A/N: Inspired by this headcanon post. Bodyguard!Toji AU! This is the female version, there'll be a nonbinary and a male version. each version has it's own plot!
warnings: i went overboard, this is VERY long. warnings are the same as in the headcanon. 7294 words.
It started with a bullet through your fucking living room window.
And it wasn’t the first one.
The press didn’t cover it — your PR team made sure of that — but you knew someone out there wanted you dead.
Maybe it was one of the political snakes you destroyed in court. Maybe it was the overseas conglomerate you turned down. Maybe it was that little prick CEO whose merger you killed with a single word: “No.”
You’d built your entire empire on a reputation: sharp, cold, beautiful, and utterly brutal. Everyone in your orbit knew it — when you walked into a room, the floor shifted beneath your stilettos. You weren’t a woman, not to them. You were a force. A gavel in lipstick. A hurricane wrapped in Chanel.
So when your fucking address got leaked, when some low-life tried to take your head off with a sniper round through your penthouse window, your board panicked.
You didn’t.
You stood there, staring at the shattered glass with a whiskey in hand and your cat, Chairman Meow, hissing under the table.
“Pathetic aim,” you muttered, and downed the drink.
New penthouse. New location. New problem.
The board was insistent. You weren’t going to keep walking around unprotected — not when there were contracts, assets, shares, and politics tangled around your name like electric wire. They lined up options like a fucking dating service. Ex-military, ex-police, some former Yakuza types. All of them certified from different private agencies.
You looked at the photos like they were resumes.
“Ugly. Too clean. Creepy. Boring. Weak.”
And then: Toji Fushiguro.
Ex-hitman. Ex-assassin. Ex-everything. Big as hell, pretty scar across his lip, and an expression like he wanted to kill the camera. No background outside what was scrubbed, probably killed people with his bare hands — but Jesus fucking Christ, hot. His file came from Shiu Kong’s registry. Notoriously expensive. Notoriously effective.
You read his record.
Then signed the contract.
One bodyguard. No detail team. Yours.
Within the hour, Shiu Kong sent a tight little email confirming the hire.
Five minutes later, he texted Toji:
“You’re in. Do not fuck this up.”
And called just to repeat it.
Toji was not happy about it.
Babysitting? Some rich bitch with an ego the size of Tokyo Tower and heels tall enough to impale a man? Nah. Not really his thing.
But his bank account had been grumbling for weeks. That last job barely paid enough to cover rent.
And hey — maybe she’d be ugly. Maybe she’d be the kind of uptight corporate ghoul with a voice like nails on glass. Maybe she wouldn’t even talk to him.
He could deal with that.
Money was money. Babysit the boss bitch, keep her alive, cash the check.
Easy, right?
*-*
WRONG.
Toji stood in front of the penthouse mirror, grimacing as he adjusted the tie.
The suit clung to him like a second skin—black, sleek, custom-fitted because the client had standards. Shiu had even sent him a cologne rec. “She likes subtle, woodsy, nothing cheap.” Fucking rich bitches.
He wanted to roll his eyes out of his skull. Babysitting some spoiled heiress wasn’t what he had in mind when he signed up for this gig. He was a goddamn killer, not a valet.
But rent was due. His bank account looked like a fucking war crime.
“Money’s money,” he muttered to himself. “Babysit the princess. Don’t fuck her. Don’t fuck it up.”
She opened the door in four-inch heels, a black dress tighter than God’s judgment, hair wrapped up like a fucking goddess, and a look that said she’d watched men stronger than him beg for her approval.
Toji went stiff. Not just in the shoulders. Lower.
“Fushiguro?” you said, voice slow, eyes dragging up his frame like you were choosing how to eat him alive.
He nodded once.
“Yeah.” His voice cracked slightly. Shit. He cleared his throat. “Toji’s fine.”
“Right. Fushiguro,” you smiled, all teeth and power. “Let’s get one thing clear : I don’t like being followed. Don’t talk to me unless it’s relevant. Don’t touch me unless I say. And don’t get in my way.”
Toji blinked.
Then grinned. “Yes, boss.”
You stepped aside. “Don’t let the cat out.”
The apartment is huge. Cold. Expensive- clearly you'd only been living here for like two days.
Everything smells like cedar and money — except where your cat has decided to piss in the corner out of stress, which yeah you've cleaned but still. Chairman Meow immediately launches an attack on his boots when he enters. Claws and everything.
“Fucking hell,” Toji snarls, dragging the thing off his leg. “That your cat?”
“She’s sensitive,” you say flatly, not looking up from your laptop. Cue said cat to piss on him.
Toji muttered a long, inventive string of curses as he peeled off the damp leather. Great. Pissed on by a cat. First ten minutes on the job. Fucking nailed it.
“Yeah? She pees like a war crime.”
*-*
He does a full sweep — every room, every vent, every line of sight — and keeps stealing glances at you.
Fuck.
You’re like a damn hallucination. Heels on hardwood, skin like satin, power oozing from every goddamn syllable you drop into your phone. You don’t even look at him, and it makes his cock twitch.
He hides in your hallway, behind a column, and sends Shiu a text:
Toji: she’s a fucking goddess. like actual fucking Aphrodite in a pantsuit. i’m gonna die. i’m gonna fuckin nut in this suit. she made eye contact ONCE. she told me not to touch her. i might pass out. what the fuck kind of job is this. help.
Shiu does not answer.
Probably deletes the message.
*-*
He’s your shadow.
In the car. In the lobby. In the back of boardrooms where old men visibly sweat under your words.
He wears a black suit. Has to. You said so.
“You look like you mugged a bartender,” you said when he showed up in jeans and a black tee, sent him fucking home, told him if he wasn't back and dressed within twenty minutes, you'd call Shiu and make his life hell.
Now he’s got the sleeves rolled up, cuffs tight on his forearms, chest stretching the buttons. Sunglasses. Earpiece. Everything. You told him to “look clean.” Now every time he looks in the mirror he wants to jerk off thinking about whether you’re looking.
He never stood too far. Never left your blind spots exposed. He learned your patterns. Your tells. The flick of your eyes when you're bored. The slow drag of your nails along your wine glass when you were hunting.
You were intoxicating. Dangerous. And so, so fucking hot it made his brain feel like static.
At first, you ignored him. Treated him like expensive furniture. Sometimes barked orders. Sometimes forgot he was there.
You're a goddamn siren.
And Toji? He is drowning.
*-*
You’re unbearable. And hot. So unbearably hot.
You say things like:
“You’re standing too close. Do I look like I need training wheels?”
“Speak when spoken to, Fushiguro.”
“You exist to serve me. Don’t forget that.”
“You’re paid to protect me. Not ogle me like a mutt.”
He’s chewing through his own tongue trying not to moan.
Every time you scold him, he gets harder. You once flicked him on the forehead for stepping in front of a door too slowly, and he got a full-on erection. Had to turn around and fake a phone call just to calm down.
“She’s so fucking mean. So fucking pretty. Bet she rides dick like it’s beneath her. Bet she spits on men. She’s gonna kill me. I want her to. I want her to choke me with that fucking necklace she wore today.”
So like a rational man he texted Shiu again.
At one in the morning:
Toji: i think i’d let her piss in my mouth. this is a cry for help.
Still no reply.
*-*
He dreams about you.
About kneeling.
About crawling into your bed and laying under it like a dog, just in case someone tried to touch you in the night.
About begging you to let him taste you.
He watches you from the car mirror while you argue on the phone. Sees the way you toss your hair, the way you lift your sunglasses to look down at the world.
You own this city. Not the government. Not the courts. Not the investors. You.
And now he works for you.
You’re his boss. His paycheck. His goddamn owner.
He calls you “boss” so much it starts to sound like daddy in his head.
*-*
By Day Five, he doesn’t even hide it.
He follows you like a shadow. Closer than necessary. Protective. Possessive. When a man tries to flirt with you in a restaurant lobby, Toji puts a hand on your lower back and glares until the guy walks away.
You slap his hand off.
“Touch me without permission again and I’ll break your fingers.”
Toji swallows.
“Please,” he mutters.
You arch a brow. “What was that?”
He shakes his head, red in the face. “Nothin’, boss.”
*-*
You still haven’t given him a single order he didn’t follow.
But God, he wants more.
He wants you to look him in the eye and command. Wants you to leash him with a fucking silk tie and tell him to sit. Wants to drop to his knees and let you use him however you see fit.
