crowsreiid

[crowsreiid]

lovers at the dark side

Part 2

Warnings: intense feelings, some kidnapping stuff

A few days later

Rio stopped his car in front of Beth’s house. He thought he’d give her a call, but before he could even reach for his phone, Beth hurriedly opened the door and threw herself into the passenger seat.

“Drive!” she yelled at him.

He was still half in shock from almost having the door ripped off its hinges, and on top of that, he couldn’t wrap his head around how Beth even knew he was parked outside waiting for her.

“What are you staring at? Drive the car, now!” she yelled again, agitated. Rio, still baffled, slammed his foot on the gas. He didn’t even get to ask a question before bullets shattered the rear window.

“What the—” he started, but didn’t finish, because a car pulled up beside them and almost crashed into them.

“Watch out, for God’s sake!” Beth screamed, ducking her head down. Rio glanced at her for a split second and caught her terrified gaze. Two scared faces, a million emotions, and a car chase with gunfire? Just the way to start a Monday.

Three days earlier

“There’s been no word from him for two days now,” Beth sighed, talking to Ruby.

“Relax, girl. You know how he is—disappears, then comes back and you’ll wish he hadn’t,” Ruby laughed about Rio’s unpredictability. Beth was tense.

“What about Dean?” Ruby suddenly asked, trying to change the subject.

“Argh…” Beth scoffed. “What do you think? Ever since we brought up the divorce, I only see him when he drops off the kids at the house.” She huffed, checking her phone again for any message from Rio.

“Stop it! You’re just torturing yourself.” Ruby grabbed a glass from the cupboard. “When you’re on edge, you only bring trouble down on our heads…” she added offhandedly, but realized too late that Beth had caught it.

“Mm… you know what I mean, Beth.” She looked at her friend, but Beth had enough. Without a word, she just pointed at the door. Ruby understood immediately that it was time to go. “Just… please think twice before you do anything stupid,” she said before slipping out the back door.

“I always think through what I’m gonna do!” Beth shouted after her, but Ruby was already gone. She quickly typed in a number she’d memorized a long time ago and hit call. She guessed the man was probably dead by now, but she had to try.

“If Rio won’t help, maybe you will” she muttered, pressing call again. It rang for a while, but no one picked up. She tried five times, then gave up and thought she’d try again the next day.

“So, wanna explain why Nick’s men are chasing us?!” Rio shouted as he slammed the brakes so hard the car nearly flipped.

“I just…” Beth started, but before she could finish, Rio braked again and swerved right, pulling them off the main road to lose their pursuers for a moment.

“You know, sometimes you’re just as dangerous as I am,” he said calmly when he saw his plan worked. “But what the hell was that?!” he yelled, glaring at her as she nearly banged her head on the door. He pulled over in a secluded spot, got out, and stormed to her side, nearly ripping the door open.

“I’m listening, mama,” he demanded.

“Can we maybe talk about this somewhere calmer?” she got out, ducking past him as he slammed the door.

“This is the calmest place you’ll get. Pardon me for not being cool with your little stunt that nearly got me killed by my own guys.”

“Alright, alright, I won’t—just don’t be mad.” Beth sighed and walked to the front of the car, leaning against it. She looked at Rio, then lowered her head.

“You’ll probably kill me for this, or they will soon enough, but I just wanted to get Annie out of jail.”

“First of all, I’m not gonna kill you—we’re past that point. Second, Annie’s been out for days,” he added with a shrug, leaning against the car next to her. Beth’s eyes went wide.

“What? And you let me worry myself sick? You couldn’t text me, maybe?” she snapped.

“Relax, mama. No need to freak out. I was gonna tell you today, since we’ve been keeping our distance lately…” He locked eyes with her. “But I didn’t know you’d nearly get me killed too,” he laughed, a touch hysterical. Beth dropped her chin, not daring to meet his eyes. She knew she’d screwed up by calling Mick, but she hadn’t expected someone to try to kill her days later. Again.

“Hey, look at me.” Rio grabbed her face, and she looked up at him. “You should smile more. Annie’s out. You know what? Let’s call her.” He bombarded her with so much at once she didn’t know what to feel—relief for Annie, or the fact that Rio just told her to smile more.

“Yo, hey. Yeah, she’s here with me. Put the little one on,” he said into his phone. Beth frowned—sometimes it was impossible to keep up with how Rio spoke. He was a whole other world—and Beth was dangerously drawn to it. He handed her the phone.

“Talk to her, come on,” he urged and stepped aside to give them privacy. Something had changed in him. The biggest problem was Beth had no idea where to place this new Rio.

“Annie?” she asked into the phone.

“Beth. I’m fine. Your gangfriend got me out. Met some good company inside too.” Annie laughed, munching on prison food with the girls on the other end.

“What’s that noise? Are you still there? I thought you were out!” Beth asked, suspicious. Rio half-listened, knowing Beth would soon realize he’d lied.

“Oh, that? Just sitting at McDonald’s. Ignore them, dumb girls,” Annie said quickly. “But I gotta go—your gangfriend pal is taking me somewhere safe while you and they cool down.” And she hung up.

“She didn’t even say goodbye,” Beth scoffed in disbelief. “Something’s not right. Did you really get her out?” she turned to Rio, who was back to his careless self. She threw the phone at him in frustration. He cleared his throat and laughed.

“We’ve played this game before, Elizabeth,” he said, walking up to her. “This probably feels familiar too,” he whispered when he got close.

“Don’t you dare—” she pushed her hand against his chest to stop him.

“That won’t get you far.” He grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer. “I don’t know what’s better—that I could have you anytime I want, or how you fight it when you know you want it too.” His eyes flicked to her lips as he bit his own.

“I don’t know what to say to that…” Beth whispered back.

“You don’t need to…” he ended the conversation with a kiss.

Annie tried to push away the guilt of lying to her sister, but Rio’s new ‘friend’ didn’t exactly give her a choice. Ever since Beth had become Rio’s boss, Rio’s power was about equal to his grandma’s. Without Beth, Rio would be in deep financial trouble. Things had been falling apart ever since the cops got too involved. Oh, and let’s not forget Beth once betrayed Rio—like it was forgotten, but not really. She still feared Rio would pay her back one day. But Rio’s feelings had changed his whole perspective, just like Nick once said:

“More than that…”

So if things could get any worse for them, it would. Nick getting out meant revenge—chasing Beth and dragging Rio down with her. Things were slipping out of their hands fast.

“Ruby, I need your help.” Annie called from prison.

“Where the hell are you? Shouldn’t you be home by now? Didn’t Rio get you out?” Ruby snapped.

“It’s not that simple, but I’ll explain everything,” Annie sighed.

A familiar caller interrupted Beth and Rio’s kiss. When Rio grabbed his phone, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Mick?” he answered, tense and surprised.

“Not quite, little brother,” Nick laughed on the other end. “Did you really think I’d let you and your ‘mama’ get away with what you did to me?”

Kids screames bled through the line.

“What the fuck are you doing, Nick?!” Rio shouted. Beth immediately sensed something was wrong.

“Rio..” in shock, she reached her mouth.

“What is it?” he looked at her but he freeze.

“Let her go!” Rio roared at the man holding Beth.

“Little brother…” Nick chuckled over the phone. “I don’t want Elizabeth. She’s just leverage to hurt you. Kenny, say hi to Mommy.” He pressed the phone to the boy’s face, forcing him to speak.

“Mom! We’re okay, don’t worry!” Kenny yelled, but then a gunshot rang out on the line.

“Nick!” Rio yelled, but before he could react, a blow to his head slammed him onto the car.

“Ri… let… me go!” Beth struggled in the grip of the man holding her. “Rio!” she screamed his name, running to him.

“That’s settled then,” Nick grinned, taping Kenny’s mouth shut again.

“Uncle!” Marcus called as he entered the basement.

“Oh, Marcus!” Nick smiled back sweetly. “What are you doing here?” he feigned surprise.

“Mom said Dad would be with you. I thought I’d come say hi,” the boy said innocently, stepping down the stairs.

“Shut up,” Nick hissed at Kenny, who tried to shout a warning. “Yeah, I talked to him, but your dad hasn’t come yet. Go upstairs—I’ll be right there.” He shooed Marcus out.

“Grab the woman and the boss’s brother. We’re leaving before anyone sees us,” Carlos ordered to Xavier.

“Can’t we make an exception for the ‘mama’? She’s kind of hot,” Xavier scoffed.

“Yeah, sure—if you want a hit on your head too or a bullet in your chest.” Carlos slapped his shoulder and rolled his eyes, heading for his car.

Meanwhile, Ruby realized something was wrong. The last time she talked to Beth, she’d noticed the suspicious car parked near her house. Beth had noticed too, before seeing Rio, and had called Ruby immediately. Annie was out of reach after their prison chat. Stan was mad at her. If she called Dean, Beth would hate her for it. The only one left was Rio—but Ruby didn’t want to call him either.

“One vicious circle,” she sighed, but dialed his number anyway. Rio, though, couldn’t pick up—he and Beth were already blindfolded and tied up, on their way to Nick’s house. Rio was used to this life, but even though he’d dragged Beth into all this, he never wanted her to see what might come next. Because if anyone knew what Nick is really capable of, it was Rio.

[crowsreiid]

⋆☀︎｡Dreambound part 8

⋆☀︎｡Morpheus x underworld princess!reader

Summary::After a brutal fight,you finally heal.

Warnings::Argument,fight (not physical), Y/N is being a bit immature and a hypocrite lmao.

A/N::I love you guys,but please stop bullying me about the AI thingy. I regret it and learned from it. And I changed my writing-style 🥹 which I didn't want to...and now it kinda feels soulless? Like, please stop?😭 I'm just another human being like you lol. And stuff like that pains me.And I also have personal things going on lol. Anyone who wants to bully me go touch some grass or you'll be blocked.

Weeks had passed.The nightmares had stopped the night Morpheus tore through them and pulled you back into the waking. Since then, your dreams had been still and quiet. Almost too quiet.

But your marriage? That was another story.

Morpheus had retreated. Not completely.He still fulfilled his duties, still sat beside you when decorum called for it, still looked at you like the world was shifting under his feet. But he didn’t touch you, didn’t stay. And there were definetely no benchdates anymore.

He was careful now and careful, with Morpheus, meant cold.You didn’t know what hurt more. The nightmares that had plagued you or the man who saved you from them, only to vanish piece by piece in the days that followed.

You were tired of the silence.He always did this.The moment something cracked in you, in him, in the world, he withdrew. Closed the gates, sealed the vault, became untouchable again.And maybe once, you would’ve let it slide.But now you had enough.

You were done tiptoeing around his coping mechanisms like it was something sacred. Done pretending that his coldness was some noble form of restraint.

Someone needed to finally put him in his place, because running away isn’t control.It’s fear dressed in self-righteous robes and you were done being the one left behind every time he couldn’t deal with his own heart.

You needed to find him. Your first thought was the garden,where you had all of those 'magic— bench' dates, that weren't actually dates.That place belonged to a version of him that had let you in,even if only briefly. Now, all that remained was the king who wore a mask.

So you went to the throne room instead.The doors loomed before you,and you didn’t hesitate.He was already seated, posture perfect, draped in shadows.

He didn’t look up at first, but you knew he felt you.“I assume this isn’t a formal audience,” he said finally.

You scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself, Morpheus.” That got his eyes on you,sharp and curious.

You stepped forward, slow but sure.“I’m not here as your subject, Morpheus,” you started.“I’m here as your wife. I know, shocker,but yes,I am your wife. Sadly,if I must add.”

His expression didn’t change,but he tensed.

“I get it,” you went on. “The Furies tortured me, because of you. So you just decided to leave.”

His gaze was steady, but something under the surface cracked.“You believe I chose distance out of spite?” he asked, voice colder than ever.

You didn’t flinch. “No,” you snapped. “I believe you chose distance because it’s easier for you. Because if you stay polite and withdrawn and call it duty,then you never have to feel anything real.”

His mouth opened slightly, to interrupt, but you didn’t give him the chance. “You think your silence is noble? That withholding yourself is some kind of mercy?”

You took another step closer, fury rising inside of you.“You could’ve stayed. Sat with me. Let me be scared in peace, with someone next to me. But no.You chose dignity. You chose the throne.”

“I am the King—”

“And I am your wife,” you cut in. “But you never treat me like it. You treat me like one more responsibility on a never-ending list. And when things get too hard you vanish. You think you're protecting me by shutting down, but all you're doing is proving that I can't count on you when it matters.”

Morpheus stiffened,that impossible calm cracking, piece by piece.“You think you’re the only one who’s hurting?” he snapped suddenly. “You think I didn’t feel every second of your pain? That I wasn’t—”

“Then why didn’t you stay?” you shouted over him, stepping closer. “Why do you always pull away the moment I need you most?”

“Because I had to!” he barked, the words louder than you’d ever heard from him. “Because all of this,is my fault! The Furies went after you because of me.”

You blinked, breath caught, heart hammering.“So you just punished me for it?” you shouted back. “You think I cared about that? I cared that you left! I needed you, and you—”

Before you could finish, he was there, one hand at the back of your neck, the other curling around your waist, and he kissed you.

It was sudden and intense. His mouth met yours with a force that nearly made you trip, but you didn’t back away.

You leaned into him instead, fingers clutching the fabric of his coat.His kiss wasn’t gentle, it was raw and edged.All the anger, all the silence, all the words neither of you had dared say,it was all in that kiss. Devouring. Desperate.

When he finally pulled away,his breath ghosted over your lips, shaky and uneven.

Your mind went black.Panic surged up before you could stop it.What was that? What the hell were you doing?

You took a step back, hands trembling now that you weren’t gripping his coat.His eyes were still locked on you, but something in them was too much to handle at the moment.

Nope. You were absolutely not doing this.“I—” you started, breath catching in your throat.

Without another word, you snapped your fingers and vanished in a curl of dark smoke and shadow,teleporting yourself out of the Throne Room.Leaving Morpheus very much alone. And very much stunned.

...

“…and then he kissed me,” you finished, plopping down onto Abel’s couch.

Dead silence filled the room.Abel blinked, stunned. “He—he what?”

Cain squinted. “Wait, the Dream Lord? Tall, broody,looks like he hasn't blinked since the 14th century,Morpheus?”

You stared at them both. “Do you know any other eternal emo with a throne made of nightmare bones?”

Abel gasped. “So what did you say?”

You exhaled sharply. “Nothing. I panicked.”

“I teleported out of there like a damn smoke bomb,” you said flatly.“Poof. Gone. No closure. No follow-up. Just full ‘what the hell just happened’ energy.”

Cain smirked. “Classic.”

“You’re judging me,” you muttered, pointing at both of them accusingly. “I feel the judgment radiating off your stupid little faces.”

“I’m not judging,” Abel said quickly, hands in the air. “I just...he kissed you?!”

“Yes, Abel,” you deadpanned. “We’ve established that. Keep up.”

“I just didn’t know he could kiss,” Cain muttered. “Does he even have blood flow?”

You snorted. “Apparently, yes.”

Abel clutched a pillow to his chest. “But that’s so romantic! Maybe he finally opened up because he realized how much he cares about you!”

“He opened up because we were yelling like two feral banshees in the throne room,” you said. “Pretty sure there was no romantic clarity.”

Cain whistled low. “Man, the Dream King really said ‘I don’t know how to talk about my feelings, so here’s some trauma bonding and a spontaneous makeout session.’”

You groaned into your hands. “He caught me so off-guard I think I might’ve blacked out for three seconds.”

“So…” Abel ventured carefully. “Do you want him to kiss you again?”

You stared at him. “Abel. I ran away mid-eye contact. You think I’ve got a follow-up plan for that?”

“Honestly, he’s probably in his castle brooding about it like it’s a Shakespearean tragedy.” said Cain.

You squinted. “Good.”

Cain raised an eyebrow. “Good?”

“I hope he’s spiraling,” you said flatly. “Let him taste chaos for once.”

“Y/N!” Gasped Abel.

“What? I’m allowed to be a little petty,” you grumbled. “Emotional repression and revenge are literally in my blood.”

...

“So let me get this straight.”Lucienne didn’t even look up from her notes, which felt mildly insulting.“You stormed into the Throne Room to yell at him for running away emotionally, and then you ran away physically.”

