Yandere Jester X Reader

Yandere Jester x Reader

The bells are the first thing you hear every morning—soft, chiming, almost birdlike in their laughter. They come before the footsteps of your advisors, before the clanking of platters and wine goblets, even before the rooster crows.

They are his bells.

He arrives with dawn, skipping into the hall like a child and bowing so low his nose brushes the cold stone floor. “Good morrow, Your Majesty,” he says, voice bright and breathless, eyes hidden behind a fan of red and gold silk. “The sun rises late, it seems. I’ve missed your light.”

You allow yourself a small smile, if only because your court expects it. He is your jester—your fool, your clown, your painted shadow—and he is beloved by all, even those who should know better.

Especially you.

He calls himself Jovian, though you suspect that is not his real name. No one knows where he came from. He appeared one storm-soaked night three winters ago. No one summoned him, no scroll bore his seal, and yet he walked through the palace gates as though he'd lived there all his life, trailing puddles and laughter in his wake. The guards said they let him in because of the way he smiled. As though he knew them. As though he owned them.

You’d been colder back then. Harsher. Too young for your crown, yet already dulled by the weight of it. You didn’t laugh easily. You barely smiled. Your court feared you and rightly so. But he laughed. He made you laugh. His first performance was impromptu. A whirling dance of mimicry and mockery, calling out your advisors by name and miming their worst faults with such ruthless precision that you remember the sound of goblets dropping to the floor.

You’d clapped. Once. Slowly.

And that was enough.

From then on, he never left.

He’s always there now. In the corners of your vision. In every reflection. Behind every column. Sometimes it seems even the shadows bend around him, accommodating his whims.

He wears bells on his wrists and ankles, dozens of them, and yet you never hear him when he shouldn’t be there. When he shouldn’t be anywhere near you. When you’re in the bath. Or asleep. Or alone with someone else.

You’ve stopped being alone with anyone else.

And still, your court adores him. They call him harmless. They say his painted smile is just that—paint. His laughter, an illusion. But they don’t see the things you see. They don’t feel his eyes.

You do. You feel them when you dress. When you undress. When you touch the ring he slipped onto your finger “as a joke” during a performance and which now cannot be removed.

This morning, as always, he somersaults to your throne and throws himself at your feet, dramatic and boneless, like a puppet without strings. His laughter echoes off the marble pillars.

“Another day, another chance to make you smile,” he purrs. His voice is sugar and venom, always. “Shall I juggle your secrets, sire? Dance with your demons? Or would you prefer I remove them entirely?”

You glance down. His painted face grins up at you, the red of his mouth smeared just slightly too wide. There’s something red beneath his fingernails.

“Jovian,” you say, your voice carefully neutral. “Did you sleep at all?”

He tilts his head. “Sleep?” he echoes. “Why would I sleep when you might dream of someone else?”

The court titters. They think it’s another of his jokes. You know better.

You haven’t had a restful night in weeks. Not since you complemented the captain of your guard. She vanished the next morning. Her armor was found folded on her cot. Her sword was never recovered.

Your steward once suggested restricting Jovian’s access to your chambers. The steward now speaks in a strange whisper and doesn’t meet your eyes. He says it was an illness.

You know better.

“Tell me a story,” you say. It’s safer, usually. He loves to perform. It distracts him.

He rises with a flourish, sweeping his arm in a theatrical arc. The bells sing.

“A story,” he says, eyes glinting like cut glass. “A tale of love and laughter? Or one of bones and betrayal?” He leans close. Too close.

You do not flinch. Flinching would only amuse him.

“Whichever you prefer,” you say, and your voice, to your credit, remains steady. “But keep it short.”

Jovian’s smile grows until it threatens to tear the painted mask of his face in two. He twirls away from the dais in a single, liquid motion, his bells trilling like birds startled from a tree. His arms rise, fingers splayed, as if he’s about to cast a spell. And in some ways, you think he is.

“Once,” he begins, “in a kingdom not unlike this one, there lived a ruler whose heart beat only for order. They surrounded themself with straight lines and silent halls, with iron laws and colder dreams. Their people whispered that they had ice in their veins, frost in their marrow. They were not cruel, no—they were clean.”

