#dancer mastery

[gentlenekomata]

She was hundred per cent sure about the choice of the name and she couldn’t be more happier than this, since for once, she managed to agree with Azama’s decision: it was in Sakura’s nature to usually get along and agree with other’s decisions, but when it came to her retainers or her siblings retainers, most of the time she found herself in front of a wall. She got used to it throughout the time, but when this special occasions happened… she was extremely happy and satisfied with the outcome, especially when the agreement was settled with Azama, one of the toughest retainers of the royal family of Hoshido –she had nothing against him, really, but she knew how much difficult it was to be on the same wavelength as him.

She was still lullabying the baby wyvern as she was listened to Azama’s proposal, examining as well the observant manners and attentions that the humble monk was giving to each wyvern in the stable nearby Soup, taking care of everything as he has always done, a very diligent retainer indeed. Sakura bobbed her head lightly as she hummed and watched carefully the inspection of Azama, then eventually grinned at him as she heard the results: passed! Their Soup was a very soft and kind wyvern, treating everyone in the stables like a relative, even if it was actually unknown for Sakura, since she truly didn’t know the actual relations in between all those wyverns. Yet, one thing was for sure: Soup needed some company.

“I’m afraid so..” her pale visage darkened for a second, then she immediately eyed some cute wyvern babies strolling nearby Soup’s stable, “Maybe we can try and have some of the other babies playing with Soup?” she was tempted and with slow pace, she got closer to one of them, she gently put down the baby wyvern and patiently waited for him to react, snuggling up close to have a better point of view: the other creature was perplexed at first, but then it stretched its neck towards Soup, probably to properly sniff the newly acquired friend. Soup was hesitant at first, but feeling the vicinity of Sakura gave him the courage to stay still and sniff back the other wyvern.

“He made a new friend!!” she chirped, careful to not talk aloud as she didn’t want to scare the entire stables. Now that Soup was busy making friends, it was the perfect time for both Sakura and Azama to take care of the decorations of the stable. Getting back on her feet, Sakura quietly clasped her hands together in happiness, then shared a seraphic smile with Azama.

“We can have him chitchatting with the new friend for a little while we take care of the nameplate and some more decors in the room” she said, looking around for any clue where to find something useful for the plate. “I’m not sure where to find it… but I can add another manger in here in the meantime, so that Soup can have something to eat together with his new friend!” she shifted her gaze to stare at them, which were eagerly playing with their tails, adorably.

“What else can we add?”

“I would say so, if her taste is anything akin to yours, milady.”

The monk smiled, benign for once, affable as always.

“But…” How to put it? “I was, ah, speaking in jest. . .”

She wasn’t listening, was she? Oh dear. Rising, Azama scratched idly at the nape of his neck, brows furrowing in consternation.

Soup.

The thing’s name was Soup, now.

He had done this.

He had caused this.

Gods above and below, he’d opened his mouth and had affected change without meaning to—

“Are you sure? Like, absolutely, positively, one hundred percent sure…?”

Lady Sakura could prove his equal in stubbornness if she so chose, this, Azama knew. But. Still.

Soup?

It was starting to sound less and less like an actual word.

“I… suppose we could make a nameplate, yes,” he replied without quite thinking, apparently resigned to the idea. She seemed so delighted - he could not bring himself to further fight such joy in the moment, here and now.

Just look at the way it crooned at her, as she walked with it cradled in her arms.

Was it aware of the fact it had just been named ‘Soup’ ? Azama highly doubted it, no matter how one might feasibly construe its content chirps as approval.

And now, there were not one, but two of these beasties to contend with? Say it wasn't so.

“No doubt it already must have a master here in the stable then, no?”

He couldn’t claim to be overtly knowledgeable, himself, on the matter of wyverns. “Maybe those from Nohr would know better where wyvern raising is concerned,” he noted. “But I think, if they are all here under the same roof to begin with, it is likely not so far off an assumption that they have grown to enjoy one another’s company to some extent. If anything, I wonder if they might teach one another, as cats or dogs do? I do hope our little Soup is considered well-mannered then amongst his brethren… Here, let me see.”

Peering over it, the monk gently grasped claws, legs, tails, inspecting for any signs of stress or bullying from its fellows.

“… A well-behaved wyvern indeed, it would seem. No doubt it takes after you, milady! Wahaha~!”

A pause then.

"... Do you think Soup is lonely, then, when we don't visit...?"

[mercenarymage]

A Dance of Ice and Snow

[Dancer Mastery Drabble]

It was a legend passed down from village to village, from fisherman to mercenary. A myth that defied the long-standing history of human and dragon - a proof that a world with kindness once was achievable. 

He remembers the tale when he was young, when he scaled the snowy path towards the mountaintop. When snow was met with joy, with a wonder and curiosity he hardly believes he was once able to express.

In the clearing, he recalls the offerings were provided by the village. By his family, by the elders, even him, he's sure, in his own way. It was a show of trust to the one who once lived here. A humble request for them to return to the mountain it once called home.

Apparently, the villages neighboring the mountain continued this tradition, year by year. But, as Hugh aged, he grew upset about the yearly tradition. He kicked and yelled and told his grandmother that he wouldn't go. He didn't want to climb that chilly mountain anymore.

He didn't want to get caught in the snow.

The years would continue by, kept afar from that looming mountain. Yet, no matter where Hugh traveled, no matter how much he fled, the story managed to follow him. It travels by word of mouth. It follows the sails guided by the ocean breeze, as sailors speak of the legend. He finds the tale among the chatter at the town's local tavern. He hears it whispered among the travelers during a ride across the countryside. 

"That dragon was kind to humans."

That's what they say, that's what they know.

"But that dragon left the mountain."

Because of the Scouring, the war that drove them away from home. 

Today, Hugh knows now that it's possible for humans and dragons to exist. He knows that there is kindness hidden behind the violence of war, and thanks to the help of the fiery haired employer of his, a lonely girl is saved from being destroyed altogether.

It should have been left at that. He should have moved on to other work, found someone else to line his pockets with gold. He should never returned to that mountain.

Yet, he finds himself there, shivering from the cold.

It's nearing summer at the least. He doesn't need to fear that a sudden snowstorm will block his path back - even if his racing mind warns otherwise. The setting sun makes for a beautiful sight, too. In the distance, he can spot the several villages that reside around the mountain.

There are still remnants of the offerings placed last year. Charms and trinkets offered to appease the one who once resided in the cavern nearby. Flowers and food once were placed here as well, but with time, most had eroded away from the icy cold and snow.

He's stupid for being here. He tells himself so. There's nothing that this dragon has ever done for him. They were gone long before he was born, maybe even before his parents were.

And yet, Hugh wonders how these lands would have fared with the dragon around. Stories tell that the dragon was a protector. Someone who helped the villages through the harshest of winters.

If that was the case, then could the dragon have...?

Hugh shakes his head. There was no fairness in imagining what-ifs. It was humanity's fault that this dragon had to flee. That these lands no longer were safe enough to be called home. That the dragon was forced to hide in a land afar.

Even so, he's reminded of them. Of the bits and pieces he can recall, it's the ones him scaling this mountaintop long ago that shine through. About the gentle nip the cold air brings, that sort that's met with irritation, not fear. About the smile of those he no longer can complete the faces of. Who took his hands, and gently brought him to this clearing to witness the tradition firsthand.

...and, that's right. There were more than just physical offerings. When the whole village had put their heart into showing they cared, performers spoke of their longing of the dragon through song. The stage was set so everyone and anyone could follow the along, their footsteps searching to bring comfort to the dragon left to flee on their own.

Subconsciously, he takes a couple of steps of his own. It was a lonely walk that this dragon made. The songs that illustrated that were far from happy, weren't they? His younger self never quite caught on. Back then, it was all fun and games for him. A joy shared with those he cared about.

