#ruler of the nightmare realm

[dotieeee]

The Dream That Got Away

Chapter 4

Pairing: Dark!Morpheus x You (no Y/N!)

This is a multi-chapter fic — Weekly updates (either Saturday or Sunday) because I found a rhythm of sorts lol

(The entire fic has been outlined, so I will see this to the end, you have my word)

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Link to the Masterlist

Overall Warnings!! Take heed:

Morpheus is DARK – in canon, he changes for the better (or at least, tries to – but we don’t do canon lol, so he goes even more batshit crazy) cue obsession, manipulation, possessiveness, powerplay

18+ ONLY – explicit scenes will be present, some explicit language

DUB-CON and NON-CON scenes

Character death (sort of)

Creator vs Creation drama

And other dark stuff that may be added in the future

This chapter’s warnings:

Some mentions of violence

Mild voyeurism

You have been warned!! Proceed with caution!!!

Link to the previous chapter

Chapter 4: Scarlet Sage

A whimper escapes the back of your throat as you place your palms on his chest in an attempt to push him away – but you might as well have pushed against a brick wall. Seemingly aroused by the sound you made, he sucks on your lower lip and angles your head for better access. He starts leaving open-mouthed kisses on your jawline, leaving you winded and your lips raw red.

“Please, my Lord…” you beg with a quivering voice.

The moment you start feeling his hot breath on your neck, one of the library doors opens with a soft creaking sound followed by muffled footsteps. The Dream King stills at the intrusion with a small growl – using this momentary distraction, you break away from his grip and make a wild run for it.

You might’ve heard him chuckle under his breath, but you’re not quite sure. At that point, you didn’t care – you don’t dare look back as you dash madly out of the library, and eventually out of the palace grounds. You put as much distance between your king and yourself, paying no mind where you were going or how fast you were going. You run until you reach the foot of the bridge connecting the palace and town plaza, clutching a stitch on your side, and panting heavily for air. Hanging on to the bridge railing for support, you allow your breathing to slightly even out before breaking into a sprint once more, narrowly avoiding collision with a man pushing a cart of what looked like tiny red flowers on stalks.

You reach the forest, noisily rushing past the floor of dead leaves as you flee, tripping occasionally on protruding tree roots. You get a little paranoid; you slow your pace a little and peek behind you because you thought you heard rustling – assuming that your mind must’ve been playing tricks on you, you resume your trot – 

Only to slide into a shallow, well-hidden ravine with a loud yelp that echoes throughout the woods.

Fortunately, you land on a pile of dried leaves, so it doesn’t take you long to gather your bearings and finally let the adrenaline wear off. You let out a few mild coughs before greedily gulping in the air of the forest, and, plopping down on its floor, you lean on the thick, exposed tree root behind you. At that point, it finally dawns on you exactly what made you run away in the first place.

Your creator and master, Dream of the Endless, had just maybe confessed the nature of his intentions towards you.

“Shit. Shit. Shit!” You mutter to yourself out loud, burying your face in your palms.

Without your control, the incident in the library flashes in your mind; the way he cornered you and pressed against you; the way his breath fanned your face, and the way his lips insistently roamed yours and demanded access –

Mentally, you shake the feeling of him off you. How many teenage girls’ dreams have you seen involved such romantic trysts with their childhood crushes among the hidden confines of bookshelves, stifled giggling, and hushed voices? You certainly remember how the dreams felt: they were sweet and, at times, awkward; but also, thrilling and full of innocence. Your first kiss with the Dream Lord, however, felt almost too heavy and too sensual – it felt wrong.

And then there’s that other matter: you, a mere dream, had just maybe rejected his advances.

You gather your knees to your chest and buried your face in them, groaning in frustration. You have never gotten on the Dream Lord’s wrathful side – Candor herself has stated that he was somehow more lenient, daresay more affectionate towards you. Certainly, you’d fall in more favour in his eyes should you submit to him. But, as hard as it is to admit, he is your creator and King – and thus you see him only as a monarch, a figure of authority. You are loyal to him, that has been proven, but crossing that boundary was something else.

Now, you’re sure your refusal of him had deeply disappointed him, even enraged him – but was that enough to warrant an unmaking? Would he summon you, or search for you himself, and sentence you back to the dust from which he formed you? Just what have you dug yourself into?

   The gravity of your actions starts to hit you: you might’ve just doomed yourself to roaming the kingdom – his kingdom – a fugitive, forever in fear of his shadow, a subject of his ire.

Just then, a shuffle of dried leaves startles you. You leap to your feet and start backing away. Has he finally come to find you and punish you for spurning him?

“Who’s there?” You summon the courage to speak, your voice high-pitched and shaking.

Out from the distance, you hear a wild hacking noise – like someone was getting dirt out of their throat. You approach the sound a little more confidently now that you’re sure it isn’t the Dream Lord. True enough, you walk into the sight of Abel, sitting up half-buried in freshly dug earth; he really was trying to get the dirt out of his throat. Rushing to his side, you help him get to his feet and brush the damp soil off his hair.

“Thank you, Mera. My brother sure did a number on this grave – it took me a while to dig my way out of it,” Abel says cheerily.

Chuckling lightly, you pick up the earthworm that managed to crawl into his jacket pocket. “Hello to you too, Abel.”

There only have been a handful of times you’ve seen Abel rise from his grave, but the first time sure gave you quite the shock. Such is the fate of the first brothers: one forced to kill, the other forced to resurrect in a never-ending cycle of bloody murder that went on since the dawn of mankind. One could call it a ‘twisted’ form of brotherly love. Will you suffer the same fate, you wonder, under the hands of your creator? Will you also be forever cursed to roam the realm, being unmade and remade at the whim of a jilted monarch?

“Mera? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Abel waves his hand in front of you to get your attention. “Well, granted you have seen a corpse, or at least one’s that’s recently been…are you alright?”

Giving him a weary smile, you respond, “You know what, Abel, I don’t think I am.”

Immediately, Abel’s jovial expression turns to one of concern. “Oh, dear. Is that why you’ve come all the way here? To be honest, I do find it peculiar why you’re here, of all places.”

Trying to lighten his sullen mood, you joke, “To be fair, this isn’t where Cain usually buries you.”

Letting out a dry chortle, he relents. “Yeah, he really wanted me to have a hard time.” His face suddenly lights up and offers, “If you’d like, we can talk about whatever’s bothering you on the way to my house. And we can finally have tea! Your last visit was cut short, after all.”

“Yes, I’d like that very much.”

“Wonderful!” He exclaims, rummaging on the back of his jacket for something you can’t see. “Aw, rats. I told Cain to be careful with this coat; he knows this is my favourite…”

***

You tread along Abel at a leisurely pace through the thick of the woods. You listen to him rant about how his older brother always manages to ruin this specific jacket every time he kills him, pointing at this back where a large tear is, in the middle of a huge splotch of blood. This somehow comforts you, listening to someone else’s troubles for once. It’s a humbling experience, knowing that the Dreaming Realm, its residents, and its dreamers would continue their lives just fine even if your master decides to uncreate you. It’s a bizarre feeling, but you relish it, nonetheless. So, when he asks you to tell him what was bothering you, your head is a lot clearer, your mood calmer – so you conveniently leave out the other details of that event in the library, only revealing to him that the Dream Lord ‘caught you by surprise’ and that ‘pushed him away in your haste.’

At your careful wording, Abel’s eyes widen and his jaw drops to the floor, indicating he understood what you meant.

“You mean, he’s just told you?”

Eyeing him questioningly, you ask, “What do you mean ‘just?’”

He meets your cautious gaze with an apologetic expression. “I mean, come on, Mera. It always has been painfully obvious to everyone in the Dreaming how he’s had eyes on you from the beginning.”

“‘From the beginning?’ How come no one bothered to tell me, then?” you mutter sourly. “How come it seems like everyone knows something except me?”

“Honestly, Mera, no one wants to interfere with his…affairs. I thought you already knew, given that he’s always around you and all. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry if I were you. I’ve seen him around you. With you, he’s a lot…nicer. I don’t know how else to put it. With anyone else…oh boy,” he lets out a dry chuckle, before continuing. “The gloom emanating from him – hard to imagine how he’s related to Death, she’s always so sweet.”

“I’ve heard that before,” you mutter darkly, but Abel doesn’t seem to hear.

“Oh, look! We’re nearly there! There’s that old path leading to the house.” He points to a narrow, beaten path, and sure enough, you can see how it led to a thinner set of woods with much more clearing, indicating that you were almost about to exit the forest. “You’re still coming over for tea, right? I can bake us some gingersnaps. You know, Cain once clobbered me on the head with a cast iron pan for making them too sweet…”

Glad for a change of topic, you follow Abel to the path, listening to him recall the cookie recipe, absently noting how he’s forgotten to add salt, of all things, to his mental list. Right now, you needed a strategy: the Dream Lord might’ve taken you off work temporarily, but it doesn’t mean you can’t pop by the sea of dreams unnoticed. Figuring it was the only way you could avoid him, you resolve to stay away as much as you can and for as long as you can from the palace grounds, at least until your master’s interest has waned – you silently offer a prayer to the Fates that it does soon.

Good luck with that, the Voice mutters darkly. 

***

Dream of the Endless immediately feels the loss of your warmth the moment you wriggle away from his embrace. Chuckling darkly to himself, his heated gaze follows you as you scurry your way out of the library, leaving him to deal with a rather painful arousal that’s begging to be relieved. He regains control of himself before sauntering over to the table where your scribbled notes were, lazily running his fingers over the papers in deep thought. Would he have taken you right there, on the table, had you not resisted? He would’ve, he admits to himself, but he’s also aware it’s hardly the proper place – he wants your first time with him to be burned into your memory; thus, he would have to make it special and in the privacy of his own chambers. Besides, even that kiss you briefly shared with him seems to have proven too much of a confession for you. He couldn’t deny that he’s thrilled by the chase you’re giving, but he could drive you further away should he increase his pace. He would have to keep his distance, for now, taking satisfaction from the fact that he’d eventually win you as his prize in this game he could play for eternity.

Quietly, he approaches his librarian’s desk. He had other matters in the Realm to take care of before he can contemplate his next move on you.

“Lucienne.”

The royal librarian in question nearly jumps from her seat at his call. His tone might’ve come out a bit more biting than usual – he is, after all, still displeased with her interruption, however unaware she was of it.

Still clutching her chest at his sudden presence, she asks, “Yes, my lord?”

“I have other nightmares to apprehend and a matter to investigate. In the meantime, I have a task for you.”

***

It’s been days since you last been in the palace. You’ve been resting minimally since in the lush lands of Fiddler’s Green, and while it sucked to be essentially homeless and on the run, you’re grateful that you have not seen a single hair of your creator since the library incident. Not even in the dreams you have visited so far did you feel his presence. Still, even your reprieve could not take your mind off the notes you’ve left on the desk; those were notes which could immensely help with your work, now that you’re spending more time than usual in the dreams of the humans.

So, it’s in this uneventful night that you decide to sneak into the library and retrieve the papers, wishing your luck in the last few days extends to this little trip. You tiptoe noiselessly through the vast halls, your eyes scanning every nook and cranny with wary eyes. Finally, you reach the tall doors that lead to your target room. You press an ear on one of them to check for signs of anyone inside, and when you heard nothing, you gingerly push it open, whizzing past the bookshelves to reach the desk.

Finally, you reach the desk where the papers lay, stacked neatly on its corner with a paperweight on top. Lucienne must’ve tidied them up for you. Making a mental note to thank her later, you make a quick grab for them and move to head out.

When you reach D wing, however, you pause at the sound of a pen scribbling on paper. You crouch down, hiding under the nearest desk, straining for any sound that might give you a clue as to who it is. To your horror, Jessamy, the Dream Lord’s raven, lands squarely in front of you, her beady eyes staring at you with curiosity.

Panicking, you gesture to her to keep it down please, but in an act of treachery (or loyalty), she lets out a loud ‘caw,’ alerting whoever is with her of your whereabouts. Cursing under your breath at your rotten luck, your heartbeat thrums in your ears as you wait for the inevitable –

“Hello? Who’s there?”

It’s Lucienne! Fortune must’ve favoured you at the last minute. You crawl out of your hiding place to greet her, beyond relieved that it was her you’re greeting instead of a certain Endless.

“Mera? Oh dear, what are you doing down there?” Lucienne rushes to your side to help you up, as Jessamy flies to perch on the top of one of the bookshelves.

“Hello Lucienne, sorry if I startled you,” Smiling apologetically, you gesture to the papers in your hand. “I just had to get them back…”

She flashes you an exasperated smile, before inviting you to sit with her on the desk she’s working on. “Where have you been for the last few days?” She questions, settling once more on her parchment, writing.

“Uh, I’ve been around. Is he here?”

“If you’re talking about Lord Morpheus, no he’s not,” she replies, raising her eyebrows at the way your shoulders relax. “And don’t think you can evade my question, Mera.”

At her stern gaze, you balk and respond, “I’ve been to the dreams and Fiddler’s Green –”

“Mera, you know very well that Lord Morpheus has told you –”

“Stay here and recover, yes, but I’ve been so bored, Lucienne,” you say with a pleading look. You don’t tell her the other reason why; you figure she doesn’t need to know.

“I understand you’re eager to get back to helping your dreamers, Mera,” she says with a sympathetic expression. “But you know how he can be if his word is disobeyed.”

You offer no response to her comment. Flashes of him cornering you among the bookshelves replay in your head, and you mentally shudder.

“I’m under explicit orders from the Dream Lord to keep you in the palace.”

Mouth agape, you begin to protest but, one look from Lucienne silences you.

“He has ordered your own chamber to be made within the palace, where you are to rest from now on. I suggest you collect your belongings from the staff quarters and transfer them there. I can show you where it is.”

Resigned to your fate, you merely respond, “So I’m under house arrest.”

Lucienne’s sympathetic expression never leaves her face. “Don’t give me that look, Mera. I’m sure Lord Morpheus will be willing to let you go back to work once he has caught all the missing nightmares. There is one that currently keeps eluding him.”

You simply nod, even though you were dreading being in his immediate reach as soon as he returns. You have yet to meet with him since he stole your first kiss, and you’re still unsure what his true intentions are of you after you all but rejected him.

“There’s one more thing. Jessamy will watch over you from time to time.”

At that point, you let an aggravated groan, while Jessamy ruffles her feathers in seeming indignance.

***

The staff quarter wing is almost always empty, and the rooms were small and bare. Most of the dreams and nightmares recuperate elsewhere, and you can’t blame them for it – while the rooms were more than adequate for the rest your kind take, nothing could compare to the sprawling views that other places in the Dreaming can offer. Entering the room you’re assigned to, you’re followed by Jessamy, flying in low and settling on the bed’s headboard with a single, soft ‘caw.’

“I’m sorry about, you know, back in the library,” you say. “No hard feelings?”

As if accepting your apology, she caws again, this time a little louder.

Giving her a wan smile, you start scanning the room for anything you can bring with you. You don’t have many possessions, anyway – save a few clothes and a book to which you usually bind your notes, there isn’t much to collect. Together, you and Jessamy make your way back to the main hall, where Lucienne was waiting. Wordlessly, she beckons you to follow, and, climbing through the grand marble staircase where the suites are, she leads you to a floor high up in the palace – the floor which you recognize is where the Dream Lord’s chambers are located. Even as a wave of nausea hits you at this knowledge, you walk on, concentrating on the sound of Lucienne’s heels on marble and the flapping of Jessamy’s wings.

“This is where you are. Down that hall to your right. You’ll find everything you need in there, but Lord Morpheus also assigned you a lady-in-waiting should you want anything. She’ll be available tomorrow.”

“Wait, but I don’t need one…”

“Dream Lord’s orders, I’m afraid.”

You nod tiredly in acquiescence. “Thank you, Lucienne. I just wish I was back at work, you know.”

“You will be, soon,” she says in a reassuring tone. “For now, try indulging him. You gave him quite the scare after the demon attack, even if he didn’t show it outwardly. Good night, Mera.”

And with that, she marches off to the hall before going out of sight.

Sighing inwardly, you head off to the end of the hallway where you reach an ornate double door with brass handles. Pushing it open, you couldn’t help the gasp that comes out of you.

The room, after all, simply took your breath away.

The circular room is enormous and sparse of décor, save for the chaise lounge upholstered with rich velvet, and the towering four-poster bed at the center adorned in dark silken drapes. The room’s source of light, aside from the rich moonlight shining through the tall glass windows, are millions of glittering stars painted on the ceiling, forming constellations and galaxies, all twinkling and swirling as if they were plucked straight from the very blanket of the universe. To your left is a door, left ajar, leading to a balcony that you’re sure is overlooking one of the best views of the Realm the palace can offer.

And yet, as you sit on the edge of the chaise, with all the beauty surrounding you, you’re left with a staggering feeling of foreboding – deep down, your heart knows that all this grandeur comes with a price you know you can’t very well pay.

Jessamy lands on the railing at the foot of the bed, cawing, before flying off out to the balcony and vanishing into the night.

Emotionally exhausted and pointedly avoiding the massive bed, you curl up on the sofa and drift off to sweet oblivion.

*** 

Get up, sleepyhead.

Piss off, you bite back at the false saccharin tone of the Voice, now widely awake on the bed you didn’t fall asleep on last night. Throwing off the silk blanket, you leap to your feet and out of the bed, dizzying yourself in the process. A soft ‘caw’ alerted you to the presence of Jessamy perched on the chaise lounge, except there is something else draped over the couch.

You tentatively approach the thing like it was a bomb about to go off. Upon closer inspection, you make it out as a silk ruby-red dress, and on it a note:

To my little dream

You back away, hyperventilating, the bed breaking your fall. Who else would leave a dress of that colour and call you ‘their’ little dream?

A knock on the door makes your heart skip a beat.

“Who’s there?” You call out, dreading the response.

From the other side, a tiny voice squeaks, “M’lady? Are you awake? May I come in?”

Still breathless from the rush, you call out ‘yes,’ after which the door creaks open, and in comes a wispy-looking young woman carrying what looks like a bunch of towels.

“I’m Morwyn, m’lady, and I was assigned to you. You can call me for whatever you need from now on.” She gives you a shy, toothy smile which you return with your own.

“What’s with that?”

“With what, m'lady?” She questions curiously.

“The title. You can…well, my name is Mera – I’m just like you, you know…” You trail off, giving her a teasing smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Oh, but I can’t! The Dream Lord would never allow it, m'lady.”

“Screw what he thinks,” you mutter under your breath. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to hear it.

“Well, I came to draw you a bath, m'lady,” she says, walking over to the chaise where the dress is. “Is this what you’ll be wearing? It’s a lovely choice.”

“What? No. I can’t wear that,” you remark.

“But,” she starts, her face scrunching in confused panic. “It’s a gift! It will be rude not to…not that I’m implying anything –”

“Relax, Morwyn, please.” Giggling, you reassure her that you’ll wear it, but only to appease her. She visibly eases her tense posture before excusing herself to the door on the corner leading to the bathroom.

It’s going to be a long day, you think to yourself.

***

The dress was only the first of a string of gifts you’d be waking up to for the following days. They always came with the same note, the same piece of paper that seemed to hand down your sentence in the most subtle of ways. You wanted to ignore them, but under Jessamy’s watchful eyes, doing so would only earn the gift giver’s displeasure. So, whatever you find lying on the chaise lounge in the morning, you grit your teeth and wear them, even if they make you feel like branded cattle. You never had a taste for material objects, and you’re sure that’s not about to change, no matter how fancy the gift is.

What he couldn’t control, however, were your illicit visits to your dreamers. You’ve been sneaking in and out whenever you can just so you could alleviate the boredom; you know very well you couldn’t sit idly around the palace all day, waiting for an Endless that may or may not come. And you’ve been productive, too, even with lesser time on your hands. You know Lucienne was aware of it, judging by the way her eyebrow would be raised when you come into her view from one of the bookshelves, you’d just shrug it off and smile innocently as she shakes her head and rolls her eyes in exasperation.

After one of your little trips, you decide to take a stroll to the town square. Jessamy or not, at the very least, you had the right to enjoy the wonders of the realm that you love so dearly. For once, it felt like you were back to being the normal dream you always were. You get a bag of chocolate-filled croissants from the corner bakery before your eyes land on the flower shop – and the baskets upon baskets of pretty little red flowers on long stalks you’ve seen growing in the lush gardens in the palace. Oddly enough, that was the only flower they have on display.