The courtiers laugh again, the low, uncertain ripple of those who know they are part of a performance but aren’t sure whether the joke is at their expense. You watch him move, pirouetting between pillars, his shadow elongating oddly behind him despite the hour.

“One day,” Jovian continues, “a man came to the palace. A stranger with bells on his wrists and madness in his smile. He danced into the throne room and bowed so low that even the spiders looked down on him. And the ruler, who had not laughed in many long years, tilted their head. And then...smiled.”

He stops dancing. Stops everything. The silence that follows is unnatural. The kind that weighs on your ears. It stretches too long.

Jovian stands now in the center of the chamber. He faces you. The fan is gone. His face is fully visible.

No one laughs.

“But the smile,” he says softly, “was not theirs.”

Something shifts in the air. You feel it like a sudden pressure drop before a storm. Your fingers tighten around the armrest of your throne.

Jovian’s eyes—not the bright, painted mockeries from moments ago but something deeper, older, more aware—lock onto yours. The courtiers around you begin to shift uneasily, the illusion fraying at the edges. Perhaps they, too, feel the change, though they’d never admit it.

“They say,” he goes on, his voice honeyed and low, “that when a fool dances too close to the fire, he risks getting burned. But what if the fire... finds him cold? What if it feeds him? What if it makes him real?”

He turns his head slowly, unnaturally, like a marionette guided by invisible strings. “Would you like that, my liege? To be real?”

Your mouth is dry. Your ring—the one he “joked” into placing upon your finger—burns against your skin. You press your palm into your thigh to stop yourself from reaching for it.

“What are you?” you whisper.

He hears. Of course he hears.

He laughs again, but this time there’s no joy in it. It’s empty. Hollow. The sound of dry leaves spinning down a long corridor.

“I am yours,” he says, all false brightness restored in an instant. “Your reflection, your shadow, your secret kept too long. I am the whisper in the mirror when you do not recognize yourself. I am what your court would be if it were honest. I am... love.”

He’s at your feet again. You didn’t see him move.

“I am love,” he repeats, and his voice cracks on the last word like porcelain under pressure.

Then he reaches into his coat and pulls out a feather—white, long, unmistakably from a dove—and places it on your knee.

You stare at it.

You think of your high priest, who hasn’t been seen since last week’s festival. You remember the dove he always kept with him, a symbol of peace, of renewal. You remember how it used to coo from his shoulder even during sermons.

You haven’t heard that cooing since.

“Your story,” Jovian says, rising again, brushing off his sleeves like dusting away ash, “is unfinished. But it’s getting better. Don’t you think?”

You don’t answer.

He leans close, until his lips nearly brush your ear. “I’ve been writing it in your dreams,” he whispers. “Do you like what I’ve done with the ending?”

Your heart thunders in your chest, but you force yourself to remain still, regal. You are a monarch. You are not afraid.

You are terrified.

The bells sound again as he twirls away, laughing once more, but it is an echo of an echo now, like wind whistling through an old crypt.

He performs the rest of the day for your court, delighting them with riddles and songs, with lewd jokes and elaborate impersonations. He flirts with the ladies, mocks the lords, kisses the hem of your robe as though nothing has changed.

But everything has.

That night, as you lie in your bed, the ring still burning on your hand and the feather tucked in a locked drawer, you dream.

And in the dream, Jovian stands at the foot of your bed, his smile stretched wide, his bells silent.

“You found the ending,” he says.

And the room fills with laughter that isn’t yours.

Masterlist

General Yandere Drabble

Yandere Headcanons

Delusional Vs Self-aware

My Biggest Fear

Yandere jealousy

Yandere Concepts

When Fate is Worse (Yandere Soulmate)

A Not-so Regular Dating Show

The Most Terrifying Yandere: When They Have ACTUAL Power

When Obsession Has Unlimited Resources

The worst ones never seem like yanderes

The worst ones never seem like yanderes (pt.2)

Oneshots

The House of Shadows (Moon x reader)

Love Etiquette 101: A Beginner’s Guide on How to Care for Your One and Only

Series

The App (Raye × Reader)

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nebbie3

2 weeks ago

CRASH OUT THIS EARLY???? SATISFACTORY !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

613 notes View Post

nebbie3

6 days ago

Have to pick my stove. It has a little warning light light signaling if the surface is hot. Meanwhile our kettle is completely made of glass. So I can see the horrors (bubbling water)

tell me the appliance that is your best friend ever in the kitchen

24K notes View Post

nebbie3

1 week ago

There's a specially terrifying type of isolation at the bottom of the ocean

bride of the abyss

Pairing: Yandere Siren x Reader Description: Years after you saved him, Zeiryn returns to drag you beneath the waves—where his love waits, fierce and inescapable. Warning/s: Yandere | Noncon/Dubcon Themes | Kidnapping | Possessive Behavior | Captivity | Obsession | Emotional Manipulation | Mild Violence | Body Morphing/Transformation Note/s: Commissioned on ko-fi! Thabk you for trusting me with your commission! Idk if you've received the email. I hope you enjoy this one! Tags will be added later!

Commissions are still open!

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar

The first time you met him, the sun was so high it burned your shoulders through your shirt. Your sandals had long been discarded, the soles of your feet pressed against coarse, grainy sand, warmed by the afternoon heat. Vacation meant freedom, and for you—a curious child with scraped knees and untamed hair—that meant wandering far beyond the adults’ lazy eyes and picnic baskets.

You weren’t supposed to be near the cliffs. The locals had told stories, murmured warnings of tides that dragged unsuspecting feet into the undertow. But you were eight, and warnings slid off your ears like water. You’d chased a crab across slick rocks, nearly slipping once—okay, twice—before rounding a jagged stone formation and stopping short.

A glint of silver caught your eye. At first, you thought it was trash—a bit of foil or an abandoned soda can. Then it moved. Just slightly. Enough to catch the sun and reflect a brilliance so blinding it made your eyes water. You stepped closer, heart thudding, and gasped.

He was tangled in a net.

You didn’t know what he was—some strange fish, perhaps? But then he turned his face to you, and your world cracked open.

He had eyes like the sea after a storm—grey, but not dull. There was depth there. Sorrow. His skin, though damp and streaked with grit, shimmered faintly under the sun. Hair, long and tangled with bits of kelp and shell, framed a face that was almost too lovely for this world. And below the waist…

A tail. Silver-scaled, powerful, twitching weakly with every shallow breath he took.

You froze.

He didn’t speak. He just stared. His lips slightly parted. You noticed the way he held himself, cautious and ready to defend. His hand—webbed and claw-tipped—twitched when you shifted your weight.

“I won’t hurt you,” you said, holding out your hands to show you had nothing. No rocks. No spear. Just your palms, scraped and pink from climbing.

He blinked slowly, suspicious still.

“Are you stuck?” you asked.

No reply. But he didn’t back away when you stepped closer. You knelt beside him, the scent of salt and something sharper—like rotting seaweed baking in the sun—invading your nose. It made your stomach twist. But you pushed it aside and began working at the net.

The knots were tight. You pulled and untangled, ignoring the barnacles slicing your fingertips. Time passed, but neither of you spoke. It wasn’t silence. The waves talked, the seagulls screamed above, and your own breath came hard with effort. Still, it felt sacred—like speaking would shatter something delicate between you.

Eventually, the net slackened.

He let out a sharp sound—surprise? Relief?—and pushed himself forward, dragging the last threads free with a flick of his tail. Then, to your astonishment, he touched your arm. A light brush of damp fingers on your skin. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes—raw and electric—said everything.

And then, he was gone. A splash, a spray of saltwater, and silver glimmering beneath the waves.

You never told anyone.

You convinced yourself it was a dream, a fantasy born from too much sun. But you visited that rock again. And again. Just in case.

Years passed. You grew up. He did not fade.

• • — ✦ — • •

Beneath the waves, he remembered everything.

Zeiryn had been young when you saved him, and even then, his mind was unlike the others. While his kin drowned sailors and split hulls for fun, Zeiryn watched the world above with a secret hunger. He had never known mercy—not until you. He thought you were an illusion at first. A sun-struck phantom, kindness shaped like a child.

But you were real. You touched him without fear. You saved him.

And he had never forgotten.

Seasons passed above and below. He grew stronger, his voice deeper, the gift of his lineage blooming in his throat. His tail thickened with muscle, the silver of his scales deepening to something more molten, almost iridescent. His hair, once wild and matted, was now woven with the treasures of the deep—rings of coral, braids of pearl, beads carved from whalebone. He was no longer a drifting child of the tide. He was a leader now.