Another thing lost, in that buried mass of snow.

A few more steps are taken. He's been to plenty of bars and taverns that have entertainment. Plenty where he can watch someone dance, or was even encouraged to dance along. But here, it was very different. It was dark, cold, with little signs of life. He was alone, but...

But as his steps slow, it reminds him of a journey taken long ago. Away from comforts, away from a place once called home-

-something that, although under very different circumstances, he took some time ago.

Hugh doesn't speak of the time that he travelled to this mountain. He doesn't speak of the snowy lands that was once his home. Conversations about his parents are few - he avoids taking about his grandmother, unless he's in a serious need of convincing someone to support his grandma's so called 'ailing health'.

But on days when the town's festivals bring the monastery and the grounds surrounding it to life, or when a local establishment encourages their patrons to take the floor, it's there in his footsteps. A childlike wonder. A wish to be with family, to see their faces once more.

A yearning to find his way back to the home he knew, even when he knows that it's out of his reach.

[machiot]

pas seul

“Child, why do you not frolic and dance with the other children?” 

A gaggle of children, making their own fun while their parents pray indoors, roughhouse with each other in the clearing in front of the church. Snow falls gently, creating clumps here and there, but it does little to distract the children from their games. If anything, it only excites them further. Childish voices squeal and giggle as snowflakes dissolve against their chilled skin. Holding hands, they spin in circles fast enough to make even onlookers dizzy. With their hands in one another's hands, they hardly seem to feel the cold at all even though they’ve been shut out from the warm church.

The question spoken by the priest is not directed toward them, though. It’s meant for the young girl sitting on the steps by herself. She is a pretty little thing, with big doll-like eyes and blonde hair that hangs over her shoulders as coiled ringlets. She sits alone at a distance from the other children, kicking her legs back and forth to keep herself warm on a frigid winter morning. Her frock, provided by the priests for the orphan under their charge, is speckled with blood; remnants of some sort of scuffle.

None of it is her own blood, of course. 

The girl jumps to her feet, tucking her freezing hands behind her back. Like a dog waiting for a treat, she looks up with sparkling eyes and barks out a line as if she’d been waiting to say it. 

“I’m not gonna waste my time with those pathetic weaklings, Father!” 

The priest smiles, eyes crinkling. He’d known the answer before he asked the question aloud, but to hear it is always satisfactory. He places his hand gently on the girl’s head and she giggles. Compared to how withdrawn she had been when she first arrived, it’s hard to tell this lively child had ever been anything but animated. Like a lone ballerina on an abandoned music box, she just needed to be taken in and have her crank wound up by someone who knew her value.

“Good girl,” the priest praises, patting the girl’s head. “Lord Sombron will surely reward your devotion once He is returned to us. You need not pay the other children any mind. They do not understand His intentions as well as you do.”

Rather than playing with the other children, the girl is much prettier when she dances alone. Putting her hand in another’s is a waste of her talents, a distraction from what could be. The twirl of an axe, the spray of crimson blood on snow, blonde ringlets bouncing with her steps; all of it is more beautiful when she’s dancing by herself. If someone else needs to be on stage with her, it should only be to wind her back up so that she may go longer. 

Faster. 

More brutal. 

Around and around, again and again until even onlookers are dizzy.

When the music finally stops, the only person whose approval she needs is the person who taught her the steps.

That is the whole reason she’d been asked to stand outside of mass today rather than join in like usual, after all. A reminder to an abandoned little girl that she’s different from all of those children that would return home with their parents after mass ends. When the crowds thin, all that will remain is the clergy and the girl under their care. It is pointless to desire more when everything she needs is right here. The other children will not welcome a rowdy and violent brat into their throngs, but the priests will welcome her with open arms. When her legs shake from the cold and the tips of her fingers begin to turn blue, they’ll open the doors wide and bring her back into the warmth.

“Marni,” the priest says. He puts his hand on her back, escorting her back through the grand doors of the chapel. “It is still early, but come, there is someone who wishes to be introduced to you. Be on your best behavior; she is favored by Lord Sombron. If all goes well, your position will rise significantly.”

The heavy door creaks shut behind the young girl and the priest walking hand in hand, drowning out the sound of children outside collapsing in a pile of giggles and claps.

Class Mastered: Dancer

[bxldrsdraumar]

Would not, could not, would not, could not

dancer mastery; word count - 637

There had always been the vaguest awareness that he was meant to be seen, from the announcement of his birth, the cannonade that had been reported to leave the air thick with magical smoke and the revelry, the tourneys and balls and the murmurs of an heir, did you hear? An heir for Baldr's blood. Just like his great father. 

His steps had been followed, stumbling across the lush carpeted salles, ambling through the gleaming tiled foyers, then sprinting through halls with Chalphy's stewards and retainers just half a step behind until he left them in the dust entirely, pushing through the great entryway and out into the world. 

One-two, one-two, pret-lunge-parry-ripsote, he learned the basic box of the Grannvallian waltz, could do it with his eyes on his partner - focus, boy! - could do it blindfolded, could do it on horseback as well as he could on his own two feet, eventually could move so fast and so precise that a candle held in one hand would not extinguish. 

His instructors at Belhalla could not have been more pleased. An heir for Baldr's blood, just like his great father. 

Even as he moved from slick tiled floors to slick mud sucking at his boots, his steps were perfect, one-two, one-two, rank and file with all of his fellows, his pace quickening by the day to place him at the head of the column, the spotlight of the sun warm on his shoulders and face as he led the lines of men into familiar patterns, familiar steps against familiar partners, familiar horns and drums and banners a call and response rhythm until the night was over and won. 

Eyes on him ever still, his glide across the stage, the predictable flow of his movements mirroring generations before, the common refrain that Baldr boy a man now, that son of Chalphy followed him wherever he may have gone. 

But what a shame, what a shame there's no pretty partner on his arm. 

He'd never had need of one, in truth, had never yearned in the same way that so many others had, in the way his great father had for as long as he could remember, the heart aching and calling for its missing piece, whose mirrored steps made for the complete picture the audience wanted to see. 

Deirdre did not complete him, but she filled him in a way that was almost the same, and he found his steps lighter as though the eyes on him had not suddenly turned quite heavier, as though the eyes had not suddenly turned to her and placed her in the spotlight beside this heir to Baldr's blood. 

He recalled, occasionally, a moment where he and his sister had peered around the corner, their mother's dressing room where under the hot lights the mother of Chalphy, the wife of Baldr's blood, had covered the weakness in her failing heart with layers of makeup, the strength of her smile carrying her soft steps as she put on show after show, of light, of strength, of courage. 

The virtues of Chalphy, just not her blood. 

Deirdre did not know the steps, did not know what was expected of her when he had whisked her into the spotlight, but it was fine – he was Baldr's heir and he knew these steps by heart, could do them on horseback as well as his own two feet, could do them blindfolded, could take her in his arms and lift her to floating above the stage until she moved in tandem with him in the bright of the sun for all to see. 

And when Seliph had been announced, it was with magical cannonade, the air think with smoke and revelry and expectation, whispers of did you hear? An heir for Baldr's blood. 

Just like his great father. 

[gentlenekomata]

A quiet gasp left her lips at the sudden commotion, her hands instinctively clasping tighter in prayer before she turned toward the source of the sound. What she saw made her breath hitch.

“…Azura?”

Sakura blinked, half-wondering if her eyes were playing tricks on her. It had been so long. So much had happened. And yet, there she was—the same gentle grace in her movements, the same unmistakable blue hair cascading down her back. A figure so familiar, so dear to her heart that she had once thought of her as an older sister; they weren’t actually related, but to Sakura, Azura has been so dear and close that it was almost common and spontaneous to treat her like a sisterly figure. Sakura had spent much of her time looking up to Azura—admiring her quiet strength, finding comfort in her presence when the world felt too overwhelming. She had always been there, a steadying force, someone she could trust. And yet… something was different now.

