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cardansriddle · 26 days ago

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Across the Dreams - (Morpheus x fem!reader)

Summary: You meet him in your dreams. You do not know him or his name, you only know that he returns to you every night, taking you in ways you crave but do not understand.

warnings: dream sex but it's not very explicit. not proofread.

A/N: I (nervously) present the long anticipated morpheus one shot. This is for all of you little rascals in my inbox asking me to get done with it and post it. Hope you enjoy and lmk what you think!!

༻♛༺

You do not quite recall when exactly you started seeing him. Maybe it was on one of those nights you were so exhausted your limbs melted into your bed like they belonged there more than they belonged on your body. Perhaps he came to you then, slipped through the cracks of your half-forgotten dreams, weaving himself in your fantasies that never quite made architectural sense.

All you know is that he was there.

And he was there every night.

You always felt him before you saw him. The shadowed edges of your dreams would forge into the shape of him—him who was tall, lean, little more than the glimmer of pale skin visible beneath the dark coat that brushed the floor of your subconscious and somehow stirred even though there was no wind.

His wild hair fell in black, inky strands that framed the sharp edges of his face but never seemed to settle. It was as if the air refused to touch him, or maybe it was him who refused to belong to the air, or perhaps he owned the very air around him. His skin was pale—not the delicate pallor of the sleepless, but the absence of sunlight itself, as if he had stood untouched for centuries beneath a sky that forgot how to burn.

And then there were his eyes.

Oh, his eyes.

His eyes were so incredibly black, like bottomless pits that offered you a glimpse of the vast darkness of the cosmos. And there were stars in his eyes. You did not see them at first. You had to step closer. You did not remember deciding to move, but you did. Your feet dragged forward, slow and helpless, and when you lifted your gaze you saw it— the faintest glimmer of stars trapped inside his eyes.

The sight of them was enough to pin you in place the first time. Because that was when you realised.

He was old.

Not old in the sense of years or decades. No.

He was old in the way stories are old. Old in the way stars are old. Old in the way you were never supposed to see, or know, or touch. But you did.

The first time, you remember you were hesitant. You remember how slowly you had rose your arm, your fingertips sparking with something desperate, aching to close the impossible space between you and touch his skin. You remember how his dark eyes had followed every movement of your hand, brows twitching—the faintest ripple across his otherwise unmoved face— as if amused, and also surprised, perhaps even outraged at your presumption that you could dare touch him.

He stopped you.

He caught your hand before you could complete the touch, his fingers cool as they closed firmly around yours, pressing your hand down as if to remind you. Of what, you did not quite know back then.

It was only later, after countless times of seeing him in your dreams that you realised. When you first touched, it had to have been on his terms.

His gaze slid over you—not with tenderness, but with a kind of distant permission, the way one might allow a flame to flicker a little closer to the drapes just to see what happens.

His other hand rose with deliberate slowness, trailing up to graze the edge of your jaw. His touch was impossibly cool, his skin like marble—unforgiving at first, but yielding in the places where he chose to let you feel him. His thumb dragged slowly along your lower lip, and he looked at you as if you were not entirely real. Funny, considering how he was a man made of shadows with the entire cosmos held in his eyes. You remember the weight of his fingers against you. You remember leaning into it.

You did not know his name. You did not ask.

After that first encounter, the dreams pressed closer, hotter, rougher—your body pinned beneath his as he claimed you against the wall of some crumbling hall, the slick grass of a forest that flickered in and out of coherence, the ground, the marble floor of a castle, still and perhaps never making architectural sense.

You never begged him to stop. But you did beg him not to leave.

And he did not. Night after night, he returned. He touched you like he knew the notes to the strings of your body, and your soul and body sang for him in response. He filled you with his essence, and hoped his seed would take. You knew because he whispered it in your ear like a dirty, secret confession. Every night.

Overtime, you learned to claim him too. You shed your shyness, climbed him boldly like his lap was your throne to sit on, and touched him like it was your birthright.

It went on for months.

And every time you woke from these dreams, you could always feel the lingering echo of his touch, as if it had been seared into your skin. You spent your waking hours in turmoil, thinking about your dreams, about him. You were getting addicted, you could barely function during the day without wishing you could fall asleep, fall into the arms of your dream man. You started going to bed earlier. You started skipping plans. You started craving sleep like it's a drug and he is the nameless dealer.

The days shrink. The nights length.

But it does not matter, not anymore, for every time you fall asleep, he is waiting. Like tonight.

The moment your conscious enters the Dreaming, his weight settles over you like velvet and iron, but you do not mind, it is an ache you ache to bear. Like every night, he claims you. He takes you against the trembling edge of reason, until the line between you and him feels like it was never there.

You still have not asked for his name. You fear what would happen if you spoke it aloud. You don’t know if you are dreaming, or if the dreaming has devoured you whole.

But you want to know, you need to know it for your own sanity.

So once he had his way with ruining you, you decide, for the first time in months, you decide to voice the question. Your lips part, your breath shallow against his palm, still cool against your jaw.

"...Who are you?"

His head tilts, just slightly, the faintest quirk of his mouth appearing as though the question itself amused him more than any answer he might give.

His thumb ghosts over your lower lip, slow and thoughtful.

“That is not a question you should ask.” His voice curls into you, soft and dark and ancient.

But you do not back down. "You have absolutely ruined me for anyone else. I believe I deserve at least the curtesy of knowing your name." The words rush out before you can stop them. and even you are surprised at your own bravery to be so direct with him.

His brows lift, a flicker of something behind his eyes—interest, perhaps. Or patience thinning.

So you decide to soften your request. "Please," you swallow, pulse thudding in your throat.

“You may call me…” A pause, deliberate one. “…Morpheus.”

You whisper it back to him, testing the shape of it in your mouth. "Morpheus."

His gaze darkens at the way his name falls from your lips. You fear for a moment he might pin you beneath him and have his way for the second time in one night. But he does not. He quenches the fire rising beneath his skin instead.

“Careful,” he says, his thumb pressing just slightly harder against your lip. “Names are powerful things.”

It sounds like a warning, one you think you need to heed, but before you can say anything in response, you jolt awake suddenly.

Once again, alone, in your bed.

You release a heavy sigh and look at the ceiling helplessly. You ask the heavens how long you can bear to live like this— living in your dreams, dreading your waking hours. How long you can continue being in love with a man who does not exist.

You close your eyes and imagine him. "Morpheus," you whisper to yourself wistfully. You half expect him to be there when you open your eyes, and you laugh at yourself with pity when he is not.

You push the covers away, and decide you need to start getting on with your day.

You’re still heavy with the weight of last night’s dream when you step outside. The city hums around you, a thin, irritating buzz—car horns, rubber on asphalt, hurried footfalls. You barely notice them. It is him you are thinking about. His hands, his mouth, his breath against your throat. His name.

You approach the crosswalk, waiting for the sign to change. And then, the air shifts. The sound of the city drops out like someone’s cut the wires.

With furrowed brows, you slowly lift your head. And then—

You see him.

Your body freezes. Because it is him. Across the street. Standing perfectly still, untouched by the blur of people rushing past him. He’s wearing that long, black coat—the same one you’ve clutched in your fists, the same one you’ve felt brushing your bare skin in sleep. His hair falls in black waves around his face, just as it does when he leans over you, when his hands pin you to the floor of the dreams.

His skin is impossibly pale. His eyes are—

Your breath catches.

They’re the same. The same impossible, depthless black, the same faint shimmer of stars caught in the dark.

He’s real.

He’s real. Here. Now.

And he’s looking at you.

Not past you. Not through you.

At you.

The corner of his mouth twitches, just enough to be deliberate. Enough to tease you, or perhaps taunt you, you do not know. You do not care to know. You need to cross the road to him. Now.

The crosswalk signal changes.

Heart hammering, throat burning, you take a step towards him.

A car horn blares somewhere behind you.

When you blink, he’s gone.

༻♛༺

#dream of the endless #morpheus x reader #morpheus x you #dream x reader #dream of the endless x reader #the sandman #morpheus one shot #morpheus smut #morpheus x reader smut #lord morpheus #king of dreams #morpheus

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nephilim-tears · 1 month ago

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𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐀𝐑

𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐮𝐬 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 Warnings: F! Reader | NSFW | Word count: 8k ↳Arranged marriage/Romance: Dream and his wife's milestones

I.“I just escaped one cage, and you aid in throwing me into another?!”

Annoyed, Lucienne pinched the bridge of her nose, struggling to maintain her composure. “My lord, please — be still. This union is not without merit. It was arranged carefully, and not without reason.” She adjusted the sleeve of his coat with practiced ease. “You might try seeing her as a friend first. From what I’ve gathered, the Princess is far more reasonable than most born to crowns.”

“I don’t need more friends. I already have you.”

“I meant a friend you don’t employ.”

Morpheus’ eyes drifted to the raven perched atop the life-sized dressing mirror. “...Can I count you?”

Matthew ruffled his feathers in delight. “Hell yeah, you can count me! That’s a good start. And uh, what about that weirdo that roams Earth — what’s his name again?”

“...Hob?” A smug grin swept across Morpheus’ face and set ablaze the infinite cosmos swirling mischievously in his eyes. “See, Lucienne?” He tilted his chin upward slightly. “I do have friends. Matthew and Hob.”

Not taking her eyes off the busy work of fixing here, tweaking there, Lucienne deadpanned, “Excellent choice in company, my lord.”Pleased with her work, she straightened the golden crown of thorns that hovered above his head. “All done. Now... where’s your gift?”

“What gift?” Morpheus gruffed.

“You didn’t get your wife a gift?” Lucienne asked, her patience beginning to fray.

“For fuck’s sake, she’s not my wife.”

“Yet,” Matthew called over his shoulder.

“Right,” he intoned absentmindedly, swatting the bird away. Morpheus slumped into the chair, brooding over the foreign taste the petal-soft word wife left in his mouth.

Lucienne hesitated — just for a breath — sparing him a sympathetic look. “This was never left to chance, my lord. Threads like these don’t weave themselves. Someone higher is tying the knot... and we’re all just following the pattern.”

II. The nocturnal creature that he was crept up the altar like the waiting dark. He wasn’t curious; he was humoring the ceremony. It changed nothing — or so he told himself. When it concluded, he would return to his affairs, unchanged, untouched, undisturbed. Until his world went still.

She was here.

Morpheus craned his neck at her arrival for a better view of his would-be wife, tugging anxiously at the white tulle ruffles around his neck.

On cue, a swarm of fireflies rose from the lilac woods, blotting the dusk in gold flecks. The carpet of apricot clouds that stretched down the watery aisle parted as her bare feet dipped into the surface, each step rippling like breath across a dream. She breezed down the aisle like the warmth of the summer’s last sunset — and with her arrival, even the music seemed to soften: tinkling bells, stringed instruments, and choir harmonizing over David’s chord melted beneath the weight of her presence.

Each step she took fell in rhythm with his heartbeat. The afternoon sun sagged low behind her. Her dress, made entirely of thawed stardust, shimmered seafoam white in the fading light, shifting to lagoon green wherever the hem grazed the water.

Morpheus knew a walking fantasy when he saw one.

Internally, he scoffed at the Greeks — a thousand ships? Was that the best they could offer her?

Slowly, as if already tethered by an invisible string to him, she approached the altar till they became diametric opposites bound for collision.

It wasn’t romance that filled the space between them. It was something older. He glanced at her wet feet, then her wet face. And in a rare moment of clarity, he understood what the cost of new beginnings looked like: grief, dressed as duty.

She stood before him — melancholic, ethereal — with an expression like the Milky Way had begun to fall like snow. Her desperation had crumpled into fear, and though she spoke no words, he heard the voice inside her scream: Freedom. Freedom is better.

She looked frightened. Unhappy. Not the way most brides looked. He knew she’d imagined this day differently. Once, long ago, he had too. For beings as old as creation itself, regret isn’t a feeling they know. If they had known it, it was long forgotten. Though not entirely the same thing, sorrow, on the other hand, he was all too familiar with the notion of it.

And so, as a man of quiet merit, he wanted to take her hands in his and say: No matter what happens, this is your home now. I ask nothing of you but patience. However, the more sensible part in him saw the temperamental fall like a thunderbolt demeanor seething beneath the layers of hopelessness. She had nothing to lose. And it made even the King of Nightmares want to flee. Yet he soured his face and stood rooted, adhering to the unwritten rules of the universe: Never run from anything immortal.

Awkwardly, Morpheus shifted on his legs, his fitted suit of black velvet ash stretched too tight across his spider-long limbs. The dark indentation around the space he occupied — a void of nothingness devouring texture and saturating colors, shrunk in her presence.

It wasn’t on purpose, at least not at first. But as the minister droned on, Dream found himself trying to seem as welcoming as possible. He slouched his wide shoulders and crouched his baleful presence of around seven feet closer to the ground. Much to his disappointment, it was apparent his efforts were fruitless. He couldn’t see his reflection in her eyes. But what he could see was that the Arabian poets came closest to describing them; the devil would kiss her eyes and repent.

Uttered like a fractured fable, the first words she said to him were a resentful promise of commitment for the satisfaction of the minister: “I do,” she repeated after him. Out of respect, Morpheus bent his knee, lowering himself fully to the ground. After he slid the matching gold band up her ring finger, he delicately kissed her knuckles, then pressed it to his forehead.

III.“And where exactly do you think you’re going?”Morpheus turned, startled, to find Lucienne standing behind him — arms folded, foot tapping, her disapproval sharper than her tone.

“For a walk,” he replied flatly, unaware of how selfish such a small desire could sound. But then his gaze flicked to his bride, sitting alone in a sea of celebration — her eyes glassy, her posture crumpled like something forgotten. The guilt was inextinguishable.

Turning back to Lucienne, he added, “See to it that she gets whatever she desires. Please.”Lucienne paused, watching the laughter and clinking goblets swirl around the woman in white, untouched.

Her voice was quieter when she replied, “She’s not a pet, Morpheus. You’ll have to speak to her at some point.”He didn’t answer. He simply plucked a stray piece of bread from a nearby table and muttered, “For the birds,” before disappearing into the woods cloaked in night.

One loaf of discarded bread later, he roamed restlessly through the empty halls, pushing past his chamber's double oak doors, eager for sleep's embrace.

At first, he didn’t see her waiting in the dark; he only sensed her presence nearby, the way he senses dreams before they form. Startled, he stood rooted at the entrance. His curious eyes found her like a pinprick of light in his darkened bedroom, gazing back at him.

Suddenly, Morpheus realized his room was in no condition for a princess, let alone one who was his wife. Nothing was her own in here; did Lucienne not arrange a chamber for her? He wondered.

His confusion only grew when she averted her gaze and let the robe topple to the floor, leaving her exposed. From a distance away, his eyes lingered on her frame longer than they should have. Perhaps it was the initial shock.

Or perhaps it was because so many centuries have passed since he last touched another; it might as well have been another lifetime. At that moment, the only thing that weighed heavier on his heart than sleep was the need to devour the woman before him.

The sight was almost sacrilegious as the moon peeked through tufts of heavy storm clouds, illuminating the edges of her silhouette; she was divinity personified. None were worthy. His heart sped up thinking of the artless falsettos that would tumble from her lips if he touched her.

But the stiffness in her rigid muscles suggested she did not want to be touched; therefore, he dared not.

Then: “Ahem.” He flinched, whipping his head toward the sound. One of her handmaidens stood near the doorway, holding a basin of water in both hands. She had bashful deer eyes, twitching ears, and slender hooves peeking from beneath her white shawl. Pink flowers bloomed in her antlers.The blush crept slowly from his ears to his cheeks, spilling across his pale face like watercolor.She thought they’d consummated the marriage. She was here to clean her mistress afterward.

Wordlessly, he entered the room and, for the second time that day, he sank floor-level in the presence of his wife. Picking up the discarded robe, he wrapped it around her shoulders; then exited the room as fast as he could, leaving both women perplexed.

IV. Sure and stingy, the late September morning hoarded the phantom moon, fogging up the rippled skies with its grey stillness. Somewhere in the palace, a grandfather clock chimed loudly, and she woke alone in a chamber of her own. As she had every day since the night she last saw Morpheus.

A month had gone by, yet she still was unsure what to make of him. Although they were tangled in a waltz of avoidance, she often felt his presence haunting the halls, busying himself with work.

Hidden, forgotten, or forbidden, the hollowness of unexplored attics, chambers, and tunnels echoed under her feet. If she stood perfectly still, she could feel the woodwork thumping at a consistent tempo, as if the fortress hid a heart under all the mosaics and broken marbles, like a living thing.

A solemn chill blew through the palace, and with it came a long-dead lullaby and brittle leaves sailing about aimlessly in circles. Dragging her hand along the cobblestone wall, she followed the familiar sound down the hall to the library.

“Für Elise,” she said.

Matthew hobbled around to face her, abandoning the book he was previously hunched over, “You know it?”

“I was there when it was written,” She smiled at the candle-lit memory of a man with untamed hair and spirit. Biting the insides of his flushed, pudgy cheeks in concentration as his nimble, quick fingers worked obsessively to perfect each note.

“Who’s playing?” She asked, half wondering if her old friend was locked in a room here. “Ah, the palace does that sometimes,” Matthew said matter-of-factly.

“This is a favorite of your husband’s, especially when it gets cold. You’ll get used to it.”

“The palace plays Beethoven for him?”

Matthew did not have shoulders to shrug, so instead he tilted his head to the side casually, “Yeah, and that’s not even the freakiest thing about this place. If you’re quiet enough, you can hear it breathing sometimes. Now, if you ask me, I’m a simple man. I don't think architecture should be alive. It’s ghastly, but so is your husband’s taste in well…everything.”

Her eyes traveled up several feet, fixing on a spot above Matthew’s head.

“Aaaand he’s behind me, isn’t he?” The raven asked, devoid of shame.

To which she only smiled and nodded.

In his black floor-length robe, Morpheus’ large presence loomed ominously in the library, snuffing the light in the area he stood. The fringes of his ruffled perpetual bed head fell into his eyes, shielding his unamused, sour expression.

Lucienne nudged him forward with her shoulder. Dream scratched the back of his neck, looking away, then paced forward and presented a black velvet box.

“Th-thisisforyou.” He rushed the words from his mouth, accidentally shoving the box into his wife’s hands. She staggered back slightly, blinking at his strength. “I’m sorry,” Dream mumbled before scurrying away.

On his way out, Matthew landed on his shoulder and whispered dryly in his ear, “If I had hands, I’d face palm with both.” The princess thumbed the velvet box and then snapped it open, revealing a crimson diamond, in the shape of a heart, strung on delicate gold.

Lucienne, still cringing from the interaction, rested a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder. “He made it himself.”

Growing fond of his strangeness, a small smile etched itself onto the princess’ face.

The metamorphosis had begun.

V. The next time Morpheus saw her, the thorn-pricked jewel dangled at the base of her throat with effortless elegance. Instinctively, his fingers grazed the same spot on his own neck a quiet pride bloomed amidst the calm in his chest.

Gingerly, he offered her a hand to help her onto the mare. She accepted with grace. He considered mounting the saddle behind her, but since she didn’t suggest it, he maintained a respectful distance and walked beside her instead, the lead rope looped loosely in his hands.

Unfortunately for the princess, Morpheus was not an exceptional tour guide. He preferred the company of silence.They moved past knee-high yellowing reeds. And every now and then, when he thought she wasn’t looking, he stole a glance.

Her veil shimmered in the daylight — sea-salt and gold — cloaking her from head to toe like moonlight diffused through gauze. It trailed behind her, rippling in the breeze, fluttering against the black mare’s flanks. By tradition’s measure, she was appropriately dressed for her first passage through his realm.

They tracked a mile together through Fiddler’s Green. If Dream was tired, he didn’t show it; his face was unreadable as ever. Still, she reached into the saddle pouch and offered him a bottle of water. When he took it, their hands brushed — and he was certain she’d flinch, pull away from his touch. But she didn’t. Through the veil, she smiled at him — warm and unguarded — almost as radiant as the ruby nestled at her throat.

Unconsciously, he mirrored her smile for a fleeting second before glancing away and clearing his throat. The blush creeping up his neck did not go unnoticed. And just like that, she decided she rather liked this strange man and his stranger charms.

“I suppose I should thank you,” he said once they resumed their quiet rhythm.“Whatever for?” she asked.“Matthew told me about Beethoven.”

It was her turn to flush, and she quickly averted her gaze. This was the most direct he had ever been with her, and the full force of his attention was unexpectedly disarming.

“It would’ve been a shame if the world hadn’t heard his talents.”

“Funny,” Morpheus murmured, “I thought the same of Shakespeare.”

She gasped, whipping her head toward him in disbelief. “That one was your doing?” He allowed himself a small, rare smile. “Yes. That one was me.”

Tempted by curiosity — always — Morpheus could have let a dozen questions tumble out. Instead, he settled on one: “Tell me about the time you spent with them. With the humans.”

She let out a wistful sigh, her voice nearly lost in the hum of the meadow. “I loved watching them create, and build, and grow. The artists and children were my favorites. Politicians and bankers…” she pulled a face, “…not so much.”

“What’s their offense?” he asked, genuinely intrigued.

“They keep trying to reduce my myth to math. Strategize me. Trap me. And when it inevitably fails — as it always does — they say I’m fickle,” she huffed, clearly offended.

Morpheus disguised his amusement as a cough. “…you kind of are fickle.”

“I am not!” she defended, mock-offended. ��Before I was conscious, I was a coincidence. Now, my work is far too deliberate to be fickle. Do you know how many parts move at once to keep harmony across the realms? If I falter even for a moment, everything collapses. The detail alone would drive some mad.”

A shadow crossed her features, fleeting but heavy. “You asked about my time with the humans. Well… It’s in the past now. We all know when it ends, Death will be the one to close the doors. But it was I who opened them.”

Morpheus fell silent, pondering the weight of her words — and the truth in them. It was luck that humans existed at all.

“You’ve grown attached to them,” he observed, voice low and steady. Then, with softened candor, “And I know you’re not fickle. I was only teasing.”

Her smile returned, gentler now, more real. He listened to her speak with such reverence, such insight, and found himself wanting to share something in return — a piece of his own regrets, or what passed for them in his endless life.

But not yet. Then a new thought crept in — unbidden and unsettling: how useful she was to mortals. And how dangerous that made her. He had seen human greed too closely, too many times, to dismiss the thought. His grip tightened on the rope. He stepped a little closer to the horse, not wanting to imagine what he might do if they ever tried to take her.

The unease stirred something raw in him.“Forgive me,” he said, at last. “I know the situation between us hasn’t been ideal… and for that, I’m sorry.” Waves of empathy shimmered through her as she turned to face him fully.

“You’ve done nothing that requires forgiveness, Morpheus. But… if it’s any consolation, I’m glad it’s you.”His name fell from her lips like a blessing, and something in him unraveled.“I’m glad it’s you, too.”

VI. Five, Four, Three,

The princess stood before the monitor at the center of the crowded room, her head hung low in shame, tears brimming in her eyes. Each staggering breath was jagged, sharp as knives.“This one is more than a dream—it’s a memory,”

Morpheus said, making his unexpected presence known.

For once, he was not the most morbid creature in the room. He stood facing the window with his hands folded neatly behind his back, anticipating the launch.

She gripped the coin until her nails dug into her palms. Another memory was melting into a different dream. She didn’t need to acknowledge it—she’d seen this one before. She’d lived this one before.

With a heavy heart, Morpheus stood with her beneath the same sun many moons ago, his gaze fixed heavenward. Under a clear blue sky, it looked like a lone star plummeting through eternity, forever falling upon this city.

“Luck never made a man wise,” Morpheus murmured, his voice falling flat against the dirty pavement.

“No, it never seems enough to do so.”

He could sense her distress more clearly than the day-old, crumpled newspaper skittering across the street. Even if he hadn’t taken a special interest in her dreams, he would have sensed it—in every realm, in every lifetime. And he would come to her aid in every realm, in every lifetime.

“This was never yours to carry alone,” he said, voice quiet but resolute. “If you strip them of conscience, you strip them of consequence. My dear Fortuna…it is finished. Let it lie.” He paused, as if giving silence its due.

“Here—let me take care of this for you.” Mere moments before the catastrophe, the world swirled in clouds of orange and pink, scrambling her view. Morpheus placed a firm, comforting arm around her shoulders and turned her gently away from the scene.

“My sister Death will be here soon. We must leave.”

“Yes. And Despair too,” the princess added bitterly. “She’s made a home among these people… and she’ll still be here for generations to come.”

Dream did not doubt it. Death and Despair often worked together, and it would be a pity for the world if they ever learned to get along.

As the blur of colors subsided, she immediately recognized the image before it fully materialized. Turning to her husband, she asked, “How do you know this place?”

His face remained unreadable. “It is my duty to keep you safe here in the Dreaming… and in the waking. Therefore, it is my duty to know this place.”

Secluded in the woods, they stood before a hot spring, quietly simmering in the dappled light.“This is my happy place,” she said with a small, reverent smile. Dream shrugged, and a flurry of petals came sailing from the clouds, decorating the surface of the water—his personal touch. Overwhelmed with gratitude, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, then turned toward the spring.

Morpheus gasped softly, startled by the unexpected gesture. Blinking twice, he lifted his hand and ghosted it over the kissed skin, surprised at how it lingered.

He hadn’t thought further than his desire to comfort her. So when she began slipping out of her silk nightgown, his breath caught.

Embarrassed, he flushed pink and turned his back, granting her privacy. He wondered if he’d already missed his chance to return the kiss.

“It’s okay, Morpheus,” she said gently. “You can look.” Still cloaked in dark robes, he crouched at the water’s edge and craned his neck toward her, surrendering to his attraction.The daughter of the sea stretched out, her naked body gliding luxuriously across the surface, rippling the hot spring in small waves. Like a siren rising from the deep, her eyes peered over the waterline, watching him with a knowing softness. She raised a hand and caressed his jaw, guiding him closer.

Obeying her silent call, Morpheus leaned forward, eager to please—until she grinned and pulled him suddenly into the water."Ah—!"He surfaced, sputtering and disheveled, his dark hair clinging to his face. He fought the urge to laugh… and lost. Her laughter was too infectious.

Grinning with pearly whites he rarely revealed, he watched her push the wet fringe from his forehead.“I would court you with more grace… if I knew how,” he said, leaning into her touch. “I’ve been alone for so long.”

“Not without reason,” she soothed, unwilling to let his sorrow return.

“If history serves as any reference,” he murmured, “I must inform you—I’m not very good at this.”

“Whatever you have been, you are mine now. Don’t look to your past, Morpheus—you won’t find me there. What’s done is done. Leave it to rest.”

“I like it when you say my name.” He kissed her knuckles gently, then placed her palm over his beating heart. Her warmth settled comfortably over his pale, frostbitten moonlit skin.

“I like it when you smile,” she whispered, leaning in. He met her halfway.

They happened like a miracle.

The kiss was gentle at first, new love blooming between their entangled bodies, curling into smiles on their lips. To Morpheus, she tasted of an intoxicating mixture of the finest ambrosia and nectar.

One button at a time, she disrobed him till he was as bare and vulnerable as she was. Peering into her eyes, Morpheus said, “We didn’t get a choice, but I promise you, this is. This will always be first and foremost, your choice. Beloved, will you be mine?”

“I’m already yours,” she mused, playfully lifting her left hand in the air till her wedding band glinted in the sunlight. Impatiently, his fingers tangled themselves in her wet hair and tugged softly, tilting her gaze to meet his, “Morpheus,” she moaned.

He was certain he could hear the uprush of ichor in her veins charging the thick air till it crackled and popped like electricity between them. “I want to hear you say it again,” he gritted through his teeth sternly, “And I want you to mean it when you do.”

Obediently, she responded, “I belong to you, Morpheus, take what is rightfully yours.” Her words may have been submissive, but her demeanor was not. Curiously, her hands glided across the lean, firm muscles of his chest; they looked small in comparison.

Touch-starved, Morpheus shuddered at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut, “Bride of mine— ” he began, but she did not let him finish. In height, he towered over her even in the water, to level the playing field, she wrapped her thighs around his torso, hooking her ankles together, keeping him close and easily accessible.

He slipped his hands under the water, gripping her thighs firmly, not only out of lust but to fulfill the ever-growing innate desire to hold her close. “Here?” he asked out of breath.“Right here.” She confirmed, sucking and kissing along his jaw then focusing her attention to his throat, determined to freckle the area with purple love bites as evidence of her existence.

Morpheus stirred beneath her, arching his pelvis to find hers, with one hand wrapped firmly around his neck for support, she idly dragged her fingers down to his loins. Heavy-lidded, he closed his eyes and sighed as she tightened her closed fist around his hard shaft. Needy as ever, he did not wait for insertion, instead he began thruting in her closed fist desprate for friction, frantically tugging and groping at the curve slope of her ass, the her back then her breasts.

When his breathing became labored, she released him from her grip, giggling when he groaned, “Bride of mine, do not tease me, or you will find I am not the most merciful of eminems.”

“Chances are in my favor,” she whispered against his lips, pulling him in for a kiss. Slowly, she took his length in her hands once more and positioned herself, hovering it between her folds, fluttering her eyes closed in anticipation.

“Focus your eyes on me, dearest, I am your keeper now.” He vowed quietly, sinking completely into her body, stretching her out and making her his forever. Despite the burning sensation, she greedily rocked her hips into his, splashing water between them with every steady rhythm.

Her head already foggy with the building pressure and his fullness, marvling at all the ways they fit together. Morpheus groaned and leaned into her, pink lips attached themselves to every exposed area within reach, nibbling here biting there until settling on one of her nipples sucking firmly.

She arched into it, nails digging crescent moon into his biceps, mewling and panting in ecstasy, knowing she would unravel any second, but clung desperately, the moment not wanting to end.

Enchanted by the sounds tumbling past her lips, Morpheus twitched inside of her, his intense, unwavering gaze eager to memorize the twists and turns of passion on her face. Succumbing fully to her, he lost the sense of separate beings and melted into his wife with one final thrust, emitting a throaty growl.

Limply, she draped over him, her heartbeat slowly syncing with his. He didn’t mind. He simply held her—tender, silent, eternal. Their bodies still hummed with the memory of what they had just become.The touches after were gentler, reverent. Fingertips traced temples, arms, and the slope of her back.

Their foreheads pressed together like a prayer, anchoring her until she felt real again, until she was wholly present in the Dreaming.“I think I’m falling in love with you,” she murmured, a yawn catching the edge of her words and twisting them into a soft pout.

Morpheus chuckled—a low, reverent sound that rumbled from deep in his chest. He pressed his lips to her temple, voice raw with something ancient and unguarded. “You may not have been my first love,” he whispered, “but I think… You will always be my favorite.”

VII.

Mount Olympus

600th Floor,

Empire State Building

New York, NY

With best wishes,

Zeus

Morpheus cringed at the clutched envelope; he’d meant to throw it away, as he had with all of Zeus’ previous invitations. He cared little—if at all—for divine gatherings.

At their worst, they were soirées for gods to brush elbows and bargain favors. At their best, civil pretenses masquerading as peace. The invitation was merely a gesture, done in good faith. As far as Morpheus knew, none of the Endless ever attended.

Until today.

Linked at the elbows, he escorted his sophisticated goddess through the drab, dreary streets of New York. With tender composure, they glided across the pavement. His wife’s spirited heels clicked in rhythm, an elegant punctuation to each step.

It was their first outing as a married couple outside his realm, and she wore his colors proudly. They looked like a mating set. Or a united front.

As they walked past yellow cabs jamming the roads, the city’s usual cacophony paused. Drivers stopped shouting profanities mid-sentence. Pedestrians stood still, umbrellas clutched tighter, mouths agape. Morpheus smirked.

They looked human enough. But their presence was unearthly. Even if mortals didn’t comprehend what they were seeing, something woven in their souls made them stalk backward, clearing the area like prey evading unexpected predators in the wild.

In the empty elevator, she turned and fixed his tie.

“Morpheus.”

“Hmm?”

“Lighten up, will you? We don’t get out much. So behave, please?”

He sighed in surrender.She was right. Since the marriage, she’d remained in the palace, watching seasons pass. The only reason he’d agreed to come was for her.

When they entered the venue, the hush didn’t go unnoticed.Zeus—bronzed and broad-shouldered in a designer suit, hair flowing like a greying monsoon cloud—strode to greet them personally.

Pleasantly surprised, he clasped Morpheus’ shoulder with a grin.“Obedience does not come naturally to you,” he said, then glanced at the goddess, “but to have the odds eternally in your favor is a good trade-off. Congratulations on your union, brother. Come, it’s been too long. We’ve much to catch up on.”

Morpheus glanced at his wife, reluctant to part. Her eyes answered, Keep the peace. Go. She let go of his hand with a small smile and walked off. Had she looked back, she might’ve seen it—his quiet, aching gaze: I miss you already. Don’t stray too far.

Like a bullet through a flock of doves, a blond figure scattered her thoughts, reducing the room to white noise.

She recognized him instantly.She twisted away before he even reached her. Naively, she had expected him to be where sun gods usually lingered in the afternoon—drunk at the bottom of a suburban swimming pool. But a prestigious Olympus party suited him too.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, wine warm on his breath.

A constellation of nymphs hovered near, hoping to catch his eye. But he looked only at her. She couldn’t blame them—Zeus’ Great Gatsby theme looked exquisite on him. His white suit contrasted with his tan skin well, thick blond coils tamed and swept aside. A soft halo of light chased every shadow from his face, reminding onlookers he was born to be seen.

“I heard you got married.”

She thought of a time long ago when he had made plans to marry her. During their Southern Hills Country Club days, she spent her summers riding shotgun while he drag-raced his Corvette, a habitual blood red sangria within his reach. Then she’d spend her nights ripping off his polo shirts, tying him to the bed. His wrists bounded together by her daisy chains.

“I did,” she said. “To an Endless.”

He rolled his eyes, scoffing at the brevity of her reply.“What do you want from me, huh? Do you want me to beg? Is that it?”

“I want you to leave me alone,” she said, cold where he was fire.

“You don’t realize how powerful you are with me beside you. Olympus could’ve been ours.”

“Be careful,” she warned. “Your father might overhear you. And we all know how he feels about usurpers. Son or not.”

His expression twisted. “Is that a threat?”

She didn’t answer. Just stared. Daring him.

His hand shot out, gripping her wrist. He pulled her close. “Understand this. I’m only this desperate for you. I will never let you leave me. I will hunt you down if I have to.”

Before she could speak, like serpents crawling into his ears, coiling around his brain, a numbing voice hissed from behind him.

“Boundariesss, Apollo.”

Morpheus emerged, his presence turning the air to frost. “You’re trespassing on hers. Therefore, by extension—mine.”Morpheus' aura radiated bitter dread, amplifying everyone's worst fear till it hindered their ability to think.

Should Apollo choose to offend him further, there is no version of this event where he’d reign victorious. Yet the sun god stood his ground and looked up defiantly at the king of nightmares.

Horrified, the Olympians stiffened. This was a line none had crossed before—and none would now.

Apollo braced himself, shoulders tightening as Morpheus’ gaze settled on him. He felt wild and reckless, as if he’d abandoned all sense of self-preservation. But then an ancient terror began to unfurl within him—primal and absolute. In that instant, he understood why fear of the dark is innate: what dwells within it is seldom kind.

As Morpheus willed it, shadows peeled from the walls, snuffing out every light source. Cold nothingness compressed Apollo.The longer the nightmare king stared, the more Apollo dimmed—like a star being swallowed by the void.

Until he stood hollow, defenseless as an animal staring at a scalpel about to be flayed alive, flesh from bone. Hollow empty sockets where Morpheus’ eyes had been burned like twin melancholy-blue, dwindling charcoal flames. And with the stillness of an eerie viper ready to strike, Morpheus whispered through the darkness, “Tell me, sun god, is precognition possible…without eyes?”

Thunder clapped overhead. The crowd gasped. Ozone thickened the air. Zeus stepped in, voice forced into levity, “Ah, pay my son no mind. The boy means no harm, eh?”

He gripped Apollo’s collar, yanked him away from Morpheus, and addressed the stunned room.“You are all guests! Come! Laugh, eat, be merry!”Slowly, reluctantly, the party resumed.

Dream turned to his wife. “Did I scare you?”

“No.”

“Good.” He draped his coat around her bare shoulders, his voice low.

“There’s something about your shared history I do not like.”

“That’s all it is,” she said gently. “History.”

“Still,” he murmured, “I do not understand what you saw in him.”

A sly smile played on her lips. “Are you jealous, Morpheus?”

“Have I reason to be?”

“No, my heart. Take me home?”

He exhaled, softer now. “Yes. I shall take you home.”

IX. The king of nightmares slammed the double doors open, his frantic eyes searching every inch of the library, “Where is she?!” he growled with continent-shaking anger.

Who? Dissolved at the tip of Lucienne’s tongue before she could ask it, she already knew who.

“She’s not in the palace. I can’t find her, I can’t sense her. Did she mention leaving to you?”

Lucienne knitted her brows together, “No, my lord.” Dream squeezed his eyes shut, fearing the worst. “Find her,” he gritted through his teeth.

The days bled into night, and the night bled into more night. Like wishing on a birthday candle, the dark extinguished the sun and snuffed the vibrant colors of life and plunged the land into barren shades of grey.

All across the realms, the sleeping remained asleep while creatures of the dark haunted the streets freely. Around the palace, the sky thundered and cracked, flaking off, falling continuously like molten obsidian, the heavens weeping fragments of stars, lighting her way back home.

Morpheus hadn’t been seen in weeks. Then months.

He was unraveling.

Despair felt it first. The sudden drop. A hollow thud that reverberated through her mirrors like a death knell.“He’s cracking,” she whispered, cradling her own cheek. “Cracking like old porcelain.”

Delirium had been watching him longer. She tried to paint a portrait of his grief—using screaming birds and melted clocks—but couldn’t finish. She'd lost the colors for "abandonment" again.“I think he’s looking for her,” she said to nobody in particular. “Or maybe looking for where he lost himself.”

Even Death—eternally graceful—looked worried. She visited the Dreaming often now, just to sit beside the throne he no longer used. “You’ll break yourself trying to hold what’s already broken, little brother,” she murmured. But he didn’t answer. Because he wasn’t there. He was everywhere else.

Dream crossed realms like a comet caught in orbit, burning through the edges of the known and unknown. He begged the stars of the Helium Courts for omens. He sat with Time and asked if she'd seen a woman made of summer sunsets. He descended into the Labyrinth and asked the Minotaur to dream her shape in sand. But no realm held her. No dream bore her name. And he could no longer dream of her himself.

It was Desire who finally pulled him from the brink. “You look positively ravaged, dear Dream,” Desire purred from their crimson threshold, one leg draped lazily over their armrest. “I must say, heartbreak wears beautifully on you.”

Dream didn’t answer.

Desire twirled a thread between two fingers. Red and fine as hair.“Still searching? That’s sweet. But isn’t it obvious by now? You’re not meant to find her.”

Dream’s breath hitched at the sight of the thread. “Where did you get that?”

“I don’t know, brother,” Desire smiled wickedly, leaning closer. “Where do all destined threads come from?” Dream stepped forward, realization dawning like a poisoned sun.

Destiny.

He arrived at his sister’s doorstep with fire in his eyes and frost in his voice.“I need you to take me to him.”

Death didn’t pretend not to understand. She closed her book gently and stood.“I warned him not to do this,” she said softly. “Told him not to play jailer with someone like her. You don’t bind Fortune. She chooses.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I wasn’t sure which would be worse: you knowing… or you going.”

Dream looked haunted.“Is she…” He hesitated. The word alive was meaningless for beings like them. But well was not.“She sleeps. Not dreaming. Not living. Just waiting.”His throat tightened.“I’ll take you,” she said gently. “But once you cross into his realm, even I can’t reach you. That’s his rule.”He nodded.

“Dream,” she added, just as he turned away. “Do you love her?”

He froze.

“I do.”

When Dream stepped into Destiny’s realm, time ceased. Not slowed. Not shifted. Ceased. No wind stirred. No birds called. The garden stretched on infinitely in all directions—rows upon rows of pale gray trees, every leaf etched with ink. Footpaths twisted in fractal spirals that rearranged behind him with each step.

Here, the concept of choice was a myth. Here, only what was could exist. Dream's boots echoed along the stone path, though there was no sound. His cloak dragged behind him like a funeral shroud. At the center of the garden, as always, stood Destiny. Eyes veiled, chained to his podium, the Book in his hands—open to a page Dream had never seen. Not even in his own realm.

“Brother,” Destiny said without looking up.

“Where is she?”

“That is not the first question you should ask.”

Dream’s temper flashed. “Then allow me to ask them all at once: Why did you take her? Why did you put her to sleep? Why did you steal her autonomy? And why—why in all the realms—did you not come to me first?”

Destiny turned a page.“It was always written this way.”

“Don’t.” The wind trembled beneath Dream’s voice. “Don’t hide behind inevitability.”

“I do not hide,” Destiny replied. “I reveal.”

Dream stepped closer, fists clenched. “She is not a tool. Not a sacrifice. Not a line in your book. She is my wife. And you have caged her.”

Finally, Destiny looked at him. Behind the veil, his eyes were galaxies too ancient for stars. “I have preserved her.” Dream’s mouth parted. Confused. Reeling.

“She is safer here, untouched by the chaos her presence will cause.”

Dream advanced, his footsteps trembling the ground. “You claim to guide fate, not write it.”

“Some paths,” Destiny said slowly, “require a hand steadier than fortune’s. You were never meant to love her, brother.”

Dream flinched, as though the word itself were a curse.

“I used you both,” Destiny admitted without remorse. “She tempers your wrath. You temper her volatility. I forged the bond to bring balance. But she fell too deep into your realm. And you into hers.”

“You chose to bind us—”

“Yes,” Destiny continued, his voice the sound of dry ink scraping parchment paper. “And you have both outlived that purpose.”

“She is more than her role,” Dream said quietly.

“Yes. Which is why she must remain here. Until she forgets who she was.”

Dream stepped back as if struck. “Forget? You would erase her?”

“She will become what she must. And you will return to what you were.”

“I will not leave her here.”

“You cannot unwrite what has been written.”

“No,” Dream said, spine straightening. “But I can rewrite what is still becoming.” He turned. “Where is she?”

Destiny tilted his head. “You already know.” And he did.

Dream sprinted through the garden, past branches that clutched at his robe, past vines whispering fates he refused to hear. The trees parted, revealing a still pond—like glass—at the heart of the paths. There she lay. The Princess. The Goddess. His wife. Floating just beneath the surface, in a cradle of starlight and silk.

Her hands folded across her chest. Her hair drifted like seaweed in the water. Her face serene. Peaceful— Too still. Dream fell to his knees, the weight of eons collapsing onto him.

He pressed his palm to the surface. It did not ripple. “Fortuna,” he whispered. “Come back to me.” A faint red thread appeared between them—almost invisible—connecting the ring on her finger to his. A pulse.Then another. The thread began to glow. And Destiny, watching from the center of the garden, turned another page.

Then—A ripple. The water shimmered, her lips parted faintly, and Dream surged forward, preparing to break the veil between worlds—to reach her, to drag her back with him if he had to tear time and fate apart. But the light dimmed. The surface resisted. And behind him, Destiny’s voice split the air: “If you free her now, you unmake what remains of the balance. You don't know what lies ahead.” Dream didn’t turn. “I don’t care.”

“You will.” Destiny spoke, and eternity held its breath. “If you pull her from this place, you will not only doom yourselves—but what comes from you.”

Dream froze.

Silence fell like a guillotine.

“They will be born of dream and fortune. Imagination and chance. Power unbound by law or logic. Children of impossible will. I have seen what they become, Morpheus.”

He turned another page, slower now. “They would not simply shift the order of things—they would unmake it. Realities would bend. Time would bleed. Even Death would not be able to claim them.”

Dream’s voice cracked. “Then come for me. Bind me. Curse me. Take whatever you must—but not her.”

Destiny’s silence wasn’t stillness. It was judgment. “I gave you this love to temper you,” he said at last. “But you have let it consume you.”

Dream’s voice shook. “Because it is real. Because for the first time in all the infinite yawning dark, something belonged to me. Because, even if fate hadn’t woven us together, even if she was called into being by forces beyond me—she is still mine. And I will not let you erase her, no matter the cost, no matter the future you fear.”

Destiny stepped forward. For the first time, he closed the Book. And the sky cracked. “You think I fear what might come, brother?” His voice became the wind through every leaf, every turning path. “I know what will. I have seen them—your children. Born of realms that should never touch. They will walk outside time. Rewrite existence with thought alone.”

Dream’s face went pale. Destiny’s voice chilled to ash. “When they are born, I will come. I will erase them. From every page. Every story. Every star. I will erase their possibility. I will erase their luck.”

Dream turned, eyes glowing with fury and grief. “Then I will teach them to hide from you.”

“You cannot.”

“Then I will create a place even your Book cannot reach.”

Destiny stared at him, the weight of uncountable eons behind his gaze. “You were always the most stubborn of us,” he said. “And the most dangerous when in love.” He opened the Book once more. “Take her. She is yours. For now.”

The sky sealed. The trees exhaled. “But know this, Dream of the Endless: I do not threaten. I warn. And when your children come—so too shall I. ”With that, Destiny vanished into his spiraling paths.

Dream turned back to the pond. The glow around her body pulsed faster now. The spell was breaking. He sank to his knees again—and this time, the surface gave way beneath his hand.

The water shimmered. Fortuna gasped awake. She coughed, limbs trembling, and curled her fingers into his robe like a drowning soul clinging to shore. He held her like a man starved. Pressed his forehead to hers. “I have you,” he whispered. “And I will never lose you again.”

But far away, in the garden without choice, another page turned. And on it, a name had begun to write itself— A child yet unborn.

A war yet begun.

EPILOGUE: THE EVIDENCE OF A SUCCESSFUL MIRACLE IS THE RETURN OF HUNGER

The cat lay coiled beside her feet like a heap of cream and orange autumn leaves, its sweet face twisting into a yawn. It stretched languidly, then padded closer, purring softly as its nose brushed hers. This had been part of their shared morning ritual for over a millennium.

At the time, Morpheus had fashioned the creature as an anniversary gift, though she was certain a purring alarm clock had not been what he intended.Sensing movement beyond the chamber, its curious little triangle ears flicked toward the door. The translucent green wings on its back, delicate as dragonfly glass, perked in anticipation. In a blink, it zipped out of the room—no doubt in pursuit of the kitchen.

“I thought a king does not serve tea,” murmured the goddess in his bed, half-awake, her voice a warm teasing lilt.

“No,” he replied, the smile clear in his voice, “but your husband does.”She heard the soft clink of porcelain as he set the tray down beside her.“How are my Dreamling heirs this morning?” he asked.

“Excited to hear your voice, it would seem,” she said, guiding his hand to the swell of her belly. Beneath his palm, a flutter of movement greeted him. Morpheus beamed. “I cannot wait to meet them both.” He bent down to press two featherlight kisses to her stomach, then brushed a third across her lips.

Since learning of the children, he had developed a habit: when entering a room, he greeted them before anyone else—even her.“And to where do your royal duties call you today?” she asked, drowsy but amused.“I have declined them,” he said simply.

“Today belongs to fatherhood. We’re decorating the nursery, just as you asked. I’ve requested the staff to leave it completely barren. It will be yours to shape, just as you envisioned.”

“Finally!” she exclaimed, eyes now open and shining. “I’ve been putting it off, waiting for you. I was beginning to think I’d have to do it alone.”

Her words, even said in jest, struck a subtle chord in him. At once, Morpheus slipped beneath the covers, drawing her close, his body curving protectively around hers.

He cradled her face between his hands, and kissed the base of her ear, whispering with reverent certainty: “Mother of my children… you will never be alone. You are mine. And as long as I exist, you will be safe. You will be cherished. You will be loved.”

EPILOGUE: FORTUNA IS A WOMAN

Death of the Endless sighed, tilting her head back with theatrical exasperation. “Of all the entities I run into at work, you’re easily my least favorite.”

Across from her, the princess smiled, cradling a once-warm cup of tea between her hands. “Last-minute change,” she said lightly. “I’m afraid you can’t have this one. Not today.”

She pushed the teacup across the table.“Here. It’s chamomile.” Death accepted it with a raised brow. “Stealing souls and serving tea. You’ve really embraced domestic chaos.”

She sank into the chair beside the princess, fingers curling around the porcelain, casting a sideways glance at the radiant crown of thorns circling her companion’s head.

A knowing smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. She knew exactly who the crown belonged to—and the promise it carried.They passed the cup between them in easy silence, as old friends might, watching the moment unfold below.

A blur of red.The shriek of tires tearing across pavement. The vehicle veered violently off the road, spinning into a chaos of screeches and honking horns. Pedestrians screamed, scattering just in time.

All except one.

Mark stood frozen—caught between breath and fate.In a heartbeat, he was airborne.Then the sickening thud. Bones against asphalt. Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd like wind through dry grass. Screams followed.

The princess watched calmly, her golden eyes flickering once—an unearthly gleam, subtle and certain.

Down below, the boy stirred. He coughed once. Then again. And to the stunned horror of the onlookers, he stood up—shaky, bloodied, grinning like someone waking from a beautiful dream.

A jagged smile stretched across his maroon-smeared face, eyes wide in the sudden, inexplicable rush of being alive.“Dude,” someone breathed, “how the hell did you survive that?”

Mark blinked, swaying slightly.“Just got lucky, I guess.”

Back on the balcony of the in-between, Death took a final sip of tea, side-eyeing the princess beside her. “Luck,” she echoed dryly. “Sure. Let’s call it that.” The princess offered no rebuttal. Only a smile.

#the sandman #dream x reader #morpheus x reader

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dreamingofcalliope · 3 months ago

Text

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖒 𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉 {𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓𝖊}

When a woman sets him free at the cost of her own life, Dream vows to honour her sacrifice and lay her to rest in the Dreaming, once it is restored... only things don’t quite go to plan when she reawakens unexpectedly.

Pairing: Morpheus x Reader (no y/n used)

Warnings: graphic violence, blood, angst, major character death. basically all the same nasty stuff that happened in the first episode.

A/N: not me showing up suuper late with starbucks but heeeeey gurl! yes this was jumpstarted by the old guard 2 release announcement and i have finally gotten a chapter done for all you lovely patient people! its longer than i originally planned as an apology and thanks for waiting, so lets hope the roll continues even though i have no idea where i'm going with this lol enjoy!

Gif made by me!

The first shot split the air with a crack, even amidst the sound of shouting, and the splatter of red across the glass of his prison was uncomfortably familiar to Morpheus.

His heart had not been inclined to hope for help since he had lost Jessamy, and though it still did not now, the similarity of the moment his loyal servant had been struck down was an uncomfortable weight.

The second took the woman to her knees, in a pose not unlike those who supplicated before him in the past, his subjects, in search of an audience with the King of Dreams and Nightmares, while her hand clutched at the new wound spilling red down the front of her body. Her eyes held his gaze, as it had since she’d found her way into the basement a few minutes earlier, and with the weight of resignation in his throat, Morpheus accepted he would now bear witness to another passing.

Yet it was not shock he found in her features, surprise at a life cut short, rather she seemed… focused; on living, he supposed even as she pitched forward like a puppet whose strings had been cut, until she reached for the binding circle beneath his cage. He dared not look too long, to linger on the markings that had helped keep him prisoner all this time, even now as she reached for them, but the hope bloomed in his chest heedless of the cost of the act.

The woman would die here, of that he held no doubt, yet that seed of hope sprouted that perhaps her sacrifice would not be completely in vain. In fact he swore it.

If she were to set him free, he would see that sacrifice honoured.

Another shot came, he unconsciously echoed the flinch she gave but she did not falter. With her own blood coating her hand, and, he suspected, what little strength she had remaining, she swept across the markings; distorting the edges enough to destroy the power they contained. As he watched her head fall and the light die in her eyes, for the first time in over a century, his power spilled beyond the edges of his prison.

Like a limb tight from disuse, he stretched his influence towards the guard whose gun was still raised. A push and more shots came, this time at the barrier separating them and finally it gave way, shattering under the joint pressure.

He was free.

Once the guards were taken care of, and his jailers sufficiently punished, Morpheus approached the still form of his saviour. With gentle hands, he gathered her close and stood, escape and his promise at the forefront of his mind; he would not leave her body at the mercy of the Burgess family. A mixture of emotions, gratitude, sorrow, anger, relief, all warred inside him as he turned towards the portal that would finally carry them home.

- - - -

“Sir! Sir!”

The landing was harder than he expected, but he held tight to the body in his arms, cushioning the fall with his own though he knew she was beyond feeling it. Footsteps and hands reached for him, turned him and he blinked up into the familiar face of-

“It’s me. It’s Lucienne.”

“Lucienne..” the familiar smile on his librarian’s face to his weak response was comforting and he reached for Lucienne’s hand, scarcely able to believe that, after so long, he was, indeed, home. The relief and joy gave way to confusion as he watched Lucienne’s eyes take in that her Lord was not alone in his return. With her help, he managed to stand while cradling his companion and soon the gates to his realm stood tall ahead, just as he had left them. The gates responded to his familiar touch and the feeling of coming home was so strong that it threatened to drown him.

Lucienne’s warning did little to soften the blow of seeing his realm darkened… destroyed… decaying right before his eyes. He knew damage had been done to the waking world in his absence, but to know it extended here too…

His concern was not only for his realm but those who resided within it. If the Dreaming had suffered so in his absence, then what of his creations? The dreams and nightmares that were constructs of his will? The staff he had promised protection and safety to, once upon a time? But the pain of seeing the state of his realm compared little to the hurt of Lucienne revealing many had simply believed he would so readily abandon them.

Some had sought him out, yet none had succeeded; that thought drew his attention back to the woman in his arms and his devastation gave way to determination. He would fix what had been wrought in his absence and restore order to both realms, as was his duty.

“I made this realm once, Lucienne. I will make it again.”

- - - -

His palace lay in shambles, colour having leached from its very existence, the sky above his throne dark despite the twinkling of stars and, with each account Lucienne gave, his devastation was torn all the wider. And yet, she remained, steadfast in the belief that he would return and that he had not abandoned them. Her loyalty inspired admiration and gratitude in him, a vindication of the choice he’d made long ago to take her in as a member of his staff. He made a note to reward her for her loyalty and her attempts to protect the Dreaming in his absence, even as he approached what remained of the steps to his throne.

It was the only surface still relatively intact and not covered in debris; the only place he could lay down his saviour safely.

“My lord…” the librarian trailed off hesitantly, as if still deciding how to phrase her question before settling and he turned in time to see her spine straighten as if to brace herself. “While I am glad to have you return to us, I cannot help noticing you have not done so alone.” The pointed look at the woman now behind him felt a little unnecessary, who else would Lucienne be referring to, but he was surprised her curiosity had been held at bay this long. Then again, they’d had other matters to discuss.

“At the cost of her own life, this woman released me from my imprisonment,” he began. “I brought her here to honour that sacrifice. To lay her to rest under the guardianship of Fiddler’s Green. In peace…” the dream lord trailed off, sadness and disappointment etched into the marble of his features as he glanced at the body laying atop the makeshift altar. A decaying wasteland was not the deserved resting place of one to whom he owed so much.

Lucienne was quiet for a few moments, obviously considering this revelation before the librarian nodded solemnly. “Fiddler’s Green is no longer in the Dreaming,” she announced and he resisted the urge to flinch. One of his most loyal and beloved creations, he had not expected Fiddler’s Green’s absence but once the Dreaming was restored, he had faith they would all return. Well, those who still held some loyalty would, he concluded, his mind returning to the reason he had left the Dreaming in the first place. The Corinthian would need to be dealt with also but the Dreaming had to come first.

With that thought in mind, he reached out with what power remained within and attempted to reshape the room in which they stood. To his dismay, it was so scant and brittle; his control shattered within moments and with the falling of debris, so too did the Dream Lord. It became painfully apparent to them both that until he had his tools, his power would not be fully restored.

Which meant he would need to discover the fate of his tools after their theft. The Fates would know, loathe as he was to admit it. He could not restore his realm, not even this very room. He would not have the power to summon them and asking his siblings was out of the question, as he told Lucienne. His knowledgeable librarian however had an answer for his next question; a creation of his that remained whole and he stood from his perch upon the stairs.

“Then let us go-”

The pained groan that came from behind suddenly cut off his statement, louder in the destroyed throne room for its unexpectedness, and both the King and Librarian swivelled abruptly to seek out the source. Impossibly, it came from where it should not have; the woman lying in still reverence upon the stairs.

Only… she was not still now.

- - - -

As it tended to happen when she woke, the first thing she knew was pain.

Dying did tend to be a painful affair, so that wasn’t completely shocking. She hadn’t had a peaceful one as of yet in all honesty but that didn’t make the experience any more fun. Bullets particularly sucked because sometimes she gained awareness before they’d finished working their way out of her body, like now, and so there was little she could do except grit her teeth and wait for the burning to end.

This one was particularly bad; it must have lodged into bone or something and despite her instincts, and knowing better, she groaned aloud as the bullet finally worked itself free of her flesh. With a deep inhale, her eyes opened to look upon… the night sky? No… those were ruins around her and for a moment she wondered if the person she’d set free had destroyed their prison as punishment; she wouldn’t have blamed them if they had.

The crunch of glass under foot grabbed her attention and she jerked upright on instinct; unfamiliar surroundings and the vulnerability of not being alone during her reawakening caused her adrenaline to kick in sharply. She immediately reached for the knife usually stowed on her thigh before recalling she’d put the habit aside while infiltrating the Burgess estate so as not to arouse suspicion. A gardener with a knife holstered on their leg was not exactly typical.

Now she mourned the loss as she angled her body defensively towards the threat.

It took a moment for recognition to wash over her at the sight of the man she’d set free, but then he’d been naked at the time and now he wasn’t and… well she figured she could be forgiven for needing a second to reconcile the two appearances into one. At least her attempt to free him had been successful.

His surprise was subtle, compared to that of his companion as she finally realised they weren’t alone anymore, but this one wasn’t dressed in the uniform of the guards who’d killed her.

“You live.”

During her spontaneous rescue attempt he hadn’t spoken a single word. Of that she was sure because her first thought upon hearing that deep, silky tone was that she would definitely have remembered hearing it, even while dying. In reality she knew nothing of this man before her, save that he’d been imprisoned, and perhaps it had been for some good reason not apparent to her, however nothing deserved to be kept in a cage as he had.

“Yes,” she replied simply. Any hope that her resurrection may have gone unnoticed and dismissed as a simple mistake was lost in that moment so she might as well admit it. She expected the question from him but instead it came from his offsider and she glanced for a moment at them before her eyes returned to the man… being before her.

“How?”

“Just lucky I guess,” was her glib answer even as his eyes pierced her, obviously seeking and she had never felt so studied before in her admittedly long life. He exuded a quiet power that was both seductive and terrifying, as if with the same look he coaxed her closer and warned her away and were she mortal, her body would no doubt have been torn between the two feelings. Instead she simply raised her chin, in dual defiance and daring and even having only met this man moments ago, she thought she saw a flicker of amusement in the depths of those pale eyes at her reaction.

“You are one of the deathless.” That voice came again, flowing and suffused, she thought, with a combination of pleasure at his own cleverness and surprise at the information.

It was a name she had not heard used in a very long time, and it momentarily jolted her back through flames and blood and chants of witchcraft, a distance overtaking her gaze that, unbeknownst to her, was not lost on her companions.

“I’ve been called that once or twice,” she said finally, hesitantly as though she still possessed a secret to keep. “And what do they call you? Tall, dark and brooding?” It was a weak attempt at humour, at changing the subject and focus onto something not her miraculous resurrection and return to the living.

“He is Lord Morpheus. Dream of the Endless. Lord of the Dreaming. King of Dreams and Nightmares,” the… well this one was probably a valet or something if he was supposed to be a king or lord or whatever, rattled off and a snort escaped her before she could stop it.

“Let me guess. He’s also an aquarius and likes long walks on the beach?”

They looked at her with a combination of annoyance and confusion, and she figured her joke hadn’t been appreciated. “Okay, Lord Morpheus,” with a hum, she continued, the title dripping with as much reverence as she was capable of, which wasn’t very much in all honesty. “I’m glad to see you’re out and about. I wasn’t sure if breaking that circle would be enough, magic can be fickle like that," she shrugged, glancing around at the ruins they stood within. The changing dark sky above and the light shining in the windows were her first clue this wasn't the Burgess house torn asunder, and for a moment she wondered where the Dream Lord had spirited them off to.

Nowhere ordinary, she’d be willing to bet; an Endless kept in a cage for who knew how long, but whether this was some dream realm or a very fancy basement of his own, she wasn’t inclined to stay. Setting the Dream Lord loose hadn’t been on her agenda and the reason she infiltrated the Burgess mansion still remained. “But you’re as good as new and I have places to be so, if you’ll excuse me,” she sidestepped the dark figure and was greeted by even more ruins

“You can’t leave.” The valet spoke again and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“I really-”

“I owe you a debt.” Morpheus spoke, cutting off her response and it felt final, absolute, as if it explained why she couldn’t go and really there would no doubt be benefits to having one of the Endless owe her, but that also felt like it would come with a lot of problems and attention she was disinclined to invite into her life as it currently stood.

“It's ok really. Consider it my act of charity for the year. We’re square. Now if you could just show me out, I’ll be on my way.”

“You cannot leave.”

- - - -

Tag list (if I missed anyone apologies, it's been a while);

@ladymoon666 @carrietrekkie @forwheat-is-wheat @intothesoul @boofy1998 @ponyboys-sunsets @adishax @minicoop12 @solinarimoon @guilteapleasures

#netflix the sandman #morpheus x reader #morpheus x fem!reader #dream of the endless x reader #the dream guard #the sandman imagine

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