Yet every dusk, he swam to the same stretch of shore, peering through kelp and coral, waiting for the only face that had ever haunted him.

And then—finally—he saw you.

You stood there, older, but still you. Your eyes held the same wonder, the same distant sadness. He watched from the rocks, heart hammering, the sea rising with every thrum of anticipation. You were holding a bottle. The scent reached him even through the water. Alcohol. Sour and sharp.

You stumbled closer to the edge, barefoot like before. He didn’t understand your tears at first. But when they hit the water, he tasted them.

Bitterness.

He had never tasted sorrow before.

He moved without thinking, cutting through the water with a predator’s grace. When you stepped into the sea—lost, maybe hoping it would take you—he was already there. His arms wrapped around you just before your knees buckled. He caught you. Held you. And for the first time in years, he felt whole again.

He turned to the shore. His eyes, once filled with awe, hardened. There were people there. A town. A world that had allowed you to suffer.

He would never forgive it.

The water closed over your head.

And he took you home.

• • — ✦ — • •

The cold hits you first. It pierces your skin like needles, forcing your eyes open.

Then the pressure—thick and heavy—presses against your chest. You try to gasp and choke instead. The world is liquid. Blurry shapes. Movement. Panic claws through you. You thrash—

Then you notice the shimmer.

Your legs—no. Not legs.

You scream, but no sound comes out. Just bubbles.

The tail is yours. You move, and it moves with you—powerful, golden, alien.

Your lungs don’t ache. You aren’t drowning.

You’re breathing. Underwater.

A presence approaches. You backpedal—awkward, instinctual.

Then he’s there.

The siren.

Older. Towering. Regal in a way that defies language. His eyes widen as you meet his gaze. He reaches for you like a lover, a prayer on his lips without sound.

You float, stunned, your heart racing in your chest.

"You're awake! Welcome home!" he says—somehow, impossibly, the words sliding into your mind like a current. His voice doesn’t echo in your ears. It resonates in your bones. Inside you.

Your lips tremble. “What... what did you do to me?”

He cocks his head, almost confused by the question. “I saved you.”

You glance around. Coral walls. Bioluminescent plants. Faint shadows darting beyond what your eyes can track.

“I didn’t ask to be saved.”

His face falters, just briefly. But then the soft smile returns. “You did, once. When I was dying. You touched me. You gave me your warmth. Your kindness.” He swims closer. “You were the only one who ever did.”

“That was years ago.” You try to back away, but your body is sluggish in this new form. “I was a kid.”

“You remembered me.” His voice is gentle now, like a lullaby. “You returned.”

You shake your head, panicked. “No. I—I was just walking. I didn’t know—”

His hand reaches forward, cupping your cheek. His touch is warm now. Familiar. Like seawater kissed by the sun. “You were hurting. They made you cry. But you don’t have to cry anymore.”

“I want to go back,” you whisper.

“There’s nothing there for you.”

He’s not angry. Not yet. Just... patient. Like he’s waiting for you to understand something you’ve missed.

“You belong here,” he murmurs. “With me.”

You remember the way he looked at you back then—curious and soft. But this is different. There’s devotion in his eyes. A fire born not of gentle affection, but of obsession that has steeped too long.

“You changed me,” you say, voice shaking. You look down at the tail. “How?”

“There’s a pearl,” he says, pointing to your side. You notice now—embedded near your hip is a small, glowing orb, barely visible beneath your skin.

“I couldn’t risk losing you again.”

You turn, frantic now. “No, no, this isn’t right. I can’t—this isn’t real.”

“You are real.” His voice is sharper now. “I dreamed of you so long I thought you were only in my mind. But you’re here. Flesh and spirit. And you’ll never have to suffer again.”

You shake your head. “I’m not your wife.”

Silence.

Then he leans close, his breath warm against your ear even underwater.

“Yet.”

• • — ✦ — • •

Back on the surface, a woman named Marina squints at the shore where she last saw you. She’s a local—grew up with the sea in her lungs and warnings stitched into her grandmother’s lullabies. When she saw you walk into the ocean, something in her gut twisted. She waited hours. You didn’t return.

