#power dynamics

“are you sure you’re fine?” ayato asks softly. he brushes a stray strand of hair away form your face. he presses his lips to your cheek like it belongs there.

a frank ‘no,’ dances on the tip of your tongue. your survival instincts are screaming at you, begging you to call off this entire thing. you want to go home. you want to tell him no, you’re not fine. but if you do, ayato would most likely take you home. not your home. but home. and as much as you wanted to escape, you knew being in a room alone with this man who stared at you as if you were is one and only was even worse. 

so you don’t. you do what you practiced. you stare into this man’s eyes and smile like you mean it. you kiss him on the lips, to which he reciprocates eagerly, and tell him, “i told you, i’m okay.” 

the way ayato smiles is devious. he smoothly hooks his hand around your waist and guides you to the center of the ballroom. try as you might, you can feel the envious gazes burning into your skin. towards you or ayato, you’re not sure, but you don’t want to think about it further.

ayato, it seems, doesn’t mind. his hold on you becomes all the more tighter, confident.  

the two of you are once again talking to one of ayato’s associates. you’ve seen this man at other social events here and there, but you’ve never talked to him personally. 

you shudder at the way he eyes you up. 

“oh, you must be the rumored miss ayato seemingly can’t stop talking about,” the man surmises. he stares into his glass of wine before taking a greedy gulp. “ayato has never talked about a woman so fondly, so i figured you must’ve been really special. now that i’ve finally been introduced to you, i can see i was right.”

you open your mouth to retort, but ayato beats you to it. 

his nails are practically digging into your bodice. “yes, this is my fiance,” he hisses. you don’t appreciate how much emphasis he puts into his words. you almost want to correct him, but you don’t, because this is what you’re paid for: to ward off potential marriage proposals. so sure, you’ll let this one slide, as long as he says nothing about it in private.

the man, seemingly oblivious to ayato’s rising anger, smiles. “ah, so you’ve finally put a ring on it? what a pity.” 

“i can hardly say it’s a pity,” ayato mutters. “we’ve been together for a very long time, it was only a matter of time. if anything, it seems as if you’re trying to make a pass.” 

ayato’s associate jumps at his tone. “oh,  no, that wasn’t my intention...”

his words start to melt into the background noise, the music, the meaningless chatter. you smile awkwardly, knowing that if you tried to handle things yourself ayato would only take over for you. so instead, you stand there and look pretty, trying to not draw any more attention than you should. 

instead, you opt to observe the room. between the crowds of mingling elites, you’re desperate to find out where kaeya had gone. was he close? was he far? did he leave? did he see you? 

your stomach flips at the mere thought. at the very beginning, kaeya was fun. casual. he was friendly but not invasive. he’d flirt with you and mean it, but you knew his attraction to you didn’t extend beyond the bedroom. at least, that’s what you thought. before you knew it, kaeya had grown so attached to you it were as if you were his second heart, as if he wanted to meld you into his skin and whisper all of his thoughts and praises. 

if he discovered you here with someone else, you don’t know what would happen. 

in the midst of your discreet search, you catch a familiar glimpse of someone else in the crowd. you usually see him in his work attire when it’s designated day, but today he’s donned on an emerald suit, decorated with gold embellishments.

your heart drops to the pit of your stomach when alhaitham’s gaze sweeps across the crowd, as if he’s looking for something too. to his right, tighnari matches his pace. they seem to be in some sort of conversation, mumbling to each other over glasses of champagne as the crowd moves forward.  they live on the opposite side of the city. what are they doing here? you were so sure that this event would only be attend by those with business in the inazuma district. what went wrong? 

you’re just about to look away when it happens. 

alhaitham looks back.

it’s like a bucket of ice has been poured over you. 

his stare goes from surprise, to confusion, to realization, to absolute anger.

you don’t forget how ayato’s hand rests comfortably on your waist. alhaitham’s eyes seemed to be pinned there, like he’s undressing you with his eyes, burning holes into every pore of ayato’s hand. 

you’re caught like a deer in headlights. tightnari’s trying to talk to him, but alhaitham ignores him entirely. his entire focus, his entire being, is locked onto you. you don’t know what to do at this point.

ayato’s tight grip loosens. without even realizing it you’re being guided away from the conversation. 

