vince @anghimalaaynasapuso - Tumblr Blog

Dec 8, 2025

BIRTHDAY GIFT | 141

gn reader. angst. death. imposter syndrome. major issues. explosives. canon-level violence.

The bar was a mess of clinking glasses, half-wiped tables, low lights, and stray napkins that never seemed to make it into bins. The hum of chatter mixed with the scrape of chairs on the sticky floor, and the faint smell of spilled beer clung stubbornly to the air. It wasn’t the worst place to be on a Friday night, but it wasn’t great either.

It fit your mood perfectly.

Soap leaned forward on his elbows, shoulders relaxed, cheeks faintly flushed from his drink. He talked the way he always did. Open, warm, and far too easy to listen to. You envied that about him. You envied a lot about him.

“You… call Ghost during breaks?” you asked, trying to keep your voice level.

“Yeah, ‘course. What are friends for?” Soap shrugged, as if the topic wasn’t gutting you. As if it was ordinary. As if Ghost picking up his calls was the most expected thing in the world.

Your throat tightened. Soap kept talking.

“He gets grumpy sometimes but he picks up. Usually. Unless he’s caught up with something. Happens, aye?”

You nodded, but it felt mechanical. Automatic.

You tried not to think about how Ghost sent your calls to voicemail. How your messages went unread until he felt like answering, if he answered. How the only time you managed to get him out for a beer had taken months of trying and even then he sat stiffly, barely engaging, as if you were a task he had to tolerate.

But Soap? Soap had access. Effortless access.

Of course he did.

You coughed, trying to force down the lump that blocked your air.

Soap took it the wrong way. He reached out and patted your back, gentle and concerned. “Y’alright there?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, waving him off. “Drink went down the wrong pipe. That’s all.”

Soap nodded in sympathy. “Rough.”

You looked at him, expression flat. “Thanks.”

He accepted that without question. Then, with another sip of his drink:

“So anyway, I called him up earlier. Asked if he wanted to eat with the McTavish lot for Christmas evening.”

Your pulse stilled.

Soap kept going, unaware of the shift inside you. “Told him he doesn’t have to come if he’s busy or tired. But he said he’d think about it. So that’s something, yeah?”

You didn’t answer.

You only hummed when you needed to, nodded when it looked expected.

Ghost. At a Christmas gathering. Ghost, choosing to be anywhere near a family. Ghost, considering a night with people he actually cared about.

Not you, of course. Never you.

You stared down at your drink. The ice was melting, small cracks running through the cubes, tiny drops sliding down your fingers as you held the glass. You kept your eyes on that and not on Soap’s excited grin.

Why would Ghost bother with someone like you when John McTavish was right there, loud, bright, magnetic, impossible to dislike?

Why would he choose the person who struggled to get even a full sentence out of him when he had someone who could pull a laugh from him without even trying?

Why had you thought, even for a moment, that you could matter?

“-Guess the eggnog and me weren’t meant to be,” Soap finished with an easy laugh, bringing you back into the conversation.

You forced a small chuckle, head dipping. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “Guess it wasn’t.”

Your voice held steady. Your hands didn’t. The glass trembled in your grip.

Soap didn’t notice. No one ever noticed.

And across the bar, laughter from another table cut through the room, Ghost’s subtle voice among them. A short, low sound. One you’d spent months trying to hear.

Not meant for you. Never meant for you.

You stared down at your drink again, letting the ice numb your fingers. It wasn’t enough.

—

Luckily, you weren’t stupid enough to request a suicide mission from the captain just to knock the sinking feeling out of your chest. Not tonight. Not after a day that had already felt like a slow, deliberate hammering.

You were a hopeless mess, yes. But at least you were alive.

Still, the thought had crossed your mind when you were shoved between Soap and Ghost in the back of the truck. Price, mercifully, was taking his role as designated driver seriously, despite the three drinks that had clearly loosened his usual iron grip on professionalism.

“Can't I shotgun?” you muttered, glancing at Gaz, who was passed out across the front seat, snoring softly.

The captain caught your gaze in the rearview mirror. “You stop Ghost from murdering Soap.”

Right. Of course. That was your job. To keep the peace. To sit quietly and take up as little space as possible while everyone else fit in perfectly.

You sank further into your jacket, hoping to disappear. If you could disassociate enough, maybe you could escape the tightness of the space pressing against your sides, the brush of Soap’s arm, the subtle heat of Ghost shifting on the other side.

Soap flopped against your shoulder with that irritating ease that made your skin crawl. He slurred softly, “What’re your plans for the holidays?”

Of course you were the last person he asked. Last. The afterthought in a chain of voices, a voice that would not have mattered if you weren’t there at all. You told yourself it didn’t sting, but it did.

“.. Probably-” you almost said ‘drink myself to death’ under your breath, swallowing it instead, “-catch up on sleep.”

The captain’s eyes in the rearview mirror burned into you, a reminder that your sarcasm and bitterness were being meticulously logged somewhere in your psyche for a future psychology session. Thin ice. Always thin ice.

Soap shouted over the engine’s rumble, “What? That’s so boring!”

The spit from his words landed on your neck, and you winced, brushing it away quickly, trying not to make a scene. “You’re even worse than Simon!” he added, and your stomach lurched.

Simon. Of course they were on a first-name basis. Of course.

You ignored Ghost shifting next to you, tried to block him out, make your brain stop recording the warmth radiating from the man beside you.

“Leave them alone, Johnny,” Ghost said quietly, and the contrast of his calm to Soap’s chaos only reminded you of your own invisibility.

“Oh, c’mon! You gotta admit, sleeping in for the entire break?” Soap bellowed.

“Sounds like a solid plan to me,” Ghost replied, voice smooth, almost fond.

Fond. Gods, he even sounded fond.

You wished you’d taken up Kyle on that drinking game earlier. Anything to blur the edges of your awareness, anything to stop the feeling that every laugh, every shared glance, every casual touch of John and Simon’s hands was a personal indictment of your own failures.

You thought of nothing and everything at once: the months of trying to get Simon’s attention, the laugh you’d almost coaxed out of him once, the small victories that now felt meaningless.

And the worst part? You knew it wasn’t fair. It had never been fair. You had tried. You had waited. You had carved out space in Simon’s life with patience and effort, only to be sidelined, again and again, by the effortless gravity of McTavish’s presence.

You bit your lip until it bled a little, not caring if anyone noticed, not even Ghost. You could feel Soap muttering something beside you, Ghost’s chair creaking as he shifted closer, their voices overlapping into some private universe you weren’t allowed to enter.

—

Kyle’s favourite was Price.

Price’s favourite was Ghost.

Ghost’s favourite was Soap.

Soap’s favourite was Ghost.

And you… well, you were part of the task force.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. No one had done anything cruel. No one had explicitly pushed you away. But the pattern was there, threaded through every conversation, every private joke you weren’t present for, every look exchanged over your head.

It felt wrong to even feel it. Childish. Pathetic, even.

You were a grown adult, a soldier, highly trained, highly capable, and intimately familiar with the ugliest parts of warfare. You’d put bullets in men twice your size without flinching. You’d watched things that would haunt civilians forever.

And yet…

It felt exactly like being a lonely teenager again, sitting at the lunch table wondering if your friends had another chat you weren’t included in. The one they didn’t talk about around you. The one you would never see.

You told yourself that 141 wasn't built for friendship. That you weren’t owed their affection. That you weren’t owed anything.

But the sting still found a way in, sinking into your ribs in the quiet moments between missions.

—

The mission was a mess.

Comms cut out. Intel outdated. More hostiles pouring into the facility than anyone expected.

You didn’t have time to think.

You made a call. A risky one.

A wrong one, by Price’s standards.

You knew the shouting was coming long before it started.

“What the bloody hell was that?!” Price roared, and the sound cracked through the room like a hammer.

He didn’t wait for your answer. His fist slammed across your cheek, brutal enough to send stars scattering across your vision. You staggered but stayed upright, jaw throbbing.

“Did you listen to me during the briefing at all?!” he barked, stepping into your space, towering over you. “What were the mission orders?”

You opened your mouth, but he grabbed your collar and yanked you closer. His breath hit your skin, hot and furious.

“What were the mission orders?!”

You forced the words out, even as your throat tightened. “Establish surveillance… wait for reinforcements… hold perimeter.”

“Then if you knew,” he snapped, “what the fuck was that?”

Your voice shook. You hated that it shook.

“Captain, I- I needed to-”

“No,” he said sharply, cutting you off with a finger pointed at your face. “Don’t you ‘Captain’ me like that. You disobeyed direct orders. You just cost us-”

He shoved you back, and you hit the wall hard, shoulder screaming. Soap shifted where he stood, as if instinctively wanting to step in, but Ghost’s hand landed on his arm, a silent warning.

Stay out of it.

You didn’t look at them.

You couldn’t.

—

Laswell’s report took thirty minutes. Your explanation took two.

Her verdict was simple: Your deviation was made in an attempt to extract the team after the facility filled with unexpected hostiles.

