Warnings: Smut, Dark Peter Parker, Jealousy, Angst, Possessiveness, Dark Romance, Power Dynamics, Violence, Yandere, Obsessiveness, Dark Royalty AU
Summary: They call you a villainess, a serpent in silk, but he wants you, all of you, even the parts you hide.
You were not born with a golden spoon. Your mother had not whispered lullabies while swaddling you in silks. She had sung the sharp truths of survival instead, her voice not soft but unyielding as she taught you that the court would not coddle you, that the world would step on the weak and crush them like insects beneath polished boots. She had been nothing once: a seamstress whose hands bore the scars of years spent stitching gowns for women who mocked her behind fans and embroidered insults into the seams she could not remove.
And yet she had risen. She had clawed herself into influence, sewn herself into power stitch by stitch, whisper by whisper, until even nobles bowed in her presence and feared her cunning more than they did the king himself.
From her, you learned the law of the world: climb, or be trampled.
You learned that kindness was a weapon only if wielded like a blade, and cruelty could be a cloak as warm as the most expensive furs if one knew how to wear it. By the time you arrived at court, you were no naive girl to be molded; you were a weapon sharpened, a venomous jewel, a blade wrapped in velvet.
They called you villainess, temptress, serpent; they whispered of your cruelty, and it pleased you. You were admired, feared, and utterly untouchable, and you intended to keep it that way.
Then there was Peter Parker.
Crown Prince, golden boy, darling of the court. He was everything you despised: born to privilege, adored without effort, his path smoothed by titles and his smile.
And yet he looked at you as though you were the only thing in the world that mattered. At first, he had thought you a puzzle to solve, a curious creature to be unraveled by wit and charm, and he had tried. Flowers, jewels, falcons, playful banter, he had offered them all.
But nothing worked. You had never laughed for him, never smiled with ease, never allowed yourself to falter in the smallest way before his gaze. You could see his desperation flicker and grow like a candle flame, and it amused you to leave it smoldering.
He thought it was curiosity at first, then obsession. He watched from the gallery as you went about your deadly game of manipulation, your gaze sharp, your movements measured. But it was the day of the hunt had changed him forever.
𓆩༺𓆪
The boar had come charging out of the bush, teeth bared, hooves pounding the dirt in a furious rhythm. Women screamed, horses reared, and all eyes turned to see if the golden prince would be able to save the unworthy lady.
But you were no one’s damsel. You drove your spear through its thick neck, twisting it until the beast collapsed with a wet, sickening thud. Blood spattered your hands and white gown, and you stood over it, unflinching, the tip of your spear dripping scarlet, and Peter knew in that instant that he would never be able to think of anyone else. He will always love you.
𓆩༺𓆪
After the kill, when the nobles whispered of your ruthlessness, Peter’s obsession with you only grew. Even though the other nobles shunned you for your brutality Peter was drawn to you even more like a moth to a flame. It was inevitable for him to notice how your gaze softened however fleetingly, toward the young guard at your side, the orphan your family had taken in. Your hand brushed his cheek with gentleness, fingers lingering, and he leaned into you as though the touch were a balm. You smiled softly at him in a way you never did for Peter. And Peter… he could not endure it.
Jealousy burrowed into him like a worm in wood, twisting and gnawing at his restraint. He did not hate the guard; he barely considered him a threat. But the sight of you giving warmth to another, softness that he had longed for, ignited a fury so intense he thought he might tear you from the world just to claim the right to your attention.
Days passed, and he watched from shadows. He followed you to the gardens, the halls, the library, always close but never close enough. Every smile you gave to the orphan, every laugh you allowed yourself to release for someone other than him, fanned the fire of his obsession. And you… you knew. You had always known. You could see the way his jaw tightened when your hand lingered on the boy’s arm, the way his shoulders tensed like a predator ready to strike. It made your chest thrum with perverse satisfaction, the thrill of control curling in your belly.
The moment came in the eastern garden, a hidden nook where the roses grew thick and the scent of jasmine clung to the air. The guard was beside you, laughing low, hand brushing your cheek. You leaned into it, giving him the gentleness you had denied the prince, and Peter saw from the shadows, body rigid, every muscle coiled, heart hammering in a rhythm fueled by want and rage.
He could no longer wait, his hand gripped your wrist with a strength that made you gasp. Your guard tried to protest as he pulled you down the corridor. But Peter was the crown prince and a lowly guard would not stop him.
“You dare challenge your prince ” he hissed, and the command left no room for argument. With one forceful tug, he tugged you free from your knight’s grasp, the torchlight flickering against the cold stone walls, your skirts rustling like whispers of resistance.
Every step toward his chambers was measured, deliberate, and full of intent. Peter’s hands did not waver, one holding your wrist, the other tracing along the curve of your spine as if to remind you that resistance would not be enough to save you. You tried to pull away, tried to twist and hiss sharp words, but the crown prince was relentless. The heat emanating from his body pressed into yours, the rhythm of his footsteps syncing with the frantic hammering of your heart.
When he finally slammed the door behind you, his lips collided with yours, rough, bruising, urgent. You tried to pull away, but his body pressed against yours, hot, hard, unforgiving. His teeth caught your lower lip, tugging, biting, claiming, and you moaned despite yourself, a sharp, frustrated sound that only fanned his need.
“You touched him,” he growled into your ear, voice low and ragged, “you smile for him, and you’ve denied me for months, for years, and I’ve been patient, dammit, patient, and now...now I will not wait any longer.”
You struggled, clawing at his chest, ripping the silk of his tunic with your nails, tasting the iron tang of his frustration on your lips. “You think you can claim me because you’re desperate?” you spat, venom laced with desire. “You think your crown makes you anything more than a greedy boy?”
He laughed, a low, harsh sound, and slammed his body against yours again, forcing you to the wall. “I am a greedy boy,” he hissed, “who has wanted you since the first time you walked into the court. Who has bled silently for months trying to earn a glance, and you...” His hand gripped your own as he forced your fingers to meet his hardness, the heat and weight of his desperation. “You’ve made me ache like this, and now, I’ll take you. I’ll take you until you can’t stand straight without remembering who you belong to.”
His hips pressed into yours, hard, relentless, and your breath hitched, sharp and ragged. You tried to maintain the cruel remnants of your pride, to sneer, to bite, to scratch, but your body betrayed you, quivering at his touch, soaking through your undergarments.
His fingers pressed into your wetness, sliding and probing, teasing, driving you mad with the knowledge that he had waited, watched, hungered for this exact moment, and now he had you entirely.
He groaned, his teeth grazing your neck, and thrust into you in a movement that was desperate, possessive, rough. You gasped, a strangled, heated sound, as he slammed into you again and again, rutting with an intensity born of jealousy and aching obsession. His hands fisted the elaborate skirt of your gown, his body shivering against yours with need, marking you, claiming you.
You moaned loudly this time, letting the sound escape, letting him hear how his desire controlled you. You tilted your hips, grinding back against him, nails digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer even as he dragged you into the wall. The garden was scented with roses and heat, the night alive with your mingled cries and gasps.
“Say it,” he rasped, voice thick with hunger and dark obsession, teeth grazing your jaw, “say my name, tell me you’re mine, or I swear…” His hips snapped harder into yours, each thrust sending shivers and heat coursing through your spine, making your nails dig into his shoulders. “…I will leave no one standing in my path. Perhaps I should start with that insolent guard of yours, mount his head on a spike, let it serve as a warning to anyone who dares to touch you, to come between us.”
You bit down on his shoulder to stifle a moan, your hands clutching at him, body arching impossibly against his, and for a heartbeat, you almost surrendered fully to the madness of the moment, the way his desperation had broken through your cruelty. “Peter…” you gasped, voice trembling between command and surrender, “yours.”
That was all he needed. He thrust into you deeper, harder, shoving all the aching months, all the jealousy, all the obsession into each frantic, rutting movement. You were slick, tight, welcoming him despite your own resentment, despite every bitter thought you had ever held against his privilege. He groaned loudly, his seed spilling inside you, filling you, marking you as his in the rawest, most possessive way imaginable.
When he finally shuddered and collapsed against you, body shaking with release and triumph, you leaned against him, breathing hard, slick and bruised, aware of how completely he had taken you, claimed you, made you his. You should have hated him, cursed him, spat at him for breaking the iron walls you had built around your heart. But you didn’t. Instead, you let him rest against you, feeling the tremors of his need, feeling your own body still warm and shivering from the cruel, desperate pleasure of it.
“Mine,” he whispered again, his lips brushing your ear, “no one else. Never again.”
The court may call you cruel, may call him golden but here, in the confines of his chambers and the heat of your own surrender, you were both undone, both claimed, both irrevocably bound.
Summary: Having studied Valyrian history and sorcery, you perform a ritual to save Jace's life after the battle of Gullet, except he's not quite who he used to be after he comes back from death's doorstep.
a/n: Reader is Daemon's daughter but it's not indicated from which marriage, take your pick.
The sea was grey that morning, mirroring the stone of Dragonstone itself. You stood at the window of your chamber, a heavy tome resting against your chest, its pages filled with script so old the ink had begun to flake away like dried blood. Below, the waves crashed against the volcanic rock, and high above, the clouds swirled in a slow, mournful dance. The whole world seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for a death that had not yet come.
Jacaerys had been lying in the maester's chamber for eight days.
You had counted each one. Eight days since Baela had landed Moondancer on the cliffs, screaming for help, her face streaked with salt and soot and grief. Eight days since they had carried his body, his body, not him, you had refused to think of it as him, from the dragon's back, wrapped in a cloak soaked through with seawater and blood. The Battle of the Gullet had been a victory, they said, but it did not feel like one. It felt like the world had been cracked open, and all the light was spilling out.
You remembered the sight of him when they brought him in. His face had been so pale it was nearly grey, his lips bloodless, his dark hair matted with salt and gore. Three arrows had struck him. One in the shoulder, one in the side, and the third, the one that made the maesters exchange those terrible, silent looks, lodged in his neck, just above the collarbone, so close to the great vessels that carried life through the body that even the most experienced of them had hesitated before touching it.
He had not drowned, they said, because he had been found clinging to a piece of driftwood, his fingers locked around it so tightly they had to pry them loose. Vermax had not been so fortunate. The young dragon had crashed into the waves, pierced by bolts and arrows, and the sea had taken him. Jace would have felt that, you knew. Even bleeding out into the water, he would have felt his dragon die.
You had not wept when they told you. You had stood very still, your hands clasped in front of you, and you had listened, and then you had gone to your chamber and opened the oldest book you possessed and begun to read.
Now, eight days later, you had read everything. Every scrap of text, every fragment of lore, every whispered rumor that had ever been committed to parchment about the old Valyrian ways. You had read until your eyes burned and your head ached and the words blurred together like blood in water. And you had found something.
The accounts of King Maegor the Cruel were not pleasant reading. His reign was a litany of atrocities, his name a curse upon the lips of even the most loyal Targaryen historians. But buried within the chronicles of his brutality was a single, strange thread: the story of his survival after the Trial of Seven. Maegor had fallen in combat, struck down by blows that should have killed him. He had lain insensible for nearly a moon's turn, his wounds festering, his body failing. The maesters had given him up for dead. And then, somehow, he had risen. He had opened his eyes, and he had stood, and he had walked out of that sickroom with a fury that would consume the realm.
The official histories attributed this to the will of the gods or the strength of his dragon blood, but you had found other writings. Theories scrawled in the margins of old texts, penned by maesters too afraid to speak openly. They pointed to Tyanna of Pentos, Maegor's wife. She had been rumored to practice dark arts, blood magic, the forbidden sorceries of the East. And there were those who believed that when Maegor lay dying, Tyanna had not healed him. She had remade him. She had poured life into him through sacrifice, through the transfer of vital essence, through a ritual that bound flesh to will and pulled a soul back from the abyss. Some texts even dared to name what he had become: a fire wight, a creature of flame, animated not by the natural processes of the body but by the burning power of blood and magic.
It was, the most cautious of the writers had noted, remarkably similar to the tales told by the red priests of R'hllor in far-off Asshai and Volantis. Their god could raise the dead, they claimed, could breathe fire back into cold lungs and set hearts beating again. But the price was always blood. Always life. Always a piece of the one who performed the working.
You had closed that book with trembling hands and gone to find your father.
Daemon Targaryen had returned to Dragonstone three days prior, summoned by a raven from your stepmother. Rhaenyra had called him back from Harrenhal not to mourn, but to act. The war had paused for no grief, and the Queen needed her husband's fire and his ruthlessness and his terrible, unwavering certainty. You had watched him arrive on Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm's crimson scales a slash of violent color against the grey sky, and you had seen the way his face had tightened when they told him about Jace.
Now, he stood in your chamber, the door closed behind him, turning the pages of your book with the same hands that had wielded Dark Sister for decades. His expression was unreadable.
"This is dangerous knowledge," he said at last. "Where did you find it?"
"Here," you said. "In the library. In the vaults below. Dragonstone is old, father." You swallowed hard. "Tyanna was not the only one who knew these rites. The Valyrians practiced blood magic for thousands of years. They used it to bind their dragons, to shape the very stone of their towers. This is just…another application."
Daemon looked at you, and for a moment you saw something flicker in his gaze. Pride, perhaps, or recognition. You were his daughter, after all, no matter which marriage had produced you. You had his blood in your veins, his fire, his refusal to accept the world as it was when you could bend it to your will instead.
"You want to do this for the boy," he said.
"He is my betrothed," you said, and your voice cracked on the word despite your best efforts. "He has been my betrothed since I was old enough to understand what the word meant. I was meant to marry him, father. I was meant to stand beside him when he took the throne. I was meant to…" You stopped, pressing your lips together, forcing the tears back. You would not weep. Not yet. Not while there was still something you could do.
Daemon was silent for a long moment. Then he closed the book and set it aside.
"The maesters believe he will die," he said. "They will not say it to Rhaenyra's face, they value their heads too much for that, but they have stopped trying to remove the arrow from his neck. They say it is too close to the artery. They say he has lost too much blood. They say even if he wakes, the wound will fester and poison him from within." His jaw tightened. "He is dying, daughter. Slowly but surely. If you do nothing, he will be dead anyway."
"Then I have to try," you said.
"Yes," Daemon agreed, and there was something almost gentle in his voice, something you had not heard from him in a very long time. "You do. And I will help you."
"Rhaenyra..."
"Rhaenyra must not know." Daemon's voice hardened. "She is already half-mad with grief. If she knew what we were attempting, she would forbid it. Or she would hope too much, and the disappointment would destroy her if you failed. No. This stays between us. I will stand guard outside the door. I will make certain no one disturbs you. Whatever you need, candles, herbs, a blade, I shall provide it. The rest is up to you."
You nodded, your heart beating so fast you could feel it in your throat. "Tonight," you said. "It has to be tonight. The maesters say the hour just before dawn is the most dangerous. If he survives until morning, it will be a miracle. I need to act before then."
