcomed you into their circle with open arms; you had been so grateful, so naive. You had trusted them with your secrets, your fears, your hopes. You had thought you had found a place where you were wanted.
They had played their trick.
You did not like to think about it. You had buried it deep, locked it away in the same vault where you kept your childhood fears and your mother's disappointed sighs. But seeing them now, laughing by the fountain, the memories clawed their way back up your throat.
The realization that you had never been a friend to them—you had been a joke.
Your breathing quickened. Your vision narrowed. The sounds of the market faded to a distant roar.
"Hey."
A hand closed around your wrist, warm and firm. Yuma was standing in front of you, his playful demeanor replaced by concern. His eyes searched your face, reading something in your expression that made his jaw tighten.
"What's wrong?" He asked quietly.
You tried to speak, but your voice caught in your throat. The group by the fountain hadn't noticed you yet. They were still laughing carefree, utterly unaware of the ghost they had left behind. You wanted to run. You wanted to hide. You wanted to be anywhere but here.
But Yuma's hand was still on your wrist, grounding you, anchoring you to the present.
"Hey," he said again, softer this time. "Look at me."
His eyes were patient and waiting. He did not demand an explanation. He did not push. He simply stood there, holding you together with nothing but his gaze.
"Whatever it is," he said, "we can leave. Just say the word."
"It's nothing." You said, the words scraping past the tightness in your throat. "Let's go."
But before you could turn, before Yuma could guide you away, a voice cut through the market noise like a blade.
"Well, well, well. Is that who I think it is?"
You froze. The ringleader already striding toward you, that familiar smirk plastered across her face. The others followed, a flock of vultures drawn by the scent of old prey.
You were trapped.
"Look at you." She said, stopping just short of invading your space. Her eyes raked over you, cataloging every detail with the practiced cruelty of someone who knew exactly which insecurities to poke. "Still wearing those same old clothes, I see. I thought by now you'd have grown into something presentable."
One of the others—you remembered the one who had laughed the loudest—chimed in. "And you're still so tense. Relax a little. You look like you're about to shatter."
"Maybe she's finally learned that no one wants to be around someone so brittle." Another added.
Your chest constricted. The noise of the market grew distant. Their faces blurred at the edges, but their words landed like stones, each one heavier than the last. You wanted to speak, to defend yourself, but your voice had abandoned you. You were a teenager again, standing in the middle of a circle, watching the people you trusted most tear you apart for sport.
Brittle. Plain. Too much. Not enough.
Joke.
You felt yourself spiraling, the ground slipping beneath your feet—
"Alright."
Yuma's voice cut through the spiral. He stepped forward, positioning himself slightly in front of you, a barrier between you and the vultures.
"This was nice." He said, and there was nothing nice about his tone. "But we must be on our way."
Her smirk widened. She looked Yuma up and down, clearly unimpressed by the plain clothes and the lack of any obvious status markers.
"Oh, I see." She said, voice dripping with mockery. "You've actually found someone to court you. How surprising." The others snickered. "I mean," she continued, gesturing vaguely at you, "with a face like that, I didn't think anyone would—"
Yuma moved.
It was subtle—a shift in his stance, a hardening of his jaw, a coldness that crept into his dark eyes. He did not raise his voice. He did not draw a weapon. But something in his presence changed, a quiet menace that made the air around him grow still.
"I would be very careful," he said, his voice low and even, "about how you finish that sentence."
She blinked, momentarily thrown. The smirk faltered.
"And I would be very careful," Yuma continued, stepping closer, his height suddenly seeming to loom, "about speaking to her at all. Because the next time you open your mouth, I can't promise I'll be in a forgiving mood."
There was a beat of silence. The market noise seemed to recede. Even the vultures looked uncertain.
She recovered quickly, forcing a laugh. "Who do you think you are, threatening me? You're nobody. You're—"
"I'm someone who knows exactly how much force it takes to break a jaw." Yuma interrupted, his voice calm, pleasant and terrifying. "And I'm someone who has absolutely nothing to lose by demonstrating that knowledge in front of a crowd of witnesses who will all conveniently remember nothing."
Yuma sighed, a sound of profound boredom. "You know what? I was going to let this slide. I was going to be gracious. I was going to walk away and let you keep your teeth."
He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small silver medallion—the royal seal of Eldanith, stamped with the crest of the Nakakita line. He held it up between two fingers, letting it catch the afternoon light.
"But then you opened your mouth again. And I realized that some lessons need to be taught more than once."
The medallion glinted. The marketplace went still.
Like a wave crashing over the shore, recognition spread through the crowd. One by one, every person in sight dropped to their knees, bowing.
"Your Majesty/" Someone whispered. And then it spread, a ripple of hushed awe and terror.
Your Majesty. Your Majesty. Your Majesty.
You barely noticed any of it.
You were standing in the middle of the street, your hand still clasped in Yuma's and you were on the verge of tears. The king of Eldanith, the man who drove you up every wall in the palace, had threatened to break a jaw for insulting you.
Yuma tucked the medallion away and turned to you. "Come on." He said, tugging your hand. "Let's go home."
He led you through the kneeling crowd and you followed because you didn't know what else to do. Your legs moved on their own. Your heart raced in your chest. The tears you had been holding back threatened to spill over.
Under the dying sunlight, Nakakita Yuma looked so…..warm.
Warm was that feeling of his hand clutched in yours (somebody's hands on you), the sound of his voice defending you (a soft voice to call you out of sleep) and just the mere existence of him (somebody to sip on cofffee with).
And you were crying because somebody have proved, for one afternoon, that you were not too much.
Why the fuck had he proved that?
You followed Yuma into his office, the door clicking shut behind you. The silence of the palace was a stark contrast to the chaos of the market. Yuma moved to the side, shrugging off his vest and cloak, tossing them onto a chair with little care.
"Why did you do that?"
He paused, turning to look at you. "What?"
"Why did you do that?" You repeated, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to steady it. "Back there, with them. Why did you—"
"Just wanted to." He said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"That's not an answer."
Yuma turned to face you fully, crossing his arms. "Do you not think you deserve at least that much respect?"
The question hit you like a physical blow. You blinked, your throat tightening.
"That's not—" You shook your head, frustration bubbling up through the tears. "You're the king. You shouldn't be wasting your time defending someone like me."
"Someone like you?" His voice sharpened, his eyes narrowing.
"Yes. Someone like me. I'm your advisor. I'm—I'm nothing. I'm replaceable. I'm—"
"Nothing?"
The word cut through your rambling like a blade. Yuma stepped closer.
"Someone like you." He repeated, his voice low. "Do you hear yourself? Someone this smart? Someone who works herself to the bone for a kingdom that doesn't thank her half enough?"
He took another step. Then another. The space between you shrank until you could see flecks of gold in his dark eyes, could count the individual lashes framing them.
"Someone this beautiful?" He murmured, his voice dropping to reverence.
You shook your head, stepping back. Your back hit the wall. "That's—that's not—" You took a break, composing yourself back to your formal tone, "It's odd that you care. It's okay for you not to care. I'm used to it. I expect it. So you don't have to—"
"Don't have to what?"
Yuma was angry now. You could see it in the set of his jaw, the fire in his eyes. But it wasn't the cold, menacing anger he had shown your ex-friends. This was something personal.
"Don't have to pretend." You whispered. "I know what I am. I know what I'm worth. And it's not—"
"Stop."
He closed the distance between you, his hands coming up to cup your face. His palms were warm against your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had finally spilled over.
"Stop." Yuma said again, his voice cracking. "Stop talking about yourself like you're something less than extraordinary. Stop acting like you're not worth every second of my time, every word of my defense, every beat of my goddamned heart."
"Your Majesty—"
"You really have no idea how much I love you, do you?"
Love?
That unfamillair word?
A revelation, spoken with the kind of quiet devastation that comes from realizing someone has been living in darkness their entire life, never knowing what light feels like.
You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. What could you possibly say? That you had spent years believing love was transactional? That affection was something earned through usefulness, through making yourself agreeable and necessary? That the idea of someone loving you—truly, unconditionally loving you—was so foreign it felt like a language you had never learned to speak?
Yuma's thumbs traced gentle arcs across your cheekbones, catching fresh tears before they could fall.
"I think about you constantly." He said, his voice low and raw. "I think about the way you smile when you think no one is watching. I think about the way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. I think about the sound of your laugh that escapes when I catch you off guard. You have no idea how much I love that sound."
A sob escaped you and he pulled you closer, his forehead pressing against yours.
"I notice when you skip meals because you're too deep in work. I notice when you're pretending to be fine when you're not. I notice everything about you, and I have been drowning in it since the moment you walked in and told me my tax policy was idiotic."
A wet laugh escaped you, surprised and broken.
"You were right, by the way," he added, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "It was idiotic. And you were the first person in years brave enough to tell me."
Yuma pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own shining and vulnerable in a way you had never seen from him before.
"I love you."
The words were a truth, spoken with the certainty of someone who had long since stopped fighting it. "I love you, and I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how to be near you without wanting to be closer. I don't know how to watch you walk away without counting the moments until you come back. I don't know how to exist in a world where you don't know how much you mean to me."
His voice cracked on the last word, and you felt your heart splinter along with it.
"So please." He whispered, his breath warm against your lips. "Please believe me when I say that you are not too much. You are not nothing. You are not replaceable. You are the most infuriating, brilliant, beautiful, irreplaceable person I have ever met and I am terrified of how much I need you."
Yuma pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering there as if he could pour every unspoken word into that single point of contact.
"I need you to know," he murmured against your skin, "that I will spend every day for the rest of my life proving to you that you are worthy of love. That you always have been."
You stood there, cradled in his hands, tears streaming down your face, and for the first time in years—maybe for the first time ever—you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you were enough.
Yuma's hands were still cradling your face, his thumbs resting against your damp cheeks. Your fingers were curled around his wrists, holding on like he was the only anchor in a storm. The air between you was thick with everything unspoken, everything confessed, everything waiting to be claimed.
Your eyes dropped to his lips. They were so close—a breath away, a heartbeat away.
Your mind raced with a thousand objections. He was the king. You were his advisor. This was reckless. This was dangerous. This was everything you had been taught to avoid.
Those eyes were looking at you like you were the answer to a question he had been asking his whole life. What was a little danger?
You swallowed. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it through his palms.
"Yuma," you tried, and the name felt foreign and precious on your tongue. "Can I…"
You hesitated. The fear clawed at your throat, old and familiar. But his thumbs traced another gentle arc across your cheekbones and the fear loosened its grip.
"Can I kiss you?"
The words came out fragile, almost disbelieving as if you were asking for something you had no right to want.
For a moment, Yuma looked utterly stunned—as if the idea that you would want to kiss him had never occurred to him.
"Yes." He breathed. "Yes. Please. Yes."
You closed the distance.
The kiss was soft at first—hesitating, questioning, neither of you quite believing this was real. His lips were warm and slightly chapped, moving against yours with a gentleness that made your knees weak.
His hand slid into your hair, and yours fisted in his shirt, and the kiss deepened into something hungrier, something more desperate, something that tasted like years of longing finally given release.
The world faded away. The office, the palace, the kingdom—all of it dissolved into nothing. There was only the warmth of his mouth on yours, the steady beat of his heart against your palm, the way his breath hitched when you tilted your head just so.
It felt like flowers were blooming around you, bursting into colour behind your closed eyelids.
Violets for devotion. Roses for passion. Lilies for a love you had never believed you deserved. They spiraled upward in a cascade of petals and fragrance, wrapping around you both like the universe itself was blessing this fragile thing you were building.
When you finally broke apart, breathless and trembling, you kept your forehead pressed to his.
In the golden light of the dying sun, with the scent of phantom flowers lingering in the air, Yuma kissed you again like you were the most treasured thing in all of Eldanith.
And perhaps, to him, you were.
_____________________
There were many, many explanations as to how you could've possibly ended up here.
Ink stained fingers tangled in the soft hair strands of Nakakita Yuma while his tongue worked to pull your tears from you.
You had been working all day in his office. It had become something of a routine in the weeks since that kiss—sharing the space, the silence, the occasional brush of hands when reaching for the same document.
The complicated relationship you had once navigated with a distance had transformed into something that felt close to home.
Yuma would sit at his desk, reviewing treaties and signing decrees, while you occupied the table by the window, surrounded by scrolls and ledgers and half-empty cups of tea. Sometimes you would look up and find him already watching you, a small smile playing on his lips. Sometimes he would rise from his chair just to stand behind you, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder, before returning to his work as if he had simply needed to reassure himself that you were still there.
Wvery night, without fail, before you gathered your things and retreated to your house, he would catch your hand, pull you close and press a kiss to your forehead.
"I love you." Yuma would whisper, his breath warm against your skin.
Every night, without fail, you would feel that flutter in your chest, that same disbelief that this was your life now.
Tonight, the work had piled higher than usual. A trade dispute with a neighboring province. A miscommunication in the treasury. A letter from Jo that had made Yuma laugh and then sigh. The hours had slipped away, the candles had burned low and you had refused to stop.
"Give it up." Yuma had said for the third time, his voice gentle but firm. "Go home. Sleep."
"I'm not sleepy yet." You had mumbled, already reaching for a scroll on a shelf in his office, stretching on your tiptoes, your fingers barely brushing the parchment.
You heard him rise from his chair, soft footsteps crossing the room. And then his arm was around your waist, pulling you back until your back was flush against his chest and his other hand reached up to pluck the scroll from the shelf with infuriating ease.
"Yuma—"
He took the scroll from your hand slowly and placed it on the desk beside you. His lips found the curve of your neck, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss just below your ear.
"How about I help you sleep, kitty?"
His voice was low, sending a shiver down your spine. His arm tightened around your waist, holding you steady as his lips trailed down the side of your neck, leaving a path of warmth in their wake.
Your breath hitched. Your fingers found their way into his hair, tangling in the soft strands, holding him there as his tongue traced a delicate pattern against your skin.
"You've been working too hard." He murmured against your throat. "You've been pushing yourself too much. And I've been wanting to remind you that you're human."
He kissed the hollow of your collarbone and your knees buckled slightly.
"Let me remind you." Yuma whispered. "Let me take care of you tonight."
Your eyes fluttered closed. You leaned back into him, letting him hold your weight, letting him catch you the way he always did.
"Okay," you breathed. "Okay."
In the dim candlelight of his office, with the world outside fading away, Nakakita Yuma turned you in his arms, cupped your face in his hands and kissed you like he had all the time in the world.
Yuma’s kiss was slow and deep, a promise of the devotion he was about to pour into you. He tasted of tea and longing, his tongue sweeping against yours in a soothing dance that melted the last remnants of your professional resolve. With a soft groan, he broke the kiss, though he kept his forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm on your lips.
"Come here.." He whispered, his voice thick with affection.
Yuma guided you toward the velvet sofa in the corner of the office, candlelight casting flickering shadows across the room. He lowered you onto the cushions with tenderness. You sank into the plush fabric, looking up at him with wide, hazy eyes.
Yuma knelt between your legs, his expression one of pure, unadulterated adoration—a king on his knees.
His fingers moved to the fastenings of your dress, his touch light and steady. Yuma took his sweet time, undoing each button and tie with a reverence that made your heart ache. As the fabric slid away, exposing your skin to the cool night air, he let out a shaky breath, his gaze roaming over your body like he was memorizing a sacred text.
"You are so beautiful…" He murmured, his voice trembling . "Absolutely breathtaking."
He leaned forward, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your stomach, his lips grazing your skin in a way that made you arch your back and let out a soft, needy whine. Your fingers curled into the fabric of the sofa, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps.
As he shifted lower, his hands sliding up to grip your thighs, parting them slowly to reveal the damp heat between your legs, Yuma paused. He looked up at you, his eyes searching yours, ensuring you were still with him, still wanting this.
"May I?" he asked, his voice a low, rough plea. "I want to take care of everything you're feeling right now. Is that okay, kitty?"
"Yes," you whimpered, your voice breaking. "Please, Yuma...please."
Yuma started with a softness that was so fucking agonizing. He pressed a tender kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, then another, moving closer and closer to your center. When his tongue finally made contact with your clit, you let out a loud, sharp moan that echoed through the quiet office.
"Ah! Yuma!"
He hummed against you, the vibration sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. He began to lick you with slow strokes, his tongue swirling around your nub with an expert precision. He was treating you like a delicacy, savoring every drop of your arousal.
You began to whine, your hips instinctively bucking upward, seeking more pressure. "More... please, I need more..."
Yuma responded by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. The combination was overwhelming. You gasped, your head tossing from side to side on the cushions, your voice dissolving into a series of high-pitched moans and desperate whimpers.
"That's it, sweetheart," he murmured, pulling back for a second to look at you, his lips glistening with your juices. "Just let go. Give it aaall to me. Let your king take the stress away, hmm?"
Yuma dove back in, his suction increasing, his tongue flicking faster and harder against your clit. You were sobbing now, the pleasure building into a crescendo that felt like it would shatter you. You gripped his hair, pulling him closer, your legs shaking violently.
"Yuma! Oh god, Yuma, I'm—I'm going to—!"
"Go on." He encouraged, his voice muffled against your pussy. "Relax for me, kitty."
With one final flick of his tongue and a deep thrust of his fingers, you peaked. Your body stiffened, a loud, prolonged cry escaping your throat as waves of intense orgasm crashed over you. Your internal muscles clamped tightly around his fingers, your breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps.
Yuma didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, gently licking the remaining sensitivity of your clit, soothing the aftershocks with soft, loving laps until your breathing finally slowed. He crawled up the sofa, pulling you into his arms and wrapping you in a tight, protective embrace.
"I've got you.." He whispered, kissing your temple. "I've got you."
You melted into him, your body still humming with the echoes of pleasure, your mind floating in that hazy, weightless space he always seemed to guide you into. His arms were warm and steady around you, his heartbeat strong against your back, and for a long, perfect moment, you were content to simply exist in his hold.
The haze began to clear and a familiar stubbornness stirred in your chest.
"...I'm still not sleepy." You mumbled against his shoulder, your voice carrying a petulant edge.
Yuma let out a low chuckle, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into your spine. "Is that so?"
You nodded, turning your head to press a kiss to his jaw. "Not even a little bit."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes filled with a fond exasperation that made your heart flutter. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"
You smiled, innocent and cheeky. "I have no idea what you mean."
Yuma studied you for a moment, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your hip. Then, without warning, he shifted, one arm sliding under your knees and the other bracing your back as he lifted you into his arms.
"Yuma!" You gasped, clutching at his shoulders. "What are you—"
"If you're not sleepy," he said, carrying you toward the door that connected his office to his chambers, "then I'll just have to find other ways to tire you out."
Your heart stuttered as he pushed open the door with his shoulder, revealing a room that was unmistakably royal. A massive four-poster bed draped in silk dominated the space. Heavy curtains framed windows that overlooked the palace gardens. A fireplace crackled softly in the corner, casting warm shadows across the walls.
You were in the king's bedroom.
The thought sent a thrill through you, equal parts awe and disbelief. You had been in this palace for years, walked its halls and attended its meetings, but you had never—never—imagined you would find yourself in this most private of spaces, held in the arms of the king himself.
Yuma set you down gently on the edge of the bed, the silk cool beneath your fingertips. He straightened and his hands moved to the collar of his shirt.
"You look nervous." He observed, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"I'm not nervous." You lied, your eyes fixed on his fingers as they worked the first button loose. "I'm just...surprised."
"Surprised?"
"That I'm in the king's bedroom." You swallowed. "It feels...intimate."
He paused, his hands stilling on the second button. "It is intimate. That's the point."
Then he resumed, revealing inch by inch of the skin you had only ever glimpsed in stolen moments. His shirt fell open, exposing the lean lines of his chest, the subtle definition of his abdomen, the trail of hair that disappeared below his waistband.
Yuma let the shirt slide from his shoulders and fall to the floor. Your breath caught. His hands moved to his belt, and he raised an eyebrow at you, a smirk playing at his lips.
"You're staring."
"You're undressing." You countered, your voice coming out breathier than intended.
He let his trousers fall, stepping out of them with an easy grace that belied the intensity in his eyes. He stood before you, the firelight painting golden lines across his skin, and he was beautiful.
Yuma knelt before you, his hands resting on your knees, his eyes meeting yours with a tenderness that stole your breath.
"Tell me if you want to stop." He said softly. "Tell me if you're not ready. Tell me anything and I will listen."
Oh to have the king on his knees.
You reached out, your fingers brushing against his cheek, and you smiled.
"I trust you." You whispered. "I'm right where I want to be."
Yuma’s expression softened, a look of profound love crossing his features at your words. He leaned forward, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to your forehead before sliding his undergarments down, freeing his cock. It was thick and pulsing, weeping a bead of pre-cum that glistened in the candlelight, a testament to how much he had been wanting you.
He moved back over you, his body a warm weight that felt like a sanctuary. Yuma paused at your entrance, the broad head of his cock brushing against your swollen, wet folds. He waited, his eyes locked onto yours, giving you one last moment to breathe.
"I love you," he whispered, his voice a rough caress. "so much."
With a slow, agonizingly steady push, he slid into you. You let out a long, shaky moan, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt him stretch you open, filling every inch of your aching void. He entered you with such care, that you could feel every ridge of him sliiiding against your walls. He stopped when he was buried deep, his hips flush against yours, and he simply stayed there for a moment, letting you adjust to his size.
"You feel.…nghh….incredible," he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "So tight—hah ahh fuckkkk you're so warm."
Yuma began to move, pulling back almost entirely before sinking back in with a soft, rhythmic glide. Each thrust was a slow, loving stroke, a silent promise of devotion. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back.
"Yuma... oh, god, Yuma…." you whimpered, your voice small and needy. The slow pace was a torture of the best kind, building a tension in your lower belly that made you whine for more.
He heard you, his breath hitching. He began to pick up the pace, just a fraction, his movements becoming more fluid. He started to hit your perfect spot with every deep plunge, sending sparks of pleasure radiating through your nerves. Your moans grew louder, turning into desperate, high-pitched sounds as you arched your back, your chest heaving against his.
"That's it.….just like that," he murmured, his voice growing strained, "My girl's sooo good for me, isn't she?"
The slow dance evolved into something more primal. You were both breathless now, the air thick with the scent of sex and yearning. You could feel him trembling, his muscles coiled tight as he drove himself into you with an increasing urgency.
"I'm close…" he gasped, his pace becoming frantic, his hips hammering against yours in a blur of heat and friction. "I'm almost there.….please, stay with me..."
"Yuma…..ohhh oh!" You cried out, your own climax rushing toward you like a tidal wave.
The world narrowed down to the point where your bodies met. You felt the hot, rhythmic pulses of his cum flooding your insides and the sensation triggered your own release. You screamed his name, your internal muscles clamping around him in violent, rhythmic contractions that mirrored his own.
