Side blog for games, my cringe interests, my art (sometimes). Donât really care about spoilers for myself but I try to be careful about spoiling for other people. Iâm an adult.
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A bit of context: this comic takes place quite a long time ago. They were younger and still figuring out how to make things work in the circus. The first version of their outfits wasnât comfortable, since their bodies are different, which led to the redesign and custom-made clothes for all of them after this incident.
Besides the outfit changes, youâll also get a small spoiler about Pierrotâs rule!
Also! Thank you @destinysquared for helping me correct some poses and adjust a few things in the comic!
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Alien stage theory, Ivan and Till are gonna become an actual romantic pair in the au. Sua is gonna painfully pine for Mizi and they are not gonna be a realized pair in this au. I read somewhere that Vivinos said Mizi would not approach Sua in an au. So Iâm basing it off that.
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Hihi ~ It's my first time requesting so i hope i'm doing it right. ( I also apologize if my english is bad, It's not my first language.. )
Can i have some headcanons about what it's like to be in a relationship with Jester? ( w/ a fem. MC ) Have a lovely day/night!
THRILL.
What it's like to be in a relationship with Jester?
You will have to be very persistent to win his trust before he considers you his friend, let alone a potential lover. Jester is the only one in the circus who has aversion to humans and it's not going to change as easily as with Pierrot. He's not interested in relationship with your kind, he has never been attracted to anyone. Although the circus crew is mostly indifferent towards humans at this point, it doesn't mean they're trusting.
He won't confess. You're clearly in love with him, why waste time on this sappy stuff? It feels like he's doing you a favour by accepting your affection rather than reciprocating it.
His love is twisted. You're not even sure he considers you his partner. It would be more accurate to say that he views you as his prized possession, someone who needs to be guided and controlled. Jester is the leader in everything, including your relationship. His sadism doesn't show in raised voice and cruel behavior. No, he prefers to keep you under control through manipulation and carefully chosen words. He's incredibly captivating, it's not hard for him to pacify you. Honestly, it's more terrifying; his words seem to conceal a malice behind them, despite his calm tone.
Deep down, he feels conflicted. He does love you, but the fact that you're something he is used to treating with caution and distrust... Just behave yourself and he promises to keep you safe. Even though the biggest threat to you is him.
It would be easier for him to trust someone who's harmless and timid. Of course, looks can be deceiving but that't precisely why he will first make sure you don't have any hidden intentions. You look so cute when you're nervous, it only makes him more excited. His smirk widens as a feeling of thrill nearly overwhelms him. Jester loves comparing you to a mouse; small, helpless and easily broken if not treated carefully. He wouldn't mind chasing you, to be honest.
Whenever you feel sad, he won't offer reassurance. In fact, he will probably worsen the situation by acting casually and making a teasing comment. You don't know that he deals with those who hurt you, if it's the reason of your distress. You don't know that he tries to make your life easier, taking care of the problems you may have. Even if you try to hide it, he will find out sooner or later. Just don't expect him to be soft.
Surprisingly, Jester doesn't mind if you're clingy. He expresses his love through physical touch, though not as intensely as you. A light stroke of your hair, a brief hug, a kiss that's barely perceptible. He prefers the top of your head. You can't remember if he kissed you anywhere else... But these thoughts are quickly pushed aside when he lets you nestle in his arms, where you feel both safe and vulnerable. He doesn't like being touched. Be grateful you're an exception.
If you're someone who reads a lot and has impressive knowledge, you can sometimes have deep conversations. He won't deny the truth of your judgements if they're indeed correct, but you always feel like he's being condescending. He likes catching you off guard with questions that require a lot of time to think about.
Jester makes sure you always wear the pin he had given you. Even if you take it off, he will put it back without you realizing. And the purple ticket will always remind you of his claim on you, something that feels strangely comforting. Be good and he will take care of you.
a/n: don't worry, dear! english is not my first language either, haha. I hope you liked it!
warnings: self-insert, gender neutral, implied established relationship, no smut (suggestive), dark romance, psychological tension, soft dom energy, strong sexual tension, biting (consensual), obsession themes, mild manipulation, emotional vulnerability, references to violence (from classic literature).
resume: âjester rests in his dressing room with a classic in hand, immersed in notes and quiet intensity. when you approach, the reading turns into something more intimate: an exchange of thoughts, tension, and sensations that spill far beyond the pages.â
The dressing room still smelled of makeup, old canvas, and rice powder. The only light bathing the dim space came from the bulbs around the mirror, gilding the room with a glow far too intimate for someone like him.
Jester was slouched in the armchair, one leg crossed over the other, the book open in his lap with theatrical indifference. You wondered what book he had chosen this time. He read about politics, philosophy, cultures from the most remote corners of this stretching world, historical accounts; then he wandered into strategy, horror, dark fantasy, and classical literature â and in this last domain, he seemed more immersed than ever these past few days, as if in a silent fervor.
The bookâs cover was dark, worn at the edges, its spine slightly battered. An old French classic, as he liked to remind you, one most humans wouldnât have the stomach nor the intellect to grasp. A tale about monstrosity, perversion, ostracism, symbolic and literal violence, twisted emotional bonds, and misery. The most beautiful portrayal of the price paid in the bargain for unattainable love, for desiring what should be undesirable, and for the madness that alone could saturate the mind and heart of human beings.
You entered quietly, noticing Jesterâs back turned to you, his posture straight and regal as always, flipping through the pages slowly in an almost haunting silence. At first, he didnât acknowledge your presence â or perhaps he only pretended not to, refusing to offer you even a single glance. He turned a page. Then another. In an effort that seemed almost intentional.
You approached without saying anything, lightly touching his arm. You wanted to see the title.
He pulled his arm away without aggression, yet with that irritating elegance of his.
âTsk.â
A small sound, but one that stung.
âIf you want attention, ask for it.â
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 hadnât 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: âCeci tuera cela.â You didnât 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.
âYou donât know what it means, do you?â he asked, a slow line of laughter curling at his mouth as he tilted his head. âBut you read it anyway. Curious, as always.â
Before you could retort, he continued, his tone proud and intrigued:
âItâs about an archdeacon. A man of faith,â he began, returning his gaze to the book. âA man who hates what he desires. And a poor monstrous bell-ringer, who loves what he can never touch, and desires what despises him.â
The lamp crackled. Your chest tightened as you moved to sit beside the armchair.
âHere.â
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.
âThis part here is quite interesting. Itâs 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.â
He gave you a sideways smile, one of his legs brushing against yours suggestively, dangling beyond the edge of the seat.
âHuman foolishness. She actually thought she had some kind of effect on him.â
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 â 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.
âAnd what happened to the little gypsy?â
He marked a line on the page with a slow finger.
âThe 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.â
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 shouldnât 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.
âShe 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.â
âShe took the blame?â you asked, outraged.
âShe took the blame,â Jester repeated, an uneven smile tugging at his lips, almost amused, almost pitying. âImagine⌠a crime she didnât commit, for a love that never existed, for a man who didnât love her, and for another who desired her in the most sickening way.â
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.
âDo you know whatâs most fascinating?â Jester continued. âThe archdeacon cannot stand the girl. He hates her. Hates her fragility, her laughter, the way she breathes or dances, spinning under the hot sun. ButâŚâ His voice dropped a half-tone, almost scraping the air. âHe becomes sick at the mere thought of someone else touching her.â
A shiver ran down your spine, slow and inevitable.
âWhy 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.
âMaybe⌠because some people confuse desire with entitlement. With ownership. Maybe the archdeacon believed he deserved her, for some reason known only to him.â
He hummed in agreement.
âInteresting. Do you really think that? Is desire a tyrant⌠or merely a plea dressed as a beast?â
The question fell like a thin blade between the two of you.
You didnât answer immediately. Your fingers slipped from his shoulder to the collar of his circus attire, adjusting the fabric in a gesture so small it couldâve meant nothing, yet it meant everything. He noticed. He always noticed.
Jester turned another page with cruel slowness, his breath nearly brushing yours.
âThe archdeacon thought his desire was a plea turned feral. He claimed to hate the girl, for she was a pagan, young, vulgar. But lookâŚâ He tilted the book toward you, pointing at a specific passage. âHere. This is where he visits her in prison. Sheâs chained, dirty, cold, and he begsâŚâ
The words hit your eyes immediately, sharp as blades. Pathetic, raw, visceral â 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.
âCurious, isnât it? Who in their right mind would ask for such a thing? Two impulses so contradictory?â His voice dropped, ambiguous and dangerously vulnerable. âWould you ask for something like that, pet?â
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.
âMe?â you murmured. Your own voice sounded strange, too low. âIt depends⌠on what exactly youâre asking.â
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.
âIâm askingâŚâ His thumb traced your chin with no rush. âWhether you would let someone want you in ways so different it hurts.â
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.
âIf you would accept dominance and affection from the same hand. Desire and fear whispered in the same breath.â
That crooked, small, almost sad smile appeared.
âWould you call someone who doesnât know whether he wants to protect you⌠or devour you, love?â
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 â 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.
âAlways so obedientâŚâ he breathed against your skin, his mouth tracing the heated trail his teeth left behind. âSo ready.â
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 didnât 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.
âSuch a little dareâŚâ he murmured, his voice vibrating against your neck. âYou want to play with me like that?â
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 â unrestrained, yet dark in that way everything about him was. He seemed deeply entertained and pleased.
âVery fun, my dear. Continue,â he asked, brushing his fingers softly against your face. âJust remember that every button you unfasten pushes me to my limit, and every touch is an invitation. Think carefully before IâŚâ
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 â clearly unhappy, after how inspired heâd been moments ago. Instinctively, he held you tighter while waiting for the voice outside.
âJester?â the voice called. It was the Ticket Taker. âThe show starts in half an hour. We already have a crowd gathering.â
Jesterâs body tensed for just a moment. Then he leaned back against you with a manic, warm, frustrated sigh.
âI appreciate the warning, Ticket Taker, but Iâm fully aware of my duties. There is nothing to worry about.â
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 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.
âDonât wander off too far, little creature. I want to smell the longing when I return.â
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.
âJust someone who existed wrong.â
âDeformed? Funny. The world only accepts monsters when they become spectacle.â
âThe whole city is more deformed than he is.â
âThe tower is just a metaphor. The real prison is the flesh-and-blood keeper."
"His cell sounds far too familiar.â
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, youâd 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 shouldnât have existed.
And, for the first time that night, you missed him. Not out of desire, but out of understanding.
small note: hi, itâs 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 wasnât exactly easy to write. it was a bit challenging, and Iâm sorry if he feels a little OOC at any point.
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
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!
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I was looking into French folklore for a monster design for my tfc oc and I think I found the monster Ticket Taker may be based on.
Itâs called a Babau. Itâs not a strictly French monster, it just popped up when I was looking into monsters. Itâs the only monster so far Iâve seen with one horn depicted like Ticket Taker.