˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞
DREAM OF THE ENDLESS ( MORPHEUS )
THE LIGHTBRINGER ( LUCIFER M. )
UNFINISHED / ABANDONED SCENES ── .✦
these are fics (WIPs) i won’t be finishing, but i’m leaving them up in case someone wants to read them ♡
the weight of wanting ✩｡⋆⸜ dream of the endless
warnings for this scene: mentions of heavy bleeding and near miscarriage (both described), panic, emotional distress, and references to pregnancy loss fears. || word count: 2.1k
summary: in the two years you’ve been with morpheus, you’ve learned that when he’s upset the dreaming tends to follow his lead. after a particularly cruel argument, you decide to visit the dreaming to apologize, only to find your boyfriend sulking on a balcony in a see-through shirt while the realm drowns in sympathy. what follows is a rescue mission for both him and his realm… and a conversation about an old mistake he’d rather keep buried, if only the raven would stop talking.
word count: 6.1k
heavily inspired by @7-wonders (give me everything you've got)
˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞
The last thing you say to him before vanishing from his throne room is not your finest moment. It’s petty, it’s barbed, and it’s the sort of line that would be immortalized in a breakup playlist… if Endless had Spotify. “You don’t have a monopoly on misery, Morpheus.”
The words hang in the air like a curse, dark and heavy, even after you step through the obsidian archway and leave him behind. You feel them sticking to your ribs, not because you regret them, but because you know they’re going to ferment in his mind until they are pure, distilled self-pity.
Two years together, on and off… a goddess and an Endless, which in hindsight, is basically the same as dating a very powerful cat: beautiful, aloof, dramatic, and deeply offended when things don’t go their way. You’ve had arguments before, of course, and each time you go into your “off” period, you usually avoid the Dreaming entirely. It’s your secret little power move, you simply don’t sleep. Goddesses can do that, sleep is optional for you and you enjoy the way it probably frustrates him that he can’t get to you in dreams when you’ve decided he’s out of favor.
But this time… this time is different, because you can’t stop thinking about the way his face had flickered, just for a fraction of a second, like your words had hit somewhere you hadn’t intended. And because you know yourself too well, you start to wonder if maybe you went too far.
Which is why, hours later, you curl yourself onto your bed, close your eyes, and will yourself to sleep. You’re not going to apologize in person, or in the Waking. Oh no, you’ll do it in the Dreaming, you’ll show up looking incredible, deliver your peace offering, and maybe even make him grovel a little: it’s a solid plan.
Except when you open your eyes in the Dreaming… you’re standing ankle-deep in water. It’s raining, not a soft, melancholy drizzle, not even a moody little aesthetic rain for the background of a sad poem, this is the kind of rain that makes you want to check if someone has built an ark.
The sky is an endless sheet of black cloud, tearing open with lightning that forks down into the hills in the distance. Water pours from every possible surface: down the walls of buildings, cascading off the towers of the library, spilling from rooftops like a thousand waterfalls. The Dreaming itself seems to be sinking under it, and then you notice that the rain is… warm, almost feverish, like the Dreaming is crying, which is unsettling.
You stand there for a moment, completely still, thinking of your hair and your dress and how a goddess should not be arriving to apologize looking like a flustered shipwreck when a sodden black shape barrels toward you with frantic wingbeats and a voice already halfway to relief.
“Hey, hey, hey, do not move, do not panic, it is just a little biblical, you’re fine, you’re so fine, you are the exact person I wanted to see, oh my god your timing, I could cry, can ravens cry, do we cry, I think I am crying.” Matthew does not stop until he almost collides with your stomach, then makes a sound like a squeaky wiper blade and flaps backward.
“You have no idea how bad it’s been. Lucienne’s about to lose it, the library’s basically a water park, and don’t even get me started on the fields. The tulips are gone. Just… gone.” He glitters with rain and sadness in equal measure. You blink at him, startled. “Matthew? What in the,” You gesture at everything. “…is going on? Why is the Dreaming… leaking?”
The raven tilts his head at you like you’ve just asked him if the sun rises in the east. “Because you and the boss are fighting?” You stare at him, rain dripping from your lashes. “Excuse me?”
He starts to stammer. “Oh. Uh. I mean, uh, you know… sometimes he, uh, gets a little emotionally expressive?” You squint. “Matthew,” you say, because you have always liked him and because it is hard to be aloof with a bird that just confessed to crying, “why are you a soaked like a sponge?”
“It is a long story, okay, and the short version is that the boss is a weather system now,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Also, great to see you, really great, like wow, I could kiss your shoes, if that would not drown me. Do not move, Lucienne told me to run into you and then not to run into you, and I am doing both, which is impressive.”
You open your mouth to ask for more details, but the library doors open and Lucienne steps out with the dignity of a person who has decided she will be dignified or die trying. Her bun is pinned on by sheer force of will, her glasses are dotted with water and she is absolutely on the brink, and you can feel her relief the way one feels a sudden patch of warmth when the sun cuts through clouds. She says your name with such gentleness that you decide not to correct your bad entrance.
“Thank the realms,” she says. “Please, welcome, and forgive the mess. We have sustained a few structural inconveniences.” A shelf behind her chooses that moment to slip gently into the water like a tired cat lying down, taking thirty biographies with it. Lucienne looks at it, inhales through her nose, and then looks back to you. “A few,” she repeats.
You blink at the veils of rain drawing lines across the world. “Structural inconveniences,” you say. “Lucienne, the Dreaming is attempting to become an ocean.”
“Temporarily,” she says with a small tremor that might be a laugh and might be the beginning of a scream. “It is responsive to his state of mind. You know it is, you have always known it is.”
You glance around at the apocalyptic water-world situation. “You’re telling me the realm is like… mood lighting for his emotional state?” Lucienne blinks at you and adjusts her glasses. “I would… not put it that way. He is just not managing constructively,” she says gently, and you hear the ache in it, the affection, the bone deep familiarity that comes with keeping a world running while its king practices repression like an art. “He has been doing his best, but it turns out his best includes a tendency toward, ah, apocalyptic ambiance.”
Matthew edges closer to your knee. “On the bright side, the fish are very literary.” You look down and notice a school of tiny silver commas darting through the flood. One pauses by your ankle and becomes a semicolon as if gathering strength, then darts on. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Why is everything in this realm dramatic.”
“Because he is,” Lucienne says without malice. “The Dreaming and Dream are one. When he is unsettled, the realm is unsettled. This is not a failing. It is a link by design. The king is the land, and the land reflects the king.”
You roll your eyes, but it is not cruel. You are already aware of the way your heart is trying to get out of its own sulk and into something softer. “So, let me get this straight. We have biblical flooding because my boyfriend is sulking.” The corner of Lucienne’s mouth twitches, which you decide to take as confirmation. “It sounds ridiculous.”
“It is,” Matthew says cheerfully. “It is also happening. You are very lucky you are not in hell right now. I have heard stories. Turn up the thermostat a little and the whole place, whoosh, straight to glass. There was this woman and he loved her and then bam, basement level, not fun, very crispy vibes, really dire, I am not saying he would do that to you, because he would never, but like, historically, it is not impossible, there is precedent and everything.”
You freeze, you do not do dramatic freezes usually, your pauses are the poised kind that suggest a statue choosing not to move. This is the kind of freeze that comes with a slow tilt of the head and a temperature drop in a five meter radius. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “What do you mean hell?!”
Lucienne puts a very quick hand out toward Matthew as if she can physically stop words. She gives him a look so raw with please that even a raven understands it. “Matthew. Not. Another. Word.”
Matthew immediately looks like he wants to stuff his own beak full of feathers and fly into a window. “What?” he says, backpedaling on his own tongue. “I am just… providing context like a good coworker. She is a goddess, she likes to be informed.”
“Matthew.” Lucienne’s voice is small with warning. There is grief in it, and a lot of history, and a firm librarianly urge to not have to mop up more than one disaster per hour. Matthew collapses inward like a wet tent. “Okay. I will stop. I have stopped. This is me, stopping.”
It is almost funny, the way the whole realm seems to notice the way your spine straightens, it is almost funny, the way the rain changes tone like a song sliding into a minor key, it is almost funny until you hear it… a sound drifting through the air. It’s faint at first, like something you’re imagining, but it grows louder, echoing through the storm until you can recognize it… music.
Sad, mournful, rainy-day breakup music: the kind of playlist that only someone deeply committed to their own melodrama would choose. You’re pretty sure you hear a very slow, very depressing cover of a song that did not need a slow depressing cover.
“Of course,” you whisper, because you recognize it. Not the song itself but the gesture. He is doing this on purpose, he is trying to soundtrack his feelings. You pinch the bridge of your nose again, then remember you already did that. You consider pinching something else. “Is he playing sad music in his own realm?” Lucienne closes her eyes for a brief second as if to accept that yes, she is alive in this reality. “Yes, he has been playing it through the library for some time..”
“It is not just sad,” Matthew says with real scholarly interest. “It is niche. It is the kind of playlist that makes you ask if he discovered this band in a dream and then brought them to the waking world purely to suffer. It is the kind of thing where the album art is just fog.”
“Enough,” Lucienne says with an apologetic wince for you. “Please forgive him… forgive all of us, this has been a very trying few hours.”
“I am not offended,” you say, although you are in fact offended by the melodrama of the soundtrack, not by the gossip. You take a slow breath and try to pull your anger back into something articulate. Your departing words hit you again, the way you had thrown them like a stone at his ribs, the way you had watched him catch the stone and say nothing.
You had wanted him to flinch, you had wanted him to understand he is not the only god of control in the room. You are entirely too good at hurting what you value, which is a habit you thought you had shed. So you look at Lucienne and see the plea in her posture and you nod. “Where is he?”
Lucienne exhales like a very dignified kettle that has been finally removed from heat. “On the balcony. He has not moved much, save to change the weather to match each new thought.”
“Like a one man forecast,” Matthew says. “We had fog, lightning, a brief interlude of dramatic hail, everything was very symbolic.” Lucienne tips her head. “Would you go to him? I would go myself but I am only a librarian, and I am, as you can see, occupied with the continued existence of the archive.”
The library behind her coughs up a small geyser under a table and Matthew goes to stand on it, because he is a helper. You nod once, you do not promise to be kind because you do not believe in empty promises, but you are already moving.
You wade through a Dreaming that is doing its best impression of an ocean floor, you are not sure there is a dry path left anywhere in the Dreaming, but you try anyway. Your sandals vanish into water that is ankle deep, then calf deep, and by the time you reach the first marble stair that leads toward the palace, you are soaking from the neck down, and for a second you wonder if he has invented new kinds of precipitation just to spite you.
Rain falls sideways when you step under an arch and down your collar when you step out. It flings itself at your eyelashes with the devotion of a thousand tragic sonnets. Your hair clings in a way that would be funny if it were not also unflattering. Two sentry dreams kneel as you pass, which is sweet, and then slide off their knees because the marble is treacherous, which is realistic. You smile at them anyway, you can be many things and you decide you will be kind to everyone except him for at least five minutes.