You had acted to protect their lives. You should have followed orders. Both were true.

Outside the briefing room, the hallway felt colder. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. You couldn’t look at Price. You didn’t think you could handle whatever expression he had now. Anger, disappointment, pity. Either one made your stomach roil.

For long seconds, neither of you spoke. You stared at the floor. He stared at the wall. Ghost and Soap lingered farther down the corridor, unusually quiet.

Finally, Price approached. He stopped beside you. “Look at me.”

You did. Because you had to.

For the first time tonight, he wasn’t furious. He looked older instead. Tired. His jaw worked as if he was chewing on words he didn’t want to say. Then: “I shouldn’t have hit you.”

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

He continued. “I was angry. We were blindsided. I took it out on you. That was out of line.”

His hand rested on your shoulder. Gentle, almost, and steady. The same hand that had thrown the punch. “You made a call under pressure. A bad one, but you were trying to get us all out. That’s clear.”

You tried to swallow past the tightness in your throat. “I didn’t want anyone hurt.”

“I know.”

You nodded. Not because you forgave him, you doubted he'd care if you didn't. Not because you wanted to talk, neither of you seemed to be in the mood.

But because it was the only response your body seemed capable of and the one that Price seemed to want.

He gave a small exhale, something between relief and regret, and stepped back. “Get some rest.”

He walked away, boots echoing down the hall. Soap followed after a hesitant moment. Ghost lingered the longest, enough that you felt his gaze on your cheek, your jaw, the bruise forming.

You didn’t look at him.

—

Garrick was a good kid.

More than capable. Quick on his feet. Sharp in ways recruits twice his age weren’t.

You actually enjoyed sparring with him. He listened. He adjusted. He didn’t get frustrated when you swept him onto the mat for the third, fourth, fifth time. He laughed through the bruises. And you caught yourself liking the role, someone older, more experienced, someone who could teach him something worthwhile.

You’d tap his shoulder in warning before shifting your stance. “Guard up.”

“Already up,” he’d grin.

And he meant it. He was trying.

But every time, every damn time, his eyes drifted.

Not at the floor. Not even at the clock. But to Price.

Captain walked by once, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, and Gaz’s entire focus slid toward him like metal pulled by a magnet. A small tilt of his head. A spark in his eyes. A silent pull. You could almost see his body shift to face him fully, even if he stayed planted in front of you.

Hero worship? No. Not quite.

Price wasn’t a hero. And Garrick certainly wasn’t fourteen.

Didn’t stop it from feeling like that sometimes.

It never hurt enough to complain. Never hurt enough to resent Gaz for it. You just noticed it the way you noticed the cold before snow.

So you huffed in laughter when his attention slipped mid-spar.

You’d clap him on the shoulder, pull his weight over your hip, and slam him onto the mat one last time.

He’d wheeze, blinking up at the ceiling before laughing. “Alright, switch?”

You offered him your hand. He took it instantly, grinning wide and bright, hauling himself to his feet with a bounce you rarely saw when he was sparring with you.

“For sure! Thanks for the spar, mate!”

“Yeah, no-” you watched him jog toward Price, practically vibrating with energy, “-worries.”

You dusted off your hands, quiet settling into your bones. The mat felt colder under your knees than it had before.

Price clapped Gaz on the back. Gaz lit up.

Of course he did.

Of course that’s who he gravitated toward. Of course you weren’t the one he looked up to.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You told yourself you were fine, you weren’t supposed to want that kind of connection anyway. You weren't even in your 30s yet!

And yet…Something inside you faded a little each time it happened.

—

Later that week, the base was quiet, the halls half-lit. You stood in the kitchen alone, the hum of the fridge the only sound. The light overhead was dim, casting long, lazy shadows across the counters. Laswell had surprised you with the cupcake. A ridiculous little thing, almost childish, bright and colorful, the frosting swirled in a gradient of colors that didn’t match anything you would’ve picked.

“I didn’t know which color you liked best,” she’d said, almost sheepish.

You didn’t know what your face had looked like in that moment. Grateful, maybe. Soft. Probably pathetic, if she’d gotten a good look at the way your hands had wrapped around the cupcake like it was a lifeline.

She placed the candle gently in the center, lit it, and stepped back.

For the first time in years, maybe since your fifteenth birthday or the one after it that didn’t happen at all, you felt warm. Like someone had nudged the world back into focus just for a moment.

Then the hallway cracked open with Price’s voice. “Alright, debrief for the mission in five!”

Duty first. Always duty first. The echo carried through the halls, bouncing off the walls. And just like that, the small bubble of stillness shattered.

You held the cupcake a little longer, thumb brushing the frosting and smearing the gradient slightly. It felt right, somehow. Messy, small, and yours.

You blew out the candle. Quietly. No wish coming to mind.

Carefully, you set the cupcake on top of the fridge. Balanced it just so. A small, absurd monument.

You turned to grab a mug from the cabinet, rinsing it absentmindedly under the tap. Water ran over your fingers, dripped down the counter. You didn’t bother drying them properly, just left the small puddle there.

The base creaked around you, the usual mix of distant chatter, footsteps, and the low hum of machinery. You leaned against the counter after you filled your mug with coffee, shoulders slack, watching the cupcake from the corner of your eye.

Soap’s voice floated from behind you. “Oi. What’s that up there?”

You didn’t look at him. Just tilted your head toward the fridge.

“It’s… nothing,” you said softly.

“Cupcake?” His grin was sheepish. “Laswell’s handiwork?”

You gave the faintest shrug, not moving.

He straightened, hands on his hips, frowning like a parent scolding a child. Or trying to. Then, without another word, he hopped and grabbed the cupcake.

You froze.

He tilted it toward his mouth, frosting smeared across his fingers, and took a big bite. Chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed. Licked his fingers.

You blinked.

“Oi,” you said finally. “That-”

He raised an eyebrow, smiling like you were sharing a joke. “It’s just a cupcake.”

You opened your mouth to protest, then closed it again. What could you say? Complain? Yell? It wasn’t worth it. He was right. It was childish. Silly. And you… you didn’t have the energy to be angry. Not really.

Soap took another bite, humming softly, satisfied. “Not bad. Laswell’s got skills, eh?”

He was right. It was good. And it had been meant for you. And now it was gone. And that was… fine.

You leaned back against the counter, watching him polish off the last crumbs.

Soap clapped the empty cupcake wrapper in his hand and tossed it in the bin, grinning like nothing had happened. “Cheers, mate. That was worth it.”

You nodded, tiredly, letting the warmth linger in your chest, even if it had come at the expense of your birthday treat.

—

You couldn't quite hear the team against your ear com. They were a mess of static and blood loss, a slurry of vowels and panic that you couldn’t separate. Everything was too loud and too quiet at once.

You tasted the grit of the sand against your tongue, a terrible mix with the iron of your blood trying to choke you out. The ground was warm under your back, too warm, and something sharp nudged between your ribs every time you breathed. You tried not to think about what it was. Or what it was attached to.

Price was screaming something. His voice came warped, distorted, the kind of strained tone you never associated with him. Could’ve been him. Could’ve been your brain filling in the blanks.

“-copy? Do you copy?!”

“-think he’s- God, Soap, you bloody-”

“-we’re circling back! Hold on!”

Static drowned them out again.

You wanted to turn your com off. You wanted peace. Just a moment where the ringing in your head and the drone of the rotor blades didn’t mix into a single, nauseating hum.

The helicopter was a tiny dot overhead now, growing farther and farther away. You blinked slowly. It wasn’t their fault, you knew. Even if you always half‑believed everyone must hate you, they didn’t mean to leave you behind.

(Your psychologist had said once that believing everyone actively disliked you was a sign of an ego far too big for its position. You didn’t like that session very much.)

It wasn’t their fault your legs had been crushed by debris from one of Soap’s explosives.

Wrong angle, wrong timing, wrong day.

You hadn’t even heard the collapse before you were already on the ground staring at a sky that didn’t care.

Still felt like shit though.

You shifted a little, just a fraction, and felt a clink beneath you. Metal brushing metal. Something taped. Something with edges too neat. You ignored it. You’d been ignoring it for a while now.

Someone was saying something through the com again. No… not saying.

Singing.

A soft voice, ragged at the edges.

Laswell.

“Happy birthday… to you…”

You froze. Or maybe your body was already still and your brain just noticed. Your vision blurred, tears slipping down your cheeks and into the sand. How long had it been since someone sang that to you?

“Happy birthday… to you…”

“-Don’t you dare close your eyes, stay with us!”

“-pilot says we’re losing fuel, we can’t-”

Your fingertips brushed the wires tucked under you, the faint warmth of something that shouldn’t be warm. One of the packets pressed awkwardly into your spine when you inhaled. You tried not to laugh.

“Happy birthday… happy birthday…” Laswell’s voice faltered.

You swallowed, lips splitting. “Laswell,” you rasped, but you didn’t know if the com transmitted anything at all.

“-kid’s still alive, I know they are, I know-”

“-we’ll come back, we’ll come back for you, just hold on-”

You tugged lightly at a wire. Just to feel it. Just to know it was still there.

“...happy birthday… to…”

You smiled, salt and blood catching on your tongue.

“…me.”

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anghimalaaynasapuso

Mar 26, 2025

EMPEROR'S DANCER SIMON

sfw + nsfw. gender neutral reader. sex pollen. mentions of rape and murder. angst.

you hadn’t known it was tradition. you’d just assumed the old men who had ruled before you had strange, indulgent ways of unwinding after a long day. you had braced yourself for extravagance, sure— but nothing could have prepared you for this.

after your first month, you’d planned to slip away to the hot springs, stretch out the stiff muscles you've spent hunched over the mountains of unfinished paperwork your predecessor had so graciously abandoned. steam, solitude, and silence— just a few stolen hours to reclaim your sanity before the cycle of governance began anew.

but barely had you sunk into the warmth before your adviser burst in, eyes averted, pressing fresh robes into your hands with an urgency that immediately soured your mood.

“your majesty, it’s time for your evening engagement.”

you slumped further into the water, dragging a wet hand down your face. “i don’t recall scheduling one.”

“ah, well… it’s tradition.”

tradition, apparently, was reclining on silk cushions while a half-naked man in a skull mask danced for you.

the music started as a murmur of stringed instruments, the deep thrum of a drum marking time like a heartbeat. a flute threaded through it all, almost mournful, spreading through the chamber like incense.

the dancer moved with it, body an instrument of its own. the shift of his hips sent the coins at his waist swaying, the light catching on gold and the smooth stretch of muscle. his hands carved shapes in the air, fingers fluid, wrists loose. he twisted, ribs shifting in isolation from the rest of his frame, a display of mastery that you were sure took years to perfect.

the drumbeat quickened, and his movements followed. sharper now, his chest popping forward, hips snapping to the rhythm with ease. he turned in a slow circle, the fabric around his waist flaring, feet silent against the ornate rug.

it was hypnotic— the way he moved, the way the music seemed to live in him, the way every motion felt deliberate, like a secret being spoken just for you.

and you, despite yourself, sat frozen.

you realized only when the music stopped that your grip on the goblet had gone tense, your knuckles white against the dark metal. the heat at the back of your neck crept higher, burning at the tips of your ears, and you swallowed, willing your voice to stay even.

“thank you,” you said, inclining your head slightly. “that was-” you cleared your throat, feeling as though it might crack. “that was beautiful.”

his mask tilted, just a fraction.

you were the first emperor simon had danced for— after all, each ruler had their own dancer, their own traditions— but he had seen the last one up close, felt his gaze crawl over his skin like something wet and grasping. The man had leered, had indulged in his power like a glutton at a feast.

but you— you only sat there, hands tucked in your lap, face warm, struggling to meet his eyes even through the mask.

he watched as your adviser murmur something about retiring for the night after the musicians’ own exit, barely audible over the pounding in your ears, before disappearing through the heavy doors.

the moment the latch clicked shut, simon reached for the folds of his drapery.

you were only just beginning to let out a breath when you caught movement in your periphery— fabric slipping, a belt loosening, fingers curling at his waist.

wait, what?

you shot to your feet so fast your goblet nearly toppled, a hand flying up instinctively as if you could halt whatever was about to happen.

“a-ah- what are you doing?” your voice cracked slightly, caught between command and incredulity. “i- isn’t it a crime to be inappropriate in front of the emperor? ah- don’t people fear anything these days?”

simon stilled, half-out of his outer robe, blinking at you like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of your reaction. slowly, he tilted his head. “...it’s tradition.”

“tradition?” you echoed, voice climbing an octave. “tradition?” you gestured vaguely at his hands, which were once again working at the knots of his attire. “i- what- no- keep your clothes on-”

his fingers paused. you could almost hear his brow raise beneath the mask.

“the emperor takes the dancer afterwards.” his voice was calm, matter-of-fact, like he was explaining something as routine as a change in the weather.

your face crumpled, heat flaring at the tips of your ears, and you pressed your palms against your temples. gods help you.

“your emperor,” you said, exasperated at the situation, “demands you keep your clothes on.” you inhaled sharply, trying to steady your nerves. “and- and eat grapes with me.”

a long pause.

simon said nothing. then, after a moment, he slowly let go of the fabric, letting it rest against his hips once more. he blinked at you, unreadable behind the bone mask, before settling into a relaxed stance, his hands resting loosely at his sides.

he had prepared for many things. entitlement. greed. that familiar, hungry gaze. but this flustered little emperor, looking anywhere but at him, cheeks hot, gripping at their robes like they were the one being compromised— this was new.

then, as if finding the situation mildly amusing, he nodded.

“as you wish.”

( … )

the moment simon stepped back into the dimly lit corridors of the dancers’ quarters, the air shifted. conversations dipped into hushed murmurs, eyes flickered toward him, and the sharp sound of johnny’s bare feet crossing the stone floor filled the space before he even had the chance to remove his mask.

“christ, mate- what happened?” johnny’s voice was low, urgent. his hands were on him before simon could brush him off, fingers prodding at his arms, his shoulders, searching for something. a wince. a bruise. some telltale mark that this night had ended like all the others.

“they weren’t too rough, were they?” another's voice cut through the quiet. someone else shifted closer, brows furrowed. “did they leave bruises?”

simon rolled his shoulders, shaking Johnny’s grip. no bruises. no lingering hands. no unwanted touches. the feeling of silk-wrapped fingers never came. only the memory of a soft voice, a question so out of place it had nearly thrown him.

‘have you eaten?’

he had stood there, still, thrown not by the words themselves, but by the fact that they had been asked at all. that you had noticed.

and you had not only noticed— you had acted.

food had arrived in elegant dishes, but it had not been the delicate, indulgent fare he had come to expect from imperial chambers. no dainty confections, no cloying sweetmeats. no food meant to be fed from gilded fingertips between whispered, filthy promises.

instead, it was real food that settled warm in the stomach. that filled, rather than teased. the kind of food meant to sustain.

and you had simply watched, hands tucked into your sleeves, gaze lowered— not out of avoidance, nor out of shame, but out of respect.

‘eat,’ your posture had said. ‘you are not a meal tonight. you are not meant to be devoured.’

even after the last bite, you had not reached for him, had not let the moment stretch into something uncomfortable or unfinished. you had simply stood, offered the first bow of the night, and said, “thank you for the performance. it was… mesmerizing.”

a pause. a quick breath. a flustered clearing of the throat. “i wish you a good night.”

and that had been it.

johnny snapped his fingers in front of simon’s face. “oi. you good?”

simon blinked. the room came back into focus. bruised knuckles. nervous eyes. a group of men who had learned to expect pain after every dance.

he exhaled, shaking his head, and stepped past johnny.

“yeah,” he said, voice steady.

he thought of you again— how you had looked away when his robes had started to slip.

‘they were flustered.’ his lips curled slightly beneath the mask.

“they were… kind.”

( … )

the purge began in the dead of night.

the palace, usually a place of quiet indulgence in the hours before dawn, was restless. servants huddled together in the alcoves, their whispered prayers swallowed by the heavy footfalls of armored soldiers. the halls that had once been filled with laughter and idle gossip, now echoed with the sharp ring of steel.

in the noble estates, men were dragged from their beds.

the empire’s most powerful officials, men who had grown fat on stolen gold and spent decades tightening their grip on power, woke to the sound of doors splintering under booted feet.

there were no warnings. no trials.

the emperor had decreed judgment, and judgment had come.

by sunrise, half the imperial council was gone.

the first whisper of it reached simon before breakfast.

he had barely sat up when johnny burst through the door, panting like he had sprinted across the entire compound. his eyes were wide with something between excitement and disbelief.

“did you hear?” he blurted.

simon scrubbed a hand over his face. he was still half-asleep, the world a sluggish blur. he hadn't heard anything.

“what?” he muttered.

“they’re gone,” johnny said, voice hushed, as if the walls had ears.

“who?”

“the council.”

simon blinked. he must have misheard.

the imperial council, the real power behind the throne, the untouchable elite who had bled the empire dry for decades, was gone?

johnny must have seen the doubt on his face because he leaned in, voice dropping even lower. “the emperor had them dragged from their estates last night,” the words spilled from his lips in a rush. “the whole lot of them. some executed on the spot, some thrown in chains. the prisons are full.”

a strange silence settled over simon.

the emperor did it. the same emperor who had blushed and stammered at the sight of his skin. the one who had refused to touch him, who had pulled his robes tighter when he moved to undress.

the one who had offered him food instead of flesh, who had thanked him for his dance in a voice that had trembled, not with hunger, not even power, but with something almost innocent.

that emperor had just cleansed the empire in a single night?

but the details were undeniable.

the council had been a cesspit of corruption. that much was known to everyone— servants, soldiers, even the common folk in the streets.

the previous emperor had been a weak, decadent fool, more interested in his own pleasures than ruling an empire.

but the true rot had always been his council. a den of power-hungry parasites.

sons of nobles who had never worked a day in their lives. brothers of wealthy merchants who controlled entire trade routes like personal kingdoms. advisors who spoke in silk-tongued lies while emptying the empire’s coffers. generals who had turned soldiers into mercenaries, selling their blades to the highest bidder while the borders crumbled.

they had taken everything– land, coin, lives— and given back nothing but suffering.

they had thought themselves untouchable. even after the old emperor’s death, they had been certain of their place. the new emperor was young, soft, naïve. nothing would change.

but something had.

the executions began swiftly.

the minor officials were the first to go. the tax collectors who had lined their pockets with gold stolen from starving villages, the magistrates who had sold verdicts to the highest bidder.

then came the generals who had betrayed their oaths, the merchants who had hoarded wealth while the people went hungry.

then, the council itself.

the most powerful men in the empire, who had sat in the emperor’s halls and made decrees like gods among mortals.

some tried to flee. some tried to bargain. some even screamed of injustice as they were dragged through the streets they had once ruled.

the emperor had let the people see them.

no quiet assassinations. no discreet poisonings.

their crimes were read aloud in the public square, their fates decided under the watchful eyes of the very people they had tormented.

the empire had not wept for them.

simon listened.

he listened as the guards swapped stories over their meals, as the servants whispered in the halls, as the lower officials murmured of shifting alliances and uncertain futures.

and in the middle of it all, the emperor stood untouched.

no trembling hands. no stammering voice. no soft, hesitant smiles. the shy little thing who had offered him grapes had wiped an entire generation of corruption from the palace without hesitation.

simon sat on the edge of his cot, johnny’s voice still rattling in his ears.

he thought of you, of your wide, flustered eyes and the uncharacteristic kindness you carried, and found himself wondering—

had you ever been afraid at all?

( … )

simon doesn't get summoned for a month. and he understood why.

the empire was unraveling and reweaving itself under the emperor’s hand. the council was gone, yes, but their absence had left a vacuum.

new ministers had to be chosen. laws had to be rewritten. sentences had to be passed down, beheadings signed into order. there were trials, public executions, and long nights where the emperor’s lantern burned until dawn.

the entire court was shifting. a world built on corruption and decadence was being dragged— kicking, screaming— into something new.

and so, simon had not been called. he had heard whispers, of course.

the emperor barely left their chambers. meals were left untouched. audiences grew shorter. even the palace servants had begun speaking in hushed tones.

overworked, someone murmured. drowning, another whispered.

and then, after a full month— a summons.

a messenger arrived at his door, impassively handing him an order written in the emperor’s own hand.

simon stared at it for a long time. he wasn’t scared. not exactly. but something in his stomach twisted.

the last time he had danced for the emperor, they had been a flustered thing beneath the weight of his gaze.

and now?

now, they were someone who had ordered an empire to kneel.

he had seen men like that before. had seen the way power changed them— hardened them, twisted them beyond recognition.

and so, when the doors opened, simon glanced up and braced himself.

not for a cruel emperor. but for a tired one.

you stood in the doorway, shoulders heavier than before, your silk robes hanging looser against your frame.

your face was drawn, shadows carved beneath your eyes, lips pressed together in quiet exhaustion. still, you didn’t look at him with hunger.

you barely looked at him at all.

when you spoke, your voice was quiet. “you may begin.”

simon danced.

and when the music faded, he remained still, letting the silence settle over. the lanterns flickered against the dark, their glow casting long shadows over the planes of his body, catching on the sweat at his collarbone, gilding the ridges of his arms, the curve of his chest. his fingers flexed, breath slow, waiting.

the dance was finished.

he hesitated undressing.

the first time he had danced for you, he had gone to remove his robes and been stopped, by command, by your hands catching at his wrists, voice stumbling over itself as you demanded he keep his clothes on.

but that had been a different time. that had been before.

before the trials, the sentences. before the streets had run slick with the blood of the old regime.

the first time he had danced, you had been unsure. nervous. stiff at the shoulders, eyes darting away, fingers twitching over the silk of your robes.

but now, you had sentenced men to die. you had held the weight of absolute power in your hands and wielded it without hesitation.

surely, you were different now. surely, you would not stop him this time.

simon’s fingers found the clasp at his belt.

“what-” your voice wavered, and your hands twitched, gripping at the fabric pooled in your lap. “what are you doing?”

simon paused. he looked up.

your gaze darted from him to the table and back, never quite settling. you adjusted the rings on your fingers, thumb smoothing absently over a polished stone, then your hands dropped to your lap, fingers curling into the fabric there, gripping and releasing as if trying to find something solid.

you weren’t looking at him. not really.

you were still nervous.

maybe not in the same way— not like before, when you had scrambled back, robes clutched so tightly they threatened to wrinkle. but still, there was tension in your shoulders, your fingers twisting against your sleeves.

you cleared your throat, shifting, before lifting a hand and, almost hesitantly, patting the space beside you.

“sit,” you murmured, still not quite meeting his gaze. “we should eat.”

simon stared.

for all his years of training, all his discipline, all his ability to hold himself perfectly still under scrutiny, something in him faltered.

he had expected demand. he had expected command. he had expected the same cold cruelty that emperors before you had wielded with ease

it becomes a ritual from then on.

every week, without fail, simon danced for you. and every week, without fail, you shared a meal afterward.

at first, it had been nothing more than an act of politeness, a courtesy you extended to someone who had expected something very different from you.

but then it became habit.

you learned the little things. that he ate without sound, exact in his movements even at rest, that he listened more than he spoke, the occasional tilt of his head the only indication that he was considering your words. how he never quite let himself relax, always poised, always ready.

and, in turn, he learned you. learned that you liked your tea slightly cooled before drinking, that you tapped your fingers against the lacquered table when deep in thought. learned that your power did not mean cruelty, that you did not demand fealty through fear most of the time, and that you had never asked for this throne but now that you had it, you would not sit idly upon it.

itt was— not companionship. not quite. but something close. something like familiarity.

so when you left the week’s meetings feeling drained, the echoes of politics still ringing through your head, it was simon you found yourself thinking of.

the courtyard was filled with the spoils of diplomacy— chests of silk, intricately painted ceramics, gilded weapons with delicate inlays of gold and ivory. and, most notably, horses.

tall, well-muscled things, bred for battle or ceremony, shifting their weight with practiced ease as handlers checked their bridles.

all of them were pristine. except for—

you stopped. blinked. tilted your head.

the animal stared back.

it was smaller than the horses, its fur coarse, dark with streaks of gold along its face. its ears were too large, flopping slightly as it tilted its head in perfect mimicry of your own movement.

“what,” you said, voice slow, “is that?”

the attendant beside you perked up. “ah! that’s a dog, your majesty.”

a dog.

you had never seen one before, not up close. the palace had been filled with birds, sleek white cranes that perched along the stone bridges, brilliant goldfinches flitting through the gardens. but not— this.

“does it serve a purpose?” you asked, watching as the creature stepped forward, its nose twitching at the hem of your robes.

the attendant nodded. “they’re loyal. protective. they’ll guard whoever they bond with.”

loyal. protective.

you hummed, considering. it was, objectively, perfect. a perfect gift for simon.

you try to suppress the glee curling in your chest as the dog follows at your heels, its padded steps near soundless against the stone.

it had taken little more than a glance and a soft call for it to follow, the creature trotting after you with an easy, natural obedience. as if it had belonged to you from the start.

but it wasn’t for you.

the warmth in your chest is unfamiliar. strange. it is not the satisfaction of a well-brokered deal, not the quiet triumph of an opponent bested, not even the sharp, addictive rush of power that comes with watching the world bend to your will.

no, this is different.

you’ve heard the stories, of course. of emperors keeping their dancers closer than their concubines. of favor turning to obsession. of gifts upon gifts heaped at the feet of those who spun and twisted for their ruler’s amusement. you have read of love.

but you do not know if that is what this is.

you only know that there is— warmth. a quiet want. a desire to please. not in the way that your court expects, not in the way that your officials demand. not out of duty or necessity or strategy.

but for him.

because watching him dance brings you pleasure. and you.. well, you want to return it.

so you press forward, your fingers twitching slightly against your sleeves, as the dog follows you into simon’s quarters, unaware of the meaning behind its presence.

you step into simon’s quarters, the dog padding beside you, its claws clicking against the polished floor. it’s a good dog. attentive. loyal. it watches you, ears twitching at every little sound, steps in sync with yours as if it had been at your side forever.

you’re not sure why your stomach is twisting like this, why your palms feel warm, why your heartbeat has picked up just slightly. you’ve given gifts before— lavish ones, jewels and gold and artifacts that could buy whole cities— but you’ve never given something like this. never given something that feels personal.

and you want to know what he will do with it.

simon looks up as you enter, standing near the low table where you always share meals, his mask in place, his posture as steady as ever. he’s still in his dance silks, his shoulders bare beneath the soft glow of candlelight, but for once, he doesn’t seem to take note of your presence.

because the moment his eyes land on the dog, something happens.

his whole body locks. his breath halts. his hands, already at his sides, clench just slightly. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t blink.

it’s not the reaction you expected. you thought he might tilt his head, ask what it was for, perhaps hesitate before reaching out

“i brought you something,” you say belatedly, though the words feel thinner than they should.

the dog shifts at your side, tail giving a slow, easy wag. it must sense something, because it takes a step forward, ears pricking up, eyes locked onto simon’s unmoving form.

and then— simon falls to his knees.

he doesn’t lower himself like a man intending to kneel. he doesn’t bow, nor does he fold himself neatly. he drops. a sharp, heavy motion, as if his body has been pulled downward by a force greater than himself. his hands shoot out, grasping, clinging, desperate— and it is not like a man petting a dog. it is not a man greeting a new companion.

the dog whines, shifting under simon’s grip, its tail thudding softly against the floor. simon doesn’t let go.

“where did you find him?” his voice is not like you’ve ever heard it before. it is rough, frayed at the edges, as though he is forcing the words through something raw and hurting in his throat.

you hesitate.

“he was traveling with the diplomats,” you say slowly, watching his fingers tighten in thick fur, his head bowing lower. “i asked for him.” a pause. “you two are... acquainted?”

simon’s hands shake. just slightly.

“he’s my childhood dog,” he says. and there it is. the weight behind it, the tightness in his voice, the way his fingers curl like they’re terrified to let go. “riley.”

something thick lodges itself in your throat. you don’t know what you thought this was. a simple gift. a kind gesture. a way to show simon that he is more than the role he plays, that he has worth beyond his performances. but you had not expected to dig up something this deep.

you take a step back. give him space. say nothing as he presses his face against the dog’s fur, holding it with a desperation that feels too sacred for you to intrude upon.

you did not mean to return something that had been lost. but you had.

and watching him now, watching the way his shoulders shake, just a little, you think, for the first time, that you’ve never been more glad to give something away.

( … )

the room is dim, the scent of burning incense curling in the air. outside, the night hums with distant music, the palace still alive despite the late hour. but here, in the quiet of your chambers, there is only the low crackle of a lantern and the soft, steady sound of simon’s fingers running through riley’s fur.

you watch him, gaze drifting over the scars littering his arms, his back. old wounds, long since healed but still telling of a life that did not belong to a dancer.

“why?” you ask. “why a dancer?”

he doesn’t look at you immediately. he doesn’t stiffen or flinch, doesn’t recoil from the question, only lets out a slow breath and keeps petting riley, his fingers moving in slow, absentminded motions.

“i have a debt,” he says. blank. matter-of-fact.

you tilt your head.

“i got injured,” he continues, voice detached. “took a while for me to heal. guess while i was at the healers, some-” his lips press together for a moment, eyes darkening slightly before he says it, “-higher-up took a liking to me. saved me from getting sent back to the front lines with the state of my body.” his fingers curl briefly into riley’s fur before smoothing out again. “dancing… it's how I pay off my medical fees.”

you watch him for a long moment. the way he speaks of it— detached, impassive, as if it’s something that happened to someone else. he does not sound grateful. he does not sound resentful either. just— removed. like the words are a story told from a distance, belonging to another man entirely.

and you understand why. in a superficial level, you understand.

he had said it himself: dancers are taken after every performance.

you can only imagine. your fingers tap against the table, gaze lingering on the muscles in his forearms, the scars that cut along his skin like old battle lines. tou think about the man who had taken him from the battlefield. the one who had decided simon was better suited for silk than steel.

"would you like to kill them?" you ask.

simon stills. his hand stops, resting against riley’s back. slowly, he lifts his head, looking at you.

"the person who took a liking to you," you clarify, tilting your head slightly. “would you like to kill them?”

he doesn’t answer right away. his eyes search yours, as if trying to find some kind of trap, some hidden meaning behind the words. as if waiting for you to laugh and take it back, to chide him for even considering it.

but you don’t.

simon blinks. a little stunned. he almost forgot who he was speaking to. nearly forgot that this was the same emperor who had emptied council seats, who had cleaned house with blood and blade.

his throat bobs slightly. “... you’d let me?” he asks.

you only smile, the curve of your lips unwavering.

“the only thing i wouldn’t allow,” you say, “is for you to harm yourself, simon.”

( … )

the door creaks open, and simon steps out into the cold air, his breath slow, measured, as if testing whether his lungs still work. the blood on his knuckles is drying now, crusting along the ridges of his skin, but the warmth of it lingers, soaked deep into the fine lines of his palm. his cheek is streaked with red, a single splatter tracing the sharp plane of his jaw like a brand.

he doesn't wipe it away. he feels no need to.

the body inside does not matter. the official is nothing now but another stain on the floorboards, another whisper of corruption excised from the empire. he had not begged, not pleaded. only stared at Simon with something dull in his eyes, as if he had already accepted that this day would come.

the killing had been quiet. private. just as simon had asked.

he breathes in, lets the air sting his lungs, and then he notices you.

you are waiting for him.

the lanterns burn low in the courtyard, their soft glow casting elongated shadows across the stones. the light catches on the edge of the spear in your hands, polished steel gleaming beneath the night sky. it is not ceremonial, not for show.

simon stops.

your gaze meets his. there is no revulsion in your expression, no horror at the blood spattered across his skin. you take him in, the remnants of his violence, the weight of what he has done, what he has become, and you do not flinch.

“you still have a debt,” you say and it is not a revelation but a simple truth.

simon holds your gaze for a moment before nodding. “yes.”

you watch him, considering. and then, in a slow motion, you extend the spear toward him.

the wood is solid beneath your grip, the weight of it resting easily in your hands. it has been used before. it will be used again.

“pay it off,” you say.

the words are an invitation and a command all at once.

simon stares at the weapon, at your fingers curled around its length. he does not hesitate. he reaches out, takes the spear from your hands, and holds it as he remembers how.

after that, he trains.

every day, from dawn until the lanterns are lit at dusk, he hones the strength he once had. the fluidity of movement that had been stripped from him, molded into something delicate, enticing. he reverses it now— makes his body a weapon again, rather than a display.

but the soldiers watch. they are not kind about it.

there are whispers that follow him in the barracks, murmurs exchanged between men who have never known what it is to be bought and sold, who have only ever seen battle as something glorious and not the brutal, ugly thing it truly is.

‘he was a dancer.’

‘he belonged to the emperor’s court, to their bed.’

‘what’s he doing here, playing soldier?’

they don’t say it to his face. at first.

but men like these— men full of piss and pride, men who believe that strength is something that can only be tested through humiliation— they are not patient.

and so they corner him.

not with their blades, no— that would be too obvious, too easy to reprimand.

they do it in ways they think are clever. they shove too hard during training spars, make jabs that teeter just at the edge of acceptable. one even dares to grab him by the arm, fingers tightening like a vice, lips curling into something amused.

“show us, then,” the man had drawled. “dance for us. you must be good at handling a sword in more ways than one, yeah?”

it had been a mistake. simon had let the man live with three broken ribs. the others had needed more convincing.

when word reaches commander price, it is not simon who delivers it.

but it doesn’t matter.

price finds them. the beating is public. price makes sure of it.

he doesn't call them out to the courtyard. no, that would be too generous. too structured. he finds them where they sit, where they drink, where they feel safe— and he rips that feeling away with his bare hands.

the first one doesn’t even see it coming. one second, he’s laughing, throwing back a drink, boasting about how he’d finally shut that smug dancer up, how he’d gotten his hands on him, how he was about to really put him in his place, and then price is there.

his fist caves the man’s nose in before he can even flinch.

the crack is loud. the laughter stops.

the soldier hits the floor, blood pouring from his face, hands scrambling against the stone as he tries to right himself— but he doesn’t get the chance.

price grabs him by the collar and slams his head into the table so hard the wood splits.

“you like getting your hands on people who can’t fight back?” price’s voice is sharp, like the edge of a blade sliding beneath the ribs.

“c-commander-!” someone chokes.

but it’s too late.

price turns his head slightly, catches the others, the whole rotten lot of them, and moves. he reaches the next one in two strides. he punches the bastard straight in the throat.

the man stumbles, gagging, choking, hands flying to his neck— but price isn’t done. he grabs him by the hair, drags him up onto unsteady feet— then drives his knee into his gut so hard he crumples.

one. two. three times.

someone rushes him from behind. price dodges without even looking, turns sharply, elbows the man so hard in the temple he goes down twitching.

the others start backing up.

price is only just getting started.

he throws one into the stone pillar, leaves him gasping, wheezing. he stomps on another's hand until he hears fingers snap— and when the last one tries to run?

price catches him, grabs him by the hair, and slams his head against the nearest wall. the body slides to the floor, leaving a bloody smear in its wake.

and then, silence.

the rest of the room watches in horror. no one dares to move.

except simon. he stands with arms crossed, watching without reaction. price breathes out through his nose, shakes blood off his knuckles, then turns to him.

“is that allowed?” simon asks, voice as neutral as ever.

price shrugs, wipes his hands on his tunic. “the emperor wouldn’t mind the few deaths of pieces of shits.” he pauses, tilts his head. “you’re a very good fighter, simon,” he says. “if anyone tries that again, you have my express permission to fuck their assholes open with your spear.”

simon blinks. then, with a slow nod, he replies, “...yes, sir.”

after that, no one bothers him. no one calls him a dancer anymore. not unless they want their jaw wired shut.

and when simon finally feels ready, he doesn’t hesitate. he requests an audience with the emperor.

the guards let him in without question. they know his face by now— the dancer-turned-soldier. the emperor’s oddity.

when he steps inside, he finds the you at your desk, ink staining your fingers, a candle flickering beside you.

you do not look like an emperor in that moment. you look… tired. human.

and yet, when you see him, you smile.

“simon,” you greet, voice warm despite the late hour. “to what do i owe the pleasure?”

he kneels, lowering his head. “i request to be part of your personal guard.”

the candle flickers. and then, a quiet chuckle.

“you would see more action fighting on the front lines,” you say, setting your brush down, rubbing the ink from your fingers. “you would see more glory.”

“i don’t need glory.”

you tilt your head, studying him. “then what do you need?”

he hesitates, just for a moment, before meeting your gaze. “it’s you i have a debt to. not the empire.”

you hum. “wouldn’t you argue that the emperor is the empire?”

simon exhales. “no. the emperor is the emperor. i fight for you.”

you search his face for something you don’t say aloud. after a moment, you stand. your robes shift around you like dark silk as you cross the room, stopping just before him.

you place a hand on his shoulder. “then fight for me, simon.” your fingers squeeze “welcome to my guard.”

( … )

simon’s entrance into the emperor’s personal guard is… smooth. smoother than he expected, at least.

the other guards do not question him. there are no murmurs behind his back, no sidelong glances filled with doubt or scorn. he had anticipated resistance, had braced himself for it, but instead, he finds himself seamlessly folded into their ranks, as if he has always been there.

they do not sneer at him. they do not ask if he can still move his hips as well as he moves a blade. they do not whisper of the silks he once wore, the way he once swayed beneath golden light.

instead, they watch him. assess him.

the personal guard of the emperor is not composed of fools. they are neither weak, nor complacent. each one of them chosen, forged by war or circumstance into something lethal.

and while simon is not tested, he is measured.

they watch him move when training, how his muscles coil and shift as he maneuvers his spear. they watch how he strikes— if he does it blindly, wildly. he does neither.

they watch his stance, his footwork, how he adapts mid-fight, shifting strategies in a blink, never fully predictable. he does not fight like a soldier, like a man shaped by war. simon fights like someone who has been cornered before. like someone who has survived things he has no name for.

and they notice other things, too.

the sharpness in his gaze, the tension on his shoulders coiled like a spring. how his body moves before his mind can catch up— an instinctive step between the emperor and the rest of the world.

his fingers flexing near the hilt of his sword whenever a voice in the throne room rises too confidently, when someone speaks to the emperor with something close to familiarity.

and they seem… pleased.

"you’re good," kyle garrick says one afternoon, after training. he rolls his shoulders, stretching out his arms as he leans against the stone railing that overlooks the training grounds. his tunic is damp with sweat, a towel draped lazily over one shoulder.

simon does not respond immediately. rather, he shifts his grip on his spear, rolling his wrist, testing the weight.

kyle watches him for a moment, then smirks. "so," he says, voice teasing. "you got a crush on the emperor or something?"

simon stills. it is barely noticeable. a brief pause, a fraction of a second, but kyle is observant— he wouldn’t have survived this long if he weren’t.

"you do," kyle says, grinning now, tipping his head back with a laugh.

simon exhales through his nose. "i don’t."

"you so do."

"i am here to protect them," simon says, evenly, like it’s something obvious, something that should not need saying.

kyle raises a brow, amused. "yeah, yeah, i know. we all are." he waves a hand, as if brushing away the thought, then grins. "just saying, you’re a bit more intense about it than the rest of us."

and he is.

he knows that he walks too closely at their side. he knows that his pulse betrays him whenever they speak his name, soft in a way he did not think emperors could be.

it is not duty that tightens his chest. it is something else. something warm and dangerous.

( … )

the weekends belong to him. not by decree. not by law. not by any spoken agreement.

and yet, they are his all the same.

when simon left behind being a dancer, when he was given his freedom— truly given it, not just the illusion of it— he expected this arrangement to end. the time set aside for him in your presence had always been part of his role, an expectation tied to his station. it was never his to keep.

but you never withdrew it. and simon never refused.

today, however, he hesitates.

he does not know why it is so hard to speak. he is not a man of many words to begin with, but today, it feels different. it is not just silence, it is weight. something thick, cloying, clinging to his ribs and pressing against his throat, strangling the words before they can form.

you notice. you always do.

but instead of asking, instead of prying into what he is not yet ready to give, you simply turn back to riley.

the dog sprawls across the floor, rolling onto his back with a contented huff, stretching long and lazy, paws curled slightly in the air. he is comfortable here. safe.

you hum softly, your fingers combing through his thick fur. slow, careful strokes. your nails scratch lightly at his chest, pressing into the muscle there.

riley’s tail thumps against the floor. once. twice.

when you pause, pulling your hand away, his large paws swipe blindly at your wrist, tugging at the edge of your sleeve with something almost insistent and spoiled.

you laugh. it is a rare sound.

not the laugh you give in court, polite and laced with formality. not the restrained amusement of a ruler who must always be poised, who cannot afford to be anything less than composed.

instead it's something else. something real.

it crinkles the corners of your eyes, softens the sharp edges of you, curves at your lips in a way that makes you look utterly, devastatingly human.

and simon watches. your fingers move through the dog’s fur, rubbing gentle circles into his chest. he watches your eyes soften when riley nuzzles into your touch. your lips part just slightly, exhaling, for once seeming unburdened.

and something in his chest twists. he wants to say something. the words press against his ribs but they do not come.

he breathes in, trying to loosen the knot in his throat, and when he exhales— he tries.

“your majesty.”

you turn to him immediately, hands stilling in riley’s fur.

i love you.

it sits heavy on his tongue, pressing against the back of his teeth, but they do not leave. instead, he grips his knee, fingers flexing against the fabric, and says, "thank you."

your head tilts slightly. “what for?”

for not using me.

for letting me eat.

for giving me back riley.

for freeing me.

for giving me purpose again.

for being kind.

his throat tightens. his fingers curl against his knee. “for..." He hesitates, breath shallow. "... giving me a chance."

you do not answer right away. and then, softly— "i’m sorry as well."

simon frowns. “for what?”

“for the suffering you endured under the rule of the empire."

the frown deepens. he shakes his head. “that wasn’t your fault-”

“i am emperor.” your voice cuts through his protest. “you are my subject. the sins of all emperors before me become my own. i cannot deny you your suffering simply because it was not done under my rule."

slowly, you rise to your feet, dusting off your robes.

then you kneel.

a ruler should never kneel before their subject.

yet, there you are.

you lower yourself onto your knees before him, hands resting lightly on your thighs. your head bows. “the empire might not apologize to you, simon," you say. "but I will. by my will, i am sorry."

no emperor has ever apologized. no emperor has ever cared to. no emperor has even cared to know his name.

his pulse thrums loud in his ears. “no-”

“i am sorry.”

“your majesty-!”

“i am sorry.”

his throat burns.

you mean it.

these are not empty words. they are not the platitudes of a ruler seeking favor or the hollow reassurances of someone who does not understand what they are asking forgiveness for.

you mean it.

and simon cannot stand it.

he cannot stand the sincerity in your voice, the weight of it, the way you look at him like he is something worth kneeling for, something worth mourning.

no one has ever mourned for him before. no one has ever grieved the life he lost, the suffering he endured, the things he was forced to do just to survive. no one has ever looked at him with something so close to sorrow— not for what he could do, not for what he was capable of, but for what had been done to him.

he does not know what to do with it.

he feels unmoored. untethered. like something inside him is breaking open, spilling out into the quiet space between you.

he has spent his entire life enduring, surviving, weathering the blows as they came. he has been beaten, broken, used, discarded, rebuilt only to be used again.

he has never been seen. he has never been given back to himself.

not until you. not until now.

it is too much.

he cannot hold it. he cannot bear it.

before he can think. before he can stop himself— simon reaches forward, fingers trembling, hesitating at your jaw.

you do not move. you do not pull away.

and it is that, that, which finally undoes him. his breath shudders out of him. his fingers tighten, tilting your chin just slightly, just enough.

and then he kisses you. it is not gentle, not careful. it is desperate, raw, frantic, clumsy.

he does not know how to kiss like a lover. he only knows how to take, how to crave, how to need.

his lips part against yours, rough and unpracticed, like he is searching for something in the press of your mouth, something he cannot name, something he does not know how to ask for.

his fingers curl at the base of your skull, tangled in your hair, gripping tight like he is afraid you might vanish between one breath and the next.

his body trembles, breath shuddering.

he does not know how to be held. but gods, he wants it.

you inhale sharply against his mouth. but you do not stop him. you do not pull away. you let him take. you let him fall apart. you let him grieve.

and for the first time in a long, long time— simon does.

( … )

the festival is a night of fire and revelry.

it is the last night before the season shifts, before the long, unforgiving winter settles its weight upon the empire. the people celebrate while they can. they light the streets with lanterns, hang silks from balconies, lose themselves in the illusion of warmth.

it is beautiful. it is loud. it is also dangerous.

because festivals make for easy hunting grounds.

nobles walk without their usual escorts, growing bold in the comfort of the crowd. wealthy merchants drink too much and wander into unfamiliar alleys, where shadows wait with knives. the scent of sweat and perfume thickens the air, masking other, deadlier things: poison. smoke. blood.

assassins thrive on nights like these.

that is why you must be seen. that is why you must be present. the empire is a beast with a thousand eyes, and all of them must see that you still live.

simon watches you dress.

it is an intimate thing, though it should not be. he stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid, but his eyes never leave you.

your attendants work in practiced silence, moving with the precision of ritual. they drape silk over your shoulders, smoothing it down with deft hands, tucking folds. the fabric catches the light of the lanterns, the embroidery shimmering as they fasten the clasps. gold and crimson, the colors of the empire, settle against your frame, woven into the very skin of your station.

you do not fidget beneath their touch. you do not squirm, nor sigh in impatience. you were born for this. you have done this your entire life, moved through these motions since you were old enough to stand. you have worn heavier things.

the weight of the robes is nothing compared to the weight of the empire. you carry both without complaint, standing still as jeweled pins are twisted into your hair, as golden chains are draped around your throat. the attendants murmur their approval, stepping back to admire their work, yet you do not glance at them.

you are watching him.

the mirror catches the flicker of your gaze— amusement, mischief, something softer beneath it all. it holds for just a second, a fleeting moment, but simon catches it nevertheless. he always does.

"what do you think, love?"

his breath stirs in his chest.

he has seen you in battle, streaked with dirt and blood, sword gleaming in the dying light. he has seen you slip out of your armor and into silk, the quiet transition from ruler to something softer. he has watched you sleep, head tipped against his shoulder during long rides back to the capital, the tension momentarily stripped from your features. he has seen you at war. he has seen you at peace.

and yet— nothing prepares him for this.

he swallows, throat dry. "you look beautiful, sweetheart."

the words fall easily, instinctive, pulled from some deep part of him that does not know how to lie to you.

your lips curve. "you think so?"

you step closer, erasing the space between you.

simon exhales. he should move. should put distance between you, should remember what you are, what he is. but his hands betray him, twitching at his sides, aching to hold despite the audience.

"anyone who says otherwise is a liar." his voice is rough, the edges frayed.

the gold at your throat glints as you tip your chin, as you step into his shadow.

he could touch you. he could reach forward, brush his fingers over the silk, let them linger at your wrist, trace the curve of your jaw. you would let him. that is the dangerous thing.

but you are the emperor. even if you are his lover in private, you are still the emperor.

and so he forces himself to step back. to clear his throat. to drag his gaze away, though it costs him. "we should go," he murmurs.

your gaze lingers on him for a moment longer. then, you nod.

duty calls.

( … )

the balcony stretches wide, a throne above the city, a vantage point to watch an empire bask in the last of the season.

below, the streets churn with life, a restless sea of bodies swaying to the erratic rhythm of drums and drunken laughter. lanterns flicker in the warm dusk, their light reflecting in uneven pools along the slick stone roads, catching the movement of dancers, merchants, thieves— all swept up in the fever of celebration. the scent of roasted meat, spiced wine, and burning tallow clings to the humid air.

it should feel victorious.

the banners ripple against the night in proud, royal hues. nobles recline in their velvet seats, wine-stained lips curved in indulgent smirks, watching the revelry below with the satisfaction of those who believe themselves untouchable. safe.

simon knows better.

he stands close behind you, his presence like iron at your back. the worn edges of his armor bite into the leather of his gloves as his fingers flex, restless, his weight shifting just slightly, always prepared to move. his head tilts, gaze flicking across the expanse of celebration below, scanning the rooftop lines, the alley mouths, the high windows where a blade could glint, where an arrow could be notched in silence.

kyle is perched higher, a shadow against the marble pillars, his posture loose but his hand firm around his sword hilt. johnny is closer to the emperor’s council, half-drunk on purpose, draped against a column with a lazy, lopsided grin that does nothing to soften the narrow of his eyes.

the empire breathes.

a scream splits the air.

it is not the shriek of drunken joy, nor the playful yelp of a lover chased through the streets.

the celebration stutters, shudders, the music dying in an awkward, broken note. heads turn. bodies press together, shifting, unsure. the ripple of confusion swells, twisting through the crowd like a current.

then— the arrow.

it cuts through the dark, slicing a perfect arc from the rooftops. too perfect. not a warning shot.

"down!"

simon moves, his arm locking around your waist, his hand pressing firm between your shoulder blades as he wrenches you back, turning his body to shield yours. he feels the air shudder past his cheek as the arrow narrowly misses its mark.

it shatters against stone— and then the air explodes.

the hiss is instant, a sharp burst of pressurized gas erupting in a thick, curling vapor. it blooms.

the scent is overwhelming, sticky-sweet and invasive, creeping into fabric, sinking into breath.

he recognizes it immediately. sex pollen. of course.

simon doesn’t stop moving. his palm slams over your mouth and nose, cutting off your inhale before the drug can take root. he grits his teeth against the stench, doing his damndest to keep his inhales to a minimum.

"scatter!" his voice cuts through the chaos.

"what the fuck is that?!" kyle’s voice, sharp with alarm.

"incoming-! rooftops on the east side buildings!" johnny snarls, sprinting to join kyle's position. "they’re fucking everywhere!"

and then the arrows rain down.

the city breaks open.

simon barely has time to pivot, barely has time to shove you behind him before another shot whizzes past, embedding deep into the wooden railing with a dull thunk.

the gas thickens, curling around ankles, clinging to skin. the first victims drop— moaning, writhing.

the other guards hesitate, recoiling as the realization dawns.

"hold your fucking breath!" simon snarls, dragging you back, his grip vise-tight. he looks at kyle, who has his cloak yanked over his face, his sword unsheathed. "can you hold?"

kyle’s grin is nigh feral. “who the fuck do you think i am?”

simon doesn’t ask any more questions.

you sway, your breath hitches. your body shudders, your pulse a frantic, erratic rhythm against his fingers.

"shit."

you go limp.

simon barely catches you before your legs fold, weight crumpling against his chest.

"go!" kyle barks, already shifting to cover. "get them out!"

simon runs.

"ambush!” simon’s voice is seething growl as he storms into your chambers.

the heavy doors slam against the walls, the sound splitting the air like a crack of thunder. a gust of wind rushes through the room from the force of it, stirring the candle flames, making them flicker and stretch like spectral fingers along the gilded walls. the impact rattles the delicate glassware set on the ornate side tables, sends a tremor through the room, an echo of the storm brewing in his chest.

the guards flinch. one jerks a hand toward his sword, another straightens so quickly that his armor clanks. their confusion fractures as they register the weight in simon’s arms.

you.

unconscious. burning up.

"the emperor-"

"-is not dead." the word snap through the air like steel meeting stone. his grip shifts, an unconscious adjustment, his arms instinctively tightening, bracing against your limp weight, feeling the unnatural heat pulsing off your skin. "seal the area- five-meter perimeter. now."

"the healers-"

"out!" johnny’s voice whips through the chamber. "everyone out- now!"

there is a fraction of a second where the guards hesitate, their training at war with the urge to question, to make sense of this. a heartbeat of stunned silence— then a scramble.

a flurry of movement, boots scraping, armor clanking as the soldiers turn on their heels and spill out into the corridor, their earlier confusion hardening into purpose. the doors groan as they swing shut behind them.

blissful silence. only johnny remains.

he stands still, his gaze searching, moving over every inch of simon’s frame, noticing his jaw is clenched too tight, his fingers curled too hard around the fabric of your robes.

then his eyes flick to the air between them.

the scent.

the ghost of it still lingers, clinging to simon’s armor, the walls, the silk of your clothes. it’s a thick, cloying thing, a sickly-sweet undertone curling at the edges of every breath. faint. diluted. but still, unmistakable.

johnny knows.

“are you-” he stops. adjusts. when he speaks again, his voice is more steady. "will you be okay?"

simon doesn’t answer. he doesn’t want to answer. he has spent years forcing himself to be okay.

the muscles in his shoulders lock, his mind an iron grip around the pulse hammering at his throat. he controls his breathing, controls the way he doesn’t react to the way your body presses against him, the way your fevered skin burns through his armor.

"i'm fine." the words scrape past his teeth, flat and sharp, an order as much as a statement.

johnny exhales. his lips press into something almost like understanding.

almost.

but he doesn’t push.