You both collapsed together, chests heaving, hearts drumming a frantic duet against each other. Yuma stayed anchored inside you, his arms wrapping around you in a crushing embrace, holding you as if you were the only thing keeping him down to this earth.
"I've got you…." He whispered, his voice broken and full of love, kissing your sweat-slicked skin. "I've got you, my dearest."
After a long, breathless moment, he finally pulled out with a gentle wince, settling beside you on the silk sheets. He gathered you against his chest, his hand stroking slow, soothing lines down your spine.
For a while, neither of you spoke. Your fingers traced lazy patterns across his collarbone and his lips pressed occasional kisses to the top of your head.
"...So," you murmured, your voice thick with exhaustion, "does this mean I win the argument about staying up late?"
Yuma let out a low, rumbling laugh. "Absolutely not. You lost spectacularly. You're about to fall asleep any second now."
"I am not." You protested, even as your eyelids grew heavy.
"You are." He countered, his voice warm with affection. "Your voice is already getting sleepy. You're slurring your words."
You lifted your head to glare at him, but the effect was ruined by the huge yawn that escaped you instead. Yuma's grin was insufferable.
"Told you, kitty." He whispered, pulling you closer.
You huffed, but nestled into him anyway, your cheek pressed against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you toward sleep. "You're insufferable."
"And you're beautiful." He replied, kissing your forehead. "We're quite the pair."
You smiled against his skin, your hand finding his and intertwining your fingers. "I love you, Yuma."
He squeezed your hand, his voice soft and melodic in the darkness. "I love you too. More than all the stars in Eldanith."
Sleep pulled you under, warm and gentle, wrapped in the arms of the king who had somehow become yours.
Wanting arrives quietly at first.
It sits beside you while you wash dishes, while you wait for the kettle to boil, while you watch strangers crossing streets hand in hand. It says nothing.
It only asks for someone to stay long enough that wanting can finally put down its bags and rest.
Iin the quiet of the king's chambers, with the fire burning low and the silk sheets tangled around your bare limbs, the wanting rests.
It set down its bags the moment your fingers first tangled in your hair. It unpacked its weary heart the night a king whispered "I love you" before you walked out his door. It curled up and fell asleep in the space between his breath and yours, in the hollow of his collarbone where your head now rested.
You had spent so long believing you were too much—too loud, too quiet, too cluttered, too everything.
Yuma had never once asked you to be less. He had only ever pulled you closer.
As the night wrapped itself around the palace, as the stars of Eldanith wheeled slowly overhead, you felt an echo of that loneliness dissolve into nothing.
There were many, many explanations as to how you could have possibly ended up here.
In the end, only one mattered.
You were loved.
And wanting, at long last, had found its home.
fin.
A/N: i think this is one of those rare fics in which i don't have a recurring word or theme if that makes sense. Know that i actually celebrated when i finished editing because oh my god my drafts were terrible Nakakita Yuma you have defeated me. Make sure to tune in for the last fic gang Jojo will be YEARNING
divider by @strangergraphics-archive
Taglist:
General taglist: @eu1joo @7yataki @frenchkisstheabyss @yumangel @nichozzystuffs @blueuijoo @pglpblm @ikigaijo @antonh0lic @dearvampyr @riri4andy @tokunodoll @sunsoomi @makizdoll @solairemelo @cece0710 @/someonerandom909 + Shoot me an ask or comment to be added!
Synopsis: Aubade, meaning a love song sung at dawn. It would be hard for him to sing one when you hated him.
Pairing: king!yuma x advisor!fem!reader
Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, oral (f rec), fingering, MUNCH YUMAAA, p in v, unprotected sex (not for you), lowkey soft dom yuma idk, yuma's a meanie, ONE BED TROPEEEEE, taki very kawaii, dramatic confessions
A/N: yeah i uhh dont really fw with the flow of this fic too much, but i fear this is all i can do in this imaginary word restriction I've given myself. I did love writing yuma losing his braincells though like fuck yeah yearn blueberry boi. As always, enjoy, my babies!
Word Count: 17.2k (died proofreading this)
SERIES MASTERLIST
When the wanting shows, it is embarrasing sometimes.
How badly you wanted somebody's hands on yours, a soft voice to call you out of sleep, somebody to sip on coffee with as the sun stretches her arms and gets to work.
It is nice, to not have love, to be so numbed out until all you can feel is water against your tongue. But then you remember how lovely it feels to be loved.
And then you're crying out for someone to pretend, for one afternoon, that you are not too much.
That your laughter does not arrive too loudly, that your silences are not burdens to be carried, that your heart is not a room cluttered with things nobody wants to sort through.
The wanting arrives quietly at first. It sits beside you while you wash dishes, while you wait for the kettle to boil, watching strangers crossing streets hand in hand. It says nothing. It only points.
There. Look.
Look at how easy tenderness seems in other people's lives.
You only wanted someone to remember how you take your tea, to notice when your smile is a little forced, to reach for your hand as naturally as breathing.
Someone to stay long enough that wanting can finally put down its bags and rest.
"So you're telling me this one is the actual blueprint and this one is a fake?"
Atleast you could find comfort in the fact that that someone would never be Nakakita Yuma.
"Your Majesty." You said, with as much patience as you could muster at the moment, "That one is the disposable one and this one is the one you'll be taking to the meeting."
"So it's a fake." He flashed his stupid grin at you, "Why else would it be disposable? What does it have to hide?"
This damn idiot.
You exhaled through your nose, the way you did when you were counting to ten in your head. You had learned that trick in your first week on the job, three years ago, when you had realized exactly what you had signed up for.
Three years. Three years of this. Three years of watching Nakakita Yuma grin at you like he knew something you didn't, like he had already won whatever game he was playing while you stood there clutching maps, treaties and the fraying edges of your composure.
You had been a clerk in the Ministry of Records, content to spend your days cataloguing trade routes and rainfall patterns, when the summons had arrived. The young king had requested you personally.
The story went that he had read a report you had written on coastal defense logistics and had found it entertaining. That was the word the messenger had used. His Majesty found your report quite entertaining.
You had wanted to scream.
Instead, you had packed your things, moved into the palace and discovered within the first hour that Nakakita Yuma was nothing like the kings in the storybooks. He did not sit solemnly on his throne, dispensing wisdom.
He lounged. He sprawled. He balanced his crown on the edge of his desk like a paperweight and laughed too loudly at his own jokes. His black hair was always slightly disheveled, as if he had just run his hands through it, and his sharp, cat-like eyes missed nothing even when his expression suggested he was bored out of his mind.
He had a single, slightly prominent snaggletooth that showed when he smiled, which was often. It made him look like a fox who had just found the henhouse door unlocked.
One of Yuma's hobbies was teasing you.
From the very first day, he had found ways to get under your skin. He would ask for your opinion and then argue with it just to watch you explain yourself. He would misplace documents and then produce them from his sleeve with a wink. He would call you into his office for urgent matters that turned out to be him wanting to know if you thought the sky looked more cerulean or sapphire that afternoon.
You had spent the first six months convinced he was the worst possible person to hold the crown of Eldanith.
Then you had seen him at a war council, watched him listen to every general, noble and strategist, his eyes tracking the room like a predator sizing up its prey. You heard him dismantle a flawed offensive plan in three sentences, then propose an alternative that made everyone in the room go silent.
He was good, annoyingly, infuriatingly so. He had strategy in his bones, instinct honed so sharp it cut. He just chose to hide it behind that lazy grin. It made you want to throttle him and respect him in equal measure. On most days, the throttling impulse won.
"You're staring at me like you're imagining my demise in creative ways again." Yuma said, tapping the rolled map against his palm.
"I am not imagining anything, Your Majesty."
"Liar." He grinned, his tooth catching the light. "Your left eye twitches when you lie. Did you know that? It's adorable."
You felt your jaw tighten. "The meeting starts in fifteen minutes. If you could please take the correct documents—"
"Which one is the correct one again?"
"The one in your left hand, Your Majesty."
He looked down at his hands, then back up at you, his expression one of theatrical confusion. "Left? Is that the one I write with or the one I wave at my subjects with?"
You were going to snap. You could feel it building, a pressure behind your teeth, a wordless noise of frustration clawing its way up your throat. You had spent three years developing a tolerance for his nonsense, but some days, the tolerance ran thin.
A knock at the door saved you.
"Enter." Yuma said, and his voice shifted, just slightly, the playfulness receding like a tide pulling back from shore.
The door opened, and King Euijoo of Iriandel stepped inside.
He was everything Yuma was not. Tall, composed, hair swept back from a face that seemed carved from marble, eyes calm. He wore his dignity like a second skin and when he looked at you, you felt like you were standing in the presence of someone who had never once misplaced a document in his life.
You had always respected Euijoo. He was the kind of king you had imagined serving when you first took this job. He spoke in complete sentences. He never made you want to throw a map at his head.
You straightened immediately, stepping back from the desk, composing your features into something professional. Euijoo's gaze flickered between you and Yuma, and the faintest suggestion of a smile touched his lips.
"Am I interrupting?" He asked, his voice smooth as polished wood.
"Not at all." You said, before Yuma could answer.
Euijoo's eyes lingered on you. "You were glaring at His Majesty with considerable intensity. I felt it from the hallway."
Your face heated. "I was—"
"She was helping me with my maps." Yuma cut in, slinging an arm over the back of his chair. "She's very passionate about maps. It's endearing."
You turned your glare on him. He winked.
Euijoo observed the exchange with the quiet patience of someone watching a play he had seen before. "I see. Well, I am here for the meeting, if you are ready."
"Ready as I'll ever be." Yuma stood, tucking the correct map under his arm. He paused as he passed you, close enough that you caught the faint scent of sandalwood and ink. He leaned in and lowered his voice.
"Try not to miss me too much while I'm gone, kitty."
And then he was gone, striding out the door beside Euijoo, leaving you standing in the middle of his office with your hands clenched at your sides and your heart doing something complicated that you refused to examine.
The door clicked shut. You exhaled. Something sat down beside you and pointed at the empty room.
There. Look.
_______________________
Death would have been more pleasurable than whatever was coming for you at the moment.
Usually, dearest reader, when two people get only one bed to sleep on, they'd arrive at a compromise someway or the other.
When you and Nakakita Yuma get only one bed to sleep on, it summons the four horsemen of the apocalypse itself.
You stood in the doorway of the inn room, your bag still slung over your shoulder, staring at the singular bed like it had personally offended your entire bloodline. It was not a small bed. That would have been its one redeeming quality—if it had been small, you could have argued for separate sleeping arrangements on the floor with dignity. But it was a generous size, almost obscenely so, draped in cream-colored linens and piled with pillows that looked far too soft for a town inn.
It was a bed designed for two people who liked each other.
You and Yuma did not like each other. You tolerated each other.
"Well," Yuma said from behind you, his voice carrying that infuriating lightness, "this is cozy."
You did not turn around. You were afraid that if you turned around, you would see his grin, and if you saw his grin you would say something that would get you dismissed from your position and possibly executed.
"It's one bed." You said.
"I can count."
"Your Majesty, perhaps I should find another inn—"
"And leave me all alone?" Yuma brushed past you. The movement was unhurried, like he had not just suggested the two of you share a bed without a single shred of royal decorum. "I would be devastated. Truly, I might weep."
You finally turned to look at him. He was already settling onto the edge of the bed, testing the mattress with his palms, his hair falling into his eyes. The lamp light caught the sharp lines of his face, the curve of his jaw as he smiled up at you.
"You brought an entire company of soldiers." You said. "Surely one of them could—"
"Could what? Share a tent with me on the palace grounds while you take the warm inn room?" He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "That would be terribly improper. A king should not sleep on the ground while his advisor takes a feather bed. Think of the scandal."
"You could have stayed at the palace."
"The palace has too many ceilings." He said it simply, like it made perfect sense, and in a way, it did.
Yuma had always been strange about places like that—grand halls, high walls, rooms that felt more like cages than chambers. He preferred the open air, the crowded streets, the chaos of real life. It was one of the things you had grudgingly come to admire about him, even if it meant you were now standing in a modest room in the kingdom of Phileon, preparing to share a bed with your king.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. "This is a terrible idea."
"Most of my best ideas are terrible." He patted the space beside him on the bed. "Come. Sit. I don't bite. Well—" He paused, thoughtful, and you felt your face go hot before he added, "—not without permission."
You threw your bag at him. He caught it, laughing, and the sound was so unexpected that you felt something in your chest loosen against your will.
This was the problem.
This was why you had learned to tease him back, to volley words with him like a game of shuttlecock. Because when he laughed like that, when his eyes crinkled at the corners, you forgot, for a moment, that he was your king. You forgot the weight of your position, the careful distance you were supposed to maintain. You forgot that you were meant to be professional, composed and untouchable.
The remembering always left you feeling a little more lonely than before. Here, in this small inn room in Phileon, with the distant sounds of the town filtering through the window and the bed taking up most of the space between you, the loneliness felt farther away than usual.
You sighed, defeated, and crossed the room to sit on the opposite edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight and you kept a foot of space in between.
"I'm not sharing the blankets." You said.
"Fine."
"And you stay on your side."
"Obviously."
"If you snore, I'm smothering you with a pillow and claiming the throne."
He grinned, slow and sharp. "I don't snore. I purr."
"You're insufferable." You said.
"Yet you are still here." He leaned back on his hands. "Why do you think I brought you along instead of Taki?"
You had wondered the same thing during the journey here. Taki was younger, more energetic, more likely to laugh at Yuma's jokes without that half-second of hesitation you always had. Taki would have handled this bed situation with grace and good humor, would have probably ended up arm-wrestling Yuma for the pillows and losing spectacularly.
You, on the other hand, had been mentally composing your resignation letter for the past ten minutes.
"Because Taki would have accidentally set the inn on fire," you said.
Yuma laughed again, softer this time. "True. But that's not the reason."
Then what would be the reason? That you were genuinely someone he wanted to talk to? That you were worth being listened to? You'd sooner have believed one of his ridiculous fantasies about komodo dragons.
Yuma's bath took long enough that the lamp oil had begun to burn low, casting the room in a honeyed glow that softened the edges of everything. When he finally emerged, his hair was damp and pushed back from his face and he had traded his traveling clothes for a loose shirt and trousers. He looked softer like this, younger. Less like a king and more like a boy who had been caught in the rain.
You immediately looked away.
"The crown," You said, because you needed to say something, anything, to fill the silence that had settled between you. "at the coronation today. You looked ridiculous."
He paused mid-step, one eyebrow lifting. "Ridiculous? I'll have you know I looked dashing. The princess—" He stopped and thought, for the princess of Phileon was now its Queen "the queen told me I looked very regal."
"The queen was being polite. You looked like a cat wearing a party hat."
He pressed a hand to his chest, mock-offended. "A cat? I am the sovereign ruler of an island kingdom. I—"
"You kept fidgeting with it." You said, smiling just a little, unable to help yourself. "Every five minutes, you reached up to adjust it. The ambassador from Iriandel asked me if you had an earache."
Yuma groaned, dropping onto his side of the bed with a dramatic flop that made the mattress bounce. "That crown is uncomfortable. It's too heavy. And the pearls dig into my temples. I don't know how my father wore it for thirty years."
"Perhaps he had a stronger head."
"Perhaps he had less hair to cushion it."
You snorted, the sound escaping before you could stop it and Yuma grinned, rolling onto his side to face you, propping his head on his hand. The movement brought him closer, but not too close, still a careful distance between you, the no-man's-land of the middle of the bed.
"You're funny when you're flustered." He said.
You had no response to that, so you stared at the ceiling instead, counting the wooden beams as if they held the secrets to the universe. You could feel his gaze on you, light and curious, and you wondered, not for the first time, what he saw when he looked at you. Someone competent, you hoped. Someone worth keeping around.
Not someone worth listening to. That was a fantasy you had long since abandoned.
"Anyway," you said, steering the conversation back to safer ground, "you looked odd because you never wear it. You're no really a crown person. You're a—" You paused, searching for the right word. "—a wind person, something that doesn't like being contained."
The silence that followed seemed oddly soft. You risked a glance at him and found him watching you with an expression you could not name.
"That's," he said, "that's surprisingly poetic of you."
"Don't get used to it."
"Too late. I'm writing it down. Framing it and putting it in the royal archives."
"Then I'll tell everyone about the incident with the ceremonial spear and the swan."
He groaned, flopping onto his back. "That was one time. And the swan started it."
You laughed. Yuma turned his head on the pillow to look at you, and neither of you spoke. Then he sighed, long and theatrical.
"Alright. Sleeping arrangements." He gestured vaguely at the space between you. "I propose a treaty. A border down the middle. No crossing into foreign territory."
"That's surprisingly diplomatic of you."
"I have my moments." He sat up, reaching for the extra pillow at the head of the bed, placing it squarely between you. "Sacred boundary. Do not cross." Yuma settled back down, pulling the blanket up to his chin, and you noticed, with a small pang, that he had left most of the blanket for you. He closed his eyes. "I'll leave the room when you need to change. Just say the word."
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." His voice was softer now, edged with sleep. "I want to."
And then, before you could respond, his breathing evened out. The king of Eldanith fell asleep. You lay still for a long time, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breath. The lamp burned low until the room was bathed in shadow and the silver of moonlight through the curtains.
Eventually, your body gave in. You shifted, letting yourself sink into the mattress, the warmth of him radiating across the space—neither too close nor too far, just enough to make the night feel less empty. You closed your eyes.
When you woke, hours later to the pale light of dawn, you found that the pillow barrier had shifted. His hand had drifted in sleep, to rest palm-up on the mattress, close enough that yours could have reached out to meet it.
You did not pull away.
___________________
You should never have laughed in front of Nakakita Yuma. In fact you should never have revealed this fact to Nakakita Yuma that you even had emotions.
Because currently he was trying to place the royal crown of Eldanith, the highest accessory in all the land, onto your head because he 'wished to see how ridiculous it truly looked'.
You ducked, sidestepping him with the kind of agility you usually reserved for avoiding drunk sailors at the docks. "Your Majesty, this is highly inappropriate—"
"It's a crown." He said, as if that explained anything, advancing on you with the crown. "It's meant to be worn. Consider this a field test."
"I am not wearing the crown." You circled your desk, putting the wooden surface between you. He mirrored your movement, eyes bright with mischief. The crown—ocean-colored sapphires and pearls, wrought in silver—dangled from his fingers like bait.
"It's too heavy." You said. "It'll give me a headache."
"It gives me a headache. That's the point. I want to know if it's universally uncomfortable or if I'm just particularly delicate."
"You are many things, Your Majesty. Delicate is not one of them."
He tilted his head and the look he gave you was sharp and pleased all at once. "Was that a compliment?"
"It was an observation."
"I'm putting it in the compliment column."
Yuma lunged. You yelped—a sound you would deny to your dying day—and scrambled around the desk, but he was faster, his free hand catching your wrist and pulling you to a stop.
You stumbled, caught off balance and suddenly you were chest-to-chest with him, the crown hovering just above your head.
"Hold still." He murmured.
"Your Majesty—"
"Yuma."
He had never asked you to call him that before. You had never offered. It was a line you had both respected, a distance you had maintained, a boundary that kept the world in order.
Yuma lowered the crown onto your head. It settled against your hair, heavier than you had expected. You felt the weight of it, the weight of every king who had worn it before him and for a moment, you understood why he so rarely put it on.
He stepped back, studying you with his head tilted. His hand was still loosely wrapped around your wrist, warm and calloused.
"Hm…" Yuma said.
"Well?"
"You look..." He paused and something flickered in his eyes, there and gone before you could name it. "You look like you're going to kill me."
"Because I am."
"Fair." He grinned Then he reached up and lifted the crown off your head, his fingers brushing against your hair as he did. He set the crown on your desk, casual as anything and leaned against the edge of it, crossing his arms.
"So," he said, "do you have any plans tonight?"
You blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. "Plans?"
"Evening activities. Social engagements." He waved a hand vaguely. "Taki and I were going to have a few drinks at the tavern near the eastern gate. The one with the terrible fish stew." He was looking at you with that expression that made you feel like he was seeing something you had not meant to show. "Would you like to join us?"
An invitation. A hand extended.
You thought about it—the dim lights of the tavern, Taki laughing at his own jokes, Yuma's shoulder brushing yours if you sat close enough. You thought about the warmth of belonging somewhere, even for an evening.
And then you thought about the safety of solitude.
"I can't." You said. "I have plans."
The lie came easily. It always did.
Yuma's expression did not change, but his posture shifted a fraction of a degree. "Ah. Shame." He pushed off from the desk, stretching his arms above his head with a casual grace that drew your eyes, "I would have liked your company." He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. He did not turn around. "Don't work too late." He said. "The reports will still be there tomorrow."
And then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving you alone in your office with the crown still sitting on your desk and the ghost of his fingers in your hair.
You had not had plans in a long time, not since you had realized that you never quite fit anywhere. That your laughter was too loud or too quiet, that your silences made people uncomfortable, that your heart was a cluttered room nobody wanted to sort through. So you had learned to fill your evenings with the comfort of being alone.
It was easier and safer. Wanting nothing meant never being disappointed.
I would have liked your company.
He had extended his hand, and you had let it hang in the air, unanswered. You looked at the crown, gleaming softly in the lamplight. You thought about the warmth of his hand on your wrist.
You picked up your pen and returned to your reports and it was a long time before you wrote anything at all.
____________________
To enjoy soltitude is a talent, one that you'd developed all these years.
Your cottage sat at the edge of the palace grounds, tucked behind a row of oak trees. It was not much—a sitting room, a bedroom, a kitchen—but it was yours. No servants, visitors, anybody to fill the silence with questions you did not know how to answer.
The evening had settled into its usual rhythm. You had lit a fire in the small hearth, the flames casting long shadows across the floor. A pot of tea steeped on the counter, chamomile and honey, the same blend you had drunk every night for the past two years. Your book lay open on the armchair, a worn volume of poetry that you had read so many times the spine had cracked.
You settled into the chair, tucking your feet beneath you and took a sip of tea. The silence wrapped around you like an old shawl and you sank into it without resistance.
This was the talent you had honed over the years. The art of being alone without feeling lonely. The careful craft of filling your own space so completely that there was no room for wanting.
It had not always been this way.
You remembered, with the distant ache of an old bruise, the first time you had realized you did not fit. You had been seven, maybe eight, standing at the edge of a game of tag while the other children ran past you, laughing. You had not been excluded, not explicitly. No one had told you to leave. But the game had moved around you, through you, as if you were a tree rooted to the spot. You had walked home alone, and you had told yourself it was fine.
In your adolescence, there had been a girl. She had been your first real friend, the kind you told secrets to, the kind you stayed up late with, trading stories and laughter until your voice went hoarse. You had thought, finally, finally, you had found someone who saw you.