Wants to guard your door, your bed, your pussy. Wants to belong to you.
You’re powerful. You’re dangerous. You’re sexy as fucking sin.
And he’s just the dog barking at your heels.
*-*
Toji’s only been on the job for three weeks and he's already losing his goddamn mind.
Like full-on, dick-hard-in-the-shower, bark-at-the-wall insane.
So when you give him a day off, the first one since the contract started, he should rest.
Should sleep.
Should catch up on whatever passes for a normal life.
But no.
This motherfucker goes straight to Shiu Kong’s half-lit office, kicks the door open, and trauma-horny dumps like a goddamn fever dream, slams down into the leather chair across from his desk like a man possessed, rubs his temples, and goes:
“I’m gonna fuckin’ die.”
Shiu doesn’t look up from his laptop. “You say that every time you’re horny, and I don’t care.”
“I’m serious this time.” Toji’s palms are over his face. “She’s gonna kill me. I can’t keep doin’ this. I’m gonna bust in my pants watching her file paperwork.”
Shiu sighs. Sips his drink. “So don’t fuckin’ look.”
“I can’t not look. She wears those heels that sound like sex on marble. You know what she did yesterday?”
“No, and I don’t wanna—”
“She yanked my tie down so I’d bend to her fuckin’ mouth like I was some leashed mutt and whispered, someone’s tailing us, stay close, and I got a fuckin’ half-chub in the middle of the crosswalk like some deranged little freak.”
Shiu stares at him for a long moment. Then, very calmly, pulls a handgun from the drawer and cocks it.
“Get out of my office.”
Toji doesn’t move.
“You ever see a woman who’s like—mean hot? Like, ruin-your-life hot? Like she’d make you crawl naked across broken glass just to get kicked in the ribs and you’d say thank you?”
CLICK. The gun's click pulls Toji out of his weird horny-rant.
“Okay, okay,” Toji grunts, getting up. “Jesus. You’ve lost your sense of fuckin’ romance. God, fucking prude.”
*-*
A ‘normal’ week with you could kill a lesser man.
Tense. Measured. Like the string of a bow pulled tight — always threatening to snap, to shoot, to pierce something vital.
Toji follows.
Toji guards.
Toji watches.
He doesn’t speak unless spoken to.
He doesn’t walk in front of you, doesn’t trail too far behind either — just that exact, tense distance.
There’s nothing “normal” about a man who looks like that standing silently behind you at all times, muscles coiled like a loaded gun, eyes scanning the room like he’s five seconds from breaking necks.
He’s not just your bodyguard. He’s your shadow. Your protection. Your property — unofficially.
Toji Fushiguro, your own personal goddamn hound.
The way he watches you is almost feral. Sharp, heavy gaze that drips down your back like warm oil. Never disrespectful, not out loud, but Jesus Christ, he looks at you like he wants to get punished.
You don’t call him a dog. You don’t say “good boy.” You don’t yank a leash or click your tongue.
You don’t need to.
You look at him — just once, with that cut-glass stare — and he stands straighter, tighter, readier.
You treat him like a guard dog, sure. But you don’t pet him. You don’t feed him.
You keep him starving.
*-*
MONDAY (this is when the famous 'she pulled my ties incident occured)
Toji starts the day trailing you through a financial district that stinks of cologne and fragile masculinity. You’re all teeth and silence, gliding across marble floors in stilettos and a custom suit that costs more than his entire life. Everyone stares. Not at him. At you. And he’s just the black-suited brute behind you, a shadow with arms.
You’re talking into your phone. You don’t need him right now.
But you always use him.
You pause on the street corner. You don’t look at him — just snap your fingers once, softly.
He steps closer immediately.
Not a word. No order.
Just instinct.
“Someone’s tailing,” you murmur, low. And then — then, holy fucking God — you grab his tie. Fistful of silk. Drag him down like you’re whispering sweet nothings but your voice is pure command, sharp as a scalpel.
“Third car back. Navy Lexus. Plate ending in 9-2-7. Make them disappear.”
Toji’s pupils blow wide.
He makes a fucking sound. Not a word. A grunt. Guttural. Gutted. The way you pull him in, like a dog on a chain — he swears his cock twitches.
He’s hard before he even answers.
“Yes, boss.”
And when that car shows up again?
Toji’s gone before you even blink.
It disappears. Permanently.
*-*
TUESDAY
You work sixteen-hour days. Meetings. Mergers. Boardroom warfare. Toji sits outside your glass office like a fucking statue — unreadable, broad-shouldered, terrifying. People whisper about him. They don’t know what he is.
Carries your bags. Opens your doors. Walks you through lobbies with a hand hovering just above your lower back. Never touches.
He watches you through the glass.
The way you sit — legs crossed, back straight, head tilted like you're waiting to eat the next person who speaks out of turn.
You’re so calm when you destroy people. You lean back in that thousand-dollar chair and sip espresso while CEOs stammer and tremble in front of you.
When you speak, people fall in line.
When you lift your hand, Toji follows.
When you glance at him, he knows if he’s supposed to act or wait.
He doesn’t need a leash. You’ve got him fucking trained.
*-*
WEDNESDAY
You don’t speak unless it’s business. You text him once:
"Keep the car ready. And get Chairman Meow’s prescription wet food."
Toji does it, of course. Then cleans up another puddle of cat piss. You walk past him as he’s crouched over the mess, hair tied up, phone pressed to your ear.
You don’t stop. Just say:
“Good.”
That’s it.
He’s on his knees scrubbing the floor like a goddamn servant and you just said good, and he almost moans.
*-*
THURSDAY
You’re eating lunch with some tight-faced ambassador. Toji’s a few feet behind your chair. Silent. Watching. Waiting.
And then?
You cross your legs. Slowly. Smooth as sin.
You don’t look at Toji.
But you know.
You know he’s staring at the slit of your skirt, the edge of your thigh, the way your heel swings in lazy rhythm.
He wants to bite your ankle. Actually. Like an animal.
You cut your steak. Deliberate. Elegant.
And smirk — just a twitch of your lips.
He wants to bark.
And for the rest of the afternoon? You make him carry your bags.
Not literally. Not like shopping bags.
Like briefcases. Confidential ones. Labeled. Sealed. He’s not allowed to ask what’s in them — not that he would. He’s a dog. Dogs don’t ask. Dogs carry.
You don’t thank him.
You just glance at him from the elevator mirror and say, “You’re useful.”
It goes straight to his dick.
*-*
FRIDAY
He’s bracing for rejection.
There’s a gala.
Some private-sector exclusive hellhole filled with billionaires and media snakes and old politicians with hands that like to linger.
You don’t want to go, but you have to — donors, networking, social contracts to uphold. You hate these things. The men leer. The women compete. The champagne’s cheap even when it’s expensive.
Toji knows the drill. Girls like you — powerful girls, rich girls — they don’t bring muscle to things like this. Not visibly. They bring arm candy. Suits with good hair. Hangers-on.
He expects you to say it. To wave your hand and tell him to wait outside. Wait in the car. Wait in the rain like a sad dog, or a shitty love interest in a music video.
He’s ready for it. He’s already pissed off about it.
But then—
You look him up and down that morning and go:
“You’re not wearing that shit to the gala.”
Toji blinks.
“What?”
“Come on.” You grab your coat, keys. “I made an appointment.”
Which, to his fucking amazement, brought him to one of those fancy ass stores, the type that he was pretty sure was a front for money laundering. Tailoring. Tokyo’s finest. Private. Luxurious.
You walk in like you own the building. (You probably do.) The tailor bows so deep he nearly eats carpet.
Toji’s standing there like a massive wall of black denim and scowl, totally out of place. You wave at the tailor. Then at him.
“He needs a suit,” you say. “One that doesn’t look like he mugged someone in a dark alley.”
Toji mutters, “I like mugging people.”
You snap, “Shut up.”
And he does.
Toji looks wildly out of place — scars peeking out, shoulders too broad, energy too feral. He’s stiff while they measure him, glancing at you every three seconds like you’ll disappear if he blinks.
“Arms up,” the tailor says.
He obeys. Glances at you again.
You step closer. Drag your hand along a row of fine fabrics. Pause.
“Hm,” you say, inspecting a charcoal-black Italian wool. “No. Too polite.”
Toji blinks.
“Boss—”
“Shut up. Let me work.”
He shuts up.
You pick a dark obsidian suit. Sleek. Structured. Imposing.