Curiously trotting over to the shop, you peer inside to check if they have any other flowers, thinking you might just get some for your room to liven it up a bit during the day.

The florist greets you jovially with a tip of his hat, saying, “Good day, lovely miss! What can I get ya?”

You give him a bright smile in greeting before asking, “Hello, my good sir. Do you happen to have any other kinds of flowers at the back? Something I could use to…brighten the mood in my room a little.”

He shakes his head sadly. “So sorry, miss, but these flowers are all that grow in the kingdom lately, although a few gardeners in the kingdom are cultivating other variants. Harvest comes in a few weeks. I could save some for ya, then.”

“That’d be wonderful. Thank you!”

You walk out of the store, perplexed. How could the kingdom run out of other flowers, and the realm of an Endless, no less?

***

The Endless in question is somewhere deep in his own kingdom, in the lands long forgotten and abandoned by his subjects and his dreamers. He had received intelligence of unaccounted-for beings lurking in these barren terrains which didn’t sit well with him – the last time he had creatures of unknown origins enter his realm without his knowledge, he almost lost the Dreaming, his rule almost overthrown. If these rumors proved true, it was his duty as the monarch to drive them out before they become an unstoppable threat.

That doesn’t mean he couldn’t watch over you through the eyes of his loyal raven.

With the very little free time he had in his hands, he had been closely shadowing you with the help of Jessamy, making sure you were kept from harm's way in his absence. He had been diligent in his quest to draw you closer to him. He was quite proud of the palace chambers he constructed; the way he saw your face light up at the sight of it gave him such a rush, he couldn’t help but go back to the palace and tuck you under the bed covers himself. It had taken all of his strength to pull away from you, but he had to be content with a single chaste peck on your lips, and a soft caress of his fingers on your cheek. Perhaps it was the kiss that had inspired him; for with a stroke of genius, he conjured a dress he had fantasized you wearing, leaving a little note he was sure you’d find. He made sure the dress matched the ruby you wore on your head – his insignia, his mark – he was quite proud of himself with his handiwork, for it was only you in his kingdom, save himself, that sported the jewel: a silent declaration that there was no one else you belonged to. He’d do anything to see your eyes light up like that again, and so with those little gifts he started leaving in your room, he chased that high – only to be a tad disappointed that you seemed to find them wanting. No matter: he has more than enough time to uncover your heart’s desires once he returns.

Channeling Jessamy’s vision, he scans the surroundings for you – you were in the town square, strolling, wearing the jewel-crusted auburn robe he had left for you that morning. You were wrapped in it so elegantly, exposing the delicate skin on your neck and collar bones. He couldn’t help but grin, recalling how he was so close to marking that soft flesh with his lips, had he not been interrupted that day in the library. 

If there was one thing he has learned about you so far, it was that little defiant streak in you, manifested by those surreptitious little visits you made to your choice of dreamers. Although these trips had him worried for your wellbeing, he had to admit that this previously undiscovered part of you he found rather enticing. Only time will tell what other facets of you he can bare – and he has an eternity of it.

Breaking off the connection with his familiar and acting on impulse, he transports himself stealthily back to the palace, deciding to leave one more gift before he continues his journey.

***

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen those flowers in abundance, but its name had escaped you, and you had always forgotten to look them up in the library. You’re beyond curious now, and although you had learned how this feeling seemed to always lead you to trouble, it couldn’t hurt, could it? It was no big deal, after all – just a harmless little flower.

The library is empty, you discover. Lucienne might have run on a quick errand, so you have the library all to yourself for now. You head to your favorite reading spot, intending to leave the bag of pastries on the coffee table.

Once you get there, however, the bag drops from your hand, and the once-quiet library begins echoing with ungodly screams coming from your head. Covering your ears in the stinging pain, your eyes try to scan the immediate area for what the Voice was screaming about.

There, laying innocently on the couch you loved is a bouquet of the very same flowers you had intended to research, wrapped in a neat ruby-red bow.

On the library floor, you wait on your fours for the screaming to stop, bewildered at its reaction to a seemingly innocent bunch of blooms. You get up, practically running, in frantic search of those flowers, anything that could help you pinpoint the meaning behind their appearance.

You find it in one of your dreamers' books: ‘A Florist’s Folio of Fabulous Florals’ by Ferdinand Fink. There, beside a pretty painting of the crimson bloom, read:

Scarlet sage

Scientific name: Salvia splendens

Symbolism: The red-blooming Salvia flower is traditionally associated with love and romance; “forever mine”

And like a red-hot coal, you drop the book, watching as its pages close shut before landing on the carpeted floor with a muffled thud.

******************************************************************************

Link to the next chapter

Author notes:

Thank you, THANK YOU for reading!!

Please engage, comment and reblog!! I love feedback from you guys :) This is my first ever fic, so kindness is truly appreciated!

Thank you to my queen @queenshelby @endlessdreamqueen3 for encouraging me to pen this, as well as to my fellow Dark!Morpheus writers whose work I have thoroughly enjoyed and keep rereading :)

Post date: 11/13/22

Edit date: 11/13/22

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[proneterror204]

Fear vs Family Reunions

Wonder Woman: This is nice! Its not very often i get to connect with this side of my family.

Fright Knight: Indeed. It is rare to have such civil conversation with my family, free of any drama.

Wonder Woman: Fear? You don't often get with the family?

Fright Knight: No. War is never good for children. Even its own children are not spared. Mother Love would have been better off with the Forge. He treated my brother and i more kindly than War ever did.

Wonder Woman: I'm so sorry to hear that. I hear you are sworn to a new king? Is this one better than Pariah or do i need to overthrow a tyrant?

Fright Knight: HA! No no no. This king is much more peaceful. Where Pariah was fire, Phantom is ice. He is more than happy to let the Realms govern itself rather than conquer it for himself. Though he does stress himself with keeping the balance between our worlds. War would have been a easier tool for it.

Wonder Woman: You speak against your Father but encourage his craft?

Fright Knight: I do not acknowledge him as my father or support his craft. I merely acknowledge as a tool to use. I mean the threat of a war to scare others into peace not the actual use of it. My liege would never threaten anyone with something he did not intend to use anyway, so there will be no threat.

Wonder Woman: Your king is perhaps wiser than you in matters of ruling.

Fright Knight: Indeed. I am a warrior, not a ruler or politician. I lead armies, not rule kingdoms. But speaking of war. Where did you put my.... male progenitor?

Wonder Woman: Ares- sorry, War is a god. We couldn't arrest him, so we handed him to a government organization that deals with the supernatural. I believe its called the GIW.

Fright Knight: .....

Wonder Woman: What? Is something wrong?

Fright Knight: I fear you have made a catastrophic- no a apocalyptic mistake. I must return to my king immediately. *Fright Knight summons and mount his nightmare steed* I suggest you take a Batman size look at the GIW and realize your mistake.

[seafarersdream]

Cregan x reader where the reader is betrothed to him but he gets close to Alysanne Blackwood and she feels insecure. But he then reassures her that he loves her. Could be fluff or smut, whatever you feel fits

Big Bad Wolf | 18+ (Cregan Stark x Y/N)

Y/N knows exactly why she has been sent to the frigid North: her grandsire, Otto Hightower, intends for her to secure Cregan Stark’s loyalty to the Greens with a proposed betrothal. A union that would bind the North to her family’s cause and strengthen her brother’s claim. She can’t help but wonder what he would sees in her—a willing pawn, a coveted prize, or perhaps, an unexpected adversary?

TW // Strong language and profanities, mild sexual content, mention of injuries and wounds, slow burn romance.

Note: I took a slightly different approach than originally requested to better align with my brainstorming ideas. I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! And fair warning—it ended up being around 10k words because I got carried away and so into it😂

The wind howls around her like a beast, its icy fingers clawing at her cloak, desperate to strip her bare. Y/N Targaryen pulls the fur-lined fabric tighter around her shoulders, her silver hair whipping against her face as she stares out into the endless expanse of white that is the North.

The cold is sharp, biting against her skin, a relentless assault unlike anything she has ever felt in King’s Landing. There, the sun always warmed the walls of the Red Keep, the gardens bloomed with vibrant flowers, and the salty sea breeze carried the smell of soils from distant lands. Here, in the North, all of that feels like a distant memory—a dream now buried under layers of snow.

She shivers, and not just from the cold.

Being a Targaryen means something. Being a Targaryen princess means the realm is her oyster. She has always known this. The daughter of the late King Viserys Targaryen and the sister to the current ruler, Y/N has never wanted for anything. Born under the banners of black and red, her birthright is as weighty as it is illustrious. In the courts of King's Landing, her name alone is a force that can command, bend, and break. The Valyrian blood coursing through her veins has bestowed upon her an otherworldly beauty—hair the colour of moonlight, eyes that burn like molten silver. She is used to men and women alike vying for her favor, hanging on her every word, their desires evident in their eyes. She is used to being adored, admired, even envied.

But here, in the North, none of that means a thing.

The North is a different world, an ancient one with a heartbeat of ice and snow. It is a world where the name Targaryen carries little weight, where dragons are the stuff of nightmares, not symbols of power and strength.

For thousands of years, the North stood as its own kingdom, ruled by House Stark of Winterfell—a house older than her own, as old as the First Men themselves. The North submitted to Aegon the Conqueror’s rule, but submission is not the same as surrender. She can feel the weight of that history in every flake of snow, every gust of wind that threatens to unseat her from the back of her horse. The North remembers.

And the North does not care for Targaryen princesses.

The men and women who stare at her from the edges of Winterfell’s courtyard do not see a daughter of kings. They see a southerner, a foreigner, an outsider draped in silk and furs too fine for their taste. They see someone who has never felt the bite of a northern winter, who does not understand the constant struggle for survival that defines their lives. To them, she is the very embodiment of everything they disdain—the soft courtly life, the excesses of the south, the endless games of backstabbing and ambition that mean nothing in the face of a harsh winter. Her beauty, her title, her blood—none of it matters here. She is a stranger in a strange land, and they watch her with eyes that are cold and calculating.

It is a stark contrast to the life she has known. In King’s Landing, courtiers flocked to her side, eager for a smile, a kind word, a glance that might change their fortunes. But here, no one bows or scrapes, no one offers her flattery or fawning attention. Instead, they glance at her with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity, their expressions as unreadable as the frozen ground beneath her feet. Even the cold here seems to seep into their bones, hardening their faces into masks of stone.

Her gaze shifts to the man standing at the center of it all—the Warden of the North, Cregan Stark. He is as unyielding as the walls of Winterfell, a man carved from the very ice that surrounds them. His dark hair is touched with frost, his grey eyes piercing through the flurries like a direwolf scanning the wood for prey. He regards her with a guarded expression, his features stoic, as though he is measuring the weight of her presence in his hall. There is strength in his stance, a raw, quiet power that seems to ripple beneath his skin like a river beneath ice.

She knows why she is here. Her grandsire, Otto Hightower, has sent her north with a proposal for a betrothal, hoping to secure Cregan Stark's allegiance to the Greens. A marriage alliance that would bind the North to her family, to her brother’s cause. But she also knows that such an alliance is easier proposed than accepted. The Starks are proud, stubborn as the wolves on their banners, and they are not easily swayed by promises or threats. She wonders what Cregan Stark sees when he looks at her—a pawn, a prize, a potential enemy?

Y/N squares her shoulders, forcing herself to meet his gaze with the same intensity. Her breath mists in the cold air between them, mingling with the snowflakes that drift down from the leaden sky. She is a Targaryen, born of fire and blood, and she will not be cowed by the cold.

She takes a step forward, her boots crunching in the snow, and inclines her head with a grace born of years at court. “Lord Stark,” she begins, her voice steady despite the chill that bites at her skin, “I bring greetings from my family and an offer that I hope will interest you.”

For a moment, there is silence, broken only by the distant howl of the wind. The Northmen are watching, waiting for their lord’s response. Cregan Stark’s grey eyes remain locked on hers, his expression unreadable, and she feels the weight of the North pressing down upon her.

“Princess,” Cregan replies at last, his voice a low rumble that echoes across the courtyard. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

And with those words, the game begins.

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Y/N Targaryen has always been more her grandsire’s granddaughter than her mother’s daughter—or her father’s, for that matter. Not that it has been much of a choice. King Viserys had been many things in his life—gentle, soft-hearted, more comfortable with scrolls and histories than with the complexities of ruling—but present, he was not. His love for Rhaenyra, his firstborn, was the love of a man whose affections had been spent long before Y/N was ever born. So, she learned quickly that if she wanted attention, guidance, or even a semblance of familial warmth, she would find none of it in her father.

Instead, she found herself drawn to Otto Hightower. He was a man of purpose, of ambition, of decisive action. With her mother’s soft words and frail smiles failing to shape her in any meaningful way, it was Otto who taught her the art of politics, of maneuvering through a court filled with predators. In him, she saw a mirror of her own aspirations—always looking forward, always plotting the next move. It was from him she learned that power is something you seize, not something you wait for. She knew he would never coddle her, never tell her she was beloved just for being herself; he only valued what was valuable, and that gave her a clarity she found comforting.

Her siblings, however, were a different matter entirely.

Aegon, her eldest brother, was a fool. Self-conscious, always craving their parents' love like a starving child reaching for a morsel of bread. For years, he had hoped to be the shining star in their father’s eyes, only to discover that no matter what he did, he would always be in the shadow of their half-sister, Rhaenyra—the daughter Viserys truly adored. That realization had driven Aegon to the brink. He had spiraled into self-destruction, numbing his pain with Arbor Red, drowning in the company of whores and sycophants who fed his illusions of being liked, respected even. She had watched him become a hollowed-out shell of a prince, playing at being a king among the rats and the vipers of the Red Keep. Aegon was a king now, a ruler in name, but he wore his crown like a noose.

Aemond, on the other hand, was a different creature. Where Aegon sought love, Aemond sought approval, validation—something to make the gods’ cruel joke of his birth order feel less like a curse. He set impossible standards for himself, always striving to outshine his elder brother, to rise above his station as the spare. He immersed himself in philosophy, warfare, Westerosi customs, determined to be the best in every field, the most learned, the most skilled. And yet, no matter how many strategies he mastered or how many books he consumed, he would always be the second son. Aemond may have won the favor of their grandsire, may have been admired by those who valued intellect and ruthlessness, but in the end, Aegon’s incompetence still carried the weight of the gods' favor. And that knowledge gnawed at Aemond like a wolf at a bone.

Helaena and Daeron, bless them, were different. Y/N could say nothing ill of those two. Helaena, with her strange, prophetic dreams and her love for insects, was perhaps the only light in their shadowed family. She lived in a world of her own, a world of strange riddles and hidden truths that no one else could see. Daeron, meanwhile, had been smart enough to remove himself from the poisonous atmosphere of the Red Keep, carving out a life for himself in Oldtown.

As for herself? Y/N had always considered herself a performer, a mirrorball reflecting the light of others, knowing exactly where to place her foot in every dance. She did not crave her parents’ approval or love; she never had. She knew her worth, not in how many times her father called her his precious daughter or how often her mother sighed with the weight of unspoken affection. No, her worth came from the power she had managed to accumulate on her own, the alliances she had forged, the influence she wielded like a blade. She had held her own court, commanded attention, respect, and fear. She had learned to survive, to thrive, to be more than just another pretty Targaryen face.

And now, she had none of it.

Here in this frozen wasteland, she was stripped bare of everything she had built. The North was a godforsaken, heretic country in her eyes—a land of rigid codes and old gods, where men did not bow easily, where words were weighed like precious stones, and secrets were buried beneath layers of ice and snow. She had no court, no power to wield, no influence to peddle.

And then, there was Cregan Stark.

A man whose reputation preceded him like a cold wind. Honorable, they said. A man of principle, a man who lived by his word, who believed in truth and duty as if they were his religion. There was no room for subterfuge in his life, no space for half-truths or hidden motives. His gaze was like steel, unbending and severe. It was almost appalling, really, how saintly he was. Mother above she thought more than once, he would be eaten alive in King’s Landing.

In the South, where smiles masked daggers and every word dripped with double meaning, a man like Cregan Stark would be a lamb led to slaughter. His sense of honor would be his undoing, his truthfulness a weapon turned against him. She had never met a man like him. A man who looked at her not with lust or ambition but with a quiet, steady gaze that seemed to see right through her. He seemed entirely unimpressed by her. It was infuriating and fascinating all at once.

Y/N squared her shoulders, determined not to let her irritation show. She would learn this place, learn its people, and most of all, she would learn Cregan Stark. She would find the crack in his armor, the flaw in his honor, the chink in his unyielding principles. Everyone had one; it was just a matter of knowing where to look, how to press, how to push. She was not here to be swallowed by the North—she was here to conquer it, one way or another.

She knew that the path to Lord Cregan Stark’s cold, cold heart was not a direct one. It was not a road paved with smiles or adorned with sweet words. It was a labyrinth, and the only way through it was by understanding his people.

She had watched him long enough to know this much: Cregan Stark was a man who put his people above all else. The North had a way of making even its leaders humble before it. They were not like the nobles of King’s Landing, always scheming for personal glory or clawing at each other’s throats for favor. Here, in this frozen hell, survival depended on something far simpler, far more primal—on loyalty, on unity, on trust.

So, she began to snake her way into the hearts of his people.

It started small, with gestures they would not expect from a southerner, least of all a Targaryen princess. She knew how they saw her—pampered, delicate, with hair too fair and hands too soft to have ever known true work. She could feel their eyes on her wherever she went, could hear the whispers as she passed by, wrapped in her fine furs, a dragon in the land of wolves.

The courtyard was busy that morning, the ground slick with melting snow and the air thick with the sounds of work—axes splitting wood, the clang of blacksmiths’ hammers against anvils, the shouts of men and women hauling barrels and crates. She approached the group of women gathered near the cookfires, a mixture of curiosity and skepticism in their gazes. Y/N took a deep breath, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, and stepped into their midst.

“Is there something I can do?” she asked, her voice clear and carrying over the noise. A few heads turned, eyes narrowing in surprise. She saw a woman in her middle years, broad-shouldered and with arms like tree trunks, squinting at her as if she were a curious animal. The others paused, their hands stilling in their work, glances exchanged.

The woman, who she had come to learn was named Mildred, finally spoke, her tone rough as gravel. “Princess,” she drawled, dragging the word out like it was something distasteful in her mouth. “I don’t think there’s much here a royal lady can handle. Unless you’ve got a mind to ruin that fancy cloak of yours.”

Y/N smiled. “I’ve more cloaks, Mildred. And if it gets ruined, well, I suppose I’ll just have to make do with another one, won’t I?”

A snort came from somewhere in the back of the group, and Y/N’s eyes flicked to the source—a younger woman with a mess of red hair and a skeptical expression. Y/N kept her smile, but she let a hint of a challenge creep into her tone. “Besides, I’m not afraid of a little dirt.”

The women exchanged glances, weighing her words. Mildred shrugged at last, tossing a hunk of dough onto a wooden board. “Fine then. Let’s see how you fare kneading bread. Got to feed half the damned keep today, and we’re short on hands.”

Y/N stepped forward without hesitation, rolling up her sleeves. The cold bit at her exposed skin, but she ignored it. Her hands, unused to such labor, moved awkwardly at first, pressing into the dough with less confidence than she wanted. Mildred watched her, arms crossed. “Too gentle,” She grunted. “You’re not petting a dragon. Put your weight into it.”

Y/N did as instructed, leaning into the motion, feeling the resistance of the dough against her palms. It was a small thing, this task, but it was a start. She could feel their eyes on her, hear the whispers quieting, turning into something more like curiosity than derision.

Hours passed, and the smell of freshly baked bread filled the courtyard. The women began to loosen up around her, laughter breaking out now and then. She let herself laugh with them, leaning into their banter.

Days turned into weeks, and Y/N made it her mission to weave herself into the fabric of Winterfell. She found her way to the blacksmith's forge, where the air was thick with smoke and the clang of metal. She watched as the smiths worked, their faces streaked with soot, and asked questions—many, many questions.

