“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

You had completely forgotten that Mai wasn't even in the state. She had mentioned something three days ago about an intellectual property seminar in the Upper Ring—a business trip that Zuko had clearly not bothered to register or remember, his mind entirely consumed by the volatile mechanics of his corporate holdings.

Zuko was sitting at the edge of the kitchen island, his tie completely discarded now, the first three buttons of his white dress shirt undone to expose the hard, tanned column of his throat and the faint edge of the muscle beneath. He had been watching you clean for the last twenty minutes, his chin resting in the palm of his hand, his amber eyes dark and heavy with an intense focus that made the skin of your back prickle with a sudden heat. The corporate titan looked thoroughly unbuttoned, the harsh, unforgiving light of the kitchen casting long, predatory shadows across the sharp planes of his face and the jagged edge of his burn scar.

"Leave the rest of the crayons," Zuko’s voice suddenly broke the silence, a deep, gravelly baritone that sounded entirely too loud in the empty apartment. He stood up from the barstool, his movements carrying a heavy, deliberate slowness as he reached for an opened bottle of a deep, blood-red Pinot Noir sitting on the counter. "You've been on your feet since three o'clock. Come have a glass of wine with me."

You straightened up, clutching the stack of drawings to your chest, your wide, pretty eyes blinking at him through a fringe of eyelashes with a masterful imitation of surprise. "Oh, I really shouldn't... I'm still technically on the clock until Mai gets back, or until my shift ends."

"Mai isn't coming back until Sunday," Zuko murmured, a subtle, almost imperceptible hardness cutting through his tone as he poured the dark liquid into two large crystal chalices. He walked around the island, stepping directly into your path, the rich, bitter scent of the wine mixing instantly with the intoxicating wake of your vanilla oil. He extended one of the glasses toward you, his large fingers deliberately brushing against yours as you took the stem, the brief contact sending a sudden, electric static straight up your arm. "And as your employer, I'm officially telling you to clock out. Sit."

The invitation carried the weight of a command, but the softness in his eyes made it feel like a shared conspiracy. You followed him over to the massive, low-profile velvet sofa that faced the darkened terrace windows, sinking into the plush fabric with a soft sigh. You curled your legs up beneath you, the hem of your thin cotton shorts pulling tight across the curve of your hips.

Zuko sat on the opposite end of the couch, his long legs stretched out, his body angled entirely toward you as he took a slow, measured sip of his wine. The distance between you was initially respectable—a wide, formal cushion of velvet acting as a boundary—but the atmosphere in the room was rapidly thickening, the air-conditioned breeze doing nothing to cool the simmering heat that seemed to radiate from his frame.

"How are your studies going?" he asked, his voice dropping into a softer, more conversational register that you had never heard him use in the presence of his wife. He rested his arm along the back of the sofa, his fingers merely inches from the crown of your head. "Early childhood development, right? Izumi told me you helped her memorize her entire reading chart today."

"She's incredibly smart, Zuko," you murmured, using his first name for the very first time, the word slipping past your lips like a velvet secret. You swirled the wine in your glass, keeping your eyes fixed on the dark red liquid to hide the slow, wicked smirk that was trying to pull at your mouth. "She takes after her father. And my classes are going well. It's a lot of work—case studies, late-night observations, and trying to balance my seminar schedule with the agency hours—but I want to finish school strong. I don't want to just pass; I want to be excellent."

Zuko stared at you, his amber eyes softening with an expression of intense, quiet admiration that made his chest heave slightly beneath his unbuttoned shirt. He was a man who valued discipline and ambition above all else, having fought through the meat-grinder of his father’s corporate empire to claim his position, and seeing that same fierce, quiet determination in a woman so young and devastatingly beautiful was intoxicating. "That’s... that’s incredible," he said softly, his voice thick with a sudden wave of vulnerability. "Most people your age are just looking for an easy ride. You have a purpose. I admire that about you."

The conversation stretched on, flowing into a rhythmic, effortless cadence that seemed to distort the very passage of time. One glass of wine turned into two, the dark Pinot Noir loosening the rigid knot in Zuko’s shoulders until he was leaning closer, the formal boundaries of his life systematically dissolving with every word you spoke. You talked about the city, he talked about the weight of his responsibilities at Fire Nation Global, and the quiet, isolating reality of living in a penthouse that felt more like a museum than a home.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" Zuko asked suddenly, the question cutting through the low murmur of your voices with a sharp, heavy directness that made your heart skip a beat. His gaze was fixed entirely on your lips now, his fingers tightening around the stem of his glass.