Daemon reached out and put his firm hand on your shoulder. "You are my daughter," he said. "You have my blood. Whatever you need to do, do it without hesitation. Do it without doubt. The magic will know if your will wavers."
"I won't waver," you said.
He looked at you for a long moment, and then he nodded. "I know you won't."
The hour was late when you made your way to the chamber where Jacaerys lay. The castle was quiet, the servants and guards moving through the corridors like ghosts, their footsteps muffled by the weight of impending tragedy. Everyone knew. Everyone was waiting. The heir to the heir, the bright young prince who had flown to the Gullet with fire in his heart, was slipping away, and there was nothing anyone could do.
Except you. You could do something. You would do something.
Daemon walked beside you, a silent shadow in black and red. When you reached the door to Jace's chamber, he stopped and turned to face you.
"I will be here," he said quietly. "No one will enter until you open this door from the inside. Take as long as you need."
You nodded, not trusting your voice, and pushed open the heavy wooden door.
The room was dim, lit only by a single candle on the bedside table and the faint glow of the hearth fire. The windows were shuttered against the night air, and the scent of medicinal herbs hung thick in the air: poultices and tinctures and the smell of boiling wine used to cleanse wounds. But underneath it all was the smell of blood, old and new, and the sickly-sweet undertone of a body fighting a losing battle against death.
Jacaerys lay on the bed, and the sight of him made your heart clench like a fist.
He was so still. Jacaerys, who had always been in motion, always talking, always planning, always reaching for the next thing, lay utterly motionless beneath the furs. His face was ashen, his cheeks sunken, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes. His lips were cracked and dry, parted slightly, and his breathing was so shallow you had to watch his chest for a long moment to be sure it was still moving. The arrow had been removed from his shoulder and the one from his side had been cut out, the wounds stitched and bandaged. But the third arrow, the one in his neck, was still there. The maesters had cut the shaft short, leaving only a few inches protruding from the swollen, angry flesh, but they had not dared to remove the head. It was lodged against something vital, and any attempt to pull it free would tear the vessel and kill him in moments.
You stood beside the bed for a long time, just looking at him. Remembering.
You remembered the first time you had met him, when you were both children, before you understood what betrothal meant. He had been solemn and serious even then, trying so hard to be worthy of the inheritance that had fallen to him. You had thought him stuffy at first, too concerned with duty and honor to be any fun. But then he had smiled at you, a quick, surprised smile, and you had seen the boy beneath the prince, and something had shifted in your heart.
You remembered the day your dragon died. The Battle of Rook's Rest. The sky had been full of fire and screaming, and you had been on your dragon's back, trying to stay alive, trying to fight, trying to do something, anything, to help. And then Rhaenys had fallen. Meleys had plunged from the sky in a tangle of scarlet wings, and Vhagar had turned. The ancient she-dragon had fixed her terrible eyes on you, and Aemond's voice had echoed across the battlefield, shouting something you could not hear over the roar of wind and flame. He had wanted to take you, you learned later. A prize. A hostage. A trophy to hang on his wall. But your dragon had fled, faster than Vhagar could follow, and had carried you all the way back to Dragonstone before succumbing to her wounds. She had died on the beach, her great head resting on sand, her eyes fixed on you with an apology you could not bear to receive. You had held her until the light went out of her, and then you had stood and walked up to the castle and begun to plan how you would make the Greens pay.
Jace had held you that night. He had not said anything, there was nothing to say, but he had held you, and let you weep into his shoulder, and when you were finished he had kissed your forehead and told you that you were the bravest person he had ever met.
Now he was dying, and you were going to save him, no matter what it cost.
You set down the small bag you had brought with you and began to prepare. From the bag you drew a candle of black wax, a small silver knife, a bowl of beaten copper, and a roll of parchment covered in the symbols and words you had copied from the old texts. You arranged them on the floor beside the bed, your hands steady despite the trembling in your heart. Then you drew back the furs and looked at Jace's wounds.
The bandages on his shoulder and side were fresh, changed that evening by the maesters. But the wound in his neck was the one that mattered. You leaned close, examining it in the dim light. The flesh around the arrow shaft was red and swollen, hot to the touch even from inches away. The skin had begun to take on a greyish tinge at the edges, and when you inhaled carefully, you caught the faint, foul scent of corruption beginning to take hold. The maesters were right. If the arrow was not removed, the infection would spread. It would poison his blood, and he would die in fever and delirium. But if they tried to remove it, the arrowhead would tear the great vessel in his neck, and he would drown in his own blood in moments.
Unless you changed the rules.
You had studied the accounts of the Valyrian blood mages for years. You had devoured every scrap of knowledge you could find about the old sorceries, the fire magic that had raised the Freehold to its terrible glory. And you had learned that blood was the key. Blood was always the key. Blood was life, and life was power, and power, properly channeled, could reshape the world.
The ritual Tyanna of Pentos had used, or something very like it, was described in fragments throughout the texts you had found. It was not healing in the traditional sense. It was something older, darker and more profound. It was the transference of life force, the binding of spirit to flesh, the rekindling of the inner fire that kept the soul tethered to the body. The subject would not simply recover. They would be remade, their body repaired not by natural processes but by the direct application of magical will. And the cost would be paid in blood. Not Jace's blood. Yours.
You knelt beside the bed and lit the black candle. The flame burned with a strange, bluish light, and the air in the room seemed to thicken, growing heavy and still. You picked up the silver knife and positioned the copper bowl on the floor before you.
"I don't know if you can hear me," you said quietly, looking at Jace's still face. "But if you can…hold on. Just a little longer. I'm going to bring you back."
Then you set the blade against the inside of your left forearm and cut.
The pain was immediate. Blood welled up from the wound, you held your arm over the copper bowl, letting it drip down into the metal basin. The candle flame flickered, then steadied, burning brighter than before. You closed your eyes and began to speak.
The words were High Valyrian. They were harsh, full of consonants that scraped against your throat and vowels that burned on your tongue. You had practiced them for hours, mouthing them silently in your chamber, but speaking them aloud was different. They had weight. They had presence. Each syllable seemed to hang in the air, resonating with something deep beneath the world.
We ask the Lord to shine his light, and the debt of blood to be paid.
With fire and blood, the debt shall be paid.
Your blood continued to flow, more than you had expected, more than seemed safe. The copper bowl was filling, the dark liquid swirling in the candlelight, and you felt a strange pulling sensation in your chest, as if something vital was being drawn out of you along with the blood. The candle flame rose higher, no longer blue but a deep, angry red, and the shadows in the room began to move.
You reached out with your bleeding arm and pressed your hand against the wound in Jace's neck, your fingers circling the broken arrow shaft. The moment your blood touched his skin, you felt it: a connection, a bridge, a channel opening between your life and his. You could feel his weak heartbeat, fluttering against your palm like a trapped bird. You could feel the poison spreading through his veins, the infection that was eating away at his flesh. And you could feel the arrowhead, a cold sliver of metal lodged against the pulsing wall of his artery, a hairsbreadth from the arms of the Stranger.
No, you thought, and poured yourself into him.
It was like falling. Like drowning. Like being unmade and remade in the space of a single heartbeat. Your vision went white, then red, then black, and you were somewhere else, somewhere vast and dark and full of fire. You could feel Jace there, a flickering ember in the darkness, barely holding on. And you could feel something else, something vast and hungry, watching you from the shadows. The magic. The old power. It wanted what you were offering. It wanted the blood, the life, the sacrifice. It wanted you.
Take it, you said, or thought, or screamed into the void. Take whatever you need. Just give him back to me.
The darkness surged forward, and you knew nothing more.
You woke in your own bed, with sunlight streaming through the windows and the sound of shouting echoing through the corridors.
For a long, disorienting moment, you had no idea where you were or how you had gotten there. Your body felt strange, heavy and hollow at the same time, as if someone had scooped out your insides and replaced them with lead. Your left arm throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and when you lifted it to look, you saw that someone had bandaged it. The white linen was spotted with red, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped.
The shouting grew louder. Footsteps pounded past your door. Someone was calling for the maester, and someone else was weeping, and beneath it all was a rising tide of voices, excited and frightened and disbelieving.
And then you remembered.
You sat up so fast the room spun around you. You grabbed the bedpost, steadying yourself, and swung your legs over the side of the bed. Your head pounded, your vision blurring, but you forced yourself to stand, to walk, to open the door and step out into the corridor.
A serving girl was running past, her eyes wide and her face flushed. You caught her arm.
"What's happening?" you demanded, and your voice came out rough and strange, barely recognizable as your own.
"My lady!" The girl's words tumbled over each other in her haste. "It's the prince! Prince Jacaerys! He's awake! He's awake, and the maester says his wounds are healing, and the Queen is with him now..."
You let go of her arm. She kept talking, but you were already moving, pushing past her, walking as fast as your unsteady legs would carry you toward Jace's chamber.
The corridor outside his room was crowded with people, servants and guards and minor lords, all craning their necks and whispering among themselves. They parted when they saw you, their eyes wide with surprise or curiosity or something else you didn't have the presence of mind to identify. You didn't care. You didn't care about any of it. You only cared about the door at the end of the corridor and what lay beyond it.
Daemon was leaning by the door. He saw you coming, and his expression flickered, relief and what might have been pride or might have been concern. He stepped forward to meet you.
"It worked," his voice was pitched low so only you could hear. "The maester examined him this morning. The swelling in his neck has gone down. The corruption is receding. They were able to remove the arrowhead safely an hour ago. He is weak, but he is alive, and he is awake."
You closed your eyes for a moment, swaying on your feet. The relief that flooded through you was so intense it was almost painful. "I need to see him."
"Rhaenyra is with him now. She has been there since they told her. She is…" Daemon paused, searching for the right word. "Overjoyed. She thinks it's a miracle."
"It is a miracle," you said.
Daemon's eyes met yours. "Yes," he agreed. "It is. But not the kind she thinks." He put his hand on your shoulder, steadying you. "You did well, daughter. Better than I dared to hope. But be careful with him, he hasn't quite come back to himself yet."
He opened the door, and you stepped inside.
The first thing you saw was Rhaenyra. The Queen was sitting on the edge of the bed, her silver-gold hair unbound and disheveled, her face wet with tears. She was holding Jace's hand in both of hers, and she was speaking to him in a low, urgent voice, her words tumbling out too fast to follow. She looked exhausted, wrung out, the way a person looks when they have been holding themselves together for so long that the relief of letting go is almost as painful as the fear.
And then you saw Jace.
He was sitting up against the pillows, his dark hair brushed back from his face, his eyes open and alert. The bandage on his neck was fresh and white, and his color was better than it had been in days, still pale, but no longer grey, no longer the ashen hue of a corpse waiting to happen. He was thinner than before, the bones of his face more prominent, but he was alive. He was alive.
He looked up when you entered, your eyes met, and you felt as though your heart would burst.
"Jace," you breathed.
His expression shifted. For a moment, he looked almost confused, as if he didn't quite recognize you. Then his face cleared, and he smiled, a small, tired smile, but a real one, and held out his free hand to you.
"There you are," he said. His voice was hoarse, rough from disuse, but it was his voice. "I was wondering when you would come."
You crossed the room without thinking, barely aware of Rhaenyra moving aside to make space for you. You took his hand, his fingers closed around yours, and he was warm. He was warm. You had been so afraid that he would be cold, that the ritual would have taken something essential from him, that he would be a shell wearing Jace's face. But his hand was warm, and his pulse beat steady in his wrist.
Except.
Except there was something different in his eyes. A gleam. A light that hadn't been there before. When he looked at you, you felt the weight of his attention, focused and intense. There was none of the softness you remembered, none of the gentle uncertainty that had always lurked beneath his princely composure. This was a Jacaerys who had looked into the darkness and come back with something of it still burning behind his eyes.
"Your Grace," you said to Rhaenyra, remembering your courtesies even as your heart hammered against your ribs. "I came as soon as I heard."
"He's going to be all right," Rhaenyra said, and her voice broke on the words. "The maester says he's going to be all right. I don't understand it. None of them understand it. But I don't care. My son is alive." She pressed a hand to her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks again. "I'm so relieved. I thought I'd lost you. I thought I'd lost both of you."
She meant Luke, you realized. Lucerys, who had died at Storm's End, whose death had started the cascade of violence that had led here. Rhaenyra had lost one son already. She could not bear to lose another.
Jace's expression softened. "I'm here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere. But if I could speak with my betrothed now. Alone, if you don't mind."
Rhaenyra hesitated, looking between the two of you. Then she nodded, pressing a kiss to Jace's forehead before rising from the bed. "I'll be just outside," she said. "I'll send for some broth. You need to eat. You need to regain your strength."
She left the room, and the door closed behind her with a soft click. You and Jace were alone.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. You were still holding his hand, and he was still looking at you with that strange, intense gaze, and you didn't know what to say. What did you say to someone you had pulled back from the edge of death? What did you say to someone who might owe their life to a ritual you barely understood and a power you had no right to wield?
"You did something," Jace said at last.
You opened your mouth to deny it, but the words wouldn't come. His eyes were too sharp, too knowing. He could see right through you.
"Yes," you said quietly. "I did."
"What did you do?"
You told him everything. You were too tired to lie and too frightened to hold it in, and because he deserved to know what had been done to him.
When you finished, he was silent for a long moment. Then he reached up with his free hand and touched the bandage on his neck, his fingers tracing the edge of it with a strange, detached curiosity.
"I died," he said. "Didn't I?"
"No," you denied quickly. "No, you were still alive. The maesters said..."
"The maesters said I was going to die. They said there was nothing they could do." His eyes met yours again. "I remember the water. The cold. I remember Vermax screaming. And then…nothing. Darkness. Just darkness, for a long time. And then something else. Something pulling me back. It felt like fire. Like dragonfire, but inside me. In my blood. In my bones." He paused. "Was that you?"
You swallowed hard. "I don't know. I don't know what I did. The texts said the ritual could transfer life force, could bind spirit to flesh, could rekindle the inner fire. But they didn't say how. They didn't say what the cost would be. I just…I couldn't let you die. I couldn't. Not when there was something I could try."
Jace looked at you for a long moment. Then he pulled you toward him, and before you knew what was happening, his arms were around you and your face was pressed against his shoulder and he was holding you so tightly you could barely breathe.
"You foolish, brave, tricky woman," he murmured into your hair. "You could have died. You could have killed yourself. For me."
"There was no choice," you said, your voice muffled against his chest. "There was never a choice. Don't you understand? Without you, there's no point. There's no point to any of it."
You felt him exhale a shaky breath. His hand came up to stroke your hair, gentle despite the new strength you could feel in his grip. "I understand," he said. "I understand better than you know."