“Why do you use that angle with the hammer?” she asked one of the younger smiths, a boy not much older than.

The boy, startled at first, blinked at her, then answered, “To shape the steel, Princess. To make it stronger, to give it an edge that lasts.”

She nodded, watching his hands. “Show me,” she demanded. The boy hesitated, glancing around nervously, but she stepped forward. “Don’t worry. I can hold a hammer.”

He did as she asked, and soon enough, she was holding the hammer herself, mimicking his movements. Her strokes were clumsy, awkward at first, but she learned fast, and with every thud of the hammer, she felt the eyes of the smiths soften just a little more.

In the great hall, she would sit with the lords and their wives, listening to their woes, their concerns, their petty grievances. Y/N had a mind sharpened by the best—her grandsire, Otto, had seen to that. She listened carefully, offering her thoughts, her solutions, often to the surprise of those around her.

“The river’s dammed up, and it’s ruining the fields,” one lord grumbled, a beefy man with a thick beard.

"Then undam it," she replied, her tone smooth. "Divert it, instead of letting it run its course. Build channels to guide it where you want it to go."

The man blinked at her, surprised. “Aye, well… that could work.”

“It will work,” she replied, a small smile playing at her lips.

She advised them on how to better store grain, how to rotate their crops, and how to reinforce their defenses with minimal resources. She made suggestions that saved money, improved efficiency, and most importantly, earned her a grudging respect. To her, these Northerners were like sheep, clueless and slow-witted. But she smiled, she helped, she solved their problems. She was always in the middle of things, her presence a constant in the great hall, the courtyard, the kitchens, the stables.

She even joined the hunts. The Northmen had mocked her at first for daring to ride out with them. “A princess in the snow?” they laughed. “She’ll freeze before we see a single stag.” But she proved them wrong. Her dragon’s blood kept her warm, kept her defiant in the face of the bitter cold, and she was the first to draw her bow, the first to bring down a deer.

“By the gods, she’s got a steady hand,” one of the older men muttered to Cregan as they dragged the deer back to Winterfell.

Cregan’s gaze had flicked over to her, his expression as unreadable as ever, but there had been a flicker of something there. Amusement? Respect? She couldn’t tell, but it was enough.

Bit by bit, she felt the change. The Northmen, these stubborn, superstitious heretics, began to soften, to open up to her. They began to speak to her not with suspicion but with interest, their words less guarded, their gazes less cold. They valued her now, saw her as something more than just a prim and proper southerner.

It was at a feast that she noticed it—how the lords and ladies began to speak of her in hushed, respectful tones, how they sought her out for advice, for a kind word, for counsel. She saw how Cregan watched from across the hall, his grey eyes narrowing, the faintest flicker of something akin to admiration crossing his face.

She caught his gaze, held it across the room. He didn’t look away. Instead, he raised his cup to her, a silent acknowledgment. A challenge, perhaps.

Y/N raised hers in return, a smile playing at her lips. The North had begun to bend, and soon enough, so would he.

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One afternoon, Y/N had just returned from Winter Town, cheeks flushed from the biting wind and the smell of pine and smoke still clinging to her cloak. The snow had begun to fall heavier now, thick flakes drifting down like soft feathers, blanketing the world in a quiet that felt almost sacred. She pushed back her hood as she stepped into the warmth of the great hall, her eyes scanning the room out of habit, looking for something—anything—that could further her cause.

She spotted a cluster of handmaidens seated by the hearth, their heads bent in concentration. They were mending and embroidering clothing, fingers working deftly with needle and thread. Y/N noticed the familiar shapes taking form on the fabric—the direwolves.

She glided toward them, her steps light, her expression warm and inviting. She had perfected this look over years at court—the doe-eyed charm that could disarm even the most hardened of men. “Oh,” she said with a bright smile, her voice a melodic lilt, “working on the Stark sigil, are we?”

The handmaidens looked up, a bit startled at her approach. They were used to her presence by now, but not so much to her sudden interest in their needlework. A girl named Caragh, her brown hair tied back in a braid, nodded. “Aye, milady. Lord Cregan’s cloak was torn on the last hunt, and his tunic needs a new embroidery. Wolves, of course.”

Y/N tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with interest. “How lovely,” she murmured, kneeling down beside them. “May I see?”

They hesitated for a moment but eventually passed her the cloth, the direwolf stitched in silver-grey thread standing fierce against the dark fabric. She studied it with a discerning eye, her fingers tracing the lines of the stitches. The work was good, but plain—functional, as was the way of the North.

A smile danced on her lips as an idea took shape. “Do you know,” she began, her voice soft and conspiratorial, “I’ve always been rather good with a needle myself. Perhaps I could try my hand at it? Just a little, of course. I wouldn’t want to overstep.”

The women exchanged glances, unsure, but intrigued. “Princess, you’d do that?” asked Caragh, her tone curious. “We’d be honored to see southern stitchings. They’re said to be… well, far more intricate than ours.”

Y/N chuckled softly, the sound like a chime in the quiet hall. “Oh, we do have a flair for the elaborate, it’s true,” she agreed. “But I promise, I won’t change it too much. Just add a bit of finesse.” She reached for the thread, selecting a shade of grey that was just a touch darker than the one they had been using. “Here,” she said, threading her needle with practiced ease, “let me show you.”

She set to work, her hands moving with ease. Her stitches were tiny and precise, the needle dancing in and out of the fabric as if it were silk and not the heavy wool of the North. The handmaidens watched her, their eyes wide with fascination as she added delicate touches to the direwolf—tiny knots that gave the illusion of fur, subtle shadows that made the beast look as if it might leap from the cloth at any moment.

“How do you make it look so… alive?” one of the younger handmaidens breathed, her cheeks flushed with awe.

Y/N smiled, enjoying their attention. “It’s all in the details,” she said with a little wink. “You have to see the wolf in your mind first, imagine the way its fur moves, the way its muscles shift beneath the skin. Then, you just… follow the thread.”

The hours passed, and the handmaidens were more than happy to let her work, their questions and chatter filling the space around them. They asked her about King’s Landing, about the fashions of the court, about the kinds of silks and velvets they had only heard of in stories. She answered them with good humor, spinning tales of the South that made their eyes shine with wonder. And all the while, her needle moved, faster and faster, until the direwolf on the fabric seemed to almost snarl, its eyes fierce and intelligent, its body coiled as if ready to pounce.

By the time Cregan Stark returned from a hunt, the hall was warm with the crackle of the fire and the murmur of soft voices. He strode in, snow still dusting his dark hair, his cloak heavy with ice. His boots left wet prints on the stone floor as he shook the cold from his shoulders and glanced around.

He stopped short when he saw her—Y/N, seated among his handmaidens, needle in hand, a small, satisfied smile on her lips as she worked on his clothing. His eyes narrowed, and he made his way over, curious despite himself.

“Princess,” he greeted her, his voice a low rumble, “I see you’ve taken to mending clothes now?”

Y/N looked up, her expression unruffled. “Lord Stark,” she replied, her tone light, teasing almost, “I thought I might be of some use. Your handmaidens were kind enough to let me practice a little of our southern needlework.” She held up the fabric for him to see, the direwolf now a striking, almost lifelike creature that seemed to leap from the fabric with a ferocity that had not been there before.

Cregan’s eyes widened, just slightly, his gaze moving over the stitching, his expression unreadable. “It’s… well done,” he said finally, and she could hear the surprise in his voice, grudging though it was.

She smiled, pleased. “You sound surprised, my lord. Did you think a Targaryen’s hands were only meant for taming dragons or holding goblets of wine?”

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound like gravel grinding together. “Not surprised,” he corrected, his gaze meeting hers, steady and unyielding. “Impressed. You’ve a fine hand.”

Y/N's smile widened. “Why, thank you, Lord Stark. I’m glad my work meets your approval.”

He nodded, his gaze still on the cloth, the direwolf that now seemed to pulse with life. “Aye, it does,” he admitted. “Though I wonder, Princess… are you looking to become a seamstress now?”

She laughed, a bright, ringing sound that filled the hall. “No, my lord. I’ve no desire to take up a needle permanently. But I do find it’s useful, from time to time, to show that a princess’s hands can be skilled in more ways than one.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, a challenge in them. “Is that so?” he asked quietly. “And tell me, Princess, what other skills do your hands possess?”

Y/N’s smile did not waver. “Oh, many things, Lord Stark,” she replied softly. “Many things indeed.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in the depths of his eyes, before he nodded again. “Well,” he said, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

And with that, he turned away, but not before she caught the slightest curve of a smile on his lips. She watched him go, feeling a thrill of satisfaction course through her veins.

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Her scheme had worked flawlessly. Piece by piece, the North was falling into place just as she’d planned. The people were warming to her, Cregan's gaze was lingering a little longer than before, and Y/N could feel the iciness of Winterfell slowly starting to melt in her favor. Everything was moving toward the outcome she desired.

Well until it wasn't.

The disruption arrived in the form of Alysanne Blackwood—Black Aly, they called her. Y/N watched her ride into Winterfell with a certain swagger, a confidence that bordered on arrogance. A member of House Blackwood, the aunt of young Lord Benjicot Blackwood, Alysanne had come north under some pretense Y/N didn't care to know about. At the time, it had seemed inconsequential. She had dismissed it, too caught up in her own plans to pay attention to this new player on the board.

A mistake. A rare, foolish mistake. Her grandsire would have scolded her for being so pliant, so hasty, so unguarded. Never underestimate a rival, he would have said. Never take your eyes off the board. And Y/N had done just that.

She should not have misconstrued this woman.

Alysanne was everything Y/N was not. Tall and lean, with thick black curls that tumbled past her waist, she had a wildness to her that seemed to embody the very spirit of the North. Her long legs and strong arms marked her as a woman who spent more time in the saddle than at a hearth, more time holding a bow than a needle. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense—her features were sharp, her smile wide and often mocking—but there was something about her. Something raw and fearless, a fire that seemed to burn just beneath her skin. And that smell…woodsmoke. It clung to her like a second skin, as if she had been born in the midst of a bonfire.

Y/N had heard the whispers—how Black Aly was a legend in the North. An excellent hunter, a horse-breaker, an archer with a keen eye. She was bold and outspoken, with a tongue sharp enough to cut through steel and a wit that could match the sharpest of minds. The Northerners adored her. They loved her for her wildness, for her lack of pretense, for the way she embodied everything they valued: strength, courage, a disregard for the fripperies of southern court life.

She could see it in their faces as Alysanne moved among them, laughing and jesting with the men, sharing bread and soup with the women. Y/N could almost feel the tides shifting, the winds changing, as this woman—this picture-perfect embodiment of Northern virtues—threatened to ruin everything she had worked for.

Cregan Stark took to Alysanne immediately. Of course, he did. Why wouldn’t he? He took her hunting, riding out into the forest with her at dawn while Y/N was left behind to smile and make small talk with his bannermen. He brought her to his war councils, included her in his patrols, took her to meet the northern lords. Wherever he went, Black Aly was at his side, her sharp, barking laughter echoing off the walls of Winterfell.

Y/N could see it in the way he looked at Alysanne—a gleam of admiration, of respect, of something deeper, something raw. He valued her opinions, sought her counsel. And that stung more than Y/N cared to admit. Did it truly come down to this? Y/N Targaryen, a princess of the realm, having to compete with some backwater nobody?

She could feel her temper simmering beneath her skin like a slow-burning fire, the frustration building with each passing day. She thought of confronting Cregan directly, her hands curling into fists as she imagined the scene. She would demand to know why he spent so much time with that woman, why he found her so intriguing, so worthy of his attention. But no—she knew better than that. She couldn’t afford to appear desperate, to show him how much this rankled her. Instead, she kept her face a mask of calm, her smiles as practiced and serene as ever, even as she felt herself cracking.

One evening, as Cregan returned from yet another outing with Alysanne, Y/N was waiting for him in the hall, her posture regal, her eyes gleaming in the dim firelight. “Lord Stark,” she called out, her tone light but firm. “You’ve been busy.”

Cregan paused, glancing at her, his expression unreadable. “There is much to do, Princess,” he replied evenly. “The North doesn’t rest.”

She offered him a smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “So I see. And it seems you have found quite the companion to help you with your duties.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Alysanne is a trusted friend,” he said. “She knows these lands as well as I do.”

Y/N felt a flicker of irritation but kept her voice smooth. “Of course. She is a fine… huntress. But surely, you don’t need her for every task, my lord. I’m certain there are others who could serve just as well. Perhaps even better.”

He regarded her for a long moment, his grey eyes searching her face. “Are you offering to join me on my next patrol, Princess?” he asked, his tone challenging, with the faintest hint of amusement.

Y/N’s smile didn’t falter, but inside, she felt a surge of frustration. “If you think my skills would be of use,” she replied, matching his tone. “I am, after all, more than just a… court ornament.”

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made her skin prickle. “I’ve never doubted that,” he said softly. “But the North is not a place for games or tricks. It demands strength and a willingness to face the unknown without fear.”

Her smile wavered, just a little. “I am not afraid of the unknown,” she replied, her voice edged with steel. “Nor am I afraid to prove myself.”

Cregan’s eyes softened, just for a moment. “I don’t doubt that,” he said, his voice lowering, more intimate. “But Alysanne… she knows this land, these people. She knows how to speak to them, how to move among them. That is not something you can learn in a few weeks.”

Y/N felt the sting of his words, but she masked it with another smile, her eyes flashing. “Perhaps,” she conceded, “but I have learned much in a short time. And I am still learning, Lord Stark. Every day.”

Cregan nodded, as if considering her words. “Then learn, Princess,” he said quietly. “But do not think you must compete with Alysanne. She is… unique, yes. But so are you.”

The words were meant to placate, to soothe, but they only made her feel more cornered.

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The doors to the great hall swung open with a loud creak, and a chill wind swept in, carrying with it the scent of snow and iron. Y/N turned, her eyes narrowing as she saw the commotion. Cregan Stark had returned, his presence commanding attention even as he limped slightly, his dark hair damp with sweat, his face streaked with mud and blood. His men flanked him, some of them leaning on one another, their expressions grim, their clothes stained with the same mixture of dirt and crimson.

Her heart lurched at the sight, but she quickly schooled her features into a mask of cool indifference. The skirmishes with the wildlings had been growing more frequent, their raids bolder, and it seemed today had been no different. The maesters were already scrambling, rushing forward with their apprentices and assistants, trying to assess the most grievous injuries, their faces set in strained concentration.

Y/N took in the scene with a practiced eye, her mind already calculating. There were too many injured, too much blood soaking into the stone floor of the hall. She could see that the maesters were stretched thin, their resources and patience fraying at the edges. Cregan, of course, was insisting on helping his men, despite the fact that he was clearly favoring his left leg, a nasty gash visible on his right thigh, and his arm hung a little too limply at his side.

Typical. The man was as stubborn as a mule.

She moved closer, catching sight of the way he clenched his jaw against the pain, his brow furrowed in a way that made him look older, wearier. He was trying to wave off a young apprentice who was attempting to guide him toward a bench.

“I’m fine,” he growled, his voice low and rough. “See to the others first.”

The apprentice looked helplessly at Cregan, clearly torn between obeying the Warden of the North and following the orders of the maesters. Y/N, sensing an opportunity, pushed through the crowd, her chin tilted upward, her eyes sharp.

“Really, Lord Stark?” she called out, her voice loud enough to carry over the clamor. “You look about as fine as a roast pig on a spit.”

Cregan’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing at her. “Princess,” he said, his voice edged with irritation, “this is no place for jesting.”

She smiled, a sharp, knowing smile. “No, but it is a place for common sense. Something you seem to be sorely lacking at the moment.” She turned to the apprentice and gestured toward the other men. “Go. Help the others. I’ll take care of your lord.”

The apprentice hesitated for a moment, glancing between them, but then scurried off, clearly relieved to be free of Cregan’s stubbornness. Y/N stepped closer, folding her arms over her chest, her gaze fixed on the injured lord.

Cregan grunted, his expression darkening. “I don’t need your help, Princess. I’ve had worse than this.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” she replied. “But forgive me if I don’t trust your judgment on your own health, seeing as you’re bleeding all over the floor and insisting you’re perfectly fine. Very lordly of you, I’m sure, but also incredibly stupid.”

He scowled at her, a deep line forming between his brows. “I can take care of myself.”

“And yet,” she countered, stepping even closer, “you’re not doing a very good job of it, are you? Sit down, Cregan, before you fall down and make an even bigger fool of yourself.”

For a moment, he looked like he might argue further, but then he winced, a flash of pain crossing his face, and Y/N seized the moment. She reached out, gripping his uninjured arm with a strength that belied her slender frame, and guided him toward a nearby bench. “Sit,” she ordered, her voice firm, and to her surprise, he obeyed, albeit reluctantly.

He dropped onto the bench with a huff, glaring up at her. “I don’t need a nursemaid, least of all a princess from the South who’s never seen a real fight.”

She laughed, a sharp, sarcastic sound. “You’re right, I’ve never fought wildlings or raiders. But I have spent plenty of time in the Red Keep watching men bleed out because they were too stubborn to accept help. So, unless you want to be one of those men, shut up and let me work.”

His gaze flickered with something between annoyance and grudging respect. “Fine,” he muttered, “but make it quick. I have men to see to.”

“Quick?” She snorted. “You don’t give orders here, Stark. Not while you’re under my care.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your care? And what makes you think you’re qualified?”

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she grabbed a nearby cloth, soaked it in a basin of water, and began to clean the wound on his thigh with swift, precise movements. Cregan hissed through his teeth, his muscles tensing beneath her hands, but he didn’t pull away.

“I’ve shadowed Grand Maester Orwyle countless times,” she said as she worked, her voice steady. “I know what I’m doing. And more importantly, I’m not about to let you bleed out just because you’re too pigheaded to admit you need help.”

He grunted again but said nothing, his jaw clenched tight. She could see the pain in his eyes, the way his shoulders stiffened with each touch, but he stayed still, letting her do her work. She carefully cleaned the wound, her hands moving with a skill that surprised even herself, then reached for a needle and thread.

“This will hurt,” she warned, threading the needle with practiced ease.

“I’ve had worse,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Of course you have,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it after I’ve saved your life.”

His lips twitched, almost as if he were fighting a smile. “You’ve a sharp tongue, Princess.”

“And you’ve a thick skull, Lord Stark,” she shot back. “Now hold still.”

She began to stitch the wound, her needle moving with swift, precise strokes. Cregan watched her, his eyes dark and intense, but she didn’t falter. For once, she was not the southern courtier, the diplomatic princess with honeyed words and gentle smiles. She was herself, sharp and unyielding, meeting his stubbornness with her own.

When she finished, she tied off the thread with a quick, efficient knot and sat back, wiping her hands on the cloth. “There,” she said, satisfaction in her voice. “You’ll live to fight another day.”

He stared at her, a mix of surprise and grudging admiration in his eyes. “You did well,” he said finally, his voice softer than before.

She arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. “Was there ever any doubt?”

He chuckled, the sound rough but genuine. “Plenty,” he admitted.

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Winter is coming.

No, not the Stark words, spoken like a prayer or a warning. Winter is truly coming, and Y/N can feel it deep in her bones, creeping through the stone walls of Winterfell like a living thing.

The air has grown sharper, biting at her cheeks with every gust of wind, and the snow falls thicker now, each flake heavy and deliberate. The trees are bare, their branches skeletal against the grey sky, and the cold seems to press down on her, seeping into her skin with a relentless chill. It is a different kind of cold than she has ever known, a cold that seeps into her lungs and settles there, making each breath feel like an effort.

The North has always been harsh, but now it feels like it is preparing for something more—something darker, more unforgiving. Even the men and women of Winterfell, who have spent their entire lives in the shadow of winter, seem more guarded, more wary. There are murmurs in the great hall, anxious whispers in the corridors. Wildlings have been sighted more frequently, their numbers growing bolder and more desperate as the long night approaches. The skirmishes along the Wall have increased, and the night fires are lit earlier and burn longer.

Y/N pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she crosses the courtyard, the snow crunching beneath her boots. She knows what is coming. She can feel it in the very marrow of her bones. Winter is coming, and with it, something more—a tension that hangs in the air like a drawn bowstring, taut and ready to snap.