The panic in Azura’s expression didn’t go unnoticed, nor did her clear attempt to slip away. That wasn’t like her at all. Sakura had expected surprise, maybe even joy at their reunion—but not this. Not the way Azura’s eyes darted away, as if she were ashamed, as if she were afraid –but of what? The past certainly gave them much to think about by now, but the present was something new, something unfamiliar yet quiet and calming compared to past events.

Sakura’s heart clenched and she quickly stood, her voice hushed yet urgent. “Azura, wait!” her voice was chirping, she hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. “Please don’t go… It’s really you, isn’t it?”

There was no anger, no blame—only quiet hope shining in her gentle eyes. But beneath that hope, a lingering unease took root. Why did it feel like Azura was a ghost of the sister she once knew?

as blush meets the dawn

[allegreta]

galdr of remembrance (dancer mastery drabble, 453 words)

Anniversaries, celebrated upon the year, are of less consequence to laguz than beorc. Years in and of themselves, while recognized, happen in far greater number to a laguz than a beorc, and thus are less significant.

When one follows the seasons as all living things do, though, times of year get associated with certain things. And the nightmares of fire and smoke and screams signify to Leanne that around now is the time of the Serenes Massacre, some twenty-six years ago. It is something she lives with, a scar that has closed and been soothed but aches from time to time, as is the nature of such a trauma.

She is no longer in Serenes to commemorate this as she has each year since she awoken from her slumber, but the woods by the monastery will do. The same moon shines upon them.

In the dead of night, she takes flight, quickly alighting as she reaches the forest grounds. The half moon flickers, nary a cloud in sight, and the chorus of crickets and owls welcomes her.

Slowly, quietly she joins them, her voice a low tone adjacent to sorrow. But not quite. It is melancholy, it carries sadness, but there is a life to it as well, a bittersweetness, as one might say.

The forest has gone silent, but slowly begins to raise its voice again--some in tune with Leanne. It is a mournful song, a remembering song, a song to honor the dead and grant strength to the living. Though the galdr is sung in ancient, its message is in a language universal.

It is about white wings raised in play and the crooning of loving parents. It spans arguments, festivals, and poetry in equal measure. Thousands of wings, thousands of beautiful minds and caring hearts are honored here, released into the wind with each breath. There is space for anger, space for the acrid smoke on the wind and the smell of charred feathers, blood in one's mouth and indignity at the senselessness of the world. But first and foremost, this is a galdr of remembrance.

Leanne carries this energy in her heart, releases it to the forest, to the spirits of those long passed. With the power of galdr, imparted upon her by the very people she honors in this night, she can bring joy and peace--and if it is necessary, utilize it in battle to protect those dear to her. This she promises to those who have gone before her, lost to time or tragedy. It will not end here. It will not end here. We will love and laugh and celebrate your lives, tell stories to our children and our children's children. It will not end here.

[freedomarrow]

The Way of You [Dancer drabble]

Do you remember the steps of this dance, Leonardo? Father’s calm voice asks. It has been so long since you last practiced, why don’t you show me what you can do?

I don’t like this dance, father, you say. It feels stifling, it feels crushing, it feels not like who I am.

But you must, my son, he says. This dance is a way of life, a way of fate, a way of you. We have another ball tomorrow, you must look the part, for the sake of the family, the line, the house. You will take the young lady’s hand, give a smile most charming, and remember:

Remember the correct steps: left, then turn, then bow, return.

Remember to join hands, gentle, warm, in gloves perfectly white.

Remember to turn right, then left, flow with the music, the noble lady in your arms.

So you do your best, but it feels wrong. You do it right, but it feels wrong. The steps are stiff, the hands are cold, the smile soon dies behind a frown. This is difficult, father, you say. Can we please take a break, at least for a little while? I will master it soon, I promise, I know this to be my role, my sworn mission to which I was born.

(Whether I want it or not, you think to yourself, for you shudder at the very thought of leading the house one day, but you are but a simple slave to your destiny, so privileged, and yet chained in this dance you did not desire to perform at all;)

But your father smiles and pats your back gently. Of course, my dearest son, you can take a break. This dance is a way of life, and there is time for a pause - but there is more to this role you have, and you must fill the momentary silence with another tune:

A tune of shouted orders, whistling of arrows, clanging of swords, hard boots marching against the concrete. A nobleman you are, and you have your duty, as a soldier, a warrior, a knight who will give his life for this land. Rhham-ta-ta-ta-tam-tam, rhham-ta-ta-ta-tam-tam, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four! For Daein, for glory, for might, for your king; for a better world, a world without the inferior race!

Rhham-ta-ta-ta-tam-tam, rhham-ta-ta-ta-tam-tam,

Father’s voice grows silent, why did he stop speaking. You don’t know the next steps, why is he not here to guide you anymore? Father, where are you, I’m lost, please help me. But he does not return; instead a new voice joins the song, a new pair of hands joins the dance, an unwelcome one, an unfriendly one, it hurts as they grab you, tug and pull, throw you to the ground amidst the crying, the shouting, the mocking, the laughing. Did you think that you did well, that it mattered?

It does not matter, nothing you do matters, what matters is that you remember -

Remember the correct steps (to the prison camp),

Remember to join hands (then break away and run),

Remember to turn right, then left (between those trees, they won’t find you there),

.

.

.

Father, I don’t know the rest of the steps, you never taught them to me.

That’s okay son, those are steps that I cannot possibly teach you. Those you must learn from the broken, the abandoned, the dispossessed.

They will take your hands and smile through tears, and you will do the same.

And you will dance through the streets, the fests, days and nights; across the plains and battlefields, you will dance through the way of your life,

and perhaps, one day, it will all be worth it in the end.

[gentlenekomata]

As she listened to him, Sakura slowly began to feel more assured and confident about the next moves to do: she knew for sure that even if something might get wrong, the Heron Prince would be there for her to help and support the whole situation, not letting anything bad happen to her and nor to the majestic griffon. They were in exceptionally good hands, that was for sure.

Replying with a firm nod of her head, the petite priestess turned towards the saddle perfectly placed on the back of the griffon – which, to be honest, seemed just a little bit smaller than she thought, but that was just a mere impression: the creature itself was tall and very sturdy, surely a piece of cake for the griffon to lift the petite princess up in the sky and dragged her around for its own entertainment. As Sakura gently placed her hands on the saddle, the griffon emitted a low snort, tilting its head to observe the pink-haired girl’s actions; on the other hand, Sakura felt a little pressure from its gaze, but turning towards Reyson and seeing his reassuring expression, convinced the petite princess to go on and push herself up on the saddle. She made a little hop and she was on top of the creature. Everything went smoothly.

“I did…it?” she looked surprised and incredulous, then she turned to gaze Reyson once more, “The griffon seems at ease..” she turned again to observe the neck of the creature, a slight caress as to assure she meant no harm. “I’ll try the technique you suggested me a little while ago” and she proceeded in picking the reins and carefully tightening the grip of her feet, rhythmically moving the back of her feet: as result, the griffon began to slowly walk straight forward, while stretching its wings as to warm them up. Maybe it needed a more specific prompt?

Unsure of the consequences that might happen, she decided to try and lift the reins up, pointing at the sky and as soon as she did this simply action, the griffon bounce towards the sky, wings wide opening and giving Sakura almost an heart attack, since she wasn’t fully prepared for an outcome like this. “W-Wooow!!” that was all she could manage to blurt from her mouth as she felt the ground leaving far behind, tightening the grip on the saddle and grasping the reins with firmness and eagerness. She was flying!! But.. where was Reyson now?

       galdr for a mount.