“You’re my shadow,” you say, circling him like a wolf. “You wear what I tell you.”
The tailor barely breathes.
Toji watches you, jaw clenched, chest heaving.
"Yeah,” he mutters, rough. “Anything you say.”
The fitting?
It feels like foreplay. A weird, way too expensive form of foreplay.
Measuring tape around his thighs- bare thighs- cause yeah, he's only in his boxers.
Your fingers at his collar.
You choose everything — lapel shape, fabric, cut, buttons. You push the tailor aside at one point and straighten his shoulders yourself.
Toji’s got a full-body blush under his skin that he’s trying to smother behind a deadpan frown.
When you touch his jaw to tilt his chin up, he swears he sees God.
You mutter, “You’re not ugly, but you dress like a strip club bouncer.”
He smirks. “Was one for three years.”
You snicker.
He almost moans.
It’s not that he’s shy. It’s not that he minds the touching.
It’s you. Choosing the buttons. Adjusting the jacket lapels. Tilting his chin to see how the collar sits.
It’s the way you look at him — cold, calculated, hungry. Like he’s a weapon you own. Like you’re customizing him.
He’s half-hard by the time they finish hemming the pants.
The suit?
It’s devastating. Sharp black, tailored within an inch of his sinful thighs, tapered sleeves, collar that hugs his throat like a leash. You stand back, arms crossed, gaze raking over him like he’s a car you’re about to buy and crash for fun.
“Hmm,” you say.
“Hmm?” he echoes, tense.
“You’ll do.”
Later that night, he sees the tag.
1,780,000 yen.
Almost twelve thousand fucking dollars.
His hands shake. Toji stares:
“You just spent—”
“I know what I spent.”
He opens his mouth.
You cut him off.
“You’re mine tonight,” you say. “I don’t dress sloppy.”
*-*
The gala.
He’s your date, technically- a date that's basically your shadow dressed in silk.
He stands beside you, silent and dangerous, eyes scanning the room while you talk in clipped tones to governors and oil barons. Every single man there stares at your ass — and every time, Toji itches to break their fucking noses.
The suit fits like sin. You picked every detail. You dressed him like he was yours — like a prize pet, or a weapon you keep in your clutch.
The gala is a storm of wealth. Diamonds. Cameras. Handshakes worth millions.
Toji doesn't leave your side.
When you pause to greet people, he steps half behind you, angled to block any threat. When some greasy bastard gets handsy, Toji slides in so close the guy nearly chokes on his own spit.
You touch Toji's sleeve, briefly.
He doesn't move.
Just watches.
Waits.
Obeys.
He knows you don’t need him.
You’re power in stilettos. You’ve broken men for less than what he is. You chew glass and sip diamonds. You’re not looking for protection — you’re looking for a blade. A leash. A collar around something dangerous that only listens to you.
And Toji? Toji’s about to bite- or lose his mind, OR die of a heart condition because his blood has permanently relocated to his dick.
At some point, you lean in to whisper:
“Keep an eye on the minister’s wife. She’s got a knife in her clutch.”
Toji grins.
“You’re scary.”
You smile. “You’re slow.”
Fuck.
At the end of the night, as you step into the car, Toji opens the door for you. Hand on the handle, back stiff.
You pause. Look at him. A genuine??? Smile??? Graces your lips???
“You looked good tonight.”
His heart stops.
You slide into the back seat.
“Keep the suit. Consider it a gift.”
He sits in the front. Quiet.
Staring out the windshield. Wondering if his champagne that he sipped once had been ruffied.
Boner pressed awkwardly to the zipper of a suit that cost more than his rent.
“She dressed me. She dressed me like I’m hers. She said I looked good. Holy shit. Holy fuck. I think I’m gonna explode. I’d follow her into hell. I’d crawl on all fours through broken glass just to hear her say ‘good boy.’ What the fuck is happening to me.”
He doesn’t say a word the whole ride home.
But he texts Shiu when he gets back.
Toji: she bought me a suit. she’s gonna be the death of me. and i’ll die hard. suit on. dick hard. smile on. put that on my grave.
Shiu does not respond.
But that night, Toji falls asleep on the couch of his apartment- which is one minute and thirty-two seconds away from yours, probably forty seconds if he sprints.
Gun on his chest.
Hard in his pants.
Dreaming of the next time you pull his tie.
He wonders if he should thank whoever tried to assassinate you.
Because guarding you?
Hurts.
But being owned by you?
That might just kill him.
*-*
It goes to shit one month in.
The call comes in a 2:37 am.
The phone rings once.
Twice.
Three times.
Toji’s already up.
Sleep doesn’t cling to him the way it does normal people. The mattress in his high-rise loft has barely softened under his weight. He’s sitting up, hand already reaching for his phone on instinct.
You only ever call in emergencies.
You text, you command, you glance and expect him to move. But call?
Call? Never.
And then he sees it.
Your name.
Private line. Secure.
The screen flashes: Boss
(subtitled in his brain: Mistress, Obsession, Reason I’m Breathing)
He answers in one breathless grunt of your title.
And then—
You say it.
“Toji?”
His spine locks up so hard it’s a fucking miracle his bones don’t snap.
You don’t say his name. You never, ever say his name.
You call him “Fushiguro.”
You spit it like a bad taste, like the dog he is. Cold. Formal. Controlled.
But now?
“Toji, can you please get my briefcase from my office? The one with my work laptop in it?”
Every neuron in his body lights up red.
Danger. Threat. Code.
He inhales, lips parting just enough to keep the tension from bursting out of his jaw.
He knows your code. You built it with him.
He remembers it word for word.
Asking for the black laptop? That’s code for something’s wrong.
White laptop? Everything’s fine. Bring it, shut the fuck up, don’t look into it.
Black laptop? You’re in danger.
And then you add:
“With the case.”
With the case.
Toji’s vision fucking tunnels.
“With the case” = not just a threat. They’re close. In the room. Within earshot.
He swallows the growl climbing his throat.
“Got it,” he says smoothly. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Black laptop. With the case.”
He hangs up.
Then he moves.
He’s already grabbing the matte security binder under his bed — flipping through schematics of your penthouse layout. Pulls the encrypted tablet from the drawer. Triggers the silent alert on the security system, sends red flag pings to Shiu’s agency, then re-routes them back. No outside help. He’s handling this.
He’s out the door with a burner piece, two knives, a fire-safe lockpicking tool, and the case.
Your case.
*-*
You’re calm. Of course you are.
When Toji gets to your place, you answer the door like nothing’s wrong. Like you're not being held hostage in your own penthouse.
Your expression is pristine, but your eyes flash when you see him.
His heart is beating like a wild thing.
Two knocks. Your signal. Open up.
Toji enters, briefcase in hand, and eyes scanning everything like a hawk on crack.
You’re standing in silk. Barefoot. Calm. Perfect.
You glance at him once, then flick two fingers in a gesture that would mean nothing to anyone but him.
Two.
Two people.
Still here. Still watching.
Still fucking breathing.
Toji places the case on the granite island like it’s a gift at the altar. Then steps back, nods once, and glances — just so — to the left.
He sees it.
In the reflection of the wine chiller: two men.
Wearing maintenance uniforms.
Unarmed, but with enough muscle to think they’re a threat. Probably been working the building for months. Waiting. Timing it. Thought they could get in without alerting external security.
They were right.
Except Toji’s not external.
He’s hers.
Internal. Installed. Plugged into you like a power line.
And he’s already fucking moving.
The first guy doesn’t see it coming.
Toji steps around the counter like he’s going to pour himself a drink — then smashes the guy’s nose in with a blunt elbow, drags him down by the collar, chokes him out before he even makes a sound.
You don’t blink.
You sip your wine.
Toji wants to bark.
The second guy tries to run.
He gets three steps.
Toji sweeps his legs, cracks his skull on the marble, presses his boot to the guy’s throat with exact enough pressure to keep him from passing out.
“You get ten seconds to explain,” he growls, voice like boiling tar.
The guy sobs something about debt and cash and “she’s rich, no one would miss it.”
Toji grins.
“You just tried to rob a fucking dragon,” he hisses. “She doesn’t breathe oxygen, she breathes lawsuits. You know how many teeth she’s pulled from men ten times your size?”
He looks up.
You’re still standing there.
Still gorgeous. Still untouched.
Still above it all.
You tilt your head, then tap two fingers to your neck — silent command. Choke him out.
Toji obeys.