“i’m so sorry about that,” ayato murmurs as he wraps both hands around your waist. he presses into you, his nose finding its way inbetween your neck and your shoulder. 

you’re entire body freezes as alhaitham’s gaze drags up your hips to your neck. for a second, his eyes catch yours and he gives you this look as if to say, i’m going to kill him. 

“ayato, we’re in public,” you say as you gently press onto his shoulders. you hope that he can’t feel the way your fingers tremble.

“let them see,” he replies with a breathy exhale. “that way, no one ever tries anything with you again. besides, is it wrong for two lovers to express their love in public? especially so soon after being engaged.”

this is wrong. the ayato you knew when you first met didn’t like drawing attention to himself. he’d rather sit in the shadows and people watch rather than become the spectacle himself. and of all things, at the worst time. 

you feel as if ayato is unknowingly digging your grave. every time ayato moves so much as a milimeter closer to you, you can see alhaitham’s jaw clench just a little tighter. 

at this point, tighnari has caught on to what alhaitham has been so distracted by. tighnari doesn’t hesitate to size you up. the both of you. for a moment, his ears pull back. he’s threatened. 

“my dear?”

you’re attention whips back to ayato. his gaze is almost intense as alhaitham’s and tighnari’s. it’s full of love, adoration, and obsession. he looks at you like you’re the one for him. that he had just discovered you two were soulmates. but you’re not. 

you smile, even though you feel like turning your stomach inside out. you have to pretend that you’re fine. and you’re good at that, right? you’re good at pretending to be what these men want, which is convenient, emotionally available, and loving. even though you’re entire world, everything you’ve worked so hard to maintain, is falling apart right this moment, you will smile. because that’s your job, isn’t it? you’re good at giving what your customers need. you’re good at your job.

so you keep your voice nice and light, even though you’re words are anything but what ayato wants to hear. “but we aren’t engaged, though.” 

he hums, nuzzling deeper into your skin. “but we are, aren’t we? my ring is on your finger.” his fingers thrum against your hips. “did you know? my name’s engraved on the inside.”

as much as ayato’s words alarm you, your entire focus is locked onto alhaitham and tighnari, who look livid. their mouths are moving. the two of them are speaking to each other, and it kills you not to know what they’re saying. 

just before you can get away from ayato, they make their way towards you. 

their pace is slow, but intentional. their gazes don’t dare pry away from you.  

and just like that, it all becomes too much. 

“i have to go to the bathroom,” you blurt out. with some kind of newfound adrenaline, you manage to push ayato off of you. he gives you a look of hurt, confusion, anger, and absolute shock. “i’ll be right back.”

ayato’s clearly confused, but as he attempts to reach out to you, you blend yourself within the throng of people. without looking back, you disappear into the crowd, leaving ayato all by his lonesome. 

you’re quick to push through the crowds, but careful to avoid the other ticking time bombs in the room. you feel as if you’re being chased. and in reality, you are. you zigzag through different conversations, hoping to miraculously become invisible. and yet, despite your absolute care, you somehow step on your own minefield. 

you hear the sound of your name first.

you see him second. 

childe’s standing there, in a suit you’ve never seen him wear before. 

is everyone at this party? 

“i thought it was you, looking so pretty. are you all dressed for me?” 

you both know what the answer is, and yet you don’t say anything. 

childe chuckles. “why do you look so scared? you look like you’ve just been caught cheating.” 

he slowly slides his hand down your arm, almost sensually. his fingers interlock with yours before he’s swinging it playfully, but you know his mood is anything but. he’s staring at your interlocking hands so intently. you look down to realize that he’s staring at the ring ayato put on your finger. 

shit. 

childe doesn’t say anything. he simply kisses your hand all prince-like, his gaze meeting yours. he’s so calm it’s disturbing. 