[mmoneystones]

Citrinne B.(rodia) Goode

A young blonde struggles for a moment to open the heavy, metal doors of her castle's ballroom. But her resolve wins over the struggle over weight in the end, and the doors yield. She is able to enter, where two figures meet her on the other side of the wide room.

One of them, her dance professor, that she grew very used to seeing. The other, however, is a sight that she likewise knows yet finds great joy in seeing here. It is her older brother, the eldest one in particular. He has taken time off his precious schedule of representing their family on the battlefield to bless his precious younger sibling!

"Today's lesson will be a review on group ballet. I presume you have no issue with the predetermined partner?"

"None at all, Instructor!" she practically gleams at the opportunity ahead of her. It is so rare for her to have a chance to dance with her close family, let alone her brothers.

The professor has fronted this as a simple lesson, but the noble knows better. She will present her dance with no less effort than as if this was a test. She will ensure her knowledge is on full display for the entire showing. Starting with...

Rule One of a good dance: Introduce yourself.

The partner has decided to dance with you, you and no one else. 

The dance has not even begun, yet Citrinne is well aware that proper ball etiquette begins now.

"How do you do? I'm Citrinne...but you already knew that, didn't you brother?" Citrinne lets out a soft, practiced laugh as she holds out a hand. "Shall we dance?"

He opens his mouth to say some words and connects himself to her with one hand. She is pulled in as his other arm wraps around her shoulders. Good, that settles the formalities. Now for the real part.

Rule Two: Follow their lead.

The dance is yours to give as much as they give it to you. 

It is expected of the man to control their movements, but that does not mean Citrinne walks along idly.

When her brother steps, she steps alongside him. When he stops, she stops right next to him. When he intends to dip, she lowers her body as well.

All of these movements are too simple, Citrinne pouts to herself. He isn't going easy on her because of her age, is she? She has been practicing these moves for many months now, and she will do the same for many years afterwards.

It was time for her to be their guide. The child uses her free arm to lightly tap her brother's side. He only nods, the siblings not needing words to know what she wants next.

Rule Three: Share the dance.

The galas are for more than you and them. 

A teenage blonde is released by one brother, twirling down a straight line. She is then caught by another brother, this one being the younger of the two.

His dance maneuvers are not as polished as her previous partner, his footsteps being the slightest bit slower. But this is acceptable, great even. It is expected for Citrinne to adapt to any type of dancer on the ballroom floor.

And of course, there is no better excuse than now for her to take the lead.

Citrinne's grip tightens to her brother, demanding him to follow wherever she desires. Experience shines through as an awkward strut becomes a prideful march. Proper space is ensured before making proud leaps. Her free hand extends outward to put emphasis on their twirls.

She looks into her brother's eyes. They share a similar shade of red to her own. Even with a deeper hue, the shine within them proves that he is enjoying himself.

Everything is going so well...are there any steps that she is forgetting?

Rule Four: Express your enjoyment.

Enjoyment? I'm...I'm happy, am I not?

Citrinne recalls the lesson perfectly in her mind, but directs it at herself this time. While she has laughed, cooperated, and moved for the duration of this dance, she can feel her expression remain the same. That same, neutral stare.

She has never forced her lips to curl upwards. It feels unnatural, even if she feels content on the inside. Her brothers tell her that look suits her, but they are always smiling during their dances.

Citrinne looks down at her middle brother's happy expression. She wants so hard to mirror that look, to hold the same grin that her other dance partners have shown her in the past. But no matter the amount of balls she attends, the lessons she takes, Citrinne's face remains the same.

Her brothers said that she is fine the way she is. But...is that true? Are they happy to dance with a bored sister? An emotionless mannequin?

...Citrinne taps his side twice more. She wants to spin again.

Rule Five: Take the dance with you.

The dance floor is your battlefield. Only you can choose to initiate the fight.

An adult blonde lets go of an invisible brother's grip, twirling off by herself within an empty knight's longue. She is alone, yet satisfied enough to go through the routine by her lonesome.

Citrinne's spins shine with the grace of diamonds. Her eyes hold the fiery determination of rubies. She jumps to the rhythm of glistening emeralds.

No one is around to admire her waltzes, but that is okay. She is only practicing the same moves she has pulled off years prior, so that she is ready for the chance to show them off at parties once more.

To be honest, Citrinne holds little specific memory from most of her ballroom dancing lessons. The instructor always pushed her hard, but she held excellent rankings so often that every test is now a blur. That does not mean that she holds no nostalgia from those times, far from it.

She still struggles to smile even while dancing, her greatest place of comfort. Citrinne does not mind anymore, as seeing the smiles of her own partner is enough for her. Dance is her field of expertise, and she will always be happy to share it. That is all she needs to express her enjoyment.

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

EMPEROR'S DANCER SIMON

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ah, well… it’s tradition.”

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

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

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

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

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

and you, despite yourself, sat frozen.

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

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

his mask tilted, just a fraction.

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

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

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

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

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

wait, what?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a long pause.

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

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

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

“as you wish.”

( … )

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

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

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

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

‘have you eaten?’

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

and you had not only noticed— you had acted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

and that had been it.

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

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

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

“yeah,” he said, voice steady.

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

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

“they were… kind.”

( … )

the purge began in the dead of night.

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

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

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

there were no warnings. no trials.

the emperor had decreed judgment, and judgment had come.

by sunrise, half the imperial council was gone.

the first whisper of it reached simon before breakfast.

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

“did you hear?” he blurted.

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

“what?” he muttered.

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

“who?”

“the council.”

simon blinked. he must have misheard.

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

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

a strange silence settled over simon.

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

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

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

but the details were undeniable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

but something had.

the executions began swiftly.

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

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

then, the council itself.

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

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

the emperor had let the people see them.

no quiet assassinations. no discreet poisonings.

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

the empire had not wept for them.

simon listened.

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

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

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

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

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

had you ever been afraid at all?

( … )

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

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

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

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

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

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

overworked, someone murmured. drowning, another whispered.

and then, after a full month— a summons.

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

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

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

and now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

you barely looked at him at all.

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

simon danced.

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

the dance was finished.

he hesitated undressing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

simon’s fingers found the clasp at his belt.

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

simon paused. he looked up.

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

you weren’t looking at him. not really.

you were still nervous.

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

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

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

simon stared.

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

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

it becomes a ritual from then on.

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

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

but then it became habit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

all of them were pristine. except for—

you stopped. blinked. tilted your head.

the animal stared back.

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

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

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

a dog.

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

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

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

loyal. protective.

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

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

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

but it wasn’t for you.

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

no, this is different.

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

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

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

but for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then— simon falls to his knees.

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

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

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

you hesitate.

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

simon’s hands shake. just slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

( … )

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

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

“why?” you ask. “why a dancer?”

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

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

you tilt your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but you don’t.

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

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

you only smile, the curve of your lips unwavering.

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

( … )

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

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

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

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

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

you are waiting for him.

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

simon stops.

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

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

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

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

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

“pay it off,” you say.

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

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

after that, he trains.

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

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

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

‘he was a dancer.’

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

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

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

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

and so they corner him.

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

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

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

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

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

but it doesn’t matter.

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

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

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

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

the crack is loud. the laughter stops.

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

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

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

“c-commander-!” someone chokes.

but it’s too late.

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

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

one. two. three times.

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

the others start backing up.

price is only just getting started.

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

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

and then, silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and yet, when you see him, you smile.

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

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

the candle flickers. and then, a quiet chuckle.

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

“i don’t need glory.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

( … )

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

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

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

instead, they watch him. assess him.

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

and while simon is not tested, he is measured.

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

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

and they notice other things, too.

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

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

and they seem… pleased.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"you so do."

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

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

and he is.

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

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

( … )

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

and yet, they are his all the same.

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

but you never withdrew it. and simon never refused.

today, however, he hesitates.

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

you notice. you always do.

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

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

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

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

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

you laugh. it is a rare sound.

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

instead it's something else. something real.

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

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

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

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

“your majesty.”

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

i love you.

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.

and he still doesn’t pull out.

[venussaidso]

𝙈𝙖𝙜𝙝𝙖 & 𝙋𝙪𝙧𝙫𝙖 𝙋𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙜𝙪𝙣𝙞

Finally, Ketu x Venus serving through Hades and Persephone.

Fanart by momithastobeclever.

Persephone or Underworld feminine archetypes seem to be commonly played by Venus nakshatra natives.

Bharani Sun Rosario Dawson as Persephone.

Ketu's void is with Hades being the Lord of the Underworld — Ketu = poverty, detachment, hidden realms and darkness. So his appearance is dark and not abundant, he resides away from the land of the living, and his wealth is associated with hidden resources of the earth.

Technically, this is how the Ketu nakshatra-Venus nakshatra pairing conceptually looks like in this tale, with both nakshatra lords being combined with fire rashis. DeviantArt.

While Persephone is the Goddess of Spring — Venus = beauty, harmony, pleasure, and values. Hades' obsession with her is definitely due to their polarity. Magha and Purva Phalguni are yoni consorts, after all.

Magha Moon Cheyenne Jackson as Hades.

Hades is related to Wealth. This makes a solid connection to Magha nakshatra, as Magha's wealth is associated with the dead.

Purva Phalguni Sun & ASC Salma Hayek as an Underworld exotic dancer.

Purva Phalguni nakshatra is associated with pleasure, art, and romance. It is related to Bhaga, the god of marital bliss and prosperity, symbolizing the fulfillment of desires and the celebration of love, fruition, creativity etc. Blending so well with Persephone's purpose of being a goddess of flowers, vegetation and agriculture. In my Venus Dominant Themes post, I talked about Venusians finding themselves between crossroads, conceptually blending their beautifully harmonious nature with a violent or gothic side.

Persephone makes so much sense for Purva Phalguni as well, as this nakshatra is the final stage of creation. Magha nakshatra is related to the power of manifestation through detachment & other ascetic means.

Magha Moon Neville Goddard, the mystic writer who taught various self-help methods for testing his own claim that the human imagination is omnificent, therefore God. Coining the Law of Assumption and claiming himself a witness to his own manifesting powers.

Magha's relation with leaving the body associates to manifestation powers simply through the principle of detachment and accessing higher realms of consciousness. This idea of leaving the body is tied Ketu’s influence, which governs moksha (liberation), past life experiences, the ability to transcend the physical and to therefore master it (rather than getting caught up with it, as seen with Rahu's tendency to be immersed with Maya).

Mystic author & teacher, Magha Moon Lester Levenson. His Release Technique focuses on letting go of attachments to emotions and desires to clear the mind for effortless manifestation and mastery over the physical. He taught that by releasing egoistic attachments, one can access a state of pure being, allowing desires to manifest naturally.

Hades symbolically represents the power of manifestation, from themes of hidden wealth, transformation through detachment, and the unseen forces which shape reality.

Mula Sun Ralph Fiennes as Hades.

Mula nakshatra, through its natives, are often powerful agents of change. This is seen through Hades being a catalyst for Persephone's profound transformation from being the Goddess of Spring to the Queen of the Underworld. Mula nakshatra is ruled by Nirriti or Kali Ma, the goddess of dissolution and destruction. Persephone's identity essentially dissolves after he abducts her.

Marvel's Hela, portrayed by Ashwini Moons Cate Blanchett & Nika Futterman, is Ruler of the Underworld, just like Hades is in Greek Mythology.

Persephone symbolically represents the power of transformation between crossroads, the balance between light & dark, and cycles of renewal — serving as a bridge between the seen and unseen realms, as beautifully tied in Bharani nakshatra. Her myth embodies the themes of death & rebirth, and the integration of opposites, making her a symbol of absolute creation which complements Hades, who is impoverished in ways that she is abundant.

Bharani ASC Anya Taylor Joy as Sandie, a beautiful aspiring singer, who gets trafficked into an Underworld of sorts, very akin to the kidnapping of Persephone.

So the union of Magha and Purva Phalguni ultimately serves as a complete royal experience, as Magha is the throne & of hidden wealth and Purva Phalguni is the bed of pleasures & creation. Persephone becomes Queen of the Underworld beside her dark King.

Pinterest.

(more fictional Venus-Ketu pairs calling to these themes.)

[gentlenekomata]

Horses, pegasi, wyverns, kinshi, and now riding wolves and griffons - the monastery’s menagerie keeps on growing, and the stables can barely contain all of them anymore! The Church calls students, Professors and Knights alike to help ensure that all of these animals have proper care. It’s also important to them that everyone knows how to take care of and handle all of these different species, in the name of versatility, broader horizons, and preserving harmony. Perhaps you will take this chance to bond with a new mount you’d never even considered before? [Grants Riding +1]

starter for @firelles

Sakura was a frequent visitor of the stables, a place where she usually spent lots of her free time, because she was deeply in love with nature and creatures belonging with nature, that was any kind of creature the monastery could welcome – horses, pegasi, wyverns, kinshi, and now riding wolves and griffons. There was a wide choice and the petite priestess couldn’t more happier than this; two or three afternoon per week, she lingered at the stables for cleaning the animal rest areas, their bowls and then she replenished every single one with foodies and nutritious supplies. Plus, she always got the chance to groom each creature, even though not really everyone was friendly enough to be touched –but she did manage to reach most hearts!

That afternoon was like many others: the petite priestess was heading towards the new area of the stables – the one keeping griffons –, ready to clean some open spaces with the mop, but as she entered the area, her goldenish eyes immediately were caught by the presence of a familiar figure, but still not properly introduced: she was a petite girl like her, a student probably and she was gently caressing the snout of a horse, in a nearby area of the stables. The gentleness of her attentions deeply affected Sakura’s heart and without thinking twice, she changed direction and went towards her, still keeping the mop for later cleanings.

“You really do love animals, don’t you?” she chirped as she addressed to her, hoping to not have scared her with her sudden presence – the horse did notice her arrival, though –, “They have something unique –just can’t tell why, but I feel it, like they can touch my soul with just a glance” she softened the tone, though suddenly realizing she still had not introduce herself to her.

“I’m Sakura, by the way” she stretched her free hand, sharing a genuine smile with her, “Very pleasure to meet you!” and she gave a quick look around, staring at the new area of the stables. “Have you already been in the griffons’ area?”

animals lovers ❀ | Sakura & Céline

[reveryfics]

Marvelous

Charles Xavier x Male Reader

Summary: Charles and Eric's need for new mutants brings them to a mutant owned Burlesque club, introducing them to a particular shape-shifter.

A/N: I'm back earlier then expected, but hopefully this and the Valentines Day fic make up for when I was gone. Requests open.

The velvet curtains parted with a sigh, releasing Charles and Eric into the smoky embrace of the Burlesque club. The air hung thick with the scent of perfume, sweat, and anticipation. A sharply dressed maître d' immediately recognized them, his eyes widening slightly before a professional smile smoothed over his features. "Gentlemen," he murmured, ushering them through the crowded room. "Your table awaits."

They were led to a plush, dimly lit booth nestled near the grand stage, a prime vantage point for the evening's entertainment. The murmur of the crowd, the clinking of glasses, the low thrum of the music – all of it faded into the background as the house lights began to dim, casting long, dramatic shadows across the room. A hush fell over the audience, a collective intake of breath before the show began.

Then, you appeared.