“right,” he mutters, tipping his head toward the door. “i’ll give you space.”

simon lays you down gently when he reaches your bed. his hands do not tremble, but his pulse is hammering. he watches as your body sinks into the silk sheets, the fever in your skin burning bright even against the cool fabric. your breath is shallow, uneven. the fine tremors wracking your frame are small, delicate, but he sees them— feels them— like aftershocks rippling through his bones.

his fingers brush over your wrist, just long enough to feel the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath too-hot skin.

too fast. too weak.

fuck. he should have been faster.

his jaw locks as he adjusts you, shifting your limbs, trying to ease the unconscious tension wound tight in your muscles. he does not let himself feel the heat radiating from you, does not let himself dwell on the fact that your robes have loosened— because of him, because of the struggle, because of how he carried you.

but the sight is there, in the corner of his vision.

your robes, slipping. your breath, shaking. your body, pliant beneath his hands.

he swallows, hard. inhales. exhales. the scent is still there, thick enough to choke on.

it clings to your skin, curls in the air between you, winds its way into his lungs, refuses to let him take a single breath of clean air. he hates it.

his fingers curl into his palm, blunt nails pressing deep into the skin. tight enough to hurt. tight enough to remind himself that he is still here, still in control, still—

you whimper.

simon stops breathing. his gaze snaps to you and he sees you shifting against the sheets, damp with sweat, slipping further from your shoulder, revealing more. offering more. your thighs press together in a slow, restless motion, and the sight of it sets his veins on fire, makes him want to—

no. not now. not like this.

he tears his eyes away, turns sharply, moves toward the washbasin, his steps too forced. the pitcher clatters against the bowl, the sound too loud.

he grips the cloth too hard. wrings it out too forcefully. watches as water spatters onto the floor, the droplets lost in the ragged sound of your breath behind him.

"simon-" his name falls from your lips, small, raw with something he cannot name.

his.

you.

his.

he turns. he shouldn’t but he does and his hands are on you before he can think better of it, before he can stop himself from giving you what you’re asking for. before he can stop himself from holding you the way you need to be held.

his fingers brush over your cheek, tracing the curve of your jaw, the heat beneath your skin burning into him, sinking deep. you shudder at the touch, a quiet, desperate noise slipping past your lips, your body arching ever so slightly into his palm.

you have always been beautiful. but like this— like this, caught in the golden glow of the lantern light, lashes fluttering, lips parted, your breath shallow and uneven— you are devastating.

and it is killing him.

your hands find him, weak and uncoordinated as they are, desperate in their seeking. you clutch at his robes, clinging to him like a lifeline. like he is the only thing anchoring you to the world, the only thing keeping you from slipping into the fever that is devouring you whole.

"simon- everything hurts-"

and he knows. he knows.

his arms tighten around you, his body a wall between you and the suffering threatening to consume you. his lips brush against your temple. "i’ve got you."

and he does.

because he is your guard.

because you are his emperor.

because he has loved you for years, has worshipped at your feet, has devoted himself to you in ways that go beyond duty, beyond reason, beyond anything he has ever known.

because he has no choice. because he would burn the world to the ground before he lets you suffer.

because there is no one else.

the fever is a living thing, burrowing deep, wrapping around your spine, clawing through your veins. you can’t think past it, can’t breathe past it, can’t do anything but tremble beneath the weight of it— beneath him.

simon is blistering against you. sweat beads at his hairline, slicks his chest, makes the muscles in his arms gleam under the dim light. he smells like salt, like heat, like skin rubbed raw. his pulse thrums in his throat, in the thick lines of his forearms where veins stand taut beneath flushed skin, in the solid weight of him pressing against you, pinning you down, keeping you from slipping away into the haze.

your fingers twitch where they claw at his biceps, barely able to grip. you’re shaking, muscles locked tight, spine arched, your thighs trembling where they spread open beneath him.

he notices. of course, he notices.

his hand drags up your side, slow, deliberate, feeling every inch of you. when he reaches your chest, he presses his palm there, right over your sternum, feeling the frantic, stuttering beat of your heart.

he groans.

"fuck," he mutters, breath shuddering out of him.

his forehead knocks against yours, damp skin on damp skin, his nose brushing yours, mouth parted against your cheek. you can feel his breath, feel the ragged shake of it, the way it stutters when his cock twitches against you.

he wants.

so do you.

you choke out something wrecked, something that isn’t even a word, just a sound— high and thin and pleading.

his jaw goes tight. his fingers flex against your chest, the other hand anchoring itself to your hip, gripping firm, holding you steady.

"breathe," he rasps.

you try. you fail.

his cock drags against your hole, the head catching, nudging, pressing— but not sinking in. not yet.

you whine, twitching beneath him, muscles jerking, nails digging into his arms.

simon’s breath stutters.

"shit," he mutters, voice frayed, breaking apart. his teeth sink into his bottom lip, his whole body coiled.

you reach for him— sliding trembling hands up, over the broad slope of his shoulders, the thick column of his neck. your fingers curl there, feeling his throat works, swallowing hard, pulse pounding against your fingertips.

he’s barely hanging on.

you can break him.

"please," you whisper, soft.

his restraint shatters.

his hips surge forward. his cock sinks in, thick and hot, stretching you wide.

you cry out.

his hand clamps over your mouth. "quiet," he hisses, his own voice barely above a rasp. his breath shakes, his whole body trembles.

his cock throbs deep inside you. you can feel every inch of him, every pulse, every twitch. he holds still, his hand pressed tight to your mouth, his forehead still resting against yours, panting.

"fuckin’ hell.”

his rhythm crumbles. thrusts turn wild, erratic, slamming too hard, dragging too slow. he groans, forehead pressed against yours, breath pouring over your lips, damp and shaking.

"fuck," he grits out, voice breaking. his jaw clenches, his whole body shuddering. "you're-"

he doesn't finish. just moves, just takes.

his hands clutch at your hips, fingers bruising, digging in like he needs to feel every inch of you, like he needs to own it, like he’s terrified you’ll slip away if he lets up even for a second. but you don’t slip away. you pull him in.

"si," you gasp, voice shredded. "more-"

he hisses through his teeth, hips snapping forward, cock sinking deep. a shudder rolls through him, his whole body locking up for a second.

his thumb strokes over your mouth, pressing down on your lower lip, teasing the wet heat of your tongue. he watches, eyes blown wide, pupils swallowing the color.

"fuckin’ love this mouth," he mutters, slurred. "love how you-"

you cut him off, dragging his thumb in deeper, sucking. his breath stutters.

"christ," he groans.

his hips stutter too, cock pulsing inside you. he drags his thumb free, watches the wet shine of it, then slides it down, presses against where you're stretched around him, feels the way your body grips him tight.

"you feel that?" he grinds in, slow and cruel, lets you feel every inch of him. "feel how fuckin’ deep i am?"

your head kicks back, breath breaking apart.

"yeah," he rasps, voice dropping. "fuckin'- yeah, you do."

his hand snakes up, finds your throat, fingers curling around it, not squeezing, just holding. just feeling your pulse jackhammers against his touch.

"si," you gasp, hands scrambling over his back, nails dragging over sweat-slick skin.

"yeah," he mutters. "know, baby, know."

he drives in deep, grinds his hips, feels your whole body trembles around him. your muscles lock up, your back bows, a sound rips from your throat— wrecked, helpless.

he groans, hips moving faster, harder, cock dragging in and out, every stroke hitting deep, every thrust pushing you higher.

"gonna come?" his grip tightens, hand on your throat, holding you still.

"please," you gasp.

his body shudders. a sharp breath leaves him, like the sound alone is too much, like hearing you beg is about to ruin him.

"then fuckin’-" his voice catches, breaks. his hips snap forward, slamming in, grinding. "-fuckin’ do it."

and you do.

it doesn’t creep up on you. doesn’t build slow. it crashes.

the pressure snaps like a wire pulled too tight, heat igniting in your spine, exploding outward, everything pulling tight, then breaking apart, shattering you from the inside out. the world vanishes. sound cuts out. your body locks up so hard you can’t even breathe.

your muscles spasm around him, sucking him deeper, milking him. your thighs tremble. your fingers claw at his back, at his arms, at anything you can reach. your lips part on a cry but nothing comes out— just raw pleasure, a wrecked thing too big to hold in.

his breath shudders, chest caving in against yours, every muscle in his body strung tight.

"fuck, fuck," he chokes, almost a whimper.

his hips snap forward, frantic, a few more sloppy thrusts before he breaks. his whole body seizes up, cock throbbing deep inside you, heat spilling hot and thick, filling you up. he groans against your skin, hips jerking, grinding through it, holding you open for him, pushing in as deep as he can go.

he trembles. his forehead presses into your shoulder, his hands shake where they clutch at your body, holding you there, grounding himself in the feel of you.

his breath is ragged.

his chest heaves.

his arms stay locked around you, keeping you pressed close, keeping you his.

and he still doesn’t pull out.

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