“whoever got this for you has bad taste. i bet he just chose whatever ring had the biggest jewel, right?” he plays with your fingers dismissively, gentlely drawing patterns around your ring finger. “you always told me i couldn’t buy you a ring, and yet this fucker can. what’s so different? i bet he just thinks whatever is biggest is the prettiest. but truth is, it’ll never be pretty. it’ll never be my special kind of pretty, isn’t that right, girlie?” 

you’re tempted to curl into yourself, but you hold your ground. 

“let go, childe.”

“and let you run away from me to some other man who doesn’t know you as well as i do? hmm? he uses his hold on your hand as leverage to pull you closer to him. his other hand wraps itself around your torso, pressing you into him. you struggle to escape, but you can’t. to anyone else, you two would’ve looked to be in a lover’s embrace. he caresses your cheek, as if appraising you. “maybe i should leave my own mark on you. maybe that’ll show everyone who you really belong to.”

you wriggle in his grasp. “childe, i’m serious. stop—”

“hmm, at least your next is exposed. yes… i think a hickey here would be nice—”

“childe! what are you up to this time?” 

childe immediately pulls away to reveal a man smiling amicably at the two of you. a pair of silver frames rest on his nose.

“ah, pantalone.” childe replies. “it’s nothing.”

you don’t hesitate to use this opportunity to escape. the moment you can, you whisk yourself away. you don’t care for niceties at this point. instead, you find refuge in the ladies’ restroom. 

you lock yourself in one of the stalls, grateful that no one else is in there. with no one around to stare, observe, or judge you, you close the toilet seat and plop onto it unceremoniously with your head in your hands. 

at this point, everything is spinning. your heart is thumping at thousands of miles per minute, and you’re trying to get a grip on reality. you think about the bills you need to pay, your overwhelming debt, and the life that rests on your hands. you think about all the things you need to do, and all the things you can’t do, not by yourself.

you need money to survive. 

once you’ve properly calmed down, you take a deep breath and open the door. you look at yourself in the mirror, taking note of all the little details in your makeup and your outfit, all of which were made by ayato, for ayato. all dressed in light blues, you look like you belong to the kamisato clan. 

you look like ayato’s wife.

“you look wonderful in blue.”

you don’t have the time to turn before he’s on you. 

if you didn’t know better, you would’ve thought that kaeya had returned to his old self. he’s kissing you like he hates the space between you. his mouth is hot and tastes of alcohol. his hands find their place on your hips like it’s natural. 

you can’t breathe, with the way he kisses you. 

underneath his heated movements, there’s a underlying desperation. like kaeya somehow needs to overdose on your every breath to survive. his hands are all over you, rumpling the dress you tried so hard to smooth out. 

he pushes the two of you into one of the open stalls, smoothly locking it behind him. you’re pressed against the bathroom door, a hardness pressing into your abdomen.

“kaeya—” 

your words are immediately swallowed up by his mouth. he can’t be bothered to speak to you. you can feel how angry he his with his fingers dig into your skin. he just wants to kiss you senseless, is that so wrong?

his tongue runs over yours. he’s exploring your mouth like it’s a treasure trove. as if this his first time ever kissing you and he wants to learn what makes you tick. 

but really, you can’t breathe. 

“kaeya—”

he pulls away from you like it’s the most painful thing he’s done. and it’s then you meet his eyes for the first time that night. his gaze is vulnerable. it’s obsessive, and needy, and desperate, and too, too much. too emotional. it’s not what you signed up for, and it’s not what he promised you. 

but he doesn’t care about that right now. he nuzzles into your neck, breathing in your scent like it’s his drug. 

“i saw you. with him.” 

“who?” comes out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. 