A single spotlight pierced the darkness, illuminating the stage and revealing your striking presence. The shimmering blue of your skin seemed to absorb and reflect the light, an otherworldly hue that immediately captivated the eye. A cascade of luxurious blonde curls framed your face, contrasting beautifully with your unusual blue skin tone. A delicate pearl necklace rested against your chest, the creamy orbs glowing softly against your skin. The undeniably scandalous outfit you wore, a masterpiece of shimmering fabrics and strategically placed embellishments, clung to your body like a second skin, accentuating every curve and line. You moved with a mesmerizing grace, each step, each gesture, imbued with a confidence that radiated outwards, filling the entire room. It was as if the stage were your own private domain, a world where you reigned supreme. You danced with a passion that transcended mere performance, lost in the rhythm with the other Burlesque dancers, each movement a story told in the language of the body.

Your eyes swept across the audience, a slow, deliberate survey that took in every face, every expression. Then, your gaze locked with theirs. A slow, knowing smile spread across your lips, a hint of mischief dancing in your eyes. You danced closer to their booth, your hips swaying rhythmically, your eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings as you dipped low, your eyes locking with Charles's. You knew exactly who they were, and precisely why they had come. And you were damned if you wouldn't offer Charles a private showing of your… talents.

The crowd erupted in cheers, a wave of voices chanting your name, a testament to your popularity. As the music reached a crescendo, your body began to shift and change before their very eyes. The transformation was seamless, fluid, almost magical. Feminine features melted into masculine contours, delicate lines hardened into powerful angles. It was a breathtaking display of control and artistry, a testament to your mastery over your own form. The audience gasped, captivated by the spectacle unfolding before them.

Charles visibly licked his lips, his eyes glued to the stage. For a moment, he seemed to forget Eric's presence beside him, lost in the mesmerizing performance. "He's quite… marvelous, isn't he, Charles?" Eric murmured, his eyes fixed on you.

Charles could only nod, his breath catching in his throat. His gaze remained locked on the stage as you shed the last remnants of your costume, revealing a skin-tight ensemble that accentuated every curve and line of your newly formed body. The performance was hypnotic, a captivating blend of power and grace.

When your show concluded, a stagehand approached Charles, discreetly gesturing for him to follow. Eric gave him a knowing look, a hint of amusement in his eyes, as Charles was led through the club, the pulsating music and excited chatter fading slightly as he neared your dressing room.

The room was small but luxurious, decorated with plush velvet drapes and ornate mirrors. You were seated on a silken chaise lounge, a robe loosely draped around your form, a picture of relaxed power. A half-empty bottle of champagne sat on a nearby table, along with two crystal glasses. "Charles Xavier," you purred, a hint of amusement in your voice. "I knew you'd come."

Before Charles could even speak, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his hand before closing around his wrist, tugging him closer. Your eyes, intense and knowing, looked up at him through your lashes. "Crawling back to a shapeshifter, after Raven left you," you whispered, your voice laced with a playful challenge, a hint of vulnerability beneath the bravado. "So scandalous, yet I have a feeling you enjoy it."

Charles felt his cheeks flush, a mixture of embarrassment and intrigue swirling within him. He couldn't deny the similarities between you and Mystique, but there was something different about you, an undeniable spark, a magnetic pull that drew him in. "Perhaps," he admitted, his voice a low murmur, his eyes searching yours. "But something tells me you aren't like Mystique. Although we could use someone of your… talents."

A throaty laugh escaped your lips, the sound both seductive and playful. Your body began to shift and change once more, the transformation as seamless and captivating as it had been on stage. It was a display of power, a demonstration of your complete control over your own form. "How could I say no to someone so… persuasive?" you purred, your voice a silken caress.

You released Charles' wrist, rising to your feet and backing him against the vanity. One hand cupped his cheek, your touch surprisingly gentle, while the other rested on the cool surface behind him, trapping him in your gaze. "We're going to get along nicely," you whispered, your breath warm against his skin. Then, you leaned in, capturing his lips in a quick, tantalizing kiss, a promise of more to come.

You pulled away, licking your lips, a mischievous glint in your eyes. With a graceful turn, you walked out of the dressing room, offering a playful wave to Eric, who was waiting just outside, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

Charles touched his lips, a small, involuntary smile playing on his mouth. He knew he was a sucker for people like you, for the thrill of the unexpected, the allure of the unknown. He was drawn to your confidence, your power, your undeniable charisma.

"I'm so screwed," he muttered, a mixture of amusement, apprehension, and a touch of excitement swirling within him. He knew he was walking a dangerous line, but he couldn't resist the temptation to follow where you led.

[burntheedges]

Pas de Deux Chapter 1

Din Djarin x f!reader | 2.9k | fic masterlist | main masterlist | ao3

fic summary: When Din Djarin – principal dancer at Concordia Ballet Company and generational talent in the classical style – suddenly left CBC and joined the Nevarro Ballet Theater mid-season, it shocked the ballet world. You never would have guessed that he would change your life, too.

a/n: here we go! Chapter 1 starts sometime in late fall, November-ish. See my notes on the masterlist about reader in this fic and ballet in general. Thank you @katareyoudrilling for being the best beta, as always!!

chapter tags/warnings: gen, ballet terms (see end notes and the masterlist for definitions), a bit of angst

Chapter 1

“‘In a surprise move that shook the dance world, the Concordia Ballet Company announced yesterday that they have parted ways with principal dancer Din Djarin.’”

You could hear the sudden gasps through the open door of the large studio as you walked towards it. You recognized Clara’s voice as she read the news aloud, you assumed from her phone. 

“‘Djarin, 27, who trained at the rigorous Concordia Ballet School from a young age, has been with CBC for 10 years and is in the prime of his career. He was promoted from soloist to principal two years ago, as is the norm at CBC, where they do not promote dancers younger than 25 to principal. His performances have been highlights on the CBC schedule over the last two seasons, earning many rave reviews.’” 

You turned the corner to enter the studio and found most of the company class crowded around Clara as she looked down at her phone.

“‘The CBC press release did not indicate the reason for the split, which only makes this mid-season decision more disconcerting for fans and donors alike.’”

The group around Clara murmured and shifted their weight. You had just read the article on the bus and knew what was coming next. You slid down to sit against the wall by the door, watching.

“‘This decision comes amidst the company’s preparation for spring and for the last show on their fall schedule, Don Quixote, with no explanation as to how their roster of principals and other dancers may be adjusted to compensate for this enormous loss. Djarin is well known for his powerful physique, technical mastery, and classically perfect performances.’” Clara paused, and then continued, “then it talks about some of his work, we know all of that already, blah blah blah, ok whoa!” She gasped. “Ok. Listen to this – ‘Djarin has not been available for comment, but was seen boarding a flight to Nevarro two days ago before the announcement was made public!'”

You started to put on your shoes for barre and watched as everyone else in the room started to completely freak out.

“Here?!” Owen exclaimed, hand thrown over his mouth. “Is he coming here here?” He gestured around the studio as he asked.

Clara shrugged. “It doesn’t say, look, that’s the end of the article.”

Sophie had started rising up and down on the balls of her feet by one of the barres and you weren’t sure if she was aware she was doing it. Her tone was excited as she asked, “would he come here? Why? We’re, like, not his style.”

The room broke down into several noisy conversations at that point, and you felt your friend Adrian slip down the wall to sit next to you. “So, what do you think?” he asked, nudging your shoulder. 

You shrugged. “No idea. I can’t see any reason he’d even want to come here. CBC is so…” You trailed off, but he knew what you meant.

“Yeah. Traditional. Rigid. Not like us at all.” Adrian waved his hand towards the mismatched group of dancers in front of you and you both smiled. The Nevarro Ballet Theater was different from the Concordia Ballet Company in many ways, and the diversity of dancers in the company was one of the things that set NBT apart the most.