Now, she’s standing with a fisherman and an old priest, their gazes following the waterline.

“No body,” the man mutters. “Currents here don’t drag far. Should’ve washed up if she drowned.”

“She didn’t drown,” Marina says softly. “She was taken.”

The priest mutters something in an old tongue. The fisherman scoffs.

“By what? Sea spirits? Merfolk?”

“No.” Marina’s eyes don’t leave the water. “A siren.”

“Those don’t exist.”

“They do,” she says. “And if it’s the one I think… she won’t come back.”

And deep beneath the waves, Zeiryn brushes a strand of hair from your face as you lie curled in coral-silk bedding. You’ve cried yourself into a stupor. But your skin is warmer now. The transformation is complete. Soon, you’ll forget what it was like to walk. To speak above the waves. To live without him.

He hums you a song—a melody he’s written over the years, just for you. It wraps around your heart like a net.

You stir in your sleep.

He smiles.

Tomorrow, you’ll love him back.

You have to.

After all… you’re home.

TBC.

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya @yandereaficionado @pinksaiyans@ivantillenthusiast @missybabes

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nebbie3

1 week ago

I do think repressed priests should be allowed to be corrupted and seduced by a demon once or twice. Like, is it really falling into the sin of lust if the devil himself had to send lust incarnate to tempt you? Everyone else is being led off the path by run-of-the-mill humans; you resisted that! You should be allowed to feel the dizzying, corrupt pleasure only a demon can offer. as a treat. You can repent afterwards, if you really think you have to, if you really think something that felt so good was wrong.

Maybe the sex itself isn't even the issue, as we've established you deserved that bit of depravity, but the lingering ache for more- maybe that's your real sin. Now you've had a taste of what's out there, you want it again, don't you? Oh, but everyone aches for something, longs for something they cannot have; it's more human nature than a sin. Really, what's worse? Having sex with a demon or touching yourself, thinking about having sex with a demon?

If you just lie back, let the Demon have you and bring you to orgasm over and over again, are you really even the one sinning there? hardly seems like your fault. You even weakly protested "no" a few times before giving in fully.

When you touch yourself, it's you who's in control, it's your own dirty thoughts and sinful hands that are bringing you pleasure, the sin is entirely your own.

So really, it's the more holy option to invite the demon into your chapel and let them do the hard, dirty work. Keep your hands clean, Father.

And if you can't manage that, if you just have to fist your hands into the demon's hair or grope and touch and feel their hot skin as it presses against you, they can help with that. Bind your wrists and tie you down so you can't sin. Which do you prefer? hands tied behind your back, or should they be clasped in prayer position and bound that way? Either way, you're forced onto your knees for them, you can't touch them, but you can still worship, your tongue is still free- for now, consider it a payment for helping you keep your purity.

Go on and denounce them one more time- tell them how you hate them and their sin before they hook a leg around your shoulder and push your head to their groin. It's alright, they're forcing you into it, so it's not really your fault. It's not really a sin. And no one has to know how much you enjoy it.

Tags

“oh golly this is horrible” i say as i stuff the post into my pockets and scurry away like a critter

266 notes View Post

nebbie3

1 week ago

look okay nearly every project moon character is the character of all time on account of the literary references and layers of bullshit but Ricardo truly IS the character of all time. He wears a leopard print fur cape and no shirt. His hair is hot pink. He would chase someone across the high seas and to the opposite side of the country because he wanted to kill them for stealing his hair coupons. EDM music follows him around and it IS diegetic. He loves cute things and decorates his Book of Vengeance (where he writes the names of everyone who has ever wronged him so he can punish them for it) with kitty stickers. The gang he’s from is called the Middle Finger and all the guys he leads call him Big Bro and really truly mean it. His favorite positive descriptor is “luscious” and his favorite negative one is “bristly” and he’ll use them in situations where they shouldn’t be applied. He lives in a world where you are more likely to become a pile of gore than survive another day and but instead of turning into blood and meat he just gets launched like Team Rocket. The chains and tattoos aren’t even a remarkable part of his design since that’s just what The Middle is like. I got so caught up describing how strange he is that I forgot to say that he kills people by punching and kicking them to death

Tags

if i recall correctly the tatoos in the City can be used to enchance people like additional strength or speed or stamina etc so it's a genuine possibility that the music comes from his tattoos just for the vibes ink nanobot speakers or something

778 notes View Post

nebbie3

2 weeks ago

Reminds me of this one post I saw about the right to power or choosing to take it on being a curse. Once you choose it, it'll never let you go. Really nice story!