You stared at her across the library table like she’d just smacked you with a book.“Okay,” you said slowly. “That sounds bad when you say it.”

Lucienne finally glanced up, utterly unimpressed.“Because it is.”

You blinked at her. “Wow. No warming up, huh? Just straight to the ego death.”

She set her pen down with precision.“You can’t expect vulnerability from someone while punishing them for giving it. He let you in. You kissed. And you fled without a word.”

“I panicked,” you muttered. “It was either teleport or drop dead on the spot. I made a judgment call.”

Lucienne’s mouth twitched.“And now?”

You rubbed your temples. “Now I want to drop dead retroactively.”

“Dramatic.”

You groaned. “Lucienne.”

She slid over a cup of tea without a word.

You peeked up. “…Thank you.”

Lucienne adjusted her glasses. “Don’t thank me yet. You still have to fix it.”

You stared at your tea like it held the answers to the universe. Spoiler: it didn’t. Only shame. And maybe a little bergamot.

Lucienne finally broke the silence.“For what it’s worth… I’m glad it happened.”

Your head snapped up. “What happened?”

She raised a brow. “The kiss.”

You winced. “Oh.”

Lucienne folded her hands. “I always knew something would spark between you two. From the moment you got here, it was obvious.”

You scoffed. “Obvious? He looked at me like I was a mild inconvenience with legs.”

“Yes,” Lucienne nodded. “And you looked at him like you were about to eat his soul.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So you’re saying you wanted us to get together?”

Lucienne tilted her head. “Not wanted, per se. More like... waited.”

You groaned again. “Why did I run? Like some kind of terrified Victorian heroine?”

Lucienne leaned back. “Because feelings are terrifying, especially when they’re real. And you’ve both been orbiting each other like cowards with excellent taste.”

You gave her a long stare. “You’re really enjoying this, huh?”

“Immensely,” she said, already turning a page in her book.

...

You were already waiting when he arrived.

The bench stood beneath the old dream-tree, glowing faintly in the soft starlight of the Dreaming.

You just sat, hands folded in your lap, quiet and still.When he approached, you felt it.The butterflies in your stomach.He sat beside you.

You turned your head slowly to him. And spoke up softly.“I’m not going to run this time.”

That made him look at you.His eyes,those galaxies of his,searched yours like he was making sure you meant it. And you did.

“I was scared,” you whispered. “Of what it meant. What I felt. What I still feel.”

Breeze shifted around you, but neither of you moved.You continued, voice trembling.“You shutting me out hurt more than anything. But even then...I still missed you. I still wanted you near.”

He inhaled sharply.“I never wished to hurt you.”

“I know,” you said. “but I think we both did.But I need you to know I’m not here to blame you. I’m here because I still care. More than I know how to explain.”

Your eyes met and he reached for your hand, slowly, and you let him. His fingers curled over yours with a quiet reverence,as if he feared even now you might vanish.

“From this day on,” he said. “I will never leave you.”

The words sank into your chest.You leaned in closer and when your lips met his, it was warm. A still point in all the chaos.

He kissed you back gently, holding nothing back and asking for nothing more than what you gave.

His hand came up to brush your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He kissed you like he was relearning your shape.

He pulled away slowly, lips lingering, breath brushing yours.And when your eyes fluttered open, his were already on you.Softer than you’d ever seen.

You closed your eyes, breathed him in, and whispered,“Stay.”

And he answered,“Always.”

[crowsreiid]

Started a new Brio one-shot today.

It’s called Broken Heart Collector.

“You don’t want me baby, I’m a broken heart collector.”

“You don’t belong in my world, you know that, right?”

“Shouldn’t that be something I decide?”

[crowsreiid]

⋆°·☁︎︎Dreambound part 6

⋆°·︎☁︎Morpheus x underworld princess!reader

Summary::You break, it's too late. He apologises and lingers.

Warnings:: angst,emotional distress,nightmares (having problems with sleep),hurt/comfort dynamic,disappointment,Y/N is a bit unbearable,control slipping,the plot kinda doesn't make sense lmao💀✋? But it will in the next chapter.

Weeks had passed and still, the nightmares came.

At first, they were rare — just flickers of shadow behind your eyes as you slept, sensations you couldn’t quite name upon waking. But slowly, quietly, they multiplied. Grew teeth and voices.Became something sentient, deliberate.

They weren’t the usual kind of nightmares. Not falling, not drowning, not running from something you couldn’t see. No — these were deeper, stranger. More intentional. As though something — someone — had laced the dreams with poison and let it drip, slow and silent, through your mind each night.

And the worst part? You hadn’t told your husband.

You told yourself it was nothing at first. Just stress, or the lingering aftertaste of all that had happened with Orpheus. Maybe even guilt — not your own, but his, pressed so close to your skin you sometimes wondered if you were beginning to carry it too.But the dreams didn’t stop — they changed,twisted.They started to whisper cruel things — not in languages you understood, but in a way that bypassed translation altogether and struck something ancient and instinctive inside you.

You’d wake with your heart racing, drenched in cold sweat, breath shallow and frantic.Sometimes your hands would be shaking. Sometimes you’d cry without realizing it. Morpheus was an early riser so he never saw you like this — he was simply always working, always somewhere, attending to dreams or nightmares or the thousand tiny threads that held the realm together.

And every time he asked, every time his voice carried that soft, deliberate concern — you'd lie.

'I slept fine.'

'Just tired.'

'No, I don’t remember my dreams.'

But you did remember.You remembered the heat of unseen eyes watching you. The press of ancient voices in your head, repeating phrases you didn’t understand. You remembered your name on their tongues — not spoken with affection or concern, but with contempt and purpose.

You stayed quiet. You smiled through the exhaustion.Drank stronger tea, read longer hours, buried yourself in research just to stay awake. And each night, when sleep took you, you braced for the shadows waiting on the other side.

You sometimes wondered why he hadn’t intervened.Why the King of Dreams — the one who forged the fabric of sleep itself — hadn’t seen the way your nights were unraveling. Why he hadn’t said anything at all.

But deep down, you knew the answer.

Morpheus was many things: ancient, powerful, near-omniscient within his realm. But even he couldn’t see everything. The Dreaming was vast — a boundless tapestry of billions of human lives, each dream a thread flickering in and out of existence. Even for an Endless, it would be impossible to track every dream at once. The currents were too many, the minds too vast, too fluid.

And while he could have stepped into your dreams at any moment, of that you had no doubt… he didn’t.He wouldn’t,because he respected you.Because he chose not to cross that line unless invited — even when that line burned between the two of you.

He would never violate the sanctity of your sleep.Not without your consent—not even now.

And maybe that was the cruelest irony of all.

That the one person who could stop these dreams — who could unravel the shadows before they reached you — refused to look, out of respect.

So you stayed silent — and the nightmares kept coming.

This morning was worse.You’d thought you were getting used to it. The sleeplessness, the whispers, the way your limbs felt like they were dipped in lead each time you woke up — but today, it hit differently.

Your body ached. Your skin felt wrong and behind your eyes something still lingered. A cold weight, like hands pressed over your face in a dream, fingers dug into your temples, leaving behind phantom bruises.

You sat up too fast and immediately regretted it. The room tilted sideways, shadows bending unnaturally before righting themselves. A tremor rippled through your spine and you instinctively reached for the edge of the bed to steady yourself.

It took you a full minute to swing your legs over the side.This had been the worst one yet.

There weren’t even images this time — just sensations and sounds. A voice you couldn’t place murmuring from inside your bones. Laughter that wasn’t yours echoing through corridors that didn’t exist. It was like being aware, paralyzed, and cold.

And for the first time, you weren’t sure you’d actually woken up.You rubbed at your face, trying to push the exhaustion out of your pores. Your fingers brushed over your eyes, your temples, the back of your neck. Nothing helped.You were exhausted in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.

You dressed slowly, half on autopilot. Something in you screamed to just tell him — find Morpheus, blurt it all out, beg for him to look — but shame crept in like rot under the floorboards.

But then again…you weren’t fragile.You weren’t human.You were Hades’ daughter — and not some goddamn damsel in distress

You’d grown up in shadows deeper than dreams. You’d seen spirits scream without mouths, watched entire cities crumble in silence. You’d learned not to flinch when the cold came.

Whatever this was — whatever thing had started haunting your sleep — it would not break you.

You stood in front of the mirror. The dark circles under your eyes were brutal, your mouth set into a hard line that looked almost unfamiliar. But your spine was straight. Your jaw, locked.

Gods help whatever was lurking in your sleep, because if it pushed you one inch too far, you’d find it. And it would learn exactly what kind of legacy you carried in your blood.

...

Morning tea with Lucienne had become a ritual. A quiet pocket of structure you could rely on, even when everything else — including your sleep — was unraveling.Today, though, even that familiar comfort felt off.

You sat slumped at the long reading table, a steaming cup in front of you, both hands cradling it like it might anchor you to the waking world. The library’s golden light filtered through stained-glass windows, casting warm pools across the floor — but even that warmth felt distant.

Lucienne gave you a sidelong glance over the rim of her own teacup. “You look like you’ve fought Cerberus and lost.”

“I think I did,” you muttered, voice hoarse. “In my dreams.”

She didn’t press. That was the unspoken agreement between the two of you — no prying unless asked. Still, her brow furrowed slightly, and her eyes scanned you like a page she couldn’t quite read.

You tried to take a sip of your tea — and the shadows beneath your chair twitched.It was subtle. A small, almost imperceptible ripple, like someone had dropped a pebble into a pool of ink. But Lucienne noticed, of course she did.Her eyes narrowed faintly.

You didn’t even feel it — not at first. But the longer you sat there, the more you realized something was wrong. The light in the room bent strangely around you, pooling unnaturally near your elbows. The shadow of your chair reached just slightly too far — like it was curious.

You forced a smile. “I think my magic’s drunk.”

Lucienne didn’t laugh. She set her teacup down gently, both hands flat on the table.

You looked down to see,that the shadow beneath your chair wasn’t still. It pulsed — slow, like a breath — expanding and contracting in sync with your heartbeat.

“That’s new,” you said weakly.

Lucienne was quiet for a beat. Then, in a measured voice she spoke up.“You are your father’s daughter.”

That earned a dry huff from you. “So I’ve been told.”

You rubbed your temples, the weight behind your eyes unbearable. “I just… I didn’t mean to do anything. I’m tired, that’s all. I can handle it.”

But even as you said it, the shadows curled tighter beneath you chair— like they didn’t believe you either.

Lucienne didn’t argue. She simply watched you for a moment longer, then reached for her cup again.

“Careful with the spellbooks today,” she said gently.

You ran a hand down your face, fingers catching at your temple where the headache had been building all morning.

“I should probably go,” you muttered. “Before I accidentally rip a hole in the floor.”

Lucienne nodded, but her gaze lingered. She didn’t comment on the fact that the shadow by your dress was still swaying — barely — even as you stood.

“Where are you headed?” she asked, rearranging the scattered parchment with a quiet precision.

“To check in on Abel,” you said, tugging the edge of your sleeve down where the fabric had wrinkled. “And maybe make sure his brother hasn’t turned him into a lawn ornament again.”

That pulled the faintest twitch from Lucienne’s mouth — something like approval.And then you slipped out, silent as a shadow, the library doors whispering shut behind you.

The wind shifted strangely the moment you crossed into their part of the Dreaming.It wasn’t ominous, not exactly — but it wasn’t right either.

You trudged up the little hill where their crooked house sat in its usual charming disrepair. From the outside, it looked quiet — until a shovel came flying out the window, narrowly missing a squirrel.

You knocked once on the half-hinged door, then let yourself in.

"Your Majesty!" Abel's voice, overly loud, overly cheerful, filtered through the chaos. He popped out of the kitchen, flour all over his shirt and what looked suspiciously like jam in his hair. “So good to see you! How’s married life? Are you here for tea or to stop Mervyn from strangling Matthew again?”

Before you could answer, a shadow near your foot twitched, and the room dimmed slightly.“Oh,” you said flatly. “Sorry. That’s… me.”

Abel blinked. “Oh. Um. That’s new.”

“I’m working on it.”

From the other room, a door slammed open. “Don’t let her near the curtains!” came Cain’s voice. “What if they bite me?!”

“Funny,” you called, even though technically maybe it could happen.You stepped further inside, trying to keep your footsteps steady. The shadows coiled sluggishly around your dress, reluctant to retreat even under your will.

You sat down stiffly on the edge of a misshapen armchair.“Don’t mind me. I just need some peace.”

Cain appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.The shadows at the end of your dress stretched again, just enough for Cain to edge sideways, keeping one eye on you.

“I swear, if you start levitating or chanting in some underworld tongue—”

“I’m too tired to curse you, Cain,” you muttered. “That takes effort.”

Cain tilted his head, assessing. “So something’s wrong.”

Abel opened his mouth, probably to offer a cookie or condolences or both, but you cut in first. “Don’t,” you said. “Don’t fuss.”

The vase in the corner — empty, cracked — wobbled faintly, its shadow crawling an inch up the wall before snapping back.Abel looked at it nervously.

Cain didn’t move. “Your power’s leaking.”

“I noticed.”

He studied you for a moment longer, then snorted. “Well. At least when you explode, it’ll be stylish.”

You shot him a look. “Comforting as always.”

Cain gave you a lopsided grin, arms still folded like he expected you to combust at any moment. Abel, of course, just looked mildly panicked and vaguely apologetic on Cain’s behalf.

Then, in a moment of uncharacteristic stillness, Cain tilted his head. “So. Just how dangerous are you, Princess?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You know. Daughter of Hades, all that.” He gestured vaguely with one hand. “You’ve got that whole spooky shadow aura leaking out. I’d say it’s a fair question.”

You exhaled slowly. “ Why do people always forget my mom? And to answer your question...honestly? I’m not sure anymore.”

Cain raised an eyebrow.

“I was trained in shadow manipulation since I was little,” you said. “Not just illusions or theatrics. Real shadowcraft — binding, tracking, shielding. And yes… destruction, if necessary.”

Abel’s eyes widened slightly, but you went on, voice flat.

“I can walk through places others can’t follow. Speak to things long since dead. Bend light away from me until it forgets I was ever there.”

Cain let out a low whistle.

“And then there’s the other stuff. I can bend someone's will.They call it charm in polite company. But we both know that’s not the right word.”

Cain seemed… satisfied. Maybe a little wary. “So in other words, you’re a one-woman apocalypse if someone really pisses you off.”

You shrugged. “I prefer the term efficiently trained.”

...

You spotted him before he turned his head.

The same bench,same stillness and the same impossible presence.

And somehow, just like yesterday — just like every time — something in you loosened.

Morpheus glanced up as you approached, the barest flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re late.”

“I’m exhausted,” you said, easing down beside him. “I deserve a medal for even walking here in a straight line.”

“You walked in a spiral,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes. “Semantics.”

Silence fell — not uncomfortable, just easy. The kind that stretched warm between two people who didn’t need to fill it. You leaned back against the bench, closed your eyes for a breath, and…everything inside you stilled.

The low hum of unstable magic that had been buzzing beneath your skin all day — the twitch of shadows, the restless static — faded to nothing. As though something vast and invisible pressed a hand over your chaos, quieting it.

You blinked, frowning slightly. Then looked at him.“You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you?”

Morpheus raised an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

You gestured vaguely at yourself. “Whatever this is. Calming me,putting my magic to sleep like I’m a snarling hellhound with a chew toy.”

He considered that for a long moment. “I would never offer you a chew toy.”

You gave him a tired smile. “You know what I mean.”

His gaze flickered downward, toward the faint wisps of shadow curling at your ankles — calm, obedient, barely visible.

“It is not intentional,” he said finally. “But the Dreaming does respond to me. And so do you.”

That shouldn’t have made your stomach flutter.You looked away quickly. God, your crush was getting worse and worse. But wait,he didn't feel the same,right? So he must have meant something mean.

You rubbed your arms, trying to ignore the buzzing fatigue under your skin. “Right. So I’m just part of your realm now. Like one of the trees that blooms when you pass.”

“I meant no insult.”

“No, of course not,” you muttered. “You never mean anything like that.”

He tilted his head. “You are exhausted. Perhaps it is best if you avoid visiting certain domains for a while. Rest and stay near the palace.”

You turned to him, blinking. “Wait—are you grounding me?”

“I am protecting you,” he said simply.

You straightened. “Oh, so now I’m a damsel. I can’t go see my friends because I didn’t sleep well?”

“Y/N.”

You let out a sharp breath, disbelieving. “No. You don’t get to say my name like that. Not when you’ve been ignoring what’s right in front of you.”

His brow creased, but he didn’t interrupt — didn’t speak, didn’t deny it.

You laughed once, dryly. “You knew how I was —and you—you, the King of Dreams—you just... what? Thought I was fine because I smiled at breakfast? God, Morpheus! I know you're extreamly saintly, but you could've intervened. For me.”

He stiffened, almost imperceptibly. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I wasn’t asking for you to invade my sleep,” you went on, voice rising. “I wasn’t asking you to shatter some cosmic law. I just… wanted you to ask. To see me.”

His voice was quiet when he finally spoke. “I did see you.”

That made you blink — caught somewhere between a scoff and heartbreak.

“Really? Because all I saw was a man buried in his duties. Fixing dreams, maintaining order, managing chaos — everything but the one person who needed him the most.”

“I thought… if you needed me, you would call for me.”

Your throat tightened. “And what if I couldn’t? What if I was too tired or too ashamed or—God—too scared to ask? Did you even look at me?”

“I did.” His gaze dropped for a second, as if the words pained him. “ I thought giving you space was the right thing to do.”

You blinked, stunned into stillness.

“I never wanted to overstep,” he added, quieter now. “I feared that if I stepped into your dreams without permission, I would hurt you more than help.”

Your voice was small when it came. “You didn’t have to step in. You just had to notice.”

Morpheus flinched — almost imperceptibly.“I see that now,” he murmured. “And I am sorry.”

He didn’t press. He only stepped closer, careful, like you were something sacred and scorched.“May I walk you back to our chambers?”

Your lips parted — to argue, to say you didn’t need walking, to remind him you were fine — but nothing came out.You just nodded.

The walk was quiet. The path through the Dreaming stretched long and winding in the golden light of dusk. You didn’t brush against each other, didn’t touch — but his presence, warm and steady beside you, said enough.

At your door, you both hesitated.“I won’t enter,” he said softly. “Unless you want me to.”

Your fingers curled loosely around the doorframe. You looked at him — truly looked at him. The way the stars caught in his eyes. The way guilt softened the usually sharp angles of his face.He wasn’t just the King of Dreams.He was your husband.

“Just…” you started, but faltered. “Just for a moment?”

His expression didn’t change — not visibly. But the way his shoulders eased, the way he breathed like he hadn’t in days — it told you what it meant to him.

He stepped inside.You didn’t speak as you moved through the room, lighting the small enchanted flame in the corner, slipping off your shoes. He stood near the bookshelf, hands clasped behind his back, trying not to look too closely, not to intrude.

But his eyes always found you.When you finally slid under the covers, every bone in your body ached with exhaustion. Not just physical — something soul-deep. The kind of tired that sleep alone couldn’t fix.

You turned to him. “Will you stay… while I fall asleep?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just approached — soundless as shadow — and sat gently at the edge of the bed.

“I will not enter your dreams,” he said. “Not unless you call for me.”

You closed your eyes. “I know.”

“I want you to rest,” he said, barely above a whisper. “And I will keep watch. As long as you need me to.”

For the first time in weeks, something eased in your chest.The dark didn’t feel so heavy anymore.And as sleep pulled you under, you felt the edge of his hand rest lightly on the blanket above your shoulder.

[crowsreiid]

⋆°·☁︎Dreambound part 5

⋆°·︎☁︎Morpheus x underworld princess!reader

Summary::A whole day of being teased and a new friendship.

Warnings:: Nothing that I can think of, please tell me if we're going too fast with the story🥺

You woke up smiling.

It was stupid. You knew it was stupid but your body didn’t seem to care, stretching with a kind of warmth that had nothing to do with temperature. It lived in your chest and fingertips. In the soft hum of contentment that lingered under your skin like starlight not yet faded.

Memories drifted up without your permission. The way his voice had sounded—lower than usual, gentler, like spoken velvet. The look in his eyes when he'd said you weren't a stranger. The weight of his hand at your back as he’d guided you toward your chambers, and the ghost of warmth it left long after he'd let go.

You turned over in bed and groaned into the pillow.Gods,you were acting like a teenager. Like some love-drunk mortal girl.And not even in a "let’s go out sometime" kind of way—more like a "you’re tired, go to sleep" kind of way. And it had still made your insides rearrange themselves.Pathetic, that's how you felt.Still, the smile tugged at your mouth again, uninvited.

You forced yourself upright and rubbed a hand down your face. The Dreaming waited, and thankfully, it didn’t care that you’d apparently become the protagonist in your own embarrassing coming-of-age novel. There were things to do, places to be, strange creatures to encounter. Possibly even coffee, if you could figure out where Mervyn kept the good beans.

You weren’t sure what time it was—not in the Dreaming sense, anyway—but that didn’t really matter. The sun here never quite behaved normally, and neither did anything else. The ceiling of your room glowed in soft lavender and deep gold.

You got dressed with unusual care. Nothing too obvious.Not for him, of course. A hint of color at the lips, a bit more attention to your hair. Just out of habit and personal pride. God,you were the only daughter of Hades himself — you had to look somewhat splendid.That’s what you told yourself, at least.

You stepped out into the hallway and let the castle breathe around you. Its walls stretched and yawned, reshaping themselves gently as you walked—hallways unraveling into curved staircases, light following you.The Dreaming had grown fond of you. You could feel it. The rhythm of it welcomed you like an old friend.

Maybe that was enough.Maybe today, you wouldn't obsess over his voice, or the way he’d looked at you like he saw all the versions of you—even the ones you hadn’t become yet.Maybe.

Your feet led you to the library before you even made the decision.It had become a habit—one you’d never meant to start, but now found oddly comforting. Maybe it was the books or the quiet. Maybe it was the way Lucienne always had tea ready without asking, like she somehow knew the exact moment you’d show up.

As you stepped through the tall archway, the library greeted you with its usual hush: books whispering on shelves, dust motes suspended in sunbeams that didn’t have a source, and Lucienne seated at her long desk, cataloging something with the kind of precision that made your brain itch just looking at it.She glanced up, already reaching for the extra teacup.

“Right on time,” she said, adjusting her glasses. “You know, this is beginning to look a lot like routine.”

You dropped into the armchair across from her and accepted the tea gratefully. “I thought you liked routines.”

“I like efficient routines,” she said, lips twitching. “This one’s grown increasingly inefficient. Yesterday we only talked about books for five minutes before spiraling into an entire conversation about whether Cain should be allowed to redecorate the gardens.”

You grinned. “To be fair, that man has violent opinions about landscaping.”

Lucienne raised an eyebrow. “And you’re enabling them.”

You sipped your tea, hiding your smile behind the rim. “Guilty.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It rarely was with her. Lucienne had that rare ability to fill space with presence alone, like the silence had been her idea in the first place.

Eventually, your eyes drifted to the open book at her desk. You tilted your head. “Is that one of the old tomes from the eastern wing?”

Lucienne nodded without looking up. “I’ve been trying to repair the binding. It's been resisting. Very stubborn text. I think it’s offended that I moved it.”

You leaned forward, peering at the book. “So it holds a grudge. Sounds familiar.”

Lucienne looked up sharply, gaze narrowing ever so slightly. “Are we still talking about the tome?”

You gave her a wide-eyed, innocent look. “Aren’t we?”

Her stare lingered for a beat too long, and then she shook her head with a soft, knowing sigh. “You’re in a good mood today.”

You shrugged, sipping again. “Must be the lavender tea.”

“Or the brooding entity you’ve been spending time with,” she said without missing a beat.

You didn’t answer, just swirled your tea around in the cup like it was suddenly the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen. The silence stretched again—longer this time—but not unkind.

“I’m glad,” she said finally, turning a page with care. “You’ve… shifted, lately. Something about you has settled.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that. Maybe because it was true.You’d stopped waiting for Morpheus to become someone he wasn’t. You started paying attention to the version of him that actually existed. Quiet, strange, complicated. And—though you still weren’t ready to admit it out loud—kind, in his own terrifying, ancient way.

“I think I’ve just stopped fighting the Dreaming,” you said instead. “Stopped trying to decode it.”

Lucienne gave a small smile. “Well,it was never meant to be decoded.”

You raised your cup in a mock toast. “Spoken like a true librarian.”

She inclined her head. “I do try.”

You were halfway through your cup when Lucienne spoke again—lightly, almost too lightly.

“So,” she said, not looking up from her work, “how is your husband?”

You nearly choked on your tea.Lucienne didn’t react. She simply turned another page in the ancient tome, like she hadn’t just launched a conversational dagger with perfect aim.

You cleared your throat. “Oh,you mean Lord Morpheus...He’s… well. He's brooding. You know— Classic.”

“Oh yes,” she said, voice smooth. “His favorite hobby.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m a librarian,” she replied, deadpan. “I observe.”

You set your cup down. “What exactly are you observing, Lucienne?”

She finally glanced up, arching a single brow. “Only that the two of you seem to spend a great deal of time on that bench lately. And that it’s been... peaceful.”

You raised your mug halfway to your lips, squinting at her over the rim. “Peaceful is a good thing, isn’t it?”

Lucienne hummed, a neutral little sound that somehow carried centuries of quiet amusement. “It is. Though some might say it borders on... intimate.”

You nearly choked on your tea.Lucienne didn’t even blink. “I’m merely observing. Conversations in the open air. Lingering silences. A certain softness in the air. Very literary.”

You set your cup down with exaggerated care. “You’re enjoying this.”

She offered a smirk. “Immensely.”

Lucienne tilted her head, like she was weighing something. “He’s softer with you.”

You blinked at her. “Softer?”

She nodded. “Not entirely open, of course. But... he listens more,lingers longer. As if he’s beginning to believe you’ll stay.”

That stunned you into silence for a beat too long.Lucienne, perhaps sensing she’d gone too far, looked back down at her papers. “But what do I know? I just keep the books.”

You exhaled through your nose, the kind of laugh that was equal parts affection and quiet terror. “You’re dangerous, Lucienne.”

“And you,” she said mildly, “are smitten.”

...

You found them in their usual spot near the eastern towers, where the air smelled faintly of smoke and oil, and a cloud of ash seemed to hover over the area like an ever-present ceiling.

Mervyn Pumpkinhead was hunched over some poor broken contraption—again. Wires dangled like entrails and something sparked every few seconds. Matthew, perched nearby on a metal beam, was pecking idly at a loose screw like it owed him money.

“Hey, look who decided to grace us with her royal presence,” Mervyn drawled without looking up. “Morning, Your Dreamy Majesty.”

You groaned, instantly regretting every decision that led to this point.“Don’t call me that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, dramatically slapping a hand to his wooden chest.

Matthew cackled. “She walked right into that one.”

You gave the bird your best deadpan glare. “I came here to have a peaceful moment. Not to be harassed by a pumpkin and a feather duster.”

“Oof,” Mervyn grinned, finally glancing up. “The claws are out. Wonder what’s got you in such a mood. Can’t imagine.” He waggled his brows—or rather, his carved brow ridges.

“I swear,” you muttered, “one more word and I’m telling Lucienne you broke another cleaning charm.”

Matthew tilted his head. “So... you and the boss. You’ve been spending a lot of time together lately.”

“And a lot of time not in this part of the castle,” Mervyn added. “In fact, we barely see you anymore. Someone’s got a new hobby.”

“I don’t— It’s not a—” You sighed. “You know what? No. I refuse to defend myself to two men who can’t go five minutes without making a mess or a pun.”

“Oof,” Matthew teased again, wings fluffing. “Classic deflection. Totally means something’s going on.”

Mervyn leaned closer like he was about to share the world’s juiciest gossip. “Let me guess: moody talks under starlight? Silences that feel meaningful? A brush of the hand that lingers a bit too long?”

You crossed your arms. “No.”

Matthew narrowed one beady eye. “Wait a second... you’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are!” Mervyn bellowed, standing so fast a bolt popped out of his machine. “Holy crap, she’s blushing. I thought you said the man didn’t know how to flirt!”

“He doesn’t,” you hissed. “That’s the problem!”

They both erupted into laughter, the kind that echoed off the stone walls and made you want to melt into the floor.

“Oh yeah,” Merv grinned. “She’s doomed.”

“You know,” Matthew added, hopping closer, “he’s not the easiest guy to figure out. But if he’s talking to you, he trusts you. That’s rare. Real rare.”

Your smile softened just a little.

“Still,” Mervyn smirked, “I give it three days before he does something stupid and romantic, like offering you a star or composing you a constellation or whatever the hell brooding gods do.”

“I hate you both,” you muttered.

But you stayed longer than you meant to. Maybe because their teasing, beneath all the sarcasm, was warm in its own chaotic way. Like a couple of gremlin uncles who secretly wanted you to be happy—even if they'd never admit it out loud.

“Okay, serious question,” you said, looking between the pumpkin-headed janitor and the oversized snitch bird. “How does everyone know?”

Mervyn paused, screwdriver mid-air. “Know what, exactly?”

You leveled him with a look. “Don’t play dumb. About me and... him.”

Matthew gave a theatrical shrug. “Oh, you mean how you’re suddenly all dreamy-eyed and moonlit and definitely not falling for the brooding lord of the realm?”

You groaned. “This is unbearable.”

“C’mon,” Mervyn grinned. “The dude’s got a vibe. And when that vibe shifts even slightly, the entire Dreaming feels it. He smiles one percent more than usual? Lucienne starts cataloguing it. He spends more than five minutes talking to someone without vanishing into mist? That’s front-page news, sweetheart.”

Matthew bobbed his head. “Plus, you’re not exactly subtle. You glow every time he looks at you like you’ve just been blessed by a moonbeam.”

“I do not glow.”

“You do,” they said in perfect, demonic harmony.

You threw your hands up. “Okay, but what if I was just trying to be nice? Or learn more about this place? That doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Sure, sure,” Mervyn said with a wink. “And I clean this place out of pure love for health codes.”

Matthew fluttered his wings dramatically. “Look, we’re not judging you. We’re just saying… the vibe’s different. He's different around you.”

Mervyn scratched at his wooden chin. “That kinda freaks you out, huh?”

You hesitated. “I just didn’t realize I was that visible.”

Matthew's voice was softer this time. “You’re not. But to us? You matter here,more than you think.”

It silenced you in a way that wasn’t heavy. Just grounding.Mervyn cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable with the sincerity. “Right, well. I’ve got a pipe to fix and a wall to yell at. You want more unsolicited advice, you know where to find us.”

“And next time,” Matthew added with a smirk in his tone, “try not to look so adorably flustered. It’s killing the boss’s whole aesthetic.”

You flipped him off on your way out—but your smile gave you away.

...

The sun was always in a strange place here.Perpetually low, like it hadn’t made up its mind about rising or setting—hanging there with just enough warmth to graze your cheek as you walked. The air was still.

You found him exactly where you expected.

On the old bench beneath the thornless tree, one leg crossed over the other, cloak folding around him like smoke. His gaze was somewhere distant, as usual, but the moment your footstep shifted a pebble, his eyes flicked to you.They softened immediately.

“Hi,” you offered, walking the last few steps.

He inclined his head. “Greetings.”

There were no grand declarations,no questions. Just space, carved out wordlessly, as he shifted slightly to make room beside him.You sat down.

For a moment, you just... breathed. The quiet between you was no longer awkward, not after so many visits. But you still felt a strange little flutter in your chest every time he looked at you like this—like you were worth observing.

“I spoke to Mervyn and Matthew today,” you said, voice casual, but testing.

His lips curved faintly. “That explains the mischief in your step.”

“You think I walk mischievously?”

He didn’t answer right away.Instead, his gaze drifted back toward the horizon, unreadable as ever. “You walk like someone with intention,” he said finally. “Whether that intention is mischief… I suppose only you know.”

You snorted. “That’s very on-brand for you. Vague, poetic, slightly accusatory.”

“That wasn’t meant as an accusation.”

You shrugged. “Didn’t say it was. Just saying—I’ve been here for a while now and I’m starting to decode your language.”

That earned the faintest quirk of his mouth, a twitch that might’ve been amusement.“I imagine that’s difficult,” he said.

“Oh, unbelievably,” you replied dryly. “Every conversation feels like I’m translating from riddles to metaphors and back again.”

“And yet, you persist.”

You glanced sideways at him, brow raised. “You sound surprised.”

“I am not.” He paused. “Merely… curious.”

He finally turned, dark eyes brushing over your form as if confirming your presence made something in the world align correctly. “Are you ready to meet the dreamer?”

You tilted your head. “Thought you'd never ask.Is that a trick question?”

“No.“But I would not take you unprepared.”

You gave a small shrug. “I don’t know if I’m prepared. I’ve never exactly traveled into someone else’s dream before. Do I need… shoes for this?”

That earned the tiniest twitch of his lips. “No shoes required. Only your consent.”

You blinked. “That sounds ominous.”

He stood then, smooth as shadow. “Dreams often are.”

You hesitated only for a second, then stepped closer. “Okay,” you said. “Let’s go dream-hopping.”

He didn’t reach for your hand, but there was a sudden shift in the air around you—cool, electric. Like the moment before falling asleep. Your vision wavered, the garden melting at the edges, until color and form dissolved completely.Darkness folded in on itself.Then came light and a pub.

Of all things—a slightly smoky, dim-lit pub, warm with laughter and the clink of glasses. You stood there blinking as the scent of old wood and ale hit your nose.

“What the hell—?”

Morpheus stepped forward beside you, utterly calm. “Welcome to one of Hob Gadling’s favorite dreams.”

You glanced at him, then at the crowded pub.

“Oh my god,” you muttered. “You’re introducing me to a dreamer in a bar.”

He gave a single nod. “He’s in his favorite century tonight. Be kind.”

Morpheus stopped a few feet away and spoke, voice like thunder.“Hob Gadling.”

Hob blinked, spun around—and immediately froze.“Bloody hell,” he breathed. “You—? Here?” Then his gaze flicked to you. “With someone?”

Morpheus didn’t smile, but his expression softened at the edges. “This is my wife.”

You blinked at the casual drop of the word, the way it rolled off his tongue like it wasn’t still new and strange and stitched into every weird beat of your heart.

Hob’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. “You got married?”

“Arranged marriage,” you clarified, as if that answered the entire question of the universe.You gave Hob a little wave. “Oh,— hi”

“Hi?” Hob repeated, still staring. “Hi? You—you married this man?”

You gave a tiny shrug. “An anthropomorphic personification...but yeah,sort of.”

He barked out a laugh and looked to Morpheus. “You just drop in here without warning, after you told me you may not come to our next meeting? And you bring your wife?”

“I thought it was time you met,” Morpheus said simply.

Hob blinked once.“Well,” he finally said, grinning wide, “you’ve just made this the best dream I’ve had in years. Come on, both of you—drinks are on me.”

You exchanged a glance with Morpheus, who gave a small nod.And just like that, you were being ushered into a booth, with Hob Gadling beside you, asking how on earth you ended up married to him—and Morpheus, across the table, listening like it wasn’t the most surreal night of your life.

[crowsreiid]

! New video of Manny BTS on the set of "Ironheart" !

[crowsreiid]

⋆°·☁︎Dreambound part 4

⋆°·︎☁︎Morpheus x underworld princess!reader

Summary::You grew curious about dreams. Morpheus gently walked you to rest, your bond quietly deepening. Also...is your hubby hot?

Warnings:: Morpheus is older than our dad (Hades) lmao

Ever since that evening on the bench—your first real conversation—things had shifted.

You weren’t sure if Morpheus would show up again the next day, but he did. And then again the day after that. Every afternoon, without fail, the two of you sat beneath that twisted silver-leaved tree just outside the castle. The conversations weren’t always deep—sometimes they weren’t even conversations at all. But he was there, and you were there, and that alone felt like progress.

He listened more now, you noticed that. He wasn’t warm, not quite, but the sharp edges had softened. And when he did speak, his voice felt gentler. Like he was learning how not to guard every word with armor.

You’d catch yourself waiting for that hour each day, glancing toward the garden before he arrived. That surprised you. You didn’t expect to care—not like this. But something about the silence between you had become comfortable, trusting, even.

This day was no different.You were already waiting when he arrived, the cool stone of the bench beneath you and the scent of dream-blooming jasmine curling through the air. The Dreaming never changed with the hour, but something about the sky always knew when it was your time. Soft, dusky violet—never quite night, never quite day. Just that suspended breath between.

Morpheus appeared without sound, as he always did. One blink and he was there, walking the path toward you like he hadn’t debated it for thirty minutes beforehand. You didn’t let your eyes linger too long. You knew better by now—he noticed everything.He sat beside you, same distance as always. Not too close, but not too far. Just enough space to feel the pull between you.

“Afternoon,” you said, casual as ever.

He glanced sideways, lips twitching almost imperceptibly. “Good afternoon.”

That was a new thing between you too. Full sentences. You pretended not to notice, stretching your legs out a little, watching the way the grass curled away from your boots like it was shy.

There was silence, but not the heavy kind. The type that settled into your bones like tea steam, familiar and non-threatening.

Then, after a pause, he spoke—softly, like someone unused to asking the question but trying anyway.“How was your day?”

You blinked. That wasn’t what you expected. Not because it was odd in itself, but because he was the one saying it. Morpheus, King of Dreams, infamous for long pauses and longer silences, initiating casual conversation.

You looked at him. “My day?”

He gave a small nod, hands folded neatly in his lap.

You bit back the urge to tease him—Oh, so we’re doing this now? Small talk?—and instead gave him something real. “Quiet. I spent most of it with Lucienne, as usual. She lent me a book she claims is ‘essential reading’ for anyone living in the palace.”

His mouth quirked at the corner. “She has strong opinions about essential reading.”

“That she does,” you smirked. “I like that about her.”

He nodded once more, eyes on the horizon. “She says you’re... adjusting well.”

You tilted your head at him. “She says that?”

“She does.” There was something in his tone that wasn’t just repeating words. Something like curiosity. Or hope. It made your chest ache a little, unexpectedly.

“I’m trying,” you said honestly. “I didn’t expect to like this place as much as I do. The Dreaming... it grows on you.”

He turned to you, properly now, studying you in that intense, still way he had. “It is not often that anyone new arrives and settles in so quickly.”

You raised a brow. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s an observation,” he replied, but the look in his eyes—warm and faintly amused—softened the words.

You watched him a moment longer before glancing back toward the gardens. “It’s a strange feeling,” you murmured. “Being part of something so vast. Everyone here has a place. Even the nightmares. But me? I’m still figuring it out.”

He didn’t respond right away. When he did, it was quiet. “Perhaps your place is still being written.”

You smiled faintly. “That’s poetic.”

“It’s true.” There was silence again, but this time it carried something else—mutual presence. Not comfort exactly, but an understanding. A thread being pulled taut between two distant points.He didn’t look at you, not directly. His eyes were fixed on some middle distance, as though seeing something that wasn’t there—was never there.

You cleared your throat. “Let me guess. You’ve had a productive day, ruling shadows and rearranging metaphors.”

“I mediated a dispute between two nightmares over a territory neither of them wanted,” he replied flatly. “Then I repaired a broken dream loop, and spoke with my sister.”

“Sounds exhausting,” you said, eyebrows raised.

“It was routine.”

“For you maybe.” You leaned back on your hands. “If I have to negotiate one more passive-aggressive teacup argument between Cain and Abel, I’m going to throw myself into Lucienne’s filing cabinet.”

That almost got a smile out of him. Almost.

You shifted your posture, brushing a stray thread off your sleeve. “I’ve been thinking.”

“About?”

You paused, trying to shape the thought before it came out misshapen. “I guess… I keep waiting for someone to tell me what to do here. Where to go. How to act. But no one’s really... assigning me anything.”

He nodded. “Because you are not a servant. You are not a prisoner. You are a princess — and my wife.”

“Which apparently comes with a pretty ring and zero instructions.”

“You do not need instructions,” he said simply.

You blinked at him. “You’ve barely known me.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “That’s not true. I’ve known you all your life. Through your dreams.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. That landed heavier than expected.He had probably seen every late-night spiral, every fragmented nightmare, every quiet hope you buried under sarcasm.

“That’s…” you exhaled. “Unsettling.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” He looked away, toward the horizon where stars blurred like watercolor. “I only meant that you are not a stranger here. Not to this realm. Not to me.”

You glanced down at your hands. The ring on your finger caught a faint flicker of starlight.

“So…” You drew your knees up slightly, turning to face him more fully. “You’ve seen them all? All dreams of mine? Even the ridiculous ones?”

He tilted his head. “Perhaps.”

You squinted at him. “That’s not a yes or no.”

A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crossed his expression. “Yes. I have. I crafted them myself.”

Your eyebrows rose. “Even the one where I was five, and married to a dragon that lived in a teacup?”

His lips twitched. “A noble creature. If slightly unorthodox.”

You groaned. “Gods.”

You rubbed your temples with a quiet laugh. “So the Lord of Dreams has known me since I was toddling around in ridiculous pajamas. No pressure.”

You tilted your head toward him, mock-curious. “That must be… disorienting. One minute I’m some kid dreaming about teacup dragons, and now—” you gestured vaguely at yourself, “—now I’m your wife. Weird, right?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted back toward the distant, starlit horizon.

“It is not... unpleasant,” he said at last. “But it is strange. Even for me.”

You leaned forward slightly, elbow resting on your knee. “Okay but seriously—how old are you?”

He turned back to you, one brow arching like a moonrise. “Older than language. Older than this world. I was shaped before Time knew how to crawl.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at the ring on your finger as if it might whisper you a better reaction — something clever,something cool,but nothing came.

Instead, your thoughts raced in a hundred directions and none of them led anywhere dignified.

He’d seen your dreams.Not just now, not just lately—your whole life. The monster-under-the-bed ones. The ones where you lost your teeth in the middle of a crowd. The ones where you flew, and cried, and kissed shadows. That was more than intimate. That was—mortifying.

Your stomach tightened. You felt transparent. Like you were standing there with no walls, no filter, no masks and that wasn’t the worst part.The worst part was that he didn’t seem fazed by it at all.

You were used to being unreadable and untouchable.And then... there was the other thing. He was much older than you ...older than your father,who just happened to be Hades.

You’d tried to laugh it off in your head, to move past it, but for some godforsaken reason your brain had decided to file that under deeply attractive.

Oh no.Oh no no no.You swallowed hard.

Now hold on.

Had you seriously just thought your husband was...attractive?

No.

Impossible.

Maybe.

A little...

Not like that.

Not in a we’re-married-let’s-make-out-on-this-magic-bench way.

You ran a hand down your face.It was just—he was ancient and timeless,dark and mysterious... broody. The way he spoke was like poetry bleeding into silence. That wasn’t your fault. That was classic 'mysterious man with a tragic backstory' bait.You sighed, you just liked older men.Big deal.

That didn’t mean you had feelings. It didn’t mean anything, really. Just an observation. A tiny, shameful, deeply repressed observation that you were now going to lock in a mental box and throw directly into the sea.

Where it belonged.

Along with every single memory of him saying 'you are not a stranger to me.'

You had the urge to groan and roll your eyes at yourself.You sat up a little too fast. “I—um—should go.”

He turned his head to you, calmly.“Are you unwell?”

“Not at all,” you said quickly. “Perfectly fine. I just forgot I... have things. Somewhere ...umm library things—yeah.”

His brow creased slightly. You could feel him watching you, calculating, maybe even concerned—but thankfully, he didn’t press.

“Goodnight, Morpheus,” you added, already taking a step back, palms damp.

“Goodnight,” he replied, low and even.

You didn’t look back until you’d passed the archway of the castle. He hadn’t moved,just sat there, quiet and unknowable, while the stars turned above him like they always had.

...

You found yourself in the library again, tucked between towering shelves and the hush of ancient paper.A predictable retreat, maybe—but comforting all the same.

You paced between the aisles for a bit, fingers trailing across spines you didn’t read. You weren’t even sure what you were looking for. Distraction? A brain transplant?

Eventually you settled in your usual chair. Opened a book you wouldn’t remember a single word from. Tried to make your face look neutral in case Lucienne walked by.Because this wasn’t about feelings.No,this was about power dynamics.

Of course you were uncomfortable. The man literally knew everything you’d ever dreamed about. That put him about a hundred steps ahead of you on the “getting to know your spouse” ladder. You were just trying to catch up. Level the field. Regain a little agency.That’s all.You weren’t being weird — he was.

And you absolutely didn't have a crush on your ancient, dream-walking, star-draped husband.You exhaled sharply through your nose and forced your attention to the text.

You pulled the book closer, eyes skimming a page on dream-symbolism that, frankly, felt a little too relevant. Slowly you started getting captivated by the book.

The more you read, the more the Dreaming unfolded in intricate layers. Books Lucienne had guided you to, texts penned in languages that shifted the longer you looked at them, volumes on the mechanics of dreamstuff, the nature of realms, and the difference between a dreamer and a dreaming.

There were parts written about your husband.The burden of ruling a place shaped by the minds of billions. The constant push and pull of control, creation, and surrender.No wonder he kept people at arm’s length.Still, you had questions and you wanted answers—from him.

But not today. You’d already seen him once, and there was no point in pressing too hard, too soon. Especially not when your cheeks still flushed.

So instead, you read — a lot.Books on ancient dream rituals, the anatomy of nightmares, case studies of dreamers who shaped entire realms in their sleep. You devoured them all. Scribbled down notes. Re-read paragraphs until the runes blurred.

The more you learned, the more impossible it seemed that someone like him existed at all.Which only made you more determined to understand him.Tomorrow, you promised yourself to ask.

...

The next evening arrived draped in soft indigo. The sky above the Dreaming had turned a dusky violet, stars pulsing like distant thoughts. You knew he’d be there—he always was now.

You approached with your usual cadence, neither hurried nor hesitant. He was already sitting, one leg crossed over the other, posture elegant but not stiff. His eyes found yours instantly.

“You're late,” he said softly, almost amused.

You raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe you’re early.”

That earned you the faintest upturn of his mouth.You sat beside him, careful not to sit too close. There was a rhythm to these moments, and you didn’t want to break it too quickly.

For a while, neither of you said anything. The silence wasn’t awkward. It rarely was anymore. You watched as the wind stirred the trees, and a trail of silver moths danced overhead in the warm dusk.Eventually, you inhaled.

“I’ve been reading,” you said.“I’ve been trying to understand the Dreaming. And dreams — how they work. How people shape them. How you shape them.” You looked at your hands, then up again. “I’ve seen what you’ve built. It’s beautiful and impossible. Terrifying, sometimes,but it means something.”

He didn’t interrupt, so you kept going.

“But I don’t get it. Not really. Not how it works. And… not how you work.”

“But I don’t get it. Not really. Not how it works. And… not how you work.”

This seemed to draw his attention more sharply. His gaze flicked to yours like a blade turning ever so slightly in the light.

“And you wish to?”

You nodded slowly. “I do.”

“Why?”

You opened your mouth, but the answer tangled in your throat. You couldn’t say because I want to understand you. That sounded too raw, too soon. Instead, you reached for the truth that felt safest.

“Because I live here now. Because this is part of me—whether I chose it or not. And because I don’t want to just float around, sipping tea and pretending I don’t care.”

He looked at you for a long time,as if reading past your face and into the thoughts underneath. But then, he nodded once.

“I can take you into someone’s dream,” he said simply. “Let you see what it’s like—from the inside.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He didn’t smile, but he nodded.

You stared at him, something tightening in your chest—curiosity, yes, but also something dangerously close to excitement. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What?”

“I can tell. You haven’t slept well.” His voice lowered, not unkindly. “You’ve been thinking too much.”

“Why not now?” you teased.

“Because the dreamer I want to take you to is asleep at particular hours.” His expression shifted—soft amusement. “And because you are tired.”

You shifted awkwardly.“I’m not that tired.”

Morpheus tilted his head. “You haven’t slept properly in days.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but couldn’t. He wasn’t wrong. The excitement, the reading, the endless spirals of thought—your mind had been loud lately.

Still, you scoffed lightly. “You’re not exactly the patron saint of healthy sleep habits either.”

Something flickered across his face. Amusement. Then something else—

something fonder.

“I may not sleep,” he said, voice low, “but I do know when someone needs it.”

Before you could reply, he extended a hand toward you.You stared at it,then at him. “Wait. What are you doing?”

“I’m taking you to bed.”

Your brain promptly short-circuited.“I—I can do that myself,” you stammered, flustered by how casual he was.

“I know,” he said, not moving his hand.The look in his eyes wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t cold or kingly. It was tender and simple.So you took his hand.

It wasn’t like touching a mortal. His palm was warm, yes, but also strangely weightless, as if part of him wasn’t fully made of flesh. As if he were silk pretending to be skin.

He led you gently—not rushed, not formal—through the winding halls of the palace. The stars outside cast delicate reflections on the marble floors, and everything was quiet.When you reached your chambers, he didn’t let go right away.

You turned to him. “Thank you. For… noticing.”

He studied your face, unreadable for a moment. “You’ve been pouring yourself into this realm. Into me. That does not go unseen.”

You tried not to react to the softness in his voice or how your stomach twisted in a way that wasn’t unpleasant.

“I’ll let you rest,” he added, stepping back.before he turned away, his eyes met yours."Sleep well"

You swallowed."Thank you"

He didn’t smile, not fully. But something in his expression eased—as if the line between king and husband blurred, just for a moment.And then he was gone.

[crowsreiid]

6000 years until again

Part 2: Time Machine

Warnings: aziracrow getting closer, 18+, doctor who references

Summary: after Armageddon, after the Ritz, after and before the kiss, after Metatron’s offer, and after something really bad happened

Our story continues in a familiar era, yet in such a distant place...

Even B.C. in the garden. With an apple, a woman named Eve and a man named Adam. A snake crawled out of the ground right at the feet of an angel. He suddenly changed into a human body, seeing this our angel friend wobbled a little around his axis. They talked, and a few thousand years later they were sitting as best friends at the Ritz, Crowley who had abandoned his snake nature and assumed his demonic appearance and the angel Aziraphale.

They looked happy at the end of Armageddon. They celebrated their victory with a bottle of wine.

However, something was brewing Up...

During Armageddon, we saw that our friend Crowley can stop time, but can he go back in time too?

When Aziraphale returned to the bookshop from his conversation with Metatron, Crowley decided to take Maggie's advice and confess his feelings to the angel.

He just didn't expect that Aziraphale would ask him otherwise. A way to heaven, he would get back his angelic nature, what could be more beautiful than that? The angel's thoughts revolved around this until the demon simply couldn't process all the information, but he knew one thing for sure: he didn't want to be in Heaven or Hell. With or without Aziraphale, but he doesn't want to.

And this is exactly where Crowley came back.

In his anger, he could not control his strength and at the same time he poured out his feelings and let them out.

An angel's power comes with great responsibility, but what about a demon who, by the way, used to be an angel? Wow, it's gonna be bad!

Of course, in this case there was no supernatural intervention, Crowley simply lost his temper and jumped back a few days in time.

He didn't know where either, he only realized when he noticed that he got into the same conversation where he lost Aziraphale a few days ago.

_________________________________

"Stop, stop!" he suddenly exclaimed.

Interrupting the angel's speech a few days ago. He couldn't get started on what would have led them to Crowley walking past the angel with his sunglasses on and Aziraphale going after him saying "Crowley come back..."

Aziraphale turned to see Crowley. He was confused because the demon was facing him before. He turned back he wasn't there, he turned back again and went closer to the demon.

"Crowley, I think something is wrong." he said strangely at the otherwise strange situation.

The demon, knowing what had happened, took a step that changed everything.

"Of course there is. Everytime is something wrong, but we can change that." he said with tears in his eyes. Aziraphale moved even closer seeing the demon's tears.

"What do you mean?"

Crowley cleared his throat.

"We've never talked about our feelings..." his voice trailed off.

Aziraphale's eyes widened, he suddenly didn't know what to say. Crowley, gathering his strength, decided that it was all or nothing and uttered the word that he had kept in his heart for so many years as a feeling that wanted to go away.

"I love you, angel."

The moment those two words left his mouth, the bookshop began to shake, and the books began to fall off the shelves at the same time.

Aziraphale perceived the situation somewhat dramatically and began to worry, but the demon's words rang in his ears and he simply could not ignore the words spoken.

They both took a step towards the other. Aziraphale, though afraid of the consequences, spoke his mind.

"Crowley I.. I love you too."

Suddenly, the earthquake-like shaking stopped. The angel took this as a good thing, so nothing stood in his way. - Just one touch - he thought...

Brought his hand to Crowley's face and wiped away the demon's tears.

"Don't cry." he said and held his face with his other hand too.

"Aziraphale..." he would have started, but the angel brought his hand to the demon's mouth, silencing him.

"Now this must be strange, but I have to admit that I like this thing between us."

For a moment, Crowley seemed to have misheard the angel's furrowed brows, then, seeing Aziraphale's sly smile, immediately smiled.

"I think you'll like this even more." he said, and with that moment he grabbed his waist and pulled him close to him, kissing him gently for the first time.

But the affection that had developed for roughly six thousand years suddenly overcame them and both the demon and the angel wanted more than a soft kiss.

_________________________________

Meanwhile, the real Aziraphale, who remained in the present in heaven away from Crowley, felt something very unusual in the air.

Something that was out of place.

Suddenly, Heaven's alarm went off and rang around the whole white place. Aziraphale rushed towards the alarm and, meeting the other angels, began to ask them questions.

However, he did not receive an answer.

Looking at the globe of the Earth, his eyes caught on something.

His bookshop. Disappeared.

But it didn't simply burned or trashed it cease to exist. At least in this time frame.

From a few days ago, however, it was still standing, and even loud noises were coming out of it, according to the neighbors, while Maggie and Nina happily understood what had happened and started having sweet coffees in Nina's cafe across the street.

Disapproving of the situation up in Heaven, Aziraphale thought he was looking into things and took out the notes from a few days ago.

He got stuck on a page where they wrote about the day when he ascended to Heaven and left Crowley there.

Deleted. Actually, everything about that day was continuously deleted.

The baby was born in the Malfoy family.

Well, not anymore. The baby never existed, and the Malfoy family adopted an orphan.

The battleship went to the Russians, not even that battleship was lost years ago, it was never found.

An earthquake destroyed Chinatown, there has never been an earthquake in Chinatown.

Aziraphale closed the book with fury, got up from his chair and looked at his desk as if another strange thing had happened and the book was nowhere to be found.

Just one sheet.

The page that only had one sentence on it.

"Crowley and Aziraphale crashed the whole world with one noise, and then the world slowly closed..."

"What?" he exclaimed.

Oh Crowley, you are in a fucking trouble...

[crowsreiid]

⋆°·☁︎Dreambound part 3

⋆°·☁︎Morpheus x underworld princess!reader

Summary::You adjust to the life in the Dreaming — your husband is rather absent.

Warnings::Emotional repression,angst,hints of death

It had been a week.

Seven full days since you had stood before all realms, bound by ancient rites and spoken vows, watched by gods and monsters and dreams alike. A week since the ring had slipped onto your finger ,sealing a fate you hadn’t chosen — and yet had accepted with your chin raised and your spine unbowed.

You hadn’t expected a love story. You weren’t naïve. But still you had expected something else.

The Dreaming was a realm of wonders, yes — endless halls that shimmered like stardust, libraries where the books whispered secrets to one another, skies that changed color with your moods. But it was also strangely empty, hauntingly silent. Especially in the castle. Especially where and when it mattered.

You saw him only in passing — the King. Your husband. Always dressed in black, always composed, always distant. If he wasn’t vanishing into the echoing corridors, he was locked away in that great obsidian chamber he called a throne room, speaking to ravens, to ghosts, to nothing at all.

And when you did speak it was only ever formalities.

“Good evening.”

“Do you require anything?”

“Sleep well.”

You tried to answer in kind at first. But politeness has a weight to it when it stretches too long, too thin. It becomes a silence all its own.

You’d imagined tension, maybe even resentment. Not absence.

Even when he was in the same room, he felt a thousand miles away. A shadow draped in melancholy, eyes like collapsing stars that never looked at you long enough to leave a mark. Sometimes he didn’t even acknowledge your presence. Not cruelly. Just as though he was afraid of something.

You had been married for seven days.And you had never felt more like a stranger in someone else’s kingdom.

And yet, the strangest part — the one you didn’t say out loud — was that you wanted to know him.

You didn’t understand it, not really. He wasn’t warm. He wasn’t kind. He wasn’t trying. And still, something in you kept drifting toward him.Maybe it was the loneliness in him, quiet and bone-deep, that mirrored your own.

You found yourself hoping, more than once, that he might one day look at you — not through you. Speak to you — not just past you. Maybe even sit beside you, not because the gods demanded it, but because he chose to.

But hope is a dangerous thing for a woman.Still, it refused to die.

Aside from Morpheus — who still treated you like a distant obligation — you had surprisingly built something resembling a life in the Dreaming.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t what you expected when they shoved a ring onto your finger and called it fate. But it was structure.You started building a routine. It was simple, silent and yours.

Every morning, after dressing yourself in whatever soft, flowing thing the attendants insisted on calling “ceremonial comfort,” you left the shared suite through the quieter door — the one Morpheus never used — and let your feet guide you through the endless, shifting corridors.

You knew your destination – the library.

Lucienne was always there, already seated with two cups of tea on a small table between tall shelves. You never asked how she knew you’d come. You never had to.

She greeted you with a nod and a dry, knowing glance. You answered with a raised brow and the smallest of smirks — the kind you reserved for people who didn’t feel the need to ask how you were.

Most mornings, the two of you spoke of books. Sometimes philosophy. Sometimes politics. Once, dreams of cats.It was the closest thing to ease you had in this kingdom.

And though Lucienne never said it aloud, you could tell that she knew you were trying to fit in.

Lucienne didn’t need to ask what was on your mind.She could read it between your pauses, in the way your fingers drummed softly against the teacup, how your eyes wandered the rows of ancient tomes without ever focusing on a single title.

"You seem distracted today," she said, calmly. She never pried. That was something you appreciated.

You lifted your gaze, offering a dry smile. “I’m married now. Isn’t distraction part of the deal?”

Lucienne gave a small breath of amusement and turned a page in the book resting on her knees. “I thought you’d be more curious.”

“About what? My brooding husband, who disappears before I wake up and says five words a day?”

“You’re exaggerating,My Lady. He says at least six.”

You actually laughed — a short, rough sound that surprised you more than it did her.

Lucienne adjusted her glasses and added gently, “He’s trying, in his own way.”

“He could try with words. That’d be refreshing.” you huffed.

There was a pause, filled only by the quiet ticking of some invisible clock.Lucienne’s voice softened. “I know you didn’t ask for this.”

You looked at her then — properly. No sarcasm in your voice this time. “No. But I also didn’t expect to feel like a shadow in my own home.”

Lucienne’s expression didn’t change much, but you saw it — the flicker of sympathy. The kind she didn’t show often.“Give him time,” she said. “He doesn’t know how to be close to people. He barely knows how to be around them.”

You stared into your tea. The steam curled up, delicate and warm.“I don’t need him to be close,” you murmured. “Just... human.”

Lucienne tilted her head thoughtfully. “He’s not human. And he is lonely.” You didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the tea a little longer.

Then, finally you answered.“Yeah. I know the feeling.”

Lucienne rested the book in her lap, adjusting her glasses thoughtfully. She looked at you from the corner of her eye, as though weighing something, then chose a different path entirely.“By the way, did you ever finish The Hollow Sovereign?”

You groaned dramatically. “Unfortunately. Three hundred pages of a guy staring out of windows and making cryptic remarks. Riveting.”

“I happen to think it’s an excellent character study,” Lucienne said evenly. “The way the Sovereign distances himself to keep his realm intact—how much he sacrifices, how utterly alone he is—”

You cut in with a wry smile. “Oh, spare me the tragic martyr speech. He’s a control freak with trust issues who pushes people away and then acts shocked when nobody stays.”

Lucienne’s eyebrows rose. “Or maybe he’s someone burdened by responsibilities you and I couldn’t even begin to understand. Maybe isolation is the only way he knows how to survive.”

You shrugged. “How utterly pathetic. You see too much in him.”

Lucienne narrowed her eyes. “You’re being unfair.”

You shrugged. “I’m being realistic. The whole time, everyone keeps offering him kindness, loyalty, love even—and he builds walls instead of doors. I don’t call that noble. I call that fear. And what about his poor wife? He doesn't even look at her.”

Lucienne’s fingers paused mid-turn of a page. She blinked slowly. “Uhm...Your Majesty,he doesn't have a wife in the story”

Your lips parted, then pressed back together in a tight line. You blinked, once. “Right,” you said flatly. “No wife. Of course.”

Lucienne tilted her head. “I assume you were thinking of someone else?”

You scoffed. “Well, obviously.” You placed your teacup down with deliberate care. “I was talking about—” You paused. There was no salvaging it. “Oh for heaven's sake, yes, I was talking about him — about my husband.”

Lucienne’s mouth twitched ever so slightly, but her eyes stayed patient. “I thought as much.”

You leaned back with a huff, tossing your hands up. “Gods. I can’t believe I just emotionally projected on a fictional man out loud in a library in front of a librarian.”

She folded the book and closed it gently. “It happens more often than you’d think.”

You pointed at her. “That was judgmental and I felt it.” you exhaled sharply, eyes rolling. “Fine. Yes. My husband has the emotional range of a stone statue. Yes, I’m bitter. And yes, apparently I’m now channeling that bitterness through tragic royal protagonists.”

Lucienne gave a thoughtful nod. “At least you’re self-aware.”

“I’d rather be less aware and more married,” you muttered under your breath.She pretended not to hear that one.

You pushed your chair back with a soft scrape, rising to your feet as if the weight of your own commentary had finally exhausted you. “Alright. That’s enough public self-reflection for one morning.”

Lucienne gave a quiet smile. “It was hardly public.”

“Well, you were here,” you said, gathering your shawl with a theatrical flick. “And you count. You're terrifyingly observant.”

“It's part of the job,” she replied mildly.

You turned toward the towering doorway, already mentally preparing yourself for the next social challenge. “I'm going to see how the kingdom’s favorite dysfunctional brothers are doing. With any luck, Cain’s only tried to kill Abel once today.”

Lucienne arched a brow. “They’ve actually been unusually quiet.”

You squinted. “Now that’s alarming.”

You paused in the doorway and turned back, leaning one arm against the stone arch, head tilted. “Thanks for the tea. And the passive-aggressive therapy session.”

Lucienne merely inclined her head. “Any time. And...Your Majesty” You looked over your shoulder.

“You’re not wrong about him. But walls can be dismantled... if someone is willing to keep knocking.”

You exhaled, slowly. The words hit somewhere inconvenient. “Yeah. Next time I'll bring Thor's hammer.”

Lucienne said nothing more. She simply returned to her reading, but the weight of her gaze followed you until you slipped out into the winding halls of the castle once more.

You muttered to yourself as your boots clicked softly against the stone. “Fantastic. I came for tea and left with metaphors.”

...

The winding paths of the Dreaming never looked the same twice.One day they curved like rivers, the next like veins. Today, they straightened just enough to lead you to Cain and Abel’s little patch of madness—past a dead tree that was somehow always blooming, and a mailbox that occasionally barked if you didn’t knock properly.You made sure to knock.

Cain opened the door with his usual dramatic flourish, brow raised like he expected bad news or an apology—possibly both. “Ah. Your Highness.”

Behind him, Abel’s head popped out from behind a curtain, face lighting up. “Your Highness! You’re just in time, we were—Cain was—well, there was tea, before someone knocked it over. And the biscuits—though Cain says they were actually poisoned.”

“They were experiments,” Cain corrected. “Also, possibly cursed.”

You raised both brows. “You two are the definition of hospitality.”

Cain stepped aside, with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “Enter, Princess of Pity.”

You strolled past him like the royal title was official, nodding regally. “Why, thank you, Duke of Delusion.”

The inside of their cottage looked like a library had exploded and been partially stitched back together with bad decisions. Scrolls, books, maps, things in jars—some of which blinked at you.

You took your usual spot on the sagging couch, careful to avoid the corner that had tried to eat your cloak last time.

“Tea or water?” Abel offered hopefully.

“Water,I already had tea. And I’ll take the non-cursed kind,” you said.

Abel brightened. “As you wish.”

Cain muttered, “Asskisser.”

“Anyway,” you sighed, settling in. “Distract me. Please. Pretend I’m not in an arranged marriage with a man who talks less than my fork.”

Cain poured you a glass of water and handed it over. “You knew what you were getting into.”

“No, actually, I didn’t,” you replied,lifting the glass. “I assumed brooding and mysterious had an off-switch. Or at least a personality somewhere under all the silence.”

Abel sat beside you, hands fiddling nervously. “You seem unhappy.”

You paused then smiled, dry and thin. “No. I just had expectations. You know, like maybe my husband would say good morning once in a while without looking like it physically pains him.”

Cain took a loud sip of his tea, eyeing you over the rim. “He’s been like this for eons. You’re not special.”

You smirked. “Thanks for the reality check.”

“But,” Abel added gently, “you might be the first person to ever try anyway.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Not here. You let it stretch, your eyes drifting across the cluttered room—at the frayed books and crooked paintings and Abel’s hopeful little birdhouses lining the windowsill.This was chaos. But at least it was warm.

...

You found Mervyn Pumpkinhead sitting on a crumbling stone wall near the outskirts of the castle, puffing a cigar and looking like the embodiment of 'I don't get paid enough for this.'

Matthew was perched nearby, wings fluffed up against the slight breeze, watching something that may or may not have been real scuttle across the clouds.

“Look who survived another week in the royal mausoleum,” Merv grunted as you approached.

You crossed your arms, raising a brow. “I thought you’d be proud.”

“Of what? That you haven’t snapped and turned him into a toad yet? Sure. Gold star, sweetheart.”

Matthew gave an exaggerated sigh. “Don’t listen to him, he’s been extra grumpy lately. Something about Lucienne reorganizing the storage scrolls.”

“They were in order,” Merv muttered darkly.

You sat down beside them, legs crossed at the ankle, gaze wandering toward the distant towers of the castle. “You know… I’m starting to think he really is made of fog and bad decisions.”

“Boss ain’t that bad,” Matthew said gently. “Just, y’know… emotionally constipated.”

You huffed a laugh. “Charming.”

“He doesn’t hate you, y’know,” Matthew continued, tilting his head. “He’s just… old. Set in his ways. And people—feelings—they’re not something he navigates well.”

Merv grunted. “Understatement of the millennium.”

You stared down at your hands. “He barely talks to me.”

“He doesn’t talk to anyone,” Matthew said. “Well, except Lucienne. And sometimes me. If I pester him enough.”

You glanced up. “So the trick is pestering?”

“No,” Merv chimed in. “The trick is effort. Which, sorry, princess, you haven’t exactly been overflowing with.”

You shot him a look. “Excuse me?”

“Look, I’m not saying it’s your fault,” Merv shrugged, smoke curling from his mouth. “But the guy is made of shadows and regrets. You don’t knock, he’s not opening. That’s just how it is.”

You leaned your hip against the side of the wall, arms crossed. “Right. So it’s on me to keep knocking, even if the door’s clearly sealed shut with ancient cosmic trauma.”

Merv gave you a lopsided grin, ash falling from the end of his cigar. “Now you’re gettin’ it.”

Matthew ruffled his feathers on your shoulder. “I mean, not entirely on you. The boss has his issues, sure. But he also listens, even if it looks like he’s not. You ever notice how he remembers everything?”

You did. It was almost unsettling. You’d mentioned offhandedly once that you liked jasmine tea — and without a word, that’s what had appeared in your cup the next morning. The problem wasn’t inattention. It was distance. Controlled, suffocating distance.

You sighed. “You think I should...what? Bake him a cake? Write him a poem? Casually cry in his general direction until he processes something?”

Matthew squawked a laugh. “God, no. Just... show up. Be around. Let him see you trying.”

“And what if I stop trying and he doesn’t even notice?” you asked, quieter than before. “What if it wouldn’t make a difference?”

Merv’s eyes softened, just for a blink. “Then at least you’ll know you gave a damn. And that counts for something.”

The silence stretched between the three of you. Not heavy, but thoughtful. Merv puffed again, and Matthew stretched one wing.

You straightened up. “Alright. That’s enough emotional vulnerability for one day. I’m off to emotionally pace somewhere dramatically.”

Matthew chuckled as you started walking away. “That’s the spirit.”

“Try not to overthink it,” Merv called after you. “He already does enough of that for the both of you.”

...

It had been a long day.Not dramatically so—just full of small, persistent irritations. Too many polite smiles. Too many glances that lingered a little too long. Too much silence from the one person who technically mattered most.So you went for a walk.

You weren’t looking for him.But as you rounded the edge of the gardens, there he was your husband — Morpheus, sitting alone on a stone bench beneath a slender tree that barely offered shade. Elbows on knees, hands folded, staring out into some distance only he could see.

Your first instinct was to turn around.The second said, no—enough of this.You approached, arms crossed. “Greetings,Dream.”

He looked up. No smile—but no sharpness either. “Greetings”

"What are you looking for?"

“I was seeking quiet.” he answered simply.

“And did you find it?”

He paused for a second before deciding to answer. “Until you arrived.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Charming. Can’t wait to hear your anniversary toast.”

Something in his expression flickered. Not quite a smile—but something almost like appreciation. He shifted to the side slightly, a silent offer. You took the seat beside him, leaving a few respectful inches between.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. The sky above the Dreaming was a strange shade of twilight: too blue to be night, too shadowed to be day.

Then, unexpectedly, he said, “I’ve heard from the others... that you’ve been adapting well.”

You shrugged. “Wasn’t that hard.”

He didn’t respond to that. Just stared straight ahead, fingers flexing slightly in his lap.“And you?” he asked, softly. “How do you find it here?”

You glanced at him, surprised. It was the first time he’d asked you anything that wasn’t a logistical formality.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Sometimes it feels like I’m just... visiting. Like everyone’s being polite because no one actually believes I’ll be here long enough to matter.”

He nodded slowly. “The Dreaming adapts slowly. Not just its inhabitants... the realm itself. But I don’t regret that you’re here.”

That landed heavier than you expected.

You tilted your head. “That’s the longest sentence you’ve said to me since our wedding.”

A ghost of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. Tired and wry. “It may be.”

He was quiet for a moment, then shook his head slightly.“I owe you an apology,” he said. His voice was low, but steady. “I’ve neglected you. Not out of cruelty. Only... because I don’t always know how to begin.”

You didn’t interrupt. You just listened,that seemed to matter.

“I have... responsibilities,” he continued, gaze fixed on the horizon. “Things that weigh heavily, often invisibly. But it isn’t just that. I struggle with this—connection. Conversation. I know it must seem as though I’m pushing you away.”

You let the silence settle a moment before answering. “I get it.”He finally turned to look at you.

“I mean it,” you said, smiling softly. “It’s okay if you’re quiet. Some people just are. The right company doesn’t need noise to be good company.”

His expression didn’t shift much, but there was something different in his eyes now. Less distance and more thoughtfulness.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

You gave a light shrug, teasing. “Well, try not to vanish for another week and we’ll call it progress.”

A breath left him—maybe not quite a laugh, but something warm enough to count.Morpheus sat still for a moment, long fingers resting on his knees as though holding the weight of something unseen. The sky over the Dreaming had shifted into shades of dusky lavender, the castle casting elongated shadows across the quiet grounds. You didn’t say anything at first. You didn’t need to. The silence between you had a shape of its own—wary, tentative, but not unkind.

Finally, his voice broke through it. Low. Careful.“There is something I did not tell you.”

You glanced sideways. “Well, this should be fun.”

He didn’t smile, but he didn’t pull away either.“My brother,” he said quietly. “Destiny.”

You raised a brow. “The one with the big book and zero sense of humor?”

A faint exhale through Morpheus’s nose. Not quite a laugh, but close. “Yes. That one. Some time ago… he spoke of a fall. A great fall. One of the Endless would fall. A king.”

Your heart stilled for a second, breath caught between one moment and the next.He didn’t look at you—just stared ahead into the twilight.

“He did not say who. Only that it would be soon. And final.”

You swallowed. “And you think it’s going to be you.”

“I do,” he said simply. “And if that is true… then there was little point in trying to build something I would not be here to protect. To preserve.”

You didn’t speak right away. There was a dull ache behind your ribs, and for once, it wasn’t just frustration—it was something heavier. Something more fragile.

“That’s not fair,” you said finally, voice quieter. “That’s not your choice to make alone.”

“I did not wish to give you false hope. Or waste what little time you might have in peace.”

You turned toward him fully, searching his face. He looked tired, like the stars themselves had worn him down from the inside out. But beneath the distance, the restraint—there was fear.

“Well,” you said softly, “then I hope Destiny’s wrong.”

He turned to you, and for once, didn’t look away.“And if he’s not?” he asked.

“Then I’ll be at your side when it happens,” you replied, firm but not cold. “ I’ll fight with you.”

Something loosened in his shoulders, just slightly.He tilted his head.

“I do not deserve your loyalty,” he said after a beat, voice softer than you'd ever heard it.

You scoffed lightly. “That’s not really your call, is it?”

A long silence stretched between you. Not cold. Just full of things unsaid. But not forever.“I should return,” he murmured, finally rising to his feet with the slow, unhurried grace of someone carved from shadow and time. “There are matters I must attend.”

You nodded, standing as well, brushing the imaginary dust from your skirts. “Of course. Dream King duties and all that.”

He looked at you again—longer, this time.And then he was gone,but it felt different now. Not like a door closing,but more like the beginning of a hallway finally opening.

[crowsreiid]

⋆°·☁︎Dreambound part 3

⋆°·☁︎Morpheus x underworld princess!reader

Summary::You adjust to the life in the Dreaming — your husband is rather absent.

Warnings::Emotional repression,angst,hints of death

It had been a week.

Seven full days since you had stood before all realms, bound by ancient rites and spoken vows, watched by gods and monsters and dreams alike. A week since the ring had slipped onto your finger ,sealing a fate you hadn’t chosen — and yet had accepted with your chin raised and your spine unbowed.

You hadn’t expected a love story. You weren’t naïve. But still you had expected something else.

The Dreaming was a realm of wonders, yes — endless halls that shimmered like stardust, libraries where the books whispered secrets to one another, skies that changed color with your moods. But it was also strangely empty, hauntingly silent. Especially in the castle. Especially where and when it mattered.

You saw him only in passing — the King. Your husband. Always dressed in black, always composed, always distant. If he wasn’t vanishing into the echoing corridors, he was locked away in that great obsidian chamber he called a throne room, speaking to ravens, to ghosts, to nothing at all.

And when you did speak it was only ever formalities.

“Good evening.”

“Do you require anything?”

“Sleep well.”

You tried to answer in kind at first. But politeness has a weight to it when it stretches too long, too thin. It becomes a silence all its own.

You’d imagined tension, maybe even resentment. Not absence.

Even when he was in the same room, he felt a thousand miles away. A shadow draped in melancholy, eyes like collapsing stars that never looked at you long enough to leave a mark. Sometimes he didn’t even acknowledge your presence. Not cruelly. Just as though he was afraid of something.

You had been married for seven days.And you had never felt more like a stranger in someone else’s kingdom.

And yet, the strangest part — the one you didn’t say out loud — was that you wanted to know him.

You didn’t understand it, not really. He wasn’t warm. He wasn’t kind. He wasn’t trying. And still, something in you kept drifting toward him.Maybe it was the loneliness in him, quiet and bone-deep, that mirrored your own.

You found yourself hoping, more than once, that he might one day look at you — not through you. Speak to you — not just past you. Maybe even sit beside you, not because the gods demanded it, but because he chose to.

But hope is a dangerous thing for a woman.Still, it refused to die.

Aside from Morpheus — who still treated you like a distant obligation — you had surprisingly built something resembling a life in the Dreaming.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t what you expected when they shoved a ring onto your finger and called it fate. But it was structure.You started building a routine. It was simple, silent and yours.

Every morning, after dressing yourself in whatever soft, flowing thing the attendants insisted on calling “ceremonial comfort,” you left the shared suite through the quieter door — the one Morpheus never used — and let your feet guide you through the endless, shifting corridors.

You knew your destination – the library.

Lucienne was always there, already seated with two cups of tea on a small table between tall shelves. You never asked how she knew you’d come. You never had to.

She greeted you with a nod and a dry, knowing glance. You answered with a raised brow and the smallest of smirks — the kind you reserved for people who didn’t feel the need to ask how you were.

Most mornings, the two of you spoke of books. Sometimes philosophy. Sometimes politics. Once, dreams of cats.It was the closest thing to ease you had in this kingdom.

And though Lucienne never said it aloud, you could tell that she knew you were trying to fit in.

Lucienne didn’t need to ask what was on your mind.She could read it between your pauses, in the way your fingers drummed softly against the teacup, how your eyes wandered the rows of ancient tomes without ever focusing on a single title.

"You seem distracted today," she said, calmly. She never pried. That was something you appreciated.

You lifted your gaze, offering a dry smile. “I’m married now. Isn’t distraction part of the deal?”

Lucienne gave a small breath of amusement and turned a page in the book resting on her knees. “I thought you’d be more curious.”

“About what? My brooding husband, who disappears before I wake up and says five words a day?”

“You’re exaggerating,My Lady. He says at least six.”

You actually laughed — a short, rough sound that surprised you more than it did her.

Lucienne adjusted her glasses and added gently, “He’s trying, in his own way.”

“He could try with words. That’d be refreshing.” you huffed.

There was a pause, filled only by the quiet ticking of some invisible clock.Lucienne’s voice softened. “I know you didn’t ask for this.”

You looked at her then — properly. No sarcasm in your voice this time. “No. But I also didn’t expect to feel like a shadow in my own home.”

Lucienne’s expression didn’t change much, but you saw it — the flicker of sympathy. The kind she didn’t show often.“Give him time,” she said. “He doesn’t know how to be close to people. He barely knows how to be around them.”

You stared into your tea. The steam curled up, delicate and warm.“I don’t need him to be close,” you murmured. “Just... human.”

Lucienne tilted her head thoughtfully. “He’s not human. And he is lonely.” You didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the tea a little longer.

Then, finally you answered.“Yeah. I know the feeling.”

Lucienne rested the book in her lap, adjusting her glasses thoughtfully. She looked at you from the corner of her eye, as though weighing something, then chose a different path entirely.“By the way, did you ever finish The Hollow Sovereign?”

You groaned dramatically. “Unfortunately. Three hundred pages of a guy staring out of windows and making cryptic remarks. Riveting.”

“I happen to think it’s an excellent character study,” Lucienne said evenly. “The way the Sovereign distances himself to keep his realm intact—how much he sacrifices, how utterly alone he is—”

You cut in with a wry smile. “Oh, spare me the tragic martyr speech. He’s a control freak with trust issues who pushes people away and then acts shocked when nobody stays.”

Lucienne’s eyebrows rose. “Or maybe he’s someone burdened by responsibilities you and I couldn’t even begin to understand. Maybe isolation is the only way he knows how to survive.”

You shrugged. “How utterly pathetic. You see too much in him.”

Lucienne narrowed her eyes. “You’re being unfair.”

You shrugged. “I’m being realistic. The whole time, everyone keeps offering him kindness, loyalty, love even—and he builds walls instead of doors. I don’t call that noble. I call that fear. And what about his poor wife? He doesn't even look at her.”

Lucienne’s fingers paused mid-turn of a page. She blinked slowly. “Uhm...Your Majesty,he doesn't have a wife in the story”

Your lips parted, then pressed back together in a tight line. You blinked, once. “Right,” you said flatly. “No wife. Of course.”

Lucienne tilted her head. “I assume you were thinking of someone else?”

You scoffed. “Well, obviously.” You placed your teacup down with deliberate care. “I was talking about—” You paused. There was no salvaging it. “Oh for heaven's sake, yes, I was talking about him — about my husband.”

Lucienne’s mouth twitched ever so slightly, but her eyes stayed patient. “I thought as much.”