“i saw you the moment you got here,” kaeya replies, ignoring your question. “do you know how hurt i felt? how much i wanted to just strangle him? i could do it, you know. i could stage it like it was an accident. or make it look like he was a danger to the people. no one would know.”

you knew kaeya was a ticking time bomb, but you’ve never seen him like this. 

he wraps himself around you and pulls you close, resting your head on his chest. you can hear how fast his heart is pounding. “you’d still love me, if i did that, right? you know everything about me, everything no one else knows. only you could love me.”

there’s a crazed look to him. he’s so out of it, you’re hesitant to touch him. his embrace steals the breathe out of your lungs, quite literally. he holds onto you like if he let up for just a second you’d disappear into thin air. 

“kaeya—”

he kisses you again, a small moan leaving his lips. “say my name again, please. say it like it’s yours. i’m all yours.”

you run your hand through his hair and pull, but he only groans in response. you can feel his hard-on grinding into you. a whimper escapes you as he brushes against your clit through the dress.

if it’s not his name, kaeya’s bent on not letting you speak. his kisses keep getting more insistent, more greedy. 

you run your hand through his hair and give it a hard tug.

“aagh—just like that.”

you’re out of options at this point. kaeya won’t pull away, so eager to breathe you in. 

kaeya’s too lost in you to notice your hand blindly grabbing at the bathroom’s lock. when the door opens, it creates enough momentum to seperate the two of you. kaeya’s taken off guard, so you take the chance to bolt it out of there and escape back into the crowd.

you just want to run away from everything. from these disastrous men. from these claustrophobic parties. from this entire situation. from all your problems. your debt. from small, tiny hospital rooms and endless nights praying for a miracle—

you don’t care what you look like at this point. you don’t care that your dress is in disarray, that tears are probably streaking down your face, or that you’re so out of breath you’re gulping down air like it’s water. 

fuck this. 

fuck that.

fuck everything.

you’re so focused on escaping you bump shoulders with a stranger. quite roughly, at that. 

diluc looks surprised. he appraises you concerningly, but you can’t stomach it. his gaze is so full of love and adoration and possessiveness you think you’re going to hurl. 

you don’t even say anything. when you see kaeya chasing after you, you book it. you don’t even text ayato you’re leaving. you just…disappear.

the hospital room’s quiet. it always is. save for the occasional nurse, no one else is here, save for the patient. 

in a way, this room is your escape.

you’re still in ayato’s dress. it’s a bit dirty from tonight’s events, a bit ruffled. you look like a victim in those crime TV shows with a shock blanket. 

right now, you’re curled up on the sofa, staring into nothingness. you don’t want to think of anything right now. there’s no point in saying anything. you know she won’t say anything back. 

what would she say if she were here right now? 

she’d scold you, for sure. she’d nag you for how messy your apartment was. how you dropped out of college when you promised her you’d pursue your dream. how you haven’t once visited your parents’ grave. how you sold your mind, body, and soul just for some few bucks. 

you crumble at the thought. oh, how much money it took to keep her alive. to hide the both of you away from them. to keep sniffing dogs off your trail. you could always move away, hop from place to place. but if you did, what would you do about her? 

your sister was like a second mother to you. how could you abandon her like that? 

the door opens so abruptly, you practically jump out of your skin. 

“kazu?”

“i knew you’d be here.”

somewhere down the line, you heard that kazuha had descended from a long line of honorable samurais. seeing him like this, appearing out of thin air as if he was there all along, you thought it could be true.

kazuha enters the room like a soft gentle breeze, like it’s a suggestion. 

you’re speechless. 

he sits next to you on the couch and presses the side of your head to lean onto his shoulder. the two of you look at your comatosed sister together, as if if you stared hard enough, she’d finally wake up. 

“it’s going to be okay,” kazuha whispers.

“how did you know i was here?”