Overhead the music shifts: the library playlist has either learned to follow you or Lucienne has leaned into the bit because you can hear slow piano threaded with low strings. A voice that sounds like a century outside in the rain sighs about lost chances and the cruelty of fate. You pause, roll your eyes up at the sky, and speak clearly to the storm: you do not shout, you pitch your tone perfectly, the way you would for a cat that is pretending not to understand. “Okay, sweetheart we get it. You feel things.”
The storm increases by ten percent out of principle, a wave makes a sincere attempt to knock you over. You plant your feet and let it break around your calves. Water drags at your skirt, the fabric clinging to your thighs. You have always known he has a flair for the theatrical but today he has no ceiling on it.
You breathe out slowly, you had thought coming here would let you apologize on your terms. You had not considered how the realm would make you wear his temper like weather.
You find him exactly where Lucienne said you would, because of course he is not subtle: he has chosen the most cinematic corner of the balcony and he stands with his hands on the railing, head bowed. The storm clings to him like worship, his hair is blacker than the clouds, a storm of its own, flattened to his cheeks and neck.
His shirt is black and so soaked that it has become transparent in a way that feels less like a shirt and more like a suggestion of one. When he turns at the sound of your step he does not smile, and he does not move, and he does not attempt a line about how he was just thinking of you, which is a small mercy.
You stop a few paces away and look at him because you have earned the right, he is beautiful and he knows it in the way a storm knows it. He is also ridiculous, and you love him, and you are furious. “So,” you say, with the controlled neutrality of a diplomat who just swam to a meeting. “You flooded your realm.”
He looks past you for a full second, as if deciding whether the world deserves an answer, then says, with profound gravity, “It rained.”
“It rained because you are sulking,” you say. He is too proud to say yes but he is also too proud to lie directly, the corner of his mouth shifts a fraction of a millimeter toward something sheepish. “The weather reflects the mood of the king.”
“Yes, Lucienne gave me the brochure,” you say. “It is very wet.” The music shifts again, like a sigh you can hear, something piano heavy: a slow ache of notes that rise and fall like breath under a blanket. It is a little on the nose and it is very him.
He looks at your hair and a small shot of guilt goes through his posture. “You should not have come into this. It is not your burden.” You fold your arms. “It is literally my fault.”
“It is not,” he says carefully, which is almost nice. “I contain my storms.” You lift a hand and point behind you without looking: a thunder wave unrolls over the library roof like a grand curtain. He glances past you and his jaw sets in the way that means he knows he is being theatrical and resents being told so. He looks back at you, something raw under the immortal calm.
“You think I do not try,” he says, quiet and slowly intense. “You think I do not notice the first drop and press my thumb to the sky.”
“I think you stand in it and decide to match,” you say. “Because it is easier to stand here and brood than to speak.” His eyes do a traitor thing where they show you a flash of real hurt. You feel it in your own throat. Somewhere, in the library, a cello section sighs under an imaginary conductor. The rain doubles down and you have the foolish thought that the weather pities you both.
“Those words,” he says, very low. “What you said.” You cannot pretend you forgot, you cannot pretend you were clever instead of cruel. You take a step closer, the balcony tile almost becomes smaller between you, his shirt is so wet it is almost not a shirt. You try not to notice the line of his collarbone because you did not come to enjoy him, you came to put him back together, sometimes both are the same job.
“I am sorry,” you say, and it is not ornate and not legendary, it is a simple offering in the rain. “I was trying to hurt you because I was afraid you would hurt me first, it was childish.” He blinks as if you have performed a magic trick, he is an Endless who can dream up geographies by thinking, and still he looks stunned by a direct apology.
The music in the realm hiccups between tracks, as if a hidden hand just hit shuffle in a panic. A low female voice starts singing in French about the soft collapse of yearning, which is not helping. You take another step and he looks at you like he’s afraid you are a figment of his imagination.
“You do not need to apologize,” he says stiffly, which is half chivalry and half fear. “You have your realm and your rules, I have my realm and mine. We collide, it is not always graceful.”
“We collide because you clench,” you say, softer. “And because I do not like begging for tenderness, even when I want it.” He swallows and the rain takes a breath with him. You see it then, the exhausted tension in his shoulders, the fragility hidden in the set of his jaw. He has not slept, obviously. He cannot sleep like mortals sleep and yet he can be exhausted. He is tired of being the precise shape of himself, you understand that too well.
“Lucienne asked me to come,” you add, because truth loves company. “She loves you, but she is very close to telling you to stop being so dramatic.” One corner of his mouth moves slightly. “I do not think she would phrase it so.”
“She would, actually,” you say. “She is two ruined books away from mutiny.” That is what wins you a very small smile, and it is the kind that makes your throat ache. He tilts his head and water falls from his lashes in a perfect measured line. “You are wet.”
“I am aware,” you say. “The whole realm is a giant bath. You, however, are wearing a shirt that forgot what fabric is. Did you do that on purpose?” He looks down as if surprised to find himself clothed, then back at you with a seriousness that would be unendurable in any other person. “No.”
“You are impossible,” you say, but it is affectionate, and he hears it, and the rain loses a fraction of its intensity as if the cloud heart is listening in.
You move again before you can talk yourself out of it, this is your apology. You step close enough that the heat of him cuts through the chill of the storm. He looks at you the way he looks at the moment before a dream becomes lucid, wary and hungry and braced. You lift your hands to his face, and they fit there like you have a right. He stills and the Dreaming holds its breath, you kiss him.
It is not a dramatic kiss, it is gentle and slow and exact and it is more difficult than any battle you have fought because you hold back nothing and demand nothing. For a heartbeat he does not respond, then he makes a sound like a page turning in a quiet room and his mouth is soft under yours, and his hands are on your hips with the caution of a man who is very strong and very afraid of doing harm.
The rain hesitates, the music swells like a triumphant idea trying to pretend it is not happy to be here. Somewhere, very far away, an orchestra of wingbeats changes direction and you kiss him until the storm realizes it has an exit.
The rain ends so suddenly the silence thumps, you feel the drop of it like a coat taken off your shoulders. The clouds open, and the sun does not rise so much as slide into the room, light arriving in sheets that melt the slick shine off stone and set his wet shirt to steaming in a way that is frankly illegal.
The realm exhales, the moat around the library becomes puddle, then mirror, then memory. Pages uncrumple themselves with little sighs, the umbrellas fall asleep in a neat stack and stop arguing.
You stand with your hands on his face and his on your hips and look at each other like people who have made it across a rope bridge that was on fire only to discover the view on the other side is embarrassing in its beauty.
He looks so soft in the new light that you have to laugh, because if you do not laugh you might fall apart. He blinks at the sound as if laughter is a creature he has to remember how to name, and then he smiles properly, which is an eclipse turned inside out. “It appears,” he says with immense gravity, “that the weather has improved.”
“It appears,” you say, and then kiss him again because gravity is for other people. You do not pull away quickly, you sink into a hug that feels like the first deep breath after a long dive. He rests his chin on your hair and you feel the precise way his body unknots against yours, the slow surrender of his posture to something like rest.
“I meant what I said a minute ago,” you murmur into his shoulder. “I am sorry.” He does not answer for a long moment, and when he does it is not with a line about forgiveness or a speech about fault. His arms just tighten, a slow quieting circle. “I know.”
You stay like that, the sun rubs light into you both as if trying to dry you with its gentle hands. The sea of the Dreaming becomes a chain of lagoons. A dragonfly lands on your shoulder, then looks up at him, decides this is too intimate, and leaves.
You breathe, he breathes, and for a king of dreams he has a very mortal breath, you can feel the human of it in your chest. You let yourself imagine, just for the indulgent length of a heartbeat, a future where he learns to say what he feels before he drowns the architecture.
You imagine teaching him the trick of saying ‘I am sad’ in a room with the windows shut, not through thirty thousand gallons of symbolism: it is a warm thought, so you keep it.
After a time he draws back enough to look at you and his hands stay on your waist because he is not a fool. “Will you come inside,” he asks, at once courtly and hopeful. “We have towels, and tea.”
“I will,” you say. “But first, there is something I need to ask.” His expression changes in the way a sea changes when a wind shifts. You see the exact instant he hears the hinge of your tone.
Somewhere behind you the library hums as the playlists reconfigure themselves nervously, you watch his gaze flicker to your mouth and then to the horizon and then back again, as if he is choosing among escape routes he refuses to take. You have him, and it almost feels unfair, but also feels necessary.
“Matthew said I am lucky I am not in hell,” you say lightly, and the word hell has the taste of iron when you speak it. “He said there was a woman, he mentioned there was precedent.”
The breeze stops pretending to be casual, a single bead of water falls from the tip of a gargoyle and hits the stone with the ring of a bell. His hands go still on you, completely still, as if the world has dared him to blink. You feel the Dreaming do that subtle thing it does when it senses that a king is about to be cornered by the truth.
Far away, down in the heart of the realm, there is a sound, it is small and muffled and unmistakable: a crash, like pottery that had no fault line until someone’s power twitched. You do not know what breaks and you do not need to, the way his jaw tightens tells you it is real.
You lift an eyebrow. “That sounded healthy.” He does not move, he looks like a man who has been asked to identify his own reflection in a lineup and is worried it will confess to something.
The pause is long enough for a tiny breeze to examine both of you and decide to return later. His mouth opens, closes, opens, and when he finally speaks he chooses a tone so perfectly neutral that it wraps around the word like gauze.
“What did Matthew say?” he asks, which is not an answer, and absolutely an answer, and you love him enough to let him try to dodge while you patiently take away every possible place to hide. “Enough,” you say. “Not everything.”
“I would prefer,” he says with great care, “that you do not discuss ancient history with a raven who has no context.”
“Ancient history,” you repeat, more to feel the shape of his defense than to mock it. “Is that what we are calling it?” He meets your eyes, and there is so much in his that you could build a house with it: guilt and stubbornness and a weary honesty that aches to be allowed into the room.
He tries for a small crooked smile, it is not his best work. “Perhaps we might discuss it later, after tea… after you are warm. After I am… less soaking wet.”
You look pointedly down at the place in the distance where the sound came from and for a moment you simply let the silence grow a little thorny around you both, not to wound, but to mark the boundary.
He has the grace to wince, just at the corner of his mouth, as if he can feel the Dreaming tensing again in small places and is trying to relax every muscle in his magic by brute force.
“Might have been the pottery,” he says with airy innocence that fools absolutely no one. “A shelf, a minor tremor, Cain and Abel have very sturdy crockery, however, so it is likely fine.”
From far away you hear Abel call out that he is fine in the exact voice of a person who just witnessed an attempted flood. Cain replies with something that sounds like a lecture about shelf brackets, you do not smile.
“Might have been,” you echo. “Or it might have been the king flinching when he heard the word hell.” He inhales and you feel the realm go absolutely attentive, like a theater crowd leaning forward. He is deciding whether to be brave or to be himself.
You wait, you have learned that waiting is sometimes the fiercest way to love a difficult man. “Inside,” he says finally, with a carefully measured humility that tries to be charming and almost succeeds. “Please… let me attempt to explain without drowning every dream and nightmare in my realm.”
You consider him, just long enough that his shoulders go from rigid to resigned, then you nod, because the conversation you are about to have deserves chairs and a fireplace and a door he cannot run through without looking silly.
“Fine,” you say, falling into step with him. “But we are circling back to the part where you used your realm like a weather diary.” He gives you a look that is half apology, half helpless artistry, and all him. “I will endeavor to adopt a less theatrical barometer.”
“We will see,” you say, and let him lead you into the dry. The palace has decided to dry itself in a hurry, as if embarrassed you have to wade through its mood swings. Hallways that were waterfalls are now corridors lined with damp silk banners, which cling a little too close to your arms as you walk. The marble under your feet is warm in patches where the sun has reached it, cool in others, like stepping across a memory that can’t make up its mind. The air smells faintly of lavander and whatever cologne he uses that seems to exist only in this realm, all deep shadow and just enough sweetness to make you suspicious.
He is walking slightly ahead of you, which is deliberate. He knows you cannot interrogate a man as easily if you are forced to admire the line of his shoulders while he speaks. Unfortunately for him, you are entirely capable of interrogating while distracted, and also capable of noting that the black shirt is now drying into a kind of second skin situation that would fluster a lesser goddess.
He makes the mistake of speaking first. “There are matters from my past,” he says in the careful tone of a man picking his way through a minefield while also reciting a poem, “that are… fraught. I would prefer not to have them intrude upon our…”
“Relationship,” you supply when he hesitates, because you are not going to let him off with a vague noun. He clears his throat, which is adorable given he does not need to. “…our present, nor upon your peace of mind.”
“That,” you say lightly, “sounds like a very poetic way of saying you don’t want to tell me what Matthew meant.”
“It is a way of saying,” he counters, “that the details are both complex and irrelevant to…” You stop in the middle of the hallway. “Irrelevant?”
He turns to you, which is a mistake, because you have stopped and he hasn’t yet learned that you can hold still with the same intensity he uses to loom. “I mean,” he says, his hands opening slightly in a rare gesture of uncertainty, “that they are events far removed from…”
“From what?” you ask. “From the part where you maybe threw an ex into hell?” His mouth flattens and that tells you more than anything else could.
There’s a little pulse in the air, subtle but unmistakable: the Dreaming likes drama almost as much as its king does, and you can feel the corridors listening, all their corners leaning in. He takes a slow breath. “It was… different.”
“Different,” you repeat, and start walking again, past him. “Go on, then, explain to me how exactly it was different.” He falls into step beside you, long strides measured. “The circumstances were… complicated. She and I… there was a betrayal.”
“There usually is,” you say. “Go on.” His jaw works once, twice. “I acted in anger.” You glance sideways at him. “And sent her to hell.” He hesitates, which is an answer.
You stop again, which makes him stop, and there’s that subtle tension in the air again, like the entire realm is balancing on one foot. “So Matthew was right,” you say. “There is precedent.”
He looks at you then with something raw and sharp in his eyes, something that makes the light in the corridor flicker as if even the architecture is wary. “I would not do that to you,” he says quietly, and there’s enough weight in it that you almost believe him… almost. “That,” you say, “is not the same thing as saying you regret it.”
He exhales through his nose. “Regret is… not simple for me.” You give him a look. “Oh, I know, that’s the problem.” The realm reacts the way a cat does when voices rise, not fleeing, but twitching in a way that says it might bolt if this gets any louder. Somewhere in the distance, a pane of glass hums like it’s considering shattering just to break the tension.
He moves, closing the space between you with the sort of controlled calm that’s only ever a thin disguise for emotion. “You are asking me to revisit a wound I have sealed for millennia.”
“I’m asking you,” you correct, “to tell me whether the next time we fight I should pack sunscreen or a parka.” The corner of his mouth twitches, he almost hides it, but not quite. You see the way the very air between you softens, just slightly.
And that’s when Lucienne appears at the far end of the hallway, the click of her boots brisk and perfectly measured even though her expression says she’s already calculating how many years of vacation she’s owed.
She stops just shy of the line where propriety would have her eavesdropping, folds her hands, and offers you both the kind of perfectly neutral smile that could be printed on official stationery. “Forgive the intrusion,” she says, though her eyes flick toward the nearest tapestry like she’s reminding the Dreaming itself to mind its own business.
“Lucienne,” he says with an incline of his head, the exact same way a mortal king would acknowledge a general bringing bad news.
“I’m afraid,” she says with that apologetic grace of hers, “that the library has… expressed itself again.” You blink. “Expressed itself?”
Lucienne’s mouth does the smallest, most dignified little twitch. “Yes, in the form of a small but insistent earthquake, which began precisely thirty-seven seconds ago. I’m told Cain and Abel’s residence survived intact, though the gardens are another matter.”
You don’t even try to hide the look you give him, he doesn’t meet your eyes. Lucienne clears her throat softly. “I thought, given the… delicate nature of your conversation, I might request your presence before the library takes further liberties.”
“That,” you say under your breath, “is the politest way I’ve ever heard someone say ‘stop making the furniture nervous.’” Lucienne absolutely hears you but pretends she doesn’t, because she is a saint.
He exhales, that tiny muscle in his jaw jumping. “We will attend to it,” he says to her, and it’s the royal we, which makes you smirk despite yourself. Lucienne bows her head slightly. “Thank you. And again, my apologies for interrupting.”
You wave it off. “You might have saved us from redecorating the hallway via an Endless temper tantrum.” There’s a pause where Lucienne very clearly wants to agree but chooses the high road instead. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
When she’s gone, the silence between you isn’t as sharp as it was, but it’s not exactly comfortable either. You look at him, and he looks back, and you both know the conversation isn’t over. “Tea,” you say finally. “Then the truth.”
He inclines his head, and if you didn’t know him so well you’d think it was compliance instead of tactical retreat. “Tea,” he agrees.
summary: after centuries of circling each other in an on-and-off, no-strings arrangement, you and dream finally push too close to the truth. one night of impossible pleasure leaves you raw enough for lucienne to find you, her quiet confrontation cracking something open you’ve both ignored for eons. when dream overhears, the library becomes the place where centuries of avoidance end with a choice that changes everything.
word count: 4.5k
˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞
You’re on his throne, not sitting, but sprawled across the black stone like he’s laid you there as an offering to himself. The cool surface bites into your bare skin, but every place his hands touch is molten, and there’s no telling where the heat begins or ends because it keeps moving, shifting like the air is alive… it is alive.
Shadows curl up the column of your throat, tracing the line of your jaw before peeling away again. They don’t just look like they’re touching you, they feel like they are, silk and smoke brushing against your pulse, trailing lower in lazy spirals.
Your breath stutters, hips already pressing forward, searching for him, but Dream stands a step away, dark eyes fixed on you with the kind of unblinking attention that makes you feel more naked than the lack of clothing ever could.
He doesn’t need to move to touch you… the shadows tighten suddenly, cinching at your wrists, pulling your arms above your head and pinning them to nothing. They aren’t rough, not exactly, but they’re unyielding, and the press of them makes your chest rise faster.
You try to lift your head to glare at him, but then something else, a ribbon of gold sand, brushes your ankle, and the heat it leaves in its wake makes your knees threaten to give.
“Keep still,” he says softly, and the way his voice folds over the words makes them sound more like a spell than an order. The command shivers straight through you, pooling low in your stomach… you do not keep still.
Your legs shift apart, the smallest invitation, and he notices instantly. His mouth curves in something that’s not quite a smile, it’s too sharp and far too knowing, the magic responds before his hands do.
Sand and shadow weave together, winding up the inside of your thighs, spreading warmth that flares into heat and then into something unbearable when the threads of it drag over your center. You gasp, the sound embarrassingly loud in the high vault of the throne room.
“Sensitive,” he murmurs, stepping forward at last. His fingers don’t touch you there, not yet, they frame your hips, anchoring you to the cold stone while the magic slides over you in slow, deliberate passes. Not pressure exactly, but a sensation: like the air has teeth and the light has weight, like every nerve is being learned and memorized. You don’t beg him, not yet.
“Is this what you wanted when you came to me tonight?” he asks. It isn’t casual conversation, it’s an interrogation disguised as seduction. “To be undone by my realm as well as by me?”
The shadow at your wrists tightens, and the gold sand between your legs pulses once, sharply, dragging a choked sound from your throat before you can stop it. You want to answer, but the magic moves again, two separate threads now: one slow and deep, one maddeningly light, and the words scatter.
He leans in, close enough that his hair brushes your cheek, his voice lower still. “Tell me.” You manage, barely, “Yes.”
The shadows retreat from your wrists just long enough for him to catch them in one hand, holding you himself now, his thumb stroking over your knuckles in a rare, dangerous tenderness.
At the same time, the magic between your legs stops being patient, it surges forward, heat curling in on itself until you can’t separate where his realm ends and your body begins.
The sand slides deeper, curling inside you with impossible precision, each shift slow enough to make you gasp but relentless enough to make your thighs strain against his grip. It doesn’t feel like a single point of contact: it feels like every inch of you is being stroked from the inside out, coaxing your body open in ways only a dream could manage.
“Always so impatient,” he says, and the hand at your wrists squeezes once before drifting down, trailing over your arm, your shoulder, your ribcage. The shadows follow his fingers like trained animals, wrapping around your breasts and squeezing, tugging your nipples into hard peaks.
You try to lift your hips into it, into him, but the sand pulls back just enough to make you ache. “You’re keeping me waiting,” you manage, breath sharp. His mouth curves again, that infuriating almost-smile. “I am teaching you restraint.”
“You’re…” the thought breaks in half when the sand thrusts forward, hard and sudden, filling you in a way no mortal shape could. Your back arches off the stone, nails digging into your palms. His hand closes around your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “Finish that sentence.”
“You’re an arrogant, self-satisfied,” another thrust steals the air from your lungs “…bastard.” He doesn’t seem offended… if anything, the flicker in his eyes darkens into something dangerous. “And you are loud.” His voice dips lower, colder. “Let me hear you.”
The magic obeys him faster than your body can. It doubles: one part fucking into you deep and steady, the other circling your clit in tight, relentless spirals. The combination rips a sound from you that echoes through the hall, and the shadows at your breasts twist tighter in response.
You grip his forearm, not to push him away, you never push him away, but because the sensation is too much, threatening to break you apart. “Dream…”
His name on your lips makes his magic shudder, just for a heartbeat, before it surges harder. His free hand finally touches you where you’ve been desperate for him, long fingers sliding between you and the curl of golden sand.
They work together, perfectly timed, and the pressure builds so fast you’re not sure if you’re moving toward it or running from it. “Look at me,” he says.
You do and it’s a mistake, because the moment you see the black depths of his eyes, the magic turns cruel. The sand inside you twists just enough to drag over every sensitive place at once, while his fingers grind harder against your clit. It’s overwhelming, the kind of pleasure that feels like it might hurt if it didn’t feel so fucking good. “Say it,” he demands. “Say what…”
“That you came here for me.” His voice is low but sharp, a blade pressed to your throat without breaking skin. “Not for the Dreaming, not for my magic, for me.”
You could lie, you should lie, but you don’t. “I came here for you.” He rewards you for the truth, if you can call it that, by pushing you over the edge with a final, deep thrust of sand and the curl of his fingers against you.
The climax rips through you hard enough to make your vision blur, your nails biting into his arm as you cry out and he doesn’t stop.
You’re still shaking when the sand eases back, slipping out of you with a slow, deliberate curl that makes your muscles clench on instinct. You barely have time to breathe before his hands replace the magic, one sliding around your thigh to drag you to the edge of the throne, the other braced against the stone beside your head.
The shadows dissolve into the floor, leaving nothing between you, and for a moment it’s only him: the solid weight of his body, the heat of his skin where his coat parts, the dark curtain of his hair falling forward as he looks down at you.
“You’re still trembling,” he says and it’s not concern in his voice, it’s too smug to be an observation, it feels like possession, like something that makes your stomach clench.
“I’d stop if you’d…” the words catch as he lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock pressing against you, still slick and sensitive from the magic. “If I’d what?” His voice is softer now, but that dangerous undercurrent remains. “…just fuck me.” He does.
The first thrust is slow only so you can feel all of him, the stretch and the push until he’s fully seated inside you. The cold stone under your spine and the heat of him inside you are such sharp contrasts it almost hurts, but you hook your legs around his hips anyway, pulling him closer. “Greedy,” he murmurs, but he starts to move, long and deep, his rhythm deliberate.
“Look who’s talking,” you breathe, and dig your nails into his back through his shirt. The corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s fleeting, because even as he moves inside you, the magic returns.
Not the golden sand this time, but shadow, warm and liquid, curling low in your belly and stroking the same places he’s thrusting into. It’s disorienting, the way the sensations overlap until you can’t tell which is him and which is the Dreaming, only that they’re both him.
Your back arches, head tipping against the cold stone. “You’re,” your voice catches, “…cheating.”
“Everything here is part of me,” he says simply, and snaps his hips forward hard enough to make you gasp. He keeps that pace, deep and punishing but steady, the shadow magic matching him perfectly.
Every thrust pushes you higher, the pleasure building in relentless waves until you’re clutching at him, your legs locked tight around his waist. He watches you like he’s studying the way you fall apart: the flicker of your eyes, the sharp inhale, the way your mouth parts. “Again,” he says, and it’s not a request.
The shadow tightens inside you at the same moment he grinds against your clit, and the climax tears through you harder than the first, your body clenching around him so sharply he groans low in his throat.
You feel him shudder, his thrusts stuttering before he buries himself to the hilt, the heat of him spilling into you even as the magic coils tighter, holding you there until every last pulse fades.
When he finally eases back, the shadow releases you, and you collapse against the throne, breathing hard. He’s still close, still braced above you, but you can feel the distance creeping back in… the quiet after a storm you both pretend is nothing more than satisfaction.
The silence is thick enough that you hear the slow drip of water from somewhere far away in the hall. His breathing is steadying faster than yours, of course, and he’s already drawing himself back up, straightening his spine, the barest trace of sweat at his temple the only proof that even an Endless can be winded.
You push up onto your elbows, the stone cold and unyielding under your skin, and give him a look. “You always get quiet after.” He adjusts his coat, black fabric settling over him like it had been waiting. “Do I?”
“Yes, like you’re already somewhere else.” You swing your legs down off the throne, the soreness between your thighs a vivid reminder of what just happened. “Maybe you should leave a note next time. ‘Had fun, off to be brooding and mysterious.’”
His gaze cuts to you, and for a second you think you’ve gone too far, but then his mouth twitches, just slightly. “Perhaps I am simply letting you recover.” “From you or from your magic?”
“From both.” His tone is even, but there’s the faintest thread of smugness in it, and it makes you want to roll your eyes… which you do. “You act like I’m the one who comes crawling back after decades of silence.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something in the air tightens, subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice, you do. “And yet,” he says, “you do come back.”
“So do you.” You stand, smoothing your hands down your sides, and tilt your head. “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy this.” He doesn’t answer right away, and when he does, it’s with the kind of calm that hides more than it reveals. “Enjoyment and necessity are not always the same thing.”
You give a short, sharp laugh, not because it’s funny but because it’s safer than asking what he means. “Well… good talk, Lord Morpheus.” You step past him, brushing deliberately close, close enough for your shoulder to graze his arm… he doesn’t stop you.
The great doors of the throne room open at a thought, and the Dreaming spills out before you, its colors a little too vivid after the dim intimacy of the hall. You feel his gaze on your back all the way until you’re gone from sight.
The air in the Dreaming always feels different after you’ve been with him, and you can’t decide if it’s you or the realm itself: the colors seem sharper, the edges softer, the paths a little more winding than they were before.
Your bare feet cross over warm stone until it changes beneath you into polished wood. Without meaning to, you’ve walked into the library. The towering shelves stretch up into forever, lined with books that have never been written and books that will never be read. The air here smells of ink and old paper, heavy with the weight of every story that could be.
You should turn around, you’ve never been good at lingering in the parts of his realm that matter to him in ways you can’t quite name. But the quiet is tempting, and your pulse hasn’t quite settled, and…
“Leaving again?” The voice comes from the end of the aisle: steady and measured, but there’s something under it. Lucienne steps into view, her posture as precise as the lines of her coat, glasses catching the lamplight. She isn’t blocking your way, not really, but the way she looks at you makes the aisle feel narrower.
“I didn’t realize I needed permission to walk in the library,” you say, keeping your tone light. “You don’t,” she says. “But you have a habit of walking out of the Dreaming entirely after… visiting him.”
You shrug, fingers tracing along the spine of a book you’ll never read. “That’s the arrangement.” Her brows lift a fraction. “Arrangement.” You don’t like the way she says it, like it’s a word that needs to be picked apart.
“We’re adults,” you tell her. “And we’ve been doing this for a very, very long time.” “And yet,” Lucienne says, her voice still calm, “he is not the same after you leave. He is… untethered.”
You almost laugh, because the idea of him being untethered feels absurd. But the way she looks at you, steady and unflinching, keeps the sound stuck in your throat. “You’re telling me I’m hurting him?”
“I am telling you,” she says, “that this… friends with benefits arrangement, as you call it, is not without cost. And I believe he pays more of it than you realize.” The words are careful, almost kind, and that’s what makes something inside you snap.
“Hurt?” The word leaves you sharp, incredulous. “Lucienne, we were friends once… real friends. And now he only summons me when he’s… bored, or lonely, when he wants someone warm in his bed.” You shake your head, the motion short and frustrated. “Then it’s back to his duties, back to silence… decades of it, sometimes centuries. And I’m the one left hurt.”
The echo of your own words seems too loud in the stillness of the library, Lucienne doesn’t flinch but her eyes are softer now. “Perhaps,” she says quietly, “you are both hurting more than you wish to admit.”
You don’t answer her, because somewhere behind you, you feel it: the shift in the air, the subtle pull of gravity that means you’re not alone in this conversation.
It’s not sound exactly, more like the subtle tug of gravity bending toward a center you can’t see until you turn and find him standing between the shelves, black coat falling in stark lines, hair a shadow against the lamplight.
Lucienne notices him too. She straightens, a flicker of something, guilt or concern, passing over her face before she hides it behind her usual composure. “My lord,” she says, voice as steady as ever, though you can hear the faint edge of apology under it.
He doesn’t look at her, his gaze is fixed on you, unblinking, unreadable. Lucienne clears her throat softly. “I should see to the cataloging.” Her eyes flick briefly between the two of you, and there’s a gentleness there that feels almost like a warning. “If you’ll excuse me.”
She moves past you with the same measured grace she always has, the faint rustle of her coat fading until the only sounds left are your breathing and the low hum of the Dreaming’s heartbeat in the walls… you and Dream are alone.
The shelves seem taller now, the space narrower, as though the library itself is holding its breath. “How much did you hear?” you ask finally, your voice low but not soft. “Enough,” he says.
There’s no heat in it, no raised tone… just that word, heavy enough to make your fingers curl against your sides. The word hangs there between you, caught in the dustless air.
You don’t look away, even though every instinct says you should. He doesn’t blink, he never blinks when he wants you to squirm.
The silence stretches, winding tighter, and you start to wonder if he’s doing it on purpose: if he’s going to stand there and watch you twist until you’re the one to fill the space.
The library feels different with him in it: bigger and smaller all at once, like the shelves might go on forever but the floor under you is vanishing. You can feel the weight of centuries in his stillness, the way he doesn’t shift, doesn’t fidget, doesn’t breathe like a mortal would. “You could say something,” you finally tell him, and it comes out sharper than you mean it to.
His head tilts a fraction, a raven assessing a shiny, foolish thing. “You have said much already.” “And you’ve been listening.”
“Yes.” There’s no apology in it, and that shouldn’t surprise you: he’s never been one to flinch from the things he thinks he’s entitled to know. But it still makes your chest tighten, because now there’s no pretending he didn’t hear every raw, uneven word you just threw at Lucienne. You swallow, the sound loud in the stillness. “Then what? You’re going to tell me I’m wrong?”
“Would you believe me if I did?” His voice is quiet, but it cuts clean, and you hate that you can’t answer right away. You draw in a slow breath, steadying yourself, but it comes out sounding more like a sigh than defiance.
“Maybe I wouldn’t believe you,” you admit. “Because you don’t… talk about it. You don’t talk about anything unless it’s an order. And the rest of the time,” you break off, shaking your head, “…the rest of the time I’m just waiting for the next time you decide you’re bored and want me again.”
His expression doesn’t shift, but there’s the faintest darkening in his eyes, like storm clouds gathering far out to sea. “You think I call for you only when I desire your body.”
“You do,” you say, sharper now, because the alternative, that there’s more to it, that there’s something you’re both refusing to name… it would be worse. “And when it’s over, you go back to your duties like nothing happened, like I’m nothing.” A muscle moves in his jaw, barely there. “You are not nothing.”
“Then what am I, Morpheus?” The question leaves you before you can stop it, too fast, too raw. “What am I to you?” The quiet that follows isn’t empty: it’s heavy, thick with things unsaid. His gaze holds yours, and you feel it, the way he’s sifting through every answer he could give and finding none of them safe.
“You were my friend,” he says finally, and the use of were is a blade in your ribs. “And you remain… important to me.” You laugh once, short and bitter. “Important. Like the moon is important to the tide. Pretty to look at, predictable enough to ignore until you need it.”
His eyes narrow, not in anger but in something closer to hurt, though he guards it well. “You believe I am unaffected by your absences.”
“Aren’t you?” You spread your hands, the motion sharp. “You have the Dreaming, you have your endless duties, your court... You can fill the centuries with anything you want. Me? I only get scraps of you, and when they’re gone, I’m left alone, set aside.”
For a moment, he’s utterly still again, and then he steps closer, enough that you can see the subtle shift of his coat as it brushes the floor.
“Do you think it costs me nothing to let you go?” The question lands low in your stomach, heavy and unexpected. You search his face for the usual shield of detachment, but it isn’t all there.
There’s a fissure in it, a fine crack you’ve only glimpsed a handful of times in all the eons you’ve known him. “You’ve never acted like it costs you anything,” you say, but your voice isn’t as sharp now.
“Because I cannot afford to,” he replies, each word measured, deliberate. “My realm demands constancy. My subjects demand presence. To dwell openly on the absence of one I… value…” He stops, the pause deliberate, as though the word is heavier than he’d expected. “It would compromise more than you realize.”
Value: it’s not the same as love, but it’s closer than you’ve let yourself hope for in centuries. You fold your arms, not to close yourself off but to keep your hands from reaching for him. “So you just bury it, pretend it isn’t there, and I’m supposed to do the same.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “You believe I am untouched by your absence because I do not show it. In truth, it is…” His eyes flick away for the barest second before returning to yours. “…difficult, in ways I am not inclined to confess.”
That lands harder than anything else he’s said tonight. It’s not a declaration, not even an admission of affection, but it’s him: the man who deals in precision and control… telling you something he would rather keep locked away.
“You could have just told me,” you say quietly. “And risked…” He trails off again, the unfinished thought hanging between you like a blade suspended by a thread. “We have walked this… boundary… for so long, and I did not wish to break it.”
You almost laugh. “We’ve been breaking it every time we touch each other.” There’s the faintest flicker of something in his eyes… agreement, maybe even regret.
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. The lamplight catches in the black of his eyes, unblinking, and you wonder if he’s sifting through centuries of arguments you’ve had, searching for one that will make this easier… he doesn’t find it.
Instead, he says, “Then perhaps it should end.” It’s not cruel, but it’s so stripped of inflection that it still hits like a blow. Your breath catches, though you refuse to let him see it. “Is that what you want?” His gaze holds yours. “It is what I believe might spare us both.”
You step closer, refusing to let the shelves and the air and his endless restraint swallow the space between you. “Spare us from what? From wanting each other? From hurting when we’re apart? Because newsflash, Morpheus, we’re already there.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t retreat. “You think I have not considered this? That I have not weighed the… cost… of keeping you in my life in this way?” “And?” you press.
“And the cost is high.” His voice drops, quieter now. “But so is the cost of losing you entirely.” That’s the crack you’ve been waiting for, the one he’s kept braced against for eons. You can feel the air change around him, less rigid now, the Dreaming itself leaning in. “So what do we do?” you ask.
His silence this time isn’t avoidance, it’s deliberation. Finally, he says, “We choose. Either we step back… or we stop pretending this is only what we have called it.” Your chest tightens, because you know what he means. No more centuries of drifting in and out of each other’s lives, pretending it’s casual… no more running from what’s underneath it.
You search his face for some hint of which choice he wants, but just like always, he makes you be the one to move first. You hold his gaze, letting the quiet draw out until it’s almost unbearable. “Then we stop pretending,” you say.
The words leave you before doubt can claw them back. You don’t dress them up, don’t soften them: you give him the truth, dropped like a stone between you.
Something in him stills in a way that’s different from his usual stillness. His eyes search yours, slow and intent, and you can feel the weight of the moment: eons of circling each other, of touching without holding, of leaving without staying… collapsing into this single point.
“There will be no return to what we were before,” he says at last, voice low. It isn’t a warning, it’s a fact. “Good,” you reply, and you mean it.
A shadow shifts at the edge of the shelves, the kind that isn’t just darkness but part of him. It moves closer, curling behind you like a tether. You can feel the heat of him now, the faint hum of the realm under your skin… he isn’t touching you, but it feels like he is.
“You will not vanish from my side for centuries at a time,” he says. It’s not quite a demand, but there’s steel in it. “And you won’t vanish into your throne and your duties like I’m some indulgence you can put away when you’re done,” you counter. His mouth almost softens, though the shadows at his back don’t. “Agreed.”
You’re close enough now that if you leaned in just a little, your mouth would brush his… you don’t, not yet: the wanting is sharper like this, suspended. “Then we’re decided,” you say quietly.
“We are,” he answers, and for once, there’s no distance in it. Neither of you moves at first: it’s almost as if you’re testing the new shape of the air between you, feeling the shift settle.
Then, slowly, he closes the final distance. His hand comes up to your jaw, fingers warm and steady, his thumb brushing the edge of your cheekbone. It’s not the claiming grip he uses when he’s pulling you into bed, this is careful and deliberate, as if he’s relearning you.
The library is utterly silent, the kind of stillness that makes the faintest sound feel magnified. You hear the soft intake of his breath, the whisper of his coat as he leans in. When his mouth meets yours, it’s not about urgency. His lips are firm, cool at first, then warming as you lean into him. The kiss deepens gradually, his fingers sliding back into your hair, and the world narrows until there’s nothing but the press of him and the steady, impossible heartbeat of the Dreaming under your skin.
When he pulls back, it’s only enough to rest his forehead against yours. His eyes are closed, but you can feel the focus in him, like he’s holding the moment in place so it can’t slip away. “This is different now,” he says quietly and you nod against him. “I know.” Neither of you lets go.
the carriage of want ✩｡⋆⸜ dream of the endless ˚⋆𐙚｡⋆
summary: morpheus follows delirium through her realm’s train, where she tests him by conjuring a seductive copy of you. he resists, but the image burrows under his skin. back in the dreaming, still raw with want, he slips into your sleep and remakes your quiet café into a long, swaying train. what follows is slow-burn seduction turned rough, his restraint fraying into need as he pins you to the glass and makes you confess you still want him.
word count: 7.8k
request: “Hey so i would like to request a NSFW oneshot with morpheus💕 Maybe make it „rough“ (does that make sense) Sorry english isnt my First Language”
˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞
He moves quickly, following the faint shimmer of his sister’s form as it drifts away from him through the train. The carriage around him breathes and bends in impossible ways: walls that stretch like taffy, windows that bleed into nothing, aisles that lengthen with every step. Delirium is pulling away, her colors dimming, her voice distant.
And then you are there, not truly you, he knows it instantly. This is a projection, an echo, shaped to lure him, to test and distract him. The air shifts around you the way it does in dreams, your figure haloed in the dark red light pouring through windows that weren’t there a moment ago. You are leaning casually against the edge of a seat, as though you have been waiting for him.
The look you give him is dangerous, not the wary defiance of the last time he saw you in the waking world, but something softer, sharper: an invitation wrapped in memory. The curve of your lips is not quite a smile, but it’s enough to make his chest ache. He stops as Delirium’s shape flickers ahead, slipping further away.
You take a step toward him. There’s something in your eyes… heat, longing, the promise of things he has not let himself think about in too long. It’s wrong, he tells himself. You are not here, you are somewhere in the waking world, far from his reach, perhaps far from any thought of him. Still, his hand twitches at his side, the urge to reach for you almost overpowering.
“Dream.” Your voice is exactly right: the pitch, the cadence, and it curls around him like smoke. For a moment, the train feels silent except for the sound of it. He exhales, forcing his gaze away from you, away from the way Delirium has so perfectly shaped this trap, but the image doesn’t dissolve. You tilt your head, and that single movement pulls at every carefully locked door inside him.
He could go to you, he could take just a moment… no, his sister is slipping away. With more effort than he has had to summon in centuries, he turns from you and keeps walking. The train hums beneath his feet, the air thick with the scent of his sister’s realm: rain on painted glass, sugar melting on the tongue. Delirium’s form wavers ahead of him, flickering between shapes, always just far enough that he cannot quite catch her.
And then she is there, in front of him, her eyes bright with colors that do not exist, her voice soft and far more forgiving then he deserves. He speaks and she listens, she speaks and he listens. Words pass between them, mending threads frayed not that long ago. When at last the train slows and the world outside shifts, she is gone, off to somewhere he cannot follow for now, and he is left in the quiet.
The quiet does not feel like victory, because even as the carriage empties, as the air cools and steadies, he is still back there in that moment: your gaze catching him mid-step, your voice curling through the noise, the subtle heat in the way you stood as if you had been waiting for him all along.
It was not you, he knows this. His sister had shaped it from memory and longing, a lure wrapped in a face she knew would make him falter and yet… the thought of you, the real you, will not leave him.
The Dreaming greets him like an old palace: vast, shadowed, waiting. The train is gone, the scent of his sister’s realm faded, but the echo of her trick lingers. He moves through the halls of his palace in silence. The library stands still, the great gates are closed and somewhere far away, a fountain sings its endless, silver song. It should be enough to calm him but it is not.
Because every time he closes his eyes, he sees you. Not the waking you: sharper, colder, full of anger and exhaustion, but the version Delirium conjured: the one who leaned toward him with heat in her gaze, who said his name like it still belonged to you.
It should not matter, he knows his sister and her games, he knows you were not truly there. And yet the memory drags at him like an undertow. He tells himself to attend to his realm, he tells himself there is no need to see you, no reason to disturb whatever life you’ve built without him. But the ache has a will of its own, it has been too long since he’s been close enough to breathe the same air as you, too long since he’s felt your presence folding around him like a storm.
He stops at the edge of a balcony, looking out over the infinite horizon of The Dreaming. Every dreamer in the world lies below, their worlds blooming and dissolving in a thousand shifting landscapes, and somewhere among them is yours. His hand curls on the stone railing. If he goes to you now, it will not be for apologies or mending, it will be because he wants you, because he needs you.
He closes his eyes, finds you. Your dream glows against the dark like a pulse and before he can give himself another order to resist, he steps inside.
Your dream is small tonight, quiet. It begins in the corner of a dimly lit cafe, one you have never been to in waking life but that your mind seems to know intimately. The smell of fresh coffee and rain on pavement lingers in the air. There is a soft scrape of chairs mixed with the low murmur of strangers’ voices. You sit alone at a table by the window, one knee bent up toward your chest, a book open in your lap.
It is disarming, this unguarded version of you. You are not braced for anything, not looking for anyone, the curve of your spine as you lean into the seat feels achingly familiar. He stands at the edge of the dream and watches for a long moment, unseen.
The pull toward you is a physical ache in his chest, a slow, steady tightening that has lived in him since the moment Delirium conjured your likeness on the train. He could stay here, simply watching, but already, the desire to step closer is pressing against his resolve.
The space breathes around you: the street beyond the glass shifts, the sound of the café thins and slowly, with the precision of someone testing each note of a melody, he changes your dream. The walls stretch taller, the light fades from amber to the dim grey of a sky just before storm, the floor under your feet hums faintly: the sound of motion.
Your table slides away from the window, the window becomes a panel of glass that shows not a street but endless sky and somewhere beneath, the rumble of wheels on unseen rails begins. You frown, glancing around, the way dreamers do when their world tilts but they cannot say why.
The hum grows steadier, the air thickening into the strange hush of a train in motion. The chairs and the tables, all of them dissolve into narrow aisles and rows of plush seats. The soft scrape of cutlery becomes the muted sway of the carriage. And when you look up he is there.
He has placed himself at the far end of the aisle, one gloved hand resting lightly against the frame of the door, his long coat spilling in dark folds around him. The expression on his face is unreadable from this distance, but his eyes are locked on you as if he has been waiting for this moment for far longer than you could guess.
You do not speak right away and neither does he, the train rocks gently between you. He takes one step forward. The sound of his boots on the carriage floor is barely more than a whisper, but in the dream’s hush, it seems to echo. Each step is deliberate, unhurried, as if he means to give you every chance to flee and knows you won’t.
Your breath catches without warning and you don’t look away, you can’t, because there’s something in his gaze that pins you in place: something dark and endless, and yet burning with a heat you remember far too well. It’s not anger and it’s not tenderness either. It’s desire, honed sharp as a blade.
The dream is not still, with every pace he closes between you, the carriage seems to narrow: the aisle tightening, the walls drawing in just slightly, enough to press you deeper into your seat without ever touching you. Outside the windows, the sky bruises darker, streaked with light that shifts and curls like it’s alive.
He stops only once, halfway down the aisle, as though to take you in from a different angle. His eyes sweep over you, slow and unhurried, like he’s cataloguing every inch of you for the first time and the thousandth all at once. His mouth doesn’t move, but you feel the weight of unspoken words in the space between you.
You shift your weight in the seat, unsure if it’s an act of defiance or the smallest instinct to present yourself to him more fully. Either way, his gaze lingers. He takes another step, and another.
By the time he reaches your row, the train is swaying in that deep, steady rhythm that makes the world feel like it’s leaning you into him. He pauses at your side, close enough that the air around him brushes your skin, that scent of cold air and something darker, older, that you’ve never been able to name.
He doesn’t speak at first, and his silence is not uncertainty, it is intention. The kind that tightens your skin from the inside, drawing you taut over the shape of your own hunger until even breathing feels too loud. He braces one gloved hand on the back of the seat across from you, the leather a whisper against fabric, and you can feel the quality of his attention like heat pressed an inch above your bare throat. The carriage hums, the world beyond the windows is a slow bruise of sky and ghost-light, and the train’s endless forward motion makes it feel like there’s nowhere to go but closer.
“Dream,” you say, because the alternative is to say nothing and surrender without terms. His name is a weight on your tongue, the oldest habit you’ve ever tried to break.
His gaze finds your mouth as if your voice lives there and must be seen to be understood. “You are dreaming,” he says at last, his tone low and even, shaped deliberately around words that should not carry heat and somehow do anyway. “And I am here.”
“You shouldn’t be.” You mean to make it sound hard, accusatory but it comes out thin, tugged too close to a tremor. He hears it, of course he does. “No,” he agrees, and the admission does not soften him at all, if anything, it sharpens the moment to a point you can bleed on. “I should not.” A breath you don’t see him take seems to reshape the air. “I tried not to be.”
Your pulse trips and you wonder, briefly and recklessly, how many times he tried not to step into you, how many times he put his hands on the cool stone of that balcony and told himself no. The thought burns through you like the first mouthful of liquor after months of sobriety. “And yet.”
“And yet,” he echoes, and the echo is halfway to a promise. He lifts his hand from the opposite seat, gloved fingers leaving their quiet imprint in your senses, and then, finally, he touches you. Not with the boldness you braced for, not with the roughness your body is already half-wild to meet. He starts with the softest claim he can make and still call it a claim at all: the backs of his knuckles brush along the line of your jaw, a ghosting stroke that barely counts as contact until your lungs forget how to work and your whole body leans infinitesimally into it.
It is cruel the way he does it, cruel because he knows exactly what so little will do to you. His mouth remains unreadable, but something inside the stillness of his face is paying rapt attention to every micro-flinch, every flutter of your throat. When you don’t pull back, when you tilt almost imperceptibly into that touch, the faintest shift pulls at the corner of his mouth.
“You are cruel,” you whisper, because it’s safer than admitting you missed his hands. He accepts this like a coronation, like you have named him something he was always meant to be for you. “Yes.” His knuckles trace up the hinge of your jaw to the soft edge beneath your ear, then forward to the dip just behind it, a slow arc that maps old territory with a patience that feels like being stalked. “And you are dreaming of me.”
“I didn’t choose this,” you manage, even as heat unfurls low and deep, heavy as a storm. You mean the train, the setting, the way he has lifted your small, safe café and replaced it with a corridor of motion and inevitability. You mean him, you mean you.
“No,” he says again, quiet as the dark between lightning and thunder. “You chose to sleep.” The tip of his gloved finger draws down the column of your neck, pausing when it reaches the quick, shallow flutter of your pulse. He lingers there, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep sound where it belongs. “You chose to dream.” A beat. “And I chose to come.”
You should tell him to leave, you should spit the old words like curses, the ones you threw at him when you walked away: that you won’t love a monolith, that devotion without change is a cage. You should, instead you drag air into your lungs and say, “If you’re here to hurt me, do it quickly.”
There is a stilling in him, a perfect stop, like a bird of prey freezing mid-scan because it has found exactly what it was looking for. His hand leaves your throat and for three long heartbeats you think you’ve startled him back into gentleness, that he will step away and you will hate him anew for leaving you full with the ache he made. He doesn’t, he strips his glove off, finger by finger, neat and unhurried, and the sight of that black leather surrendering the long pale bones of his hand turns your insides molten.
When his bare fingers return to your neck, the difference is devastating. He is cool to the touch, and your heat rises to meet him like a flower to the sun. He fits the curve of his palm under your jaw, thumb finding the delicate notch where your pulse knocks hard enough to bruise, and angles your face up. “I am not here to punish you my beloved,” he says, and the words are a blade wrapped in velvet. “I am here because I want you.” His thumb presses, not enough to impede anything but enough to make your mouth open on instinct, for oxygen or to protest, you don’t know… and his gaze drops to the small startle of your lips parting. He inhales like he’s been offered first fruit. “I am here because I need you.”
Something in you breaks neatly along an old fracture. “Say it,” you push, reckless, aching. “Say you came because you couldn’t stay away.” His eyes lift to yours and the force of that look is almost a physical shove: centuries and storms and a man who swore once that he would not change and then did, just enough to make this moment possible. “I came,” he says, each syllable deliberate, “because staying away felt like drowning.”
The train tilts gently, a deeper sway, as if the realm itself throws its weight behind the confession. You swallow hard and then hate that you do, because he feels it under his thumb and the sound it drags from him is low and private, like something he rarely allows himself to make. “Stand,” he says.
It is not loud and it does not have to be, because your body obeys, knees unhooking from the angle of the seat, your hands catching the armrest as the motion of the carriage conspires to tip you forward, toward him. He doesn’t step back, he doesn’t give you an inch as his hand leaves your throat only to settle at your waist, fingers curving, anchoring, staking a claim that makes every deep muscle under your skin tighten and heat.
“Turn,” he adds, guiding you with that palm until your hips brush the side of the seat and your back meets the cool pane of glass. The window breathes a sheen of condensation at the heat of you, at the heat between you, and your breath ghosts pale against it before the dream erases the mark. He follows you in, crowding without contact, so close that your nipples brush the linen of his shirt with each rise of your chest and the ache of wanting a real press, a real weight, becomes excruciating.
“This is a dream,” you say, a last defense that hopes to bargain everything down to illusion. “You can make me want this.” His mouth moves in something that is not kindness. “I don’t have to.”
He lifts both hands to the wall on either side of your head, caging you without touching you, and you feel the old, familiar, infuriating thrill of being cornered by him rise sharp and bright. Your thighs press for friction you will not give yourself, not yet, and his gaze drops, lazy and devastating, to watch. The hum he gives is approval and warning at once.
“Tell me to leave.” He leans in the breadth of one more breath, the edges of him brushing the edges of you: a coat seam at your hip, the cool whisper of his jaw near your temple, the hint of his mouth hovering a hair from your cheek. “If you wish it, I will.”
“You lie,” you whisper, because if you say anything else you may say yes in a way you cannot take back. “You promised change and yet you still play the same games.” He turns his head so the next exhale skims your lips. “I have changed enough to ask.” A heartbeat. “I have not changed enough to stop wanting.”
Your hands, traitors, rise. You put your palms against his chest as if to push him away and discover the opposite, the feel of him under your hands is a memory you never stopped carrying. Hard lines under linen: the solid, immovable heat of him, the way his ribs expand and slow under your touch as if your hands have just become the reason he breathes. You curl your fingers in the fabric and hate how your knees soften with the relief of contact.
“You torment me,” you tell him, but your mouth is closer to his now, your breath striking his lower lip, and the words no longer sounds like accusations, they sound like ceremony, like consent written in the alphabet of old sins. “Take what you came for.”
He does not pounce, he does not seize, he takes, and it is worse. He covers your mouth with his like the first sip after a fast, like the first lungful after surfacing, like he came here to practice restraint and discovered there is a very fine line between restraint and reverence and decided to stand exactly on it. The kiss is slow enough to make you crazy, deep enough to make you gasp, soft enough to make your eyes prickle because you remember when softness was the only thing he denied you.
His hands leave the wall and bracket your jaw, angling your mouth for the shape he wants, and when you open for him properly, when the slick slide of his tongue meets yours and the low sound he makes rumbles through both of you, you feel the train lean in, the whole carriage tipping toward the gravity you’ve become.
You bite him, a small, vicious answer to an ache he kept alive too long, and he breaks the kiss on a breath that is almost a laugh, almost a snarl. “There you are,” he murmurs against your open mouth, not moving away, the tip of his nose brushing yours in a frictionless touch that somehow makes your thighs press harder. “My fierce thing. My…”
“Don’t,” you warn, because the word he almost said is a ruin you are not ready to revisit. He listens, for once, he listens. Instead he palms your throat again, thumb under your chin, the other hand sliding down: over your collarbone, the slope of your shoulder, the outer line of your arm, like he is reminding himself of the map he used to be able to draw blind.
He takes your wrist and pins it lightly to the window above your head, not forceful but not gentle either. His eyes flick to your other hand, still fisted in his shirt, and he waits. You keep it there, he approves, Gods you can feel his approval, and the heat that unspools between your hips is a low, hungry ache that will not be soothed by suggestion anymore.
“Ask,” you say, throat rough, because you can still make him do that much. “If you’ve changed, ask.” He doesn’t blink. “May I?” He asks it like a vow, like he is carving your consent into the stone of the Dreaming so it can be read back to you in a thousand years.
You should drag him, make him crawl through apologies before you let him lay a finger where you need him most. “Yes,” you breathe, and the glass behind you fogs again with how hot the word is when it leaves your mouth.
His reply is not verbal, his mouth returns to yours in a kiss that has lost its last tether to patience, and his free hand, at last, drops to your hip and closes. The grip is possessive and precise: he slots you to him with the pressure of a palm that has always known exactly how you fit.
He angles you forward, uses the roll of the train to pull your pelvis flush to his, and the hard line of him lands perfectly against the soft, aching place between your thighs. You exhale like a confession, he inhales like an absolution.
“You are so cruel,” you say again, but the word dissolves when he rocks you once, slow, against himself, the friction a dark, pulling thing that steals your knees. His hand leaves your wrist just long enough to catch your hip and set the pace, and then he cages you again above your head because he knows what holding yourself there does to your spine, to your arch, to the way your breasts press into him, to the dangerous, helpless line of your throat under his hand.
“Hold,” he murmurs, and your fingers flex against glass. He rewards obedience with heat: his mouth leaves yours to drag open kisses along your jaw, the hollow beneath your ear, the soft place where your pulse jumps. He sucks there, slow, decadent, marking you in a plane of existence where ownership is a kind of spell, and when you shiver so sharply your teeth click, he groans at the feel of it… at the way you tremble for him, still fighting it, still giving in.
You push your hips forward for more, for harder, and he laughs against your neck, the sound dark and deeply pleased. “Greedy.”
“You made me like that,” you answer, breathless enough that it sounds like praise, and his answering bite is careful and ruthless and exactly what you asked for.
He drags a palm up your thigh, fingers skimming the hem of your dress, the backs of his knuckles setting spark after spark along your skin. He could rip the fabric away with a thought, but he doesn’t. He wants the ceremony of discovery, ge wants you writhing in a pace he controls.
When his fingers finally slide beneath, cool skin along your overheated inner thigh, your head hits the glass and your mouth falls open on a quiet, shocked sound you never meant him to hear again. He stills, savoring it. “Again,” he says, not a command so much as a request sharpened until it feels like one.
He presses, just a fraction higher, and you give him what he asks for, sound and all, because you want to be the reason he loses the last thin thread of composure he walked in with. He kisses you for it, deep and grateful and greedy, and then, at last, his fingers find the slick heat they were seeking, and the way he exhales against your tongue tells you everything about how long he has been starving for this.
He circles you once, gentle, and your hips jerk into his hand as if drawn by a current. He does it again, slower, crueler, and your knees go loose, your grip on the window the only thing keeping you upright. He rewards your struggle by letting you grind against the hard line of his cock while his fingers tease and deny, tease and deny, and the train’s sway becomes part of his rhythm, an accomplice in your undoing.
“Say you want it,” he whispers into your mouth, and you want to slap him for the gall of it, for needing the confession when your body is already shouting it into his palm. You drag in air and find the shard of steel you keep for him. “You want it,” you counter, and his eyes flash: dangerous, delighted.
“Yes,” he says simply, and the honesty is a blow you feel between your ribs. He presses his thumb to you and your spine bows. “I want you messy.” He glides lower, slicker, and your breath snags. “I want you hoarse.” One finger slides inside, slow, inexorable, and your mouth opens on a sound that has his eyes rolling shut for a heartbeat like he’s been dealt a mercy. “I want you ruined on my hands before I ruin you on my cock.”
You were right to call him cruel, and you were wrong to think you could live without this. “Please,” you say, because pride is a currency and you are done saving it. His forehead drops to yours like the word physically dragged him closer, and his pace changes: less teasing, more intent, two fingers now, clever and patient, his thumb a steady, ruthless metronome that has your thighs shaking, your breath breaking, your body climbing toward a wave you both can see coming from a mile away. He holds you there, hovering, hunting the perfect angle like a scholar solving for x, and when he finds it… the world goes white.
You break against his hand with a shudder that runs the length of you, your voice catching on his name like prayer and profanity at once, and he groans: low, wrecked, victorious, like the sound of you coming just rewired the Dreaming’s stars. He doesn’t stop until you sag against the window and then he slows, murmuring nothing-words against your jaw, against your mouth, his fingers easing you back down as if he’s gentle only at the edges of your destruction.
When you can breathe, you realize he’s shaking. Only a little, a fine tremor where his body presses to yours, where his cock throbs hard and insistent against your belly. You smile, wrecked and unkind. “Suffering?”
“Immensely,” he says, and you love him for the dryness of it, for the way he can sound like midnight and grave-dirt and still be undone by you. “Good.” Your hand finally leaves the window as you put it between your bodies and close it around him through his trousers, and his head tilts back with a sound he does not give other people, a raw thin groan that makes your thighs press together like you could trap it there and keep it. “Then suffer more.”
His laugh is breathless and disbelieving… and then it isn’t a laugh at all, because as your grip tightens, his control snaps, and the next phase is not patient, not gentle, not merciful. “Turn around,” he says, voice gone dark and rough, and this time it’s not a test. It’s a sentence you’ve been waiting to serve since the moment you saw him standing in the aisle.
You do, slowly, hands flattening to the window, your cheek grazing cool glass, your hips angling back because your body knows where this is going and is already there. His hands are at your waist in an instant, dragging you into place, and the way he breathes when he has you lined exactly how he wants is the sound of a king reclaiming his throne. “Mine,” he says, barely audible.
“Not yours,” you counter, because some wars deserve to be fought forever. He smiles into your shoulder, and the press of his mouth there is the last soft thing you get for a while. “Then lend yourself.”
“Fine,” you grit, and he laughs: wrecked, worshipful, and unfastens his belt. It slides through its loops with a sound that feels louder than the train itself, each whisper of leather against fabric winding the spring in your chest tighter. You can’t see him, not properly, your cheek still to the glass, but you can feel the air shift as he loosens the last barrier between your body and his. The small, soft scrape of metal as the buckle swings once is obscene in its intimacy.
You start to look back over your shoulder, but his hand is there instantly, flat and firm between your shoulder blades, pressing… not to hold you down, not yet, but to remind you exactly where he wants you. “Face forward,” he says, voice low enough that it seems to speak from inside your bones. The train rocks, and the window breathes cool against your lips, you obey.
The first brush of him against you is almost nothing, the barest graze, but it draws a startled, sharp breath from your lungs anyway. He hisses softly at the contact, his hand at your hip flexing just enough to pull you back that fraction more. “You feel,” he murmurs, as if he’s speaking to himself, “exactly as I remember.”
“Then you remember too much,” you manage, though your voice is already too soft, too frayed at the edges to land the blow you intend.
His laugh is quiet, almost indulgent. “Not enough.” His other hand slides along your side, over the curve of your waist, the flare of your hip, until his fingers find the hem of your dress again and this time he doesn’t delay.
He drags the fabric up with steady, measured precision, baring you inch by inch until the cool air skims the tops of your thighs, the back of your knees. His knuckles skim over the backs of your legs as he pushes the dress higher still, and your muscles shiver under the touch like they’re caught between retreat and welcome.
When he’s satisfied, the dress is bunched indecently high at your waist, and the exposed skin of your backside is lit by the muted, otherworldly glow spilling through the train’s windows. His palm covers one cheek in a slow, deliberate press, testing the give of you, the angle. You hear him inhale, long and deep, and your stomach drops when he exhales the air in a faint, unsteady sound that borders on reverence.
Then he steps closer. Close enough that his hips align with yours, the hard heat of him settling exactly where you’ve been aching for it. The fabric between you is only the thinnest layer now, and when he rocks forward once, barely more than a pulse of movement, it’s enough to make your fingers curl against the glass.
“You’ve thought of this,” he says, not as a question. His voice is steady, but beneath it you can hear the crack in his control, the strain in his restraint. “Even after you left me, you’ve dreamt of me like this.”
You want to deny him, to throw the truth back in his face, but when his hand at your hip tightens and he grinds that single, slow pass of his body against you again, all you can do is bite the inside of your cheek and breathe like you’re trying to keep your balance on the edge of something dangerous.
“I am in your head even when you hate me,” he says, leaning in until the words slide warm along the shell of your ear. “Especially when you hate me.”
“You’re arrogant,” you bite out, though the tremor in your voice betrays you. “And you’re wet for me,” he replies, and the way he says it, quiet, almost wondering… it robs the words of crudeness and replaces it with something far more lethal. You hate that your body answers for you, the slick heat between your thighs an unignorable truth.
His hand slips from your hip, sliding forward and down, and the tips of his fingers find you with unnerving precision. The low, satisfied hum he gives when he feels exactly what you’ve been trying not to show makes your knees threaten to give way.
He doesn’t rush, he strokes you once, unhurried, a slow sweep that leaves you shivering, then again with just enough pressure to make your head tip forward against the window. His other hand remains at your waist, keeping you where he wants you, not holding you in place so much as making it clear you will not move unless he wills it. “Say it,” he murmurs. “Say you want me to take you.” You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. “If I say it?”
“I will give you exactly what you ask for,” he finishes, his tone smooth as a promise carved in stone. “And if I don’t?” His fingers still for a moment, resting in the wet heat of you, and the quiet between you is filled with the sound of the train and the thud of your pulse in your ears. “Then I will keep you right here,” he says at last, “on the edge, until you are begging to be taken.”
Your eyes slip shut. The threat, if it is a threat, has teeth and they sink into you in a way that makes your thighs press together against his hand. He chuckles low at the motion, a sound that vibrates through his chest and into your back.
“You cruel bastard,” you whisper, but there’s no bite left in it. “Yes,” he says simply, and begins to move his fingers again, slow and deliberate, circling you until you are breathing too fast to keep your head clear. The swaying rhythm of the train becomes his accomplice, adding a subtle forward-and-back sway that works you against him in ways you don’t have the strength to stop. You break first, you always did. “Take me.”
The sound he makes is almost a sigh, but weighted, heavy with satisfaction. His hand leaves you only long enough to free himself completely, the sound of fabric shifting and the faint, warm brush of him against your bare skin making your breath hitch. He aligns himself with a precision that speaks of memory, of knowing exactly how to fit into the space you’ve been carrying for him all this time.
And when he pushes in: slow at first, deliberate, making you feel every inch, it’s like the train itself inhales with you. The stretch of him pulls a soft, involuntary sound from your throat, and he groans in response, his hands gripping your hips with a force that borders on desperate.