You nodded. “Right. If his flight destination even means anything.”

“If it does, what would that mean for us?” Adrian looked around the room. “We already have a full roster of soloists and principals.” He bit his lip. He looked nervous, and he wasn’t the only one — you noticed Sasha, Lu, Carlos, and Isaac were huddled around the bar, clearly worried. All principals, you assumed they were nervous about losing out on parts. For Adrian, you knew it was because he had just made soloist at the start of the season. A new superstar coming in might shake things up too much.

You nudged his shoulder with your own. “I was thinking about that when I read it on the bus. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I heard what Karga said, about how good you are.”

He nodded, but didn’t look reassured. “At least you don’t have anything to worry about, Ms. Soon-To-Be-Principal.” 

You rolled your eyes and shoved down the anxiety lurking in your stomach. You’d made soloist a couple of years ago, and then first soloist this season. There were some people (including Adrian) who seemed to think you’d be promoted soon, as early as the end of the current season. But there were at least a few critics who disagreed, and for months you’d been having trouble putting the words of one in particular out of your mind. You could quote it from memory:

“While her lyricism and skill are undeniable, one wonders if she has the artistry or stage presence to carry a narrative. She more than deserves the promotion to first soloist, but is this her ceiling?” 

You wished you’d never read the article, but it had seemed to be the usual season preview and you hadn’t been expecting the targeted commentary. You’d spent the last few months trying not to think about it too much, or you knew you would get all in your head about it.

“Shut up.” You nudged him again and he laughed.

He opened his mouth to respond, but he was interrupted by the door opening next to you. It wasn’t your teacher who walked in, though, and once you saw who it was you both leapt to your feet.

Greef Karga, director of the Nevarro Ballet Theater, looked happy, but then he usually did. 

“Good morning, dancers!’ His voice was deep and loud and you all scrambled into a semi-circle facing him at the door, where your ballet instructor, Alexa, followed him in. You chorused a “good morning” in response.

“I’m sure you’ve all seen the news,” Karga continued, with a knowing smile on his face. “And you must be wondering why I’m here!” You glanced in the mirror and noted that everyone did indeed look both curious and a little wary. “Well, I am very pleased to confirm that Din Djarin will be joining us for the rest of the season here at NBT.”

There was some general murmuring and shock in response, but he was not deterred.

“I know we’re in the middle of the season, with many roles already planned. Din and I have agreed to try not to disrupt that too much this year. We’ll be adding some things to the anniversary gala and the mixed programs.” That made sense — the latter were showcases of the work of different composers and choreographers and could be more easily rearranged to include a new dancer. “We won’t be making any changes to Midsummer, Swan Lake, or Cinderella, which I know we’re already planning for and rehearsing.” You felt Adrian take a deep, relieved breath beside you. He was supposed to be Puck this year for the first time and it sounded like that wasn’t going to change. 

“Din will start joining your classes and the rehearsals for the gala and other programs over the course of the next two weeks. Please introduce yourself and welcome him — we are very excited to have him join us.”

You all nodded, of course, even though you knew a lot of your fellow dancers would be wary of the newcomer. 

“Well!” Karga clapped his hands together and smiled. “I’ll let you get started. Continue with your rehearsals as normal unless you hear otherwise. Have a wonderful day, everyone!”

Alexa moved towards the stereo system in the corner as Karga swept out of the room, and you turned to look at Adrian. 

“Well,” he said, turning towards his usual place at the barre. “This should be interesting.”

You nodded as Alexa turned on the music and you took your usual spot next to him at the barre. It definitely would be.

…

After all that excitement, you didn’t even see Djarin for a few days. He didn’t join the morning company classes right away, but you couldn’t really blame him — moving suddenly across the country wasn’t easy. It didn’t stop you from glancing around every room as you entered, trying to catch sight of your elusive new company member. 

You heard from the others that he’d dropped by a couple of rehearsals, and they’d overheard him talking about plans for the mixed programs with some of the choreographers and other staff, including Talia and Jee. You wondered if he’d ever met Kuiil, the current guest choreographer in residence, who traveled and usually worked with different companies every few years. You somehow doubted it — Kuiil’s style was much too contemporary for CBC.

You’d been in rehearsals for Nutcracker and Midsummer all week, though, so you weren’t really surprised that you hadn’t run into him yet. 

Finally, on Friday morning, you arrived early for class to find a group of your fellow company members huddled by the mirror and staring awkwardly across the room. You followed their gaze and found Din Djarin, in the flesh, warming up at the barre. For a moment you couldn’t reconcile the sight of him in your familiar space. He was tall and imposing, and dressed all in black — black ballet shoes, black tights, black sweats that cut off below his knees, and a tight black long sleeve shirt that showcased the breadth of his shoulders and just how strong he was. His curly brown hair was tousled. His signature mustache, somewhat uncommon in ballet, was in place, though you knew he often shaved for performances — there had been articles about his daring breach of the Concordia status quo when he didn’t. At least at NBT he’d be allowed to keep it, you thought. His face was blank, completely expressionless as he stretched. 

You knew he had to know the rest of the group was watching him, and when you glanced back and found them still huddled you sighed. You felt someone step into the room behind you and turned to find Adrian taking in the standoff. 

He shook his head. “Great start.” His tone was dry, and you laughed under your breath. 

“Should we say hello?” You sat to put on your ballet shoes and Adrian sank down beside you.

“Who, us?” Adrian raised an eyebrow at you. “Do I look brave to you?” 

You laughed again, and were about to suggest going together for moral support when Alexa walked in. She took in the situation and sighed, shaking her head as she crossed the room to where Djarin was still warming up alone.

“Look! Alexa took care of it.” Adrian nudged you and smiled. “No need for us to take one for the team after all.”

The two of you watched as she spoke with him, though you couldn’t hear what they were saying. He nodded at her, and she smiled before walking towards the stereo.

“Alright, let’s get started!” She called out without looking to see if anyone listened, but you all did. You realized as you took your normal spot that you were diagonal from Djarin across the space between two of the barres in the middle of the floor. You’d be able to see him whenever you were working your left side, and somewhat in the mirror on your right. You resolved not to stare.

You only sort of succeeded.

The problem, you quickly realized, was that his movements were beautiful. Even while doing simple pliés or tendus you could see the power in his body, the strength in his muscles, the rigor of his training. Every movement was precise, clean, and perfectly placed. The elegant line of his arm and the curve of his hip drew your gaze like a magnet, over and over again. His effortless coordination and control were mesmerizing. You watched the slow extension of his leg into grand battement until you had to force yourself to tear your eyes away.

Well, you thought, he certainly lives up to all of the hype about technique. CBC had a reputation and he more than exceeded it.

It made you painfully aware of the limits of your own abilities. You knew you were good – you’d made it this far, of course, and now you were first soloist, despite having what was seen as a late start in ballet (at age 7). And despite what the critics said, you were considered to be one of the better technicians at NBT. But you were no match for his level of skill, for the rigorous training you’d heard about at CBC. That much was obvious just from looking at him. 

You tried to clear your mind as the class continued, knowing your worries would start to show in your movements if you let them. It was hard to do that when so much strength and technical perfection stood only five feet away from you, demonstrating the ideal version of every move and transition that you attempted.

As you finished at the barre and quickly put on your pointe shoes to work in the center of the room, you finally put it out of your mind. There was no use in comparison, you’d learned that a long time ago. In the end, the only dancer you could compete with was yourself. And NBT was not a company that encouraged that kind of competition among dancers anyway.

You found your feet going across the floor, letting yourself sink into it as you moved through some jumps and short combinations. You tried to feel nothing but the pull in your muscles and pattern of your breath. By the end of the class you felt a little steadier, a little more centered.