“what do you mean?” he turns to kiss the crown of your head so tenderly. “i’ll always be there for you, don’t you know that?”

your blood runs cold. you pull away to look at him. “kazuha, i never told you where i was. no one knows about this hospital.”

he looks at you earnestly, as if you don’t know any better and he adores it.

“If you want attention, ask for it.”

His voice slid out like sweet venom, still not looking away from the book.

You crossed your arms, watching him turn the next page. But you hadn’t given up, discreetly peeking over his shoulder, studying the tangle of words, tiny letters surrounded by footnotes, complex Latin terms, and explanations about specific events and historical figures from the fifteenth century.

Right. So he was reading a book about the final moments of the Middle Ages, judging by the hurried notations on the dense cultural and political transformations that paved the way to the Renaissance. At the top of the page, a scribbled French phrase, underlined:

“CECI TUERA CELA.”

You didn’t understand what it meant; it reached your eyes as something hollow, empty. But to Jester, immersed in Parisian plots and landscapes, that phrase meant everything. A sad, frightened lament of a contemporary watching the ruin of all structures, all values that once sustained life. A transitional movement from darkness to light, from ignorance to knowledge, via schoolbooks, pamphlets scattered through the streets, travelers venturing into unknown routes across the globe, poems on paper: ideas that came to destroy everything. After all, it was known: the book would topple the cathedral. Paper would finally destroy stone.

Feeling your breath close to his neck, Jester raised one eyebrow, turning slowly toward you. His eyes shone like two purple sapphires staring into your face, heavy-lidded, lips almost smiling.

“You don’t know what it means, do you?” he asked, a slow line of laughter curling at his mouth as he tilted his head. “But you read it anyway. Curious, as always.”

Before you could retort, he continued, his tone proud and intrigued:

“It’s about an archdeacon. A man of faith,” he began, returning his gaze to the book. “A man who hates what he desires. And a poor monstrous bell-ringer, who loves what he can never touch, and desires what despises him.”

The lamp crackled. Your chest tightened as you moved to sit beside the armchair.

“Here.”

He beckoned you with an impatient gesture. Two dry, quick taps on the armrest.

You stood and sat on the arm of the chair, close enough to smell his characteristic scent that dominated your senses by now: smoke, ink, something citrusy and nearly indescribable. Jester turned the page carefully, as if savoring each fraction of a second in which your attention fell on him.

“This part here is quite interesting. It’s the scene where the little gypsy follows the captain of the guard to a brothel. A young, naive girl, wandering alone through those grey-skied streets.”

He gave you a sideways smile, one of his legs brushing against yours suggestively, dangling beyond the edge of the seat.

“Human foolishness. She actually thought she had some kind of effect on him.”

You nodded lightly. Jester seemed so inspired, so intent on understanding the themes of the stories he consumed, wanting to absorb all central and secondary aspects of the narratives he read. He seemed to delight in outlining the profiles of the characters, making critical remarks, jotting down brief reflections, sharpening his sensitivity to the most common human behavioral patterns expressed in words. Always the smartest, always meticulous.

There was something disturbingly beautiful about him when he did that. The way his eyes narrowed with calculation, how his fingers traced the page edges with reverent care, how his lips curved in quiet satisfaction whenever he caught some detail or metaphor that others would never notice. His focus had a brilliance of its own, like a sharp, predatory stillness that glimmered like light on polished metal.

A habit, yes — but in his body, his posture, his gaze, it felt like a ritual. A temptation in itself.

You leaned slightly, your head brushing his shoulder in a soft, fleeting touch.

“And what happened to the little gypsy?”

He marked a line on the page with a slow finger.

“The girl followed the captain, infatuated. She believed he returned her feelings. Poor thing. His motives were swollen with everything: lust, malice, but never love. Humans have a funny tendency to see love where there is none.”