Willingly. Eagerly. With joy.
Because nothing will ever compare to following her orders.
*-*
The cops come. Quietly. Discreetly. Arranged via silent protocols that Toji had already activated before stepping inside. The building manager is fired. The two would-be thieves are taken out on stretchers. Not dead- Toji isn't that sloppy.
Toji cleans his hands in your kitchen sink, rolls his sleeves back up, and watches you over his shoulder.
You’re back at your dining table. Working.
Already.
Like nothing happened.
And then, for the first time, you look at him and say:
“You were late.”
Toji nearly bites his lip in half.
*-*
He’s sitting on the edge of your white leather couch, wiping blood from the crystal glass.
You walk by.
Pause.
And drop a square velvet box beside him.
“Your cufflinks for the next gala,” you murmur. “They arrived early.”
He picks it up. Stares. Opens it.
Gold. Engraved. With a symbol that means “dog” in Old Japanese script.
Toji laughs. Just once.
You walk away before he can say anything.
But his voice follows you:
“You ever call me ‘Toji’ again,” he murmurs, low and full of grit, “I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”
You pause.
Look over your shoulder.
And smile.
“Then behave.”
*-*
Five months.
Twenty weeks.
A hundred and forty days.
And he hasn't killed anyone on your property yet. That’s a win.
You think you’ve got him pegged.
Tightly wound muscle in a Tom Ford shell.
Ex-gangster turned bodyguard with a penchant for swearing at your coffee machine and staring at your thighs during board meetings.
But you don’t know the half of it.
You don’t know how his lungs feel tight when you say his name.
You don’t know that he sleeps in the hallway outside your suite sometimes, under the bullshit pretense of “safety rounds,” even though your entire penthouse is triple-fortified and guarded like nuclear codes.
You don’t know that when he closes his eyes, your voice is still ringing in his skull, branded there like fire:
“Fushiguro, I’m heading out. Don’t lag.”
You don’t know that your heels clicking across marble is better than porn to him.
You don’t know that he would kill for you again without even blinking.
You don’t know that five weeks ago, when you walked past him in that backless silk dress at the launch party, he nearly came in his goddamn suit.
And you definitely don’t know that he kept the lipstick-stained napkin you left behind at that same party, folded it, and stuck it in his jacket pocket like a fucking teenage girl with a crush. (He hasn't even told Shiu about that, mostly because if he did, Shiu would actually shoot him).
So no.
You don’t know what you’ve done to him.
But you're about to find out.
*-*
It starts with a phone call.
Not yours.
Toji’s.
He’s in the corner of the terrace, jaw tight, voice low. Doesn’t know you’re there. Doesn’t see you pause, doesn’t see the look flicker in your eyes when you hear:
“You rejected him because of my record? He’s ten, you fuckin’ suit-wearing parasite. He didn’t kill anyone. I did.”
Silence.
More tension.
Toji rubs a hand over his face like he’s going to punch the sky.
You’re already walking away before he notices. Already calling your head of legal. Already sending three of your most vicious attorneys to war.
And by that evening, when Toji gets the call that Megumi is in, when the director suddenly sounds terrified of losing him, when no one will tell him why the tune changed—
He has no idea you’re the reason.
But that’s you, isn’t it?
Always above. Always untouchable. The predator perched at the top of the ladder.
Even when you’re drunk.
He doesn’t expect it.
The drinking, first of all.
You never drink. Not when you’re out. Not when you’re working. Not even when your quarterly report shows your company up 11% and your board’s throwing champagne like confetti.
But tonight?
You’re plastered.
He sees it in the way your pupils dilate in the back seat of the car, the way your legs kick up over the divider and you throw your head back with a laugh like it’s been caged in your chest for years.
You smell like gin and orange blossom and old money.
Toji’s sweating in his seat.
“Toji,” you slur, slouched like you own the universe — which, to be fair, you almost do. “Y’ever notice how you look like… a really angry caveman in a suit?”
He snorts. Keeps his eyes on the road.
“Every fuckin’ day, sweetheart.”
You grin. Your lips are wet. Normally, you would've insulted him for calling you 'sweetheart'.
“S’good. I like it. You stand out. Look good on my arm. Like an emotional support threat.”
He nearly veers into traffic.
*-*
He helps you home. You’re barefoot by the time the elevator dings.
He’s holding your heels in one hand, his other under your elbow like you’re made of spun glass and spite.
Chairman Meow doesn’t even hiss at him. Just flicks her tail and accepts her gourmet salmon like it’s expected.
Toji’s lowkey proud. That’s a two-month no-pee streak. A new record.
You trip over the threshold into your room. Toji’s hands snap to your waist before you fall. You’re laughing. Eyes glazed.
“Zip,” you demand, spinning like a drunk ballerina, trying to reach the zipper down your spine and failing miserably.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe.
Just steps in.
Undoes it with two fingers and clenched teeth. Doesn’t touch your skin. Not once. Not even when you grunt about your tights being too tight and practically fall into him trying to peel them off.
He helps. Professional. Silent.
Like he’s not dying inside.
Like his cock isn’t throbbing with every goddamn please from your glossy mouth- because normally?? Please isn't exactly in your vocabulary.
He sets you on the edge of your bed. Gently. Pulls your hair free of its pins. Wipes your lipstick with warm cloths. Dabs your mascara. Smooths the little lines between your brows.
Then you hiss.
“Rolled my ankle.”
He’s down instantly.
On his knees.
Of course.
Where else would he be?
He cradles your ankle. Presses. Checks for swelling. His thumb brushes your skin and he flinches like it burned him.
You’re barely looking at him. Barely awake.
But then—
You lean forward.
And kiss his forehead.
Just a brush of lips.
Soft. Thoughtless. Like you’ve done it a hundred times in dreams and forgot this was real.
Toji stops breathing.
“Guard dogs deserve treats,” you murmur. “Maybe I’ll take you on a date. Show you off.”
You’re asleep before you can finish the sentence.
Toji stays kneeling.
For a long time.
Longer than necessary.
His breath catches in his chest. His hands tremble on your skin.
He should leave.
He should leave.
Instead—
He whispers:
“Say it again, boss.”
But you’re already gone.
And he’s still kneeling.
*-*
You don't mention it.
The kiss.
The drunk date comment.
The fact that Toji stayed kneeling beside your bed like a temple guard until he heard your breathing even out into something soft and human and vulnerable.
He thinks maybe you forgot. Or sobered up and realized you were talking nonsense. Which, fine. Whatever. He can deal.
You don’t mention it. But you remember.
Of course you do.
You remember the faint tremble in his fingers. The hard set of his jaw. The way he looked at you like he was praying and you were the god.
You don’t speak of it, but you also don’t ignore it.
Because two weeks later, you hand him a folded navy envelope with an address on it and say, simply:
*“Pick me up at 7. You’re not wearing a gun tonight.”
Toji stares at the envelope like it’s cursed. His brain static. His hands too big and clumsy to handle delicate things.
“...This a job?”
You smirk. That slow, feral smile that makes him feel like prey wrapped in Gucci.
“No. This is a reward.”
*-*
The restaurant was uh...... yeah. Something. Probably cost more than anything Toji had ever owned.
The chandelier alone could pay off his debt to Shiu twice over. Everything smells like truffle oil and wealth and clean tile. Every waiter speaks in apologetic whispers. There are real diamonds in the salt grinder. Toji’s 80% sure.
He wears the suit you bought him.
He hates how well it fits. He hates how easy it is to forget he’s just the dog when you’re looking at him like you’re starving and he's the meal.
The restaurant is in the clouds.
Literally — it’s 68 floors up, tucked into a tower only foreign diplomats and ultra-wealthy ghosts can afford to haunt. Every table has a view of the city. Every dish looks like it costs more than Toji’s rent back in the day. And when he shows up — black-on-black suit, expensive shoes, not a weapon in sight — he finds you already waiting.
Your legs crossed. Your lipstick red.
He’s never even walked by a place like this, let alone been sat at a private rooftop table by a man with white gloves and a name tag in gold.
The first bottle of wine costs more than what he made during his first three hits.
The dessert is a sculpture. Like something out of an art gallery.
And you—fuck, you—
You look like you were carved out of every single one of his delusions.
Elegant. Confident. Gleaming like glass and gunpowder.
And for the first time, you look a little nervous.
Only a little.
But it’s enough to make Toji’s brain stutter.