You pulled back slightly, looking up at him. Your eyes were wet, you realized. You had been crying without noticing it. He reached up and wiped the tears from your cheeks with his thumb, his touch warm and achingly familiar.
"When I was pulled from the darkness," he whispered, "I dreamed. I dreamed of fire and blood and a throne made of swords. I dreamed of our enemies burning. I dreamed of Aemond Targaryen dying in the mud, with my hands around his throat. I dreamed of victory, absolute and total, with no mercy and no quarter and no hesitation. I dreamed of everything I was too weak to do before." His voice hardened, and that gleam in his eyes grew brighter, more dangerous. "I'm not weak anymore."
You stared at him. There was something new and terrible and fierce in his voice. The boy you had known was still there, but there was something else now, something that had been forged in the darkness and brought back with him into the light.
"The Greens took my brother," Jace said. "They took my dragon. They took my birthright. They tried to take my life. They tried to take you." His hands tightened on your arms. "They will fail. They will all fail. I am going to recover from this. I am going to get out of this bed, and I am going to be there when my mother takes King's Landing. And then I am going to find Aemond Targaryen, and I am going to make him pay for every drop of blood he has spilled."
"Jace," you said, and you didn't know if it was a warning or a plea or a prayer.
"When I woke up," he continued, as if you hadn't spoken, "I felt different. I feel…more. More alive, more aware. Better, altogether." He laughed without humour. "I feel like someone lit a fire inside me and it's never going to go out. Is that what you did to me? Is that what the magic made me?"
"I don't know," you whispered. "I didn't know what it would do. The texts said…"
"The texts said Maegor came back changed. Crueler. Stronger. Unstoppable." Jace's eyes met yours. "Maybe that's what I am now. Maybe that's what you made me."
"No. You're not Maegor. You're not cruel. You're not..."
"I'm not what I was before." He said it calmly, as if stating a simple fact. "I can feel it. The part of me that hesitated, that second-guessed, that worried about being good enough, worthy enough, it's gone. Burned away. All that's left is the fire." He cupped your face in his hands, his palms were warm against your cheeks. "But I'm still me. I'm still yours. That hasn't changed. That will never change."
He kissed you. It was not like the gentle, tentative kisses you had shared before. It was fierce, demanding, full of that new fire, and you found yourself responding to it despite your fear, despite your uncertainty. His lips were warm, his hands were strong, and he was alive. He was alive, and that was all that mattered.
When he pulled back, his eyes were still burning with that strange, fierce light. "You brought me back," he said. "You gave me a second chance. I'm not going to waste it. I'm going to win this war. I'm going to put my mother on the Iron Throne. I'm going to marry you, and we are going to build a dynasty that will last a thousand years." He smiled, and it was a crazed and beautiful thing. "I swear to you."
You looked at him. Your betrothed, your prince, the boy you had loved since before you understood what love was, and saw the man he had become. The fire in his eyes. The steel in his voice. The fury and the purpose and the unshakeable certainty. The old texts had warned that those brought back by blood magic were never quite the same. They came back changed. They came back wrong. But looking at him now, you couldn't bring yourself to believe it.
He wasn't wrong. He was more.
"Rest now," you said, pressing him back against the pillows. "Regain your strength. The war will still be there when you're healed."
He caught your wrist, his strong grip still surprised you. "Stay," he said. "Stay with me."
"I'm not going anywhere," you promised.
You stayed by his side as the days passed, watching as his strength returned with unnatural speed. The maesters marveled at his recovery, calling it a miracle, a blessing from the Seven, the indomitable will of the dragon blood. They didn't know. They couldn't know. Only you and Daemon knew the truth, and you kept it locked away in your hearts, a secret that bound you together in shared complicity.
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Rn I'm tagging those who commented that they'd like me to post this fic: @ilovefoolishknights @mellowpeacequeen @disturbedturtle @pinkypurplez @oh-miniso @brlghtflame
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Summary ~ There’s nothing worse for a deity than to be abandoned by their maker. You’re saved by the one who’s watched you for centuries, Morpheus, the King of Dreams.....But your rescue comes with a price.
Warnings: Smut, Dark Dream/Morpheus x Goddess Reader, Psychological Manipulation, Possessiveness, Obsession, NonCon/DubCon, Power Imbalance, Gaslighting, Captivity, Gothic Horror, Gothic Romance
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
You no longer sleep. Not truly.
Your body rests. Your eyes close.
But something behind your thoughts stirs, dream-wrought, patient, possessive. It leaves marks you don’t remember receiving. It whispers along your spine when you move. It hums through the pouch of sand at your hip, a lullaby and a curse braided into one.
You forget things now.
Words slip sideways.
You blink and time bends.
Your name feels foreign in your mouth.
And the mirror?
It no longer shows your face.
Just his.
You brush your hair one night but maybe it’s morning. You no longer know how to tell.
The door creaks open. You don’t remember unlocking it.
But someone enters anyway
She walks in like a misplaced daydream.
A girl. Or the memory of one. One eye shimmered emerald green with silver flecks, the other a vein-blue, soft and bruised like something too close to breaking. Her hair is tangled with goldfish and shadows. Her dress flickers between velvet and mist, thunderclouds stitched with butterflies and bones.
“Hi,” she chirps, chewing the silence like gum. “You’re cracking.”
You freeze, your hand wrapped around your brush tightened “Who are you?”
She twirls, clapping her palms softly. “Once I was Delight. But that was when I still believed I could stay that way.”
You blink. Her voice is both fragile and bottomless.
“And now?”
She stops spinning. Tilts her head.
“Now I’m Delirium.” Her smile falters. “People always think that means I’m mad. But really … it just means I remember too much.”
There’s something ancient beneath her voice. Something older than sense. You say nothing.
She crouches in front of you, her mismatched eyes sharp and shimmering.
“You reek of him,” she murmurs. “Like the softest part of the dark. Like binding promises whispered into dreams. You smell like Dream… and like you’ve been loved too hard by him. Or maybe devoured.”
Your hand tightens around the pouch at your hip. “He’s not here.”
“No,” she says gently. “But he left a lot behind.”
A pause.
Then she sighs, voice growing softer...softer than you thought Delirium could ever sound.
“You don’t belong to him. Not yet. But you will, if you don’t choose something else. And soon.”
You swallow. “There is nothing else to choose. There’s no one else left.”
“There is always someone else. Always another path,” she whispers, eyes flaring briefly with something like grief. “Even for me.”
You stare.
Delirium smiles again, faintly. More fragile than before.
“They don’t know why I changed, you know. Not even Destiny. There are paths even he can’t map. But I walked one anyway.”
She rises, twirling a thread of stars around her finger.
“You could walk one too.”
You’re trembling. Not with fear but with some unnamed hunger. Some desperate hope that smells like ruin.
“Where does it go?”
“To the Kindly Ones,” she says. “They hate most deities. But not you. Not yet.”
You shake your head. “Why would they help me?”
“They won’t,” Delirium says cheerfully. “But they might offer you a chance, to torment my brother”
“A chance ... but at what cost?”
She leans in, presses her cold lips to your forehead like a farewell kiss.
“A chance to stay yourself,” she breathes. “Before he claims the last piece.”
The lights flicker. The room tilts sideways.
You reach out to stop her, to beg her, to thank her -
But Delirium is gone. Only the brush remains in your hand, tangled in hair you don’t remember brushing.
You follow the scent of iron and lilies. Delirium never said how to find them. Only that you would know when the way began.
So you walk.
Through streets that fold in on themselves. Through dreams that might be yours, or might be his. Through a field of candles that melt in reverse.
The pouch of sand grows heavier at your hip, as if dreading where you’re going.
It knows.
𓆩༺𓆪
The Kindly Ones wait in a place outside of time, past reason, beneath mercy. You pass a broken well where birds whisper in reverse, a forest that screams when you look too long.
And then -
A cave. Blacker than shadow, quieter than death.
You step inside. The temperature drops. The ground feels wet. Something crunches beneath your feet.
You don’t look down.
At the center of the cavern, three women sit at a loom. One weaves. One cuts. One knots a strand of red, over and over, binding it tight.
They do not speak.
You clear your throat. “I’ve come for help.”
No answer.
“I was sent.”
Still, the Furies do not turn.
So you take the final step, kneel before them, and say the name:
“Delirium.”
The one who knots pauses. The weaver’s hands stutter.
Then, slowly, the eldest one speaks, her voice a rasp like dead leaves.
“You would ask us for mercy, little goddess?”
“I’m not asking for mercy,” you say. “I’m asking for a chance.”
The middle one, sharp-eyed, ageless, smiles like a knife.
“Then you are more foolish than you look.”
You stay silent.
“You seek to preserve yourself,” the youngest says. Her voice is curious, almost kind. “But we smell madness on you. We see the shape of him in your bones. You’re already marked.”
“I want to choose something else,” you whisper.
“Then choose,” the oldest says.
Your breath hitches. “What’s the price?”
Their voices braid together in a terrible chorus:
“If you fail, you die. No rebirth. No worship. No name.”
You flinch.
“Or,” the middle one says, voice softer now, “you may walk away. Return to the Dreaming. Let him keep what he has already taken.”
Your hand moves to the sand pouch, fingers curling tightly around it.
“Trial,” you say. “I’ll face it.”
And the world splits open.
𓆩༺𓆪
The first thing you see is him.
Not Morpheus. A mortal man.
He is laughing in the sunlight. He is singing your name like it’s a hymn, like a prayer whispered over folded hands. He is brushing your hair back, reverent, pressing a kiss to your temple like it might keep you whole.
You know this memory.
You’ve buried it. Or tried to.
He was the first. And last. The only one you ever truly tried to love. Not worship. Not consume. Not toy with for a couple fleeting moments before leaving them breathless and broken.
You wanted to be different. For him.
You changed for him. Or tried. Tried to live quietly. Tried to pretend the divine violence of your nature was something that could be set aside like a crown.
You walked among mortals like one of them, barefoot in the grass, letting time pass in slow sun-dappled hours. You didn’t tempt. You didn’t ruin. You didn’t pull hearts apart like petals, didn’t lace your voice with longing or shadow.
You made yourself smaller than you are. You were a wolf pretending to be the lamb. And for a time … he loved you for it. He called you good. Called you kind and you almost believed him.
You remember the first time he bled.
The first time your nature slipped, just a little. The way jealousy burned in your chest like a swallowed star. How your power curled up from your spine, purring. How you looked at the girl he smiled at and whispered her bones into dust.
He never knew, until he did. Until you let him too close, too far past the mask.
You see it now, all of it, from above: your divine form unraveling in his presence, bit by bit. The way your laughter began to echo, how your eyes shone like galaxies made of want and rot. The way your skin shimmered like the edge of desire.
But still, you hoped. Still, you tried to show him gently, your godhood, your hunger, the terrible beauty that made you you.
He loved your humanity. You wanted him to love the rest. But fate was cruel. As it always is. And so is love.
You see the moment, that moment. When he pulled away from you. When his eyes stopped seeing a woman and started seeing a weapon.
His voice, cracking:
“The one I loved… she was just a mask, wasn’t she?”
You tried to explain. That the mask was you, too. That you made it for him.
But he didn’t want the goddess.
He wanted the lie. But you… you couldn’t bear to be left behind. Not by him, a mere mortal.
So pride took hold of you. As it always does. You could’ve let him go. You could’ve unspooled the threads of his memory, gifted him peace, oblivion.
But you didn’t, you couldn't, it wasn't in your nature..
Instead, you tried to make him see. Make him stay. You wrapped yourself in stars and truth and longing and showed him the full scope of what you were.
He ran but you caught him. A mere mortal stood no chance against your divine power.
You kissed him as he wept. Held him as he died in your arms. Watched the light drain from his eyes and instead of feeling just sorrow and sadness, a guilty buried part of you felt a cruel relief spark in your chest.
Because now, you wouldn’t have to wonder. Wouldn’t have to be rejected again. Because now, he couldn’t leave you. Because he was yours. Because now he will always been yours. If not in life then in death.
Even if he never truly wanted to be. You fall to your knees, breath caught on some ancient scream still lodged in your ribs.
“I didn’t mean to kill him,” you whisper. The words taste old. Hollow. “I loved him.”
The Kindly Ones watch.
They see through it. They see the truth in your bones. Even now, you still refuse to take full accountability for your fault in his demise. The refusal to regret what you are. The pride that coiled around your heart like armor, even as he begged you to let him go.
You loved him like a goddess does, absolutely, violently, without mercy. That was always the problem. The memory flickers. Your lover’s corpse turns to face you. His lips twitch into a smile. His eyes shine with ruin.
His mouth moves.
“You destroy what you love.”
You scream. And you fail. The cave cracks. The loom unravels. The threads of fate fray beneath you, choking on your choices.
The ground beneath your knees splits like a mouth opening to swallow you whole.
You feel your name begin to burn away from the inside out, consumed by the truth you could never shed: You weren’t doomed by love. You were doomed by pride.
Then...he arrives.
A storm of fury. A silence that drowns all things. A crown of night behind cold eyes.
Dream.
Morpheus appears between you and the Furies, and they reel back.
“Enough,” he says.
His voice is not cruel. But it is final.
“You cannot save her,” the eldest Fury hisses. “She chose the trial.”
“I did not come to save her,” Dream says softly. “I came to claim what is mine.”
Your body goes still.
“No,” you whisper. “No, I’m still-”
“You are breaking,” he murmurs. “You have broken. And there is nowhere left for you but me.”
He lifts you into his arms.The pouch of sand bursts open, dissolving into him. Your mouth parts in a cry, but no words come.
He kisses your brow and the world disappears.
𓆩༺𓆪
You wake in moonlight.
But this is no moon you know. It hangs over a sea of glass, casting bloody shadows that bloom like rotten roses. The air tastes like longing. The stars blink like watchers.
You’re in the Dreaming.
Your body aches in strange ways—weightless and heavy all at once. You try to rise, but silk binds your wrists. Not harshly. Lovingly.
A voice, soft as breath, answers the question you have not yet asked.
“You were dying.”
You turn your head.
Dream stands at the edge of the bed. His hair spills over his shoulders like shadow given form. His robe has fallen open—bare chest pale, sculpted, still as a statue. But his eyes…
His eyes are wounds.
“You failed,” he says.
The words should wound.
They don’t.
“I saw,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “You tried to abandon your nature. You bled for it. You killed for it. You were magnificent.”
You look away. “I was cruel.”
He kneels beside you, hands resting on the silk that binds you.
“You were honest,” he whispers. “You are not love. You are what love becomes when it festers. You were never meant to be gentle.”
His mouth finds your neck. You shiver.
“I did not save you out of pity,” he says. “I saved you because I could not allow death to take what belongs to me.”
You tremble in his hands. “Then what am I now?”
His fingers slide into your hair. “Mine.”
The kiss is slow. Deep. Possessive. There is no rush. He takes his time, dragging his tongue along your lower lip like it’s a vow.