But then she started sitting with the other girls at lunch. She saved them seats, waved you over with a smile that was just a little too bright and you had sat at the edge of the table, listening to jokes you did not understand, watching them exchange glances that skimmed right past you. You had stopped coming to lunch after a while. She had not asked why.
In your young adulthood, there had been a boy. He had courted you with flowers and poetry and you had let yourself believe, for a few dizzying months, that you could be loved. But when you had fallen ill, when you had needed someone to sit with you and hold your hand, he had sent a letter instead. I'm not good with sickness, he had written. I hope you understand.
You had understood. You had understood that you were worth flowers and poetry, but not the messy, inconvenient reality of being needed.
There had been your first posting years ago, in a coastal office where you had worked alongside a team of clerks who laughed easily and invited each other to dinners and gatherings. They had invited you too, at first. But you had always been a little too quiet and after a while, the invitations had stopped coming. You had watched them leave together at the end of the day, their voices bright and overlapping. You had stayed behind to finish the work they had left on your desk.
And then of course there had been 'that' incident. But it was better to stay off the tongue with that one.
You had told yourself it was fine. You preferred the quiet and soltitude anyway. Eventually, it had become true.
That was the thing about loneliness. It was a skill, like any other. You practiced it long enough, and it stopped hurting. You filled your evenings with books and tea and the soft crackle of the fire and you stopped waiting for someone to knock on your door.
An ounce of love given to you haunted you.
A kind word from a stranger could keep you awake for hours, turning it over in your mind, searching for the hidden meaning, the catch, the moment it would be taken back. A hand on your wrist, brief and warm, could echo through your chest for days. A simple I would have liked your company could lodge itself beneath your ribs like a splinter, impossible to remove, aching with every breath.
It was easier to have nothing. Easier to want nothing. Easier to sit alone with your tea and your poetry and your silence, for silence did not leave. Silence did not forget to save you a seat. Silence did not promise flowers and then abandon you when you needed someone to stay.
You took another sip of tea. The fire crackled. The pages of your book rustled as you turned them, though you had not read a single word.
In the back of your mind, a voice said, I would have liked your company.
You wished, not for the first time, that you had never learned what it felt like to be wanted. It was so much harder to forget.
_____________________
There were certain times when you wished to be a mind reader, just so you could understand what it was the king of Eldanith was thinking about.
His mind was a cornucopia of shiny trinkets that did not match with one another, a collection assembled by someone with no regard for coherence, no sense of theme or category—just objects that caught his interest and were deemed worthy of keeping.
Military strategy sat beside absurd jokes about komodo dragons. Political insight sat beside an inexplicable fondness for terrible fish stew. He could discuss trade routes with the same earnest enthusiasm he applied to convincing you that swans were, in fact, secretly plotting against him.
You had never met anyone so impossible to predict.
His eyes were deep and dark, like the ocean at midnight or the space between stars or the bottom of a well where light went to die. They were deep, fathomless in a way that made you feel like you were falling every time he looked at you.
It was, you hated to admit, part of why you could never quite figure him out. His eyes said depth, said secrets, said I am more than I appear.
But his smile said mischief, said play, said I am going to put this crown on your head whether you like it or not. Yuma was a king who wore his crown like a burden and his laughter like armor. He was a strategist who could read a room in seconds but pretended not to notice when you stared at him too long.
You had spent years learning to read people. It was a survival skill, a way to anticipate their needs before they had to voice them, to make yourself useful enough to keep around. But Yuma defied every attempt. Every time you thought you had him figured out, he said something that flipped your understanding on its head.
Like now.
You had been working in his office for the better part of two hours, the silence broken only by the scratch of pens and the rustle of parchment. He was reviewing a trade agreement with the northern provinces, his brow furrowed in concentration. You were cross-referencing supply ledgers, your work spread across the table in the corner of the room where you had claimed your usual spot.
It was comfortable and quiet—the kind of silence you had learned to cherish.
"You fit in well."
Your pen stopped moving. You turned your head slowly, certain you had misheard. "I'm sorry?"
"You fit in well." Yuma repeated, still not looking at you, scanning the document in his hands as if he had not just said something that had upended your entire understanding of the afternoon.
You stared at him. He did not elaborate. You waited. Five seconds. Ten. He merely continued reading, his expression utterly unreadable as if he had commented on the weather or the quality of the ink.
"Your Majesty," you said carefully, "I don't understand what you mean." He hummed, a noncommittal sound and turned a page. You set down your pen. "You're going to have to explain that."
"Do I?"
"Yes." You were aware that you were speaking to your king with a tone that bordered on insubordination but you could not bring yourself to care. "You can't just say something like that and then go back to work."
He looked up then, finally, and his dark eyes met yours. "Why not, kitty?"
"Because—" You stopped, trying to find the words that would make him understand how deeply, how fundamentally, his statement had shaken you. "I do not agree with what you said."
He was quiet for a moment, his gaze steady on yours. Then he set down his papers, leaned back in his chair, and regarded you.
"You work here." He said flatly.
"Yes, I work here. That's my job. That doesn't mean I fit here."
"You do." He said it without hesitation, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You know where everything is. You know how everyone works. You anticipate needs before they're voiced. You make yourself indispensable." He paused, tilting his head. "I fear that's the behavior of someone who has made a place for herself."
"I—" The word came out strangled. You cleared your throat and tried again. "That's not the same thing. That's just…..being good at my job."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
Yuma held your gaze for a long moment, and then he shrugged and picked up his papers again. "If you say so." And then he went back to work.
Just like that.
As if he had not just reached into your chest and pulled out something you had spent years burying. As if he had not just told you, in his strange, roundabout way, that he saw you. That he thought you belonged.
You fit in well.
The words echoed in your mind, refusing to settle. They were said less like a compliment and more like a statement of fact.
You had always been the one on the edge of the group, the one who was invited out of politeness, not desire.You had learned to accept that, to build your life around it, to find comfort in the margins where no one expected you to be anything other than what you were.
Yuma had looked at you and seen someone who fit. You did not know what to do with that.
You picked up your pen again, because you did not know what else to do. You returned to your ledgers; they did not say unexpected things that lodged themselves in your chest and refused to leave.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world to see you and think: she belongs here.
You worked in silence for the rest of the hour and when you finally gathered your papers to leave, Yuma did not look up. He did not say goodbye. He simply continued reading, his presence filling the room like a tide.
You walked to the door.You paused with your hand on the frame. You did not turn around.
As the door clicked shut behind you, you found yourself standing still, your heart beating a rhythm you were unfamilliar with.
What were you supposed to do with all that?
____________________
There had been a moment during Yuma's childhood when he'd picked up his first stray seashell on the aquamarine beaches of Eldanith.
It was an absolute beauty, a thing of light pink covered in sand. He'd proudly held it up to his mother, his small fingers wrapped around it like it was the greatest treasure in all the realm. The sun had been setting, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose, the waves lapping at his bare feet as he'd stood there, beaming, waiting for her to see.
She had smiled. She had taken the shell from his hands, turned it over and then she had handed it back to him and said, "It's lovely, Yuma. But you know it's empty, don't you? The creature that lived inside it has already left. What you're holding is just the shape of something that used to be alive."
Yuma had been too young to grasp the weight of her words, too caught up in the simple joy of finding something beautiful. He had kept the shell , placing it on his windowsill where it sat among his other treasures—a smooth stone, a dried starfish, a feather from a bird he had never learned the name of.
Yuma had kept it for years, long after he had understood what his mother meant.
He thought of that shell now, as he sat in his office with the evening light slanting through the windows. He thought of how he had held it up to the light, marveling at its perfect imperfections, never once considering that it was hollow. That the thing that had given it life had moved on. That beauty could exist in the absence of something.
Yuma thought of you.
He did not know why his mind had wandered to that particular memory or why it had settled on you like a ship finding harbor. But there it was.
You were not hollow though. You were not a shell, beautiful but empty, waiting to be filled by someone else's meaning. You were full of sharp observations and quiet strength, a wit that could cut him to the bone when you chose to wield it.
Yuma oddly loved it when you put him in his place.
He loved it with a fervor that surprised him every time, because he was the king and no one put the king in his place. His advisors bowed. His courtiers flattered. His enemies schemed in whispers and shadows.
You looked him in the eye and told him when he was being ridiculous and you did it without the deference that everyone else wrapped around their words like armor.
You had told him once, that he was being an insufferable brat right to his face, in front of Taki. Taki's eyes had gone wide with horror, and Yuma had felt something crack open in his chest, something terrifying and wonderful, because no one had ever spoken to him like that.
The thing that undid him the most was the fact that you had stayed.
You were brilliant, your mind a labyrinth of sharp corners and unexpected turns that he loved getting lost in. You could have gone abroad, taken your talents to a court that would have welcomed you with open arms, built a life far away from him.
But you had not. Yuma knew it was duty, your obligation, the path you had chosen for reasons that had nothing to do with him. He was not naive enough to mistake professionalism for affection.
But still.
Wvery morning when he walked into his office and found you already there, your pen moving across the page, your brow furrowed in concentration, he felt something fluttery settle in his chest.
You matched his intellect, his sharp tongue, his restless mind that never seemed to quiet. You challenged him in ways that no one else could, parried his words with your own, met his gaze without flinching. You were the only person in the entire kingdom who could make him feel like he was not performing, not wearing a mask.
With you, he could just be.
Yuma thought of your voice, sharp and dry, telling him that he was being ridiculous. He thought of the way your lips twitched when you were trying not to smile. He thought of the way your hand inches from his on the mattress in an inn in Phileon.
Yuma thought of the way you had lied about having plans.
He always knew when you were lying—in the way your shoulders tensed, the way your gaze flickered just slightly to the left. But Yuma wished you had not. He wished you had said yes.
He picked up his pen, dipped it in ink and returned to his work. The evening light faded, and the shadows grew long and he did not think about the seashell again.
A lie.
_____________________
It was no secret within the shell-studded palace halls of Eldanith that you liked to work yourself to the damn bone.
But hey burnout felt so good and plus, it was a mechanism of distraction from everything else going on in the dark world.
The weight of your thoughts, the echo of a voice saying you fit in well, the way your chest tightened every time you replayed that moment, your loneliness—all of it could be buried beneath enough ledgers, reports and hours of relentless productivity.
So here you were. The palace library, two hours past midnight with a stack of books balanced precariously in one arm, your eyes fixed on the highest shelf.
You needed the coastal trade records from three autumns ago. That was the official reason for your presence.
But tucked beneath your arm, hidden between dry economic analyses and agricultural reports, was a slim volume on the musical traditions of the southern provinces—a guilty pleasure. Something to read when the numbers blurred and your mind needed a different kind of exercise.
The ladder creaked beneath your weight as you climbed higher. The library was vast, its ceilings soaring, its shelves stretching toward the shadows where the lamplight could not reach. You had always loved this room—the smell of old parchment and dust—the kind of place where you could disappear, and right now, disappearing sounded wonderful.
You shifted your weight, reaching up on your tiptoes. Your fingers brushed the spine of the book you needed but it was wedged tightly between its neighbors, stubborn and unyielding. You stretched further. The ladder groaned.
And then your foot slipped.
You felt the world tilt horribly. The books in your arm slid, your balance shifted, your heart lurching into your throat as gravity took hold and pulled you backward into empty air. You braced for impact.
Which never came.
Instead, strong arms caught you, one around your waist and the other bracing against the ladder to steady it. You landed against something solid and warm and a familiar voice—low, amused—spoke directly above your head.
"Now, now. I know the library is impressive, but there's no need to throw yourself at it."
Your breath hitched. You had not heard him come in. Not a single footstep, not a whisper of movement. But that was hardly a surprise, was it?
They called him the nimblest cat of Eldanith's army for a reason.
He set you down gently, his hands lingering at your waist for a beat longer than necessary before he stepped back. You turned to face him, your heart still pounding, your face flushed. He was smiling.
"Your Majesty," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "I didn't hear you come in."
"I know." His dark eyes glinted with amusement. "That's rather the point."
Yuma had spent years honing the art of moving unseen, slipping through shadows and appearing where he was least expected. It was the skill that had made him such a formidable spy before he had taken the crown. Itwas the skill that now made him an absolute menace in everyday life.
You straightened, trying to reclaim some semblance of dignity. "You could have announced yourself."
"And miss the opportunity to catch you?" He tilted his head, his smile widening just slightly. "I think not." He glanced up at the shelf you had been reaching for, then back at you. "What were you after, anyway? Besides a broken neck."
"Some trade records."
"At this hour?"
"I couldn't sleep."
He hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. "Neither could I." He paused, and then, without waiting for permission, he stepped past you and climbed the ladder with an ease that made your earlier struggle look pathetic. He plucked the book from the shelf and handed it down to you with a flourish.
"Here."
You took it, your fingers brushing his. "Thank you."
Yuma did not let go immediately. His gaze held yours and for a moment, the library felt smaller and warmer, the air between you charged with an unspoken entity.
Yuma released the book, descended the ladder, and said, quite casually, "You should be more careful. I won't always be here to catch you."
You did not know what to say to that. So you said nothing. You clutched the book to your chest, your heart still hammering from the near-fall.
I won't always be here to catch you.
Yuma paused at the library doors, his hand resting on the frame. Then he turned, his gaze catching on the edge of the slim volume peeking out from beneath the trade records.
"Interesting choice of bedtime reading." He said, nodding toward it. "The music of the southern provinces. I've read it before."
You blinked, startled out of your spiraling thoughts. "You have?"
"Twice, actually." He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. The lamplight caught the sharp angles of his face, "The section on wind instruments is particularly well-researched, though I disagree with the author's assessment of the reed flute's origins."
This was familiar ground, so you let yourself relax. You had had conversations like this before—late-night debates in his office, arguments over historical accounts, shared moments of intellectual camaraderie that felt almost like friendship.
"The reed flute," you said, stepping closer despite yourself, "originated in the eastern marshlands. That's well-documented."
"The eastern marshlands," he repeated, pushing off from the doorframe and walking back toward you, "produced a version of the reed flute. But the earliest known examples were found in the northern foothills, predating the marshland variants by two centuries."
You raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realize you were such an expert on musicology, Your Majesty."
"I contain multitudes." He smiled, that familiar crooked smile that made him look less like a king and more like someone who'd enjoy picking seashells by the beach, "You'd be surprised what I find interesting when I'm supposed to be reading trade agreements."
"I'm not surprised at all."
He laughed, his eyes narrowing afterwards, studying you with that unnerving intensity he possessed.
"You look exhausted." He said.
You waved a hand dismissively. "I'm alright."
"You're not alright. You look like you haven't slept in days."
"I've slept."
"When? Last week?" You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off. "Tell me everything you did this week."
"That's hardly—"
"Everything, kitty."
You sighed, because you knew that tone. It was the tone he used when he was not going to back down, the tone that had made him such an infuriating king. You told him—council meetings, trade negotiations, correspondences you had handled, reports you had compiled, diplomatic letters you had drafted, budgets you had reviewed. The—
"Stop." Yuma said, holding up a hand. His expression had darkened, his jaw tight. "That's...that's three weeks of work. In one week."
"I'm thorough."
"You're going to collapse." He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the sandalwood that always clung to him. "Take a day off."
"I can't. There's too much—"
"There will always be too much." His voice was firm. "The work will still be there when you return. It will multiply, in fact, because that is the nature of work. But if you run yourself into the ground, you won't be able to do any of it."
You looked away, your jaw set. "I'm just doing my job."
"A lot of what you did this week isn't your job." He said, "You took on tasks that should have been handled by other assistants." You did not deny it. "You are allowed to hand things off," he continued. "You are allowed to rest."
You met his eyes again. "I know."
"Do you?"
You wanted to say yes, wanted to convince him and yourself that you were fine, that you had everything under control. But the words would not come.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. Take tomorrow off. Sleep. Read your book about reed flutes. Eat something that isn't bread and cheese eaten over a stack of papers." He paused, his gaze softening. "That's an order."
You opened your mouth to protest, but he raised an eyebrow and you closed it again.
"Fine." You said, the word tasting like defeat.
"Good." He turned and walked toward the doors again. He paused at the threshold, his back to you, and for a moment, he seemed to hesitate.
"I never say it enough," Yuma said, his voice quieter than you had ever heard it, "but... thank you. For all the work you do. Even if I do annoy you sometimes."
You blinked, the admission catching you off guard, "It's nothing."
He glanced back at you, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "It's not nothing. But I'll let you pretend it is." And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, his footsteps fading into the silence of the corridor.
You stood there for a long moment, alone in the library, the lamplight flickering and the shadows pooling around you. The mask you had been wearing all week began to crack.
Because it was not nothing, was it? The work. The endless, grinding, consuming work. You threw yourself into it because if you stopped—if you slowed down, if you let yourself breathe—you would have to face the quiet fear that had been gnawing at you for as long as you could remember.
If you are not useful, nobody will like you.
It was an old wound, one you had carried since childhood. You had learned early that love was conditional, that affection had to be earned, that your worth was measured in what you could provide. And so you had made yourself so vital, so necessary, that no one could afford to let you go.
You had forgotten that being needed was not the same as being loved.
You looked down at the books in your arms. Your fingers traced the spine of the musicology book and you thought of his voice telling you about reed flutes.
If only you knew how the king of Eldanith was blushing as he walked away from you.
If only you knew how his ears burned and his heart raced and his hands trembled slightly as he closed the door to his chambers and leaned against it, pressing his palm to his chest like he could slow the pounding.
If only you knew that he had stood in the corridor for a full minute after leaving the library, composing himself, before he could walk another step.
If only you knew that he had gone to his rooms and sat at his desk and stared at nothing, thinking of the way the lamplight had caught your face, the way your eyes had widened when he caught you, the way your voice softened when you said it's nothing.
If only you knew that the king of Eldanith, the sharp-tongued man who wore his crown like a burden and his laughter like armor, had lain awake that night, staring at the ceiling and whispered your name into the darkness like a prayer.
But you did not know.
You only knew that you were tired and that tomorrow you would rest.And that was enough.
For now.
_______________
Everything felt wrong.
The morning light filtered through your window, pale and golden, casting long shadows across the floor of your house. You had been lying in bed for—you checked the clock—three hours. Three hours of doing absolutely nothing.
Your hands twitched at your sides, itching for a quill, a report, something to occupy them. There was a voice in the back of your head, insistent and sharp, telling you that you were wasting time, that there was work to be done, that you were being lazy and useless.
It's an order from the king.
You repeated the words like a mantra, pressing them against the guilt like a bandage. You were following a direct command from His Majesty, King Nakakita Yuma of Eldanith. To disobey would be treason. Or something.
You sighed, rolling onto your side and stared at the wall. Normally, you filled the silence with work, the rustle of papers, the scratch of your quill and the endless mental lists of tasks to complete. But now, with nothing to do, the silence pressed in on you, heavy and unfamiliar.
Perhaps it was more so the absence.
You realized, with a start, that you had not heard his voice in—you counted—nearly eight hours. No playful jabs or sudden appearances in doorways with his smile.
You actually missed his snarky remarks every five minutes.
You groaned, pressing your palm to your face. What was wrong with you? You spent half your time exasperated by him and the other half wondering if he was going to drive you to an early grave with his antics. And now that he was gone, the space felt like a shell without its occupant.
Like a shell waiting to be filled.
You found yourself wondering what he was doing at that moment. He had left that morning for the kingdom of Sakuryn—a diplomatic visit, something about the delicate dance of international politics. You had offered to prepare his briefing materials but he had refused, telling youthat you were resting and that he would manage.
You wondered if he was managing. You wondered if he was charming diplomats with that crooked smile or if he was sitting in some stuffy meeting hall, bored out of his mind, wishing he was anywhere else. You wondered if he was thinking of you.
Probably not. He was a king on a diplomatic mission. He had more important things to occupy his mind than his exhausted advisor lying in bed, doing nothing. But then again...
The way his voice had softened when he thanked you. Maybe he was thinking of you. You buried your face in the pillow and tried to ignore the way your heart fluttered at the thought.
Rest, you told yourself firmly. That's an order.
But rest, it seemed, was easier commanded than achieved.
Very akin to concentration, Yuma realised, it was easier said than done.
The treaty lay signed and sealed on the table, the ink still glistening in the afternoon light that streamed through the paper screens of Sakuryn's eastern pavilion. The ceremony had been efficient, the negotiations smooth, Yuma being the picture of royal diplomacy for exactly as long as it took for the last brushstroke to dry.
Now, with the formalities concluded and a tray of untouched tea growing cold, Yuma leaned back on his cushion and stretched his arms above his head with a groan.
"So," he said, his voice dropping from formal register to something far more casual, "how is life going?"
King Jo of Sakuryn regarded him with the same flat, unreadable expression he had worn throughout the entire summit. He was a man of few words—quiet in a way that felt less like shyness and more like a personal choice, as if he had simply decided that most things were not worth the breath required to say them.
"Fine." Jo said.
Yuma waited. Jo did not elaborate.
"That's it?" Yuma asked, raising an eyebrow. "We just signed a treaty that will shape the economic future of both our kingdoms, and all I get is fine?"
"You asked how life was going." Jo replied, his tone perfectly neutral. "I answered."
"You don't talk much, do you?"
"No."
Yuma stared at him for a moment, then let out a laugh. "I respect the honesty, but you're killing me here. How do you survive diplomatic dinners? Do you just sit there and let people talk at you?"
"Essentially."
Taki, seated to Yuma's left, let out a quiet snort that he quickly disguised as a cough. Yuma shot him a look, but there was no heat in it.
Jo picked up his tea, taking a slow sip. "You seem restless." He observed. "How is your life going?"
Yuma opened his mouth to give a standard reply—fine, busy, the usual—but something about the quiet of the pavilion (the absence of a certain sharp-tongued advisor back home) made the words catch in his throat. To his own horror, he found himself speaking.
"There's this girl." He said.
Taki's head snapped toward him so fast Yuma heard his neck crack. Jo's expression did not change, but his eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch.
"I mean—" Yuma waved a hand, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. "Not a girl. A woman. My advisor. You know the one I mean, Taki, you've met her—"
"The one you're sometimes insufferable about?" Taki supplied helpfully.
Yuma ignored him, turning back to Jo. "I don't know if it's attraction or just admiration. She's brilliant. She works too hard and she doesn't sleep enough and she has this way of looking at me like I'm both the most exhausting person she's ever met and somehow worth the effort." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "I once caught her as she fell off a ladder and I could not think about anything that night other than her face."
Jo blinked. Taki pressed his lips together, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
"And now I'm here." Yuma continued, gesturing broadly, "I don't know what to do with any of it." He fell silent, suddenly aware that he had just spilled his entire heart to two men he barely knew.
Jo regarded him for a long moment. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched—the first crack in his stoic facade.
"You sound like Fuma." Jo said.
"Fuma?"