You leaned back with a huff, tossing your hands up. “Gods. I can’t believe I just emotionally projected on a fictional man out loud in a library in front of a librarian.”

She folded the book and closed it gently. “It happens more often than you’d think.”

You pointed at her. “That was judgmental and I felt it.” you exhaled sharply, eyes rolling. “Fine. Yes. My husband has the emotional range of a stone statue. Yes, I’m bitter. And yes, apparently I’m now channeling that bitterness through tragic royal protagonists.”

Lucienne gave a thoughtful nod. “At least you’re self-aware.”

“I’d rather be less aware and more married,” you muttered under your breath.She pretended not to hear that one.

You pushed your chair back with a soft scrape, rising to your feet as if the weight of your own commentary had finally exhausted you. “Alright. That’s enough public self-reflection for one morning.”

Lucienne gave a quiet smile. “It was hardly public.”

“Well, you were here,” you said, gathering your shawl with a theatrical flick. “And you count. You're terrifyingly observant.”

“It's part of the job,” she replied mildly.

You turned toward the towering doorway, already mentally preparing yourself for the next social challenge. “I'm going to see how the kingdom’s favorite dysfunctional brothers are doing. With any luck, Cain’s only tried to kill Abel once today.”

Lucienne arched a brow. “They’ve actually been unusually quiet.”

You squinted. “Now that’s alarming.”

You paused in the doorway and turned back, leaning one arm against the stone arch, head tilted. “Thanks for the tea. And the passive-aggressive therapy session.”

Lucienne merely inclined her head. “Any time. And...Your Majesty” You looked over your shoulder.

“You’re not wrong about him. But walls can be dismantled... if someone is willing to keep knocking.”

You exhaled, slowly. The words hit somewhere inconvenient. “Yeah. Next time I'll bring Thor's hammer.”

Lucienne said nothing more. She simply returned to her reading, but the weight of her gaze followed you until you slipped out into the winding halls of the castle once more.

You muttered to yourself as your boots clicked softly against the stone. “Fantastic. I came for tea and left with metaphors.”

...

The winding paths of the Dreaming never looked the same twice.One day they curved like rivers, the next like veins. Today, they straightened just enough to lead you to Cain and Abel’s little patch of madness—past a dead tree that was somehow always blooming, and a mailbox that occasionally barked if you didn’t knock properly.You made sure to knock.

Cain opened the door with his usual dramatic flourish, brow raised like he expected bad news or an apology—possibly both. “Ah. Your Highness.”

Behind him, Abel’s head popped out from behind a curtain, face lighting up. “Your Highness! You’re just in time, we were—Cain was—well, there was tea, before someone knocked it over. And the biscuits—though Cain says they were actually poisoned.”

“They were experiments,” Cain corrected. “Also, possibly cursed.”

You raised both brows. “You two are the definition of hospitality.”

Cain stepped aside, with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “Enter, Princess of Pity.”

You strolled past him like the royal title was official, nodding regally. “Why, thank you, Duke of Delusion.”

The inside of their cottage looked like a library had exploded and been partially stitched back together with bad decisions. Scrolls, books, maps, things in jars—some of which blinked at you.

You took your usual spot on the sagging couch, careful to avoid the corner that had tried to eat your cloak last time.

“Tea or water?” Abel offered hopefully.

“Water,I already had tea. And I’ll take the non-cursed kind,” you said.

Abel brightened. “As you wish.”

Cain muttered, “Asskisser.”

“Anyway,” you sighed, settling in. “Distract me. Please. Pretend I’m not in an arranged marriage with a man who talks less than my fork.”

Cain poured you a glass of water and handed it over. “You knew what you were getting into.”

“No, actually, I didn’t,” you replied,lifting the glass. “I assumed brooding and mysterious had an off-switch. Or at least a personality somewhere under all the silence.”

Abel sat beside you, hands fiddling nervously. “You seem unhappy.”

You paused then smiled, dry and thin. “No. I just had expectations. You know, like maybe my husband would say good morning once in a while without looking like it physically pains him.”

Cain took a loud sip of his tea, eyeing you over the rim. “He’s been like this for eons. You’re not special.”

You smirked. “Thanks for the reality check.”

“But,” Abel added gently, “you might be the first person to ever try anyway.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Not here. You let it stretch, your eyes drifting across the cluttered room—at the frayed books and crooked paintings and Abel’s hopeful little birdhouses lining the windowsill.This was chaos. But at least it was warm.

...

You found Mervyn Pumpkinhead sitting on a crumbling stone wall near the outskirts of the castle, puffing a cigar and looking like the embodiment of 'I don't get paid enough for this.'

Matthew was perched nearby, wings fluffed up against the slight breeze, watching something that may or may not have been real scuttle across the clouds.

“Look who survived another week in the royal mausoleum,” Merv grunted as you approached.

You crossed your arms, raising a brow. “I thought you’d be proud.”

“Of what? That you haven’t snapped and turned him into a toad yet? Sure. Gold star, sweetheart.”

Matthew gave an exaggerated sigh. “Don’t listen to him, he’s been extra grumpy lately. Something about Lucienne reorganizing the storage scrolls.”

“They were in order,” Merv muttered darkly.

You sat down beside them, legs crossed at the ankle, gaze wandering toward the distant towers of the castle. “You know… I’m starting to think he really is made of fog and bad decisions.”

“Boss ain’t that bad,” Matthew said gently. “Just, y’know… emotionally constipated.”

You huffed a laugh. “Charming.”

“He doesn’t hate you, y’know,” Matthew continued, tilting his head. “He’s just… old. Set in his ways. And people—feelings—they’re not something he navigates well.”

Merv grunted. “Understatement of the millennium.”

You stared down at your hands. “He barely talks to me.”

“He doesn’t talk to anyone,” Matthew said. “Well, except Lucienne. And sometimes me. If I pester him enough.”

You glanced up. “So the trick is pestering?”

“No,” Merv chimed in. “The trick is effort. Which, sorry, princess, you haven’t exactly been overflowing with.”

You shot him a look. “Excuse me?”

“Look, I’m not saying it’s your fault,” Merv shrugged, smoke curling from his mouth. “But the guy is made of shadows and regrets. You don’t knock, he’s not opening. That’s just how it is.”

You leaned your hip against the side of the wall, arms crossed. “Right. So it’s on me to keep knocking, even if the door’s clearly sealed shut with ancient cosmic trauma.”

Merv gave you a lopsided grin, ash falling from the end of his cigar. “Now you’re gettin’ it.”

Matthew ruffled his feathers on your shoulder. “I mean, not entirely on you. The boss has his issues, sure. But he also listens, even if it looks like he’s not. You ever notice how he remembers everything?”

You did. It was almost unsettling. You’d mentioned offhandedly once that you liked jasmine tea — and without a word, that’s what had appeared in your cup the next morning. The problem wasn’t inattention. It was distance. Controlled, suffocating distance.

You sighed. “You think I should...what? Bake him a cake? Write him a poem? Casually cry in his general direction until he processes something?”

Matthew squawked a laugh. “God, no. Just... show up. Be around. Let him see you trying.”

“And what if I stop trying and he doesn’t even notice?” you asked, quieter than before. “What if it wouldn’t make a difference?”

Merv’s eyes softened, just for a blink. “Then at least you’ll know you gave a damn. And that counts for something.”

The silence stretched between the three of you. Not heavy, but thoughtful. Merv puffed again, and Matthew stretched one wing.

You straightened up. “Alright. That’s enough emotional vulnerability for one day. I’m off to emotionally pace somewhere dramatically.”

Matthew chuckled as you started walking away. “That’s the spirit.”

“Try not to overthink it,” Merv called after you. “He already does enough of that for the both of you.”

...

It had been a long day.Not dramatically so—just full of small, persistent irritations. Too many polite smiles. Too many glances that lingered a little too long. Too much silence from the one person who technically mattered most.So you went for a walk.

You weren’t looking for him.But as you rounded the edge of the gardens, there he was your husband — Morpheus, sitting alone on a stone bench beneath a slender tree that barely offered shade. Elbows on knees, hands folded, staring out into some distance only he could see.

Your first instinct was to turn around.The second said, no—enough of this.You approached, arms crossed. “Greetings,Dream.”

He looked up. No smile—but no sharpness either. “Greetings”

"What are you looking for?"

“I was seeking quiet.” he answered simply.

“And did you find it?”

He paused for a second before deciding to answer. “Until you arrived.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Charming. Can’t wait to hear your anniversary toast.”

Something in his expression flickered. Not quite a smile—but something almost like appreciation. He shifted to the side slightly, a silent offer. You took the seat beside him, leaving a few respectful inches between.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. The sky above the Dreaming was a strange shade of twilight: too blue to be night, too shadowed to be day.

Then, unexpectedly, he said, “I’ve heard from the others... that you’ve been adapting well.”

You shrugged. “Wasn’t that hard.”

He didn’t respond to that. Just stared straight ahead, fingers flexing slightly in his lap.“And you?” he asked, softly. “How do you find it here?”

You glanced at him, surprised. It was the first time he’d asked you anything that wasn’t a logistical formality.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Sometimes it feels like I’m just... visiting. Like everyone’s being polite because no one actually believes I’ll be here long enough to matter.”

He nodded slowly. “The Dreaming adapts slowly. Not just its inhabitants... the realm itself. But I don’t regret that you’re here.”

That landed heavier than you expected.

You tilted your head. “That’s the longest sentence you’ve said to me since our wedding.”

A ghost of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. Tired and wry. “It may be.”

He was quiet for a moment, then shook his head slightly.“I owe you an apology,” he said. His voice was low, but steady. “I’ve neglected you. Not out of cruelty. Only... because I don’t always know how to begin.”

You didn’t interrupt. You just listened,that seemed to matter.

“I have... responsibilities,” he continued, gaze fixed on the horizon. “Things that weigh heavily, often invisibly. But it isn’t just that. I struggle with this—connection. Conversation. I know it must seem as though I’m pushing you away.”

You let the silence settle a moment before answering. “I get it.”He finally turned to look at you.

“I mean it,” you said, smiling softly. “It’s okay if you’re quiet. Some people just are. The right company doesn’t need noise to be good company.”

His expression didn’t shift much, but there was something different in his eyes now. Less distance and more thoughtfulness.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

You gave a light shrug, teasing. “Well, try not to vanish for another week and we’ll call it progress.”

A breath left him—maybe not quite a laugh, but something warm enough to count.Morpheus sat still for a moment, long fingers resting on his knees as though holding the weight of something unseen. The sky over the Dreaming had shifted into shades of dusky lavender, the castle casting elongated shadows across the quiet grounds. You didn’t say anything at first. You didn’t need to. The silence between you had a shape of its own—wary, tentative, but not unkind.

Finally, his voice broke through it. Low. Careful.“There is something I did not tell you.”

You glanced sideways. “Well, this should be fun.”

He didn’t smile, but he didn’t pull away either.“My brother,” he said quietly. “Destiny.”

You raised a brow. “The one with the big book and zero sense of humor?”

A faint exhale through Morpheus’s nose. Not quite a laugh, but close. “Yes. That one. Some time ago… he spoke of a fall. A great fall. One of the Endless would fall. A king.”

Your heart stilled for a second, breath caught between one moment and the next.He didn’t look at you—just stared ahead into the twilight.

“He did not say who. Only that it would be soon. And final.”

You swallowed. “And you think it’s going to be you.”

“I do,” he said simply. “And if that is true… then there was little point in trying to build something I would not be here to protect. To preserve.”

You didn’t speak right away. There was a dull ache behind your ribs, and for once, it wasn’t just frustration—it was something heavier. Something more fragile.

“That’s not fair,” you said finally, voice quieter. “That’s not your choice to make alone.”

“I did not wish to give you false hope. Or waste what little time you might have in peace.”

You turned toward him fully, searching his face. He looked tired, like the stars themselves had worn him down from the inside out. But beneath the distance, the restraint—there was fear.

“Well,” you said softly, “then I hope Destiny’s wrong.”

He turned to you, and for once, didn’t look away.“And if he’s not?” he asked.

“Then I’ll be at your side when it happens,” you replied, firm but not cold. “ I’ll fight with you.”

Something loosened in his shoulders, just slightly.He tilted his head.

“I do not deserve your loyalty,” he said after a beat, voice softer than you'd ever heard it.

You scoffed lightly. “That’s not really your call, is it?”

A long silence stretched between you. Not cold. Just full of things unsaid. But not forever.“I should return,” he murmured, finally rising to his feet with the slow, unhurried grace of someone carved from shadow and time. “There are matters I must attend.”

You nodded, standing as well, brushing the imaginary dust from your skirts. “Of course. Dream King duties and all that.”

He looked at you again—longer, this time.And then he was gone,but it felt different now. Not like a door closing,but more like the beginning of a hallway finally opening.

[crowsreiid]

6000 years until again

Part 1: Anger is the biggest delusion not love!

Warnings: so many gomens content after s2 and waiting for s3 like my life depends on it, Crowley struggling with his feelings, Aziraphale in Heaven

Summary: After Season 2 when they separated

Crowley began plundering the local pub with a bottle of Whiskey after Aziraphale's ascension. Even though it had only been a few hours it felt like years without his cherished drinking friend.

In reality, he can't even be termed a drinking companion because the angel never drank and if he did, he had a good reason for that.

He was a big fan of hot chocolate instead.

He thought it would be a good idea to sober up after a couple of bottles of whiskey but then the radio turned up and absolutely smashed the poor demon.

"𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙚𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙬𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙩 

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙘 𝙖𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙖𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙞𝙧 

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡𝙨 𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙍𝙞𝙩𝙯 

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙖 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙖𝙡𝙚 𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝘽𝙚𝙧𝙠𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙮 𝙎𝙦𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙚"

The song abruptly ended, with the radio plummeting to the floor. It layed broken and continued to play "nightingale" again and over. Crowley broke the radio and tossed the remaining whiskey against the wall in his wrath.

The rest of the liquid was on the floor with a demon seated next to it, the glass and radio were broken.

With a decisive movement, he removed his sunglasses and everyone's eyes widened. Not because of the hue of the demon's eyes but because of the misery it carries and the tears it sheds.

"Where is his weird bookstore friend?" one of the men in the background asked.

The woman with braided hair next to him responded.

"I saw them fighting, although they have fought several times before but the situation has never been this bad."

The young man standing next to the innkeeper, who had only been there a few days, spoke up.

"Where can that southern pansy really be?"

Hearing that word, the demon jumped to his feet and landed on the young man.

"Say it one more time, and I'll gouge your eyes out!" he said, grabbing the boy's shoulders.

The unlucky man couldn't even speak; all he wanted to do was get out of the demon's grasp. The innkeeper separated them and led the enraged man out.

Crowley was on his way to his car in a wrath when he was touched on the shoulder from behind. When he turned around he was met with a face he knew.

"Inspector?"

Meanwhile, our lovely angel was busy in Heaven.

"Aziraphale, come. I'll show you where you'll work from now on." Metatron remarked, motioning to the right and he and the angel began walking to the specified location.

Aziraphale's thoughts strayed as he walked along the long white corridor.

"𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙢𝙚...𝙩𝙤 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙣."

His words to Crowley echoed in his head.

"𝙄'𝙡𝙡 𝙧𝙪𝙣 𝙞𝙩, 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙗𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙨𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙙.

𝙒𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝙙𝙞𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚." 

"𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣'𝙩 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙗𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙥."

"Aziraphale?"

When the angel heard his name, he snapped out of his reverie and was wiping away a small, barely visible tear while following Metatron.

Although Aziraphale assumed Metatron was unconcerned about his wandering, after he only paid attention to the third address and immediately cut off the situation with tearful eyes, he couldn't do anything but inquire.

"Despite the fact that I already asked, what did your fellow demon Crowley say about this possibility?"

When he heard the question, the angel came to a halt and tried to suppress his feelings but he couldn't stop what happened next.

When he wanted to speak, his voice stopped and he only thought of one sentence.

"𝙄 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪."

As Metatron awaited the answer to his question, his voice simply echoed in his head. Instead of his teary eyes, Aziraphale' gazs transformed and followed the man to his new office a few moments later.

When he was alone in the small room for a few minutes, he propped himself up at his desk and looked up at the roof and a small tear ran down his face.

His sadness ended with this. He pushed himself away from the table and began his frantic work.

Only one image kept playing in his thoughts and he couldn't get it out of his head.

"Mr. Crowley, could you please refrain from addressing me as such? You already know who I am, it was just a disguise." Muriel, who had unexpectedly appeared, smiled at the demon.

Crowley drew his glasses down his nose and gave the shy little angel a serious look.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice measured.

Muriel bit her lip as she noticed the demon's mood shift.

"I just saw Aziraphale leave, and when I saw that you didn't accompany him, I was curious what happened. You were always together, so why didn't he go to Heaven with you?"

Crowley shook his shoulders and put on his glasses as if trying to hide his feelings that were about to burst forth.

Muriel, on the other hand, did not stop there and began to follow.

"I really don't understand the situation, so please respond. You two..together..."

Crowley came to a sudden halt when Muriel bumped into his back. The demon turned around, looked into the angel's eyes, and roared.

"There is no such thing as the two of us together!"

The evening swirl echoed his voice.

People were taken aback by the scene.

Muriel was unable to speak.

Crowley, on the other hand, vanished.

Nobody understand what had happened; he had become a blur. Nothing demonic or angelic happened; he simply turned into a mist.

[crowsreiid]

IRON MAN 3 (2013) IRONHEART (2025)

[crowsreiid]

⋆°·☁︎Dreambound part 2

⋆°·☁︎Morpheus x underworld princess!reader

Summary::You enter the Dreaming for a surreal and formal wedding to Morpheus.The ceremony is cold,the vows distant — but in the quiet of your chambers,the first fragile words are exchanged.

Warnings::Arranged marriage,mentions of death/grief

Three days. That’s all the time you’d had to prepare. Not for a wedding — no, anyone could survive a wedding — but for the quiet extinction of your autonomy.

Three days since two cloaked figures had stood in front of you and spoken the words like they were delivering weather:“You will be wed to the King of Dreams.”

You said something flippant about being flattered, maybe.But they didn’t laugh.Of course they didn’t. No one laughs in the Underworld unless it’s to mock the living.

Today is your moment—the one the world’s been waiting for, hearts held still in quiet anticipation.

You sit in the center of a marble chamber you’ve never liked, wrapped in a gown that weighs more than some of the lies you've been fed in your life. Black velvet laced with threads of silver — like spiderwebs in moonlight.

Three handmaidens circle around you in practiced silence. One braids your hair back with a steadiness you envy. Another adjusts the fall of the ceremonial sash over your shoulder. The third is trying to fasten something delicate around your wrist — some ancient charm you’re apparently meant to wear, a symbol of passage.

You’ve stopped listening to what anything means.

“Hold still, Your Grace,” one of them murmurs.

You look at yourself in the mirror — and that’s the worst part.Because she looks like royalty. She looks like a goddess. Like a dream someone else had, carefully sculpted into a shape that pleases the world.She does not look like you.

“This feels more like a funeral than a wedding,” you say flatly, the words leaving your mouth before you’ve even committed to them.

But none of them respond,as expected.You suppose there’s nothing they could say that wouldn’t sound like pity.So you sit there, quiet and still, letting them dress you up like a prize to be delivered.

You don’t ask about your future husband. About the King of Dreams. You haven’t said his name once since they announced it. Not aloud, not even in thought. Not because of fear, or superstition — but because you didn’t want to give him that space in your mind.

You’ve met powerful men before. They all look the same when you strip the crowns away:lonely,hungry and addicted to being obeyed.

Still, there was a part of you — tiny, bitter, traitorous — that wondered about who he was. What kind of man agrees to marry a stranger for peace.

You’re led from the dressing chamber through halls that echo too loudly. Everything in the Underworld echoes. Stone remembers footsteps.At some point, the servants fall back, and you’re walking alone.

Ahead, there is a gate of shadows — the portal to the Dreaming. It pulses softly, almost like breath.One more step, and you cross into his world.One more step, and you no longer belong to yourself.

...

You stepped into the Dreaming with the quiet precision of someone entering sacred ground —you knew better than to assume safety in beauty.

The sky overhead flickered between dusk and dawn without ever deciding. The architecture curved in ways that defied logic but obeyed some deeper kind of rhythm — arches blooming into trees, hallways unraveling into staircases, the air itself humming faintly like breath caught in a lullaby.It was magnificent and terrifying. And, you had to admit, infuriatingly poetic.

You’d expected grandeur, yes — the Lord of Dreams would never live in something ordinary. But you hadn’t expected it to feel so... personal.You weren’t sure if you were trespassing or being studied.

Figures gathered slowly as you crossed the threshold — not a grand welcome, not exactly, but more like the inhabitants had been warned and weren’t quite sure what to do with you now that you were real.

Ahead of you, a tall, composed woman stood waiting. Her posture was impeccable, hands clasped lightly in front of her, the collar of her coat pristine against the soft, golden light filtering in from nowhere.

“You must be the Lady of the Underworld,” she said. Her voice was calm, unshaken, but not unkind. “Welcome to the Dreaming.”

You tilted your chin slightly, not in arrogance — but habit. Royal daughters learned early that confidence was a shield sharper than steel. “I assume you’re not one of the servants.”

That made the corner of her mouth twitch. Almost a smile, though she didn’t let it fully rise.“I am Lucienne,” she replied. “Chief Librarian. And trusted aide to Lord Morpheus.”

“I see,” you said calmly. “Well then. I suppose I’m in good hands.”

“Of course,” she said simply. “Everything has been prepared for the wedding,Your Majesty.”

Before you could answer, a sudden flurry of feathers interrupted the quiet — a raven flapped down clumsily from above and perched on the edge of a marble banister.

“Whoa, no one told me she was already here,” the bird muttered. “I mean—hi. Sorry. You’re, uh... the Underworld’s envoy. Or fiancée. Or both? Look, names get fuzzy around here.”

Lucienne exhaled softly. “Matthew.”

“What? I’m being welcoming!”

You turned your gaze to the bird — talking ravens weren’t exactly shocking in your world, but few had that nervous energy.

“Sorry,My lady. I'm Matthew,” he said proudly, puffing up a little. “Raven of the Dreaming. One of them. Been here a while. Kinda like the emotional support animal around here.”

You almost smiled at that — almost. “Good to know someone around here has wings and a sense of humor.”

Lucienne cleared her throat gently. “We’ll show you to your quarters until the ceremony. If there’s anything you require, simply ask.”

You nodded once, then followed.

And though the corridors bent in impossible angles and the floor never echoed beneath your steps, you still felt the weight of eyes you could not see — like the Dreaming itself was watching you, curious and unsure what to make of you yet.

...

You had always assumed that weddings, no matter their arrangement, were meant to be filled with warmth. Perhaps not affection — not always — but at least something soft. Something human.

There was non of that.

The Dreaming’s throne hall did not bloom with flowers or candlelight. There was no music echoing through its impossible arches, no murmuring of guests, no rustle of silks. Instead, the space felt hollow and vast, as if it had been carved from the absence of sound itself, the air too still, too sharp, as though even the atmosphere had forgotten how to breathe.

Each step you took left behind the faintest shimmer on the black stone beneath you — not a reflection, not entirely, but rather the echo of something half-dreamed and barely real. The world around you flickered between waking and slumber, the edges of vision stretching outward, bending unnaturally, as if the Dreaming were uncertain whether to accept you as part of it or reject you entirely.

And at the far end of it all, standing utterly motionless, was your husband-to-be.

He didn’t look at you immediately. His posture was regal in a way that didn’t seek attention.Draped in black —he seemed less like a man and more like a figure from the corner of a dream you could never quite describe upon waking.His garments bore no symbols of joy, no adornment of celebration. Only simplicity, and power.

The first thing that struck you was how little space he seemed to take up, and yet how impossible he was to look away from. He was tall, yes, and dark, and utterly otherworldly, but not in a way that overwhelmed the eye.

His face was all sharp lines and shadows, beautiful in a bleak sort of way — like a statue forgotten in a ruin, still perfect despite the centuries.

You didn’t find him charming. Not in the way mortals charm with smiles and ease. There was nothing easy about him. He wasn’t warm, or inviting, or even kind. And yet… something in you recoiled and leaned forward at once.

There was elegance in his quiet, and mystery in his stillness — the kind that made your breath catch and your shoulders stiffen. You weren’t sure if you wanted to run or unravel. So you simply stood your ground and stared back.

When he finally turned his head, his gaze met yours.His eyes held galaxies stripped of warmth.In that one look, you understood that he had not chosen this either, and yet he would carry it the way he carried all burdens — with dignity, with silence, and with a weariness no vow could erase.

Lucienne stepped forward from the shadows with a great book cradled in her arms, her expression unreadable. Her voice, when it came, was low and unwavering, reciting vows not in your language, but in one far older. The words didn’t need translation.They spoke of duty, of realms bound together, of debts long buried finally being paid.

The Underworld envoys, Mormo and Minos, emerged from either side.They carried no weapons, no tokens of power, only the rings — glimmering faintly.The air pulsed softly when they approached.

You didn’t hesitate. You reached out, your fingers steady, and took the ring meant for him. The ring in your palm felt far too cold for something so delicate. It wasn’t gold or silver — not even metal, not exactly. It shimmered like glass.

Shadows moved within it when you turned it toward the light, fleeting shapes that vanished the moment you tried to look closer.

It looked less like jewelry and more like a relic — something that had been pulled from the bones of the Underworld itself. Elegant, yes. Beautiful, in a way that unnerved you. And heavy-not just in weight, but in what it meant.

His hand, when he offered it, was cool and precise — not cold, but restrained.You slid the ring onto his finger, and for the smallest moment, his eyes softened — not visibly, but inwardly.

He mirrored the gesture. When his hand brushed yours,they were cold — colder than they should have been, even for a being carved from starlight and silence.He looked at the ring before placing it on your finger, and for a moment too long, he hesitated.

He slid it on with a precision that felt ceremonial, final. Then released your hand as though it had never been his to hold. The weight of the ring felt heavier than gold, like a chain forged of fate.

No kiss was asked for. No embrace was given. The moment passed with no flourish, no declaration, no joy. And yet, the chamber responded all the same. The stars in the ceiling shifted into new constellations. The silence deepened, then eased.

The ceremony was complete.

He extended his arm, formal and poised, and you rested your hand lightly upon it. Together, you turned to face the empty hall, two sovereigns bound not by love,it was not a union written in starlight, but by necessity — by the politics of gods and the cost of peace.

...

The room they led you to was less a bedroom and more a world between silences.

Vaulted ceilings held galaxies in their arch. The walls shimmered like dusk made solid. In the center, a grand bed draped in silver-threaded shadow separated by a whisper-thin partition — a second door leading to what was clearly intended as his chamber.

You took in the room without a word, ignoring the weight of the maids’ glances before they bowed and slipped away. The silence they left behind was not comforting.

Morpheus stood a few paces away, hands at his sides, posture straight as ever. He didn’t lean, didn’t shift. His presence was a still point — not relaxed, not tense. Just unyielding.

From behind you, his voice stirred the stillness. “If you wish, separate quarters can be arranged.”

You turned, slowly. Morpheus stood a few paces back, tall and motionless, as though afraid even to breathe too loudly in your presence. His hands were clasped lightly behind his back. His expression unreadable, but not cruel. Never cruel.

“No need,” you said, arms crossing lightly. “This is fine. We can be separated by that door over there...”

He tilted his head the slightest fraction. “You are… composed.”

“I’m many things,” you said dryly. “Composed is the least dangerous of them.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. You couldn’t name it.

You walked a few steps toward him, careful but not cautious. Your dress whispered across the floor behind you. “I imagine this isn’t how you pictured your wedding night.”

He blinked. “I did not picture it at all.”

You gave a humorless huff, then softened your voice. “Look… I’m not here to fight you. And I’m not here to pretend this is something it’s not.”

He remained silent, but he was watching you closely now.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you continued, “and neither did you. But that doesn’t mean we have to make it miserable.”

His shoulders shifted — a twitch of tension escaping him. A crack in the stone.

“I know what my parents are capable of,” you went on. “And I know what Orpheus did. This… alliance, or punishment, or whatever label they’re giving it — it’s a mess. But we’re the ones left to clean it.”

Still, he said nothing. But his eyes… gods, those eyes. Old and tired and endlessly deep. You couldn’t help but study the way the candlelight curled into their darkness like it was searching for something.

“My name is Y/N,” you said softly. “Let’s not pretend titles are enough.”

His gaze fell to you. “Morpheus. Though… I suspect you knew that.”

“I figured it out. I’m not asking for friendship. Or closeness. I just want to live without constant tension. If we’re stuck together, the least we can do is make peace.”

He looked at you for a long moment, and then — his voice lower now, almost reverent — “Peace...”

You weren’t sure what to say to that. So you didn’t. You just met his gaze, steady and unwavering.

He finally turned toward the door at the end of the room, as if to retire for the night. But then he paused. “You may sleep undisturbed. I will not cross this door.”

You raised a brow. “Not even to strangle me in my sleep? That’s very noble of you.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. Barely. A ghost of a smile, or the suggestion of one.

You moved toward your side of the chamber, stopping at the edge of the shared space. Your hand brushed the curtain frame. “Goodnight, Morpheus.”

“Goodnight… Y/N.”

And as you stepped away, you couldn’t help but glance back once — just once — to find him still standing where you’d left him, framed by shadow, eyes unreadable.He had made no move to leave.

...

You lay on your side, facing the velvet-lined wall, your gown unfastened, hair unpinned, body heavy with the weight of a day that had meant everything and nothing all at once.

Behind the partition, somewhere in the mirrored half of the room, you knew he sat — maybe at the edge of the bed, maybe unmoving in a chair — because you hadn’t heard a sound. No footsteps. No shifting linens. Just silence, dark and constant, like a second pulse.

Marriage. What a strange word. Especially like this — exchanged not with vows of love or hope, but with calculated deference and political weight. You had worn a crown, but it had felt more like shackles.

You closed your eyes, tried to summon sleep. But it didn't work - in the place that was called the Dreaming. What a terrible joke.

You turned on your back instead and stared up at the ceiling — a sky full of stars that didn’t belong to the real world, constantly shifting in slow spirals.

You wondered, not for the first time, if it ever truly slept. Or if its king even allowed himself to.

Then, softly, a voice — not near, but not far called to you.“You are not asleep.”

You turned your head slightly toward the door. “No.”

“Is the room not comfortable?” he asked.

You gave a small, dry laugh. “It’s… majestic. Oversized. Full of empty space and ghost-light. So, in that sense, yes. Perfectly comfortable.”

No answer came,but that wasn’t surprising. He wasn't much a speaker.“Are you sleeping?” you asked instead.

“No.”

The silence stretched again. Not sharp. Not cold. Just… there.And then, a thought slipped from your lips before you could decide if it was wise.

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what?”

“Hold so much grief without breaking in half.” You immediately regretted saying it. Too personal. Too soon. Not your place. But you didn’t take it back either.

After a long moment, his voice answered — quieter now.“I have… broken. Many times.”

Something in your chest pinched.“I’m sorry about your son,” you said, low and honest.

“Thank you.”

You swallowed and tucked your hand beneath your cheek.More silence followed but it was different now-softer.

“I don’t plan to hurt you,” you said after a while. “If that’s something you were worried about.”

“I wasn’t,” he replied, not unkindly. “But… I appreciate the clarity.”

You allowed yourself the ghost of a smile.“If you ever change your mind,” you added, “and do want to strangle me in my sleep, just do it after I’ve had a decent breakfast.”

That earned a sound from him. Not quite laughter, but perhaps its echo.“I will… keep that in mind.”

And somehow, despite the endless tension of the day, the uncertainty, the distance still between you — you slept.Because, for the first time in days, your heart didn’t feel like it was bracing for war.

And somewhere behind the screen, the King of Dreams remained awake — listening to your breathing soften. Listening, not dreaming.As though your peace was something he could borrow for a little while.

[crowsreiid]

Can you get us back on with Riri? Of course I can.....

[crowsreiid]

[My cousin, John. HR, recruiter, getaway driver…] I’m also highly skilled in the art of scherma di stiletto siciliano.

“Hi, I’m John. My parents didn’t say ‘I love you’ so now I play with knives.” 

[crowsreiid]

If heist gang bad, then why are they all fine as hell

[crowsreiid]

manny montana • ironheart (2024) trailer