Jester turned another page, his fingers gliding as if they knew every fiber of the paper. Beside him, you were slightly restless, your hands searching for somewhere to rest other than your own lap. You buried your face a little deeper in the curve of his neck, absorbing the splendid citrus scent, so maddeningly his. Your fingers settled on his shoulders in a subtle, ghostlike gesture, and you offered a timid smile. A try, a soft hint at closeness. A testimony of how all of that display, his quiet intelligence, his mastery, affected you in ways that shouldn’t be physical, but undeniably were.

Jester made a brief grimace; one of his hands fell onto your thigh in response. The other remained firm on the open book.

“She followed him across the whole city. They exchanged ardent vows of love, though his were more… perjuries, really. She almost gave herself to him, but the priest, who had been following and spying on them like a deranged boogeyman, drew a knife from his robes and stabbed the captain, gravely wounding him. The girl took the blame.”

“She took the blame?” you asked, outraged.

“She took the blame,” Jester repeated, an uneven smile tugging at his lips, almost amused, almost pitying. “Imagine… a crime she didn’t commit, for a love that never existed, for a man who didn’t love her, and for another who desired her in the most sickening way.”

The word fell between you like a warm weight.

You swallowed hard as his hand tightened slightly on your thigh. Nothing obscene, just enough to anchor you without a single syllable.

He turned the page slowly, his nail dragging along the edge with almost perverse tenderness. His careful, obsessive attention to detail always made him even more beautiful. Long lashes casting purple shadows on his cheeks, the focused mouth, the scent of ink and citrus intensifying when he read too deeply. Jester was a vision indeed. A painting tainted with cunning and control, resting gently beside a good book and his good little human partner.

“Do you know what’s most fascinating?” Jester continued. “The archdeacon cannot stand the girl. He hates her. Hates her fragility, her laughter, the way she breathes or dances, spinning under the hot sun. But…” His voice dropped a half-tone, almost scraping the air. “He becomes sick at the mere thought of someone else touching her.”

A shiver ran down your spine, slow and inevitable.

“Why do you think that is?"

He asked it with feigned innocence, but the smile hiding in the shadows of the dressing room revealed his true intent. He wanted to see how you would squirm through the answer. To watch you think, justify contradictions, build explanations. Amusing to him.

You inhaled deeply, trying to ignore how his face seemed now a fraction closer, how he seemed to savor your little microexpressions, your tension, your nerves. The way he looked at you stripped more than any hand could.

“Maybe… because some people confuse desire with entitlement. With ownership. Maybe the archdeacon believed he deserved her, for some reason known only to him.”

He hummed in agreement.

“Interesting. Do you really think that? Is desire a tyrant… or merely a plea dressed as a beast?”

The question fell like a thin blade between the two of you.

You didn’t answer immediately. Your fingers slipped from his shoulder to the collar of his circus attire, adjusting the fabric in a gesture so small it could’ve meant nothing, yet it meant everything. He noticed. He always noticed.

Jester turned another page with cruel slowness, his breath nearly brushing yours.

“The archdeacon thought his desire was a plea turned feral. He claimed to hate the girl, for she was a pagan, young, vulgar. But look…” He tilted the book toward you, pointing at a specific passage. “Here. This is where he visits her in prison. She’s chained, dirty, cold, and he begs…”

The words hit your eyes immediately, sharp as blades. Pathetic, raw, visceral — something only a mind poisoned by its own demons could conceive and speak. A degrading plea, born from bestialized love, from repressed, unfulfilled desire.

Caresse-moi d'une main, torture-moi de l'autre.

Caress me with one hand, torture me with your other one.

Jester leaned a little closer, and time seemed to stand still, as if the air between you both had grown too heavy to ignore.

“Curious, isn’t it? Who in their right mind would ask for such a thing? Two impulses so contradictory?” His voice dropped, ambiguous and dangerously vulnerable. “Would you ask for something like that, pet?”

The question slid under your skin like a slow-burning coal, warm enough to roll down your spine. You blinked, the world around you fading softly, leaving only his voice.