"My Lord Commander. He spent six months making moon eyes at a baker before he finally confessed." Jo picked up his tea again, taking another sip. "It was painful to watch. He wrote very bad poetry."
Taki let out a laugh, sharp and delighted and Yuma shot him a glare that only made him laugh harder.
Jo set down his tea and met Yuma's eyes. "My point is," he said, "don't wait too long. Whenever you figure out what you're feeling—attraction, admiration, or something in between—don't let it sit until it turns into regret."
Yuma opened his mouth, closed it, and then said, ".…..Did Fuma's baker say yes?"
"They're getting married next spring." Jo's lips quirked again, and this time, there was something mischievous in his quiet eyes. "If you want, I can have him send you some of his poetry. For inspiration."
"I don't need—"
"It's really bad."
"I said I don't—"
"He rhymed 'pastry' with 'chastely.'"
Taki wheezed. Yuma pressed his palm to his face. "I hate you both," he said, but his voice was light.
"No, you don't." Jo said, and there was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips as he reached for the treaty, folding it neatly. "You're just lovesick."
"I am not—"
"Get some rest, Yuma. And when you go home, talk to her." He rose, smoothing down his robes, and paused at the door. "Before you start writing poetry." He was gone before Yuma could throw a cushion at him.
Yuma thought about whatever words rhymed with 'shell'.
_________________
A letter.
All it took was a single letter to break every logical braincell in your body and have you rushing about like a mad parrot.
You had been in the middle of reorganizing the eastern supply ledgers when a messenger had arrived, breathless, pressing a sealed parchment into your hands.
From His Majesty, the messenger had said. Sent ahead from the road.
You had broken the seal with steady hands. By the time you finished reading, your hands were not steady at all.
The handwriting was wrong.
Not Yuma's—you would have recognized his careless script anywhere, the way his letters slanted forward like he was always in a hurry to get to the next word. This was neat, precise. Wrong.
And the words—
Delayed. Complications. Do not expect my return at the appointed hour.
Your heart had stopped and had launched into a gallop that had not ceased since.
Sakuryn was a war-torn country. Yuma had told you over a map one evening. Decades of conflict, he had said. They're stable now, but the scars run deep.
You had nodded and filed the information away and thought nothing of it.
Now you were thinking of assassins in shadowed corridors, political rivals with long memories, of treaties signed in blood instead of ink. Now you were thinking of a king who caught you when you fell. Now you were thinking of him lying dead in a Sakuryn ditch and the letter was the only warning you would get.
So you had moved.
Soldiers had been mustered, horses saddled, the gates thrown open. You had sent scouts ahead on the road to Sakuryn, had ordered the guard doubled at every entrance, had personally checked the readiness of the royal physician's kit. You had not stopped moving, because if you stopped moving, you would start thinking and if you started thinking, you would fall apart.
Now, three hours later, you stood in the center of the throne room—still in your rumpled clothes, hair escaping its pins, ink smudged on your fingers—directing a pair of guards to reinforce the western patrol route when the great doors swung open.
You turned.
Yuma stood in the doorway.
He was whole and unharmed. A little dusty from the road, perhaps, and wearing a travel-stained cloak, but very, very alive. Behind him, Taki peered over his shoulder, looking mildly confused by the commotion.
Yuma's eyes swept the room—the gathered soldiers, the heightened alert, the maps spread across every surface, and finally, you, standing in the middle of it all like a storm given human form.
He blinked.
his lips curved into a smirk. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, looking for all the world like a cat who had just discovered a particularly entertaining mouse.
"Well, well, well," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. "If it isn't my favorite advisor, standing in the middle of the throne room looking like she's about to declare war on someone. And holding a spear, no less. I didn't know you knew how to use one, kitty."
"I thought you were dead." You said flatly.
Yuma's smirk faltered. "What? Why?"
"Your letter." You thrust the crumpled parchment toward him, "It wasn't your handwriting. It said do not expect my return at the appointed hour. What was I supposed to think?"
Yuma took the letter, smoothing it out and scanning its contents. His eyebrows rose. Then, to your utter disbelief, he laughed.
"Oh, this is Taki's handwriting." He said, waving the parchment. "I dictated it to him because my hands were full." He paused, squinting at the words. "He made it sound significantly more ominous than I intended."
You swore you were going to murder Takayama Riki for never showing you his damned handwriting.
Yuma stepped closer, his playful demeanor softening. He tilted his head, studying your face with an intensity that made your breath catch.
"Were you worried about me?" He asked, and his voice was quieter now, almost gentle.
You wanted to deflect with sarcasm, to hide behind sharp words and a dismissive wave.
"Yes." You said because there was no point in pretending otherwise.
Yuma's eyes widened, just a fraction. Something flickered in their depths before he masked it with a clearing of his throat.
"Right." He said, turning away. "Tea. My office. Now." He paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. "And you are going to tell me every single thing you did while you were supposed to be resting." His voice carried a note of command, but his eyes were soft. "Every. Single. Thing."
He disappeared through the doorway, leaving you standing in the throne room, heart in your throat, wondering how one man could infuriate you and undo you in equal measure.
_______________________________
His office was warm, lit by the soft glow of candles that had been lit in your absence. A fresh pot of tea sat on the table, steam curling lazily into the air. You had set down the spear somewhere in the hallway and your hands were blessedly still as you wrapped them around a porcelain cup.
Yuma sat across from you, having shed his travel cloak and loosened the collar of his tunic. He looked tired, you noted. The journey had clearly worn on him but his eyes were bright as they watched you over the rim of his own cup.
"So," he said, settling back into his chair, "tell me everything."
You told him about the letter's arrival, the panic that had seized you, the mobilization of soldiers, the scouts sent ahead, the doubled patrols, the frantic reorganization of the eastern supply ledgers that had somehow spiraled into a full-scale security review.
Yuma neither teased nor interuupted. He simply listened, his expression thoughtful, his tea growing cold in his hands. When you finally finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
"Sakuryn had some really pretty red flowers." He said offhandedly. "They grew along the road leading out of the capital. Bright crimson, like little flames." He paused, his gaze drifting to the window. "You would have liked them."
You blinked, thrown by the sudden shift in topic. "Why would you even care about that? You merely went for a treaty signing."
"Can I not care about you?"
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples spread outward, unsettling everything in their path. Something caught in your jaw—a tension you hadn't realized you were holding.
Care was not a word you trusted. Care was a word that came with conditions, with expectations, with fine print you had never been able to read.
"You would have probably told me their latin name before I could finish saying they were pretty." He said, "I wanted to bring one back for you, but it would have wilted before I crossed the border."
You stared at him, your throat tight, your heart pounding against your ribs. You wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come.
Yuma cleared his throat and reached for the teapot, refilling his cup with studied nonchalance. "Anyway," he said, his voice lighter now, "you should actually rest tomorrow. That's an order."
You nodded, because nodding was safe. Nodding required no words. You finished your tea in silence and when you finally rose to leave, your hands were steady, but your heart was not.
The door clicked shut behind you. Yuma sat alone in the office, staring at the empty space where you had been. He let out a long, slow breath and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.
Attraction or admiration, he had said to Jo. I don't know which.
Yuma had realised the moment he saw you standing in the throne room, spear in hand, eyes wild with terror—for him. He had realised when you said yes so honestly, that it had nearly undone him. He had realied when he watched you leave and the room felt emptier for your absence.
Attraction.
Yuma groaned, dropping his hands to his lap.
Attraction wasn't a road he had conquered yet.
_______________
Why ever did you agree to this task was an answer only the gods themselves would know.
This being accompanying Yuma as he took his usual undercover trip to the streets of the kingdom
You had been buried in ledgers when Yuma had appeared at your desk, dressed in plain linen and a worn leather vest, his hair mussed to look less regal. He had looked like a common laborer, grinning at you like a child with a secret.
"Taki's sick." He had announced. "You're coming with me instead."
You had opened your mouth to refuse. You had a mountain of work. You had no interest in playing dress-up in the lower districts. You had—
"You said yes." Yuma had said, already pulling you to your feet. "I heard it. It was very enthusiastic."
"I said nothing of the sort—"
"Your silence was thunderous with agreement. Come on. Put on something less advisor-like."
You had ended up here.
The streets of Eldanith's lower districts were alive with noise and color. Merchants hawked their wares from wooden stalls, children darted between the legs of adults and the smell of fresh bread and fried fish floated through the air.
Yuma was having the time of his life. He had already purchased a hand-carved wooden bird ("It looked lonely"), a bundle of dried herbs from an old woman ("She needed the coin more than I do"), and a chipped ceramic mug that you were fairly certain was going to give him lead poisoning ("It has character").
"You're being robbed." You said flatly, watching him hand over another handful of coins for a piece of fabric that was clearly dyed with cheap pigment.
"I'm investing in the local economy." He corrected, tucking the fabric into his satchel.
You were about to argue further when your gaze drifted past his shoulder, toward a small gathering of people near a fountain.
You knew those faces. Your breath caught. Your steps faltered.
They were older now, lined with the passage of years, but you would have recognized them anywhere. The same cluster of sycophants around the ringleader, laughing at jokes you had long since forgotten the content of but remembered the feeling of.
Your chest tightened. Your hands grew cold.
They had been your friends once. Or so you had thought.
You had been young, eager, desperate to belong. They had welcomed you into their circle with open arms; you had been so grateful, so naive. You had trusted them with your secrets, your fears, your hopes. You had thought you had found a place where you were wanted.
They had played their trick.
You did not like to think about it. You had buried it deep, locked it away in the same vault where you kept your childhood fears and your mother's disappointed sighs. But seeing them now, laughing by the fountain, the memories clawed their way back up your throat.
The realization that you had never been a friend to them—you had been a joke.
Your breathing quickened. Your vision narrowed. The sounds of the market faded to a distant roar.
"Hey."
A hand closed around your wrist, warm and firm. Yuma was standing in front of you, his playful demeanor replaced by concern. His eyes searched your face, reading something in your expression that made his jaw tighten.
"What's wrong?" He asked quietly.
You tried to speak, but your voice caught in your throat. The group by the fountain hadn't noticed you yet. They were still laughing carefree, utterly unaware of the ghost they had left behind. You wanted to run. You wanted to hide. You wanted to be anywhere but here.
But Yuma's hand was still on your wrist, grounding you, anchoring you to the present.
"Hey," he said again, softer this time. "Look at me."
His eyes were patient and waiting. He did not demand an explanation. He did not push. He simply stood there, holding you together with nothing but his gaze.
"Whatever it is," he said, "we can leave. Just say the word."
"It's nothing." You said, the words scraping past the tightness in your throat. "Let's go."
But before you could turn, before Yuma could guide you away, a voice cut through the market noise like a blade.
"Well, well, well. Is that who I think it is?"
You froze. The ringleader already striding toward you, that familiar smirk plastered across her face. The others followed, a flock of vultures drawn by the scent of old prey.
You were trapped.
"Look at you." She said, stopping just short of invading your space. Her eyes raked over you, cataloging every detail with the practiced cruelty of someone who knew exactly which insecurities to poke. "Still wearing those same old clothes, I see. I thought by now you'd have grown into something presentable."
One of the others—you remembered the one who had laughed the loudest—chimed in. "And you're still so tense. Relax a little. You look like you're about to shatter."
"Maybe she's finally learned that no one wants to be around someone so brittle." Another added.
Your chest constricted. The noise of the market grew distant. Their faces blurred at the edges, but their words landed like stones, each one heavier than the last. You wanted to speak, to defend yourself, but your voice had abandoned you. You were a teenager again, standing in the middle of a circle, watching the people you trusted most tear you apart for sport.
Brittle. Plain. Too much. Not enough.
Joke.
You felt yourself spiraling, the ground slipping beneath your feet—
"Alright."
Yuma's voice cut through the spiral. He stepped forward, positioning himself slightly in front of you, a barrier between you and the vultures.
"This was nice." He said, and there was nothing nice about his tone. "But we must be on our way."
Her smirk widened. She looked Yuma up and down, clearly unimpressed by the plain clothes and the lack of any obvious status markers.
"Oh, I see." She said, voice dripping with mockery. "You've actually found someone to court you. How surprising." The others snickered. "I mean," she continued, gesturing vaguely at you, "with a face like that, I didn't think anyone would—"
Yuma moved.
It was subtle—a shift in his stance, a hardening of his jaw, a coldness that crept into his dark eyes. He did not raise his voice. He did not draw a weapon. But something in his presence changed, a quiet menace that made the air around him grow still.
"I would be very careful," he said, his voice low and even, "about how you finish that sentence."
She blinked, momentarily thrown. The smirk faltered.
"And I would be very careful," Yuma continued, stepping closer, his height suddenly seeming to loom, "about speaking to her at all. Because the next time you open your mouth, I can't promise I'll be in a forgiving mood."
There was a beat of silence. The market noise seemed to recede. Even the vultures looked uncertain.
She recovered quickly, forcing a laugh. "Who do you think you are, threatening me? You're nobody. You're—"
"I'm someone who knows exactly how much force it takes to break a jaw." Yuma interrupted, his voice calm, pleasant and terrifying. "And I'm someone who has absolutely nothing to lose by demonstrating that knowledge in front of a crowd of witnesses who will all conveniently remember nothing."
Yuma sighed, a sound of profound boredom. "You know what? I was going to let this slide. I was going to be gracious. I was going to walk away and let you keep your teeth."
He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small silver medallion—the royal seal of Eldanith, stamped with the crest of the Nakakita line. He held it up between two fingers, letting it catch the afternoon light.
"But then you opened your mouth again. And I realized that some lessons need to be taught more than once."
The medallion glinted. The marketplace went still.
Like a wave crashing over the shore, recognition spread through the crowd. One by one, every person in sight dropped to their knees, bowing.
"Your Majesty/" Someone whispered. And then it spread, a ripple of hushed awe and terror.
Your Majesty. Your Majesty. Your Majesty.
You barely noticed any of it.
You were standing in the middle of the street, your hand still clasped in Yuma's and you were on the verge of tears. The king of Eldanith, the man who drove you up every wall in the palace, had threatened to break a jaw for insulting you.
Yuma tucked the medallion away and turned to you. "Come on." He said, tugging your hand. "Let's go home."
He led you through the kneeling crowd and you followed because you didn't know what else to do. Your legs moved on their own. Your heart raced in your chest. The tears you had been holding back threatened to spill over.
Under the dying sunlight, Nakakita Yuma looked so…..warm.
Warm was that feeling of his hand clutched in yours (somebody's hands on you), the sound of his voice defending you (a soft voice to call you out of sleep) and just the mere existence of him (somebody to sip on cofffee with).
And you were crying because somebody have proved, for one afternoon, that you were not too much.
Why the fuck had he proved that?
You followed Yuma into his office, the door clicking shut behind you. The silence of the palace was a stark contrast to the chaos of the market. Yuma moved to the side, shrugging off his vest and cloak, tossing them onto a chair with little care.
"Why did you do that?"
He paused, turning to look at you. "What?"
"Why did you do that?" You repeated, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to steady it. "Back there, with them. Why did you—"
"Just wanted to." He said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"That's not an answer."
Yuma turned to face you fully, crossing his arms. "Do you not think you deserve at least that much respect?"
The question hit you like a physical blow. You blinked, your throat tightening.
"That's not—" You shook your head, frustration bubbling up through the tears. "You're the king. You shouldn't be wasting your time defending someone like me."
"Someone like you?" His voice sharpened, his eyes narrowing.
"Yes. Someone like me. I'm your advisor. I'm—I'm nothing. I'm replaceable. I'm—"
"Nothing?"
The word cut through your rambling like a blade. Yuma stepped closer.
"Someone like you." He repeated, his voice low. "Do you hear yourself? Someone this smart? Someone who works herself to the bone for a kingdom that doesn't thank her half enough?"
He took another step. Then another. The space between you shrank until you could see flecks of gold in his dark eyes, could count the individual lashes framing them.
"Someone this beautiful?" He murmured, his voice dropping to reverence.
You shook your head, stepping back. Your back hit the wall. "That's—that's not—" You took a break, composing yourself back to your formal tone, "It's odd that you care. It's okay for you not to care. I'm used to it. I expect it. So you don't have to—"
"Don't have to what?"
Yuma was angry now. You could see it in the set of his jaw, the fire in his eyes. But it wasn't the cold, menacing anger he had shown your ex-friends. This was something personal.
"Don't have to pretend." You whispered. "I know what I am. I know what I'm worth. And it's not—"
"Stop."
He closed the distance between you, his hands coming up to cup your face. His palms were warm against your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had finally spilled over.
"Stop." Yuma said again, his voice cracking. "Stop talking about yourself like you're something less than extraordinary. Stop acting like you're not worth every second of my time, every word of my defense, every beat of my goddamned heart."
"Your Majesty—"
"You really have no idea how much I love you, do you?"
Love?
That unfamillair word?
A revelation, spoken with the kind of quiet devastation that comes from realizing someone has been living in darkness their entire life, never knowing what light feels like.
You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. What could you possibly say? That you had spent years believing love was transactional? That affection was something earned through usefulness, through making yourself agreeable and necessary? That the idea of someone loving you—truly, unconditionally loving you—was so foreign it felt like a language you had never learned to speak?
Yuma's thumbs traced gentle arcs across your cheekbones, catching fresh tears before they could fall.
"I think about you constantly." He said, his voice low and raw. "I think about the way you smile when you think no one is watching. I think about the way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. I think about the sound of your laugh that escapes when I catch you off guard. You have no idea how much I love that sound."
A sob escaped you and he pulled you closer, his forehead pressing against yours.
"I notice when you skip meals because you're too deep in work. I notice when you're pretending to be fine when you're not. I notice everything about you, and I have been drowning in it since the moment you walked in and told me my tax policy was idiotic."
A wet laugh escaped you, surprised and broken.
"You were right, by the way," he added, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "It was idiotic. And you were the first person in years brave enough to tell me."
Yuma pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own shining and vulnerable in a way you had never seen from him before.
"I love you."
The words were a truth, spoken with the certainty of someone who had long since stopped fighting it. "I love you, and I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how to be near you without wanting to be closer. I don't know how to watch you walk away without counting the moments until you come back. I don't know how to exist in a world where you don't know how much you mean to me."
His voice cracked on the last word, and you felt your heart splinter along with it.
"So please." He whispered, his breath warm against your lips. "Please believe me when I say that you are not too much. You are not nothing. You are not replaceable. You are the most infuriating, brilliant, beautiful, irreplaceable person I have ever met and I am terrified of how much I need you."
Yuma pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering there as if he could pour every unspoken word into that single point of contact.
"I need you to know," he murmured against your skin, "that I will spend every day for the rest of my life proving to you that you are worthy of love. That you always have been."
You stood there, cradled in his hands, tears streaming down your face, and for the first time in years—maybe for the first time ever—you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you were enough.
Yuma's hands were still cradling your face, his thumbs resting against your damp cheeks. Your fingers were curled around his wrists, holding on like he was the only anchor in a storm. The air between you was thick with everything unspoken, everything confessed, everything waiting to be claimed.
Your eyes dropped to his lips. They were so close—a breath away, a heartbeat away.
Your mind raced with a thousand objections. He was the king. You were his advisor. This was reckless. This was dangerous. This was everything you had been taught to avoid.
Those eyes were looking at you like you were the answer to a question he had been asking his whole life. What was a little danger?
You swallowed. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it through his palms.
"Yuma," you tried, and the name felt foreign and precious on your tongue. "Can I…"
You hesitated. The fear clawed at your throat, old and familiar. But his thumbs traced another gentle arc across your cheekbones and the fear loosened its grip.
"Can I kiss you?"
The words came out fragile, almost disbelieving as if you were asking for something you had no right to want.
For a moment, Yuma looked utterly stunned—as if the idea that you would want to kiss him had never occurred to him.
"Yes." He breathed. "Yes. Please. Yes."
You closed the distance.
The kiss was soft at first—hesitating, questioning, neither of you quite believing this was real. His lips were warm and slightly chapped, moving against yours with a gentleness that made your knees weak.
His hand slid into your hair, and yours fisted in his shirt, and the kiss deepened into something hungrier, something more desperate, something that tasted like years of longing finally given release.
The world faded away. The office, the palace, the kingdom—all of it dissolved into nothing. There was only the warmth of his mouth on yours, the steady beat of his heart against your palm, the way his breath hitched when you tilted your head just so.
It felt like flowers were blooming around you, bursting into colour behind your closed eyelids.
Violets for devotion. Roses for passion. Lilies for a love you had never believed you deserved. They spiraled upward in a cascade of petals and fragrance, wrapping around you both like the universe itself was blessing this fragile thing you were building.
When you finally broke apart, breathless and trembling, you kept your forehead pressed to his.
In the golden light of the dying sun, with the scent of phantom flowers lingering in the air, Yuma kissed you again like you were the most treasured thing in all of Eldanith.
And perhaps, to him, you were.
_____________________
There were many, many explanations as to how you could've possibly ended up here.
Ink stained fingers tangled in the soft hair strands of Nakakita Yuma while his tongue worked to pull your tears from you.
You had been working all day in his office. It had become something of a routine in the weeks since that kiss—sharing the space, the silence, the occasional brush of hands when reaching for the same document.
The complicated relationship you had once navigated with a distance had transformed into something that felt close to home.
Yuma would sit at his desk, reviewing treaties and signing decrees, while you occupied the table by the window, surrounded by scrolls and ledgers and half-empty cups of tea. Sometimes you would look up and find him already watching you, a small smile playing on his lips. Sometimes he would rise from his chair just to stand behind you, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder, before returning to his work as if he had simply needed to reassure himself that you were still there.
Wvery night, without fail, before you gathered your things and retreated to your house, he would catch your hand, pull you close and press a kiss to your forehead.
"I love you." Yuma would whisper, his breath warm against your skin.
Every night, without fail, you would feel that flutter in your chest, that same disbelief that this was your life now.
Tonight, the work had piled higher than usual. A trade dispute with a neighboring province. A miscommunication in the treasury. A letter from Jo that had made Yuma laugh and then sigh. The hours had slipped away, the candles had burned low and you had refused to stop.
"Give it up." Yuma had said for the third time, his voice gentle but firm. "Go home. Sleep."
"I'm not sleepy yet." You had mumbled, already reaching for a scroll on a shelf in his office, stretching on your tiptoes, your fingers barely brushing the parchment.
You heard him rise from his chair, soft footsteps crossing the room. And then his arm was around your waist, pulling you back until your back was flush against his chest and his other hand reached up to pluck the scroll from the shelf with infuriating ease.
"Yuma—"
He took the scroll from your hand slowly and placed it on the desk beside you. His lips found the curve of your neck, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss just below your ear.
"How about I help you sleep, kitty?"
His voice was low, sending a shiver down your spine. His arm tightened around your waist, holding you steady as his lips trailed down the side of your neck, leaving a path of warmth in their wake.