That night, as she sits by the fire in her chambers, a raven arrives. The black bird flutters through the window, its wings dusted with snow, a rolled parchment tied to its leg. Y/N takes it with a frown, untying the message with cold fingers, her eyes narrowing as she recognizes the seal. Hightower.

She unfurls the parchment and reads the message, her eyes scanning the words with a growing sense of unease.

Return to King’s Landing at once.

The words are simple, direct, and she can almost hear Otto’s voice behind them, calm but commanding. He has received reports of the incoming long winter, of the increasing sightings of wildlings, and he deems it no longer safe for her to remain in the North. He urges her to leave before the roads become impassable, before the snows deepen and the wildlings grow more desperate.

Y/N exhales slowly, a plume of breath escaping her lips in the cold air of her chamber. She should feel relieved. Glad, even. No longer required to linger in this frozen wasteland, where the people are as hard as the ground they walk on, and her plans have slowly unraveled like thread from a worn tapestry. She should be glad to return to the South, to the warmth and intrigue of King’s Landing, where the games are played on her terms.

But instead, she feels a sharp sting of frustration. She berates herself for failing to secure the North for her family, for not weaving a strong enough web to catch the loyalty of these proud, stubborn people. A true Targaryen, she should have bent them to her will, but the North is as unyielding as its lord, and she has not succeeded in making it hers. It is a bitter pill to swallow.

“Failure,” she murmurs, her voice a low hiss in the dim light of her chamber. “And what would you say to that, Lord Hand? That your granddaughter, for all her cleverness, could not win the North?”

She lets out a soft, mirthless laugh, crumpling the parchment in her hand. “It’s a matter for another day,” she tells herself. She will return to King's Landing, regroup, plot anew. There are always other pieces to play, other moves to make.

Yet, her thoughts drift back to Cregan Stark. The brooding wolf of the North, with his grim expression and unyielding sense of honor. She won’t admit, even to herself, that she is fond of him. Or likes him. Or anything of the sort. No, certainly not. But… there is something about him that lingers in her mind like a half-remembered dream, something she can’t quite shake off.

After being surrounded by the snakes of King’s Landing, the liars and flatterers, the power-hungry and the depraved, she finds something strangely compelling in Cregan Stark’s righteousness. It comes to him as naturally as breathing, as naturally as wielding that massive Valyrian steel sword of his, the one he calls Ice.

She has seen him wield it with ease, watched him cleave through the air with a power that seems almost otherworldly. She has watched him ride out with his men, fearless and unyielding, his face set in determination. There is a strength in him that is not just physical, but something deeper, something that runs to his very core. A strength that does not waver, that does not bend, even under the weight of the North’s endless cold.

And she hates it. She hates how it seems to make everything about him… uncomplicated. How he carries his honor like a shield, how he speaks his truth without hesitation, without guile, as if the very concept of deception is foreign to him. It is infuriating. It is intriguing. And it has left a mark on her, whether she likes it or not.

Y/N folds the letter and tucks it into the folds of her gown, her fingers lingering on the soft fabric for a moment longer than necessary. She knows what she must do; her place is back in the South. But as she rises to her feet, her eyes drift around her room, taking in the rough-hewn walls, the cold stone floor, and the fur pelts draped across her bed. There is a part of her—small, quiet, but undeniably present—that resents leaving this place. Resents leaving him behind.

She sighs, pushing the thought away, and begins to gather what little she had brought with her. No handmaiden to help her, not that she would ask. She has always preferred to do things herself when it comes down to it. She moves about the room with a swift efficiency, her hands quick and sure as she folds her scarves, places them neatly in her travel bag.

She is in the midst of folding a deep green scarf, the color of pine needles, when a knock sounds at her door. She freezes, her fingers still gripping the fabric, and for a moment, she considers ignoring it. But then she rolls her eyes at her own hesitation and strides to the door, swinging it open.

Cregan Stark stands on the other side, looking as rugged and battered as ever. There is a bandage wrapped around his arm, another at his side, but he stands tall, his posture straight, his face unreadable. He looks better than he had when she had tended to him earlier, but not by much. His grey eyes flick to her, and she can’t quite read the expression in them.

“Lord Stark,” she greets, her voice carefully neutral. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He inclines his head slightly. “I came to thank you,” he says, his voice low and gruff. “For earlier. For tending to my wounds.”

She raises an eyebrow, surprised. “Oh? Didn’t think you’d bother with gratitude.”

He snorts softly. “I’m not so stubborn as to ignore a kindness when it’s given.”

“A kindness?” She smirks, leaning against the doorframe. “I think you’ll find I had very little kindness in mind when I forced you to sit down.”

His lips twitch, just slightly. “Perhaps not,” he concedes. “But you did help. I owe you that much.”

Her gaze softens, just for a moment, but before she can reply, his eyes shift past her, taking in the half-packed bags and scattered belongings strewn across the room. His brows knit together in a frown.

“What is this?” he asks, his tone sharper than before.

Y/N shrugs, affecting a nonchalant air. “I’m going home,” she replies, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “A happy bit of news for you, I’d wager.”

He is silent for a moment, his frown deepening, his eyes fixed on hers. “No,” he says finally, his voice low and steady. “I take no joy in this news.”

She blinks, momentarily caught off guard. “No? I thought you’d be delighted to see the back of me.”

His expression softens, and he steps further into the room, his gaze never leaving hers. “Believe it or not, Princess, I’ve grown accustomed to your… presence.”

Her eyes narrow. “What are you on about?” she demands, her voice sharper now, a hint of frustration creeping in. “Don’t tell me you’ve developed a fondness for me, Cregan Stark.”

He hesitates, then, with a sigh, says, “Perhaps. Or maybe I’ve simply developed a soft spot for your relentless stubbornness.”

She scoffs, folding her arms over her chest. “Oh, do spare me,” she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “The Wolf of the North with a soft spot for a Targaryen? Is that supposed to flatter me?”

He gives a half-smile, his eyes holding hers. “It’s not meant to flatter, just the truth.”

She rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Right. And I suppose this has nothing to do with your other northern… interests?” She tilts her head, her voice laced with mock sweetness. “Surely, Black Aly is more up your alley?”

His face hardens slightly, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Alysanne is a friend,” he replies, his voice calm. “A trusted one. But you—”

“But me?” she interrupts, stepping closer, her eyes blazing. “But what, Cregan? Do you think I’m going to stay here in this frozen wasteland to be your latest curiosity?”

He shakes his head, his voice rising just a fraction. “No, that’s not what I meant—”

“Then what did you mean?” she snaps. “Because I have no desire to dance around whatever it is you’re trying to say.”

He exhales, frustration lining his features, but there’s something softer there, too. “I meant,” he says slowly, deliberately, “that I have come to respect you, Y/N. To… care for you, in ways I did not expect.”

She laughs, sharp and incredulous. “Care for me? Truly? You’ve a strange way of showing it, taking Black Aly on all your little adventures while I’m stuck here playing house with your bannermen.”

Cregan’s eyes darken, his expression turning serious. “It wasn’t meant to slight you.”

“But it did,” she fires back, her voice lower, more intense. “It did. And now, you stand here, acting like you don’t want me to leave, when all you’ve done is—”

“I don’t want you to leave,” he cuts her off, his voice firm, his gaze unyielding. “Not now. Not like this.”

There is a beat of silence, the air between them taut and electric. Y/N feels something twist inside her, something she doesn’t want to name.

“Why?” she finally asks, her voice almost a whisper. “Why, Cregan?”

He takes a step closer, so close she can feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. “Because,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, “for all your southern games and sharp words… you’ve gotten under my skin, Y/N Targaryen.”

She meets his gaze, searching his face for any hint of a lie, any trace of deception, but finds none. She swallows, her throat tight. “And what do you suggest I do about that?” she asks, her tone still edged, but softer now.

He glances around the room at her half-packed bags, and then, with a determined expression, begins to pick up her things, placing them back where they were. “For a start,” he says, his voice gruff but not unkind, “you can stop packing.”

She watches, incredulous, as he calmly folds one of her scarves and places it back on the table. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demands, even as a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

He looks up at her, his eyes twinkling with a challenge. “Undoing a mistake,” he replies simply.

She shakes her head, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’re very difficult, you know that?”

He grins, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “So I’ve been told.”

They stand there, close enough to touch, the tension between them crackling like a fire waiting to ignite. For a moment, neither of them speaks. The air between them is thick, charged with something that neither of them can quite name. She lets out a sigh, breaking the silence that has settled over them.

“My grandsire has called for me,” she says finally, her voice softer than before. “It’s more of a command, really, than a request.”

Cregan’s brow furrows, his grey eyes narrowing slightly. “Is Otto Hightower the King of the Seven Kingdoms now?” he asks, his tone dry, laced with a hint of disdain.

Y/N chuckles, a low, throaty sound that sends a shiver through him. “He might as well be,” she replies, a faint smile playing on her lips. “He certainly acts like it.”

“Seems he’s got a hold on you too,” Cregan mutters, his gaze never leaving hers.

She shrugs, a half-smirk curving her lips. “I wouldn’t survive a winter here, would I? You said so yourself, Lord Stark. Even Vermithor and Silverwing refused to fly beyond the Wall of their own accord. Those ancient, powerful creatures wouldn’t dare. So whatever lies out there…” Her voice drops to a whisper. “It must be damning.”

Cregan’s expression is unreadable, his jaw tightening for a moment. “I can keep you safe,” he says quietly, but there’s a firmness to his voice, an unyielding resolve that makes her chest tighten.

Y/N raises an eyebrow, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “Oh, how kind of you, my big, bad wolf,” she drawls, her tone mocking but playful, her fingers reaching out to brush lightly against his arm. “But how about you start with something simple?”

His eyes narrow, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. “Simple?” he repeats.

She steps closer, so close that her breath mingles with his, the warmth of her skin brushing against him. “How about, for starters, you try keeping me warm?” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper, yet it carries between them like a challenge. “It is awfully freezing here… Can you do that for me, Lord Stark?”

For a moment, Cregan says nothing. His eyes search hers, as if trying to discern whether she’s serious, or just toying with him as she so often does. Y/N isn’t expecting much—she knows the Northerners, with their prudish notions of honor and virtue, probably see this as a surefire way to eternal damnation. She expects him to laugh it off, to turn away with a huff, to remind her, once again, that he is not some Southern lord to be trifled with.

But he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t turn away. Instead, his gaze darkens, his eyes tracing the curve of her lips, the line of her throat. He takes a step closer, his body towering over hers, and she feels the heat radiating from him, the intensity in his stare. Her breath catches in her throat, her heart thundering in her chest as he reaches out, his hand cupping her chin, tilting her face up toward him.

“Is that what you want?” he murmurs, his voice a low, rumbling growl that sends a thrill down her spine. “For me to keep you warm?”

Y/N swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. She hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected the Wolf of the North to respond to her challenge with anything but stern disapproval. “I—” she starts, but the words catch in her throat as his thumb brushes over her lower lip, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through her.

He leans in, his breath warm against her skin, and she feels the heat of his body pressing against hers, the rough fabric of his tunic brushing against the softness of her gown. “Say it,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost desperate. “Say what you want, Y/N.”

Her heart pounds, and she feels a rush of something she can’t quite name—fear, desire, defiance—all mingling together in her chest. “I want…” she begins, her voice wavering, but then she catches herself, lifts her chin, her eyes flashing. “I want you to keep me warm, Cregan Stark.”

His lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile, and before she can draw another breath, his mouth is on her throat, hot and insistent. She gasps, her hands instinctively flying to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his tunic as he kisses her skin, his mouth trailing down to the hollow of her collarbone, his teeth grazing against her pulse.

“Gods,” she breathes, a mixture of surprise and pleasure washing over her. She hadn’t expected this—not from him. But he is relentless, his mouth moving against her skin, his teeth nipping at the sensitive flesh, his tongue tracing patterns that make her shiver. He smells of the woods and leather, of smoke and something wilder, something purely him, and it makes her head spin.

She feels a hot rush of sensation flood her body, a fire igniting deep within her belly as he kisses and nibbles at her neck, her collarbones, his hands sliding up her back to pull her closer. “I didn’t think you had it in you,” she gasps, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging just a bit.

He chuckles against her skin, the sound vibrating through her, and she can feel his grin. “I am good at playing my part too, Princess,” he mutters, his voice rough, raw with hunger.

She arches against him, feeling the warmth of his breath, the roughness of his beard against her skin, and something inside her snaps. She doesn’t care about the cold, or the North, or even the damned wildlings anymore. She only cares about the way his mouth feels on her, the way his hands move against her, the way he’s suddenly, inexplicably, decided to abandon his precious restraint.

“Oh, so you’re not a prude after all?” she teases, her voice a breathless whisper, but there’s a tremor in it she can’t quite control.

He bites down gently on her shoulder, making her gasp, and she feels him smile against her skin. “Careful now,” he growls softly, his lips trailing up to her ear. “You might just find out how much I’m not.”

She laughs, a low, sultry sound that makes his grip tighten. “Well then, Lord Stark,” she murmurs, her voice daring. “Show me.”

And he does. All night long.

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The next morning, chaos erupted in Winterfell. The dawn broke over the snow-covered battlements, but there was no sign of the Lord of Winterfell. Cregan’s chamber was found empty, his bed undisturbed, and his bannermen immediately feared the worst. The cold winds carried whispers of possible attacks, of kidnappings, of wildlings breaching the walls in the dead of night.

“Where is he?” one of the lords muttered, his voice tight with worry. “I saw him head to his chamber last night. He should be there!”

“But he’s not,” another snapped, his face pale. “And there’s no sign of a struggle. Nothing.”

Maids and guards exchanged nervous glances, and the tension in the great hall thickened like smoke. Servants hurried through the corridors, peering into every nook and cranny, while a group of bannermen began to search the grounds, checking the stables, the armory, anywhere he might have gone.

The panic spread quickly, growing like wildfire. Hushed voices turned into frantic shouts, and soon enough, a full search was underway. Every room, every corridor, every shadowed corner was combed through with increasing urgency.

“Maybe he’s gone to the Godswood?” one bannerman suggested, and a group ran in that direction, boots crunching against the snow.

“What if he’s been taken?” another whispered fearfully. “The wildlings—”

“No, he’d never be taken without a fight!” a grizzled old warrior barked, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. “Keep looking!”

And so they did, their desperation growing as each minute passed without a trace of their lord.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, one of the servants hesitantly approached the door to Y/N’s chamber. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the handle as if unsure whether he should dare to disturb a Targaryen princess. But with his heart pounding and knowing that all of Winterfell was searching, he pushed the door open.

There, in the soft light of dawn that filtered through the small window, they found him.

Cregan Stark lay sprawled across the bed, still deep in sleep, his dark hair tousled, a faint smile playing on his lips. His arm was wrapped tightly around Y/N Targaryen, holding her close against him as if she were the most precious thing in the world. They were entangled in the furs, his body curved protectively around hers, their legs entwined, her head resting on his chest.

For a moment, the servant could only gape, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. Then, finding his voice, he croaked out, “Lord Stark!”

Cregan stirred, groaning softly, his eyes blinking open in the dim light. He looked down to see Y/N still nestled against him, her silver hair a soft halo on his chest. For a brief, confused moment, he forgot where he was, why there were voices at the door.

Then he heard the shocked gasp of the servant, and it all came rushing back.

“What’s the meaning of this?” a bannerman’s voice boomed from behind the servant, and within seconds, the doorway filled with faces, wide-eyed and bewildered.

Cregan rubbed his eyes, sitting up slowly, his hand still cradling Y/N. He glanced over at the doorway and saw the crowd of his bannermen and servants, their expressions ranging from horrified to amused to utterly scandalized.

“Well, it seems I’ve been found,” he muttered, a grin spreading across his face as he looked down at her, still half-asleep beside him. “So much for a quiet morning.”

Y/N stirred, blinking up at him, and then she saw the small crowd gathered in the doorway. Her cheeks flushed, but her lips curled into a mischievous smile. “Good morrow, gentlemen,” she purred, propping herself up on her elbow. “Is there something you’re looking for?”

The bannermen stood frozen for a moment, then the old warrior who’d been leading the search cleared his throat, his cheeks flushed red. “Lord Stark, we thought… well, we feared the worst.”

Cregan’s smile widened, his hand brushing a strand of silver hair from Y/N’s face. “No need for fear, Wylis,” he replied, his tone far too amused. “As you can see, I’m very much alive. Just… occupied.”

The servant who had found them couldn’t suppress a grin, though he quickly ducked his head to hide it. The bannermen, on the other hand, exchanged awkward glances, shifting their weight, unsure of what to say.

Y/N looked up at Cregan, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Seems you’ve caused quite the stir, my lord,” she murmured, teasingly. “Should I be worried that your men are so eager to find you?”

Cregan chuckled, pulling her closer, ignoring the gaping faces in the doorway. “Let them talk,” he murmured, his voice low and affectionate. “I have everything I want right here.”

And as the bannermen mumbled and fidgeted, trying to find a way to excuse themselves from the room without causing further embarrassment, Cregan leaned down to kiss her forehead, his smile never fading. “Let them see,” he whispered. “Let them know.”

Y/N laughed softly, rolling her eyes. “As you wish, wolf.”

And with that, he pulled her back into the warm cocoon of furs, ignoring the murmurs from the doorway, perfectly content to remain exactly where he was.

[deadsetobsessions]

Summonings

Ever since Danny Phantom became the Ghost King, he’s had to deal with an endless amount of crap. An eternity of it, actually, and it was constantly causing him unending amount of existential crises and stress.

First, there was the paperwork. Pariah Dark, the incompetent asshole, had left him decades worth of bureaucracy to painfully sift through. He ended up hiring some ghosts with paperwork obsessions to sort some of that out. Who knew ruling the infinite realms would require this much paperwork? He’s lucky each section of the underworld had their own systems to report to their own rulers who, in turn, report to him.

Secondly, there were the Observers. And other ghosts, like his own rogues, but they were the main issues. Eyeball menaces. They protested his appointment, something he actually agreed with. Putting a fifteen year old on the throne is rarely a smart decision. But the Infinite Realm values strength, the only type of currency that matters in the land of the gods and the dead. Danny? Phantom? He’s got strength in spades. With only a few months of being a ghost, Danny had managed to defeat Pariah Dark, who had cowered gods and struck fear into the hearts of ghost heroes.

But Danny hasn’t quite realized the significance of that yet, too focused on the realization that he was about to be in charge of the infinite realms. The Observants, since his reluctant and extremely limited coronation, has been up his ass about doing things the “proper way.”

Danny’s main problem lies with the ridiculous amount of paperwork though. It’s fine. Tedious. But fine.

But if he gets one more fifteen page essay style complaint form about some guy named Constantine, Danny might seriously reconsider donning Dan’s ruthlessness and offing the guy himself. Perhaps grab the man by his shoulders and shake him like a rag doll and ask who the fuck told him it was a good idea to sell his soul out like that? Danny eventually just sent out Skulker to hunt down the contracts and trade minor services for them. He owns most of the soul now, and perhaps he’ll hunt this guy down and force him to do paperwork.

Regardless, paperwork was just often tedious. He’s worked out a system for himself. The halfa, true to his teenage form, had better things to be doing. His homework, for one. Hanging out with his friends and logging in hours for Doomed 2 would be another. But no, he’s here, twirling a pen as he glared down at a stack of forms for a zone expansion. What the fuck does Zeus want to expand his zone for? The current share space of the sky domain is literally a perfect balance with respect towards the other gods. For the love of- Danny slams down a red ‘REJECTED’ stamp on top of the stack. His hair flickers wildly in annoyance, the iced over Crown floating above his head emitting concerning levels of frost. To anyone else but himself, of course.

He then feels a soft tug on his core.

Right. The third most annoying thing about becoming King: the fucking summoning. Danny taps his pen against his lips, clicking it against his fangs, as he considers the summoning circle that calls him. Huh. Desperation. Mildly bloody. Fear. Resignation- ah, fuck it, it’s not like he’s too enthusiastic about staying to do work with the Observers poking around. He takes the summoning, allowing his regalia to overtake his normal hazmat-clad form, and approves the summoning.

Oh hey, Danny thinks he recognizes that ugly ass trenchcoat.