“You really brought me here?” he mutters when he sits, already scowling like the menu insulted his mother. “The fuck am I supposed to eat — this salad looks like it was shaved off a bonsai tree.”
You just smile.
“You’re adorable when you don't know.”
Toji almost flips the damn table.
You feed him filet off your fork at one point, and he thinks he might die right there with foie gras in his lungs and a boner under the goddamn white tablecloth.
“You’ve been good,” you say halfway through your steak, not looking up. “You earned this.”
He snorts.
“Like a fuckin’ treat?”
You smile.
“Exactly like that.”
The date’s good. Better than it should be. Better than either of you probably expected.
He actually makes you laugh — real, genuine, shoulders-shaking laughter — when he tells you about the time he got arrested for punching a guy over a microwave burrito.
You tell him about the hostile acquisition you orchestrated in Milan with a smile and a fucking wine swirl like you’re narrating a children’s book.
It's insane. It’s unbalanced. It shouldn’t work.
But it does.
And then—
Date two.
You tell him to meet you at 11AM. Somewhere warm.
It’s a beach.
A real-ass beach. Sand, sun, little umbrellas in coconuts- of course you privated the entire thing for the day. Normal people things.
And Megumi is already there, in a hat that’s too big and a shirt that says “I am not my father’s crimes,” which you 100% had custom-made.
Toji doesn’t know what the fuck is happening.
Not until he sees you sitting in the shade, sunglasses on, smiling at Megumi as he builds a crooked sandcastle and tells you some weird, depressing fact about sea cucumbers.
He watches you kick off your heels and walk barefoot like you own the entire ocean.
He doesn't understand it.
He doesn’t understand you.
Because sure, he’s had fantasies. Filthy ones. Sick ones. The kind that could get him fired and jailed and dragged through concrete.
And something in Toji just… breaks.
In a way that isn’t feral or horny or unhinged.
It’s tender. It’s horrifying.
He’s so fucked.
He’s been so fucked.
*-*
And then comes the gala — some pompous, gold-plated thing where you wore a high-slit dress that could’ve ended wars and he had to listen to ten different senators try and flirt with you while pretending not to want to kill them all.
It’s always a gala. Your world spins on designer heels and Champagne flutes, and Toji, well…
He’s just the dog keeping the wolves away.
But this one is different. There’s tension in the air. Something simmering beneath the surface, because you’re giving him orders in that low voice again, your fingers brushing his tie like it’s a leash. You’ve got that look again.
That dangerous one.
That “I own you” look.
Toji’s holding it together — barely — right up until the moment you criticize his stance.
“Fushiguro, for fuck’s sake. Can you at least pretend you weren’t raised in a back alley? Stand up straight. You look like a bruiser from a Yakuza soap opera.”
It’s not even that mean.
But he’s on edge. Too sharp. Too tired of pretending he isn’t about to lose his mind every time you breathe near him.
So he snaps. Just a little. Just one stupid line, said with teeth:
“Bet you wouldn’t be complaining if I was fucking you like one.”
Silence.
Fucking silence.
The kind of silence that splits atoms.
Your head turns.
Eyebrow lifts.
Mouth parts.
“What did you just say?”
Toji goes white.
Like. Fuck.
“Shit—no. Boss. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
You ignore him, slip into the car and:
“Driver, penthouse.”
Your voice is crisp. Cool. You don’t look at him again for the rest of the ride.
Toji stares out the window.
Brain spiraling. Vision blurred. Every security instinct screaming that he just ruined everything.
No more job.
No more Megumi’s school.
No more you.
He almost gets out at the light. Almost jumps from the car like a lunatic just to avoid hearing the words you're fired come from your mouth.
But when the car pulls into the underground garage, you don’t send him away. You just step out in silence. Cool. Collected.
But when you both step inside the penthouse, and the door shuts behind you, you don’t fire him.
You don’t scream.
You don’t even raise your voice.
You toss your purse down. Kick off your shoes. Turn to him slowly, like a goddess descending from her throne.
Eyes sharp.
Voice low.
“So?”
Toji swallows.
You step forward.
“You barked.”
Another step. His back hits the glass wall.
“Now I want to see if you bite.”
Toji’s cock is fully hard.
He wants to scream.
He wants to beg.
Instead, he growls.
“I bite.”
And he does.
It’s a goddamn battle.
Teeth and heat and biting, snarled words. You tell him he’s replaceable — he says he wants to choke out every bastard that ever called you ‘ma’am’ with a wink.
You call him a dog — he says he only answers to you. You say he’s disgusting — he says you like it.
“Pathetic,” you hiss, dragging him in by the tie.
“Yours,” he growls, teeth bared.
You shove him down.
He drags you closer.
And in that blistering, explosive mess of dominance and submission and some damn class power dynamics turned feral, something shifts.
Something permanent.
Because by the time the sun’s rising, and you’re still lying on the floor half-dressed, breath ragged, laughter raw from your throat as you swat him off your thigh—
You know.
You both know.
This wasn’t just a fuck.
It never was.
Not from the moment he knelt on your floor that night and let you kiss his forehead like a reward. Not from the moment you called him Toji and made the air freeze in his lungs.
He was always yours.
And you?
You were always his downfall.
A/N: pls i wrote this, haven't re-read it, idk if it makes even any ssense, it's too long, someone get me OUT OF HERE PLEASE- anyways i hope you enjoy it, this'll be one of the rare times where i'll do a tag list, normally i wouldn't but this felt special: @facelessmenforthewin @realalpacorn
A/N: toji didn't imagine that when taking this job he'd fall to his knees for you..
warnings: smut and it's kinda short, some ooc of toji
You have a Toji problem.
It’s a problem with a lowercase “p” (like passive income, or penthouses, or perfectly good-for-nothing, 6’4 muscle-hunks that you definitely didn’t hire just because you liked the way his arms looked veined and angry under a black compression shirt).
Sure, technically, Toji is your bodyguard.
You, being rich and insufferable and famously single in a way that sends tabloids into frenzies, absolutely need a bodyguard. You’re very “important,” which is rich people code for: someone’s always trying to kill you.
And Toji—gruff, brooding, former hitman(?), almost definitely tax evader—is good at not dying and good at killing other people before you do.
Hot.
He's hot.
*-*
The thing about having a bodyguard is this: you are, inherently, the one in charge.
Yes, even when said bodyguard is six foot plus of muscle, scarred like a war hero, has a smirk like the Devil’s aftertaste and wears black like mourning was a lifestyle choice.
Especially when he has the attention span of a sniper and the table manners of a raccoon with rabies.
Even then, you are in charge. And he hates that, doesn’t he?
Which is exactly what makes this so much more fun.
*-*
Tonight had been… something.
A charity gala, glittering with too much champagne and teeth too white to be natural. You were bored. And bored women with money and power and a bodyguard who looks like that?
Dangerous.
So, naturally, two hours before the event, you called for him.
"Fushiguro,” you said sweetly, like a trap, “we have plans tonight.”
He’d looked up from cleaning one of his frankly illegal guns, eyebrows already arching like they were trying to retreat from this situation before his brain even processed it.
“The hell we do.”
“You’re taking me to the Ikeda Foundation’s gala. Black tie. I’ll send your measurements.”
You hadn’t missed the way he twitched at “black tie.” Like the concept of tying anything not explosive around his neck offended him on a molecular level.
But he showed up anyway, because that’s the job, right? Toji Fushiguro: loyal, grumbling, ridiculously hot employee.
And damn if he didn’t clean up nice. Hair slicked back, custom tailored suit—bespoke, baby, not off the rack—fitting his body like sin sewn into satin.
You had it made in two hours. Money talks and Toji just scowled at the price tag and muttered something about how the suit cost more than all six of his firearms combined, and one of those was stolen from a government lab. (“Allegedly,” he added, with a wink.)
You were impeccable, naturally. Hair done. Lips painted. Skin oiled like some Grecian statue of a war goddess with an OnlyFans. You played the role of socialite queen like you were born for it (you were).
Toji stood beside you, stoic and jaw clenched and definitely pretending not to smell you.
You caught him glancing. Just once. Maybe twice.
Okay, maybe seventeen times.
Men are so predictable.
But he wore it. Oh, he wore it.
*-*
And now? Now, he was regretting it.
“You really brought me here to get yelled at?” Toji grunts, shifting uncomfortably as Chairman Meow, your overfed, sociopathic Persian cat, continues to death glare him from the corner. (He hates Toji. Understandable. Toji tried to pet him once. Foolish.)
“Yes,” you hum, reclining into your throne of a leather chair in the office of your penthouse. “Consider it your post-event debrief. Come here.”
And Toji—bless his little murdery heart—still thinks this is about debriefing.
Toji doesn’t move.
You stare at him.
He moves.
God, men are simple.
And that’s how he ends up here: standing between your spread knees like a confession booth.
Your chair creaks a little as you lean forward, fingers curling into the silk of his custom tie, yanking him down so fast his hands immediately grab the sides of your chair to brace himself (which, by the way, matches your heels—you planned this), and drag him down into your space. As he braces, his palm grip the arms of your chair, muscles cording, body folding to keep balance.
“—the fuck,” he mutters, and oh, would you look at that? His face is exactly six inches from your tits. Shame.
You cross one leg slowly, deliberately, and place your knee right—
Oh.
Right there.
Contact.
And there it is—the soft, stunned pause in his entire body, like he’s been short-circuited. You tighten your grip on his tie. The material slides through your fingers like a leash.
“You gonna explain to me why you acted like a complete fucking barbarian tonight?” you ask, voice honeyed.
Toji’s mouth opens. Nothing comes out. You smirk.
“What, did you swallow your tongue?” You yank the tie again. His eyes widen.
“I—”
“You what? You think slouching at a ten-thousand-yen-a-plate dinner is cute? Think it’s endearing when you poured whiskey into the complimentary champagne glass because you ‘hate bubbles’?”
He’s blinking, brow furrowing. His brain’s doing somersaults and not because of the lecture. No, it’s because your knee is still there, pressed up against him like the most expensive form of psychological warfare known to man.
He shifts a little.
Bad move. Friction.
He makes a noise in his throat like a man shot.
You lean back, satisfied.
“And don’t even get me started on how you were eyeing the CEO’s private security like you wanted to brawl in the middle of the ballroom.”
“They were armed,” he mutters. “Looked sketchy.”
“It was a breast cancer fundraiser.”
“They were really armed.”
“You were three seconds from biting the catering staff because they wouldn’t give you a second plate of hors d’oeuvres.”
“They were shrimp skewers, and they were tiny.”
Your knee pushes forward—just slightly. He jolts.
God, his face.
He’s trying so hard not to react, but you see the way his jaw tightens, his hands white-knuckling the arms of your chair.
You glance at them—veins for days, arms like they were sculpted, not born. Shame. You could really do something terrible to him with arms like that. To them. With them. Either way, crime.
“You’re lucky you’re hot,” you murmur.
Toji lets out a strangled sound.
You grin. “Bet you liked it, huh? Being called my date. Bet you got hard when they announced me and you were standing right there. Bet you liked how every single man in that room looked at you like they wanted to be you.”
“Boss—”
“I bet,” you say, and this time you lean forward again, tie wrapped in your fist, pulling him down so close your breath hits his cheek, “you’d cum if I praised you right now.”
Toji makes a sound that is absolutely not safe for HR. One of his hands twitches on the chair’s arm. The other slides dangerously close to your thigh before he yanks it back like the chair is electrocuting him.
He doesn’t meet your eyes.
You see the flush crawling up his neck. You see the way he locks up when you say it.
“Good boy,” you say.
His whole soul shudders.
And then—to your amusement—his entire body relaxes... like something just short-circuited in his brain. He won’t meet your eyes.
Oh, he definitely won’t meet your eyes.
Because if he does, he knows.
He knows that you know.
That he came. Right there. In a suit that costs more than the GDP of some countries. At your knee, in your office. At your command.
You don’t say anything. You just look at him, calm, composed, aloof—like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just humiliate himself so thoroughly you’re considering framing this moment in oil paint.
“Shoo,” you murmur, finally letting go of the tie.
Toji practically flees.
He walks out stiff-legged, which is hilarious, like he’s hoping the suit hides it (it doesn’t), and slams the door behind him with a bit too much force, like it’s your fault he’s this messed up.
You glance to the side. Chairman Meow is still glaring at the door, tail flicking in rage.
“Jealous?” you ask the cat.
Chairman Meow sneezes and walks away, utterly disgusted.
You smirk, lean back in your chair, and reach for your phone.
Time to schedule another gala.
*-*
Toji doesn’t have a goddamn kink.
He has problems.
Authority issues. Mommy issues. Control issues. Defiance disorder. Horniness. Big muscles. Bigger attitude.
And now—you: in all your high-heeled, high-powered, rich-bitch glory. With a walk-in closet larger than most apartments, an iced-out wristwatch worth more than his entire existence, and a cat that wants him dead. (Said cat that hisses every time he breathes near it, like he once mugged it in a past life.)
So no, Toji doesn’t have a kink.
He has a job.
A job that is actively destroying him, one slow, humiliating task at a time.
*-*
Ever since you made him come in his bespoke suit (RIP), Toji’s days have been… harder.
Not metaphorically. Like, literally harder.
His cock has had a grudge against him. It’s psychological warfare at this point. Call it a hostile takeover of his nervous system by one (1) very mean woman with a God complex, a luxury penthouse and that voice that calls his name like it’s always the beginning of something bad.
You’ve been keeping him in a state of suffering so profound he might start a union.
And the worst part?
You don’t even touch him.
Well. You didn’t.
Until today.
*-*
You assign him his new post: Chairman Meow Detail.
He blinks. “You want me to what.”
“Watch him,” you say breezily, heading into your home office. “And I want updates. Every 15 minutes. Include photos.”
“Photos?”
“Yes.”
“Of the CAT?”
“Who else, Toji? Do you think I want pictures of you?”
(You do. But only when he’s suffering.)
Which means:
You’re in your home office. You're working. You're a professional. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have time to ruin a man’s life.
“Report,” you call, without turning from your monitor.
From the hallway, Toji glares like you just told him to gnaw off his own foot.
“Still alive,” he grumbles. “Cat’s breathing. No shits taken. Attempted murder count: one. He swatted at my face.”
“Did you swat back?”
“I wanted to.”
“Then Chairman wins again.”
Chairman Meow meows in triumph from the plush chaise lounge you bought specifically so he could ignore it and sit on paperwork instead.
Toji mutters something about feline war crimes under his breath and stalks off.
*-*
Five minutes later: “Boss. Knife drawer’s reorganized.”
“Good. Sharpen them all.”
“That’s like.. twenty-six blades.”
“And one katana.”
“What the f—WHY DO YOU HAVE A KATANA?”
You sip your tea, roll your eyes. “Why don’t you?”
*-*
Ten minutes after that:
“Fushiguro,” you say sweetly, walking into your walk-in closet like it’s Narnia. “Be a dear and grab the Louboutins on the top shelf.”
He stares up. Then stares at you.
“You’re messing with me.”
You blink at him innocently. “No. This is my closet’s economy. Climb, chop chop.”
*-*
Let’s be clear: you are tormenting this man. Methodically, relentlessly, and very much on purpose.
He deserves it.
After all, he's your bodyguard.
And you pay his disgustingly large paycheck. And you are a woman of luxury and excess who has the time, money, and glorious boredom to test the limits of Toji's self-control like you’re conducting a scientific experiment in sin.
The results? Toji’s dignity: in the trash. His back? Aching from moving your six-foot-tall marble sculpture of Dionysus “because I liked it better facing west.” His brain? Fracturing. His dick? Tragically, increasingly, hard.
Which brings us to now.
*-*
You’re on a business call.
Toji is standing by your desk, holding a folder. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, and he’s staring at a very fixed point on the floor.
You’re not looking at him, but you can feel it. The tension. The shift in the air. The sheer primal male agony radiating off him like a hormonal bomb.
So, obviously, you look.
And there it is.
Oh.
Oh.
The Problem™.
The kind that isn’t going anywhere. The kind that’s been throbbing since 9:04AM when you asked him if he could “handle your package” (a literal parcel, yes, but the double entendre was criminal). And now?
He is—tragically—hard. Like, seriously, uncomfortably, OBSCENELY hard in a way that makes you physically have to stop scrolling through your investor spreadsheet.
Because goddamn, Toji.
Goddamn.
His dick is straining against those tailored slacks like it’s trying to sue for workplace harassment. And those pants? That expensive, hand-fitted, custom suit you had made for him? They do not hide things. They showcase.
You lift your gaze to his face slowly. He’s looking everywhere except at you.
Your lips twitch.