Your breath hitched. Your fingers found their way into his hair, tangling in the soft strands, holding him there as his tongue traced a delicate pattern against your skin.
"You've been working too hard." He murmured against your throat. "You've been pushing yourself too much. And I've been wanting to remind you that you're human."
He kissed the hollow of your collarbone and your knees buckled slightly.
"Let me remind you." Yuma whispered. "Let me take care of you tonight."
Your eyes fluttered closed. You leaned back into him, letting him hold your weight, letting him catch you the way he always did.
"Okay," you breathed. "Okay."
In the dim candlelight of his office, with the world outside fading away, Nakakita Yuma turned you in his arms, cupped your face in his hands and kissed you like he had all the time in the world.
Yuma’s kiss was slow and deep, a promise of the devotion he was about to pour into you. He tasted of tea and longing, his tongue sweeping against yours in a soothing dance that melted the last remnants of your professional resolve. With a soft groan, he broke the kiss, though he kept his forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm on your lips.
"Come here.." He whispered, his voice thick with affection.
Yuma guided you toward the velvet sofa in the corner of the office, candlelight casting flickering shadows across the room. He lowered you onto the cushions with tenderness. You sank into the plush fabric, looking up at him with wide, hazy eyes.
Yuma knelt between your legs, his expression one of pure, unadulterated adoration—a king on his knees.
His fingers moved to the fastenings of your dress, his touch light and steady. Yuma took his sweet time, undoing each button and tie with a reverence that made your heart ache. As the fabric slid away, exposing your skin to the cool night air, he let out a shaky breath, his gaze roaming over your body like he was memorizing a sacred text.
"You are so beautiful…" He murmured, his voice trembling . "Absolutely breathtaking."
He leaned forward, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your stomach, his lips grazing your skin in a way that made you arch your back and let out a soft, needy whine. Your fingers curled into the fabric of the sofa, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps.
As he shifted lower, his hands sliding up to grip your thighs, parting them slowly to reveal the damp heat between your legs, Yuma paused. He looked up at you, his eyes searching yours, ensuring you were still with him, still wanting this.
"May I?" he asked, his voice a low, rough plea. "I want to take care of everything you're feeling right now. Is that okay, kitty?"
"Yes," you whimpered, your voice breaking. "Please, Yuma...please."
Yuma started with a softness that was so fucking agonizing. He pressed a tender kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, then another, moving closer and closer to your center. When his tongue finally made contact with your clit, you let out a loud, sharp moan that echoed through the quiet office.
"Ah! Yuma!"
He hummed against you, the vibration sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. He began to lick you with slow strokes, his tongue swirling around your nub with an expert precision. He was treating you like a delicacy, savoring every drop of your arousal.
You began to whine, your hips instinctively bucking upward, seeking more pressure. "More... please, I need more..."
Yuma responded by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. The combination was overwhelming. You gasped, your head tossing from side to side on the cushions, your voice dissolving into a series of high-pitched moans and desperate whimpers.
"That's it, sweetheart," he murmured, pulling back for a second to look at you, his lips glistening with your juices. "Just let go. Give it aaall to me. Let your king take the stress away, hmm?"
Yuma dove back in, his suction increasing, his tongue flicking faster and harder against your clit. You were sobbing now, the pleasure building into a crescendo that felt like it would shatter you. You gripped his hair, pulling him closer, your legs shaking violently.
"Yuma! Oh god, Yuma, I'm—I'm going to—!"
"Go on." He encouraged, his voice muffled against your pussy. "Relax for me, kitty."
With one final flick of his tongue and a deep thrust of his fingers, you peaked. Your body stiffened, a loud, prolonged cry escaping your throat as waves of intense orgasm crashed over you. Your internal muscles clamped tightly around his fingers, your breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps.
Yuma didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, gently licking the remaining sensitivity of your clit, soothing the aftershocks with soft, loving laps until your breathing finally slowed. He crawled up the sofa, pulling you into his arms and wrapping you in a tight, protective embrace.
"I've got you.." He whispered, kissing your temple. "I've got you."
You melted into him, your body still humming with the echoes of pleasure, your mind floating in that hazy, weightless space he always seemed to guide you into. His arms were warm and steady around you, his heartbeat strong against your back, and for a long, perfect moment, you were content to simply exist in his hold.
The haze began to clear and a familiar stubbornness stirred in your chest.
"...I'm still not sleepy." You mumbled against his shoulder, your voice carrying a petulant edge.
Yuma let out a low chuckle, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into your spine. "Is that so?"
You nodded, turning your head to press a kiss to his jaw. "Not even a little bit."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes filled with a fond exasperation that made your heart flutter. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"
You smiled, innocent and cheeky. "I have no idea what you mean."
Yuma studied you for a moment, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your hip. Then, without warning, he shifted, one arm sliding under your knees and the other bracing your back as he lifted you into his arms.
"Yuma!" You gasped, clutching at his shoulders. "What are you—"
"If you're not sleepy," he said, carrying you toward the door that connected his office to his chambers, "then I'll just have to find other ways to tire you out."
Your heart stuttered as he pushed open the door with his shoulder, revealing a room that was unmistakably royal. A massive four-poster bed draped in silk dominated the space. Heavy curtains framed windows that overlooked the palace gardens. A fireplace crackled softly in the corner, casting warm shadows across the walls.
You were in the king's bedroom.
The thought sent a thrill through you, equal parts awe and disbelief. You had been in this palace for years, walked its halls and attended its meetings, but you had never—never—imagined you would find yourself in this most private of spaces, held in the arms of the king himself.
Yuma set you down gently on the edge of the bed, the silk cool beneath your fingertips. He straightened and his hands moved to the collar of his shirt.
"You look nervous." He observed, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"I'm not nervous." You lied, your eyes fixed on his fingers as they worked the first button loose. "I'm just...surprised."
"Surprised?"
"That I'm in the king's bedroom." You swallowed. "It feels...intimate."
He paused, his hands stilling on the second button. "It is intimate. That's the point."
Then he resumed, revealing inch by inch of the skin you had only ever glimpsed in stolen moments. His shirt fell open, exposing the lean lines of his chest, the subtle definition of his abdomen, the trail of hair that disappeared below his waistband.
Yuma let the shirt slide from his shoulders and fall to the floor. Your breath caught. His hands moved to his belt, and he raised an eyebrow at you, a smirk playing at his lips.
"You're staring."
"You're undressing." You countered, your voice coming out breathier than intended.
He let his trousers fall, stepping out of them with an easy grace that belied the intensity in his eyes. He stood before you, the firelight painting golden lines across his skin, and he was beautiful.
Yuma knelt before you, his hands resting on your knees, his eyes meeting yours with a tenderness that stole your breath.
"Tell me if you want to stop." He said softly. "Tell me if you're not ready. Tell me anything and I will listen."
Oh to have the king on his knees.
You reached out, your fingers brushing against his cheek, and you smiled.
"I trust you." You whispered. "I'm right where I want to be."
Yuma’s expression softened, a look of profound love crossing his features at your words. He leaned forward, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to your forehead before sliding his undergarments down, freeing his cock. It was thick and pulsing, weeping a bead of pre-cum that glistened in the candlelight, a testament to how much he had been wanting you.
He moved back over you, his body a warm weight that felt like a sanctuary. Yuma paused at your entrance, the broad head of his cock brushing against your swollen, wet folds. He waited, his eyes locked onto yours, giving you one last moment to breathe.
"I love you," he whispered, his voice a rough caress. "so much."
With a slow, agonizingly steady push, he slid into you. You let out a long, shaky moan, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt him stretch you open, filling every inch of your aching void. He entered you with such care, that you could feel every ridge of him sliiiding against your walls. He stopped when he was buried deep, his hips flush against yours, and he simply stayed there for a moment, letting you adjust to his size.
"You feel.…nghh….incredible," he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "So tight—hah ahh fuckkkk you're so warm."
Yuma began to move, pulling back almost entirely before sinking back in with a soft, rhythmic glide. Each thrust was a slow, loving stroke, a silent promise of devotion. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back.
"Yuma... oh, god, Yuma…." you whimpered, your voice small and needy. The slow pace was a torture of the best kind, building a tension in your lower belly that made you whine for more.
He heard you, his breath hitching. He began to pick up the pace, just a fraction, his movements becoming more fluid. He started to hit your perfect spot with every deep plunge, sending sparks of pleasure radiating through your nerves. Your moans grew louder, turning into desperate, high-pitched sounds as you arched your back, your chest heaving against his.
"That's it.….just like that," he murmured, his voice growing strained, "My girl's sooo good for me, isn't she?"
The slow dance evolved into something more primal. You were both breathless now, the air thick with the scent of sex and yearning. You could feel him trembling, his muscles coiled tight as he drove himself into you with an increasing urgency.
"I'm close…" he gasped, his pace becoming frantic, his hips hammering against yours in a blur of heat and friction. "I'm almost there.….please, stay with me..."
"Yuma…..ohhh oh!" You cried out, your own climax rushing toward you like a tidal wave.
The world narrowed down to the point where your bodies met. You felt the hot, rhythmic pulses of his cum flooding your insides and the sensation triggered your own release. You screamed his name, your internal muscles clamping around him in violent, rhythmic contractions that mirrored his own.
You both collapsed together, chests heaving, hearts drumming a frantic duet against each other. Yuma stayed anchored inside you, his arms wrapping around you in a crushing embrace, holding you as if you were the only thing keeping him down to this earth.
"I've got you…." He whispered, his voice broken and full of love, kissing your sweat-slicked skin. "I've got you, my dearest."
After a long, breathless moment, he finally pulled out with a gentle wince, settling beside you on the silk sheets. He gathered you against his chest, his hand stroking slow, soothing lines down your spine.
For a while, neither of you spoke. Your fingers traced lazy patterns across his collarbone and his lips pressed occasional kisses to the top of your head.
"...So," you murmured, your voice thick with exhaustion, "does this mean I win the argument about staying up late?"
Yuma let out a low, rumbling laugh. "Absolutely not. You lost spectacularly. You're about to fall asleep any second now."
"I am not." You protested, even as your eyelids grew heavy.
"You are." He countered, his voice warm with affection. "Your voice is already getting sleepy. You're slurring your words."
You lifted your head to glare at him, but the effect was ruined by the huge yawn that escaped you instead. Yuma's grin was insufferable.
"Told you, kitty." He whispered, pulling you closer.
You huffed, but nestled into him anyway, your cheek pressed against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you toward sleep. "You're insufferable."
"And you're beautiful." He replied, kissing your forehead. "We're quite the pair."
You smiled against his skin, your hand finding his and intertwining your fingers. "I love you, Yuma."
He squeezed your hand, his voice soft and melodic in the darkness. "I love you too. More than all the stars in Eldanith."
Sleep pulled you under, warm and gentle, wrapped in the arms of the king who had somehow become yours.
Wanting arrives quietly at first.
It sits beside you while you wash dishes, while you wait for the kettle to boil, while you watch strangers crossing streets hand in hand. It says nothing.
It only asks for someone to stay long enough that wanting can finally put down its bags and rest.
Iin the quiet of the king's chambers, with the fire burning low and the silk sheets tangled around your bare limbs, the wanting rests.
It set down its bags the moment your fingers first tangled in your hair. It unpacked its weary heart the night a king whispered "I love you" before you walked out his door. It curled up and fell asleep in the space between his breath and yours, in the hollow of his collarbone where your head now rested.
You had spent so long believing you were too much—too loud, too quiet, too cluttered, too everything.
Yuma had never once asked you to be less. He had only ever pulled you closer.
As the night wrapped itself around the palace, as the stars of Eldanith wheeled slowly overhead, you felt an echo of that loneliness dissolve into nothing.
There were many, many explanations as to how you could have possibly ended up here.
In the end, only one mattered.
You were loved.
And wanting, at long last, had found its home.
fin.
A/N: i think this is one of those rare fics in which i don't have a recurring word or theme if that makes sense. Know that i actually celebrated when i finished editing because oh my god my drafts were terrible Nakakita Yuma you have defeated me. Make sure to tune in for the last fic gang Jojo will be YEARNING
divider by @strangergraphics-archive
Taglist:
General taglist: @eu1joo @7yataki @frenchkisstheabyss @yumangel @nichozzystuffs @blueuijoo @pglpblm @ikigaijo @antonh0lic @dearvampyr @riri4andy @tokunodoll @sunsoomi @makizdoll @solairemelo @cece0710 @/someonerandom909 + Shoot me an ask or comment to be added!
Synopsis: Aubade, meaning a love song sung at dawn. It would be hard for him to sing one when you hated him.
Pairing: king!yuma x advisor!fem!reader
Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, oral (f rec), fingering, MUNCH YUMAAA, p in v, unprotected sex (not for you), lowkey soft dom yuma idk, yuma's a meanie, ONE BED TROPEEEEE, taki very kawaii, dramatic confessions
A/N: yeah i uhh dont really fw with the flow of this fic too much, but i fear this is all i can do in this imaginary word restriction I've given myself. I did love writing yuma losing his braincells though like fuck yeah yearn blueberry boi. As always, enjoy, my babies!
Word Count: 17.2k (died proofreading this)
SERIES MASTERLIST
When the wanting shows, it is embarrasing sometimes.
How badly you wanted somebody's hands on yours, a soft voice to call you out of sleep, somebody to sip on coffee with as the sun stretches her arms and gets to work.
It is nice, to not have love, to be so numbed out until all you can feel is water against your tongue. But then you remember how lovely it feels to be loved.
And then you're crying out for someone to pretend, for one afternoon, that you are not too much.
That your laughter does not arrive too loudly, that your silences are not burdens to be carried, that your heart is not a room cluttered with things nobody wants to sort through.
The wanting arrives quietly at first. It sits beside you while you wash dishes, while you wait for the kettle to boil, watching strangers crossing streets hand in hand. It says nothing. It only points.
There. Look.
Look at how easy tenderness seems in other people's lives.
You only wanted someone to remember how you take your tea, to notice when your smile is a little forced, to reach for your hand as naturally as breathing.
Someone to stay long enough that wanting can finally put down its bags and rest.
"So you're telling me this one is the actual blueprint and this one is a fake?"
Atleast you could find comfort in the fact that that someone would never be Nakakita Yuma.
"Your Majesty." You said, with as much patience as you could muster at the moment, "That one is the disposable one and this one is the one you'll be taking to the meeting."
"So it's a fake." He flashed his stupid grin at you, "Why else would it be disposable? What does it have to hide?"
This damn idiot.
You exhaled through your nose, the way you did when you were counting to ten in your head. You had learned that trick in your first week on the job, three years ago, when you had realized exactly what you had signed up for.
Three years. Three years of this. Three years of watching Nakakita Yuma grin at you like he knew something you didn't, like he had already won whatever game he was playing while you stood there clutching maps, treaties and the fraying edges of your composure.
You had been a clerk in the Ministry of Records, content to spend your days cataloguing trade routes and rainfall patterns, when the summons had arrived. The young king had requested you personally.
The story went that he had read a report you had written on coastal defense logistics and had found it entertaining. That was the word the messenger had used. His Majesty found your report quite entertaining.
You had wanted to scream.
Instead, you had packed your things, moved into the palace and discovered within the first hour that Nakakita Yuma was nothing like the kings in the storybooks. He did not sit solemnly on his throne, dispensing wisdom.
He lounged. He sprawled. He balanced his crown on the edge of his desk like a paperweight and laughed too loudly at his own jokes. His black hair was always slightly disheveled, as if he had just run his hands through it, and his sharp, cat-like eyes missed nothing even when his expression suggested he was bored out of his mind.
He had a single, slightly prominent snaggletooth that showed when he smiled, which was often. It made him look like a fox who had just found the henhouse door unlocked.
One of Yuma's hobbies was teasing you.
From the very first day, he had found ways to get under your skin. He would ask for your opinion and then argue with it just to watch you explain yourself. He would misplace documents and then produce them from his sleeve with a wink. He would call you into his office for urgent matters that turned out to be him wanting to know if you thought the sky looked more cerulean or sapphire that afternoon.
You had spent the first six months convinced he was the worst possible person to hold the crown of Eldanith.
Then you had seen him at a war council, watched him listen to every general, noble and strategist, his eyes tracking the room like a predator sizing up its prey. You heard him dismantle a flawed offensive plan in three sentences, then propose an alternative that made everyone in the room go silent.
He was good, annoyingly, infuriatingly so. He had strategy in his bones, instinct honed so sharp it cut. He just chose to hide it behind that lazy grin. It made you want to throttle him and respect him in equal measure. On most days, the throttling impulse won.
"You're staring at me like you're imagining my demise in creative ways again." Yuma said, tapping the rolled map against his palm.
"I am not imagining anything, Your Majesty."
"Liar." He grinned, his tooth catching the light. "Your left eye twitches when you lie. Did you know that? It's adorable."
You felt your jaw tighten. "The meeting starts in fifteen minutes. If you could please take the correct documents—"
"Which one is the correct one again?"
"The one in your left hand, Your Majesty."
He looked down at his hands, then back up at you, his expression one of theatrical confusion. "Left? Is that the one I write with or the one I wave at my subjects with?"
You were going to snap. You could feel it building, a pressure behind your teeth, a wordless noise of frustration clawing its way up your throat. You had spent three years developing a tolerance for his nonsense, but some days, the tolerance ran thin.
A knock at the door saved you.
"Enter." Yuma said, and his voice shifted, just slightly, the playfulness receding like a tide pulling back from shore.
The door opened, and King Euijoo of Iriandel stepped inside.
He was everything Yuma was not. Tall, composed, hair swept back from a face that seemed carved from marble, eyes calm. He wore his dignity like a second skin and when he looked at you, you felt like you were standing in the presence of someone who had never once misplaced a document in his life.
You had always respected Euijoo. He was the kind of king you had imagined serving when you first took this job. He spoke in complete sentences. He never made you want to throw a map at his head.
You straightened immediately, stepping back from the desk, composing your features into something professional. Euijoo's gaze flickered between you and Yuma, and the faintest suggestion of a smile touched his lips.
"Am I interrupting?" He asked, his voice smooth as polished wood.
"Not at all." You said, before Yuma could answer.
Euijoo's eyes lingered on you. "You were glaring at His Majesty with considerable intensity. I felt it from the hallway."
Your face heated. "I was—"
"She was helping me with my maps." Yuma cut in, slinging an arm over the back of his chair. "She's very passionate about maps. It's endearing."
You turned your glare on him. He winked.
Euijoo observed the exchange with the quiet patience of someone watching a play he had seen before. "I see. Well, I am here for the meeting, if you are ready."
"Ready as I'll ever be." Yuma stood, tucking the correct map under his arm. He paused as he passed you, close enough that you caught the faint scent of sandalwood and ink. He leaned in and lowered his voice.
"Try not to miss me too much while I'm gone, kitty."
And then he was gone, striding out the door beside Euijoo, leaving you standing in the middle of his office with your hands clenched at your sides and your heart doing something complicated that you refused to examine.
The door clicked shut. You exhaled. Something sat down beside you and pointed at the empty room.
There. Look.
_______________________
Death would have been more pleasurable than whatever was coming for you at the moment.
Usually, dearest reader, when two people get only one bed to sleep on, they'd arrive at a compromise someway or the other.
When you and Nakakita Yuma get only one bed to sleep on, it summons the four horsemen of the apocalypse itself.
You stood in the doorway of the inn room, your bag still slung over your shoulder, staring at the singular bed like it had personally offended your entire bloodline. It was not a small bed. That would have been its one redeeming quality—if it had been small, you could have argued for separate sleeping arrangements on the floor with dignity. But it was a generous size, almost obscenely so, draped in cream-colored linens and piled with pillows that looked far too soft for a town inn.
It was a bed designed for two people who liked each other.
You and Yuma did not like each other. You tolerated each other.
"Well," Yuma said from behind you, his voice carrying that infuriating lightness, "this is cozy."
You did not turn around. You were afraid that if you turned around, you would see his grin, and if you saw his grin you would say something that would get you dismissed from your position and possibly executed.
"It's one bed." You said.
"I can count."
"Your Majesty, perhaps I should find another inn—"
"And leave me all alone?" Yuma brushed past you. The movement was unhurried, like he had not just suggested the two of you share a bed without a single shred of royal decorum. "I would be devastated. Truly, I might weep."
You finally turned to look at him. He was already settling onto the edge of the bed, testing the mattress with his palms, his hair falling into his eyes. The lamp light caught the sharp lines of his face, the curve of his jaw as he smiled up at you.
"You brought an entire company of soldiers." You said. "Surely one of them could—"
"Could what? Share a tent with me on the palace grounds while you take the warm inn room?" He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "That would be terribly improper. A king should not sleep on the ground while his advisor takes a feather bed. Think of the scandal."
"You could have stayed at the palace."
"The palace has too many ceilings." He said it simply, like it made perfect sense, and in a way, it did.
Yuma had always been strange about places like that—grand halls, high walls, rooms that felt more like cages than chambers. He preferred the open air, the crowded streets, the chaos of real life. It was one of the things you had grudgingly come to admire about him, even if it meant you were now standing in a modest room in the kingdom of Phileon, preparing to share a bed with your king.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. "This is a terrible idea."
"Most of my best ideas are terrible." He patted the space beside him on the bed. "Come. Sit. I don't bite. Well—" He paused, thoughtful, and you felt your face go hot before he added, "—not without permission."
You threw your bag at him. He caught it, laughing, and the sound was so unexpected that you felt something in your chest loosen against your will.
This was the problem.
This was why you had learned to tease him back, to volley words with him like a game of shuttlecock. Because when he laughed like that, when his eyes crinkled at the corners, you forgot, for a moment, that he was your king. You forgot the weight of your position, the careful distance you were supposed to maintain. You forgot that you were meant to be professional, composed and untouchable.
The remembering always left you feeling a little more lonely than before. Here, in this small inn room in Phileon, with the distant sounds of the town filtering through the window and the bed taking up most of the space between you, the loneliness felt farther away than usual.
You sighed, defeated, and crossed the room to sit on the opposite edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight and you kept a foot of space in between.
"I'm not sharing the blankets." You said.
"Fine."
"And you stay on your side."
"Obviously."
"If you snore, I'm smothering you with a pillow and claiming the throne."
He grinned, slow and sharp. "I don't snore. I purr."
"You're insufferable." You said.
"Yet you are still here." He leaned back on his hands. "Why do you think I brought you along instead of Taki?"
You had wondered the same thing during the journey here. Taki was younger, more energetic, more likely to laugh at Yuma's jokes without that half-second of hesitation you always had. Taki would have handled this bed situation with grace and good humor, would have probably ended up arm-wrestling Yuma for the pillows and losing spectacularly.
You, on the other hand, had been mentally composing your resignation letter for the past ten minutes.
"Because Taki would have accidentally set the inn on fire," you said.
Yuma laughed again, softer this time. "True. But that's not the reason."