—-

John Constantine has had more than enough practice summoning things that would give people nightmares. But there are things he normally refuses to touch, refuses to even entertain the idea of trying. As usual, desperation made John its bitch and the Justice League’s battered and bruised faces tugged on his shriveled heart.

He’s going to summon something from the Infinite Realms. Oh, but he wasn’t just summoning any old ghost. No, he thought, I’m just going to summon the one being that’s guaranteed to be able to crush our universe without breaking a sweat. Bollocks.

“Is it ready?”

“Untwist your pants, spooky,” John snaps, wishing he had a crate of whiskey he could down. “We’re trying to summon the Ghost King, not your average demon.”

“What do we know about him?” Batman’s gravelly voice demanded.

“Powerful enough to take us all out without even breaking a sweat. Defeated the bloody tyrant who ruled over the Realms last I heard.”

“That’s it?”

“You could ask Deadman, but I heard he’s on the outs with the Infinite Realms on the fact that he’s made of pure magic, not ectoplasm.”

“There’s no guarantee the king will work with us.” Zatanna says, pressing her fingertips together tiredly. She had been at the forefront of the battle and had paid the price for it. “But he’s supposedly more benevolent than his predecessor… and we’re out of options.”

“Hm.”

“Just make sure to shut up and let me do the talking.”

“Hn.”

John rolls his eyes and takes a fortifying breath, something that does not go unnoticed by the League. They all tense up, preparing themselves for a battle. Another one, seeing as they all got their ass kicked by a ghost only ten hours ago. The League is spread thin, running interference to distract the ghost in question and evacuating civilians.

John Constantine started chanting, the glow of his magic lighting up the circle as he spills his blood into the circle.

He waits, heart in his throat, for the summoning to work.

“Is it supposed to take-” Red Robin asks, only to cut himself off as the circle flares once more. Power pulsates outwards from the circle. Frost crackles on the frost resistant floors, spreading outwards as a green portal rips open the fabric of time and space. Long, spindly imitations of a hand grabs the edges of space and pulls, heaving the rest of his celestial body out of the tear in reality. John does not look away. He can not look away, not from the eerie green pallor of the King, not from his torrential white wisps of hair, not from the black-hole like material of his outfit, not from the nebulas and beginnings and endings tailored onto the King’s cape. John could not look away from the ice crown that floated like a bastion of power above the king’s head.

His mouth is dry. What price will he have to pay to save the world? What price will this being demand of him, of the Justice League, to save the world?

John desperately needs that drink.

—-

Oh! He’s in his home dimension! His core purrs at coming home, at the close proximity to his first haunt.

He was expecting cultists, or even the Winchesters again, but this is nice.

The Justice League- summoning him. Sam and Tucker are going to flip when they hear about this.

They’ve been staring at him in silence for a bit now. It was getting awkward.

“Why have you summoned me?” He asks, softening his tone. By their winces, he didn’t get it as well as he thought. Danny grimaces. At the first sign of discomfort though, the man in the trenchcoat- is that fucking Constantine?!- launches into a nerve filled tirade.

“Your, uh, Majesty.” He starts. “One of… One of your subjects is wreaking havoc on the world. We would be extremely grateful if… if you could reign him in?”

Danny’s face sours, only to quickly clear his expression as he realized how much even a small hint of displeasure causes the jumpiness in Constantine and the others.

“To do that, I will have to make a contract with you, seeing as you’ve summoned me.” Danny drawls, letting his overly long digits wave at the summoning circle in question. He could break it, of course, but Danny’s bored and trying to draw this out. He’s not saying he’d take a batch of cookies as payment but that’s exactly what he’s saying.

“The price… you could always have my soul?”

Danny pauses. “Your… soul?”

Oh, he did not say what he just said.

“Yes. My soul.”

Oh, he did.

Fuck it. Danny’s flashbacks of suffering through the reports pushes green into his irises and urgency to his action.

He breaks out of the circle, hands lunging and gripping Constantine’s jaw tightly. Danny ignores the shouts of alarm as he allows the thrown weapons to pass through him.

John Constantine is panicking now, struggling in the air as Danny lifts him an inch off the floor in agitation.

Good.

“Your soul, little wizard? The one you’ve split eight ways till the thirtieth of February? The one that caused,” he tightens his grip, no doubt bruising the man. “An insane amount of paperwork that I’ve had to suffer through. Your soul, John Constantine?”

Danny hisses his name. The man makes a warbling noise that Danny takes as acknowledgement. Danny bats away the weak spell Zatanna sends at him with a hand.

“You’ll find that I am in the possession of most of your soul contracts. To simply put,” he grins, teeth made of dying stars on display. “I own your soul. My soul, now.”

He drops the wizard who collapses onto his knees to stare up at him in horror, eyes flicking between the circle that was meant to contain him and Danny, who is very much not contained. He crouches down- something necessary but disjointed as he’s not used to this taller form- and speaks to Constantine in a slow, dead serious, drawl.

“If you ever sell your soul again, you and I are going to have issues. Is that clear, John Constantine?”

“Uh- yeah, yes, yes, your majesty.”

Patting his cheek condescendingly, Danny gets up and sighs, stress relieved. He’s starting to feel bad, though, so he allows his form to ripple back to his normal teenage Phantom self.

“Well, it’s not like anyone will buy it, since they know they’ll have to go against me.” He chirps, flipping 180 from his terror inducing eldritch voice. “So, what’ll you pay me to get rid of whatever ghost you’ve got?”

“…. Nothing?”

Red Robin holds out a bag, eyebags betraying his exhaustion. “I’ve got fifty dollars and a bag of cookies.”

Phantom beams at him. “Throw in a couple of autographs and you’ve got a deal.”

“That’s- yeah, okay.” Red Robin says, inching forward cautiously to hand him the bag.

“Great. I’ll be back for them later. You can call me Phantom. ‘Your Majesty’ gets annoying after a while.”

“Thank- thank you for your mercy, Your- Phantom.” Wonder Woman says.

“Sure. Make sure this idiot doesn’t make any more deals with demons while I’m out, yeah?”

With that, Danny Phantom grabs the bag of cookies and fifty dollars and flies through the wall to do his job.

John slams his head onto the space station floor.

“Fuck.”

—-

Danny: lol I’ll do it for the shits and giggles

Constantine and the League: he’s terrifying, a bastion of pure power and authority

Red Robin, Young “we commit war crimes bc it gets shit done” Justice leader and fellow gremlin: he’d probably do it for cookies. I would.

[adventures-written]

Updates

And tag dump

;; I work evenings today so I hopped on my computer and did some blog re-vamping. There are likely profiles I have to update/change, but I did archive several muses. Please see my profile for my updated list.

Additions:

Dream - The Sandman (Netflix)

Arthur Lester - Malevolent (Podcast)

John Doe - Malevolent (Podcast)

Kayne - Malevolent (Podcast)

(And I finally added their pages...)

Azem - Final Fantasy 14

Emet-Selch - Final Fantasy 14

G’raha Tia - Final Fantasy 14

Please see all other updates. I’ll be poking at a few more things before I pop off back to mobile today.

[frozenrogue89]

I Don't Want to be Great, I Wanna be Me.

So we all know the classic ‘JL meets Phantom through summoning’ prompt, and we usually get Danny “High King, Savior of Worlds, Eldritch, Cryptid, Ancient, No Shits Given, Chaos Gremlin” Fenton making an appearance, cool and confident, running circles around the JL. But what if, this High King they summoned, just… wasn’t.

The Justice League was prepared for anything, with the latest BBG threatening the world they had to take drastic measures. The JL Dark managed to scrounge up the summoning spell they… “liberated” from a cult group a couple months back. At first the JL was against the thought of summoning another highly powerful unknown, but with extensive research, Constantine and various others vouching for this so-called “King Phantom'' , and no option left, well, their hands were tied. Said to be the vanquisher of the previous Tyrant of the throne, Savior of the Infinite Realms, thousands of years old, infinitely powerful, infinitely old, and some smaller rumors claimed, infinitely kind. Phantom is said to be extremely protective of humans (something they were banking on),  loyal to its subjects, and said to rarely get angry (yeah right). A terrifying creature, tall and confident in its destructive power.

So yes, the League was prepared. They gathered as many members as they could spare for this meeting, everyone ready for a fight, but praying for none. The Big Three stepped forward while the rest hung back. Constantine and the Dark members start chanting, beginning the ritual.

The chanting ends. The silence hangs. Bodies still. 

Then, a flash from the hieroglyphs on the ground and an explosion of wind with no origin, a blinding light originating from the summoning circle grows in strength, letting out a vibrating hum that causes Superman to cover his ears and wince. The hum starts shaking the ground and the light condenses into itself, revealing the silhouette of an object. 

The wind stops. The light is gone, the vibration a memory. Everything is as it is before, with one exception.

Wonder Woman, wasting no time, straightens, “High King Phantom, Ruler of the infinite Realms, We are the Justice league, We ask your help in vanquishing The BBG, it threatens the lives of all those who live…” Her eyes widened as what stood before her.

This… this didn’t look like a High King, Vanquisher of Pariah Dark. This little thing did not give any indication of confidence, power, or age… it looked… young. The only thing terrifying about this creature is the size of bags under his eyes. Drowning in soft clothes, hunched over, looking utterly defeated, Nothing like they expected. Diana would almost mistake it if for a human child if not for the glowing eyes, fangs, and slight aura it gave off. But this, this was no King… Is- are those tears in its eyes?!

____________

Danny has not been having a good day. Or week. Or month, or- anything really. It seems like dying was only the beginning of his problems. No, scratch that, this all started with his parents’ damn obsession with ghosts. Danny swore they were part ghost too with their utter infatuation with all things Ecto. If only they hadn’t tried to access the ghost zone, if only Vlad hadn’t been involved to become Danny’s biggest nightmare, if only his parents gave up their research once they had kids, if only he didn’t walk in that stupid portal to impress his friends. 

If only he had stayed dead.

If only he didn’t gain powers, then he wouldn’t be stuck in this mess. 

Danny scowled to himself and let himself flop onto his bed. He’s been spending the last couple weeks cycling through this whole rogue gallery, TWICE! Plus fighting a handful of random ghosts who thought they could take on the ‘Ghost King’ (Pariah’s evil reign and thousand year slumber didn’t help either with all the paperwork that’s left for Danny.) Running from the GIW, his parents, and Val as usual, (Ghost Scum, 

Dealing with ‘Mayor’ Vlad’s Evil Plan of the Week -Danny’s powers were still on the fritz after that encounter, painful, was a word for it- Not to mention school, between Dash being Dash, forgetting his science homework, missing a test because of Skulker, Lancer and his threats of, “Black Beauty Fenton! If your grades keep dropping you’ll spend the rest of the year in detention! With ME!” and now his teachers (and Jazz) are talking to him about college? He’s still a sophomore, give him a break! It isn’t Danny’s fault the whole universe is apparently out to get him.

The real cherry on top of this whole thing was the recent ‘summonings’. No thanks to the Fruit Loop and his meddling, with Jack Fenton unknowingly helping him, again. A nice little instruction booklet called, “How to Summon the Ghost King, Made Easy!” got out onto the internet and the world, free for any psycho to speed dial Danny away from his life. At various points in the last month Danny has been forcibly -and if he was honest, painfully- ripped from anything he’s been doing and dumped smack dab into the center of various cults’ plans, usually they wanted power, money, or world domination. His saving grace was the process of summoning forced him to transform or no identity reveals, thank The Ancients. 

Sam and Tucker have been a godsend in getting the Booklet wiped from the internet, Danny would be lost without them. He would’ve fallen apart the first week into his powers if not for them. Who knew watching your friend half dying created lasting relationships? They really kept him going and he trusts them with his life, really he does.

But Danny would never tell them about some of the things he’s seen getting summoned, he couldn’t do that to them. The various groups of psychos seemed to think Danny was more likely to listen to them if they offered sacrifices.. human sacrifices. Some nights he couldn’t stop smelling blood and incense, couldn’t get those images out of his mind. He hated himself for keeping track, and hated himself for not wanting to. 15. 15 people, so far just because some handful of lunatics wanted some money or something equally stupid like that. Danny was 15, that’s one whole human being, for every year he was alive, one of them was even younger th- she was just- Danny couldn’t- she was- so small…

Pulling his blankets over his head, Danny took measured breaths against the tightness in his throat. It’s Not fair. It’s not. He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t want to be King of the undead, he’s just a kid himself isn’t he? It was just an accident turning on the portal. He didn’t mean to. Why is he stuck fixing everything? Can't he just be a normal kid? Go to school, get good grades, become an astronaut? He’s so completely out of his depth, who is he kidding, it’s just a matter of time before he screws up again and someone gets hurt, or worse. He's trying, though, he is. He tries so hard to be good, to do good. To not turn into Dan.

‘Stop it, Danny. Now’s not the time for bad thoughts.’ This is the first time Danny’s had a chance to sleep in two days, his parents are out and left the home defenses are down, Jazz is studying at the library, Sam and Tucker are playing Doom while keeping an eye on ecto readings around town. He has maybe 4 blissful hours to spend in dream land. He sighed and sunk into his pillow trying to blank out his thoughts before he could spiral again.

A tightening in the chest, and eyes snap open, ‘NO! NO! Please not now!’ is all Danny manages to think before the unfortunately familiar sensation of space displacement takes hold. His transformation is forced on him as he feels himself fall apart and get put back together simultaneously.

‘Just a couple hours rest, is tHAT SO MUCH TO ASK!!??’ The anger leaves before it can fully form due to the pure exhaustion that washed over his ectofied bones and straight to his core. It feels strained, like glass under pressure, not knowing if the slightest change will shatter him. He slowly gets his bearings and- oh, this almost seems worse than a regular cult summoning. At least there’s not a dead body. 

It’s the Justice League, and Wonder Woman is talking to him. And Danny, Danny can’t. He can’t. He doesn’t know if they want to trap him, kill him, experiment… if the GIW got their claws into the JL… Danny can’t anymore, He can practically feel his core splintering into jagged gut- wrecking pieces. He just wants to rest, to feel safe, for just a little while. Why can’t he?

Throat burning and eyes watering, Danny realizes he can do something, just one thing. It’s the only thing left that he can do. Something he hasn’t done for a long time, ever since dying.

Danny starts crying.

[harmoonix]

🍂𝓝𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓱 𝓦𝓲𝓷𝓭🍂

🍁 (Astrology Observations) ❄️

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐚

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲

°•°❄️°•°❄️°•°❄️°🍁°❄️°•°❄️°•°❄️°•°

🍂 Capricorn Placements (Sun/Moon/Rising/Venus/Mercury) can indicate ageless beauty, your beauty comes with the time and patience

🍂 Sun in the 10th house natives can put their main focus in careers/job/future and sometimes they can forget about their family/friends/relatives, need a balance here

🍂 Scorpio Women are very different from Scorpio Men, like people tend to put them in the same box thinking they're both the same because they share the same sun sign

🍂 I don't know why some astrologers don't like cusps (they have beef with the birth chart I guess) if you have a Placidus chart rather a whole sign chart, cusps are important for Placidus

🍂 Moon in the 1st house/Moon aspecting the ascendant makes the native very soft/kind and generous, they have gorgeous eyes too

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🍂 Mercury in Fire/Air Signs may like loud music, something like R&B or Rap/Trap, club music

🍂 On the other side Mercury in Earth/Water may like soft music especially if there are romantic songs, for example Love you like a love song is such a Pisces Mercury song

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🍁In her waters, deep and true

Lie the answers and a path for you❄️

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🍂 Sagittarius Mercury or Mercury in the 9th house may like to listen to songs in other/foreign languages from other cultures/ethnicities. They may like traditional songs aswell

🍂 Mercury aspecting Venus/Moon can have a very comforting voice, very soft and sometimes they can be shy in their voice

🍂 Mercury in Scorpio/Scorpio in the 3rd house/Mercury aspecting Pluto > You can feel free to talk everything with them, literally they will jump from every topic to another topic

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🍂 Pluto in the 9th house can make the native to have a philosophical opinion about their own religion/belief system

🍂 Jupiter Retrogade can indicate not acknowledging your own luck/benefits/opportunities, is like you are blinded from them

🍂 Sun aspecting Juno [3] they will shine in every relationship they are in. They may also show a big support in their partners

🍂 Groom(5129) /Briede(10929) in the 4th house can sometimes indicate marrying someone from your childhood (maybe a friend/maybe someone you didn't expect to marry from your Childhood)

🍂 Pluto or Saturn in the 4th house can indicate an continuously changing home mood/behavior, and sometimes tensionate moments too

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🍂 11th house ruler in the 5th house can indicate romance between friends, and is not always you who is in romance but you can have friends who can get in a relationship after some time

🍂 4th house ruler in the 8th house can have ancestors who may practiced occult/magic/tarot maybe? there is a big interest for the taboo things here from your family

────────────────────────────────

Every inch of me is trembling🍁

🍁But not from the cold

Something is familiar❄️

❄️Like a dream I can reach but not quite hold

────────────────────────────────

🍂 6th house ruler in the 12th house can have a pretty chaotic sleep schedule/may sleep a lot or may sleep less at points, they're with one eye in the spirit realm and with one eye in the human world

🍂 I cannot imagine Libra/Taurus/Pisces and Leo Moons getting in relationships with non romantic people, babes please...romance is everything for you...don't settle for less

🍂 Mars in Pisces/Mars in the 12th house can experience weird dreams or nightmares, sometimes they can have vivid dreams

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🍂 Neptune in the 3rd house natives are very intelligent/spiritual/clever, they're very kind at first glance and always ready to discover new things

🍂 Uranus chart ruler can bring you unexpected desires in life, like you never know what's coming next with Uranus, a desire or a wish

────────────────────────────────

I have always been a fortress🍁

🍁Cold secrets deep inside

You have❄️ secrets, too

But you don't have❄️to hide

────────────────────────────────

🍂 Aries/Aquarius/Scorpio Risings can really show on their faces when they don't like someone, and is not about being rude is that they have a prominent facial figure to express that

🍂 Moon in the 11th house/Moon in Aquarius "Friends stick together" the are this vibe 100%, I love how friendly they are and their attachment to their friends

🍂 Having a Virgo Moon/Moon in the 6th house is also an indicator having a very nurturing/healing/purifying energy around you like a shield

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🍂 Girls if you wanna do synastry chart with your crushes and you don't know their birth time, is enough to know their birth date because it shows the placements of the planets at least, so if you have Virgo in the 8th house and your crush is a Virgo Sun/Moon... love - hate war

🍂 Moon - Sun aspects have a great analytical mind, maybe it is from their ambient style of analyzing and feeling the same things at once

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🍂 North Node opposite the Moon, it indicates that you have emotional patterns from a past life that don't serve you. And that you can fall into moods/moments that are difficult to get out from

🍂 Also if you have North Node opposite the Moon your mother in this life was also a mother figure in your past life (shock 😲). It says that it can be damaging in one or both lifetimes (idk if I should cry or not)

🍂 If you have Saturn square north node in your chart you can often have the feeling of taking the responsibility/accountability for other people, in a way you live for others but not for yourself

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🍁🍂❄️ I hope you all have a great great greattttt day full of blessings !!❄️🍁🍂

Have a blessed day to all of you who read my notes, Harmmonix ♥️🍁

Off topic but I have to admit Frozen 2 was one of Disney's biggest masterpiece, the native language, the songs, the storyline, the goosebumps everything is on point. There are rumors of Frozen 3 coming in 2025 and so my eyes are ready to cry again at this masterpiece (The Nordic culture 😍)

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[call-me-strega]

Dc x Dp Prompt #6: A Mother’s Love

Gotham still remembers when she was just a young Neverborn. When her bay was first discovered and settlements were newly established. Her consciousness like the budding town was growing slowly but surely. By the 1800s she was almost fully grown and by the 1900s she knew her name. She knew who she was.

She was Lady Gotham: Queen of the City of Corruption, Mistress of the Den of Madness, Ruler of No Man's Land, Mother of Poor Souls.