“Me?” you murmured. Your own voice sounded strange, too low. “It depends… on what exactly you’re asking.”

Jester laughed. Not the theatrical laugh, but a muffled, intimate one. A laugh that seemed to escape him by accident.

He brought the back of his hand to your jaw, lightly, checking if you were still there, warm and breathing.

“I’m asking…” His thumb traced your chin with no rush. “Whether you would let someone want you in ways so different it hurts.”

The half-light was so persistent he might not have noticed how your legs crossed subtly, involuntarily, still perched on the arm of his chair. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then climbed back up, lazy, deliberate, and more intimate than touch.

“If you would accept dominance and affection from the same hand. Desire and fear whispered in the same breath.”

That crooked, small, almost sad smile appeared.

“Would you call someone who doesn’t know whether he wants to protect you… or devour you, love?”

He murmured it in a teasing, coaxing whisper before burying his face against your neck, his sharp teeth grazing your heated skin. You could feel the impending bite, the anticipation crawling through you.

When he finally bit, it sank hot and deep, stealing a torn breath from your throat — half pleasure, half surrender. Jester let out a quiet groan at your reaction, muffled against your skin, tasting each tremor.

His hand tightened at your nape, fingers weaving into your hair, guiding, tilting, handling you, and you yielded without noticing, your body molding to his as if it had been crafted for this.

“Always so obedient…” he breathed against your skin, his mouth tracing the heated trail his teeth left behind. “So ready.”

His lips climbed your throat slowly. Too slowly. He alternated soft bites and warm kisses, his tongue drawing small, torturous circles that made your breaths stutter silently. Every touch was studied, calculated. He read you the same way he read his books, with devotion and wickedness.

You melted under him, your fingers threading through his long, soft hair, messy now as he pressed closer. When you found a specific lock, you tugged it, boldly, just to say: I want more.

Jester chuckled against your skin, a warm, contained sound of satisfaction at your lack of restraint.

You were far from done. Damn him for his refined words, his cultivated taste, his superiority, his brilliant mind, his amethyst eyes that could ignite, freeze, pierce, and hypnotize your soul, heart, and body in ways that made you feel sick just thinking about it.

He had no idea how difficult it was for you to control yourself around him. How complicated it was to contain the impulsive, deranged thoughts that placed him in countless scenarios, countless positions, countless tender and torturous embraces. Damn Jester for making you wait breathlessly while he read his dusty classics.

You turned slightly and dragged your lips along his jaw in a slow, investigative kiss.

He allowed it for one second. Then he held your chin with his thumb, guiding your mouth to his like someone dictating the rhythm of a game he had already won.

But you didn’t make it easy.

Your fingers slid down to his hand, slowly weaving between his long bones. Then you took one of his fingers between your lips. Slow, bold, asking without speaking: answer me.

Your tongue traced the tip, warm, soft, provoking.

Jester froze.

One second.

Two.

Then he let out a low, hoarse sound. Almost a filthy compliment.

“Such a little dare…” he murmured, his voice vibrating against your neck. “You want to play with me like that?”

He pulled your face back, and this time he took your finger between his teeth. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make your whole body pay attention. His tongue brushed the side equally torturous, wet, leonine.

You gasped. He loved that.

His hands traveled down your waist, pulling you onto his lap with cruel ease. Your body fit against his, heat blooming immediately between you. The friction was light, but present as a warm pressure that made your thoughts dissolve.

You moved your hips just a little. A test.

Jester sucked in a breath, answering by grinding softly against your center. A calculated rub that stole a faint sound from your throat. Too soft to be called a moan, yet he heard it. He always did.

Your eyelids fluttered shut as his hands explored you. Your hair, your shoulders, elbows, the curve behind your knee. Then those fingers slid under your clothes, finding your chest. His fingertips circled around your nipple: first as a study, then as a provocation. A light pull, a precise pinch, enough to arch your body into his.

You answered by grabbing his face, pulling him closer, and licking along his jawline.

Jester shivered visibly. Rare.

(Wow. Congratulations, my dearest one.)

He looked almost surprised for a moment, blinking, before a soft laugh broke from him. It was beautiful — unrestrained, yet dark in that way everything about him was. He seemed deeply entertained and pleased.

“Very fun, my dear. Continue,” he asked, brushing his fingers softly against your face. “Just remember that every button you unfasten pushes me to my limit, and every touch is an invitation. Think carefully before I…”

Before he could whisper something else or nibble your cheek, something startled you. A sudden, impatient sound near the closed dressing room doors caused you to bump into the book resting on the table, knocking it down.

Jester grimaced — clearly unhappy, after how inspired he’d been moments ago. Instinctively, he held you tighter while waiting for the voice outside.

“Jester?” the voice called. It was the Ticket Taker. “The show starts in half an hour. We already have a crowd gathering.”

Jester’s body tensed for just a moment. Then he leaned back against you with a manic, warm, frustrated sigh.

“I appreciate the warning, Ticket Taker, but I’m fully aware of my duties. There is nothing to worry about.”

His voice gradually slipped back into that precise, cold tone. That same heavy cadence you struggled so hard to melt earlier.

Damn the Ticket Taker. What an awful timing!

Regardless, Jester cupped your face, a smile half-charm, half-sweet threat curling on his lips. A quick, rushed farewell.

He pulled away only enough to rise, keeping his hand clasped around yours a second longer than necessary. His gaze traveled your body as if memorizing every point left unresolved.

“Don’t wander off too far, little creature. I want to smell the longing when I return.”

You lifted your eyes to his, and you could swear yours glowed along with his purplish, tempting, commanding ones, in a dark amethyst shimmer. You nodded at his words, smiling faintly.

The door shut.

You were left in complete silence, alone with yourself and with the book sprawled on the floor. It was covered in his notes and comments in another specific section. You narrowed your eyes to read carefully, and the paragraphs no longer spoke of brothels, desire, obsession, madness, punishment, torture or death by hanging.

They spoke of something much more vulnerable and surprisingly sad.

The passage described the bell-ringer: twisted body, deformed face, timid kindness, purity contained in a giant the world called a beast.

Jester had filled the margins with notes. Many. And they were surprisingly calm.

“Just someone who existed wrong.”

“Deformed? Funny. The world only accepts monsters when they become spectacle.”

“The whole city is more deformed than he is.”

“The tower is just a metaphor. The real prison is the flesh-and-blood keeper."

"His cell sounds far too familiar.”

This last sentence, the most personal, had been scratched out many, many times. Nervous strokes from someone who wanted to erase it, to send the words to hell.

You swallowed hard at reading something so revealing, so clearly not meant for you.

The room was now silent without him sharing it with you, but you could still hear the lively music and muffled conversations of the visitors rushing outside.

Who would have thought that after such captivating moments sparked by a simple reading session, you’d be left with such personal, sympathetic notes from someone like Jester? Notes with no teeth, no sarcasm, no extravagance. Just the truth.

You closed the book gently, like someone tucking away a secret that shouldn’t have existed.

And, for the first time that night, you missed him. Not out of desire, but out of understanding.

small note: hi, it’s let! so, I had this idea after stumbling across a video with some cool facts about Jester, and to be honest, I already wanted to write something for him ever since his reveal. but I have to admit, he wasn’t exactly easy to write. it was a bit challenging, and I’m sorry if he feels a little OOC at any point.

being the realest ever, jester's kinda my type. this whole idea of intellectual stimulation seems quite appealing to me. i'd fold easily, truly. plus, the semester ended! I can finally cook (write), yay!

furthermore, the book they're reading is my all-time favorite! so this was a lot of fun to do. I hope that, even if unusual, it fits with his love of literature and that it's creative in some way. thanks for reading, if you've reached this far. take care, xoxo <3