The North Wind & His Bride

The North Wind was the coldest and cruelest of winds. So when a man came to your father's door claiming to be him and asking for your hand, your father was quick to turn him away.

"My daughter is too bright and too kind to be wasted on the worst of the winds. Come back once you learn to carry spring on your breath instead of snow."

And all that night the wind whispered down your chimney. You dreamt strange dreams - of the colours found only at the edge of the world, of snow flurries and seas black as night.

The man returned the next day. And your father once again refused him. "Come back when you can grant succor to the poor and the pitiful and not freeze them where they sleep."

That night, the wind keened even higher and rattled the window shutters. You dreamt of a wedding dress with frost for lace and a ring the gold of sunrise on snow. When you woke, your ring finger was cold as ice.

The man did not come again that day and you huddled close to the fire, rubbing warmth back into your bones. Your father paced his study and tried to scheme a way of avoiding the wind.

That night, the air laid still as in a coffin and you slept the black sleep of the drowned. You woke in time to see the first snow of the year, two months too early.

Your father's crops froze in the ground or rotted with the thaw. He paced his study and tried to scheme a way of avoiding the creditors.

When next your suitor came, your father's good manners had been worn down by debt collectors and bank notes. He snapped at the wind like a thing cornered. "Come back when you can guide ships safe to port and not wreck them on icy shores."

That night, a blizzard blew in from the north and any creature not crouched by the fire or huddled indoors was found frozen solid. You dreamt again, of a man with cold hands and even colder eyes who danced with you under foreign stars.

Your suitor did not come again but terrible news did. Your brother's ship was wrecked by a storm high on the winter coast. All souls were lost.

Through your grief, a terrible anger began to grow.

When next your suitor came, you greeted him at the door. He had a face as finely chiseled as an ice sculpture and eyes the deep black of the hinterland sea.

"If you would have me as your bride, then I will have a dowry from you."

He took your hand in his and his touch chilled you worse than a corpse's would. He looked at you with a hunger born out of winter and scarcity and cold.

"Anything. Ask anything of me and you can have it."

All through your brother's funeral you thought of ways to avenge him. And now you asked the North Wind for the one thing you thought he could never obtain.

"In a kingdom far south of here, where the snow never falls and the winter never comes, there is a jewel carved from the sun God's bones. Bring me that as a wedding band and I will be your bride."

You thought he would flinch or ask you to reconsider. Instead he bowed and kissed your hand and said he would soon return.

You felt your hope slipping, but he did not return the next day. Or the day after that. The end of autumn came without snow or gales or the return of your suitor. Slowly, you began to breathe again. Began to heal from your brother's death. Began to dream of summer and love and fresh fruit bursting between your teeth.

The winter equinox dawned with clear skies. There was to be feasting that night, and dancing. You dressed your hair with silver chains and sweetened your lips with winter berries. When the music started, one young man after another swept you into his arms and spun you around the bonfire. You tilted your head back and laughed and flirted and forgot all about your suitor.

Near midnight, the wind started to blow. The fire hissed as snowflakes drifted down from suddenly cloudy skies. Your dance partner caught one on his glove and offered it to you. Daring and high on the thrill of dancing, you licked it off his finger. "Tastes of winter in storm," you teased and when he took you for another dance, you wondered if you'd caught yourself a husband.

He spun you around but the arms that caught you were icy cold even through the fine velvet of the wearer's suit.

Midnight tolled and you looked up into the eyes of the North Wind.

He pulled your hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against your skin. At his touch, even the bonfire at your back seemed to lose its warmth.

"The journey south was wrecked with danger and the sun almost melted me clean away, but I have brought your dowry."

Before you could pull away, he slipped a ring onto your finger. It was the gold of fire and sunset and desert sand, and it's warmth spread through you.

The snow turned into a blizzard but you didn't notice it. The wind outside the safety of his arms was sharp as stinging nettles and the townsfolk called to each other in panic, barely able to keep their torches from blowing out.

The North Wind kissed your cheek, eyes glimmering with triumph.