Alexa dismissed the class, and you started to gather your things. As you slipped off your pointe shoes, you felt someone brush past you, heading for the door — Djarin didn’t look back as he crossed the threshold into the hall. You realized as he did that he hadn’t spoken a single word for the entire class. You wondered if he was unhappy to be here, after all. 

By the time you stepped into the hallway, he was nowhere to be seen.

Adrian fell into step next to you as you walked towards the larger rehearsal studios at the other end of the building. He hooked your arms together and looked around quickly to see if anyone was nearby. He leaned in to whisper, “did you see that? He was amazing!”

You nodded. “I know. I didn’t think anyone could live up to all that hype, but he does.”

Adrian shook his head, looking dismayed. “I know they said some roles wouldn’t change but, ugh. I wouldn’t blame them.”

“Hey,” you elbowed him lightly. “Don’t. You’re going to be amazing as Puck. And you know that role plays to your strengths. I don’t see him taking that one from you. It’s not really his style.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I guess. Ok, let’s hurry, I need to tape my knee before Nutcracker.” You winced in sympathy, knowing how much he’d be jumping in practice for both the Russian dance and the jack-in-the-box roles. But his words jogged your memory.

“Shit.” You froze in the hallway. “I left my tape in the studio. Go ahead, I’ll meet you there.”

He nodded, but you were already turning as you said it, waving him on.

You heard him jog off towards the rehearsal rooms behind you as you walked quickly back the way you’d come, turning past the bathrooms and the administrative offices. It didn’t take long and your tape was right where you’d left it. 

Tape in hand, you turned around again and started walking back down the long hall. 

As you approached the offices, though, the sound of Karga’s raised voice stopped you in your tracks, just around the corner from his office door.

“We talked about this, Din. It's part of this company’s identity. You want to break away from them? You need to make a statement.” You heard the slapping sound of one hand against another and imagined Karga hitting his hand with his fist for emphasis. 

“No, Greef, listen. I don’t—“ You startled. It was the first time you’d heard Djarin’s voice and it was much deeper and more pleasant than you would have imagined. 

Karga interrupted him. “No, you listen. Din, you can do this. I know you can. And it will show them everything they’re missing, everything they let slip through their fingers. They are so stuck in their ways, they have no idea what you can really do. What you’re capable of. Let me help you get there.”

You heard Djarin sigh. “This will go badly and I’m going to blame you.”

Karga chuckled. You tried to picture Djarin looking amused, too, and failed. All you could conjure was the expressionless mask he’d kept in place for all of class that morning. Karga continued, “I’ll take it happily. This is going to be great, don’t you worry! We’ll ease you into it. Now, let’s go share the news.”

You heard them start to move around in the office and startled into motion. As you turned the corner, the door to Karga’s office swung open in front of you and Din Djarin stepped out of it. He was moving quickly, shoulders hunched, brow furrowed. He barely glanced in your direction, but when he did, you took a surprised step back at the fierceness of his glare. It was the most emotion you’d seen from him so far, and it wasn’t exactly pleasant. He didn’t stop, though, and quickly turned away from you to move down the hall towards rehearsal. You blinked, frozen mid-step, unable to shake the look he’d just given you. What was that about?

...

| next

a/n: sooo what do you think? ballet terms in this chapter:

see the masterlist for principal, soloist, class vs. rehearsal, season

plié - a bending of the needs (you've probably seen dancers standing at the barre and bending their knees -- that's a plié)

tendu - tight or stretched out - stretching one leg out long, often in brushes along the floor

grand battement - the leg is raised from the hip into the air and brought down again, both knees straight (with apparent ease)

barre - the rail that ballet dancers use in class (don't lean on it!). usually you'd wear normal ballet shoes at the barre and switch into pointe shoes (toe shoes) to do exercises in the center or go across the floor

and if you'd like a visual aid, one of the dancers I'm mentally modeling Din after is Carlos Acosta, who you can see in this compilation (~6:49) doing a variation from Don Quixote.

tag list coming in a reblog!

[heartlilith]

Astrology Observations

Here are some of my observations and opinions on various placements - Part 5

🖤Pay attention to the degrees in your natal chart, as they influence the energy projected by a specific planet/placement. Here are some quick notes:

0° - Marks a fresh energy, beginnings, a lot of things to learn, growing into this placement, can make this placement more naive/immature.

1°/ 13° / 25°- Aries/Mars energy - Makes a placement more aggressive/brave, extroverted, and quick. Brings more of a leadership energy to the placement.

2° / 14° / 26° - Taurus/Venus energy - Can make a placement more polite, grounded, sensual, and down to Earth. This degree can also signify wealth. Makes a placement more appealing and agreeable.

3° / 15° / 27°- Gemini/Mercury energy - Placements with these degrees can be more curious, detached, less grounded, more talkative. These degrees can also signify high intellect or a duality.

4° / 16° / 28° - Cancer/Moon energy - Can make a placement more soft, adds feminine energy or placement could be highly influenced by feminine energy (MC in 4° can signify working with women or women having a big impact on your career for example), can make a placement more emotional.

5° / 17° - Leo/Sun energy - The fame degree! Makes a placement more recognizable, popular, self-centered. These degrees also add creativity, boldness, and confidence to a placement.

6° / 18° - Virgo/Mercury energy - Adds more logic/analytical energy to a placement, adds wisdom and nervous energy, makes a placement more "neat" and confined.

7° / 19° - Libra/Venus energy - Emphasizes the beauty of a placement, politeness, creativity. Can make a placement more apt to romanticize (ASC - how you see the world, Venus - how you see love, Mars - liking romantic sex more than casual sex)

8° / 20° - Scorpio/Pluto energy - Signifies a lot of transformations for a specific placement, a lot of breaking and healing in the area of this degree. Can add obsessiveness/powerfulness/mystery/depth to a placement.

9° / 21° - Sagittarius/Jupiter energy - Adds a more "happy go lucky" vibe, more free flowing, popularity, brings luck and wisdom. Jupiter is expansions it could also expand whatever placement you have this degree in (Mars - more physical energy, Sun - more egotistical, 5th house - more children, creativity).

10° / 22° - Capricorn/Saturn energy - Can slow down a placement (Venus - won't be in a relationship until later in life, Mercury - might talk in a slower pace). Brings lessons and trials to the area of this degree, maturity, ambition, seriousness.

11° / 23° - Aquarius/Uranus energy - Brings something unique to a placement, gives a placement some shock factor and flare. Can make a placement more easy going and inclusive.

12° / 24° - Pisces/Neptune energy - Makes a placement more delulu (lol). Higher octave of Venus so it adds to the beauty of a placement (Sun - adds beauty to your energy, Mercury - adds beauty to your writing/speaking abilities, Mars - adds beauty to the way you physically move (like a dancer)).

29° - Can add mastery, maturity, karmic lessons to a placement. Can signify something that is ending, lessons learned, an almost finished book.

🖤There's so much more I could say about degrees and degree theory but that would take me all day. Here is a link that goes more in depth: 360 Symbolic Degrees

🖤Jupiter is the planet of luck and expansion, therefore looking at the sign and house that Jupiter is in can signify how to lean into that luck. Sign = how, house = where. For example, I have Jupiter in Gemini in the 5th house: using my writing/speaking/communication abilities (Gemini) can help me earn luck especially if it has to do with creativity, children, and romance (5th house).

🖤The sign Mercury is in can have an impact on your learning style. Water: Reading/Writing, Fire: Auditory, Air: Kinesthetic, Earth: Visual... (this is strictly opinion based)

🖤When I look at someone's chart that I'm interested in romantically, I like to make a Venn-Diagram in my head with their Venus and Mars signs (this is the most Virgo Moon shit I've ever written). For example, Sagittarius Venus + Capricorn Mars = Detached, money-minded/materalistic, likes to take things slow, hates possessiveness and feeling "anchored".

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