She was a Neverborn Spirit of the Infinite Realms who was well acquainted with disaster and misery. She was the sovereign of her own haunt and territory, and vassal under the king. (A king to whom she swore no loyalty)

She knew her flaws and she knew the flaws of those who were Hers but she loved them nonetheless. When she was still young she spent her energy trying to nourish her people, unfortunately, she was but a reflection of her mortal haunt. There was little she could do aside from slightly bending the rules to exert control over the physical aspects of her haunt or to extend her power to those who would need it most. As she grew older she also had to divide her care among the ghosts in her spectral haunt, for they were Hers too, now within her grasp.

She remembers when the Clown first arrived. He was horrible, an outsider, an interloper, and a scourge to her haunt. He was not Hers and she refused to claim him despite his fancy to call himself the Clown Prince of Gotham. No, he was more a Fool than anything else. She made it known within the realms to all those living in her spectral haunt that should the Fool ever make it to the realms than his fate would be up to her (Perhaps her former paramour would grant her a boon and keep him trapped in an eternal nightmare).

She remembers when her Dark Knight first arrived in her defense. She was struck to see him, for he had been one of Hers. He had been gone for many years but returned to her and he wished to help her, to protect her. She accepted him as her Knight, extending her power on occasion to cloak him in shadows and fear. Though she cherished her Knight she wished he was capable of more. (She wished he would cross lines she could not, but she knew he wouldn't because he could not either).

She remembers the first little Squire her Knight took in. He was not of her but she would claim him as Hers too. He was eager to help her and those who were Hers. He was the first bit of Wonder she and Hers had had in a long time. He cared for her too but eventually, he would grow to be more than a Squire and would leave her too. Though he was gone, he still had a place in the city as one of her Knights.

She remembers the second little Squire. Her very own homegrown Hope. Sure he was a bit more rough and decisive but he cared. He was so deeply and truly Hers. He grew up in her streets and he understood her and Hers better than any of her knights so far. He was young, full of life and a desire to help, and he believed he could be magic. She was devastated when he left, lured away by the promise of a mother, then tricked and fallen into the hands of the Fool. She was devastated when he returned to her broken and mangled.

In her distress she remembered that the Tyrant had been overthrown recently. There was a new king, one who had not even reached his majority yet. The Boy King, The Benevolent King, The Protector, The Peace Maker, The One with the Cloak of Stars and the Crown of Frozen Light, The Perfect Balance.

He had not yet risen to full power but he had united the Counsel of Ancients. She could appeal to them and to him. She could swear her loyalty in exchange for borrowed power. Even if he refused, it would not stop her. His help would prevent her from growing too weak but his refusal would mean nothing to her.

True to his title, the Benevolent King granted her a boon, her loyalty and support for a temporary amplification of her own power and permission to cross over. She thanked the Boy King for his Kindness and fled back to her haunt, ready to manifest onto the mortal plane for the first time in centuries.

When she found him she was overwhelmed with grief. Her voice echoed like sirens in the wind. Her fingernails elongated as she reached out. Her appearance grew more haggard as spectral winds swirled around her. She cried black tears over his grave summoning her power to channel his soul.

If the boy wanted to help he could help those in her spectral haunt.

If the boy wanted to make a difference, he could help her exert her power over her mortal haunt.

If the boy wanted a family, then she would be his Mother.

If the boy wanted to live, he could live in the Realms with Her.

Her form flickered vanishing from the mortal plane. Back in her spectral haunt, she held a young figure in her arms. She overflowed with gratefulness promising herself she would introduce the young boy to the King when she got the chance. He deserved to see how much he'd done for her. She gathered up her presence and made a declaration to the realm:

Here was the heir to her power

Here was the being that was most truly Hers

Here was the true Son

Her very own Little Prince of Gotham.

~~~

Okay a couple of things:

Did I imply the Joker is not a Gotham Native? Yes, I did. I also implied that if he ever became a ghost it would be on sight for him by Lady Gotham.

Did I imply that Lady Gotham has two haunts? Yes, I did. She has actual Gotham and then the ghost version in the Infinite Realms where a lot of the ghosts of people who died in Gotham live.

Did I imply that Lady Gotham and Fright Knight were romantically involved at one point? Yes, I did.

The goal of this was to literally make Jason the "Son of Gotham", a term I've seen thrown around before. I feel like Lady Gotham would love to be a mom and finally give Jason a decent parent, albeit one that treads the line between creepy and Eldritch Horror.

I included Danny as the new Ghost King even though he's not technically ruling yet. He has the Council of Ancients running things and he has a regent but idk who yet. He's still involved in the decision-making process bc a.) He's super powerful, b.) he's still technically ruler, and c.) it's a good way for him to learn about ruling which he will have to do eventually.

Yes, it is my intention to have Jason and Danny meet in the Ghost Zone later. Give some good bonding and friendship (eventually crushes on each other).

I have a couple ideas for things that may happen in this au but if anyone gets their own ideas or wants to write this then feel free to share or ask about it.

[jaxon-exe]

Just saw this point vv

That has Danny being Gotham and it has given me ideas!!

So after becoming the ghost king Danny gets a haunt. Now the thing about haunts (for this au) is that they r a reflection of its ruler. It’s basically their inter being made into a physical place.

Well that comes with a unique situation with Danny as he’s half alive. So bc of that half of his haunt is also alive (ie in the living world)

And bc time is more of a suggestion in the infinite realms, the living half of Danny’s haunt is and always has been Gotham.

This is also y Gotham is cursed. At first it was just Fenton luck but over the years power hunger ghost have cursed Danny and in turn his haunt.

Now with the background out of the way here we go

So one day it’s notice that Gotham is a bit more crazy than normal. Not only has crime and rouge activities randomly spiked but the weather is also going nuts. With random storms popping out of nowhere and even a blizzard in mid spring.

Deciding better save than sorry Batman calls in some JLD members to see if it’s magic related and it is. The JLD always knew Gotham was cursed but they can now feel a new and more powerful curse has been placed on the city. So they set about trying to get rid of it and they can’t

At this point is when they decide to pull John out of bed and get him to help to and after a bit of poking around he comes to the conclusion that the curse is anchored to something and so sets about summoning the anchor.

Yeah… non of them were expecting the king of the dead to be the anchor.

What’s worse is that Danny pops up in his spooky eldritch form and they quickly cancel the spell bc NOPE!!

So they naturally come to the conclusion that the king was the one to curse Gotham and he anchored the curse to himself so it couldn’t be easily lifted.

Meanwhile with Danny.

He’s having a rough go at it. This curse is pretty foul and he’s been stuck in his ‘spooky form’ bc his more approachable forms can’t handle it. Now Danny has been trying to get rid of all the curses on him for awhile but it was never top priority, u know with being king and all. Now tho it definitely is. However he’s in a bit of a bind bc ghost cant really remove curses and he doesn’t have the knowledge of how to do it while alive.

But those guys that summoned him definitely do and might be his best shot.

Basically from here it’s the Batfam plus JLD trying to figure out how to brake the curse on Gotham while also being jump scared by the king of the death popping out of nowhere only to be beating off with a broom back to the afterlife. Meanwhile Danny over here is just trying to figure out how to get their help even tho he looks like a nightmare personified and sounds like the screams of the damned 



[imironstark]

Greetings, Squatterbloat. I seek an audience with your sovereign. And who might you be? I am the King of Dreams. Ruler of the Nightmare Realms. Mm. Yes, my clown. So, where's your crown? Guard your tongue, demon. The Ruler of Hell will not be kind to one who insults an honored guest. And I am a guest in this realm as I am monarch of my own. So where's your ruby? Shall I use it to haunt your dreams? And your waking hours, too? Or will you open the gates of Hell and let us through? Now, take us to the palace. There's one at the door. There's one at the door.

THE SANDMAN 1.04: "A Hope in Hell"

[valrayne-faeu]

we have gotten a few asks about the “rules” for making a sona or OC in the faeu, so if you’re someone that likes to be “canon-compliant” or have a set of rules to follow when making an OC, here they are! (feel free to not follow them if you don’t want to, you’re welcome to use your imagination)

Dream and Nightmare are the oldest current living fae in the Seasonal Realms at 1500 years old, older fae either left or died during the war

there are no hybrid fae (spring/autumn, summer/winter, etc). the Spring-Summer and Autumn-Winter magics are like oil and water and cannot mix. a fae has the magic of whatever realm they were born into, and a human that becomes fae will have the magic of whatever realm they were tricked in.

Spring-Summer fae can’t travel to Autumn-Winter (and vice versa) without protections or the blessing of the king of where they’re travelling. fae will fall very ill from the conflicting magic after spending even an hour across the border (Summer fae will have a cold and Winter fae will have a fever).

it is possible to convert to another realm, but it is a process and you have to be blessed by the king of the realm you’re switching to in a ceremony. however, if you convert to Spring-Summer and then change your mind and want to return to Autumn-Winter, Nightmare will refuse to let you return. so choose wisely. Dream is more lenient—if you convert to Autumn-Winter and then want to return to Spring-Summer, Dream will welcome you back.

there are certain physical traits associated with each court—

Summer/Spring Court - Antlers. Wings: Butterfly, Dragonfly, Bee, Praying Mantis, Wasp, Fly

Winter/Autumn Court - Horns. Wings: Moth, Beetle, Cicada, Grasshopper, Firefly, Cockroach

there are fae that aren’t based on insects! fae that are bird-like, have traits of dragons or unicorns, things like that. feel free to get creative with it ^^

fae can’t lie, it makes them physically ill. it’s not worth it to try. you can trade a human for the ability to lie, however only one fae has managed to do so. most fae don’t think it’s a skill they need, and the ability to manipulate words and dancing around the truth is a highly valued skill. fae culture loves wordplay. humans that are becoming fae will find telling lies makes them more and more ill until they’re dissuaded from it.

there are realms beyond the faewildes, and other kingdoms of fae with different magics. it is possible to travel from one to another through the wildes but it is dangerous. the faewildes do not have a ruler as wild magic doesn’t like to be tamed, but there are fae that survive out there (Error is one example).

in the fae realms there are some fae known as “Aspects”. fae that went through a lot of complicated, life-altering, incredibly influential experiences that were entirely concentrated around a singular concept of some kind. it changes them fundamentally as a person, concentrating their magic on that concept until they are tied to it intrinsically and it is as much a part of them as they are a part of it. events on the level of Frisk surviving a beam from Asriel as the god of hyperdeath at 0.0000001 HP through sheer Determination, or all the things that made Sans into Geno and then ultimately into Error. they become that thing personified. Aspects are incredibly powerful and exceedingly rare, and it’s a very big deal for one to happen. notable Aspects are Dream (Positivity), Nightmare (Negativity), Error (Chaos), and Ink (Inspiration).

a lot of the faeu is based on Celtic folklore—there are many interesting concepts and creatures to read about and pull inspiration from. i recommend reading up on the Tuatha Dé Danann and Aos Sí!

all fae can make magically-binding deals, even humans that just got tricked into staying in the fae realms that haven’t turned fae yet. magically-binding deals are usually limited to things that you can actually complete, such as trading something you own/have or doing some kind of service. with study and training it is possible to strengthen your magic and give intangible things such as a boon/luck/etc. the more tied you are to the magic of the realm the more powerful you are and the more complex of a deal you can make. it takes lots of study to reach this level.

[dotieeee]

The Dream That Got Away

Chapter 17

Pairing: Dark!Morpheus x You (no Y/N!)

This is a multi-chapter fic — Weekly updates (either Saturday or Sunday) because I found a rhythm of sorts lol

(The entire fic has been outlined, so I will see this to the end, you have my word)

**********************************************************

Link to the Masterlist

Overall Warnings!! Take heed:

Morpheus is DARK – in canon, he changes for the better (or at least, tries to – but we don’t do canon lol, so he goes even more batshit crazy) cue obsession, manipulation, possessiveness, powerplay

18+ ONLY – explicit scenes will be present, some explicit language

DUB-CON and NON-CON scenes

Character death (sort of)

Creator vs Creation drama

And other dark stuff that may be added in the future

This chapter’s warnings:

graphic dub-con ahead - turn back now if this disturbs you :)

touch-starved Morpheus should be a warning of its own

breakup closure angst??

reader is a walking ball of angst at this point lol

You have been warned!! Proceed with caution!!!

Link to the previous chapter

Chapter 17: Lost and Found, and Lost Again

“Wha - wait, why?” you scrunch up your face, thoroughly bewildered by his abrupt declaration. What the fuck is his problem?

“Are you questioning my judgement, little dream?” Your Dream Lord takes a threatening step closer to you, intending to cow you into obedience.

But, for what reason? “I have not done anything to warrant this rather harsh decision, my Lord,” you counter, softening your voice to try and pacify his anger, as misplaced as it is. “Besides, you haven’t found any issue with me going back until now.”

At his full height, he stares down at you with cold, hard eyes, and you wonder just how such beauty could contain so much cruelty. You gaze into the galaxies it withholds, but find nothing but a black hole staring back at you. 

“I did,” he responds after a long pause. “I just chose to let you, seeing how sorely you missed it.”

“You have not given me your reason, Lord Morpheus. I think I deserve to know what reason you have to take away my only joy,” you continue to pry, your voice breaking at last along with the tears that now flow freely down your cheeks. 

But he has no sympathy for you - instead, he curls his lips ever-so-slightly in disapproval. “I am quite disappointed you’d consider the dreams to be your only source of happiness, all while our child grows within your womb.”

Amidst your tears, a huff escapes your lips as you bristle at his undertone. He isn’t even born yet, and he’s now being used against you for reasons still unknown to you.

“What exactly are you implying, my Lord?” you ask softly as you take a step away from him.

Not to be undeterred by the tears streaming down your cheeks, he reaches out to you, presumably to touch your face, but you turn away, so with a deflated expression, he purses his lips and withdraws his hands.  “I only mean that your efforts are best concentrated on caring for yourself and our son,” he clarifies.

Mumbling to yourself, you say bitterly, “I’ve been doing that for two months, my Lord, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Enough,” he admonishes with a firm tone. “We will no longer argue about this. You will stay in the palace until our son is born.”

He pins you to your spot with his dark gaze, a look that you know so well: obey or there will be consequences. You wilt inwardly on instinct and say nothing, even though you remain unsatisfied with his cryptic reasoning. He goes on to elaborate further:

“As for my sister, pay her words no mind. Delirium has seen to the downfall of many, and she could lead you to somewhere I cannot protect you.” 

Taking your cheek with his palm, he makes you look into his eyes, ones that seem to scan for any hint of defiance. “I will not allow any harm befall my child and his mother.”

What’s next, locking you up in his room?

Despite your inner protests, you nod meekly. The moment your Lord lets go of you, you give him a wide berth, and he gratefully doesn’t follow, but you could tell how displeased he is with the distance you placed between you both.

With a final glance at your form, he leaves in a swirl of sand. As soon as he vanishes, a sudden bout of nausea hits you, so you scramble to the toilet and empty the entire contents of your stomach. It takes you a while, but you rush to the door of your shared room once it stops only to find it locked from the outside, as you had suspected all along.

***

“M’lady, you’ve really got to eat. You barely touched your soup.”

Morwyn had just entered the Dream King’s quarters, where you had spent almost five days cloistered in. You had neither the energy nor the drive to step out and roam the palace grounds; you didn’t even know if you were allowed to. All you could worry about were your dreamers and the work that you had no choice but to leave behind - if your Lord knew your mind was preoccupied with them, he’d chastise you about caring more about them than your own son, just like he had insinuated.

You’ve been seeing more of him for the past few days, and when you’re both alone together, he couldn’t keep his hands to himself, so he’d either cuddle you, with his possessive hands over your belly, or fuck your brains out and leave reluctantly to attend to his duties. It’s a routine you’ve grown to hate because even when he left, you could still feel every part of him on you, as if your unborn son isn’t enough of a reminder of the bed you’re forced to share with him.

And then, there’s what Lady Delirium said just before the Dream Lord barged in.

What had she meant to say when she found something you ‘lost?’ And why had your King taken such offence to it?

“Princess Mera? M’lady?”

Morwyn’s concerned voice thankfully digs you out of a hole you didn’t want to be stuck in, and from looking forlornly out to the view that the balcony offered, you turn to face her.

“Sorry, Morwyn, you were saying?”

Hovering over the table where your now-cold soup lay untouched, she gives you a shy smile and points at it. “Maybe I can get you something else instead? He has to eat too, you know…”

Ah, yes. While you don’t have the appetite to eat, the little one inside you depends on you for everything, and he’ll do so for a while. You wish he’d hurry up though - frankly you could do away with the random bouts of dizziness, bizarre food cravings and annoying backaches.

“Maybe I could get you some chocolate-covered pretzels or cinnamon buns? I remember you liked cinnamon,” Morwyn suggests.

“Nah, I can’t stand cinnamon now, and chocolate tastes metallic to me. Maybe something healthy, like a chicken salad?” you say, hugging a pillow, before adding, “And caramel bars.”

“Not sure the last one’s healthy, but okay, I’ll be back with them!”

Morwyn leaves you half-heartedly wondering where she gets all that energy from as you smile gratefully and lie down on the loveseat. Eventually, she comes back with a tray full of food, so you try to eat as much as your body can hold down. You thank her for the food and for being patient with you before she leaves you alone once more, lying moodily on the couch. Maybe you could drop by the library later and catch up on your dreamers once your back decides to let up.

Any thoughts you have of getting out of the room vanish as soon as the Dream King arrives, transporting himself inside using his sand instead of using his door, as is his usual fashion. You get up to greet him out of habitual politeness, but in doing so, you wince at the dull pain the action causes. 

This doesn’t escape his notice, it seems, for he immediately makes his approach.

“Does your back ache, my dream?” he asks, his eyes laden with concern.

You could only nod, intending to trudge slowly to the bed and bury yourself in pillows and blankets, but he has other ideas. Gently, he carries you instead and lays you down on the sheets.

“Lie on your stomach, my little dream,” comes his soft command, and you do, having a vague idea of what he’s up to. True enough, he gets on the bed as well, mounting your hips, and, brushing your hair aside, he untangles the ribbons of your dress to reveal your back. With expert hands, he starts kneading the tense muscles on your shoulders, and you groan out of relief as his thumbs put pressure on the knotted muscles on your shoulder blades.

How many beings in the universe could say they had been given a back rub by the King of Dreams himself, you wonder, sighing as his hands slowly work their way down your spine to your lower back. You could feel the heat emanating from his body as he moves closer, and his breath fans the back of your neck before softly caressing your skin with his lips and giving you goosebumps in the process. He applies pressure on the muscles on your waist before halting his movements altogether. Feeling like a huge weight has been lifted off your back, you sigh once more, wanting nothing but to drift off to deep sleep.

“Thank you, Lord Morpheus,” you murmur.

You inhale sharply as his hand hikes your dress up and dips between your thighs, massaging your inner folds. Making a tiny noise of complaint, you squirm underneath him as he rubs against your clit and makes you wet, not feeling up to having your back blown right after he’d massaged it so tenderly.

He must’ve felt you tense up again, for he whispers against your back, “Sshh, my dream, relax, I will make you feel better.”

In a split second, your dress disappears, and your underwear soon follows. His tongue laps up the exposed skin on your back, his teeth grazing and nipping, while his hands part your lower cheeks. In one swift motion, he lodges his rock-hard cock inside your core, and you whimper at its suddenness, while he groans in pure bliss from above you. He settles for a languid pace as pulls out and pushes his entire length back in as if careful not to strain you further. His lips pull away, having done their job marking your back with welts, and you feel him prop himself up at an angle that keeps rubbing over your sweet spot and at the same time avoids putting pressure on your lower back muscles. You grip the pillow tight as you bite back your whimpers, but when he resumes rubbing the muscles on your waist and your spine, you start moaning with abandon and let your body relax completely in his grip, giving in to the pleasure he provides. He builds up the pressure unhurriedly inside your core while the pads of his palm knead your back muscles carefully, so when the pressure finally bursts, you lay there, limply, as he continues pumping into you, drawing your climax out in that sensual, controlled pace of his choosing. His pace only falters and quickens slightly when he comes close; he takes you with him as he climaxes and sends his hot seed coursing through your core and coating your inner walls, some of it leaking out when he pulls out of you.

Your Dream Lord lies beside you, already clothed, as you catch your breath, with him kindly making your dress reappear, its ribbons already laced behind your back. He dons a soft expression as he stares wordlessly at your face, caressing your cheek lazily with a finger. You couldn’t move an inch, not after being drained of energy like the only way he does. After a few moments, he leans down to kiss you, tracing the outline of your lips with his tongue and demanding entrance, while his hand not-so-subtly traces your arched back all the way to your ass -

“Hey boss! Your majesty, I - Ack!”

Matthew comes darting into the chamber from the balcony and in what must’ve been a romantic scene in his eyes, with you draped on the Dream King’s bed and him hovering over you, kissing you with a softness only you get to see. Your Lord reluctantly pulls away, and you pull the blankets over you in haste and embarrassment at being caught in such a vulnerable situation - and by no less than his raven!

“Matthew,” you hear him address his minder. “Is something the matter?”

“So very sorry to uh, interrupt you and the princess and all, but there’s this huge, huge, crazy bird running amok right now, in the forest and it’s breathing fire!” comes his frantic reply, ruffling his feathers in agitation. “Apparently, that giant bird can breathe water too, it’s just flooded the entire town square! I didn’t know who else to get, sir.”

Curiously peeking from underneath the blankets, you see Matthew perched on the back of the loveseat while your Lord puts on his cloak.

“Hi there, princess!” Matthew greets you with a winged salute. “Sorry to ruin the moment, but this bird -”

“It’s not just a bird, Matthew, it’s called an Anzû, judging by your description. You were right to call my attention.” the Dream Lord corrects him before making his way to you, planting a quick kiss on your crown. “I shall see to it, my dream.”

Nodding at him, you ask, “Can I be at the library, Lord Morpheus?”

“Of course,” he responds with a light caress of his fingers on your cheek. “I will come to fetch you after the Anzû is dealt with.”

“Uh, guys, I know you can’t keep your hands off each other, but, whatever-it’s-called, it’s destroying the village, you know, ve-eeery urgent?”

The Dream Lord just raises a mildly amused eyebrow at the raven’s reaction, and questions him, “Where is it at the moment?”

“Last I checked, sir, it’s just started setting the forest on fire, in the trees near the House of Mystery and the House of Secrets.”

“Let us meet there, then,” the King says simply, the sand from his leather pouch engulfing his cloaked form before disappearing entirely.

Matthew, flapping his wings, sighs and mutters to himself, “He could’ve just brought me along with his sand, but no-oo…”

With a farewell to you, he flies off the balcony to follow his boss.

But you aren’t left alone for long. Just as Matthew has left the chambers, one of the double doors cracks open, revealing Morwyn, looking around the room cautiously before beckoning someone you couldn’t see inside. To your surprise, a young woman with colourful hair peeks from the opening, before pushing them wider with a loud ‘weeee!’, and you jump out of bed instantly just in time for her to give you a hug that leaves you momentarily breathless.

“It worked! I distracted him!” Lady Delirium squeals in delight when she releases you. “ I think he’ll be away for quite a long time, but not that long, a long time is about a hundred years, or more. We have to hurry, though, that thingy I did on the Anzû might not last that long.”

“Lady Del,” you greet her before curiously asking, “Wait, you set the Anzû loose? What for?”

“So we could go find what you’ve lost,” she just says cryptically, as she drags you to the door.

Going along with her, you tell her, “Lady Del, I’m not allowed in the dreams anymore.”

“I know!” she replies with excitement. “That’s what the distraction is for.”

Morwyn chimes in, keeping up with your pace, “I can hold down the fort, m’lady, I can tell the Dream Lord you went out for a walk just in case he comes back early. Take care!”

“Thank you, Morwyn!” you shout after her as she pulls back and waves after you, and, still holding on to Lady Del’s hand, you let her take you to a detour leading to the sea of dreams, where you waste no time diving in, clueless as to where she’ll bring you. As the waters take you where you ought to be, your hand inadvertently lets go of Lady Del’s due to its force, and you land, alone, on a patch of dying grass.

“Fancy seeing you here, princess.”

You raise your eyebrow at the Corinthian who’s grinning ear to ear as you straighten your dress. Your eyes sweep the territory you landed on for any sign of the Endless that brought you here, but you find her nowhere.

You seem to have landed on a garden, or at least, what was once a garden. The plants look like they have not seen a drop of water in weeks and have been left to wilt away and dry up. But as you survey the dream you landed on, you couldn’t shake off the peculiar feeling that the place is familiar.

“This garden used to be so lively,” you find yourself saying.

Too familiar.

“Oh, you think?” your friend just snorts.

You look behind him, where a modern-brutalist building stands. It’s a house, you conclude, and it seems to be beckoning you inside, so you brush past your friend, caught in a trance you couldn’t break away from, intending to enter the abode.

“I don’t think you want to go inside, princess.”

You let the Corinthian’s warning go unheeded. Pushing the doors open, you cross the foyer and reach what looks like a previously well-maintained living room now lying in total ruins: upturned, upholstered couches with their leather peeling off all over, a glass coffee table, smashed, its glass shards scattered all over the threadbare carpet, science magazines, ripped from the spine, the crumpled pages littering the sorry scene.

A few feet from the living room is a doorway which leads to the kitchen, where you could hear scuffling. How you know it’s where the kitchen is, you have no idea, but you walk to it anyway, and why is your heart beating so fast? Why would you dread anything from this dilapidated excuse for a house?

“That’s not a good idea, princess. Back away, when you still can.”

But, the Corinthian’s voice comes out as muffled - all you could hear is rhythmic gasping and soft moaning, and like a moth to a flame, to walk to the sound, completely entranced, blood pounding in your ears.

You barely make it through the doorway when you see a tall fellow plastered to the wall, his hair too grey for his age, his eyes closed and mouth wide open and moaning in pleasure, and a woman - a nightmare, disguised as a woman - on his knees, sucking him off, both of them oblivious to your presence. Frozen to your spot, you stand transfixed at the sight, not taking your eyes off the male and feeling your heart being squeezed tight.

“So I guess you’ve met Sumnio.”

Again, your friend’s voice is ignored, and you clutch your heart, gasping for air and collapsing against his chest. Strong arms anchor yours to keep you steady, but, already feeling light-headed, you cling to his shirt with trembling hands and, leaning onto him, you scream.

It’s visceral, painful, echoing in the dream-space, and your friend drags you away from the scene and back to the garden, where he cradles you awkwardly, both of you kneeling on the drying blades of grass, and you remember everything: every memory of that man’s face, grinning coyly, smiling warmly, his soft, forest green eyes blazing with so much passion you had helped inspire…

And they hurt. Every stolen moment with him, the longing stares, and the chaste kisses - just remembering them is agony, and you cry out against your friend’s chest, mourning for what fate had so cruelly stolen from you.

“I know him,” your say amidst your sobbing, and you feel the Corinthian’s hand patting you softly on the head.

“Yeah, I bet you do,” comes his simple reply.

Oliver Chapman.

You start hiccuping, and your poor nightmare friend lets you go so he could hand you a glass of water he materialises. You accept it and drink from it, but you continue bawling as you set the glass down, water spilling all over the grass and your dress, the gravity of his presence in the dream hitting you just as hard as the memories did.

They’re here to torment him. Your poor Ollie.

Gulping for air, you let out, “Y-you’re h-hurting him! H-he’s hurting my O-ollie…”

Cursing under his breath, the Corinthian grabs your shoulder and shakes you violently.

“Pull yourself together, princess, there’s no use crying over this shit,” he chides through his gritted teeth. He lets out an agitated sigh, but he releases you. He takes out a handkerchief from his coat pocket and hands it over, and with a shaking hand you take it, your fist balling into it as you stare at a patch of grass, trying to breathe evenly and choking back your tears.

“There’s no easy way to say this, princess, but your boyfriend sentenced your ex to a lifetime of misery,” he divulges, sitting cross-legged on the grass facing you. “When he lost his memories of you, he tried to fill in that little hole you left in his heart or whatever, but Sumnio was sent here by Dream to make him doubt every single one of his lovers. He’s never going to settle at this rate.”

In an attempt to soothe the excruciating pain in your heart, your palm rubs against your chest, trying to breathe through your mouth as fresh, silent tears cascade down your cheeks, staining your dress further. He lets you process his words in silence.

“I’m going to fix this,” you declare all of a sudden, surprising even yourself.

“How, exactly?” your friend asks as he absentmindedly picks on the brittle blades of grass.

“I don’t know, I don’t fucking know,” you whisper, sniffling and wiping away the tears using the crumpled hanky he gave you. “But I can’t let him live like this, Cori. He’s not a threat anymore, so why make him suffer?”

Clicking his tongue, he mutters, “You know he doesn’t see it that way, princess.” He gets on his feet with a grunt and offers you a hand, which you gratefully accept. “You better clean that up, he’s gonna find out.”

“You're not going to tell him, are you?”

“I’d rather stay out of it, thank you very much.”

You offer him a wet, grateful smile, mouthing ‘thank you,’ and his only response is a shake of his head in exasperation.

“I can distract him for a day, at most,” he adds, tilting his head in the house’s direction.

Ah, yes. Sumnio. What a shame you had to meet him that way, if only in passing.

“I can shut him up, too,” he continues, smirking playfully. “He’s gonna moan a little, but I can do the job.”

You couldn’t help the small snort of laughter that escapes you. “Thanks for the mental image,” you remark dryly. “I have to go back. Whatever Lady Del did to distract him may have already passed.”

“I told you she’s trouble. Anyway, let me know when. You owe me big time.”

Rolling your eyes a little, with a small smile still on your face, you jest, “Yes, how can I ever repay you?”

But you flash him a look, letting him know you actually mean it. Your friend, as is his usual, just gives you a mock salute as you exit the dream, indicating that perhaps, he understood what you had meant to say.

***

“M’lady, I’ve got the key,” Morwyn says in a hushed tone as she sets down your bowl of cornflakes. Discreetly, she places the key in question, and you mutter your ‘thanks’ to her, before nothing short of inhaling your cereal. Your Dream Lord had just left for his duties, so time is of the essence. Cori’s right: grieving over Ollie isn’t going to help.

If you want to put him right that badly, you need to do your research.

You were reluctant at first in enlisting Morwyn for help, but she has proven to be loyal to you so far, so you decide to place your trust in her and ask her to obtain the key to the Dream Lord’s office from an unsuspecting Merv. It had to be you who’ll get the books though, refusing to put her in more trouble than she already is.

Sneaking into the library past Lucienne was easy, seeing as she’s swamped with records that need filing from yesterday’s Anzû’s attack (thank goodness for Lady Del). You get Ollie’s book in less than three minutes, and while you had nowhere to hide the bulky tome, you decide to worry about that bit later, and, after you give the key back to your co-conspirator, you barricade yourself in your old room and begin with studying how bad the damage was, and how much effort it’ll take to undo all of it.

***

Clinging to the toilet for dear life, you heave the last bits of soggy cornflakes out from your gut. This time, it isn’t just brought about by the sickness of being slightly heavy with child.

It was out of pure repulsion at what you had just finished reading from Ollie’s books. It was nothing short of abominable on his part, being forced to endure five horrendous breakups with women that seemed to genuinely like him, and then making him relapse on sleeping pills for something he could no longer remember - all for your Dream Lord’s depraved entertainment.

And the worst part is that it was partly your fault.

But you had to quash that guilt within you at the moment, seeing as it wouldn’t help with your cause. You had a faint idea what to do with Ollie’s dreams, and no clue whether it was going to last, but you had to try, at least.

Having hidden the book in one of the toilet cupboards in your room, you proceed to your shared bedroom with your King and pretend as if you had not just found out about one of the dirty little secrets he’s been keeping from you. It takes you all of your willpower not to be sick out of disgust after he fucks on his bed for hours on end, and as you both finish, you had only one thing in mind:

That you’ll get Ollie’s life back for him and perhaps say one, final, proper goodbye.

***

Your little panic attack at Ollie’s kitchen doorway was bad, but being confronted with happy memories you had spent in Ollie’s dreams in this modern-brutalist study is so much worse, you discover.

Here you are, hunched over on the carpet you remember almost ruining with your own blood, except it this time, it wasn’t a puncture wound that’s making you double over in pain - it’s that dull, stabbing ache in your heart at having to recall all those moments with him again and again, moments he can’t even recall, and as they come running through your head, so do the tears.

Maybe if you had been unmade instead, you wouldn’t have had to suffer with this as much.

The study you had spent countless hours working in had been trashed - a mirror of Ollie’s deteriorating mental state. It’s worse than the living room downstairs: his bookshelves, one you remember fondly with the books arranged oddly by colour, upturned, its contents reduced to nothing but ripped, empty pages; his computer screen cracked beyond repair; the L-shaped sofas with ripped covers and exposed foam - everything you loved about the place, including its owner, falling apart, and you’re the only chance he has.

But then, you hear footsteps approaching, so you quickly wipe your tears away with your palm and finally face the dreamer you’ve come to help.

Ollie, with his greying hair and green eyes, his soiled pyjamas and his unshaven beard. He seems to be having such a rough time, it hurt you to see him like this.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he notes with narrowed, suspicious eyes, just like the first time you met.

You flash him a wan smile. “No, I’m not.”

“Huh.” He rubs the back of his head sheepishly, as is his habit whenever he gets nervous. “Are you, by any chance, someone I slept with within these past months?”

“No,” you reply before letting out a dry chuckle. “But you came very close.”

“A damn shame I didn’t then,” he quips lightly and grins suggestively. “You don’t look so bad.”

Says the man with unwashed hair and soiled pyjamas. “Glad to hear your sense of humour’s still intact. How’s MiraSleep doing?”

“Not bad, too. I’m set for life because of it.”

But the emptiness in his voice does not escape you.

“Shouldn’t you be happy, if that’s the case?” you tilt your head and ask.

“Wouldn’t that be the dream?” he says under his breath.

Eager to press him for details, you continue, “Why? What’s going on?”

He shakes his head as he paces at the study. “Nothing much, except I just ruined what could’ve been something great. Especially the last one. I fucked it up. For someone with all this money, you’d think I’d have it all figured out.”

Peering curiously into his eyes, you inquire, “Is it Charmaine?”

“How’d you know?” he asks with a puzzled look.

“I’m a dream. It’s my job.”

With a heavy sigh, he nods in resignation. “Charmaine. I liked her, too. I liked her a lot.”

With a shrug, you advise him, “Then tell her. Say ‘sorry, I fucked up. I love you.’ Can’t be that hard, can it?”

Ollie just snorts in response. “Think it’s that easy?”

“You’d be surprised how much stuff you’d let slide because you love them.”

“You think she loves me?”

“I think,” you say, taking a few strides closer to him, “That’s up for you to find out.”

Clasping your hands together, you stare into his eyes, concentrating all your dreaming-abilities, all the hurt, the longing, everything you had, into your palm. For a few moments, you close your eyes, letting the entire dream-space absorb you, and when you open them, a dreamcatcher, not unlike the one your Dream Lord destroyed, appears in your palm, pristine, almost glowing with all the power you had endowed it.

“Holy shit,” Ollie curses under his breath in awe, looking around in his study: you had restored it, and everything else in his dream-space, and it took everything in you. Trying not to wobble on your feet, you grab his hands and place the dreamcatcher in his grasp.

“You know, it’s funny, I had one just like this before. I probably lost it - are you okay? You look pale,” he observes, worry etched all over his face.

Brushing it aside, you gesture at the dreamcatcher. “Look at that. Keep that safe. Every time you find yourself doubting Charmaine’s, or anyone else’s love, just take a look at that dreamcatcher, and it’ll wash away all that doubt in your heart,” you explain, your voice breaking a little at all the emotion you’re trying to contain. 

“What if it comes back?” he asks, toying with the dreamcatcher’s strings.

“Frankly, the nightmare working on your dreams needs to up his game. It’ll work.”

This earns you a befuddled look from him, but you just wave it away.

“That dreamcatcher will remind you to always choose happiness. Be happy, Ollie. That’s all I ever wanted, really.”

And then you see it: that warm smile he’s always had for you, his forest green eyes lighting up exactly the way you remember.

“Are you sure we’ve never met before?”

“Quite.”

“Will I see you again?”

You smile sadly and simply shake your head. Unable to hold your tears back any longer, you turn away from him so he doesn’t see them. You had not realised just how much you have to hold back; how much you wanted to hold him and kiss him and how much you wished it was his child you carried instead.

But, it isn’t fated. Not in this lifetime. Maybe not even in the next. So instead, you settle with:

“Goodbye, Ollie.”

You couldn’t stay there anymore. Without looking back, you will yourself back into the sea of dreams, vaguely tasting the salt both from your tears and the waters.

***

Significantly weakened from repairing Ollie’s dream-space and conjuring that protective charm for him, you trudge dejectedly from the shores to your old room in the palace, making a beeline to the cupboard where you had hidden his book of dreams.

You trace the cover ever-so-gently with your fingers, afraid to lose the only thing you have left of him.

You had not allowed yourself to grieve your loss because you had a job to do. But, now that you’ve completed the quest, you hug the book, and mourn.

You had not expected to still love him after all that happened, and yet, you pushed him to take a lover so he could finally be happy.

You did a good thing, you keep repeating in your head over and over. But how could such a good thing hurt so fucking much?

Crawling to your old bed, you curl up in a ball, still holding Ollie’s book of dreams close to your heart. You’re exhausted, physically and emotionally, and it doesn’t take much sobbing into the pillow before sweet unconsciousness embraces you to its comforting bosom, making you forget the pain if only for a few hours.

***

A little later, elsewhere in the castle, a frantic Endless is close to tearing down the palace walls in search of you: his precious little dream, his only lover and the mother of his unborn child, is missing, and he’s looked everywhere for you, causing quite a stir among the staff. They’re careful, as always, to avoid his wrathful stare, especially when it comes to matters concerning you. They’re secretly grateful when your attendant arrives to break the tension, and the news, that you’re in your old chamber, fast asleep, perhaps exhausted, Morwyn adds. He wastes no time transporting himself to the chambers he crafted especially for you, and as soon as his silver, galaxy-laden eyes land on your curled-up form, his visage visibly softens. He is careful not to wake you as he approaches to tenderly caress your cheeks, and, hovering over you, he places a gentle kiss on your hair, taking notice of the book you’re cradling in your arms.

****************************** Link to the next chapter

Author notes on the Chapter:

Aghhhkk will he see the book?!!

Now, about that back rub...

We have about three or four chapters remaining, folks!!

******************************

Author's notes in general:

Thank you, THANK YOU for reading!!

Please engage, comment and reblog!! I love feedback from you guys :) This is my first ever fic, so kindness is truly appreciated!

Thank you to my queen @queenshelby @endlessdreamqueen3 for encouraging me to pen this, as well as to my fellow Dark!Morpheus writers whose work I have thoroughly enjoyed and keep rereading :)

Post date: 2/12/23

Edit date: 2/12/23

Taglist: Just lemme know please if you want to be added, too!

Tagging the following:

@wt-fxck

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@chantzmar

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@ggxsan

[dragon-kazansky]

Heart of the Dreaming

Morpheus x Female Reader

Soulmate AU

You are the daughter of Rodrick Burgess. You find out about the "demon" in the basement and decide you want to see it. Things take an unexpected turn when your soulmate connection is made with the man you find down there. You are the one he has been waiting for, and you're being taken away from. Not for long. Dream will protect his soulmate.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Chapter Five - What we are

☆☆☆

You hated it. It felt so wrong. Hell was not quite what you expected it to be, but that seemed worse to you. What you hated most is that your apparent soulmate has brought you here. If so much as cared even a little bit, why would he bring you to Hell?

Perhaps you're seeing the man he is.

"So, this is Hell." Matthew caws.

"It had many names. Avernus, Tartarus, Hades, the infernal region you call Hell." Dream lists off.

"Can we get this over with, please? I don't want to be here any longer than we need to be." You glare softly at him. You want Dream to know you hate this.

He doesn't even look at you. He walls off without a word, and you scoff lightly. He doesn't even have the decency to speak to you. Matthew hurries after him with his little legs. You follow behind, slowly.

The path eventually leads you to a gate. All around the gate are people groaning. They're a part of the wall, unable to go anywhere. You really don't like it.

"We're not going in with them?" Matthew asks, looking st the damned who just passed through the gate.

"A king may not enter another monarch's realm uninvited," Dream says. "There are rules, protocols, that must be followed."

"You're... a king?" You ask, eyeing him. You know very little about this man.

"Yes."

Off to the side of the gate is a gong. You watch Dream approach, and one of the figures in the wall reaches out to hand him the mallet. Dream takes it and hits the gong. The souls all groan due to the noise.

You turn to the gate when you hear someone approaching.

"There's one at the door. At the gate of damnation." A heavy voice speaks from the other side.

A demon appears, and you find yourself taking a step back. Dream glances back at you. You pretend for a moment that's he's doing it out of concern.

"Is it thief, thug, or whore? There's one at the door. And there's room for one more. Till the end of creation."

"Greetings, Squatterbloat." Morpheus speaks. "I seek an audience with your sovereign."

"And who might you be?" The demon asks.

"I am the King of Dreams. Ruler of the Nightmare Realms."

"Mm. Yes, my clown. So, where's your crown?"

Morpheus scoffs softly. "Guard your tongue demon. The ruler of Hell will not be kind to one who insults an honoured guest. And I am a guest in this realm as I am monarch of my own."

"So, where's your ruby?"

"Shall I use it to haunt your dreams? And your waking hours, too?" Morpheus asks. "Or will you open the gates of Hell and let us through?"

The demon opens the gates.

"Now, take us to the palace."

You swallow nervously. Dream turns back around to you and stares at you. You're starting to hate that stare. He turns back around and walks forward. Matthew glances up at you, but you ignore him slowly follow Dream.

Squatterbloat starts leading the way. Morpheus follows the demon. You follow behind them both quietly. Matthew hops along by your feet. You can feel him looking up at you every so often, but you ignore him. You know he has questions.

"Where are we?" You ask after a while. You find yourselves in the middle of a foggy woodland. You can't see very far in front of you.

"The landscape is subject to the whims of the Morningstar."

"Morningstar...? As in...?"

"Yes." Morpheus glances at you.

Lucifer. Of course you knew. You never really believed in such things, but you supposed as you got older, the idea of Lucifer and Hell did seem likely. Especially after your father died. Was he down here somewhere? Probably.

"Are you afraid?" Morpheus asks.

"No."

He doesn't believe you. You can tell just by the way he looks at you. However, he offers no sort of comfort and reassurance. He simply turns around and avoids looking at you anymore. He doesn't speak again for a little while. Not until Squatterbloat is leading you up a strange twisted tower.

"Does this seem like the way to you?" You ask, looking up at him.

"A demon has a hundred motives for anything he does. All of them malevolent. Demon," he adresses Sqautterbloat, "this is not the way."

The demon chuckles.

Morpheus moves to follow him but is stopped by a voice. "Kai'ckul."

You both turn to the prison cell beside you. You stare in awe at the woman inside. You don't know who she is, but she certainly knows the man you're with.

"Dream Lord? It is you." She looks so happy to see him.

"I greet you, Nada." He speaks to her, appearing as he did to her all those years ago.

"How I have prayed for this day. I knew you would come." She tears up.

You glimpse at the demon. He did this on purpose. You frown slightly. What ws this? Who was this? Why did Dream look so... pained?

"It pains me to see you like this."

"Then, free me, Lord." Nada says. "Only your forgiveness can free me. Do you not still love me?" She cries.

"It had been 10,000 years, Nada. Yes. I still love you. But I have not forgiven you." Dream tells her.

Morpheus continues walking. You slowly follow him, looking at the woman as you pass by.

"Kai'ckul, I will not give up hope." Nada calls out. "I will never give up."

"Who was that?" You ask.

"Someone."

You sigh softly. He was so vague, and it was annoying. You hated not having answers. He brought you down to Hell and couldn't even be bothered, bringing you up to speed. If this is how he was going to be, you would rather not bother hanging about with him. Soulmate or not.

The silence grows heavy as you both walk. You feel like he won't talk to you anymore, but his voice surprises you when you hear it next.

"Her name is Nada. We were lovers."

You stare at the back of his head as he walks in front of you. You were curious about this new information. He's had lovers before? Of course he has.

"Why is she here?"

"I put her here."

You stop walking and stare at him in shock. He realises you've stopped following him and turns to you slowly. His eyes pierce you.

"You put her here?"

He remains silent.

"How can you do that? What did she do?" You ask.

Morpheus knows you're not going to drop this subject. Of course you won't. He came to your rescue and immediately brought you along to come fetch his tools. You're full of questions.

"She said no to me."

You scoff. "She said no, and you had imprisoned in Hell for eternity?"

He once again remains silent.

"Is that what you do? You fall in love with people, and if they say no, you cast them aside? How can you do that? Don't you care about people, Dream Lord? Is this what I have to look forward to?"

His expression seems to change, but only slightly. He wasn't expecting you to ask that of all things.

"No."

"No? So I can go after all this?"

He goes silent. He knows you mean to refuse him and leave his side, but how can he possibly let you go now that he's found you? He can't.

"We must go." He turns back around and walks away. You can only follow him. He's your only way out of this horrible place.

Yet, you find it hard to hide how you're feeling. He can tell you're upset.

Squatterbloat leads you up a hill and then stops. He turns and walks away, leaving you and Morpheus alone. Just beyond is the castle of Lucifer Morningstar.

The road to the castle is long and narrow.

The castle is huge. The gates open. Blood pools out from the opening. You step back as it comes close to your feet. Dream seems unfazed by this morbid display. He walks onward, taking the lead. Morpheus leads you through the dark cavernous halls.

"So... we're going to see Lucifer?" You all softly.

"Only Lucifer can find me the demon who has my helm."

"You do realise how terrifying all of this I'd for me, right? None of this normal. I'm so... lost and afraid."

Dream says nothing, and you fear he never will. He's not exactly a warm and loving person. Why did the universe see it fit to stick you with him? What made you so special that you were bonded to the man kf dreams?

You follow him into an open room. A fire is lit on the centre, and Lucifer themself stands overlooking their kingdom. You feel nerves setting in. Morpheus comes to a stop and clasps his hands together. You stay behind Dream a little, almost hiding.

Lucifer turns around.

"Hello." Lucifer walks closer, never once looking away from Dream. Once in front of Morpheus, Lucifer stops. "Hello, Dream."

"Greetings to you, Lucifer Morningstar."

"You look well, Dream. Are you well?" Lucifer asks. "And your family, Destiny, Death, Despair, and the others?"

Morpheus scoffs in amusement. "I presume the Ruler of Hell knows this is no social call."

"Have you come to join forces then? To ally your realm to ours? To acknowledge the sovereignty of Hell?"

"You know my feelings on that, Lightbringer."

You look up at Morpheus.

"Feelings change. Especially when one has been caught and imprisoned by mortals." Lucifer says.

You swallow nervously. That was all because of your family. Your father. Despite everything, you wished none of it had happened. Dream never should have been captured.

"We expected better of you, sweet Morpheus."

"I have come because my Helm of State was stolen from me." He states. "I believe one of your demons has it. I should like it back. Now."

"Dream, if only it were that easy. But there are rules, you see." Protocols which must be followed."

You feel uneasy, and you think Morpheus can sense it.

"Which demon has your helm?" Lucifer asks. "Name it, and we will bring it here."

"I confess I do not know the name." Morpheus tells Lucifer.

Lucifer stands on the balcony overlooking their kingdom. "Then we will have to summon all of them."

Lucifer takes Morpheus to the balcony and summons all the demons of Hell. You inhale sharply through your nose, trying not to be too obvious about how afraid you were. The most shocking part of it all was Dream placing his hand on yours. You look up at him, but he does not look at you.

"There, now, Dream, you may inquire. Which Demon has your helmet? Shall we interview them one at a time, or..."

"That won't be necessary," he tells Lucifer. Morpheus steps away from the balcony and lets go of your hand. You had been somewhat comforting his touch, but now the fear settles in your bones once more now that he has let go.

"It surprises us how easily you would give up, Dream. We know how you relied on your tools. But tools are the subtlest of traps."

Morpheus stops.

"We become reliant upon them, and in their absence, we are vulnerable, weak defenseless."

"Not entirely." Morpheus reaches into his pocket and pulls out his pouch of sand. "I have recovered my sand. It brought me to Hell, and now it brings that which is mine in Hell to me."

You watch him curiously. He kneels down and begins to pour the sand onto the polished ground. It swirls around until a figure appears. A demon holding his helmet.

Morpheus stands and faces the demon. "Tell me your name, demon."

"Do I have to tell him?" The demon asks.

"That is Choronzon. A Duke of Hell." Lucifer speaks for him.

"Choronzon... The Helm is mine. You must return it to me."

"No. It's mine now. I traded it from a mortal for a paltry thing. It was a fair trade. I've broken no laws. And if the Dream King wants his helm back, he will have to fight me for it... or trade it." Choronzon looks at you.

You feel a chill run down your spine.

Lucifer smiles. "Ah, the woman."

"No." Morpheus says. "She is not up for trade."

You look up at him. He was protecting you. At least he wasn't offering you up. That would have for worse.

"Then a fight it is." Choronzon states, looking at the Dream Lord.

"Very well. I challenge you, Choronzon."

The demon chuckles. "You know the rules, Dream Lord."

"If I win, you will return my helmet."

"And if you lose," Choronzon looks at you again, "I get both the helmet and the girl."

Morpheus' eyes narrow. "That's not part of the deal."

"It is now," Lucifer confirms.

You look at Morpheus with fear. Lucifer is suddenly behind you and grabs your wrist. You gasp softly at the cold touch of their hand. Lucifer is looking at your scar.

"Interesting. A soulmate bond."

Dream keeps his head held high as he watches Lucfier. He doesn't like the way Lucifer is just touching you in front of him.

"Your soulmate, I presume." Lucifer smiles. "I wasn't aware the Endless had such things."

"She is not part of this deal." Morpheus states.

"It's all or nothing, Dream Lord," Choronzon remarks.

Morpheus stares at the demon with a steel gaze. He can not afford to lose. Not this game. "I accept the terms."

You feel fear in your veins. Morpheus has just added you to the deal. Were you really so easy to trade? He was heartless. You were certain of it.

"And whom will you choose to represent you in battle?" Lucifer asks him.

"I shall represent myself."

"Choronzon, whom will you choose to represent you?"

"Hmm... I choose you, sire."

Morpheus realises what he is up against and knows he can not afford to lose. He does not dare meet your eyes as Lucifer comes up behind him, dressed in attire fitting for this battle.

"Apologies, Dream, but the laws of Hell demand that I become his champion."

"I have accepted the terms."

Morpheus changed his clothes for battle. He looked good. Very good. However, that was the least of your worries right now. Your whole existence was in his hands.

"Let the challenge begin."

You feel your heart racing in your chest and hope that with all you have, Morpheus can beat Lucifer. You have to believe that this bond meant something more to him. After all, why would he bother rescuing you from your family home if he did not care a little?

There had to be more to your purpose to him. Though, you can't help thinking about Nada. We're you destined to join her here in Hell?

What kind of man was Dream. You're not sure you could figure him out.

☆☆☆

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[pleasestayawayidonotlikeyou]

could u maybe make a murder time trio(separate if possible) with a goth reader? if not that’s ok:)

Traveler I don't know who you are but I was thinking about writing some skelies with goth reader for some good time now, so thank you for this request 🙏🏼🙏🏼 Also, I added out Nightmare because I can <3

Featuring: Dust, Killer, Nightmare and Ted.

Masterlist

Killer

He finds your style... Interesting to say the least, in his words "It makes you look like the baddest bitch on the multiverse"

Definitely brags about it to the others "Ha! I have a groth partner and you don't!" "You mean goth?" "That's what I said idiot"

Finds Cyber goth and Punk goth the coolest styles, but let's say the truth, it doesn't really matter what substyle you wear, your clothes are all over the floor in the night anyways.

He can and will make flirts involving your dark aesthetic, especially if you're vampire goth.

"Hey sweetheart are you a bat? Because you can come bite my body any time~" "Killer we're in the middle of hiding a body what the fuck"

Ted

Your style helps him remember you, it's so different, so distinct from the norm that it makes his mind recognize you from maybe miles away.

Ted finds some of the songs pretty relaxing, it's one of the rare types of music that doesn't hurt his "brain".

People are scared when you both go anywhere.

Though he kinda likes it, no one can bother you when they think you're a freak.

Loves seeing you get ready, especially if you're traditional goth, he could stare forever, seeing you carefully putting eyeshadow on makes him feel so calm.. it makes his day 10 times better for no reason.

He'd make cookies of you, for no apparent reason, and then give them to you.

Dust

He fucking adores you.

Whatever you say he does, no questions, he just does.

Let him do your makeup. Pretty please?

Loves every goth substyle, but steampunk and vampire goth hold a special place on his soul.

Dust actually really loves fashion, and yes he will choose clothes for you when you don't know what to wear, and trust me, you end up looking fabulous.

Wastes all his money on you, skirts, boots, pants, anything you like he buys you, even if he had been in debt once for buying too much.

Nightmare

Oh my, he's actually head over heels.

This hoe's rich alright? It does not matter how expensive the prices may add up, it does not matter how many clothes you want, he's buying it, it's not like he'd run out of money anyway.

He likes the music, it's one of his favorite types actually - but he still prefers his classic music, "no offense darling.. classic is just better."

And if you're traditional/romantic/Victorian goth?? Lie down on the bed because he can't control himself anymore sweetheart - and he's making sure you aren't walking for some good time.

You're married to him, so you're now also ruler of his kingdom, and your style fits perfectly with the gloomy vibe of his realm.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Medieval Supercorp AU

EDIT: it's this gifset

Continuing from this gif inspiration by @weinzapfel, have this full angstified story overview:

This makes me think Lena and Kara are both noblewomen of a kingdom at peace. They grow up together at court, sharing tutors and charming the king with their adorable antics while they're young enough to be adorable.

And then as they grow older, everyone continues to assume that they're the best of friends, which they are, but little do their parents know that their afternoon rides through the forest take them to a hidden copse of trees where they cuddle gently in dappled sunlight.

Their eventual marriages of politic are a distant future, leaving them with a present that is just the two of them, happy and in love.

Trouble comes, as all trouble must, when the King dies with neither an heir nor a ratified succession plan. The two greatest families in the realm, the Luthors and the Els, each claim a right to the throne, sparking a year of discord and unrest at court. At first, their youth and their stations as younger children of each family leave them out of the fray, but when forces storm the castle one night, all that changes.

Lena and Kara are sequestered together when the assault begins. No one tells them whose family is storming the Citadel, and so they wait in wary apprehension to see which crest comes bursting through the door.

It's the el mayarah.

For a brief moment, Kara is relieved, because she knows her family's forces won't harm Lena. Not if Kara speaks for her. But these soldiers don't heed Kara's protests as they rip Lena from her arms and drag her from the room. Kara struggles to follow, but the soldiers shove her back and lock her in.

By the time she is finally released, she demands to see Lena, decrying her friend's treatment and the brutish actions of her house in taking the stronghold. To her shock, her family knows nothing of Lena's whereabouts. They had stormed the castle, yes, but they hadn't entered the living quarters until that morning.

At first they believe Kara mistaken, but the staff confirm they witnessed the same. A search of the castle is ordered, but no trace of Lena remains to be found. She has disappeared, and with no Lena to present as proof of her survival, the Luthor family not only refuse to acknowledge the Els as the rightful rulers, they swear vengeance for the murder of their beloved daughter, cruelly mistreated and killed by the rebels.

Years pass, and the realm falls into further turmoil. The Els maintain their hold on the citadel, but the Luthors have established their own capital city safe on the far side of the northern mountains. Lex Luthor and Kal El have destroyed each other in the conflict-- Lex on the battlefield, and Kal at the hands of a Luthor assassin in retribution.

Kara is now the surviving heir, though her family elders rule in her stead as she gets a crash course in regency. It’s hard for her to embrace her duties however, as doubt eats away at the back of her mind as to what happened to her best friend. With no answers, she wonders if her family did in fact had something to do with her disappearance and presumed death. She has nightmares, none of which she clearly remembers but leaves her with a deep unease she can’t shake. For years, she struggles to rise above and be what her family needs, but can’t fully engage in her role with half her soul missing.

Then one day Kara’s having a rare moment of escapism, participating in a hunt with some of her closest friends. During a break, one of the scouts comes thundering in through the brush. Kara’s tease about scaring off the game dies on her lips when she sees the page’s frantic gaze and desperate puffing breath.

“Your Majesty-- we’ve found something.”

Something is a pit set into the ground, deep enough that the sunlight filtering in through the canopy can’t find the bottom. Their torchlight can, and Kara’s blood chills at the sight of iron shackles dangling on long chains from a bolt in the wall. 

“What is this place?” she asks, half to herself. Her mind races, piecing the puzzle together. If this was a prison, then there must have been traffic to and from. Her eyes scan the forest floor around the mouth of the pit, and feels her heart seize when the light of her torch glints against something metal half-hidden among the detritus. “Nobody move.”

Her party all freezes, and Kara reaches down and lifts the golden chain of a familiar necklace from the dirt. From it dangles the crest of the House of Luthor, adorned with a long tear drop pearl.

“Is that...”

Lena’s.

“Clear out. Retrace your own footsteps. If there’s tracks, we need to find them.”

There are no tracks. Lena’s pendant is tarnished with time and the elements. If Lena had been there, it had been months ago, if not years. For the first time wielding the powers vested in her as the royal heir, Kara launches another wide scale search, the largest since Lena’s initial abduction. 

This time, they find her.

Deep in a vassal’s dungeon, royal guards find Lena chained in the dark, pale and gaunt from years of imprisonment. The vassal lord is arrested and held for questioning, while Lena is installed and seen to in proper rooms on the estate until she’s well enough to travel. Kara’s duties keep her from traveling to the vassal’s holdings herself, but the moment Lena arrives back in the capital she’s aching to visit, but heeds her mother’s warning to let Lena get comfortable first, so that she isn’t overwhelmed. She’s been sleeping most of her days regardless. So Kara gives her a day to settle in, but when evening falls, she can’t wait a moment longer.

She knocks softly on Lena’s door, and enters on shaking legs. Lena sits wrapped in a shawl near the windows, which have been left open to admit the cool evening breeze. It’s a long moment before Lena turns to regard her, and when she does, she rises only to dip into a deep curtsy.

“Your Majesty.”

“Lena--” Kara surges towards her, to lift Lena to equal footing, to embrace her, to hold her so tight she’d never let go... But Lena recoils from her touch, and Kara stops short. “I’m sorry, I-- I didn’t mean...”

But Lena can’t meet her gaze, and in her features Kara reads the distrust, the suspicion. And in that moment Kara knows that Lena believes that her family ordered her imprisonment. 

“We didn’t order it,” Kara says.

Lena nods, but says nothing, gaze still askance. Her discomfort is plain, and so Kara does the only thing she can. She turns to leave. 

“Word has been sent to your family. At this time of year, the mountains will be impassable, but I give you my word that you will be safe here until they are able to send an emissary to collect you.”

Just before she leaves, Lena finally speaks. “I still dream of you,” she whispers, trembling with tears. “Every time I reach for you, you disappear into the darkness. I don’t-- I don’t think I’ll survive if I reach for you again and you’re not there.”

Kara pauses, then returns to stand before Lena. Her head is bowed, tears glistening on her cheeks. Kara’s own throat locks around the sobs rising in her chest. 

“Then let me reach for you.”

She slowly, carefully, reaches up and cups Lena’s damp cheeks between her palms. The moment their skin touches, a sob pulls from Lena’s chest, and finally she reaches for Kara, clinging to her as the years of fear and helplessness releases in a flood of tears. Kara holds her all through the night, spilling no small amount of tears herself. 

When morning comes, the light shines on them both, together once more.

[roguelov]

Dream: I am Dream of the Endless. King of Dreams. Ruler of the Nightmare Realms.

Hob: Hi Duck!! 😄

Y/N: Hi Pookie!! 😄

(I just have this visceral urge to call dream pookie at least once🤭)

Dream: … hi

Long pause

Dream: I am confused, where did duck and - and pookie come from? Is that me?

Hob and you: yup! It’s you 🥰

Dream: …

Hob: well are you going to give us a nickname back?

Dream: … hi … loves?

Hob: hey at least his trying

You snickers: pookie bear is trying his best

You and Hob burst out into laughter

Dream: