( 15 ) REVERIE DREAM SMP ✓
VARIOUS DREAMSMP x SHE / HER READER

( drunk people, alcoholic beverages, swearing )

IT'S ONLY A DREAM.

BOOKS - WHOLE WORLDS and entire universes created by authors using words of honey and bittersweet sentences. Magic and wonder - dragons and fairies and elves and dwarves - they're all brought to life with the single sweep of a quill or the twist of a pen. Even lips of cracked, dry flesh can string together poems so delicate and descriptive that you're transferred to another dimension just from the drone of their voice.

Y/N often wishes she could be transferred to another dimension.

She longs to feel pain in her heart, to feel something other than this numbness that consumes her entire soul. Oh how the entirety of her being wishes to frolick through fields of fragrant lavender, to brush her hands against the rough, weathered stone of ruined palaces once stood high and strong, towering over villages and cities of old. Forests filled with twittering sparrows and oceans cursed with enchanting sirens - she feels drawn to them, her feet taking step after step in any direction, any at all, and she wants to keep walking so that she can finally reach the places of her dreams, but she can't. She can't.

You know why she can't?

Because that is all they are - sceneries drawn up by inky imaginations. They're nothing but the silky words engraved into yellowed parchment by writers who wish the same as she: to be whisked away to some magical, fantastical land, filled with golden-petaled flowers and underwater caves with hidden, scintillating treasures.

The tug in her chest, the one of longing and the one that slowly but surely will break her mind into shimmering, pieces likened to glass shards, reflecting her thoughts of faraway realms - it is nothing new to her. It had carved its place in her dreary mind and heartless soul long ago, when she'd first set her eyes upon lines of squid ink pressed into stacks of paper, tugging at her thoughts every so often, the cause of her reverie when she sits by the windowseat of her bedroom so that she might admire the beams of radiant golden tendrils, the ones that shine through the darkened windows of her pallid 'home.'

She had never been more sure than she is now that this box of hard cement and white, wearing walls couldn't be further away from a home.

It is a prison of alabaster paint; a place with shackles of familial ties that keep her from grasping her dreams of cerulean waterfalls dropping from high cliffs and lush caverns decorated with glowing lanterns - for these people who hold her back with heavy fists and reddish, calloused palms are nothing like the families she's grown up reading about. They're all beings indifferent to each other's connections, their voices laced with venom and silent threats. They speak in cloying riddles, all masters of the mind, all having grown up with their fingers already stringing along a child once gifted with the purest of hearts.

She can't escape them. Not because she's a naive, hopeful girl who thinks they only do this to her because of honourable intentions ( No, of course not. Her mind has been sharpened to detect the smallest trace of wicked intentions, and she recognises the sweetness of their words from the villains she loathes so much so who come from her books. She too, is familiar with the inner workings of one's perceptions, and she too has used these skills in not-so-honourable ways - though certainly not as shameful as the ways of her so-called siblings ) and most certainly not because she has been caught up in their web of lies. No, she cannot escape them because they have the firmest grip on her soul and heart, and they'd surely dismantle her plans before she even began plotting in the first place.

It's very unfortunate that a girl of wonders and daydreams is confined to such a world of death and destruction, but fate is cruel and savage, and is not afraid of crushing even the gentlest of spirits - even if their wishes are one of the simplest to grant.

She can only live through such marvels in her dreams, the only thing that her family cannot taint with their two-faced lies and harsh, cold truths.

( Or, at least, that is what she thinks.

The rather ethereal, luminescent pendant of amber that had just spun into existence beneath her pillow proves otherwise. )

WHEN Y/N WAKES to a sky of soft purples and light pinks, she simply lays there, the sensation of grass brushing against her skin one she thought she'd never experience. Her nose tingles from the crispness of dawn's air, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Her eyes continue to stare at the ivory wisps that dance in the high breezes, wishing at once that she could sprout wings so that she might press her lips to the heat of the sun and taste its aureate rays.

It's only when the skies turn to a pleasant shade of medium azure that she blinks harshly and realises that she has been dreaming for far longer than she usually does.

Instantly, her body jolts upwards, hands gripping the rocky soil beneath her and examining the blades of grass stretching for miles beyond her sights. Her eyes dart from the dirt-stained, crimson fabric of her blouse tucked beneath the tawny cloth of her pants, to the intricate silver engravings by the top of her black boots, and her brows furrow immediately. Since when had her dreams become so detailed and specific in regards to what she was wearing?

She stands, hands brushing the specks of dirt still clinging to her shirt off, and takes in her surroundings. Plains, obviously, from her front to her back - they stretch impressively far, still expanding when she squints into the horizon - and to her direct right lies a forest of pine trees.

No signs of civilization. No smoke trailing into the sky, staining the clear blue with gray curls; no paths of flattened greenery laid into the vast fields before her; no broken branches or crushed paths of dirt that could be signs of travellers.

She is completely alone.

Usually when she dreams, she's a child swept away into the arms of royalty, dressed in fine silks and thick fabrics, or a damsel in distress locked away in a tower, having to assure her 'rescuers' that the dragon guarding her home is not, in fact, an enemy, but her only real friend, placed there so that they may keep the deceitful away. But it seems this dream is nothing like those she's had in the past - the movement of her body alone is much smoother and swifter than all the other times, as if she were really here and this all wasn't just another figment of her imagination. Even the white threads that hem the tips of her sleeves are something she is intrigued by, the simplest of details catching her attention so easily.

Why in the world was this particular dream so different in situation and so intricate in detail?

"Hello?" she calls out tentatively - and blanches at the sound of her own voice. It's not modified to her wishes as it always is. She still sounds like her old, boring self, despite being thrusted into a world of her own wishes. It's scratchy and hoarse compared to the picture-perfect environment that surrounds her.

It comes as no surprise that there's no response to her call. She'd expected no less, finding herself alone and spotting no signs of civilization.

What is she supposed to do now?

She has never imagined herself in such a solitary situation, without any parents in medieval wear to coddle her and marry her off to the richest man in town or friends dressed in futuristic clothes to babble to her about their much-too-eventful-for-her-reality days.

The wind brushes her hair back, ruffling the gleaming strands, and she is, once again, impressed by the detail of this one dream.

Fingers lacing together, she takes a hesitant step towards the forest, eyeing the shadows cast upon the ground from the high branches and the thick throng of pine. Everything is so vibrant - this place of vivid greens and rich browns couldn't be more different to the colourless walls of her 'home.'

The ache of her soul reverberates throughout her entire body when she wishes she could stay here forever.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. She treads lightly, on the tips of her toes, as she approaches the forest. What if there are the horrifying monsters she's read about so many times lurking in the darkness? What if all those vile creatures, the ones who haunt her sickening nightmares, lunge at her as soon as she steps foot into the underbrush? What if she dies?

And then she remembers that even though everything looks so painfully realistic, down to the light rustling of the grass by her feet and the slight shifting of the clouds above her head, this is nothing but a dream.

So she steps.

And steps.

And steps.

And she keeps stepping until her hands can brush against the rugged, umber trunks of the trees towering well over her stature, the ones so tall that she imagines if she climbs them and stands by the tops, she'll be able to move the stars with her fingers and create new constellations, and she can shuffle the moon to the right just a little so it forms a picturesque smile of the heavens when it aligns with two specks of light.

The bark beneath her palm is textured, a flawless imitation of what she'd once felt when she'd accidentally brushed her arm against a tree trunk on the rare camping trip she'd gone on with her 'family.' It's such a precise duplicate, down to the miniscule dips of the wood and the sharp edges of splinters, that she has to tug purposely on her gut to remind herself that it's not real, and that it's all a dream.

Leaves are peppered in the tall grass ( So tall, in fact, that all she must do to feel the pleasant touch of the high blades on her fingertips is to let her arms fall to her sides once more ), the low branches of such high trees scratching at her arms. She breathes in deeply, and can't begin to describe the pure ecstaticness that erupts within her chest when the scent of damp moss tickles her nostrils and fills her lungs with air - forest air.

Her raven boots create a path of crushed greenery as she treads on, and she's glad it does so, because if it hadn't then she might as well be lost already. Though the sunlight still filters through the layers of leaf and branch, a pattern of blinding white dancing across the forest floor, the nagging feeling at the back of her mind doesn't leave her alone. She has no doubts that if the exit to the forest wasn't clear with the path of flattened grass trailing behind her, she would have panicked and gotten lost long ago.

As she walks on, the feeling of someone or something is watching her continues amplifiying, so she quickens her pace, faster and faster, until she's running forward, each stride a foot long, her body rigid and her shoulders stiff.

It's not real.

It's only a dream.

She won't die.

The trio of frantic thoughts circling her mind keeps her from spinning on her heel and bolting out of the forest. This illusion she's trapped in couldn't be further from a dream. With the erratic thumping of her heart in her ears and the rushing of adrenaline through her veins, she knows that this so-called dream had faded into a dim and dreary nightmare; the shadows of leafy copse above her stretch into monsters with high cheekbones and sharp fingernails, into those who chant, 'But sister, blood is thicker than water!' before letting her slip into the darkest recesses of her own mind, trapping her within the dull, lurid walls of her prison once more.

She only keeps herself within this horror because of her wish that she might stay here as long as she can, so she can take advantage of the realism of this dream. After all, it's not every night that she rests on her stiff mattress, hidden beneath the paper-thin sheets they call her blankets, that she lives within such a lucid illusion of things she's longed so long for to be real.

Dread works its way up her throat when her foot catches on a high root, and she barely catches it at the tip of her tongue, pressing her lips together so it doesn't spill from her lips like crystalline raindrops falling from tilted leaves. Her hand flies out to grip onto a tree trunk so that she won't fall on her face, but her eyes have deceived her and she tumbles forward, tripping over a bushy undergrowth, her hand grasping nothing but the prickle of forest squall.

"Fuck -" she curses, the rest of her words held back by a decent part of her mind that dislikes the blunt edges of the swears she'd almost shrieked as well. Such foul language doesn't belong in a fantastical world like this one.

( A thought is left lingering in her subconscious, a harsh reminder that it is all nothing but a lucid dream. She doesn't let it travel to the forefront of her mind, preoccupied with her current situation, but she knows it's there. She knows it exists.

'Even if it is all fake.'

She just wishes it weren't true. )

The ground dips into a thin, gaping ravine, and she barely makes the jump across, eyes flitting towards the slim stream of water dripping from a hole in the rocky stone, pooling at the bottom in a small pond. These are such minor details; the vines twisting around the sharp, jagged pieces of stalactite by the ceiling of one of the dark caverns, and the crack running along the edges; the diminutive sounds of gravel hitting the floor as she leaps over the deep canyon; the whooshing of cold winds by her ears.

She'd coveted for a realm of such details it makes it seem as though it is her new reality for so long, that even though she can feel the erratic pulse of her chest and the terror of her breaths, she longs to be confined to this false truth forever.

( As of this moment, it certainly feels like it, with the infinite thumping of her feet against the ground and the incessant thumping of her heart in her ears. )

It seems as if time is a concept unknown to this land of cloudless days and idyllic sunrises. She has no idea if she's spent a lifetime within this reverie of grass and forest, or if it's been but a second since she's lost herself to the gargantuan maze of spruce and pine. For all she knows, she could have already spent seven forevers and more adrift beneath the verdant leaves brushing the top of her head.

Perhaps fate has been kind enough this instance to allow her to spend a hundred years dreaming of elves and fairies. Perhaps it thinks to grant her desires of striking monsters down with swords of light, luculent blue and has set one upon her right now, cackling as it watches her hurried sprint from afar, fingers dancing with the strings of her body so that it controls her destiny.

Perhaps fate will leave her running for the rest of time, stuck to this world of wonder and yet forced to keep her eyes straight ahead, for fear that her life might be snatched if she slows her pace.

The new, unexpected smell which joins the oxygen in expanding her lungs is a fragrant one, pulling her from her spiral of anxiety; an ambrosian mix of citrus and lavender. It warns of a different expanse of land, the thinning foliage signalling her transition into a new area of this fake wonder.

And then it opens into a field of fae and magicfolk, and her doubts vanish, leaving her to deal only with the feeling of coming danger in her heart.

After all, what kind of a wonderland would this be if it was clear of death and shadow?

SOMEWHERE WITHIN THIS realm of myth and legend, a man of red wine and gold crown tips a glass to his lips, the tart, crimson liquid flooding his mouth and rushing down his throat, leaving his mind fuzzy and his lips painted with the likeness of blood.

"Your Majesty, once again I must advise you to pause in your habits for tonight," a voice says from his right, though for the life of him he cannot tell who it is, the alcohol already fogging his thoughts. "The conversations to be had with the others are ones of utmost importance. It would do you no good to have forgotten them once you awaken tomorrow morning."

"This is a party," he slurs, the wine glass between his fingers dangling dangerously as he gestures excessively with his hands. "Live a little. Loosen up."

"Your Majesty, I am afraid to inform you that if you 'loosen up' any more, then that chalice you hold might slip from your fingers and shatter against the ground, and I do not feel like calling the maidservants tonight for a spilt glass of wine."

"Whatever. I can hold my drink. And that's not my problem, anyways."

"Your Majesty, I do not think that -"

"Oh for fuck's sake Schlatt, don't tell me you've gotten yourself drunk already."

Schlatt's head, having been lolling forward, whips up, his dark eyes squinting slightly. The world seems to be spinning, everyone's outlines nothing but whizzing blurs.

"Wilbur?" he croaks, the syllables leaving his lips curling at the bottom of his stomach and leaving him with a pit of dread. He's still squinting. "Is that - is that you?"

Standing before him is a man of highest stature and words of honey. His chocolate-coloured eyes gaze down at the mess of a king before him, nose scrunched slightly in distaste, the curls of rich brown on his head bouncing slightly when he answers, "Yes, it's me. Who else would it be? Everyone else is too busy pissing their pants in fear to go and talk to you, Your Majesty."

"Shut the fuck - don't talk to me like that." Schlatt straightens his back, though it's not as if he'll seem regal in the slightest, even with his shoulders pushed back and his golden crown glinting warningly underneath the lights engraved into the castle pillars. The slur of his words and the sticky, bloodish liquid staining the front of his white shirt attest to that. "All condescending and shit. I don't like how you say my title. You're nothing but a glorified poet, Wilbur. You've got no power on me."

Wilbur's sights focus on the jagged piece of gold atop Schlatt's head, and his lips press together tightly. "Yes, I can see that."

"And don't you forget it." Schlatt grins, the curve of his smirk lopsided. Then he frowns. "What do you want, anyway? You don't seem like - don't tell me you're gonna talk to me all business like the others. Their talks were boring as shit, going on about poverty and hunger and something about magic users or whatnot. Had to keep myself from falling asleep."

"And you drink to forget the details - yes, I know, I know. Though right now it doesn't seem like you've gotten drunk enough. You've told me . . . how many times now? I think we're nearing around at least fifty." When Schlatt scowls at him, Wilbur's eyes gleam with amusement. "I haven't come here to lecture you on your drinking habits or bore you with kingdom things, don't worry. There's been a"- he lowers his voice to a whisper -"a development." His gaze flits around the ballroom of waltzing guests, every one of them of high stature just like him, wary of eavesdroppers. He spots none close enough to hear their conversation, so he continues. "With the prophecy."

Schlatt's brows furrow. "The fuckin' what now? The prophe - oh. That."

Corners of his lips curling upwards, Wilbur crosses his arms. "Yes, Schlatt. That."

"Isn't that thing important? We should probably - hey, you!" Schlatt's eyes land on the person on his right, whose form he still can't make out. "I'm gonna move to another room with glorified poet Wilbur over here. You make sure no one freaks when they realise I'm gone. No one enters the room we're at. Oh, and make sure no eavesdroppers listen in to our conversation as well."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Wilbur's eyebrows scrunch together slightly, his face pulling in confusion. But the expression is gone as quick as it had morphed his features, and he looks back at Schlatt. "Where are we going?"

The blinding aureate crown almost slips from Schlatt's head when he stands - he has to hold it in place with a wine-stained hand. He's tilting on his feet, shifting his weight from one foot to another to keep his balance. The fabric of his black cape whooshes with his motions.

"The room - that other one, by the fuckin' - here, here." He jabs his thumb at the back of the throne.

"What?"

"I'll show you, just - fucking follow me, Wilbur."

Wilbur does as told, though his steps are hesitant, his sight darting towards the crowd of dancers each time his feet move him forward. Schlatt leads him to a thin door, hidden behind his carved throne of red velvet plush, inlaid with intricate patterns of lustrous onyx jewels. "Here it is. This one. You go first."

"I don't think -" Wilbur spots the look on Schlatt's face, and his words cut off abruptly. "Alright, then. But if I die because of this or something, you're keeping my papers. You're the one who's dealing with the shit show that this ends in."

"No. Fuck you."

"I'll have it in my will. 'And to King Schlatt, all my papers that I've left behind.'"

"No fucking thank you. I'll burn your will."

"That's - you'd be destroying a dead person's shit, Schlatt."

"So?"

A huff of indignation leaves Wilbur lips, and, still rather reluctant, he steps inside, Schlatt right behind him - Wilbur can tell from the clicking of his polished black shoes against the floor.

The air is sickeningly fragrant, a cloying scent wafting through the air and poisoning Wilbur's lungs with its honeying fumes. The room is more of a hallway than anything, narrow and long, except the polished blackstone walls are devoid of any doors and there are ivory shelves lining each side. A circular, spruce table stands by the end of the hallway, the lantern and dozen, melting candles laying atop it casting an eerie, golden glow around the entire place. Two chairs flank its sides.

"Is this some kind of cult setup? Schlatt, what the fuck -"

"Shut up and take a seat."

Mirth swimming in his chocolate irises, Wilbur does as told. Schlatt sits across him, leaning his chair back and balancing it on its two back legs. Silently, Wilbur wonders how long it'll be before he falls over and hits his head on the wall.

"Now," Schlatt starts, "what's all this about this . . . prophecy shit? The development you were talking about."

"Yes, that. Well," Wilbur reaches into one of the inner pockets of his navy blue coat, pulling out a folded piece of parchment. He flicks it at Schlatt, who catches it with an unamused expression, "there it is. Go on, then. Read it."

"This is it?" Schlatt repeats in disbelief. "All of this - I brought us back here for a piece of paper?"

Wilbur shrugs, leaning back into his chair and relaxing his posture. "Like it or not, Your Majesty, that's all there is."

The King grumbles and fumbles with the paper, fingers sticky from his wine leaving faint red stains all over the pressed sugarcane. Wilbur's eye twitches.

"'The Prophecy of the Shifter,'" Schlatt reads out, squinting at the elegant curls of Mageian script before him. "The fuck is that?"

"The prophecy," Wilbur answers in a clipped tone. "Just read it, Schlatt. I haven't got all day."

"You haven't got all day - I'm a king, Wilbur! Shut the fuck up. Give me a second, will ya?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Schlatt's grip on the paper tightens slightly as his eyes run over the words, parchment crinkling beneath his fingers. His shoulders stiffen when he reaches the last line.

"'. . . and the King shall fall,'" he mutters beneath his breath. Schlatt looks up to Wilbur. "I'm not gonna fall. I won't fucking have this, Wilbur. I will not fall to some shit Shifter."

"It's been a couple hundred years since the last prophecy, Schlatt," Wilbur says. "There was bound to be another one. You didn't seriously think that your reign would last forever, did you?"

"No." The light hits the curve of his horns in a menacing way that makes Wilbur shift in his seat. "Not at all. But that doesn't mean I'm going to just get on my knees and wait for my execution like some kind of weak coward king. No - I'm going to hunt this fucker down. And then you know what I'm going to do?"

Wilbur's eyes narrow as he says, "What are you going to do, Schlatt?"

"I'm hunting this fucker down. And then I'm going to kill them," he says, a psychotic gleam in his dark irises. "To hell with the prophecy, Wilbur."

"You know prophecies can't be avoided. This is written into fate, Schlatt. You can't change fate."

The crown almost slips off his head, but Schlatt holds up a hand to steady it. His face flashes with unspoken emotion.

"Fucking watch me."

AUTHOR'S NOTE

hi everyone!

- dude it has been a WHILE. i'm pretty sure i last updated in . february? ish? holy crap has it been a long time.

- how are you guys doing? are you eating well? have you been drinking water? personal hygiene?

- OH MY GOD HAVE ANY OF YOU WATCHED SHADOW AND BONE BECAUSE HOLY SHITTTT . i'm only on episode 5 so please don't spoil anything for me but DAMN the series feels so much better than the books.

- this is another chapter i think could be converted into a VARIOUSDSMP x READER fantasy au book! maybe in the future lol

- speaking of VARIOUSDSMP x books, i published a new book! a DSMP x FEM OC called BONES OF THE DARK ! i really like the storyline i was able to come up with and though it is still in its early stages / chapters i'd like to think that if you guys enjoyed this book, you'll enjoy that one :) it's a part of a dsmp series i'll write as well ! it's called the WITHER series ( it's an acronym :) )

as always; love you all!
lea <3

UNEDITED