"You're mine now. My spring bride, my dearest love."

All your dreams of a sweet summer love melted. When the snow finally settled, you were no longer in the town square but in a throne room at the edge of the world. Green and blue lights danced in the sky and shone through the palace ceiling, bathed your new husband in all the colours of his kingdom.

He leaned forward and claimed his first kiss.

When you pulled away and tried to step out of his embrace, he tightened his grip and his smile both.

"You are my wife now," he explained in a voice as comforting as frostbite, "And a wife cannot refuse her husband's love."

Your sun ring was the only spot of warmth on your body and you clung desperately to the anchor it offered.

"I would not refuse you, husband of mine. But I am the daughter and the sister of common men and there are traditions to uphold before I can climb into your wedding bed."

"What more must I do to have you?"

What would he be unable to do, here at the end of the world?

"Build me a fire that burns all day and all night on one stick of wood and you can have me as promised."

"These are strange traditions you have, wife of mine. But I have come this far to have you, and I will go further yet."

He left you with a flurry of snow and the hissing shriek of a gale. When he was gone, you paced the throne room from one end to the other and could not find a door. Everything about the room was as stark and cold as he.

Exhausted and chilled, you sat at the foot of his throne. What terrible thing did you do to earn the love of the North Wind? You wiped away your tears and then jumped at the hissing sound they made when they touched your ring. Like water spilled on coals.

"You've melted his heart," your ring hissed. "And he cannot afford to let you go."

You stared at your hand. Eventually you found your voice and the strength to ask, "How do I escape him?"

"Trick him. His heart holds all his power. If you have it, you can ride the wind far from here. He was once a man and still might be tempted into a deal."

The ring was silent after that and you waited for your husband's return with bated breath. It was dawn when he came to you, a branch slung over his shoulder. It was of a dry, white wood that you didn't recognise.

There were no fireplaces in the North Wind's palace and so he laid the branch at your feet before he lit it. It caught with a harsh crackle and fire spread across it in a greenish haze. You stretched your fingers out to feel the heat and even the meagre warmth of it was a comfort.

But that comfort turned to a slow dawning horror when you realised the branch wasn't turning to ash. The fire ate at it but the wood refused to darken.

"It's a branch from Death's own orchard," your husband said proudly. "It can burn for eternity and never go out."

"Well done," you said, even though your lips were numb from panic. "But we must watch it burn for the full day and night or else our marriage cannot be consummated."

He sat down beside you and curled his arm around your waist. "It is an easy task to watch this fire, wife of mine. When I grow tired, I need only think of the reward that awaits me."

For a whole day and night, the North Wind held you his arms and watched the fire burn. When Dawn's light touched his palace again, he kissed your shoulder and then your neck and then your lips. He sighed with a deep contentment.

"At last I will have you."

With each kiss, you felt yourself grow colder. With each caress, the binding ties of marriage grew tighter. All night you thought of a trade to offer him and now you said it aloud.

"Husband of mine, I will come willingly to your bed and serve willingly as your wife. But I would ask you first for a boon."

"Ask, wife of mine. If it is mine to grant, then I shall grant it."

You slipped off his lap and turned to look at him.

"I would have your heart."

The North Wind sighed and miles away, a gale began to form. "You already have it."

"So have said countless suitors over countless years to countless girls. And still they were unfaithful, unkind. If your love ever turns away from me, I will be stuck here at the end of world with naught but sea bears and ice hounds to comfort me."

The North Wind sat on his throne and regarded you with eyes old as the mountains. In his own hall, in his own country, he did not seem like a man who could easily be tricked. Still, you tried. You let your hands drift across his cheeks and up his thighs, let his skin bask in the warmth of your touch.

"Grant me this, husband. And I will be yours for eternity."

Was it lust or love that made him hand you a knife and bid you cut out his heart? He guided your hand to the tender spot between his ribs and the bare skin of his chest almost made your reconsider.

The blade was carved out of whalebone and moonlight and he was bleeding before you even pressed down. You thought of your brother, drowned in the ice so far from home and found the strength to slice into him.

The blood that welled up from his chest was thick and black as oil. Where it touched your skin, hoatfrost bloomed.

He didn't seem to feel any pain - he only pulled you higher up his lap and watched the guilt and horror flicker across your face.