Still on your call—still listening to some very boring white-collar nonsense—you reach out with one hand and gesture lazily for him to come closer.
Toji, visibly suspicious, approaches.
He comes to stand next to you, expecting some whispered order, maybe a “fetch me my schedule,” maybe a “stop looking like you’re about to come in your pants.”
You don’t whisper.
You move fast.
In a single, freakishly efficient motion, you undo the clasp of his belt, pop his button, and drag down his zipper like it owes you money.
He flinches. Breath sucks in through his teeth—choked, sharp, confused. His entire body jerks back, but your hand is already there, slipping past his waistband, curling your fingers around the thick, hot length of him and jerking him off before his brain can even boot back up.
You pull him out. Just like that. No fanfare, no warning. Just Toji’s dick—impossibly thick, angrily red, pulsing in your grip like it’s been waiting for this moment its whole sad life.
Your eyes flicker up. Slightly impressed.
“Mmh.” You cock your head. “Not bad.”
“—nghh—wait—wh—what—” he hisses, eyes wide, flinching like you just assassinated his common sense.
You make a shhh motion with your other hand.
You're still on the call.
"Yes, absolutely, I’ll have the reports finalized by Monday," you say smoothly into the phone, dragging your palm slow and tight along his length. "Mhm, full audit."
Toji’s entire body goes stiff. (Well, stiffer.) His hips buck forward, his breath caught somewhere between a groan and a prayer.
You squeeze, just once, sharp and mean. His thighs shake.
He’s leaking. All over your fingers. Precum like he’s never been touched before, like this is the first time someone’s jacked him off without even looking at him.
Because you’re not even looking at him.
You’re working.
You’re working while jerking him off, and Toji is going to lose his fucking mind.
He’s gripping the edge of your desk so hard it might crack. His knuckles are white. Veins bulging like they're about to pop. His mouth is open, like he’s trying to say something, but every time you twist your wrist—just right—his brain short-circuits again.
He stares down at you, appalled and also visibly seconds from exploding.
“You—fuck—you can’t just—” he grits out through clenched teeth.
You don’t even glance at him. Just keep working his cock like it's a side task on your to-do list. Just another errand, another hobby.
Your thumb swipes the tip, and Toji chokes.
His head is lowered, hands clenched into fists by his sides, hips barely twitching because he knows better than to fuck into your hand.
He’s learning.
You say nothing. Just pump him faster. Crueler. No buildup. No romance. Just a pure, transactional handjob technique that’s designed to make grown men cry.
He’s so close.
His thighs twitch. His eyes roll. His mouth is dumb. He looks like he’s being waterboarded with pleasure.
Your expression? Completely disinterested. Like you’re jerking off a looser and hoping he dies at the end.
It’s so hot.
He’s so close.
He knows it. You know it. Everyone in a ten-mile radius knows it.
You twist your hand just once more—tight, filthy, perfect—then your thumb swirls over the head once, twice—he jerks.
His thighs tense.
He whines—actual whine, pathetic and strangled—and he cums.
Hard.
All over your hand, your wrist, your desk. A lot. Too much. So hard, harder than he ever has in his miserable, pathetic, touch-starved life. Messy, hot, mortifying. He chokes on a groan and bites his lip so hard it bleeds.
Your hand slows. You glance down—bored. Disdainful.
He can’t even process it. He just sags forward, breath ragged, eyes unfocused. Toji stands there, dazed. Boneless. Breathing like he ran a marathon through a war zone. His dick’s still twitching.
You’re still on the call.
"Yes," you say breezily. "Perfect. I’ll email it over shortly."
There’s a pause.
You stare at him. He stares at the floor like it personally betrayed him.
Then, without a word, you hand him a tissue box and gesture casually to the mess he’s made.
You finally mute the call and look at him.
“You done?”
He nods. Weakly. Shamefully.
“Good.” You offer your hand—the messy one—and gesture again between him and the desk. “Clean up. And go fix yourself.”
He stares at you like you just shot him.
You raise a brow.
“Now, Fushiguro.”
He scrambles. Grabs the tissue, starts wiping everything down with the shaky coordination of a man whose brain just melted through his dick.
You don’t help.
You don’t thank him.
You go back to work.
Because he’s yours. Because he came untouched by anyone but your hand, on your desk, during your meeting.
And Chairman Meow walks into the office, tail flicking.
Toji catches the cat’s judgmental stare and mutters, “Snitch.”
A/N: apologies for the lacks of good posts lately, i'm not too sure why i'm so uninspired haha. hopefuly this was okay. also i read a fic on ao3 that used 'shame.' a lot and thought it was hilarious, hence me trying to add it in.. not too good but eh idc.
warnings ; 18+ , nsfw content , pantysniffing , ur fav is a pervert bc i said so
-
nasty mfs who can’t get enough of you…
he’s fantasizing about the next time he’ll have you beneath him , thinking of your voice , how much you whine for him , how well you take him & everything he wants to do to you. but it still isn’t enough for him, he needs something to feel and smell off of you right now but you’re out on an errand. what’s the next best thing?… your underwear. he feels awful but he can’t help it, he picks them straight out of the laundry and puts them right to his face. your leftover slick glistening on your underwear , teasing him almost. pressing his tongue against it , he whines instantaneously tasting traces of you leftover and desperately palms a hand over his hardening cock in his underwear. huffing a breath , he pulls his cock out slowly, beads of pre cum sitting on the head.. fuck he’s leaking. pressing your underwear right against his face , his breath hot and heavy as he takes in the smell of you and begins fisting his cock .. hand slowly skimming over his tip as he rolls it back and forth under his hand almost humping it. his skin hot and blistering to the touch, sweat rolling down his back and suddenly everything feels too sticky and all too much as he releases. legs clenching together and his hand fucking himself through his orgasm, tongue lolling out and eyes hitting the back of his skull. you left him alone…. what else was he supposed to do ?
- SIMON “GHOST” RILEY , KONIG , reiner braun , EREN YAEGER (horny bastard isn’t even ashamed) , jean kirstein (wouldn’t be suprised) , armin arlert (he’s a closet pervert ik it) JOSEPH JOESTAR , MISTA GUIDO , jean pierre polnareff, bokuto koutaro, kuroo testuro, hinata shoyou, ATSUMU MIYA (he’s a slut) , GOHAN , son goku, KAKASHI HATAKE , naruto uzumaki , shikamaru nara & any of your other favs
why have the black women of tumblr come to the conclusion that ghetto black women don’t deserve love or representation?
like what’s wrong with a character liking rap music, or liking to have her nails, lashes and hair done?
it’s like yall don’t realize that you’re being anti-black and elitist asf. like yall complain and complain about how writers on here never “write characters like you” and honestly if you feel that way then write it yourself?
ghetto black women never get good representation in media because of people LIKE YOU. like god forbid someone writes characters like the people in their everyday life or like them because they ALSO thought “i don’t get good representation either” like what the fuck is wrong with yall.
i love every single ghetto, loud, “stereotypical” (which makes no fucking sense) black woman that loves to have long nails, to wear wigs and braids, loves have their lashes done and ones built like megan thee stallion and speak aave.
i love every single shy, quiet, nerdy black woman that loves wearing her natural hair no rocking her natural face and the ones skinny, thick, fat, short, tall, and whatever tf else.
like there is some actual representation you SHOULD be fighting for like more PLUS SIZE reader rep that isn’t the stereotypical “i hate my body” ass shit , more DARK SKIN reader rep that doesn’t have anything to do with the reader hating her skin tone or going through colorism, and some TALL reader rep but bitch you’re pissy because they made the reader like to wear wigs …like bitch are you DUMB???
bashing black woman writers on here because YOU don’t feel represented is fucking stupid. they take times out of THEIR days to write on this app and they DON’T get paid for this! so for the love for all things that are holy, if i hear another one of yall say some this shit imma beat your ass.
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.
i love you.
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.
The evacuation prep poster is done! This poster is designed primarily with wildfires in mind, but the tips can apply to preparing for any much any disaster.
If you share this image outside of tumblr, please link back to my website: www.Katy-L-Wood.com
[[Image ID: A poster including a layered graphic showing what items to have ready to prepare for evacuating your home based on how much warning you have that you need to evacuate. The inner, red, level is labeled “No Warning.” The next, orange, level is labeled “Less Than an Hour.” The next, yellow, level is labeled “More Than an Hour.” The final, green, level is labeled “General Preparedness.” The items associated with each level and the text are included below. /end ID.]]