Then what would be the reason? That you were genuinely someone he wanted to talk to? That you were worth being listened to? You'd sooner have believed one of his ridiculous fantasies about komodo dragons.
Yuma's bath took long enough that the lamp oil had begun to burn low, casting the room in a honeyed glow that softened the edges of everything. When he finally emerged, his hair was damp and pushed back from his face and he had traded his traveling clothes for a loose shirt and trousers. He looked softer like this, younger. Less like a king and more like a boy who had been caught in the rain.
You immediately looked away.
"The crown," You said, because you needed to say something, anything, to fill the silence that had settled between you. "at the coronation today. You looked ridiculous."
He paused mid-step, one eyebrow lifting. "Ridiculous? I'll have you know I looked dashing. The princess—" He stopped and thought, for the princess of Phileon was now its Queen "the queen told me I looked very regal."
"The queen was being polite. You looked like a cat wearing a party hat."
He pressed a hand to his chest, mock-offended. "A cat? I am the sovereign ruler of an island kingdom. I—"
"You kept fidgeting with it." You said, smiling just a little, unable to help yourself. "Every five minutes, you reached up to adjust it. The ambassador from Iriandel asked me if you had an earache."
Yuma groaned, dropping onto his side of the bed with a dramatic flop that made the mattress bounce. "That crown is uncomfortable. It's too heavy. And the pearls dig into my temples. I don't know how my father wore it for thirty years."
"Perhaps he had a stronger head."
"Perhaps he had less hair to cushion it."
You snorted, the sound escaping before you could stop it and Yuma grinned, rolling onto his side to face you, propping his head on his hand. The movement brought him closer, but not too close, still a careful distance between you, the no-man's-land of the middle of the bed.
"You're funny when you're flustered." He said.
You had no response to that, so you stared at the ceiling instead, counting the wooden beams as if they held the secrets to the universe. You could feel his gaze on you, light and curious, and you wondered, not for the first time, what he saw when he looked at you. Someone competent, you hoped. Someone worth keeping around.
Not someone worth listening to. That was a fantasy you had long since abandoned.
"Anyway," you said, steering the conversation back to safer ground, "you looked odd because you never wear it. You're no really a crown person. You're a—" You paused, searching for the right word. "—a wind person, something that doesn't like being contained."
The silence that followed seemed oddly soft. You risked a glance at him and found him watching you with an expression you could not name.
"That's," he said, "that's surprisingly poetic of you."
"Don't get used to it."
"Too late. I'm writing it down. Framing it and putting it in the royal archives."
"Then I'll tell everyone about the incident with the ceremonial spear and the swan."
He groaned, flopping onto his back. "That was one time. And the swan started it."
You laughed. Yuma turned his head on the pillow to look at you, and neither of you spoke. Then he sighed, long and theatrical.
"Alright. Sleeping arrangements." He gestured vaguely at the space between you. "I propose a treaty. A border down the middle. No crossing into foreign territory."
"That's surprisingly diplomatic of you."
"I have my moments." He sat up, reaching for the extra pillow at the head of the bed, placing it squarely between you. "Sacred boundary. Do not cross." Yuma settled back down, pulling the blanket up to his chin, and you noticed, with a small pang, that he had left most of the blanket for you. He closed his eyes. "I'll leave the room when you need to change. Just say the word."
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." His voice was softer now, edged with sleep. "I want to."
And then, before you could respond, his breathing evened out. The king of Eldanith fell asleep. You lay still for a long time, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breath. The lamp burned low until the room was bathed in shadow and the silver of moonlight through the curtains.
Eventually, your body gave in. You shifted, letting yourself sink into the mattress, the warmth of him radiating across the space—neither too close nor too far, just enough to make the night feel less empty. You closed your eyes.
When you woke, hours later to the pale light of dawn, you found that the pillow barrier had shifted. His hand had drifted in sleep, to rest palm-up on the mattress, close enough that yours could have reached out to meet it.
You did not pull away.
___________________
You should never have laughed in front of Nakakita Yuma. In fact you should never have revealed this fact to Nakakita Yuma that you even had emotions.
Because currently he was trying to place the royal crown of Eldanith, the highest accessory in all the land, onto your head because he 'wished to see how ridiculous it truly looked'.
You ducked, sidestepping him with the kind of agility you usually reserved for avoiding drunk sailors at the docks. "Your Majesty, this is highly inappropriate—"
"It's a crown." He said, as if that explained anything, advancing on you with the crown. "It's meant to be worn. Consider this a field test."
"I am not wearing the crown." You circled your desk, putting the wooden surface between you. He mirrored your movement, eyes bright with mischief. The crown—ocean-colored sapphires and pearls, wrought in silver—dangled from his fingers like bait.
"It's too heavy." You said. "It'll give me a headache."
"It gives me a headache. That's the point. I want to know if it's universally uncomfortable or if I'm just particularly delicate."
"You are many things, Your Majesty. Delicate is not one of them."
He tilted his head and the look he gave you was sharp and pleased all at once. "Was that a compliment?"
"It was an observation."
"I'm putting it in the compliment column."
Yuma lunged. You yelped—a sound you would deny to your dying day—and scrambled around the desk, but he was faster, his free hand catching your wrist and pulling you to a stop.
You stumbled, caught off balance and suddenly you were chest-to-chest with him, the crown hovering just above your head.
"Hold still." He murmured.
"Your Majesty—"
"Yuma."
He had never asked you to call him that before. You had never offered. It was a line you had both respected, a distance you had maintained, a boundary that kept the world in order.
Yuma lowered the crown onto your head. It settled against your hair, heavier than you had expected. You felt the weight of it, the weight of every king who had worn it before him and for a moment, you understood why he so rarely put it on.
He stepped back, studying you with his head tilted. His hand was still loosely wrapped around your wrist, warm and calloused.
"Hm…" Yuma said.
"Well?"
"You look..." He paused and something flickered in his eyes, there and gone before you could name it. "You look like you're going to kill me."
"Because I am."
"Fair." He grinned Then he reached up and lifted the crown off your head, his fingers brushing against your hair as he did. He set the crown on your desk, casual as anything and leaned against the edge of it, crossing his arms.
"So," he said, "do you have any plans tonight?"
You blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. "Plans?"
"Evening activities. Social engagements." He waved a hand vaguely. "Taki and I were going to have a few drinks at the tavern near the eastern gate. The one with the terrible fish stew." He was looking at you with that expression that made you feel like he was seeing something you had not meant to show. "Would you like to join us?"
An invitation. A hand extended.
You thought about it—the dim lights of the tavern, Taki laughing at his own jokes, Yuma's shoulder brushing yours if you sat close enough. You thought about the warmth of belonging somewhere, even for an evening.
And then you thought about the safety of solitude.
"I can't." You said. "I have plans."
The lie came easily. It always did.
Yuma's expression did not change, but his posture shifted a fraction of a degree. "Ah. Shame." He pushed off from the desk, stretching his arms above his head with a casual grace that drew your eyes, "I would have liked your company." He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. He did not turn around. "Don't work too late." He said. "The reports will still be there tomorrow."
And then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving you alone in your office with the crown still sitting on your desk and the ghost of his fingers in your hair.
You had not had plans in a long time, not since you had realized that you never quite fit anywhere. That your laughter was too loud or too quiet, that your silences made people uncomfortable, that your heart was a cluttered room nobody wanted to sort through. So you had learned to fill your evenings with the comfort of being alone.
It was easier and safer. Wanting nothing meant never being disappointed.
I would have liked your company.
He had extended his hand, and you had let it hang in the air, unanswered. You looked at the crown, gleaming softly in the lamplight. You thought about the warmth of his hand on your wrist.
You picked up your pen and returned to your reports and it was a long time before you wrote anything at all.
____________________
To enjoy soltitude is a talent, one that you'd developed all these years.
Your cottage sat at the edge of the palace grounds, tucked behind a row of oak trees. It was not much—a sitting room, a bedroom, a kitchen—but it was yours. No servants, visitors, anybody to fill the silence with questions you did not know how to answer.
The evening had settled into its usual rhythm. You had lit a fire in the small hearth, the flames casting long shadows across the floor. A pot of tea steeped on the counter, chamomile and honey, the same blend you had drunk every night for the past two years. Your book lay open on the armchair, a worn volume of poetry that you had read so many times the spine had cracked.
You settled into the chair, tucking your feet beneath you and took a sip of tea. The silence wrapped around you like an old shawl and you sank into it without resistance.
This was the talent you had honed over the years. The art of being alone without feeling lonely. The careful craft of filling your own space so completely that there was no room for wanting.
It had not always been this way.
You remembered, with the distant ache of an old bruise, the first time you had realized you did not fit. You had been seven, maybe eight, standing at the edge of a game of tag while the other children ran past you, laughing. You had not been excluded, not explicitly. No one had told you to leave. But the game had moved around you, through you, as if you were a tree rooted to the spot. You had walked home alone, and you had told yourself it was fine.
In your adolescence, there had been a girl. She had been your first real friend, the kind you told secrets to, the kind you stayed up late with, trading stories and laughter until your voice went hoarse. You had thought, finally, finally, you had found someone who saw you.
But then she started sitting with the other girls at lunch. She saved them seats, waved you over with a smile that was just a little too bright and you had sat at the edge of the table, listening to jokes you did not understand, watching them exchange glances that skimmed right past you. You had stopped coming to lunch after a while. She had not asked why.
In your young adulthood, there had been a boy. He had courted you with flowers and poetry and you had let yourself believe, for a few dizzying months, that you could be loved. But when you had fallen ill, when you had needed someone to sit with you and hold your hand, he had sent a letter instead. I'm not good with sickness, he had written. I hope you understand.
You had understood. You had understood that you were worth flowers and poetry, but not the messy, inconvenient reality of being needed.
There had been your first posting years ago, in a coastal office where you had worked alongside a team of clerks who laughed easily and invited each other to dinners and gatherings. They had invited you too, at first. But you had always been a little too quiet and after a while, the invitations had stopped coming. You had watched them leave together at the end of the day, their voices bright and overlapping. You had stayed behind to finish the work they had left on your desk.
And then of course there had been 'that' incident. But it was better to stay off the tongue with that one.
You had told yourself it was fine. You preferred the quiet and soltitude anyway. Eventually, it had become true.
That was the thing about loneliness. It was a skill, like any other. You practiced it long enough, and it stopped hurting. You filled your evenings with books and tea and the soft crackle of the fire and you stopped waiting for someone to knock on your door.
An ounce of love given to you haunted you.
A kind word from a stranger could keep you awake for hours, turning it over in your mind, searching for the hidden meaning, the catch, the moment it would be taken back. A hand on your wrist, brief and warm, could echo through your chest for days. A simple I would have liked your company could lodge itself beneath your ribs like a splinter, impossible to remove, aching with every breath.
It was easier to have nothing. Easier to want nothing. Easier to sit alone with your tea and your poetry and your silence, for silence did not leave. Silence did not forget to save you a seat. Silence did not promise flowers and then abandon you when you needed someone to stay.
You took another sip of tea. The fire crackled. The pages of your book rustled as you turned them, though you had not read a single word.
In the back of your mind, a voice said, I would have liked your company.
You wished, not for the first time, that you had never learned what it felt like to be wanted. It was so much harder to forget.
_____________________
There were certain times when you wished to be a mind reader, just so you could understand what it was the king of Eldanith was thinking about.
His mind was a cornucopia of shiny trinkets that did not match with one another, a collection assembled by someone with no regard for coherence, no sense of theme or category—just objects that caught his interest and were deemed worthy of keeping.
Military strategy sat beside absurd jokes about komodo dragons. Political insight sat beside an inexplicable fondness for terrible fish stew. He could discuss trade routes with the same earnest enthusiasm he applied to convincing you that swans were, in fact, secretly plotting against him.
You had never met anyone so impossible to predict.
His eyes were deep and dark, like the ocean at midnight or the space between stars or the bottom of a well where light went to die. They were deep, fathomless in a way that made you feel like you were falling every time he looked at you.
It was, you hated to admit, part of why you could never quite figure him out. His eyes said depth, said secrets, said I am more than I appear.
But his smile said mischief, said play, said I am going to put this crown on your head whether you like it or not. Yuma was a king who wore his crown like a burden and his laughter like armor. He was a strategist who could read a room in seconds but pretended not to notice when you stared at him too long.
You had spent years learning to read people. It was a survival skill, a way to anticipate their needs before they had to voice them, to make yourself useful enough to keep around. But Yuma defied every attempt. Every time you thought you had him figured out, he said something that flipped your understanding on its head.
Like now.
You had been working in his office for the better part of two hours, the silence broken only by the scratch of pens and the rustle of parchment. He was reviewing a trade agreement with the northern provinces, his brow furrowed in concentration. You were cross-referencing supply ledgers, your work spread across the table in the corner of the room where you had claimed your usual spot.
It was comfortable and quiet—the kind of silence you had learned to cherish.
"You fit in well."
Your pen stopped moving. You turned your head slowly, certain you had misheard. "I'm sorry?"
"You fit in well." Yuma repeated, still not looking at you, scanning the document in his hands as if he had not just said something that had upended your entire understanding of the afternoon.
You stared at him. He did not elaborate. You waited. Five seconds. Ten. He merely continued reading, his expression utterly unreadable as if he had commented on the weather or the quality of the ink.
"Your Majesty," you said carefully, "I don't understand what you mean." He hummed, a noncommittal sound and turned a page. You set down your pen. "You're going to have to explain that."
"Do I?"
"Yes." You were aware that you were speaking to your king with a tone that bordered on insubordination but you could not bring yourself to care. "You can't just say something like that and then go back to work."
He looked up then, finally, and his dark eyes met yours. "Why not, kitty?"
"Because—" You stopped, trying to find the words that would make him understand how deeply, how fundamentally, his statement had shaken you. "I do not agree with what you said."
He was quiet for a moment, his gaze steady on yours. Then he set down his papers, leaned back in his chair, and regarded you.
"You work here." He said flatly.
"Yes, I work here. That's my job. That doesn't mean I fit here."
"You do." He said it without hesitation, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You know where everything is. You know how everyone works. You anticipate needs before they're voiced. You make yourself indispensable." He paused, tilting his head. "I fear that's the behavior of someone who has made a place for herself."
"I—" The word came out strangled. You cleared your throat and tried again. "That's not the same thing. That's just…..being good at my job."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
Yuma held your gaze for a long moment, and then he shrugged and picked up his papers again. "If you say so." And then he went back to work.
Just like that.
As if he had not just reached into your chest and pulled out something you had spent years burying. As if he had not just told you, in his strange, roundabout way, that he saw you. That he thought you belonged.
You fit in well.
The words echoed in your mind, refusing to settle. They were said less like a compliment and more like a statement of fact.
You had always been the one on the edge of the group, the one who was invited out of politeness, not desire.You had learned to accept that, to build your life around it, to find comfort in the margins where no one expected you to be anything other than what you were.
Yuma had looked at you and seen someone who fit. You did not know what to do with that.
You picked up your pen again, because you did not know what else to do. You returned to your ledgers; they did not say unexpected things that lodged themselves in your chest and refused to leave.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world to see you and think: she belongs here.
You worked in silence for the rest of the hour and when you finally gathered your papers to leave, Yuma did not look up. He did not say goodbye. He simply continued reading, his presence filling the room like a tide.
You walked to the door.You paused with your hand on the frame. You did not turn around.
As the door clicked shut behind you, you found yourself standing still, your heart beating a rhythm you were unfamilliar with.
What were you supposed to do with all that?
____________________
There had been a moment during Yuma's childhood when he'd picked up his first stray seashell on the aquamarine beaches of Eldanith.
It was an absolute beauty, a thing of light pink covered in sand. He'd proudly held it up to his mother, his small fingers wrapped around it like it was the greatest treasure in all the realm. The sun had been setting, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose, the waves lapping at his bare feet as he'd stood there, beaming, waiting for her to see.
She had smiled. She had taken the shell from his hands, turned it over and then she had handed it back to him and said, "It's lovely, Yuma. But you know it's empty, don't you? The creature that lived inside it has already left. What you're holding is just the shape of something that used to be alive."
Yuma had been too young to grasp the weight of her words, too caught up in the simple joy of finding something beautiful. He had kept the shell , placing it on his windowsill where it sat among his other treasures—a smooth stone, a dried starfish, a feather from a bird he had never learned the name of.
Yuma had kept it for years, long after he had understood what his mother meant.
He thought of that shell now, as he sat in his office with the evening light slanting through the windows. He thought of how he had held it up to the light, marveling at its perfect imperfections, never once considering that it was hollow. That the thing that had given it life had moved on. That beauty could exist in the absence of something.
Yuma thought of you.
He did not know why his mind had wandered to that particular memory or why it had settled on you like a ship finding harbor. But there it was.
You were not hollow though. You were not a shell, beautiful but empty, waiting to be filled by someone else's meaning. You were full of sharp observations and quiet strength, a wit that could cut him to the bone when you chose to wield it.
Yuma oddly loved it when you put him in his place.
He loved it with a fervor that surprised him every time, because he was the king and no one put the king in his place. His advisors bowed. His courtiers flattered. His enemies schemed in whispers and shadows.
You looked him in the eye and told him when he was being ridiculous and you did it without the deference that everyone else wrapped around their words like armor.
You had told him once, that he was being an insufferable brat right to his face, in front of Taki. Taki's eyes had gone wide with horror, and Yuma had felt something crack open in his chest, something terrifying and wonderful, because no one had ever spoken to him like that.
The thing that undid him the most was the fact that you had stayed.
You were brilliant, your mind a labyrinth of sharp corners and unexpected turns that he loved getting lost in. You could have gone abroad, taken your talents to a court that would have welcomed you with open arms, built a life far away from him.
But you had not. Yuma knew it was duty, your obligation, the path you had chosen for reasons that had nothing to do with him. He was not naive enough to mistake professionalism for affection.
But still.
Wvery morning when he walked into his office and found you already there, your pen moving across the page, your brow furrowed in concentration, he felt something fluttery settle in his chest.
You matched his intellect, his sharp tongue, his restless mind that never seemed to quiet. You challenged him in ways that no one else could, parried his words with your own, met his gaze without flinching. You were the only person in the entire kingdom who could make him feel like he was not performing, not wearing a mask.
With you, he could just be.
Yuma thought of your voice, sharp and dry, telling him that he was being ridiculous. He thought of the way your lips twitched when you were trying not to smile. He thought of the way your hand inches from his on the mattress in an inn in Phileon.
Yuma thought of the way you had lied about having plans.
He always knew when you were lying—in the way your shoulders tensed, the way your gaze flickered just slightly to the left. But Yuma wished you had not. He wished you had said yes.
He picked up his pen, dipped it in ink and returned to his work. The evening light faded, and the shadows grew long and he did not think about the seashell again.
A lie.
_____________________
It was no secret within the shell-studded palace halls of Eldanith that you liked to work yourself to the damn bone.
But hey burnout felt so good and plus, it was a mechanism of distraction from everything else going on in the dark world.
The weight of your thoughts, the echo of a voice saying you fit in well, the way your chest tightened every time you replayed that moment, your loneliness—all of it could be buried beneath enough ledgers, reports and hours of relentless productivity.
So here you were. The palace library, two hours past midnight with a stack of books balanced precariously in one arm, your eyes fixed on the highest shelf.
You needed the coastal trade records from three autumns ago. That was the official reason for your presence.
But tucked beneath your arm, hidden between dry economic analyses and agricultural reports, was a slim volume on the musical traditions of the southern provinces—a guilty pleasure. Something to read when the numbers blurred and your mind needed a different kind of exercise.
The ladder creaked beneath your weight as you climbed higher. The library was vast, its ceilings soaring, its shelves stretching toward the shadows where the lamplight could not reach. You had always loved this room—the smell of old parchment and dust—the kind of place where you could disappear, and right now, disappearing sounded wonderful.
You shifted your weight, reaching up on your tiptoes. Your fingers brushed the spine of the book you needed but it was wedged tightly between its neighbors, stubborn and unyielding. You stretched further. The ladder groaned.
And then your foot slipped.
You felt the world tilt horribly. The books in your arm slid, your balance shifted, your heart lurching into your throat as gravity took hold and pulled you backward into empty air. You braced for impact.
Which never came.
Instead, strong arms caught you, one around your waist and the other bracing against the ladder to steady it. You landed against something solid and warm and a familiar voice—low, amused—spoke directly above your head.
"Now, now. I know the library is impressive, but there's no need to throw yourself at it."
Your breath hitched. You had not heard him come in. Not a single footstep, not a whisper of movement. But that was hardly a surprise, was it?
They called him the nimblest cat of Eldanith's army for a reason.
He set you down gently, his hands lingering at your waist for a beat longer than necessary before he stepped back. You turned to face him, your heart still pounding, your face flushed. He was smiling.
"Your Majesty," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "I didn't hear you come in."
"I know." His dark eyes glinted with amusement. "That's rather the point."
Yuma had spent years honing the art of moving unseen, slipping through shadows and appearing where he was least expected. It was the skill that had made him such a formidable spy before he had taken the crown. Itwas the skill that now made him an absolute menace in everyday life.
You straightened, trying to reclaim some semblance of dignity. "You could have announced yourself."
"And miss the opportunity to catch you?" He tilted his head, his smile widening just slightly. "I think not." He glanced up at the shelf you had been reaching for, then back at you. "What were you after, anyway? Besides a broken neck."
"Some trade records."
"At this hour?"
"I couldn't sleep."
He hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. "Neither could I." He paused, and then, without waiting for permission, he stepped past you and climbed the ladder with an ease that made your earlier struggle look pathetic. He plucked the book from the shelf and handed it down to you with a flourish.
"Here."
You took it, your fingers brushing his. "Thank you."
Yuma did not let go immediately. His gaze held yours and for a moment, the library felt smaller and warmer, the air between you charged with an unspoken entity.
Yuma released the book, descended the ladder, and said, quite casually, "You should be more careful. I won't always be here to catch you."
You did not know what to say to that. So you said nothing. You clutched the book to your chest, your heart still hammering from the near-fall.
I won't always be here to catch you.
Yuma paused at the library doors, his hand resting on the frame. Then he turned, his gaze catching on the edge of the slim volume peeking out from beneath the trade records.
"Interesting choice of bedtime reading." He said, nodding toward it. "The music of the southern provinces. I've read it before."
You blinked, startled out of your spiraling thoughts. "You have?"
"Twice, actually." He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. The lamplight caught the sharp angles of his face, "The section on wind instruments is particularly well-researched, though I disagree with the author's assessment of the reed flute's origins."
This was familiar ground, so you let yourself relax. You had had conversations like this before—late-night debates in his office, arguments over historical accounts, shared moments of intellectual camaraderie that felt almost like friendship.
"The reed flute," you said, stepping closer despite yourself, "originated in the eastern marshlands. That's well-documented."
"The eastern marshlands," he repeated, pushing off from the doorframe and walking back toward you, "produced a version of the reed flute. But the earliest known examples were found in the northern foothills, predating the marshland variants by two centuries."
You raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realize you were such an expert on musicology, Your Majesty."
"I contain multitudes." He smiled, that familiar crooked smile that made him look less like a king and more like someone who'd enjoy picking seashells by the beach, "You'd be surprised what I find interesting when I'm supposed to be reading trade agreements."
"I'm not surprised at all."
He laughed, his eyes narrowing afterwards, studying you with that unnerving intensity he possessed.
"You look exhausted." He said.
You waved a hand dismissively. "I'm alright."
"You're not alright. You look like you haven't slept in days."
"I've slept."
"When? Last week?" You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off. "Tell me everything you did this week."
"That's hardly—"
"Everything, kitty."
You sighed, because you knew that tone. It was the tone he used when he was not going to back down, the tone that had made him such an infuriating king. You told him—council meetings, trade negotiations, correspondences you had handled, reports you had compiled, diplomatic letters you had drafted, budgets you had reviewed. The—
"Stop." Yuma said, holding up a hand. His expression had darkened, his jaw tight. "That's...that's three weeks of work. In one week."
"I'm thorough."
"You're going to collapse." He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the sandalwood that always clung to him. "Take a day off."
"I can't. There's too much—"
"There will always be too much." His voice was firm. "The work will still be there when you return. It will multiply, in fact, because that is the nature of work. But if you run yourself into the ground, you won't be able to do any of it."
You looked away, your jaw set. "I'm just doing my job."
"A lot of what you did this week isn't your job." He said, "You took on tasks that should have been handled by other assistants." You did not deny it. "You are allowed to hand things off," he continued. "You are allowed to rest."
You met his eyes again. "I know."
"Do you?"
You wanted to say yes, wanted to convince him and yourself that you were fine, that you had everything under control. But the words would not come.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. Take tomorrow off. Sleep. Read your book about reed flutes. Eat something that isn't bread and cheese eaten over a stack of papers." He paused, his gaze softening. "That's an order."
You opened your mouth to protest, but he raised an eyebrow and you closed it again.
"Fine." You said, the word tasting like defeat.
"Good." He turned and walked toward the doors again. He paused at the threshold, his back to you, and for a moment, he seemed to hesitate.
"I never say it enough," Yuma said, his voice quieter than you had ever heard it, "but... thank you. For all the work you do. Even if I do annoy you sometimes."
You blinked, the admission catching you off guard, "It's nothing."
He glanced back at you, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "It's not nothing. But I'll let you pretend it is." And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, his footsteps fading into the silence of the corridor.
You stood there for a long moment, alone in the library, the lamplight flickering and the shadows pooling around you. The mask you had been wearing all week began to crack.
Because it was not nothing, was it? The work. The endless, grinding, consuming work. You threw yourself into it because if you stopped—if you slowed down, if you let yourself breathe—you would have to face the quiet fear that had been gnawing at you for as long as you could remember.
If you are not useful, nobody will like you.
It was an old wound, one you had carried since childhood. You had learned early that love was conditional, that affection had to be earned, that your worth was measured in what you could provide. And so you had made yourself so vital, so necessary, that no one could afford to let you go.
You had forgotten that being needed was not the same as being loved.
You looked down at the books in your arms. Your fingers traced the spine of the musicology book and you thought of his voice telling you about reed flutes.
If only you knew how the king of Eldanith was blushing as he walked away from you.
If only you knew how his ears burned and his heart raced and his hands trembled slightly as he closed the door to his chambers and leaned against it, pressing his palm to his chest like he could slow the pounding.
If only you knew that he had stood in the corridor for a full minute after leaving the library, composing himself, before he could walk another step.
If only you knew that he had gone to his rooms and sat at his desk and stared at nothing, thinking of the way the lamplight had caught your face, the way your eyes had widened when he caught you, the way your voice softened when you said it's nothing.
If only you knew that the king of Eldanith, the sharp-tongued man who wore his crown like a burden and his laughter like armor, had lain awake that night, staring at the ceiling and whispered your name into the darkness like a prayer.
But you did not know.
You only knew that you were tired and that tomorrow you would rest.And that was enough.
For now.
_______________
Everything felt wrong.
The morning light filtered through your window, pale and golden, casting long shadows across the floor of your house. You had been lying in bed for—you checked the clock—three hours. Three hours of doing absolutely nothing.
Your hands twitched at your sides, itching for a quill, a report, something to occupy them. There was a voice in the back of your head, insistent and sharp, telling you that you were wasting time, that there was work to be done, that you were being lazy and useless.
It's an order from the king.
You repeated the words like a mantra, pressing them against the guilt like a bandage. You were following a direct command from His Majesty, King Nakakita Yuma of Eldanith. To disobey would be treason. Or something.
You sighed, rolling onto your side and stared at the wall. Normally, you filled the silence with work, the rustle of papers, the scratch of your quill and the endless mental lists of tasks to complete. But now, with nothing to do, the silence pressed in on you, heavy and unfamiliar.
Perhaps it was more so the absence.
You realized, with a start, that you had not heard his voice in—you counted—nearly eight hours. No playful jabs or sudden appearances in doorways with his smile.
You actually missed his snarky remarks every five minutes.
You groaned, pressing your palm to your face. What was wrong with you? You spent half your time exasperated by him and the other half wondering if he was going to drive you to an early grave with his antics. And now that he was gone, the space felt like a shell without its occupant.
Like a shell waiting to be filled.
You found yourself wondering what he was doing at that moment. He had left that morning for the kingdom of Sakuryn—a diplomatic visit, something about the delicate dance of international politics. You had offered to prepare his briefing materials but he had refused, telling youthat you were resting and that he would manage.
You wondered if he was managing. You wondered if he was charming diplomats with that crooked smile or if he was sitting in some stuffy meeting hall, bored out of his mind, wishing he was anywhere else. You wondered if he was thinking of you.
Probably not. He was a king on a diplomatic mission. He had more important things to occupy his mind than his exhausted advisor lying in bed, doing nothing. But then again...
The way his voice had softened when he thanked you. Maybe he was thinking of you. You buried your face in the pillow and tried to ignore the way your heart fluttered at the thought.
Rest, you told yourself firmly. That's an order.
But rest, it seemed, was easier commanded than achieved.
Very akin to concentration, Yuma realised, it was easier said than done.
The treaty lay signed and sealed on the table, the ink still glistening in the afternoon light that streamed through the paper screens of Sakuryn's eastern pavilion. The ceremony had been efficient, the negotiations smooth, Yuma being the picture of royal diplomacy for exactly as long as it took for the last brushstroke to dry.
Now, with the formalities concluded and a tray of untouched tea growing cold, Yuma leaned back on his cushion and stretched his arms above his head with a groan.
"So," he said, his voice dropping from formal register to something far more casual, "how is life going?"
King Jo of Sakuryn regarded him with the same flat, unreadable expression he had worn throughout the entire summit. He was a man of few words—quiet in a way that felt less like shyness and more like a personal choice, as if he had simply decided that most things were not worth the breath required to say them.
"Fine." Jo said.
Yuma waited. Jo did not elaborate.
"That's it?" Yuma asked, raising an eyebrow. "We just signed a treaty that will shape the economic future of both our kingdoms, and all I get is fine?"
"You asked how life was going." Jo replied, his tone perfectly neutral. "I answered."
"You don't talk much, do you?"
"No."
Yuma stared at him for a moment, then let out a laugh. "I respect the honesty, but you're killing me here. How do you survive diplomatic dinners? Do you just sit there and let people talk at you?"
"Essentially."
Taki, seated to Yuma's left, let out a quiet snort that he quickly disguised as a cough. Yuma shot him a look, but there was no heat in it.
Jo picked up his tea, taking a slow sip. "You seem restless." He observed. "How is your life going?"
Yuma opened his mouth to give a standard reply—fine, busy, the usual—but something about the quiet of the pavilion (the absence of a certain sharp-tongued advisor back home) made the words catch in his throat. To his own horror, he found himself speaking.
"There's this girl." He said.
Taki's head snapped toward him so fast Yuma heard his neck crack. Jo's expression did not change, but his eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch.
"I mean—" Yuma waved a hand, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. "Not a girl. A woman. My advisor. You know the one I mean, Taki, you've met her—"
"The one you're sometimes insufferable about?" Taki supplied helpfully.
Yuma ignored him, turning back to Jo. "I don't know if it's attraction or just admiration. She's brilliant. She works too hard and she doesn't sleep enough and she has this way of looking at me like I'm both the most exhausting person she's ever met and somehow worth the effort." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "I once caught her as she fell off a ladder and I could not think about anything that night other than her face."
Jo blinked. Taki pressed his lips together, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
"And now I'm here." Yuma continued, gesturing broadly, "I don't know what to do with any of it." He fell silent, suddenly aware that he had just spilled his entire heart to two men he barely knew.
Jo regarded him for a long moment. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched—the first crack in his stoic facade.
"You sound like Fuma." Jo said.
"Fuma?"
"My Lord Commander. He spent six months making moon eyes at a baker before he finally confessed." Jo picked up his tea again, taking another sip. "It was painful to watch. He wrote very bad poetry."
Taki let out a laugh, sharp and delighted and Yuma shot him a glare that only made him laugh harder.
Jo set down his tea and met Yuma's eyes. "My point is," he said, "don't wait too long. Whenever you figure out what you're feeling—attraction, admiration, or something in between—don't let it sit until it turns into regret."
Yuma opened his mouth, closed it, and then said, ".…..Did Fuma's baker say yes?"
"They're getting married next spring." Jo's lips quirked again, and this time, there was something mischievous in his quiet eyes. "If you want, I can have him send you some of his poetry. For inspiration."
"I don't need—"
"It's really bad."
"I said I don't—"
"He rhymed 'pastry' with 'chastely.'"
Taki wheezed. Yuma pressed his palm to his face. "I hate you both," he said, but his voice was light.
"No, you don't." Jo said, and there was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips as he reached for the treaty, folding it neatly. "You're just lovesick."
"I am not—"
"Get some rest, Yuma. And when you go home, talk to her." He rose, smoothing down his robes, and paused at the door. "Before you start writing poetry." He was gone before Yuma could throw a cushion at him.
Yuma thought about whatever words rhymed with 'shell'.
_________________
A letter.
All it took was a single letter to break every logical braincell in your body and have you rushing about like a mad parrot.
You had been in the middle of reorganizing the eastern supply ledgers when a messenger had arrived, breathless, pressing a sealed parchment into your hands.
From His Majesty, the messenger had said. Sent ahead from the road.
You had broken the seal with steady hands. By the time you finished reading, your hands were not steady at all.
The handwriting was wrong.
Not Yuma's—you would have recognized his careless script anywhere, the way his letters slanted forward like he was always in a hurry to get to the next word. This was neat, precise. Wrong.
And the words—
Delayed. Complications. Do not expect my return at the appointed hour.
Your heart had stopped and had launched into a gallop that had not ceased since.
Sakuryn was a war-torn country. Yuma had told you over a map one evening. Decades of conflict, he had said. They're stable now, but the scars run deep.
You had nodded and filed the information away and thought nothing of it.
Now you were thinking of assassins in shadowed corridors, political rivals with long memories, of treaties signed in blood instead of ink. Now you were thinking of a king who caught you when you fell. Now you were thinking of him lying dead in a Sakuryn ditch and the letter was the only warning you would get.
So you had moved.
Soldiers had been mustered, horses saddled, the gates thrown open. You had sent scouts ahead on the road to Sakuryn, had ordered the guard doubled at every entrance, had personally checked the readiness of the royal physician's kit. You had not stopped moving, because if you stopped moving, you would start thinking and if you started thinking, you would fall apart.
Now, three hours later, you stood in the center of the throne room—still in your rumpled clothes, hair escaping its pins, ink smudged on your fingers—directing a pair of guards to reinforce the western patrol route when the great doors swung open.
You turned.
Yuma stood in the doorway.
He was whole and unharmed. A little dusty from the road, perhaps, and wearing a travel-stained cloak, but very, very alive. Behind him, Taki peered over his shoulder, looking mildly confused by the commotion.
Yuma's eyes swept the room—the gathered soldiers, the heightened alert, the maps spread across every surface, and finally, you, standing in the middle of it all like a storm given human form.
He blinked.
his lips curved into a smirk. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, looking for all the world like a cat who had just discovered a particularly entertaining mouse.
"Well, well, well," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. "If it isn't my favorite advisor, standing in the middle of the throne room looking like she's about to declare war on someone. And holding a spear, no less. I didn't know you knew how to use one, kitty."
"I thought you were dead." You said flatly.
Yuma's smirk faltered. "What? Why?"
"Your letter." You thrust the crumpled parchment toward him, "It wasn't your handwriting. It said do not expect my return at the appointed hour. What was I supposed to think?"
Yuma took the letter, smoothing it out and scanning its contents. His eyebrows rose. Then, to your utter disbelief, he laughed.
"Oh, this is Taki's handwriting." He said, waving the parchment. "I dictated it to him because my hands were full." He paused, squinting at the words. "He made it sound significantly more ominous than I intended."
You swore you were going to murder Takayama Riki for never showing you his damned handwriting.
Yuma stepped closer, his playful demeanor softening. He tilted his head, studying your face with an intensity that made your breath catch.
"Were you worried about me?" He asked, and his voice was quieter now, almost gentle.
You wanted to deflect with sarcasm, to hide behind sharp words and a dismissive wave.
"Yes." You said because there was no point in pretending otherwise.
Yuma's eyes widened, just a fraction. Something flickered in their depths before he masked it with a clearing of his throat.
"Right." He said, turning away. "Tea. My office. Now." He paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. "And you are going to tell me every single thing you did while you were supposed to be resting." His voice carried a note of command, but his eyes were soft. "Every. Single. Thing."
He disappeared through the doorway, leaving you standing in the throne room, heart in your throat, wondering how one man could infuriate you and undo you in equal measure.
_______________________________
His office was warm, lit by the soft glow of candles that had been lit in your absence. A fresh pot of tea sat on the table, steam curling lazily into the air. You had set down the spear somewhere in the hallway and your hands were blessedly still as you wrapped them around a porcelain cup.
Yuma sat across from you, having shed his travel cloak and loosened the collar of his tunic. He looked tired, you noted. The journey had clearly worn on him but his eyes were bright as they watched you over the rim of his own cup.
"So," he said, settling back into his chair, "tell me everything."
You told him about the letter's arrival, the panic that had seized you, the mobilization of soldiers, the scouts sent ahead, the doubled patrols, the frantic reorganization of the eastern supply ledgers that had somehow spiraled into a full-scale security review.
Yuma neither teased nor interuupted. He simply listened, his expression thoughtful, his tea growing cold in his hands. When you finally finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
"Sakuryn had some really pretty red flowers." He said offhandedly. "They grew along the road leading out of the capital. Bright crimson, like little flames." He paused, his gaze drifting to the window. "You would have liked them."
You blinked, thrown by the sudden shift in topic. "Why would you even care about that? You merely went for a treaty signing."
"Can I not care about you?"
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples spread outward, unsettling everything in their path. Something caught in your jaw—a tension you hadn't realized you were holding.
Care was not a word you trusted. Care was a word that came with conditions, with expectations, with fine print you had never been able to read.
"You would have probably told me their latin name before I could finish saying they were pretty." He said, "I wanted to bring one back for you, but it would have wilted before I crossed the border."
You stared at him, your throat tight, your heart pounding against your ribs. You wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come.
Yuma cleared his throat and reached for the teapot, refilling his cup with studied nonchalance. "Anyway," he said, his voice lighter now, "you should actually rest tomorrow. That's an order."
You nodded, because nodding was safe. Nodding required no words. You finished your tea in silence and when you finally rose to leave, your hands were steady, but your heart was not.
The door clicked shut behind you. Yuma sat alone in the office, staring at the empty space where you had been. He let out a long, slow breath and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.
Attraction or admiration, he had said to Jo. I don't know which.
Yuma had realised the moment he saw you standing in the throne room, spear in hand, eyes wild with terror—for him. He had realised when you said yes so honestly, that it had nearly undone him. He had realied when he watched you leave and the room felt emptier for your absence.
Attraction.
Yuma groaned, dropping his hands to his lap.
Attraction wasn't a road he had conquered yet.
_______________
Why ever did you agree to this task was an answer only the gods themselves would know.
This being accompanying Yuma as he took his usual undercover trip to the streets of the kingdom
You had been buried in ledgers when Yuma had appeared at your desk, dressed in plain linen and a worn leather vest, his hair mussed to look less regal. He had looked like a common laborer, grinning at you like a child with a secret.
"Taki's sick." He had announced. "You're coming with me instead."
You had opened your mouth to refuse. You had a mountain of work. You had no interest in playing dress-up in the lower districts. You had—
"You said yes." Yuma had said, already pulling you to your feet. "I heard it. It was very enthusiastic."
"I said nothing of the sort—"
"Your silence was thunderous with agreement. Come on. Put on something less advisor-like."
You had ended up here.
The streets of Eldanith's lower districts were alive with noise and color. Merchants hawked their wares from wooden stalls, children darted between the legs of adults and the smell of fresh bread and fried fish floated through the air.
Yuma was having the time of his life. He had already purchased a hand-carved wooden bird ("It looked lonely"), a bundle of dried herbs from an old woman ("She needed the coin more than I do"), and a chipped ceramic mug that you were fairly certain was going to give him lead poisoning ("It has character").
"You're being robbed." You said flatly, watching him hand over another handful of coins for a piece of fabric that was clearly dyed with cheap pigment.
"I'm investing in the local economy." He corrected, tucking the fabric into his satchel.
You were about to argue further when your gaze drifted past his shoulder, toward a small gathering of people near a fountain.
You knew those faces. Your breath caught. Your steps faltered.
They were older now, lined with the passage of years, but you would have recognized them anywhere. The same cluster of sycophants around the ringleader, laughing at jokes you had long since forgotten the content of but remembered the feeling of.
Your chest tightened. Your hands grew cold.
They had been your friends once. Or so you had thought.
You had been young, eager, desperate to belong. They had welcomed you into their circle with open arms; you had been so grateful, so naive. You had trusted them with your secrets, your fears, your hopes. You had thought you had found a place where you were wanted.
They had played their trick.
You did not like to think about it. You had buried it deep, locked it away in the same vault where you kept your childhood fears and your mother's disappointed sighs. But seeing them now, laughing by the fountain, the memories clawed their way back up your throat.
The realization that you had never been a friend to them—you had been a joke.
Your breathing quickened. Your vision narrowed. The sounds of the market faded to a distant roar.
"Hey."
A hand closed around your wrist, warm and firm. Yuma was standing in front of you, his playful demeanor replaced by concern. His eyes searched your face, reading something in your expression that made his jaw tighten.
"What's wrong?" He asked quietly.
You tried to speak, but your voice caught in your throat. The group by the fountain hadn't noticed you yet. They were still laughing carefree, utterly unaware of the ghost they had left behind. You wanted to run. You wanted to hide. You wanted to be anywhere but here.
But Yuma's hand was still on your wrist, grounding you, anchoring you to the present.
"Hey," he said again, softer this time. "Look at me."
His eyes were patient and waiting. He did not demand an explanation. He did not push. He simply stood there, holding you together with nothing but his gaze.
"Whatever it is," he said, "we can leave. Just say the word."
"It's nothing." You said, the words scraping past the tightness in your throat. "Let's go."
But before you could turn, before Yuma could guide you away, a voice cut through the market noise like a blade.
"Well, well, well. Is that who I think it is?"
You froze. The ringleader already striding toward you, that familiar smirk plastered across her face. The others followed, a flock of vultures drawn by the scent of old prey.
You were trapped.
"Look at you." She said, stopping just short of invading your space. Her eyes raked over you, cataloging every detail with the practiced cruelty of someone who knew exactly which insecurities to poke. "Still wearing those same old clothes, I see. I thought by now you'd have grown into something presentable."
One of the others—you remembered the one who had laughed the loudest—chimed in. "And you're still so tense. Relax a little. You look like you're about to shatter."
"Maybe she's finally learned that no one wants to be around someone so brittle." Another added.
Your chest constricted. The noise of the market grew distant. Their faces blurred at the edges, but their words landed like stones, each one heavier than the last. You wanted to speak, to defend yourself, but your voice had abandoned you. You were a teenager again, standing in the middle of a circle, watching the people you trusted most tear you apart for sport.
Brittle. Plain. Too much. Not enough.
Joke.
You felt yourself spiraling, the ground slipping beneath your feet—
"Alright."
Yuma's voice cut through the spiral. He stepped forward, positioning himself slightly in front of you, a barrier between you and the vultures.
"This was nice." He said, and there was nothing nice about his tone. "But we must be on our way."
Her smirk widened. She looked Yuma up and down, clearly unimpressed by the plain clothes and the lack of any obvious status markers.
"Oh, I see." She said, voice dripping with mockery. "You've actually found someone to court you. How surprising." The others snickered. "I mean," she continued, gesturing vaguely at you, "with a face like that, I didn't think anyone would—"
Yuma moved.
It was subtle—a shift in his stance, a hardening of his jaw, a coldness that crept into his dark eyes. He did not raise his voice. He did not draw a weapon. But something in his presence changed, a quiet menace that made the air around him grow still.
"I would be very careful," he said, his voice low and even, "about how you finish that sentence."
She blinked, momentarily thrown. The smirk faltered.
"And I would be very careful," Yuma continued, stepping closer, his height suddenly seeming to loom, "about speaking to her at all. Because the next time you open your mouth, I can't promise I'll be in a forgiving mood."
There was a beat of silence. The market noise seemed to recede. Even the vultures looked uncertain.
She recovered quickly, forcing a laugh. "Who do you think you are, threatening me? You're nobody. You're—"
"I'm someone who knows exactly how much force it takes to break a jaw." Yuma interrupted, his voice calm, pleasant and terrifying. "And I'm someone who has absolutely nothing to lose by demonstrating that knowledge in front of a crowd of witnesses who will all conveniently remember nothing."
Yuma sighed, a sound of profound boredom. "You know what? I was going to let this slide. I was going to be gracious. I was going to walk away and let you keep your teeth."
He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small silver medallion—the royal seal of Eldanith, stamped with the crest of the Nakakita line. He held it up between two fingers, letting it catch the afternoon light.
"But then you opened your mouth again. And I realized that some lessons need to be taught more than once."
The medallion glinted. The marketplace went still.
Like a wave crashing over the shore, recognition spread through the crowd. One by one, every person in sight dropped to their knees, bowing.
"Your Majesty/" Someone whispered. And then it spread, a ripple of hushed awe and terror.
Your Majesty. Your Majesty. Your Majesty.