You looked down, a soft, masterfully timed flush of pink staining your cheeks as you shifted your weight against the cushions. "No," you replied shyly, your voice dropping into a low whisper. "I don't really have the time for relationships right now. Between the university and taking care of Izumi, my schedule is completely full. I want to make sure my future is secure before I let anyone else into it."

"The men at your university must be completely blind," Zuko growled softly, a sudden, fierce flash of possessiveness flaring behind his amber eyes. He set his empty glass down on the low coffee table with a sharp, glass-on-stone clack that signaled the absolute end of his restraint.

The distance that had once existed between you on the velvet couch completely vanished. Before you could even blink, Zuko lunged forward with the sudden, explosive velocity of a predator that had spent months starved in a cage. His large, calloused hands shot out, wrapping securely around your waist, his fingers digging deep into the soft flesh of your hips as he hauled your body directly across the cushion and into his lap.

You let out a soft, sharp gasp of surprise, your crystal glass slipping from your fingers and landing harmlessly against the plush rug as your thighs were forced wide apart, straddling his lap completely. The physical authority in his frame was immense; he was a broad, muscular man beneath his corporate tailoring, and the sheer heat of his body felt like a physical weight pressing against your core.

"Zuko..." you whispered, your hands coming up to press against his broad chest, your fingers tangling in the unbuttoned fabric of his shirt as you looked up into his scarred face.

"I can't do this anymore," he dirty-talked softly, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that brushed directly against your lips. His breath smelled of rich, bitter wine and heat. "I've spent four months watching you walk through my house. I've spent four months smelling your scent on my sheets and watching you laugh with my daughter while I'm locked in a dead marriage. I'm completely losing my mind."

He didn't wait for permission. Zuko leaned in, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that began with a deceptive, trembling softness—a desperate, pleading contact that sought to taste the sweetness he had hungered for from afar. But the moment your lips parted for him, letting out a soft, breathy moan into his mouth, his discipline shattered into absolute dust. The kiss turned violently heated, his tongue diving deep into your mouth with a wild, unrefined dominance that claimed your palate like a conquered territory.

You rocked your hips against him in response, a low groan escaping the back of your throat as the thin cotton of your shorts rubbed ruthlessly against the prominent bulge straining violently against the heavy fabric of his tailored dress pants. He was rock hard— The heat of his erection was immense, pressing through the layers of his suit with a rigid authority that had your pussy instantly opening and closing in frantic, desperate spasms.

Zuko’s hands slid down to the lower curve of your buttocks, his large fingers gripping the fabric of your shorts, lifting your hips and slamming them down against his groin to increase the friction, a low, guttural grunt forced through his teeth as your wet heat met his hardness.

"God you're so soft," Zuko growled against your lips, his hands shaking slightly as he tore himself away from the kiss, his amber eyes wide and completely glazed over with a blinding layer of pure, forbidden lust. He looked down at the ruin of his own lap, his chest heaving violently. "Look at what you're doing to me. Look at how hard you make your boss."

Without a word, you slid smoothly out of his lap, your movements carrying a fluid, hypnotic grace that left him completely breathless as you dropped down onto your knees on the rug directly between his feet. You looked up at him through the dark fringe of your eyelashes, your pretty face a mask of total devotion as you reached forward, your manicured nails undoing the heavy silver buckle of his belt with a swift, efficient movement that had his lower abdomen contracting in a tight spasm.

You pulled his zipper down, your small, blood-warm hands sliding beneath the cotton of his undergarments to wrap around his length, pulling the monstrous, thick shaft free into the amber light of the room.

Zuko let out a sharp, choked gasp, his head slamming back against the velvet cushions of the sofa as his hands flying up to grip the back of his own neck, his body trembling violently. This was the first physical contact he had experienced with another woman other than Mai in over six years—the last time he had felt this kind of raw, unrestrained pleasure had been before his wife had become pregnant with Izumi, before their marriage had curdled into a cold, corporate arrangement. His cock was massive, the skin a deep, sun-darkened bronze, heavily veined and already weeping a thick, clear bead of pre-cum from the slit.

You didn't hesitate for a single second. You leaned your head in close, your warm breath brushing against the sensitive underside of his head, making his entire lower body give a violent, involuntary twitch against the leather padding of his briefs. Then, you opened your mouth wide, your tongue darting out to lick the dark pre-come from the crown, before sliding your lips over the broad, blunt head, taking him deep into your throat in a single, unyielding downward pull.

Squelch. Squelch. Squelch.

Zuko let out a groan of unadulterated ecstasy, his knuckles turning white as his hands flew down to bury themselves in your long hair, his fingers gripping your head with a brutal, territorial force that pinned your face flush against his groin.

If he hadn't known any better, he thought you were a virgin. But you were incredibly experienced, your throat opening completely to accept the invading force of his cock without a single hint of struggle. Your throat clamped down on his shaft like a suffocating vice, your tongue flattening out to lick the underside of his skin with every single downward stroke of your mouth.

You bobbed your head with a systematic, ruthless momentum, your nose burying into the dark wool of his trousers at the base of his groin. The friction of your wet lips were turning his pre-come into a thick, frothy lather around his base.

"You're so good," Zuko growled through the wet heat, his voice a layered, ruined vibration that shook his chest. One of his hands slid down to wrap around your chin, his fingers applying a firm, possessive pressure to control your pace. "Look at you... taking all of me... not even gagging. You're such a little slut for your boss, aren't you? Breathe through your nose, baby, because we're not stopping."

He didn't let up. Driven by the absolute, terrifying peak of his arousal, Zuko executed a few more thrusts, ramming the crown of his shaft directly against the back of your throat, completely stuffing your mouth to the brim.

Finally, Zuko completely let go, his grip on your hair tightening to a bruising intensity as his release erupted with an explosive, terrifying force.

You took his cum like an absolute saint, swallowing frantically as his thick, heavy, and burning streams of his long-starved seed pumped directly down your throat. The volume was immense, some of his cum bubbling and overflowing past your lips, running down your chin and dripping onto the collar of your silk blouse.

You swallowed every single drop you could, your eyes locking onto his amber orbs with a look of pure, unholy triumph as he lay back against the cushions, his breathing coming in short, ragged puffs, his entire body shaking with the aftershocks of the most violent climax of his life.

Once you popped off this cock, Zuko reached down, his hands hooking beneath your arms to lift your shaking body from the rug. He didn't say a word; his face was a mask of fierce, absolute possession. He gathered your body into his broad arms, your legs wrapping around his waist as he stood up from the sofa, carrying you smoothly through the darkened corridor and into the master bedroom he shared with his wife, ready to finish what your mouth had started.

The move to the master bedroom was bathed in the cool, clinical glow of the city lights cutting through the floor-to-ceiling glass. Zuko didn't turn on a single lamp; he didn't want the harsh light to remind him of the modern, structured world he was currently burning to the ground. He carried your body across the dark basalt floor, the weight of your soft frame anchoring his hands as he walked toward the expansive, king-sized bed that he usually shared with Mai in a state of polite isolation.

He dropped you onto the mattress with a force that had the frame creaking sharply against the wall. Before you could even shift your weight or smooth down the hem of your blouse, Zuko was over you, his broad shoulders blocking out the neon skyline of the United Republic, his amber eyes wide and completely glazed over with a dark, primal hunger that made his chest heave beneath his unbuttoned shirt. The smell of his expensive cologne was entirely ruined now, thoroughly overtaken by the rich, bitter scent of the Pinot Noir and the sharp, unmistakable musk of his own release that you had just swallowed back in the living room.

He didn't give you a single second to breathe, his large, calloused hands shooting down to wrap securely around your ankles, wordlessly ripping down your soaked shorts in one move.

With an iron-like physical authority, he hauled your legs wide apart, pinning your knees back toward your shoulders until the hyper-sensitive, newly shaven flesh of your groin was completely exposed to the dark air of the room. You were already dripping, a thick, primal sheen of your own frantic arousal weeping from your inner labia, catching the ambient light like grease as your pussy executed a series of tight, frantic spasms in anticipation of his touch.

"You're so wet for me," Zuko growled softly, dropping his head between your legs. "I've spent months wondering what you taste like while you were playing the perfect nanny. Let me find out how sweet you are."

He didn't ease into the contact; Zuko buried his face directly into your soaking folds. His tongue darted out with a sudden, heavy pressure, flattening out against your puffy clit before executing a series of broad, ruthless upward strokes that had your hips instantly bucking off the mattress in a frantic arc.

"Ah—! Zuko!" you shrieked, your hands flying up to tangle in the dark, thick locks of his hair, your fingers digging deep into his scalp as your back arched completely off the sheets.

The sensation of his mouth devouring your pussy was a sensory execution. Zuko used his strong hands to lock your thighs in an unyielding grip, his fingers digging into the soft meat of your legs to keep you anchored while his tongue unmade your composure. He sucked your clit deep into the warm vacuum of his mouth, using a heavy, circular suction that turned the quiet room into a theater of pure, explicit noise—the thick, rhythmic squelches of his mouth working over your wetness echoing shamelessly in the room.

Sluck. Squelch. Sluck. Squelch.

He was relentless, his tongue diving deep into your pussy, licking the thick, clear sheen of your release from your inner ridges before coming back up to torment your sensitive clit. You were shaking violently beneath him, your toes curling as a sudden, white-hot wave of your own orgasm began to build in the center of your pelvic, driven by the absolute dominance of his mouth. He felt the muscles of your thighs tightening, a low, guttural grunt escaping his throat as he accelerated his pace, his chin covered in the clear fluid of your nectar.

Right as you reached the absolute precipice, your body executing a violent tremor as your pussy began to spray its hot, sweet-scented juice directly onto his lips, Zuko pulled back. He didn't let you cross the edge; he wanted you completely desperate, completely ruined by the physical realization of his control.

Before you could even sob out a protest, Zuko’s large hands gripped your waist, lifting your hips with a sudden, effortless manhandling you so now your body completely turned over, hands and knees on the silk sheets. You looked like an absolute vision, your head hung low against the mattress, your chest heaving as your breath came in short, ragged puffs, your plush buttocks canted high into the air.

Zuko stepped off the edge of the bed, standing tall over your vulnerable form as his fingers wrapped around his own length. His erection was completely, devastatingly rigid, completely raw and devoid of the protection of condom that he should have used. He positioned the plush tip directly against your soaking folds, the hot pre-come leaking from his slit smearing invisibly against your inner labia with a loud, wet plack.

He leaned his upper body down over your arched back, his chest pressing flush against your spine as his lips came down to press a soft, lingering kiss against the pale, slope of your left shoulder. It was a brief, almost tender moment of reassurance before the absolute violence of the coupling took over.

With a single thrust forward of his hips, Zuko's cock was in you.

"Ah! AGH!" you moaned into the sheets, eyes rolling back into your head as his entire length tore through your tight, walls in a single, unyielding motion that bottomed out against your cervix with a deafening, wet squelch.

The tightness of your pussy was immense, your ridges wrapping around his thick cock with a crushing, suffocating grip that left him completely paralyzed for a fraction of a second. Zuko let out a long, low groan, his jaw locking so tight his muscles stood out in sharp relief as the searing, heat of your core threatened to pull him under his climax instantly.

He didn't wait for your body to adjust. Zuko began to fuck you with a savage, relentless velocity. His hips turning into a frantic blur of motion, his pelvis repeatedly slamming hard against your plush buttocks with a heavy, rhythmic plack that vibrated directly through your spine.

Every single plunge into your cunt delivered a thick, soaking friction that churned your arousal into a thick, frothy lather around his base, the white cream proof of your shared lust and lubricating the raw, unprotected intrusion. You were completely unmade beneath him, your hands clawing uselessly at the pillows as he targeted your sweet spot with every deep thrust.

"Look at you... taking all of me raw," Zuko dirty-talked softly against your neck, his voice a ruined, breathless rasp. "You're so tight, baby... you're squeezing my cock like you want to rip it right off my body. Tell me how good it feels to take your boss's cock inside your pussy."

"It feels... ah, god... it feels so good, Zuko... fill me... please fill me up!" you sobbed out, your mind fracturing into a state of pure delirium as the relentless pacing of his hips drove you closer and closer to a second, devastating orgasm.

Zuko was a corporate king, a man built on a foundation of absolute control, yet he was completely reduced to a sweating, panting beast, his hands shaking as he held your waist to force your body to take the full weight of his lust.

The tension within his lower stomach had reached its limit, the hot, suffocating friction of your tight walls pulling him under a tide of absolute completion. He delivered one final, his pelvis completely flush against your ass, his hands holding your waist firmly that denied your body a single inch of movement.

"I'm cumming... ah, fuck, I'm cumming inside you," Zuko moaned into the darkness.

Inside the tight, wet vacuum of your pussy, his release erupted with an explosive, terrifying velocity. Just like before, his cum was thick, heavy, and hot. His cock twitching violently inside your pussy.

He collapsed forward onto your back, his chest heaving against your spine as his length slowly began to soften. Slowly, he shifted his weight, rolling you onto your back before pulling you tightly against his chest, his large arms wrapping securely around your waist. He leaned down, his amber eyes soft with a profound, quiet warmth as his lips met yours in a long, lingering kiss—a slow, heated contact that tasted of wine, sweat, and the absolute, permanent realization of your shared ruin.