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Evacuation Prep:
As the world changes, it is important to be prepared to safely and efficiently evacuate your home, potentially with little or no warning. Preparing ahead of time can help to reduce stress and anxiety, and help you evacuate safely if the time comes.
Red Level (No Warning): People | Pets | Keys. Human life matters most. If you can’t rescue your pets, let them out to give them their best chance. If evacuating by car, don’t forget your keys.
Orange Level (Less Than an Hour): Crucial Meds | Important Papers | Money | Paper Map | Pet Vaccination Records. Crucial meds and medical equipment. Papers including passports, birth certificates, medical records, etc.. Multiple forms of payment. Paper map with marked evac routes in case of signal loss. Phone. Most evac centers require vaccine records for pets to be allowed in.
Yellow Level (More Than an Hour): Photos | Hard Drives | Computers | Chargers | Irreplaceable Items | OTC Meds | Pet Supplies | Pet Food | Clothes | Weather Gear. Family photos. Hard drives and computers. Make digital backups ahead of time. Charging cords. Irreplaceable items such as collectibles and mementos. Over the counter medical supplies such as Aspirin and tampons. Pet supplies such as bowls, crates, toys, and litter. Pet food and treats. Clothes. If you are running out of time grab your laundry basket. Weather gear if needed.
Green Level (General Preparedness): Food | Water | Radio | N95 Masks | Multitool | Power Pack | Gas | Stove + Fuel | Flashlight | Toiletries | Emergency Contact Info | Bedding | First Aid | Can Opener. Easy prep, shelf-stable food. Water. Battery powered/rechargeable NOAA weather radio. N95 masks for smoke. A multitool. Rechargeable power pack for phones. Keep your car at least partially fueled at all times. Portable stove and fuel for cooking food without power. Flashlight and spare batteries. Toiletries including hair products, toothbrush and paste, etc.. Emergency contact info for friends and loved ones. Spare pillows and blankets. Dedicated first aid kit. Can opener.
Save yourself time and stress by preparing an evacuation bag ahead of time and keep it in an easy to access place. At the end of every season rotate out the perishable items within such as food, water, and medications. The more you can keep in the bag, the more time you’ll have to grab everything else. Remember, it is okay if you can’t do everything. Some preparation is better than no preparation.
If you are in the U.S.A. and experiencing disaster related anxiety call the Disaster Distress Hotline at 1-800-985-5990 for support and resources.
———-
If you share this image outside of tumblr, please link back to my website: www.Katy-L-Wood.comf
I am so grateful and thankful to you for every single ❤️ donation you have been offering for my family in such tough and hard living conditions for over eleven months.
With your generous support , you ease our hardship and painful suffering and make us able to meet our least daily necessities and requirements . Life is unbelievably dire and harsh and this forces us you to seek your help 🙏 and assistance until these black days end.
Every day we suffer painfully while securing our living obligations as no means of income still exists . Our life has stopped on the day the war started, especially when we lost everything we had. Now , no house to live in and no salary to live on. A jobless father is incapable of getting the basic needs and this makes our life sad and desperate 😭. All we need now is just to be safe and secured and this needs your support and contribution 🙏❤️.
My dears , I am hopeful that you will listen to our broken 💔 hearts to stand by us ❣️ to minimize our ache and pain 🙏.
The people of Gaza have been undergoing to the worst genocide and famine history has ever known over years. It is incredible to have such a tragedy in your daily life .
Hence I am hopefully asking you, dears to support my campaign to move my family from this disastrous hell to safety and stability. Your donation means much to my family however small it is.
Please help ❣️ my family realize the dream of fleeing the war to peace and security.
At the beginning of this year we need you more than ever, please give us the chance for a better life 🙏
I'm Ola 🥺 I am writing to you today with a heavy heart, in desperate need of your help. I cannot express how unbearable the situation we are living in has become. My family is suffering from the harshness of the biting cold, and we are facing a severe shortage of food and clothing. Every day that passes feels like a lifetime, and each moment makes me feel more helpless and hopeless.
I need you today more than ever. The crazy rise in prices has made us unable to buy food, water and clothes during this harsh winter, So can you help us provide our basic needs? 💔
Imagine if you were in my place—how would you feel? It is incredibly hard to ask for help, and even harder to feel that your voice is not being heard. I implore you, please don’t ignore me. Don’t make me feel that our lives and the lives of my family are not valuable.
I need your support, and I trust that you can provide it. All I am asking for is your support. Every donation, no matter how small, will make a difference in changing the situation we are in. Please help us by donating to our campaign and by reblogging the pinned post on my page. Please don't stop at sharing.🥺🙏
This is my GFM link:
https://gofund.me/2e05c234
My campaign has been verified by @/90-ghost, @/northgazaupdates, @/el-shab-Hussien, and @/nabulsi's vetted list #205.
Hello, I am Omar from Gaza, a father of three girls. I live with my young children in a small tent. The cold and the frost have eaten away at my children’s skin. Please help me. My young daughter is a war-born child and needs diapers and milk and is unable to buy them. Please help us. My second daughter suffers from malnutrition and anemia. Please help us to save the lives of my young children. You are my only hope. Please donate and share our campaign💔😭💔😭.
✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #329 )✅️
Urgent Appeal: Help My Family Before the New Year
My name is Ahmed, and I am asking for your help. My family – my parents, brothers, and sons – are in a desperate situation after our home was destroyed in an airstrike in Gaza. We are now sheltering in a flimsy tent, exposed to the cold and rain, with no food, clothing, or shelter to survive the coming days.
My sister-in-law is nine months pregnant and is severely malnourished and anemic. She is weak and vulnerable, and we have nothing to prepare for the baby due in a few days.
We urgently need to raise $15,000 by the beginning of the new year to provide us with the basics: food, warmth, and a safe place to stay.
Your support, no matter how small, can make a life-changing difference. Together, you can help my family and start the new year with hope and dignity.
To donate:
My name is Abi from Lincoln, NE, and I'm raising money for Ahmed and his fam… Abi Lass needs your support for Help Ahmed And His Family Surv
Your kindness today may bring us safety, warmth, and a chance to heal.
I'm Amal, a mother of three children, living under the weight of the genocide taking place in Gaza. 🍉
My son is suffering from a severe and life-threatening injury after being shot by Israeli drones. He urgently needs medical treatment outside Gaza.
Time is running out, and we are facing a critical situation. I am asking for your generosity to help us save him either through a donation or by sharing this urgent plea with others
I beg you, i kiss your feet, to help my son. My son may die at any moment.
I lost most of my family. I'm afraid to lose my son too 🥺
Mohammed deserves to live a happy and healthy life, just like every other child on this earth.
Hello, My name is Mosab Elderawi, and I live in Gaza with my family. Life here has become harder than I ever imagined, and I’m writing this with hope in my heart that you might hear our story.
The ongoing war has devastated my family. We’ve lost 25 family members—each one a beloved part of our lives, taken too soon. I miss them deeply—their laughter, their presence, their love. Every day is a reminder of this unimaginable loss.
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We are now facing daily challenges to survive—things that most people take for granted, like food, clean water, and a safe place to sleep. The harsh realities of life here have replaced our dreams with the constant fight for survival.
Our Current Situation:
💔 Lost Stability: The war has left us without work or a stable source of income. 🍞 Basic Needs: Food and water are becoming harder to afford with rising prices and scarce resources. 📚 Dreams on Hold: Like so many here, my family’s dreams have been replaced by the need to simply survive. 😢 Unimaginable Loss: Losing 25 loved ones has left a void that can never be filled.
How You Can Help:
I’m sharing our story with the hope that someone out there might care. Even $5 can make a big difference for us, and if you’re unable to donate, just reblogging this post can help spread the word.
Your kindness, no matter how small, is something we’ll never forget.
What This Means to Us:
Your support is not about changing our entire situation—it’s about giving us a little relief, a little hope, and a way to keep going. We are not asking for much, and we understand if you can’t donate. Sharing our story is just as valuable to us as a donation.
Thank you for reading this far. It means the world to us to know that someone is listening. Your kindness gives us strength and helps us believe in a better tomorrow.
With all our gratitude, Mosab Elderawi and Family ❤️
✅️ Vetted by ✅️
@gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #309 )✅️
Hello Everyone, I am Mosab Suleiman Al Derawi, 28 years old, my wife Nadine Adel A… Mosab Derawi needs your support for Help me saving who's