You barely noticed any of it.
You were standing in the middle of the street, your hand still clasped in Yuma's and you were on the verge of tears. The king of Eldanith, the man who drove you up every wall in the palace, had threatened to break a jaw for insulting you.
Yuma tucked the medallion away and turned to you. "Come on." He said, tugging your hand. "Let's go home."
He led you through the kneeling crowd and you followed because you didn't know what else to do. Your legs moved on their own. Your heart raced in your chest. The tears you had been holding back threatened to spill over.
Under the dying sunlight, Nakakita Yuma looked so…..warm.
Warm was that feeling of his hand clutched in yours (somebody's hands on you), the sound of his voice defending you (a soft voice to call you out of sleep) and just the mere existence of him (somebody to sip on cofffee with).
And you were crying because somebody have proved, for one afternoon, that you were not too much.
Why the fuck had he proved that?
You followed Yuma into his office, the door clicking shut behind you. The silence of the palace was a stark contrast to the chaos of the market. Yuma moved to the side, shrugging off his vest and cloak, tossing them onto a chair with little care.
"Why did you do that?"
He paused, turning to look at you. "What?"
"Why did you do that?" You repeated, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to steady it. "Back there, with them. Why did you—"
"Just wanted to." He said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"That's not an answer."
Yuma turned to face you fully, crossing his arms. "Do you not think you deserve at least that much respect?"
The question hit you like a physical blow. You blinked, your throat tightening.
"That's not—" You shook your head, frustration bubbling up through the tears. "You're the king. You shouldn't be wasting your time defending someone like me."
"Someone like you?" His voice sharpened, his eyes narrowing.
"Yes. Someone like me. I'm your advisor. I'm—I'm nothing. I'm replaceable. I'm—"
"Nothing?"
The word cut through your rambling like a blade. Yuma stepped closer.
"Someone like you." He repeated, his voice low. "Do you hear yourself? Someone this smart? Someone who works herself to the bone for a kingdom that doesn't thank her half enough?"
He took another step. Then another. The space between you shrank until you could see flecks of gold in his dark eyes, could count the individual lashes framing them.
"Someone this beautiful?" He murmured, his voice dropping to reverence.
You shook your head, stepping back. Your back hit the wall. "That's—that's not—" You took a break, composing yourself back to your formal tone, "It's odd that you care. It's okay for you not to care. I'm used to it. I expect it. So you don't have to—"
"Don't have to what?"
Yuma was angry now. You could see it in the set of his jaw, the fire in his eyes. But it wasn't the cold, menacing anger he had shown your ex-friends. This was something personal.
"Don't have to pretend." You whispered. "I know what I am. I know what I'm worth. And it's not—"
"Stop."
He closed the distance between you, his hands coming up to cup your face. His palms were warm against your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had finally spilled over.
"Stop." Yuma said again, his voice cracking. "Stop talking about yourself like you're something less than extraordinary. Stop acting like you're not worth every second of my time, every word of my defense, every beat of my goddamned heart."
"Your Majesty—"
"You really have no idea how much I love you, do you?"
Love?
That unfamillair word?
A revelation, spoken with the kind of quiet devastation that comes from realizing someone has been living in darkness their entire life, never knowing what light feels like.
You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. What could you possibly say? That you had spent years believing love was transactional? That affection was something earned through usefulness, through making yourself agreeable and necessary? That the idea of someone loving you—truly, unconditionally loving you—was so foreign it felt like a language you had never learned to speak?
Yuma's thumbs traced gentle arcs across your cheekbones, catching fresh tears before they could fall.
"I think about you constantly." He said, his voice low and raw. "I think about the way you smile when you think no one is watching. I think about the way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. I think about the sound of your laugh that escapes when I catch you off guard. You have no idea how much I love that sound."
A sob escaped you and he pulled you closer, his forehead pressing against yours.
"I notice when you skip meals because you're too deep in work. I notice when you're pretending to be fine when you're not. I notice everything about you, and I have been drowning in it since the moment you walked in and told me my tax policy was idiotic."
A wet laugh escaped you, surprised and broken.
"You were right, by the way," he added, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "It was idiotic. And you were the first person in years brave enough to tell me."
Yuma pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own shining and vulnerable in a way you had never seen from him before.
"I love you."
The words were a truth, spoken with the certainty of someone who had long since stopped fighting it. "I love you, and I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how to be near you without wanting to be closer. I don't know how to watch you walk away without counting the moments until you come back. I don't know how to exist in a world where you don't know how much you mean to me."
His voice cracked on the last word, and you felt your heart splinter along with it.
"So please." He whispered, his breath warm against your lips. "Please believe me when I say that you are not too much. You are not nothing. You are not replaceable. You are the most infuriating, brilliant, beautiful, irreplaceable person I have ever met and I am terrified of how much I need you."
Yuma pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering there as if he could pour every unspoken word into that single point of contact.
"I need you to know," he murmured against your skin, "that I will spend every day for the rest of my life proving to you that you are worthy of love. That you always have been."
You stood there, cradled in his hands, tears streaming down your face, and for the first time in years—maybe for the first time ever—you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you were enough.
Yuma's hands were still cradling your face, his thumbs resting against your damp cheeks. Your fingers were curled around his wrists, holding on like he was the only anchor in a storm. The air between you was thick with everything unspoken, everything confessed, everything waiting to be claimed.
Your eyes dropped to his lips. They were so close—a breath away, a heartbeat away.
Your mind raced with a thousand objections. He was the king. You were his advisor. This was reckless. This was dangerous. This was everything you had been taught to avoid.
Those eyes were looking at you like you were the answer to a question he had been asking his whole life. What was a little danger?
You swallowed. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it through his palms.
"Yuma," you tried, and the name felt foreign and precious on your tongue. "Can I…"
You hesitated. The fear clawed at your throat, old and familiar. But his thumbs traced another gentle arc across your cheekbones and the fear loosened its grip.
"Can I kiss you?"
The words came out fragile, almost disbelieving as if you were asking for something you had no right to want.
For a moment, Yuma looked utterly stunned—as if the idea that you would want to kiss him had never occurred to him.
"Yes." He breathed. "Yes. Please. Yes."
You closed the distance.
The kiss was soft at first—hesitating, questioning, neither of you quite believing this was real. His lips were warm and slightly chapped, moving against yours with a gentleness that made your knees weak.
His hand slid into your hair, and yours fisted in his shirt, and the kiss deepened into something hungrier, something more desperate, something that tasted like years of longing finally given release.
The world faded away. The office, the palace, the kingdom—all of it dissolved into nothing. There was only the warmth of his mouth on yours, the steady beat of his heart against your palm, the way his breath hitched when you tilted your head just so.
It felt like flowers were blooming around you, bursting into colour behind your closed eyelids.
Violets for devotion. Roses for passion. Lilies for a love you had never believed you deserved. They spiraled upward in a cascade of petals and fragrance, wrapping around you both like the universe itself was blessing this fragile thing you were building.
When you finally broke apart, breathless and trembling, you kept your forehead pressed to his.
In the golden light of the dying sun, with the scent of phantom flowers lingering in the air, Yuma kissed you again like you were the most treasured thing in all of Eldanith.
And perhaps, to him, you were.
_____________________
There were many, many explanations as to how you could've possibly ended up here.
Ink stained fingers tangled in the soft hair strands of Nakakita Yuma while his tongue worked to pull your tears from you.
You had been working all day in his office. It had become something of a routine in the weeks since that kiss—sharing the space, the silence, the occasional brush of hands when reaching for the same document.
The complicated relationship you had once navigated with a distance had transformed into something that felt close to home.
Yuma would sit at his desk, reviewing treaties and signing decrees, while you occupied the table by the window, surrounded by scrolls and ledgers and half-empty cups of tea. Sometimes you would look up and find him already watching you, a small smile playing on his lips. Sometimes he would rise from his chair just to stand behind you, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder, before returning to his work as if he had simply needed to reassure himself that you were still there.
Wvery night, without fail, before you gathered your things and retreated to your house, he would catch your hand, pull you close and press a kiss to your forehead.
"I love you." Yuma would whisper, his breath warm against your skin.
Every night, without fail, you would feel that flutter in your chest, that same disbelief that this was your life now.
Tonight, the work had piled higher than usual. A trade dispute with a neighboring province. A miscommunication in the treasury. A letter from Jo that had made Yuma laugh and then sigh. The hours had slipped away, the candles had burned low and you had refused to stop.
"Give it up." Yuma had said for the third time, his voice gentle but firm. "Go home. Sleep."
"I'm not sleepy yet." You had mumbled, already reaching for a scroll on a shelf in his office, stretching on your tiptoes, your fingers barely brushing the parchment.
You heard him rise from his chair, soft footsteps crossing the room. And then his arm was around your waist, pulling you back until your back was flush against his chest and his other hand reached up to pluck the scroll from the shelf with infuriating ease.
"Yuma—"
He took the scroll from your hand slowly and placed it on the desk beside you. His lips found the curve of your neck, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss just below your ear.
"How about I help you sleep, kitty?"
His voice was low, sending a shiver down your spine. His arm tightened around your waist, holding you steady as his lips trailed down the side of your neck, leaving a path of warmth in their wake.
Your breath hitched. Your fingers found their way into his hair, tangling in the soft strands, holding him there as his tongue traced a delicate pattern against your skin.
"You've been working too hard." He murmured against your throat. "You've been pushing yourself too much. And I've been wanting to remind you that you're human."
He kissed the hollow of your collarbone and your knees buckled slightly.
"Let me remind you." Yuma whispered. "Let me take care of you tonight."
Your eyes fluttered closed. You leaned back into him, letting him hold your weight, letting him catch you the way he always did.
"Okay," you breathed. "Okay."
In the dim candlelight of his office, with the world outside fading away, Nakakita Yuma turned you in his arms, cupped your face in his hands and kissed you like he had all the time in the world.
Yuma’s kiss was slow and deep, a promise of the devotion he was about to pour into you. He tasted of tea and longing, his tongue sweeping against yours in a soothing dance that melted the last remnants of your professional resolve. With a soft groan, he broke the kiss, though he kept his forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm on your lips.
"Come here.." He whispered, his voice thick with affection.
Yuma guided you toward the velvet sofa in the corner of the office, candlelight casting flickering shadows across the room. He lowered you onto the cushions with tenderness. You sank into the plush fabric, looking up at him with wide, hazy eyes.
Yuma knelt between your legs, his expression one of pure, unadulterated adoration—a king on his knees.
His fingers moved to the fastenings of your dress, his touch light and steady. Yuma took his sweet time, undoing each button and tie with a reverence that made your heart ache. As the fabric slid away, exposing your skin to the cool night air, he let out a shaky breath, his gaze roaming over your body like he was memorizing a sacred text.
"You are so beautiful…" He murmured, his voice trembling . "Absolutely breathtaking."
He leaned forward, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your stomach, his lips grazing your skin in a way that made you arch your back and let out a soft, needy whine. Your fingers curled into the fabric of the sofa, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps.
As he shifted lower, his hands sliding up to grip your thighs, parting them slowly to reveal the damp heat between your legs, Yuma paused. He looked up at you, his eyes searching yours, ensuring you were still with him, still wanting this.
"May I?" he asked, his voice a low, rough plea. "I want to take care of everything you're feeling right now. Is that okay, kitty?"
"Yes," you whimpered, your voice breaking. "Please, Yuma...please."
Yuma started with a softness that was so fucking agonizing. He pressed a tender kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, then another, moving closer and closer to your center. When his tongue finally made contact with your clit, you let out a loud, sharp moan that echoed through the quiet office.
"Ah! Yuma!"
He hummed against you, the vibration sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. He began to lick you with slow strokes, his tongue swirling around your nub with an expert precision. He was treating you like a delicacy, savoring every drop of your arousal.
You began to whine, your hips instinctively bucking upward, seeking more pressure. "More... please, I need more..."
Yuma responded by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. The combination was overwhelming. You gasped, your head tossing from side to side on the cushions, your voice dissolving into a series of high-pitched moans and desperate whimpers.
"That's it, sweetheart," he murmured, pulling back for a second to look at you, his lips glistening with your juices. "Just let go. Give it aaall to me. Let your king take the stress away, hmm?"
Yuma dove back in, his suction increasing, his tongue flicking faster and harder against your clit. You were sobbing now, the pleasure building into a crescendo that felt like it would shatter you. You gripped his hair, pulling him closer, your legs shaking violently.
"Yuma! Oh god, Yuma, I'm—I'm going to—!"
"Go on." He encouraged, his voice muffled against your pussy. "Relax for me, kitty."
With one final flick of his tongue and a deep thrust of his fingers, you peaked. Your body stiffened, a loud, prolonged cry escaping your throat as waves of intense orgasm crashed over you. Your internal muscles clamped tightly around his fingers, your breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps.
Yuma didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, gently licking the remaining sensitivity of your clit, soothing the aftershocks with soft, loving laps until your breathing finally slowed. He crawled up the sofa, pulling you into his arms and wrapping you in a tight, protective embrace.
"I've got you.." He whispered, kissing your temple. "I've got you."
You melted into him, your body still humming with the echoes of pleasure, your mind floating in that hazy, weightless space he always seemed to guide you into. His arms were warm and steady around you, his heartbeat strong against your back, and for a long, perfect moment, you were content to simply exist in his hold.
The haze began to clear and a familiar stubbornness stirred in your chest.
"...I'm still not sleepy." You mumbled against his shoulder, your voice carrying a petulant edge.
Yuma let out a low chuckle, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into your spine. "Is that so?"
You nodded, turning your head to press a kiss to his jaw. "Not even a little bit."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes filled with a fond exasperation that made your heart flutter. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"
You smiled, innocent and cheeky. "I have no idea what you mean."
Yuma studied you for a moment, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your hip. Then, without warning, he shifted, one arm sliding under your knees and the other bracing your back as he lifted you into his arms.
"Yuma!" You gasped, clutching at his shoulders. "What are you—"
"If you're not sleepy," he said, carrying you toward the door that connected his office to his chambers, "then I'll just have to find other ways to tire you out."
Your heart stuttered as he pushed open the door with his shoulder, revealing a room that was unmistakably royal. A massive four-poster bed draped in silk dominated the space. Heavy curtains framed windows that overlooked the palace gardens. A fireplace crackled softly in the corner, casting warm shadows across the walls.
You were in the king's bedroom.
The thought sent a thrill through you, equal parts awe and disbelief. You had been in this palace for years, walked its halls and attended its meetings, but you had never—never—imagined you would find yourself in this most private of spaces, held in the arms of the king himself.
Yuma set you down gently on the edge of the bed, the silk cool beneath your fingertips. He straightened and his hands moved to the collar of his shirt.
"You look nervous." He observed, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"I'm not nervous." You lied, your eyes fixed on his fingers as they worked the first button loose. "I'm just...surprised."
"Surprised?"
"That I'm in the king's bedroom." You swallowed. "It feels...intimate."
He paused, his hands stilling on the second button. "It is intimate. That's the point."
Then he resumed, revealing inch by inch of the skin you had only ever glimpsed in stolen moments. His shirt fell open, exposing the lean lines of his chest, the subtle definition of his abdomen, the trail of hair that disappeared below his waistband.
Yuma let the shirt slide from his shoulders and fall to the floor. Your breath caught. His hands moved to his belt, and he raised an eyebrow at you, a smirk playing at his lips.
"You're staring."
"You're undressing." You countered, your voice coming out breathier than intended.
He let his trousers fall, stepping out of them with an easy grace that belied the intensity in his eyes. He stood before you, the firelight painting golden lines across his skin, and he was beautiful.
Yuma knelt before you, his hands resting on your knees, his eyes meeting yours with a tenderness that stole your breath.
"Tell me if you want to stop." He said softly. "Tell me if you're not ready. Tell me anything and I will listen."
Oh to have the king on his knees.
You reached out, your fingers brushing against his cheek, and you smiled.
"I trust you." You whispered. "I'm right where I want to be."
Yuma’s expression softened, a look of profound love crossing his features at your words. He leaned forward, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to your forehead before sliding his undergarments down, freeing his cock. It was thick and pulsing, weeping a bead of pre-cum that glistened in the candlelight, a testament to how much he had been wanting you.
He moved back over you, his body a warm weight that felt like a sanctuary. Yuma paused at your entrance, the broad head of his cock brushing against your swollen, wet folds. He waited, his eyes locked onto yours, giving you one last moment to breathe.
"I love you," he whispered, his voice a rough caress. "so much."
With a slow, agonizingly steady push, he slid into you. You let out a long, shaky moan, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt him stretch you open, filling every inch of your aching void. He entered you with such care, that you could feel every ridge of him sliiiding against your walls. He stopped when he was buried deep, his hips flush against yours, and he simply stayed there for a moment, letting you adjust to his size.
"You feel.…nghh….incredible," he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "So tight—hah ahh fuckkkk you're so warm."
Yuma began to move, pulling back almost entirely before sinking back in with a soft, rhythmic glide. Each thrust was a slow, loving stroke, a silent promise of devotion. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back.
"Yuma... oh, god, Yuma…." you whimpered, your voice small and needy. The slow pace was a torture of the best kind, building a tension in your lower belly that made you whine for more.
He heard you, his breath hitching. He began to pick up the pace, just a fraction, his movements becoming more fluid. He started to hit your perfect spot with every deep plunge, sending sparks of pleasure radiating through your nerves. Your moans grew louder, turning into desperate, high-pitched sounds as you arched your back, your chest heaving against his.
"That's it.….just like that," he murmured, his voice growing strained, "My girl's sooo good for me, isn't she?"
The slow dance evolved into something more primal. You were both breathless now, the air thick with the scent of sex and yearning. You could feel him trembling, his muscles coiled tight as he drove himself into you with an increasing urgency.
"I'm close…" he gasped, his pace becoming frantic, his hips hammering against yours in a blur of heat and friction. "I'm almost there.….please, stay with me..."
"Yuma…..ohhh oh!" You cried out, your own climax rushing toward you like a tidal wave.
The world narrowed down to the point where your bodies met. You felt the hot, rhythmic pulses of his cum flooding your insides and the sensation triggered your own release. You screamed his name, your internal muscles clamping around him in violent, rhythmic contractions that mirrored his own.
You both collapsed together, chests heaving, hearts drumming a frantic duet against each other. Yuma stayed anchored inside you, his arms wrapping around you in a crushing embrace, holding you as if you were the only thing keeping him down to this earth.
"I've got you…." He whispered, his voice broken and full of love, kissing your sweat-slicked skin. "I've got you, my dearest."
After a long, breathless moment, he finally pulled out with a gentle wince, settling beside you on the silk sheets. He gathered you against his chest, his hand stroking slow, soothing lines down your spine.
For a while, neither of you spoke. Your fingers traced lazy patterns across his collarbone and his lips pressed occasional kisses to the top of your head.
"...So," you murmured, your voice thick with exhaustion, "does this mean I win the argument about staying up late?"
Yuma let out a low, rumbling laugh. "Absolutely not. You lost spectacularly. You're about to fall asleep any second now."
"I am not." You protested, even as your eyelids grew heavy.
"You are." He countered, his voice warm with affection. "Your voice is already getting sleepy. You're slurring your words."
You lifted your head to glare at him, but the effect was ruined by the huge yawn that escaped you instead. Yuma's grin was insufferable.
"Told you, kitty." He whispered, pulling you closer.
You huffed, but nestled into him anyway, your cheek pressed against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you toward sleep. "You're insufferable."
"And you're beautiful." He replied, kissing your forehead. "We're quite the pair."
You smiled against his skin, your hand finding his and intertwining your fingers. "I love you, Yuma."
He squeezed your hand, his voice soft and melodic in the darkness. "I love you too. More than all the stars in Eldanith."
Sleep pulled you under, warm and gentle, wrapped in the arms of the king who had somehow become yours.
Wanting arrives quietly at first.
It sits beside you while you wash dishes, while you wait for the kettle to boil, while you watch strangers crossing streets hand in hand. It says nothing.
It only asks for someone to stay long enough that wanting can finally put down its bags and rest.
Iin the quiet of the king's chambers, with the fire burning low and the silk sheets tangled around your bare limbs, the wanting rests.
It set down its bags the moment your fingers first tangled in your hair. It unpacked its weary heart the night a king whispered "I love you" before you walked out his door. It curled up and fell asleep in the space between his breath and yours, in the hollow of his collarbone where your head now rested.
You had spent so long believing you were too much—too loud, too quiet, too cluttered, too everything.
Yuma had never once asked you to be less. He had only ever pulled you closer.
As the night wrapped itself around the palace, as the stars of Eldanith wheeled slowly overhead, you felt an echo of that loneliness dissolve into nothing.
There were many, many explanations as to how you could have possibly ended up here.
In the end, only one mattered.
You were loved.
And wanting, at long last, had found its home.
fin.
A/N: i think this is one of those rare fics in which i don't have a recurring word or theme if that makes sense. Know that i actually celebrated when i finished editing because oh my god my drafts were terrible Nakakita Yuma you have defeated me. Make sure to tune in for the last fic gang Jojo will be YEARNING
divider by @strangergraphics-archive
Taglist:
General taglist: @eu1joo @7yataki @frenchkisstheabyss @yumangel @nichozzystuffs @blueuijoo @pglpblm @ikigaijo @antonh0lic @dearvampyr @riri4andy @tokunodoll @sunsoomi @makizdoll @solairemelo @cece0710 @/someonerandom909 + Shoot me an ask or comment to be added!
Please be aware that upon hearing my bestie wanted fic recs on Tumblr I immediately sent her Royal &Team and went "Fuck read these, I need you to know how good these are"
BABIEEEEEE ugh ily I HOPE SHE KNOWS IM A YEARNER AND THATS WHY THERE'S SO MUCH YEARNING
Sorry if this is weird but everything you write is such a masterpiece to me i can’t bring myself to consume everything you’ve written because i don’t want to ever run out of your writings
I'm gonna have this scripted into my grave do you understand.
so excited for yuma’s jyuugoya fic, trust me i’m counting down the days !! also wanted to say that you should keep writing forever because you’re genuinely so incredibly talented. i usually don’t do this but your work is so beautiful that i absolutely HAD to, anyways have a great day <3
Awww thank you so much sweetheart!!! Well you'll be glad to know Yuma's fic is dropping today and you'll be further glad to know I'm not gonna stop writing any time soon I have wayyy too many wips for that lol
I love soft Euijoo so much, this was perfect to make me feel better after I got my period today
Oh my god he's so wonderful and respectful I love him
Yuma enemies to lovers??? Please colour me interested, I absolutely need to read it when it happens
Awww thank you baby 🥺🥺 i hope your uterus did not attack you aggressively if it did I will fight her and YESSS we love respectful euijoo but whilst writing this fic all I wanted was for him to disrespect MY PANTS AND MY VIRGINTY