And you let him. You want him to. Because you are broken, yes. But you are no longer alone.
His robe slips from his body as he climbs above you. The Dreaming sighs around him, stars shifting, the sky curling inward. His weight presses into yours. His thigh between yours.
Your wrists remain bound. You don’t try to free them.
He strokes your face like he’s sculpting a masterpiece.
"You are not healed," he says. "But you are mine."
He sinks into you with a slow, deliberate thrust.
You gasp.
It's like sinking through velvet, like falling through stars. Like being rewritten cell by cell.
His rhythm is slow, cruel, designed to unmake you.
“You are forgetting your name,” he murmurs.
You cry out as his hips roll deeper.
“Good.”
You arch beneath him, eyes glassy. The world flickers. You see the threads of dreams and nightmares unraveling and reweaving around your body.
A throne in the distance. A crown hovering over your head.
He cups your jaw, makes you look at him.
“Say it,” he commands.
Your lips tremble. “Yours.”
He groans. “Again.”
“Yours.”
His hands grip your hips, driving himself harder into your soul. Each movement forces more of you open, to the Dreaming, to him, to what you’re becoming.
You are no longer the goddess Desire made. You are something else.
You are loved. Possessed. Claimed.
He comes with a sound like thunder swallowed in silk, spilling deep inside you.
You follow, back arching, bound wrists curling tight as starlight erupts behind your eyes.
And then.....silence.
The Dreaming holds its breath.
𓆩༺𓆪
You stand in the throne room now, cloaked in black lace and twilight. A crown of onyx and moonstone hovers above your brow like it’s afraid to touch you. The Dreaming hums beneath your bare feet.
Morpheus stands beside you.
You do not remember all the exact details of how you got here. But you remember the trial. The failure. The truth of your nature. Your smile tilts sideways now, like a secret half-spoken. You speak in riddles that loop like dreams-within-dreams. Your eyes shimmer with delirium, and your laugh makes even the stars pause.
Delirium perches on the jagged edge of a broken mirror. Her legs swing. Her eyes are mismatched, one soft as delight, the other sharp as madness.
“She suits you,” she says cheerfully, like it’s obvious. “Even if she can’t walk in straight lines anymore.”
Morpheus turns to her. His jaw clenches. His voice, when it comes, is quiet, but dark enough to crack bone.
"You led her to them.”
Delirium’s grin doesn’t falter, but her eyes shimmer with amusement. “You were watching. You let her fall.”
“She was nearly unmade.”
“She needed to be,” Delirium says. “You don’t build muses out of mercy.”
Morpheus steps forward, the air thickening around him like stormclouds. “She could have died.”
Delirium blinks, then tilts her head.
“But she didn’t,” she says, sing-song soft. “She came back through you. And she’s yours now, isn’t she? So what does it matter?”
Morpheus does not answer. He stares at her for a long moment, eyes like the end of time.
He says nothing. But he reaches for your hand, slow and sure and you let him lace his fingers through yours.
“Will you keep me here forever?” you ask, your voice bright yet hollow like a bell rung underwater.
“No,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I will set you loose inside every poet’s mind. Every painter’s fever dream. Every tragic love that knows it’s doomed.”
You blink, lashes casting shadows like daggers on your cheek. “Why?”
His lips curl, dark and reverent.
“Because you are no longer just a goddess. You are my muse.”
And somewhere, far away, in the waking world....
A poet stirs from sleep, weeping.
A lover dreams of the one who ruined him.
A mortal walks into the ocean for a voice he cannot name.
The Dreaming sings your name in secret, stitched between stars.
Summary ~ There’s nothing worse for a deity than to be abandoned by their maker. You’re saved by the one who’s watched you for centuries, Morpheus, the King of Dreams.....But your rescue comes with a price.
Warnings: Smut, Dark Dream/Morpheus x Goddess Reader, Psychological Manipulation, Possessiveness, Obsession, NonCon/DubCon, Power Imbalance, Gaslighting, Captivity, Gothic Horror, Gothic Romance
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 5
You told yourself it was only once.
Only a taste.
And nothing more.
You had always known he was watching. Back when he couldn’t touch you, it thrilled you, his gaze was heavy, cold and reverent. You were a goddess of desire then, untouchable. Worshiped.
You try to return to routine. Lovers. Seduction. Power. You press your body to soft mouths and hopeful hands. You close your eyes and imagine heat, desire, pleasure.
But all you feel is absence.
Every mortal lover leaves you colder.
You flinch when they say your name.
Worse still, you see him. Reflected in their pupils. In the shadowed corner of your chambers.
You begin to wake up sore. Not from love, but from being held. Possessed. Claimed.
You strip before the mirror more often now, searching for evidence.
At first, you explain them away.
The bruising on your ribs ... just from sleep.
The pressure around your throat ... your own doing.
The bite on your thigh ... a lover that was a little too eager.
Until one morning ... you wake with a gasp. Not from fear. But from pleasure. From the heat between your legs. The slickness. The ache.
You part your thighs ... and feel it.
Thick, warm. Coating your skin. Dripping down your inner thigh.
You stare at it. At yourself.
It isn't yours. And it isn't any of the lovers you've lain with.
And you know.
You know whose it is.
You do not scream.
You do not speak.
You only sit in the dark, trembling.
And still, you feel his breath on your neck.
𓆩༺𓆪
Desire finds you sprawled on your chaise, regal in your ruin.
You wear your power like perfume, cloying, golden, designed to distract.
But it’s hollow.
Your limbs are too loose, your pupils still blown wide. The pouch of sand rests heavy against your hip. You pretend you’re still whole. Still yourself. That your mind isn’t fraying at the edges where dreams bleed in.
The chamber tilts with Desire’s arrival, sweet as sin, sharp as citrus and blood.
They pause in the doorway, golden eyes glittering as they take you in. Your swollen mouth. The bruises not made by mortal hands. The lingering heat that no bath can wash away.
They hum, thoughtful. Maybe even disappointed.
“So,” they say softly. “You opened his pouch.”
You lift your chin. You don’t rise. You don’t need to.
“I didn’t mean to—”
Desire’s smile is knife-thin. “Don’t lie. Not to me.”
They step closer, lazy and feline. Circling. Stalking. “You dream of him. You wake with his seed still wet on your thighs. You cling to that sand like it’s salvation.”
You flinch but only a little.
“I’m not yours anymore,” you say, quiet but steady. “I chose something else.”
“Oh, love.” They chuckle, low and full of old ache. “You chose him. And you think that’s better?”
“No, I chose myself. I’m stronger now.” You sit taller, fingers curling protectively around the pouch. “The world bends again. Mortals pray when I pass. My power no longer depends on an Endless.”
Desire studies you. For a moment, they say nothing.
Then, voice low , a flash of something close to pity flashed across their golden eyes and they murmur:
“You always were my favourite ... cunning, beautiful, dangerous, power hungry. You're many things, but not dumb don't insult your maker by pretending so.
You freeze.
They reach out, brushing their fingers against your bare shoulder. Not to claim, but to mourn. "You think this power is yours? That your divinity returned of its own accord?"
"No, darling. He is remaking you. Every time he spills himself inside your dreams. Every time you whisper his name in your sleep. You’re being rewritten"
You don’t answer. You can’t.
“You opened the door, little goddess. And now every being who craves power will smell it on you. You shine like a wound in the dark. You radiate longing. And I no longer shield you.”
You go still.
Desire leans in, whispering:
“They will come for you. Not to worship. To take.”
You want to laugh. But your throat is raw. Your skin still aches from his teeth.
“I’m not afraid.”
“You should be.” Their voice turns soft, dangerous. “You’ve invited the sea to devour you. But you’ve forgotten the ocean has no stomach. It just takes.”
You want to scream that they’re wrong.
That you’re free.
That you’re not unraveling.
But the truth curls beneath your skin like smoke:
You’ve started seeing him.
Reflections that smirk when you don’t. Sand stuck under your painted red nails. The word mine whispered in the rustle of drapes, carved behind your eyelids.
You wake with his handprints on your skin. With his seed dripping down your thighs. And you no longer know if it’s dream, memory, or him.
You whisper, "Let them come."
But your hands shake.
Because Desire is right ... you had simply traded one leash for another.
𓆩༺𓆪
You wake one evening to laughter.
A curl of smoke drifts through your sanctuary. The scent of ash and honey. Loki lounges by the window, legs crossed, fingers tapping softly on the sill. His presence is familiar, an ally in friendlier times, once a lover you planned chaos and trouble with.
He smiles, a slow, knowing curve.
“You’re still holding on, aren’t you?”
“How did you get in?” you ask, voice hoarse but steady.
He gestures at the pouch of sand resting near you.
“You lit a beacon that even the minor deities could see. Soon every deity will be on your doorstep.”
You glance down at the pouch, its faint shimmer pulsing like a heartbeat in the dark.
Loki stands and approaches, fingers tracing the air just above your skin, measuring the trembling heat beneath.
“You opened it. Survived it. That’s more than most could.”
You lift your chin defiantly.
“I’m not mortal. I will not unravel.”
“No one is immune.” Loki’s voice softens. “Not even gods.”
He steps closer, eyes scanning you like he’s peeling back your soul.
“Just yesterday, you found yourself chasing shadows in your own garden, didn’t you?”
You blink, startled. The memory flashes unbidden, waking naked among blooming thorn roses, petals blackened, the thorns cutting into your arms as if it had a mind of its own.
“You spoke aloud to the statues, pleading with stone to remember your name.”
You stiffen.
“You’ve been forgetting things. Small things, at first, where you laid your chalice, the names of your lovers.”
Your breath falters.
Loki’s gaze is steady.
“And the marks.”
He flicks his fingers toward your exposed thigh.
“The ones that vanish when you look directly, but burn when you don’t.”
You look down, feeling the ghost of a touch, a heat lingering beneath your skin.
“This pouch,” he continues, voice dropping. “It’s more than a source of power. It’s a beacon. A call to every god with an appetite.”
He shakes his head, almost rueful.
“And no matter your schemes, they’ll find you.”
You swallow hard.
“I can fight them.”
Loki’s smile is thin, haunted.
“ The King of Dreams has always wanted you. No one can stop an Endless from claiming their soulmate.”
His eyes bore into yours.
“This is my warning. Your grip on yourself loosens with every breath. Without help, madness is inevitable.”
You search his face, desperate.
“Then help me. Please.”
He steps back, shaking his head.
“I owe Dream King a favour for my freedom. This is as far as I can go.”
He moves toward the window, pausing.
“Take this warning as my help.”
Loki vanishes in a curl of smoke, and the candle between you sputters. One final gasp of light ... then nothing.
The shadows swell. The air thickens. And you know, with terrible certainty, that the Dreaming has found you, and it won’t let go.
Summary ~ There’s nothing worse for a deity than to be abandoned by their maker. You’re saved by the one who’s watched you for centuries, Morpheus, the King of Dreams.....But your rescue comes with a price.
Warnings: Smut, Dark Dream/Morpheus x Goddess Reader, Psychological Manipulation, Possessiveness, Obsession, NonCon/DubCon, Power Imbalance, Gaslighting, Captivity, Gothic Horror, Gothic Romance
Part 1, Part 2, Part 4, Part 5
There is no pain quite like becoming unwanted by the one who made you.
Once, you had stepped into Desire’s throne room like a second sun, burning, bright, impossible to look away from. Your lips were wine-dark, your skin kissed by golden fire, your presence magnetic. You had been their finest creation. Their favorite.
Now, when you return… they barely glance your way.
Their eyes don’t linger. Their praise doesn’t come. There is no punishment, only a subtler cruelty: silence. Distance. As if they are already unmaking you in their mind.
You feel the withering. Your power, once effortless, stutters. Where once you radiated seduction, now you are a pale beauty fading at the edges. Lips turned pink, hair no longer gleaming, the heat of divine attention gone.
When you place the pouch of sand at their feet, Desire snorts, tosses it back with two fingers.
“It doesn’t open for me,” they say, disinterested. “Must be broken.”
Still… later in the privacy of your own chambers, when you open the pouch and it responds to your touch, warm, alive, you feel a chill curl around your spine.
You try to hide among mortals, lean into old habits. You charm one—a soft-eyed poet, full of yearning. But where it once took a glance, now it drains you. Your beauty sways him, but it’s a performance wrung from exhaustion.
When he grows obsessive, when his affection turns sharp, you use the last flicker of your charm to escape him.
You let your lips brush his jaw. Whispered sweet nothings into the shell of his ear. You let your fingers drift across his chest, slow and trembling. You laughed softly….too softly, tucking your head beneath his chin like a lover who had simply needed a moment to remember her place.
And when he relaxed, when he sighed like a man forgiven by God, you slipped free.
You walked away on trembling legs, heart hammering like a frightened bird against its cage.
What once had been effortless, natural…..now drained you.
The glamour flickered like a dying candle. You felt it leave you in pieces, through your breath, your pulse, the weight of each step. By the time you returned to your chambers, your limbs shook from exhaustion. Your hands could barely unlace your corset. Your body felt brittle.
And worst of all…
You couldn’t stop yourself.
You tried.
But sleep claimed you.
And for the first time in ages, you dreamed.
You, who had been born outside the edges of dreams.
You, who once danced through the realm of sleep like a shadow no god could grasp.
You, who had been untouchable.
Now, you were vulnerable.
Soft.
Open.
Unprotected.
And the Dreaming welcomed you like a lover who had been waiting far too long.
𓆩༺𓆪
The dream began with roses.
Dead, poisoned roses.
They bloomed from the marble floor of a cathedral built from bone and starlight, each black petal curling with frost, rimmed in blood. The altar dripped red like a wounded thing. Columns wept rusted wax. The vaulted ceiling groaned under the weight of skulls, cracked and silent, stitched together by strands of hair and blood to form a grotesque tapestry.
And you stood in the center of it all.
Barefoot. Pale.
Blood dripped from the ceiling like rain, cold and slick across your shoulders.
No longer the divine terror you once were.
Your beauty had withered into something tragic, lips faded to soft pink instead of red, skin leached of its golden warmth, hair dulled like wet ash. The glamour you once wore like armor now clung to you in tattered fragments. Every breath felt like a thread pulled too tight through your ribs.
Still, you lifted your chin.
You were Desire’s creation. A weapon forged in want. You would not flinch.
“I am not afraid of dreams,” you spat into the gloom.
The voice that answered was familiar, his voice, the voice of your soulmate. But no longer gentle. No longer reverent. It was laced now with betrayal. With anger.
“No. But you should be afraid of memory.”
Morpheus.
Your name echoed through the cathedral, whispered by unseen mouths. Then the whispers took shape, voices you recognized, lovers from centuries past, their words twisted in awe, broken by agony.
And then—
The first door opened.
From it stumbled Paris of Troy, no longer golden, no longer radiant. One half of his face was burned to bone, blackened and raw. His left eye sealed shut by melted skin. In his hand, he still clutched the shattered remnants of a laurel crown, blood-soaked, skeletal fingers curled tight.
“You told me I was worth the war,” he hissed. “So I gave you my world. And you vanished when the fire reached the gates.”
The second door creaked open.
Lord Byron stepped through, lips tinged blue with opium, fingers smeared in half-dried ink. One hand held a torn manuscript, slit down the center like a wound, the pages fluttering like dying wings. Blood dripped slowly from his ears, soaking the collar of his ruined cravat.
“You made agony divine,” he whispered. “And I drank it like wine. You kissed me once and left a thousand sonnets to rot.”
Next came Hamlet, barefoot and wide-eyed, a tattered doublet clinging with graveyard rot. Maggots squirmed in his matted curls. In his trembling hands, he carried a cracked mirror, and in it, your reflection smiled back.
But it was not your face.
It was older. Monstrous. Your eyes glowed with cruelty. Your smile was ruin incarnate.
Tristan followed, limping, the hilt of a broken sword lodged deep in his stomach. His once-white tunic clung like rotted flesh, crusted thick with coagulated blood and festering grime.
His hollow eyes gaped wide, empty pits of silent accusation, while darkened veins writhed beneath pallid, bruised skin.
You took an involuntary step back, trembling in fear, disgust, guilt, and still they came.
Dante, tongue cut out, scribbling his sorrow in blood across scraps of ruined parchment, his tears falling for a Beatrice he could no longer speak of.
Poe, eyes sunken, mouth dripping blood. A dead raven clung to his shoulder, whispering your name like a death knell.
Each man, a monument to your sins.
Each, a ruin that bore your mark.
A shrine of grief. A mirror of destruction.
You stepped back. Slowly. Trembling.
The cathedral walls crept inward. The incense turned to rot. Blood trickled faster down the columns like veins bleeding into the floor.
And then….his voice.
“You made them into tragedies.”
You turned.
And there he stood.
The King of Dreams.
Tall. Still. Terrible.
His cloak bled starlight and shadow. His eyes burned like dying stars, betrayal, desire, grief, fury, all woven into a gaze that pierced through centuries. The hem of his coat dragged sand behind him, and wherever it touched, the marble cracked and rotted away.
He lifted a hand.
The nightmare obeyed.
The lovers fell to their knees, marionettes now. Their mouths twisted into soundless screams.
“You call it love,” he said coldly. “But what you do, it devours.”
You clenched your fists.
“I never forced them—”
“No,” he said. “You enchanted them. You let them believe they were gods in your gaze. You gave them a taste of forever and left them to rot.”
A cold wind howled through the cathedral, unnatural and sharp as razors. The corpses wailed.
Their mouths opened too wide. Their teeth crumbled like chalk. Their eyes poured ink and ash. And still, they reached for you. Fingers missing. Skin peeling.
You turned, tried to flee.
But he was already there.
“Tell me,” he whispered, his voice like velvet pulled over knives, “do you even remember their names? Or only how they made you feel?”
You shook. You remembered them. Their warmth. Their songs. Their tears.
But you also remembered your purpose. Desire had made you to be worshipped, to be wanted. You had tried once to be more.
But gods do not escape their nature…..A wolf will feed. Even if it loves the lamb.
“Not like this,” you murmured. “Not when you throw it in my face like a funeral dirge.”
His hands gripped your shoulders.
Too tight.
You felt the rage coil beneath his touch. But worse, far worse was the longing.
“I should let their ghosts tear you apart,” he said, voice cracking like marble under weight.
His hands gripped your shoulders, drawing you close. Too close.
“But I am selfish too,” he murmured against your lips. “And I want you all to myself.”
You tilted your head, defiant still.
“Then punish me.”
His voice dropped to a velvet snarl.
“This is not punishment. This is prophecy.”
And then…the cathedral collapsed.
The skulls above shattered like glass. The stained windows screamed. The lovers’ bodies burst into ash, their wails folding into the stone. A storm of grief howled around you. The roses withered black.
And as the temple of your sins came crashing down—
You fell.
Into darkness.
Into him.
𓆩༺𓆪
You landed hard on the altar, gasping. The kiss tore through you like wine through an open wound. Hot. Violent. Claiming.
He pushed you back, onto a black marble altar rising from the floor like a tomb.
“You are cruel,” he whispered, trailing fingers down your thighs. “But even cruelty can be worshipped.”
His mouth moved to your throat, biting, sucking, leaving bruises in the shape of possession.
“I’ve dreamed of you.”
A thrust of his hips against yours.
“I’ve borne the silence of your absence, and now you’re finally here…mine.”
You writhed beneath him, too breathless to retort. He tore the silk from your hips, fingers sliding into your heat.
“Is this what you gave to them?” he snarled. “This sweetness? These cries?”
You tried to lift your chin in defiance. But then he thrust into you.
Hard.
Deep.
You gasped, head thrown back, pleasure and pain twisting tight in your gut.
“You wore their crowns,” he growled. “You drank their devotion like wine.”
Another thrust. Your fingers scrambled at the altar for purchase.
“But you never let them in. Not like this.”
His pace was punishing now, each snap of his hips an accusation.
“You think I haven’t seen them?” he snarled into your ear. “The way they begged? The way you smiled when they succumbed to their desire for you and fell into ruin?” His hand slipped to your throat, just the lightest pressure.
You were drenched.
Burning.
Ravaged.
“You wear your heartlessness like armor,” he murmured. “But I will make you feel.”
You sobbed….half-laughing, half-breaking.
Because you hated him. You needed him. You would never admit it. But his name was already slipping from your lips.
Morpheus….Morpheus….Morpheus.
He stilled inside you. And pulled out.
You gasped in protest, until he gripped your jaw, tilted your head back, and spilled his essence across your face.
Hot.
Claiming.
Sacred.
“If you would rather be Desire’s whore than be my queen,” he said darkly, “then I will treat you like one. But you’ll dream of me when they abandon you. And you’ll wake aching for the only one who never begged for your love….only your surrender.”
𓆩༺𓆪
You awoke on the floor of your sanctuary, trembling. Your skin glowed faintly, unnaturally. You could still feel him inside you, his voice echoing in your bones.
Then your eyes fell to the pouch. It lay just beyond your outstretched hand. Dream’s sand. Glinting faintly. Whispering louder than thought.
You stared.
In your chest, shame bloomed, hot and suffocating. Shame that you had let him have you. That you had wanted him. That you'd whispered his name like a vow in the hollow of your dream.
Rage followed. At him. At yourself.
You reached for the pouch. And in one trembling breath, one moment of weakness, you opened it. The power shimmered, seductive, endless, singing with the voice of galaxies.
You told yourself it would only be once.
Only a taste.
Just enough to remind yourself who you were.
But you remembered Rachel. The mortal woman who had breathed Dream’s sand and unraveled.You had watched her fall to pieces in a haze of fantasy, her skin turned to shadow, her mind to ash.
But you were no mortal.
You were a goddess.
You inhaled the dream sand.
And your body lit like a temple set aflame.
Color rushed back to your lips,red, rich, full.
Your skin shimmered, kissed gold by memory. Your laughter spilled out sharp, too bright, cracking the silence like glass. You were yourself again.
Or something like it.
The power surged through you like an old friend returned from war, loving, brutal, unstoppable.You laughed, softly.
Yes. There you were again.
But then—
The mirror across the room rippled.Just slightly. Like breath on glass. You turned. Nothing moved. And yet your reflection ..... didn’t blink when you did.
For a moment, your smile hung on your face like a mask, too fixed, too sharp. You looked at your own eyes and thought: That’s not how they used to look. You blinked.
And the reflection was fine.
The mirror was whole. Still, the back of your neck prickled.
Not with fear. Not yet.
Just a flicker of doubt.
Like waking from a dream you hadn’t realized you were dreaming.
Summary ~ Rafe Cameron has been a thorn in your side since freshman year...cocky, entitled, and impossible to ignore. You’ve always brushed off his flirting as nothing serious. But when your rivalry heats up, you start to see there’s more beneath that smirk … something darker, and far more dangerous than just a crush.
Warnings: dark rafe cameron, jealousy, possessiveness, obsessiveness , manipulation, power struggle, NON-CON, DUB-CON, drug use, alcohol use, roofie use, captivity, forced marriage
part 1, part 2
If there was one sorority tradition you despised, it was the Kappa Kappa Gamma Spring Charity Auction.
It was outdated, humiliating, and practically screamed "objectification, but make it fundraising." But it also raised thousands every year for the local women's shelter which helped thousands of vulnerable women, a cause close to your heart, so you gritted your teeth, showed up, wore your cutest cocktail dress, and let the frat boys bid.
Only, you didn't date frat boys.
Every year, you got around the auction by bribing Eli.
Eli, your best friend since orientation and closeted president of Phi Delta, the only frat that you can stand, always "won" your date. You'd pay him back in concert tickets or brunch, and no frat guys ended up with your number or, worse, expectations. Eli was safety.
But this year, as you paced backstage in heels sharper than your eyeliner, Eli greeted you looking panicked.
"I can’t do it this time," he whispered.
You froze. "What?"
"My dad’s getting suspicious," he muttered, eyes darting nervously. "Someone told him I’m always around the same girl. If I bid again, he’s going to start asking questions.
"Eli...are you serious?"
"I’m sorry," he said, wincing. "But someone’s going to bid on you anyway."
You narrowed your eyes. "Like who?"
He hesitated.
“Cameron. I heard him asking around. Something about ‘making a point.’”
Your stomach twisted. Of course it was Rafe Cameron.
He’d been circling since January, sitting next to you in class, popping up during office hours, finding ways to get under your skin with that smug grin and lazy confidence.
And last week, you and Liv were walking to class when you passed a few Sigma Chi guys loitering on the steps. They were laughing, loud and crude until they saw you.
The second you and Liv stepped within earshot, the laughter died. One of them muttered something about "Cameron already staking his claim," and another elbowed him, eyes flicking toward you.
You hadn’t thought much of it then. Just boys being boys. But now?
You weren’t so sure.
𓆩༺𓆪
The auction started, and the gymnasium filled with shouts and cheers. Girls strutted across the stage in glitter and glam, each met with eager bids. You tried to distract yourself, but your name was next.
When they called you up, you stepped onto the stage in your strappy heels and vintage pink slip dress, all practiced poise.
You didn't even get a breath in before someone shouted, "Three hundred!"
Topper.
"Five hundred!"
"Seven!"
You waited for Eli. Hoped for Eli. But he stayed seated, face flushed.
And then, a voice, low, confident, unmistakable. You didn’t even have to look to know who it belonged to:
"Eight thousand."
Gasps rippled through the room.
A beat of silence.
Your eyes found him instantly. Back of the room. LIght orange Ralph Lauren polo, collar popped just enough to be infuriating, sleeves snug around his biceps. Designer watch, white sneakers too clean to be casual. Forearms crossed. That cocky, slow smile like he’d been waiting all night to say it.
Rafe.
The poor freshman host fumbled. "Uh… going once, going twice—sold!"
The cheers were deafening.
You stepped off the stage and stalked straight to him. "You cannot be serious."
He grinned, all confident swagger and infuriating charm. “What? You’re worth it.”
You glared. "OK, fine, just one… but don’t get any funny ideas, Cameron."
"Actually," he said smoothly, leaning in, "I was thinking you'd be my girlfriend. Just for a week. Spring break. My family’s expecting someone."
You blinked. "You told them I’m your girlfriend?"
He shrugged. "Call it a little lie I plan to make temporarily true."
You crossed your arms. "You want me to play pretend for a week and ditch my actual plans? Not happening."
"I could ask for my eight grand back," he said innocently. "Or you could name your price."
You smiled sweetly. "The auction was only for one date."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "One date? Come on, you know I’m not here for just one night."
You started to step away, but his hand shot out, grabbing your arm. His gaze darkened....desperate, almost pleading, and his grip tightened just enough to stop you.
“Then tell me,” he murmured, low and intense, “what do you want?”
You met his eyes without hesitation. “I want the keys to the muscle truck.”
His face dropped.
"No."
"Then no fake girlfriend."
He hesitated.
You kept going. "That vintage muscle truck you won't even let Topper breathe near? I want it. For the whole break. I drive. I pick the music. Non-negotiable."
He looked like you'd asked for a kidney.
But after a long moment, he muttered, "Fine."
You smiled like you’d just scored the last Chanel bag on sale without even trying. "Pleasure doing business."
𓆩༺𓆪
Liv found out the next morning when she saw Rafe's prized truck parked on the lawn outside your sorority house.
The matte black muscle truck, gleaming, souped-up, and parked outside the Kappa house like a trophy.
She burst into your room, curlers still in her hair. "Tell me you didn't sell your soul."
You were lounging on your bed, texting Eli.
"Relax," you said, sipping. "I sold my time."
"You hate him."
You smiled. "I know."
"Is this revenge or insanity?"
You giggled. "Why not both?"
The other girls squealed as they peeked out the window at the truck. Liv rolled her eyes and gave a cheeky eyebrow wiggle.
"Looks like you’re in for some seriously hot angry sex," she teased.
The other girls burst into giggles.
You tossed her a grin. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Liv."
"He thinks he wins because he gave the highest bid," you said. "But I made him give up his baby. I'm calling it even."
Liv gasped, clutching her chest. “Bitch. You’re diabolical. I love it.”
“If I’m going to suffer, I’m doing it in a vintage muscle truck, babe.”
𓆩༺𓆪
The day before spring break, you expected a text.
Instead, you got a motorcycle.
Rafe rolled up in a worn leather jacket, gold cross glinting against his collarbone, helmet dangling from one hand like an afterthought. His hair was a little too perfect, his smirk a little too casual, like he knew every girl on the block was watching.
"Hop on," he said, voice low, an infurating cocky smirk already on his lips.
You stared. "Where's the truck?"
“I wanted to drive you first,” he said, voice low as he stepped closer, the scent of his cologne curling between you. “One last ride before I give up the keys.”
You crossed your arms, lips pursed in a glossy pout. “Not happening, Cameron. A deal's a deal.”
He sighed, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth like he was memorizing the curve of your lip. “Fine. Truck’s around the corner.”
You drove.
And he hated it.
Every sharp turn, every rev of the engine was yours. But his hand still rested casually on your thigh. Not pushing. Just there.
Until traffic slowed.
And his fingers inched higher, just enough to brush the hem of your dress, which, in hindsight, may have been too short for this kind of power play.
You tensed.
“Rafe,” you warned.
He didn’t miss a beat. He smirked, voice teasing. “Can’t wait for you to show me how good you are at riding… if you know what I mean.”
You shot him a glare and slapped his arm with your free hand.
“Hands on the wheel princess” he murmured in your ear. “What? You said you’d take me for a ride.”
You scoffed, but your voice came out a little breathless. “You’re such a creep.”
“You’re hot when you’re in control,” he said, tone lower now, eyes on your legs, lips curling into a smirk.
The tension crackled, hot and sharp and maddening.
You turned up Manchild by Sabrina Carpenter on the stereo, locking eyes with him. “I pick the music.”
Since i finished season two i had an idea swirling in my mind about Morpheus falling for a higher deity. Like Nyx goddess of the night, who scared even Zeus but was respectful and kind. I feel like it would be a slowburn where Morpheus for some reason enjoys her company and she loves the chase. So if you like the idea it's yours to do whatever with.
Ooh, I might just take you up on that story idea once I finish Fated. Since Nyx would technically be older than Dream, I’m thinking of writing it as a way to explore his backstory.....who he was before the main events unfold.
Summary ~ There’s nothing worse for a deity than to be abandoned by their maker. You’re saved by the one who’s watched you for centuries, Morpheus, the King of Dreams.....But your rescue comes with a price.
Warnings: Smut, Dark Dream/Morpheus x Goddess Reader, Manipulation, Possessiveness, Obsession, NonCon, DubCon, Captivity
part 1, part 3, part 4, part 5
There was only one being in the universe who could summon you in a moment’s notice. One you were bound to obey.
Your maker, the cruelest of the Endless:
Desire.
Their palace greeted you like a living trap, a velvet snare of red silk and seduction, mirrors and gold, glass and lies. The scent of want hung in the air like perfume. Your heels clicked across marble, echoing in time with your heartbeat, your reflection fracturing endlessly along every mirrored wall.
Your beauty.
Your power.
Your pride.
And your leash.
You stood at the foot of Desire’s throne, red stilettos biting into the cold stone, a crimson gown clinging to your body like sin. You looked divine. You always did. But when Desire raised their hand, lazy, elegant, fingers curling like smoke and your confidence, worn like armor, faltered for a breath.
Desire smiled, slow and sweet. The kind of smile cats give birds just before they pounce.
“Morpheus has the Key to Hell,” they said, as if discussing the weather. “Lucifer handed it to him. Now my dear sibling plays kingmaker. And wouldn’t it be... poetic, if we were the ones he chose to rule?”
Your spine went stiff at the sound of his name. You lifted your chin, brushing a teasing smile onto your lips like gloss.
“He would never give it to you.”
Desire’s golden eyes glimmered with amusement.
“Of course not. But he might give it to you.”
You exhaled, slow and quiet. Your hand rose on instinct, combing through the white-gold strands of their hair. Your creator leaned into the touch with feline ease, that same lazy grin curling on their mouth, Cheshire-sweet and just as full of teeth. This wasn’t a request. It was an order. A game. A punishment. An impossible task.
And worst of all: a confrontation you had long avoided.
“Send someone else,” you said at last, voice quieter now, measured but slipping. “Perhaps that new deity you made? Shouldn’t she prove her worth?”
Desire gave a soft laugh, velvet and cruel.
“Oh, my darling. You know I could. But none perform quite as beautifully as you.” They turned a glinting gaze on you, head tilting. “You were made to enchant. And torment. You’re my finest work.”
You tried once more, lowering your voice. A rare thing, pleading.
“You know what he is to me.”
Desire's smile sharpened. And in the beat that followed, you realized with a slow, sinking dread that you’d said the wrong thing.
They leaned in, the air between you suddenly colder,
"Don’t tell me,” they purred, “that you’re actually falling for him.” Their voice curled around the words like silk around a blade. “You’ve toppled emperors, brought conquerors to their knees. Don’t tell me he frightens you.”
“Of course not,” you soothe. “I’m loyal to my maker.”
That seemed to satisfy them; for now.
Desire tilted their head with bored delight. “Good.” They stood, dislodging your hand from their hair with effortless grace. Already, you felt their attention slipping, like warmth pulled from a sunbeam. You had reached the edge of their interest.
You knew what that meant.
Dismissal.
Danger.
The limits of their patience.
“I trust you’ll do well, darling,” they hummed, turning away. “And if you fail... well.” Their voice dipped low, velvet and dangerous. “Even the divine must be reminded where their power comes from.”
They turned back only once, just long enough to brush their fingers across your cheek, the touch featherlight, almost loving.
𓆩༺𓆪
The Dreaming shimmered as you stepped through it.
Night unfolded beneath your feet like silk. Trees rustled with sleeping breath. The stars curved just a little closer, as if the realm itself exhaled your name. You wore power like a veil—seductive, divine, dangerous.
You had no illusions about why you were here. The banquet was a spectacle, yes but your true mission was simple:
Make Morpheus bend.
And when he didn’t?
Take something worth the pain.
Because you could not return to Desire empty-handed.
You nodded politely to Lucienne, who greeted you with a wary but polite stare.
“Please offer Lord Morpheus, King of Dreams, my thanks for his gracious hospitality,” you said, your voice smooth as warm honey.
Lucienne’s expression flickered, curiosity tempered with caution. But you met it with a practiced smile, the kind that had undone kings and gods alike.
While the other guests mingled, drinking, laughing, scheming, you walked the edge of the garden, where dreams were birthed from mist and memory.
You didn’t expect him to greet you.
But he did.
He emerged from the shadow of a silver-leaved tree, tall, still, and dark as eternity. His presence bent the air. His gaze made the stars blink slower.
His voice, when it came, was quiet.
Too quiet.
“You came.”
Your lips curved. “You invited.”
His eyes flicked to your mouth.
“I didn’t think you would.”
You stepped forward, lashes lowering just slightly. “Why not, my king? Would you deny an emissary of Desire a seat at your banquet?”
His gaze traced you, sharp, smoldering. Heat and history laced his silence.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he said at last, his voice low, cool. “You’ve... surprised me. I did not expect Desire to send you.”
You tilted your head. The silk of your gown slid just enough to reveal the elegant curve of your shoulder.
“And yet,” you murmured, letting the words hang like perfume, “here I am.”
𓆩༺𓆪
The banquet was already in full swing when you arrived—deliberately late.
The grand hall fell into a hush.
Gods, monsters, angels, demons, all those who had come to stake their claim on the Key to Hell, turned at once. The sound of your heels echoed like a challenge on the marble floor, each step slow, deliberate. Every eye followed the sway of your hips, the shimmer of silk clinging to your divine form like temptation incarnate.
The air seemed to hold its breath.
From his throne of starlight and shadow, Morpheus lifted his glass, slow, deliberate, and inclined his head.
“Welcome,” he said, voice smooth as velvet, cool as night. His lips curved into the smallest smile.
A secret. A threat. A promise.
You returned it with practiced grace, all honey and elegance, dipping into a curtsy that managed to look both reverent and mocking.
And then you turned from him and vanished into the glittering crowd.
𓆩༺𓆪
You flirted with demons. Danced with gods. Laughed at the jokes of men who had conquered kingdoms and burned empires.
You fed Thor compliments like wine to a champion, generous, warm, intoxicating, until his chest puffed and his laughter cracked the air.
You spun with Lady Nuala and her brother Cluracan of the faerie court, your gown catching candlelight like flame dipped in wine.
You allowed Lord Susano to kiss your hand with trembling reverence, and winked at a demon prince in armor carved from bone, who looked ready to kneel.
And when you dragged your fingers down Prince Azazel’s molten jaw, whispering something wicked in his ear
Across the room, Morpheus’s grip tightened around his goblet.
You noticed, even though he tried to mask it behind a slow sip of wine and his usual expression of sculpted ice. But you felt it: the weight of his gaze on your skin like a promise yet to be claimed.
Possessive.
Inevitable.
Burning.
And you smiled.
𓆩༺𓆪
Later, Prince Loki slithered to your side, silver-tongued and sharp-eyed, wearing charm like a blade too finely polished to see until it bled you dry.
"Seems you've stolen the Dream King's attention," he purred as he offered his arm. “Should I be concerned?”
You took it, of course. Let him guide you to the floor, let him believe he had won some small prize.
“You should be,” you replied, coyly.
He laughed, pleased, and pressed further. “What brings Desire’s favorite into the Court of Dreams?”
You tilted your head, let your eyes trail slowly down the line of his jaw like you were thinking about kissing it.
“Can’t a girl enjoy a party?” you murmured. “A little wine… a little music… a little chaos?”
“But the stakes,” Loki said, voice low now, eyes glinting like a serpent’s. “The Key to Hell. You're no idle guest, darling. What do you really want?”
You gave a laugh, light as starlight. Airy. Untouched.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
He grinned, delighted by your evasion.
But even then, you felt it, again.
The weight of his gaze.
Watching. Burning. Unmoving.
Morpheus hadn’t taken his eyes off you since you walked in.
And you made sure he didn’t stop.
𓆩༺𓆪
That night, before the final speeches, before you would be called to plead Desire’s case, Dream left the Dreaming.
To confront the sibling he once had been closest to.
To confront Desire. He found them lounging in their winding red palace, sprawled across a chaise like they’d been waiting for him all along. The air was thick with perfume and cruelty. Honeyed malice clung to every surface like dew.
“Brother,” Desire purred, smiling like an unsheathed knife. “Come to congratulate me in advance?”
Morpheus stood still, cloaked in shadow, jaw carved in restraint.
“She does not belong to you.”
Desire’s grin only widened. “But she does. She is my creation. I created her out of the want for love, crafted her beauty to topple kingdoms."
“She...this is more than a game.”
Desire leaned forward, elbows resting on their knees, voice syrupy and sharp. “To you, perhaps. But to her? You’re just another conquest. Another ruin she will leave behind. She seduces, she breaks, and then she returns to me, full of secrets, dripping with power.”
Morpheus didn’t flinch. But the silence around him sharpened.
So Desire twisted the blade.
“She doesn’t love you, Morpheus. She loves what I give her. Pleasure. Purpose. Power. A leash made of silk still binds tighter than any crown you offer. You’d put her in a cage. I made her a goddess.”
And in an instant, he was on them.
Morpheus seized Desire by their hair, fingers knotting in their silver-blonde hair, yanking their head back. His voice was low and venomous, thunder wrapped in velvet.
“She is my soulmate,” he hissed. “The one made for me, as I was made for her. She completes me as I complete her. And I will not let you twist her into a weapon against me.”
His grip tightened, shadows swirling at the hem of his cloak.
“Mess with me or mine again, and I shall forget that you are family.”
Desire’s golden eyes lit up with mischief. “Oh, Dream,” they whispered, delighted. “Still clinging to your tragic little fantasies.”
Morpheus shoved them back with cold finality. His cloak flared like wings of smoke as he turned to leave.
“Let me know how she tastes,” Desire called mockingly after him. “Though I imagine you already have a craving.”
𓆩༺𓆪
The banquet had faded into soft murmurs and drunk gods. Candles guttered in their tall candelabras. Laughter echoed like the last notes of a dying dream.
You had excused yourself, heels clicking against obsidian floors. You moved through the Dreaming like a siren, restless, radiant, and searching for something you wouldn’t name.
He found you before you reached the throne room.
“I should have known Desire would send you,” Dream said. His voice was low and dark, like distant thunder dragging across the bones of the earth.
You turned slowly, unsurprised. You already knew what you’d find in his expression, tension wrapped tight beneath stillness, fury curling around the corners of his mouth.
But you didn’t expect the look in his eyes.
The King of Dreams, your soulmate, looking at you like you were the only truth in the universe. Like gravity had finally caught him after centuries of denial. And for one fragile moment, you forgot the script. Forgot the seduction, the mission, the leash.
“I didn’t ask to come,” you said quietly. “They insisted.”
He studied you, gaze drawn to your lips. “You could have refused.”
You laughed, soft and bitter. “Of course. I wouldn’t expect an Endless to understand what it means to say no to your maker.”
That hit something old and raw.
He looked away, only for a moment, but the pain flashed across his face like a shadow over starlight.
“Desire sent you to torment me,” he said at last.
You stepped closer, until only breath lived between you.
“And is it working?”
Morpheus didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
You could feel it, the heat coiling in the space between your bodies, the way his restraint quivered under the weight of want. The hunger that pulsed in him.
The hunger that echoed in you.
Because you burned too.
You always had.
But you would never say it aloud.
𓆩༺𓆪
Your hand tangled in his hair, fingers threading through soft strands as his mouth found the sensitive hollow of your throat, hot, demanding, a whisper of fire against your skin. A shiver raced down your spine before you realized you were falling, back meeting the cool, smooth satin of his black sheets.
The walls around you shimmered, alive with flickering visions, fractured reflections of yourself, captured in the dreams of lovers long past. Some faces blurred with longing, others with torment. You gasped, part fear, part something dark and thrilling. To be seen like this, so many versions of you laid bare, was terrifying and intoxicating.
Morpheus pulled back just enough to look down at you, eyes glinting with an obsession deeper than you’d dared imagine. “You look even more beautiful here, in the Dreaming,” he murmured, voice thick with longing and sorrow. His gaze softened as he added, “It’s a tragedy you never let yourself dream. I have craved to reach you in my domain, but you’ve always kept the door closed.”
His words landed heavy, stirring something rebellious within you. “Maybe I didn’t want you inside,” you said, your voice edged with defiance. “Some things are better left locked away.”
He smiled, a slow, knowing curve that promised change and challenge. “Not tonight.”
Your breath hitched. The tension between you tightened, electric and raw.
You shifted closer, lips barely brushing his ear, voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “If I let you touch me… will you give Desire the key?”
“No.”
His answer was immediate, like thunder rolling across the sky. Final.
Yet you stepped closer anyway, sinking to your knees , hands moving to the belt at his waist, fingers deftly unbuckling with deliberate slowness. The sharp click echoed through the quiet room, followed by the hitch of his breath, dark and hungry.
“I was sent to seduce you,” you confessed, voice low and steady, laced with a dangerous honesty.
“I know.”
Rising from the floor, you deliberately began unlacing your tight dress, each slow, deliberate movement drawing his full attention. The fabric slipped down your shoulders, pooling softly around your ankles, leaving you bare before him. His gaze followed every inch of exposed skin, dark and hungry, drinking you in like a feast he’d been starving for.
He looked ready to devour you whole.
With a measured grace, you shed the final barriers between you—the last pieces of silk that dared to shield your most intimate parts. Bathed in the soft moonlight, the glistening wetness of your arousal between your thighs caught his eye. A low, approving hum vibrated from deep in his throat, thick with anticipation.
“And I will fail,” you added, the truth delicate and raw, hanging fragile between you.
His fingers traced a trembling path along your cheek, so light and reverent it was as if he feared you might vanish like a fading dream.
“Then let us fail together,” he breathed, voice heavy with promise.
𓆩༺𓆪
The bed swallowed you both in shadow and silk.
His lips claimed yours with fierce tenderness, kissing like you were the last breath, the first heartbeat, the ache in every quiet moment. His hands worshipped every curve, gliding along your waist, tracing ribs, the tender swell of your hips, the delicate hollow behind your knees.
Your breath caught as he explored, fingers teasing, hands steady, each touch igniting a slow-burning fire beneath your skin.
His lips teased your skin like a slow fire, tracing your throat, biting gently, tasting every inch with deliberate worship. His hands never hurried, sliding down your sides, lingering over your ribs and hips, coaxing a moan from deep within you.
You expected to lead, to tease him like you had your other lovers. But here, he took control, mastering your body and will with subtle confidence, building your desire until it twisted tight in your belly.
He brushed your nipples with feather-light touches, then pulled away at the height of your ache, leaving you breathless and desperate.
“You crave release,” he murmured, “but I will give it to you when I choose.”
His voice was low, dark, possessive, each word a command that made your skin tingle.
He kissed you fiercely, teeth grazing your lips, tongue sliding inside with intoxicating hunger. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wide, and then he slipped inside you with slow, torturous precision.
Each thrust was a promise, slow and controlled, teasing your senses to the edge and pulling back. His body pressed to yours, hot and demanding, a contrast to his patient torment. He pauses his movement for a moment, straightening onto his knees, hands firmly holding your hips against his. Your lower half is lifted onto his lap, back arching from your position as you remain splayed out on the bed in front of him, legs wrapped around his hips.
He leans back slightly, his eyes roaming over your form. He takes in the way your stomach rises and falls with each breath, the way your ribs expand and contract. He notices the way your fingers twist into the silk sheets above your head, gripping tightly as if trying to anchor yourself in this moment.
Morpheus's gaze lingers on where his arousal mixes with yours, before he resumes his thrusts, mercilessly hitting the spot that makes you melt in his arms and cry out in pleasure, finding it again and again. Your breasts bounce with each rough thrust, skin covered in a thin layer of sweat.
His hair is messy, intense gaze fixed on you as he fucks into you repeatedly. His lips are parted slightly, low groans and moans escaping his throat every time he is fully buried inside you.
One of his hands slides between your legs to find your clit, rubbing in quick circles to add to the pleasure . “You belong to me,” he whispered, voice thick with need. “Not Desire.”
Your body clenched, trembling as he pushed you closer to the brink again and again, his rhythm relentless, merciless.
Finally, when you were gasping, nearly undone, he deepened his strokes.
You came apart, nails digging into his back, voice broken and raw.
Morpheus held you through it, still moving, his own release crashing through him with a low groan as he spilled deep inside you. You can feel him softening inside you before he rolls off of you, exhausted and blissfully spent. His release slowly leaking out of you, a reminder of your betrayal to your creater.
He lay beside you, utterly spent, chest rising and falling with deep, satisfied breaths. His limbs were heavy and warm, every inch softened by release.
You waited until his breaths relaxed, his body slipping into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Then, like a shadow melting into the night, you slipped free of his arms.
Your bare feet whispered against the cool floor as you moved silently through the room, drawn to the pouch nestled among the folds of his garments, glittering with the soft, ethereal shimmer of dream sand. You knew he always kept it close. More precious than gold. More dangerous than any truth you could carry.
With careful fingers, you tucked it deep inside the folds of your cloak.
And then you left.
No words.
No kiss.
Only the lingering scent of your skin on his sheets and the bitter bloom of guilt twisting slow and sharp in your chest.
Summary ~ There’s nothing worse for a deity than to be abandoned by their maker. You’re saved by the one who’s watched you for centuries, Morpheus, the King of Dreams.....But your rescue comes with a price.
Warnings: Smut, Dark Dream/Morpheus x Goddess Reader, Manipulation, Possessiveness, Obsession, NonCon, DubCon, Captivity
Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
The city stretched below like a sea of light, greedy, restless, unaware of the goddess perched high above it. You stood at the edge of the penthouse balcony, sheer silk clinging to your body like desire itself, the night air curling around you like a lover’s breath. Your heels clicked softly against marble, but you moved like smoke, intentional, graceful, impossible to hold.
Inside, a man waited.
He was no king. Not a king crowned by birthright or bloodline, but a titan of industry, a sovereign of whispered deals and ruthless ambition. Tonight, he kneels before you, no longer master but supplicant, undone by the your timeless beauty, the goddess of love and ruin.
Over the centuries, you were worshipped by many names—Aphrodite, Venus, Isis, Freya, Turan, Anahita. In temples and in bedrooms, in blood and in perfume, your name was always on their lips. He thought he had summoned you. That you had answered his need.
You had not.
You were the goddess of love, yes, but also of longing, of ruin, of pleasure sharp enough to leave scars. Desire’s first and most favored creation. Forged from want, made to intoxicate, to conquer, to destroy. You were not made for mortal kings.
But you liked to break them all the same.
Behind you, the city pulsed. Before you, the man opened his arms. You stepped forward with a smile like sin. His breath caught as you crossed the room, each motion a spell cast in skin and silk. You stopped before him and untied his silk tie with a single practiced tug.
“I dreamed of you,” he whispered.
Of course he had.
And in the Dreaming, Morpheus watched.
He saw through the mortal’s dreams, shadows shaped by you, echoes of your body, the glow of your throat, the curve of your hips. He was not supposed to linger in such spaces. But he did. Often. Always when it was you.
Because you burned.
And Morpheus was drawn to flame.
He watched as you eased the man down onto the velvet chaise, your thighs draped over his lap, the silk of your dress pooling around your waist. Your fingers teased his shirt open, buttons flicking away like afterthoughts. You bent down and whispered something low against his throat. He moaned, soft, wrecked, already close.
You moved with slow, deliberate cruelty. Not indulgence but domination.
He thought he was devouring you. But you were starving him, inch by inch.
In the shadows of the Dreaming, Morpheus’s robe slipped from his shoulders.
His hand moved to unbuckle the dark leather, belt at his waist. He had seen you take many lovers: heroes, kings, emperors, gods, they had all fallen for your beauty. But it was not jealousy that clawed at him. He had also taken lovers through the ages.
It was knowing.
You were not meant to belong to them.
Because you belonged to him.
The first time he'd seen you, you were tangled in the arms of Ares, blood staining the white silk of your dress, clinging to curves he would never forget. You laughed on the steps of a broken altar, mouth red with wine and war. And when you looked over your shoulder to find Morpheus standing at the edge of the battlefield, the world seemed to hold its breath.
And you had stilled.
Something passed between you then, something ancient, wordless, and inevitable.
Not lust. Not recognition.
Something older.
He hadn’t spoken to you. Not then. Not yet. But something inside him had shifted. A string drawn taut that never quite relaxed.
In that moment, Morpheus understood why mortals bled and gods went to war, for your beauty was not merely the sweetness of poetry or song, but the kind that leveled empires and left worshippers in ruin
You were Desire’s creation, yes. Their first and finest. But you had never belonged to them either.
You had always been his.
Morpheus groaned softly now, his breath unraveling as he stroked harder. You moved atop the mortal, slow and fluid, grinding your hips in just the right rhythm to make him gasp. He was already near the edge. Morpheus felt the tension building in his own body, the ache pooling low and tight as your form arched, the dim golden light accentuating your soft curves.
He imagined your skin beneath his palms, the way your mouth would taste, sweet and sharp, like blood and burnt honey. He imagined the way you’d look gasping beneath him, not in feigned surrender, but in defiance. In honest, shattering need.
His strokes matched your pace.
You leaned forward, your lips grazing the mortal’s jaw. You whispered his name. He broke beneath you, hips bucking, spilling inside you with a strangled moan.
And so did Morpheus.
A guttural sound ripped from his throat. His hand clenched tighter. His release came fast and hard, hot across his palm, centuries of restraint unraveling in a single, brutal second.
He bowed forward slightly, his breath shaking, head lowered. Still, his eyes never left you.
You rose slowly from the mortal’s lap, adjusting your dress. Your fingers moved like a caress. Your smile was unrepentant. Satisfied.
You didn’t need to look toward the shadows to know.
You were being watched.
You always were.
And you knew who it was.
You had known for centuries.
It was different, how Morpheus watched you. Not just hunger. Not the cold curiosity of strangers or the greedy gaze of worshippers. There was gravity in it. Pull. A knowing.
The first time your eyes had met across that ruined battlefield, something inside you had whispered what you refused to name.
Soulmate.
But gods did not have soulmates.
Desire had made you to serve only them. That was the lie, at least.
And yet here you were, centuries later, never able to shake the knowledge, like smoke in your lungs.
He never touched you. Never approached. But he watched. Through dreams. Through time. Through realms.
Morpheus steadied his breath, the raw edges of release still humming through him.
Even your absence burned.
He could feel the shape of you in the mortal’s dream, the echo of your laughter behind closed doors. You were not his. Not yet. You still wore Desire’s leash, however invisible. But he had waited longer for lesser things.
You had denied it.
But you knew.
And he knew.
It wasn’t want that bound you. Not lust. Not power.
It was something older.
Something inevitable.
He would not chase you. Not now. But he would wait. And he would watch.
Because even the goddess of love cannot flee fate forever.
Summary ~ Beneath the ashes of The Last Drop, lies the haunting echoes of a forbidden love, between a ruthless revolutionary and the siren he could never let go. Some say her voice still lingers in the ruins, calling him back like a siren’s last, fatal note.
Warnings: Gothic Romance, Smut, Dark Silco x Reader, Toxic Love, Captivity, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, NON CON, DUB CON, Manipulation, Mind Games
part 1
The brothel nestled in a forgotten crook of Zaun, built from old brass and whispers, veiled in shadows that flickered with lanternlight. It was a place the surface ignored and the undercity endured, somewhere between reverence and ruin.
But when you sang, even the ghosts seemed to hush.
Your voice spilled across the velvet air, rich and aching, soft as smoke. You stood on a stage no larger than a coffin lid, framed in stained glass light and the gleam of candlewax. The guitar nestled in your hands had long since lost its polish, but in your touch, it wept like a cathedral bell. And the song, it wasn't meant to seduce. It was a lament, a ballad, a dream, a confession. One that dared to be tender in a place that had forgotten how.
You knew who you sang for. The lonely, the broken, the damned.
What you didn't expect was the man in the back.
He stood near the wall, far from the crowd, untouched by the glow of drink or flirtation. His coat hung heavy over one shoulder, his posture rigid with restraint. He was young, maybe your age but already worn around the edges. Not yet the kingpin the undercity would come to fear. Not yet a man who'd bled the shimmer into his veins.
Silco.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.
Just watched.
When the last note died, you let the silence stretch a beat too long then slipped down from the stage, weaving through the usual murmurs and outstretched hands, straight toward him.
“You’re new,” you said with a soft lilt, eyes catching the storm in his.
“I wasn’t looking for company,” he replied.
You smiled. “You stayed.”
He hesitated. “I heard your voice.”
Your brow lifted, intrigued. “And?”
“And I had to understand why a voice like that would be wasted in a place like this.”
That made you laugh, quiet, genuine. “Wasted? Is that what you think this is?”
“I think you could sing in places where people listen for the art. Not the distraction.”
Your smile faded into something more intimate. “They listen here. Sometimes more honestly than anywhere else.”
Silco looked away, then back more vulnerable than he meant to be. “You could have more.”
“I have what I want,” you said simply.
He didn’t respond. Just looked at you like he didn’t know whether he pitied you or envied your certainty.
You stepped closer. Close enough that your perfume curled around him. “What’s your name?”
“Silco.”
“A strong name,” you said softly, brushing a lock of hair from his face. “For a quiet man.”
He didn’t move when you touched him. Didn’t breathe, for a moment. Just let your fingers linger at the edge of his jaw, as though committing you to memory.
You leaned in, your lips brushing his. The kiss was featherlight, a test. He returned it, unsure at first. You felt it in the way his hands twitched, hovering like he was afraid of breaking something sacred.
“Come with me,” you whispered.
He didn’t speak.
But he followed.
The room behind the stage was dim and warm, bathed in flickering lamplight that cast shadows like silk ribbons across the floor. Veils hung from the ceiling like ghosts, swaying gently with each motion of the air. The scent of candlewax and perfume lingered in the heavy velvet drapes. A single bed, low and narrow, lay nestled in a corner intimate, inviting.
Silco hesitated just inside the doorway, his shoulders rigid beneath his coat. He looked like he was trying not to breathe, as if taking in too much of this place of you might undo him entirely.
You turned to face him slowly, robe slipping from one shoulder. “You can sit,” you murmured, voice low and coaxing.
He obeyed like a man in a trance, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed, his hands clenched between his knees. You stepped closer and slid your fingers over his coat, peeling it back gently. He didn’t stop you.
When the fabric slipped from his shoulders, you saw the way he shivered not from cold, but from something deeper. His shirt was thin, clinging to the hard lines of his chest and stomach. He was lean, all tension and hunger and heat.
You leaned in, fingers brushing his collarbone, then slipping one button at a time from its loop. “Is this your first time with someone like me?”
Silco swallowed. “Not my first... but it feels like it is.”
You smiled, brushing your lips along his jaw. “Then we’ll go slow.”
You pushed the shirt from his shoulders and kissed his throat. His breath caught sharp and involuntary when your mouth found the hollow beneath his jaw, the tender skin behind his ear. You could feel his pulse hammering beneath it.
When your robe slipped open, his eyes went wide.
He didn’t reach for you, not yet. Just stared, reverent, overwhelmed as if he thought touching you might wake him from something sacred.
You took his hands and guided them to your waist.
“You can touch me,” you whispered. “Anywhere.”
His fingers trembled as they skimmed your skin, the curve of your waist, the soft curve of your hips. When they brushed over your breasts, his breath left him in a quiet, aching sound. He leaned forward, kissing the spot just beneath your collarbone, then lower. You threaded your fingers through his hair and sighed as he explored you, slow and worshipful.
You climbed into his lap, your thighs straddling his. His hands gripped you instinctively, one on your waist, the other splayed across the small of your back. You rocked against him a soft grind, teasing friction and he gasped, his head falling forward against your chest.
“Fuck,” he whispered, barely audible.
You guided him to lie back. He followed, wide-eyed and silent, watching you with parted lips as you reached down to free him from his trousers. His cock was hard, already slick at the tip, twitching in your hand when you wrapped your fingers around him.
You stroked him slowly, lazily, watching the way his hips jerked beneath your touch. “You’re so sensitive,” you murmured, voice full of quiet delight.
“I—” he choked on the word, but you hushed him with a kiss.
When you sank down onto him, he cried out a broken, low sound. His hands flew to your hips, holding you like he thought he might disappear.
You began to move a slow, fluid rhythm, grinding down with each thrust, letting him feel every inch of you wrapped around him. His eyes fluttered shut, mouth parted in stunned pleasure.
“You feel so good inside me,” you whispered, bending to kiss his throat. “Do you like watching me ride you?”
He whimpered. Nodded. “Yes,” he gasped. “You’re… fuck, you’re perfect—”
You clenched around him deliberately, making him gasp again. His hips bucked helplessly.
He was trying so hard to stay quiet, to stay composed, but he couldn’t. You pushed him to the edge slowly, relentlessly, kissing him, grinding harder when he moaned your name, wrapping your arms around his shoulders so he couldn’t escape the heat of your body.
When he came, it was with a desperate, broken cry, arms tightening around you, face buried in your neck. His cock pulsed inside you, his release reaching deep inside you. He trembled beneath you, hips stuttering, breath ragged and wet against your skin.
You kissed his temple, still rocking gently, letting him feel the aftershocks.
Silco collapsed back into the bed, breathless, dazed. You curled beside him, his seed warm between your thighs, his body still twitching with afterglow.
And when sleep claimed you, breath even and sweet against his chest, he remained wide awake.
Silco did not sleep.
He lay there in silence, staring at the flickering lamp.
Your head rested on his chest, your arm slung across his stomach. Your hair smelled like lavender and smoke. Your breath was warm.
His fingers traced absent patterns into your back. He wanted to stay here forever, in this hour, in this bed, in this feeling.
But he knew better.
And still, in the hush of the room, when he was certain you were asleep, he bent close to your ear and whispered the truth.
“They don’t deserve you.”
His voice was gravel-quiet, barely spoken aloud.
“No one else should see you like this. Hear you like this. Touch you like this.”
You stirred, just slightly, but didn’t wake.
He swallowed.
“I want to keep you,” he breathed. “I shouldn’t. But I will.”
His grip tightened, just a little.
And then he kissed your hair.
Perhaps if you had been awake, you would have ran. While you still had the chance.
But you slept on, tangled in warmth and lust, and something almost like love. And Silco, still whole, still trembling, stayed in the dark beside you, the storm already stirring behind his eyes.
Warnings: Dark Dream/Morpheus x Fem Reader, Smut, Obsession, DubCon,NonCon captivity, manipulation, Possessive Dream, Oral (Male Receiving)
Summary ~ He lost a queen to fire and time. He won’t make the same mistake again.
He first saw you as a flicker, a faint, fragile light, caught in the corner of a stranger’s dying mind.
Morpheus had not meant to look. He drifted through the fractured dream of a man on the precipice of death, pulled only by the heavy gravity of grief. The man fell endlessly, tumbling down an infinite stairwell of regret and breathless pain. His death was certain. It would be meaningless.
But then there was you.
A warm hand, a gentle voice, a smile that shone like a beacon in the dark alley. You knelt beside the bleeding man, holding his hand with such fierce tenderness, whispering that help was coming, that he mattered.
That light, the stubborn glow of hope and compassion, refused to fade.
Morpheus watched.
Not with the cold eyes of a predator, but as a witness. Through the eyes of the lost, the broken, the fragile souls perched on the edge of despair.
In the days that followed, he found himself drawn to your mind, a presence at the edges of your dreams. He was a shadow you could not see, a guardian angel hovering just beyond your awareness.
𓆩༺𓆪
You dreamed of the ocean, of the open sea. It was your mind’s refuge, a place of salty air and endless horizons, where waves whispered secrets you couldn’t quite grasp.
One night, barefoot on the wet sand, water brushing your ankles, you sensed a presence behind you.
You turned.
A tall figure stood there, robed in black, long coat trailing behind him like smoke caught in a slow dance with the wind. His eyes were deep pools of shadow and stars. His face was a silhouette, shifting between something human and something otherworldly.
“Who are you?” you asked, voice barely more than a breath.
He was silent for a long moment.
“Are you an angel?” you ventured, searching for something familiar in the darkness.
“No,” he said finally. “I am the one who came before angels.”
And then, he was gone.
𓆩༺𓆪
You thought of him as a guardian, a protector who watched over you in the night. You never heard him give a name. You only felt the weight of his presence, a silent promise that you were not alone.
You began to look forward to the nights when he appeared. His visits were your secret comfort, a balm to the loneliness creeping through your waking hours.
Sometimes, you whispered to yourself in the dark, I wish you were real.
Unbeknownst to you, he was listening.
You saw him again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, he came closer.
Still, he never touched you. Until one night—
𓆩༺𓆪
It happened in a place unlike any you had ever seen, a throne room forged from shadow and marble, stretching infinitely beneath a sky of stars and ink. The air was thick with memories, soft and strange.
You stood naked at the center, the cool air drifting through the gothic windows sending goosebumps racing across your skin.
“I should not be here,” you whispered, voice trembling.
“But you are,” he answered, stepping from the shadows. His long coat billowed behind him like smoke, his form more silhouette than man.
His fingers brushed your shoulder first, cold as winter’s breath, delicate enough to shatter your skin.
“Why me?” you asked, breath caught.
He pressed his lips to the pulse at your throat.
“Because you shine.”
Then, he kissed you.
The room shattered, dissolving into grains of sand.
Beneath him, your body melted in to his, hungry, restless, and completely undone.
His mouth trailed a path of flames along your neck, tongue flicking over your collarbone like a signature etched in smoke and desire. He whispered words older than time, ancient prayers that hummed against your skin.
“You don’t know what you do to me.”
His hand slid between your legs, deliberate and reverent.
His fingers danced along your folds, coaxing tremors and wetness until your thighs quivered beneath him.
You moaned softly. “Please.”
He smiled against your throat, his voice dropping to a whisper thick with command and promise.
“Say my true name. Say it, and I will be yours.”
You hesitated, caught in the dream and caught in him.
“Say it,” he whispered again, voice dark and irresistible. “Say it and I will never leave you.”
“Morpheus—” The name slipped from your lips like a spell.
He growled low in your throat, kissing you with a centuries-old hunger unleashed at last.
When he entered you, it was not gentle.
It was eternal.
Every movement carved into your soul, each stroke deep and measured as though claiming your essence itself.
“You are mine,” he whispered between thrusts, voice dark and possessive.
You cried out, nails raking his back, legs tightening around him.
“I dreamed of this,” he confessed. “Of you. Of having you like this. Forever.”
You shattered beneath him, moaning, begging, lost in the relentless tide of pleasure.
His release came with a groan, part grief, part rage, part relief.
You woke soaked in sweat, tangled in sheets that could not hold you from him.
It was a dream.
It had to be.
But you had said his true name.
And with that, the veil was lifted.
𓆩༺𓆪
You were brushing your teeth when the mirror fogged, swirling into darkness.
When the mist cleared, he stood behind you.
Real.
Solid.
Unyielding.
You froze.
“Morpheus?” you whispered, voice trembling.
“You said my name,” he told you. “In the dream world. You called for me.”
You tried to step back, disbelief burning in your eyes.
“This isn’t real.”
But he was before you in an instant.
His hand cupped your face, cold as frost but tender as a vow.
“I am real,” he said. “And you are mine.”
Your heart thundered.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“You dreamed of me,” he said, voice velvet wrapped in thunder. “You opened the door.”
Your breath caught.
“Do you know what happens when humans dream too much of gods?”
Your eyes widened in terror.
“They become myths.”
The world dissolved.
𓆩༺𓆪
He brought you here.
To the Dreaming.
A realm of shifting marble, endless skies of ink and stars, corridors that breathed like living things.
He crowned you with shadows woven like silk.
Dressed you in moonlight and silver thread.
Made you his queen.
“Goddess of Dreams,” he called you.
“Beloved of the Endless.”
You had no throne of your own.
You always stood beside him.
You wandered rivers that sang lullabies, palaces within palaces, bathed in light that was not light.
You were worshiped by creatures born from dreams.
Obeyed by nightmares.
But you were not free.
Each night, he took you again.
Tender. Savage.
On the throne.
On balconies.
In libraries thick with dust and ancient tomes.
He recited verses between your thighs.
You came undone to his voice.
You came to love and fear his touch.
He owned you in ways you could not name.
One night, your voice broke, desparate, pleading for a life that you once had.
“Please let me go back?” you begged, your voice trembling with tentative hope.
He held you close, one hand wrapped around your hip, the other brushing your hair away from your face.
“I lost a queen once,” he whispered, voice heavy with regret. “To fire. To time. To my own pride.”
“She left me.”
“But that no longer matters.”
“Not when I have you.”
He leaned closer.
His breath was warm against your neck.
“Because I dreamed you into being. The way you are. The one I need.”
Your blood ran cold.
“What happened to my body?” you asked, voice trembling. “In the Waking...am I still there?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, his mouth found your breast, warm lips closing around your nipple, tongue teasing in slow, deliberate circles. You gasped, your question faltering as pleasure bloomed through your body, hot and dizzying.
His hand slid to your lower back, holding you against him as his mouth worked you deeper into silence.
“You are here now,” he murmured against your skin, voice like velvet and smoke. “With me. That’s all that matters.”
You tried to remember what you were asking. Tried to hold on to fear, to reason—
But his tongue flicked again, harder, and everything else vanished.
“You are mine,” he whispered.
Then his hand pressed over your chest, right above your heart.
“And now,” he said, dark and certain, “you dream of me.”
𓆩༺𓆪
You thought you could be clever.
You thought Desire would help.
They came to you in your dreams, smiling like sin, lounging in the silk of your borrowed bed.
“You’ve tasted one Endless,” they purred, fingers trailing your cheek. “Don’t you want to know how the other feels?”
You didn’t say yes.
But you didn’t say no.
And Desire heard everything you didn’t say.
They offered you escape. Whispered a price. Whispered pleasure. Whispered freedom.
So you followed.
You ran with your shadow pressed against theirs, heart beating like you still owned it. You weren’t dreaming of Dream anymore , you were dreaming of choice.
But Morpheus is the Lord of Dreams.
You were foolish to think he wouldn’t find you there.
Your knees hit the floor with a crack that echoed through the throne room.
You had tried to run.
To Desire.
To freedom.
And now you were dragged back, bruised, breathless, humiliated, before the only Endless who had ever truly possessed you.
Morpheus stood above you, his silhouette carved in rage and shadow, his eyes storm-dark and bottomless.
“You swore yourself to me,” he said, voice low and shaking. “I named you queen. I gave you everything. And you threw it in my face.”
You couldn't speak.
Your throat was still raw from screaming.
From begging.
He stepped forward, unfastening the buckle of his coat with slow, deliberate hands. When it fell open, you saw the rigid outline of his cock, thick, flushed, already aching.
“You told Desire,” he murmured, crouching slightly so you had no choice but to meet his eyes, “that you would sleep with them.”
You shook your head, trembling. “I never—”
“You didn’t say the words,” he hissed. “But you wanted to. You would have. You thought he would help you leave me, that I wouldn’t be able to find you, that I wouldn't know of your betrayal.”
He cupped your cheek roughly with one hand, forcing your face up. The leather of his gloves scraped your skin.
“I know everything.”
He undid the fastening of his trousers.
You swallowed hard, your body buzzing with dread and heat. His cock sprang free, long and thick, already leaking. He wrapped his hand around it once, twice, guiding the tip to your lips.
“I just wanted to be free
" I'm sorry”, you cried out, desperation in your voice.
His eyes were fire now. Cold fire. “Then kneel like you mean it.”
“I should throw you to the nightmares,” he growled, cock already hard, flushed, throbbing with anger. “Let them watch what happens to those who betray the King.”
You tried to scramble back, but the nightmares held you still.
He grabbed your hair, dragging you forward until your lips hovered over him.
“You wanted Desire’s mouth?” he hissed. “You wanted their praise?”
He forced your mouth open with two fingers. “You’ll take mine.”
Then he shoved himself into your mouth, rough, punishing, devastating.
You choked instantly. Tears blurred your vision. But he didn’t slow.
“Let them watch,” he growled. “Let the Dreaming see what you are.”
He fucked your mouth like he owned it, like he was branding you from the inside out. Every stroke hit the back of your throat. Your jaw ached. Your eyes watered. Drool spilled from your lips, down your chin, and onto your chest.
Your nails clawed at his thighs, but he only growled.
“Take it,” he snapped. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Desire’s mouth on yours, Desire’s name on your tongue—”
He pulled all the way out, and you coughed, gasping.
“—But now you choke on mine.”
He slapped the head of his cock against your spit-slick lips, smearing you with his arousal.
“Look at you,” he muttered. “On your knees. Crying. Wet.”
And you were wet. Pathetically, humiliatingly soaked between your thighs, your body reacting despite everything. You tried to close your legs, to hide it, but he noticed.
“Oh,” he said darkly. “You like this.”
His hand slid between your thighs without warning. Two fingers pressed against your panties, drenched. You whimpered.
He smirked. “Desire wouldn’t make you this wet. No one would.”
Then he shoved back into your mouth again, rougher now. Faster. Like he needed to fuck the betrayal out of you.
Your throat clenched around him. You gagged. He moaned.
“Good girl,” he murmured, hips snapping forward, hand tightening in your hair. “You take me so well. You always do. That’s why you’re mine.”
Your tears ran hot, but your thighs pressed together in shameful pleasure.
You were choking on him, your own hand now between your legs, grinding against your palm, desperate and ruined.
“I should never let you wake,” he growled. “I should keep you like this forever. On your knees. Full of me.”
He twitched in your mouth, cock thickening.
“Swallow every drop.”
You moaned as his release hit your tongue, hot, bitter, endless.
He stayed buried in your throat as he came, groaning like it hurt, like it healed. You swallowed around him, tears streaming from your eyes, body trembling as his hips finally slowed.
When he pulled out, a long string of spit and cum trailed from your lips.
He dragged his cock across your cheek, then tapped your mouth again.
“Clean me.”
You licked him clean, obeying, because he’d taught you to.
Because the Dreaming had broken you into obedience.
Because deep down you still wanted him.
Even now. You were bound to him.
Morpheus looked down at you, cock still hard, face unreadable.
“You will not speak to my sibling again.”
You nodded, shivering.
He smoothed your hair back, his touch unexpectedly gentle. “Good girl.”
He reached out a hand. You slowly took it, shaking, uncertain.
He led you out of the throne room, away from the eyes of the Dreaming, toward his personal chambers.
this photo made me ugly cry today 😭 you got to be a special kind of evil to shoot a golden retriever
This is Gilbert. He was the family dog of the late Minnesota state Rep. Melissa Hortman and her husband Mark. We've learned today that Gilbe
"If you would like to honor the memory of Mark and Melissa, please consider the following: Plant a tree. Visit a local park and make use of their amenities, especially a bike trail. Pet a dog. A golden retriever is ideal, but any will do," they said. "Tell your loved ones a cheesy dad joke and laugh about it.
Bake something - bread for Mark or a cake for Melissa, and share it with someone. Try a new hobby and enjoy learning something. Stand up for what you believe in, especially if that thing is justice and peace." - Sophie and Colin Hortman