When the cut was deep enough, you pushed your hand into his chest and felt for his heart. His organs were colder even than his skin and it felt like you'd sunk your hands into snow.

The beating of his heart mirrored yours and when you finally grabbed it, the thrumming of his blood sounded just like your own.

You held the North Wind's heart in your hand and pulled it from his chest.

All at once, in all the countless winter kingdoms, the wind stopped howling and the snow grew still.

His heart was the size of your palm and oozed icy blood over your fingers. It was so cold that at first you didn't realise the numbness in your hand was spreading. It crawled up your arm like a burning frost and locked your bones in place.

You couldn't drop his heart even if you tried.

The North Wind looked at you with an indulgent, amused smile. And when the ice reached your heart he leaned up and kissed you.

He kissed you and for once his lips felt warm, felt human. Dimly, you realised it wasn't him who was getting warmer, it was you who was freezing over. Becoming a thing of ice and hunger as he was.

"Now you need never fear I will abandon you." The North Wind ran his hands up your sides and warmth bloomed in his wake.

"Now you can control the wind as I do and ride it to the furthest reaches of the world. You can swim with the sea bears and dance with the witches."

You looked down and realised his heart was almost gone, melted into your bones and blood.

He kissed you again. "My love, you are as free as the wind."

It wasn't until then that you realised the cost of freedom. The cost of having the North Wind's heart. And when he drew you up in his arms and lead you to your wedding bed, you were too cold to turn him away.

Tags

ice ice baby

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nebbie3

3 weeks ago

I'm screaming @redspringstudio was this intentional

Tags

angels are just really big roosters if you squint hard enough

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nebbie3

2 weeks ago

Yandere! House Monster x Reader

Listen, I woke up in cold sweat at 4am with a vision: you and your stereotypically unavailable gamer boyfriend have moved into a new house. You find out very soon it's not as empty as you had assumed, but your worries fall on deaf ears. The tentacle monster lurking in dark corners just wants to make sure you're not lonely.

[Second Part]

Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance (mildly NSFW)

You didn't notice anything strange at first. Maybe it was considering its prey. You'd found a cheap, old house available for rent, and your boyfriend couldn't refuse the extra space for his mancave.

Oh, you poor thing. It watched your lonely evenings, your empty bed at night, your futile attempts to spend more time with your beloved partner. It had originally planned to devour your souls and await the next foolish mortals to enter its realm, but seeing your pitiful state prompted a change of heart. Metaphorical heart, of course.

It started gradually: testing the waters, or what you'd call a courting attempt. Doors opening by themselves, disembodied eyes lovingly gazing at you from the nearby walls. Dark tendrils making their way out of the shadows, just to announce its presence.

"I think this place might be cursed", you told your boyfriend one evening. "I've been stalked by amorphous silhouettes of blight and terror, and they whisper ancient blasphemies to me at night." He let out a worried shout and slapped the desk. "That's cool, babe. I'm kind of losing right now, though, so perhaps give me a minute?"

One night you were awakened from your slumber by a warm touch sliding across your body. You smiled into your pillow as the cheeky hands made their way down, fondling your curves and hungrily searching for your sensitive areas. You let out a soft moan, enjoying the moment, until you heard your boyfriend yell from the other room. Your eyes shot open.

The hands lewdly groping your privates were, in fact, tentacles. Your first reaction was to gasp, but you were quickly silenced by another slippery appendage pressing against your lips. Shh, shh. Allow the creature to do its thing, dear. Surely enough, within minutes you were a drooling mess, holding onto the sheets for dear life.

"You've been in a good mood lately", you boyfriend remarks, idly scrolling on his phone and crunching on his breakfast cereal. You ponder if you should tell him you've been fucked relentlessly by a monstrous creature inhabiting your new home. You glance at the counter and smirk, remembering how you just had to wipe your wet mess from it a few hours ago. "Keep it that way, hun, I could get used to not being pestered every hour", the man jokes with a laugh.

Does it count as cheating if your affair partner isn't really human? Although, you have to wonder if you're still dating to begin with. From the corner of your eye, you can discern faint movement above the young man, a shadow looming menacingly. The eldritch monster would not hesitate to tear your poor boyfriend apart if he tried to mess with its belonging.

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