“Still perfect,” he says against your ear, the words almost too soft to catch. He pulls back, then drives in again, harder this time, and your palms flatten against the glass as if bracing for the quake.
The pace he sets is not hurried, but it is deep and thorough, each thrust measured to drag against every place inside you that makes your breath catch, to make you feel him for long, aching seconds after he withdraws. His hands guide you into every motion, hips angling you to take him deeper, the glass before you fogging more with each exhale.
“You remember this,” he says between thrusts, his voice a low tide you could drown in. “Your body remembers me even when you pretend not to.” You want to deny him again, to fight, but the words dissolve in your mouth with every movement of his hips.
All that’s left is sound, soft and broken, answering the rhythm he’s building between you until the train seems to be carrying you both somewhere far past the end of the line. He holds the pace for as long as he can, deep and deliberate, as if dragging you over coals just to feel the way you burn for him.
But the longer he’s inside you, the tighter the heat coils low in your body, the more your hips start to move in small, instinctive rolls against him, chasing every thick drag of him through you… the more you can feel that control starting to splinter.
It starts in his breath… that low, even rhythm you know so well begins to fray at the edges, a fraction heavier each time his hips meet yours. Then his fingers tighten on your waist, not enough to hurt, but enough to feel the pulse of his need there, hot and restless under the pale skin.
And then he groans: a real sound, raw and thick, spilling from deep in his chest as he drives into you harder, faster, as if the slow ache he was building is no longer enough. The Dreaming seems to know as the floor rocks harder beneath your feet, the glass vibrating faintly under your palms, the sound of the wheels below growing louder… as though the realm itself is caught in the same fever. Outside, the impossible sky darkens, clouds boiling low and lit from within by lightning that arcs and fades before it can strike.
His hips snap forward again, the force jolting you into the window, your cheek fogging the glass with every breathless exhale. You make a small, helpless sound, and it seems to rip the last thread of patience out of him.
One hand leaves your waist and slides up your spine, following the curve until his palm is splayed between your shoulder blades. He presses you into the glass, the new angle dragging him deeper, and the sound that leaves your mouth is half shock, half plea. His other hand stays anchored at your hip, holding you exactly where he wants you while his body drives into yours with a rhythm that’s nothing like the measured control he arrived with.
“I could keep you here,” he murmurs against the back of your neck between thrusts, his voice roughened, unpolished now. “In this dream. Until you scream my name and forget your own.”
The words shouldn’t make you clench around him, shouldn’t make your body arch back into his like you’re offering yourself up to be taken exactly as he’s promising. But they do, and he feels it, you can tell by the deep, shuddering groan that breaks against your skin and the way his hips slam harder into yours, as though chasing that reaction again.
The window fogs so thick you can no longer see the lightning outside. All you can see is the faint reflection of him behind you: tall, dark, his body pressed to yours in perfect alignment, his eyes half-lidded but locked on you with something between hunger and possession. “You were mine,” he says, low and certain, each word punctuated by the relentless push of his body into yours. “You will be again.”
“You think,” Your voice catches on a sharp gasp as he thrusts deep enough to make your toes curl. “…you can just take what you want.”
“Yes,” he says simply, and his hand leaves your back to slide up, fingers curling around your throat from behind. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds you there, your head tipped back against his shoulder as he leans in close enough that you feel the heat of his breath against your ear. “And you will let me.”
The hand on your hip drags you back into each thrust, the force of it echoing up through your spine until you can’t tell if the trembling in your legs is from the strain of standing or the sheer overload of sensation. Your palms slide against the fogged glass, searching for something to anchor you, but all you can feel is him, filling you, pressing against the deepest, most sensitive places inside you until your breath comes in broken, desperate fragments.
He tilts his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he growls, “Say it.” You know what he means and you want to hold it back, to keep the last scrap of defiance between you. But then his hips grind forward at the end of a thrust, his thumb stroking the pulse at your throat, and the pressure that’s been building inside you bursts.
“Yes,” you gasp, your voice breaking around the word. “Yes, I am…” The rest is lost in a sharp cry as your climax slams into you, your body clenching hard around him, heat washing through you in waves. He keeps moving, riding you through it, his rhythm stuttering now as the muscles in his abdomen tighten against your back.
“Mine,” he rasps, the word dragged out of him like a confession as he drives into you one last time, holding deep as his own release shudders through him. You feel the pulse of it, the deep, hot flood inside you, his grip on your throat tightening just slightly as his hips press flush to yours.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. The train hums around you, the sky outside bleeding slowly back toward pale, and his forehead drops to the back of your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your skin.
For a while, all there is is breath: yours, quick and uneven, fogging the glass in front of you and his, slower but still frayed at the edges, warm against the back of your shoulder. The train hums steadily beneath your feet, the sway of it gentler now, as if the whole realm has exhaled with you. Outside, the lightning is gone, replaced by a low stretch of violet cloud and the shimmer of distant stars.
He doesn’t pull away immediately. His hips stay flush to yours, the hard line of his body braced along your back like he’s anchoring you there, or himself. One of his hands leaves your throat and drifts down, slow and almost absent, until his palm rests flat against your stomach, holding you in place with nothing more than that cool, steady weight. The other hand still cradles your hip, thumb stroking over the bone in a motion so lazy and unconscious it almost feels like a slip in his armour.
When he finally moves, it’s not retreat but a shift, easing back just far enough to free you without breaking the seal of his body from yours entirely. The change lets you draw your first real deep breath in minutes, though your knees threaten to buckle with it. He notices, of course he does.
His hand at your stomach curls, supporting you as he murmurs against your ear, “Easy.” The word is low, not a command but a tether, and it keeps you upright even as your muscles tremble.
You expect him to step away then, to smooth his coat and put distance between you like he always did after moments like this in the past, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stays close enough that you feel the whisper of his trousers brushing the backs of your thighs as he lets go of your hip and slides that hand down, fingertips trailing over the curve of your ass in a touch so light it borders on reverent.
“You’re shaking,” he observes, his voice quieter now, but still carrying that edge of possession that makes your skin prickle. “You did that,” you manage, though the heat has softened in your tone, the bite dulled into something nearer to surrender.
“Yes,” he agrees, and his hand shifts from your hip to the outside of your thigh, smoothing down until his palm cups the back of your knee. “And I could do it again.” The promise is spoken as if it were fact, as if the dream itself would conspire to make it true.
You finally turn your head enough to see him in the reflection of the window: pale, sharp, his eyes still shadowed with the remnants of hunger. His gaze catches yours in the glass, and for a moment you’re not sure whether the heat that stirs in your chest is from what’s just happened or the knowledge that he’s looking at you like he’s still not finished.
His hand leaves your stomach only to slide around your side, fingertips brushing the underside of your breast through the thin fabric of your dress. The touch is slow, teasing, but not without care, he’s reading the give in your body, measuring how much you’ll let him take now that the sharpest edge has dulled.
“You’re still here,” you murmur, not entirely meaning it as a question. “Where else,” he says, “would I be?”
It’s too soft of an answer for the man you knew before, the man you left. It sits between you like a new and fragile thing, but before you can test it, his mouth is on your shoulder, lips parting just enough to let his breath warm your skin. The kiss that follows is slow, coaxing rather than claiming, though the arm around your waist tightens infinitesimally, as if to remind you that letting you go has never come easily to him.
The train rocks again, more gently now, the rhythm syncing with the slow drag of his lips along the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. “You could stay,” he says quietly, as if the thought just occurred to him, but you know better. He’s been thinking it since the moment he stepped into your dream.
“And if I don’t?” you ask, though the question lacks the venom it once would have carried. His smile is a ghost against your skin. “Then I will find you again, and again, hntil you stop running from what you want.”
It should feel like a threat… instead, it feels like a promise, one your body has already betrayed you by leaning into.
his most careful consideration ✩｡⋆⸜ dream of the endless
summary: you arrive in the dreaming with one goal: to tempt morpheus, to seduce the king of dreams and secure the key to hell for your people. but morpheus is not a man so easily swayed. in the moonlit gardens, he turns your game against you, circling, teasing, and unraveling you until every defense you came with is stripped away. by the time he leaves you trembling, you no longer know whether you were playing him… or he was always playing you.
word count: 6k
˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞
The Dreaming is brighter than usual tonight, alive with the gleam of firelight and glimmering enchantments cast by guests from every corner of the realms. The great banquet hall stretches impossibly high, vaulted ceilings painted with constellations that shift and shimmer with every passing second. There are long tables laden with delicacies from a hundred worlds, silver chalices filled to the brim with wine that tastes of pure memory, and hundreds of eyes all fixed upon a single figure at the head of the hall.
Lord Morpheus, the King of Dreams, sits upon a throne of wrought onyx and silver. He is tall and terrible and beautiful, pale skin lit in sharp relief by the firelight, a living shadow against the brilliance around him. His hair, black as midnight and only slightly wilder than usual, curls at his temples. He wears his typical uniform of darkness: a high-collared coat draped like a cloak around his shoulders, silver rings gleaming faintly against long fingers that rest on the carved arms of his throne. His expression remains unreadable as the line of emissaries snakes forward, each of them bowing or posturing or pleading.
One by one, they approach him with their offers. Jewels that burn with captured stars. Promises of kingdoms. Threats veiled in honeyed words. A vampire lord offers the loyalty of his bloodline, a goddess of flame offers to share her dominion with him. Even the angels and demons stand in the same room, their hatred for one another second only to their shared desire to gain the key he now carries, because Morpheus is in possession of Hell itself.
Lucifer Morningstar had left it to him, a burden disguised as a gift. With that one silver key now tucked away in his keeping, all realms are desperate. Each believes they are the rightful inheritor. Each wants to claim the empty throne for themselves. And yet you, standing near the edge of the hall, wait your turn with none of the frenzy that seems to grip the others.
You are here as the representative of the shapeshifters, an unruly and scattered collection of clans who owe fealty to no one. Your people, unlike the vampires or demons or angels, have little in the way of armies or treasure to offer. You cannot outbid the others with sheer force or power. So you decide to use a different weapon, one far sharper than gold or threats.
You watch Morpheus with careful calculation as the line dwindles. He is the very picture of distance, a god seated among mortals. Each emissary steps away from him with either a frown or a forced smile, their gifts dismissed with a single quiet word. His dark eyes take everything in and reveal nothing. He does not even sip the wine poured for him. He simply waits, still as a statue, as if he knows the whole room revolves around his silence. You imagine it does.
And you imagine that a man so solitary, so rarely touched, might crave something other than the offerings they thrust at his feet. Your lips curl at the thought.
The decision solidifies in your mind as the banquet reaches its close, the final emissaries dismissed. He rises from the throne to make his exit, long coat trailing behind him like a shadow made flesh. The crowd begins to scatter into smaller clusters, murmuring and drinking deep from the endless bottles of wine provided by the Dreaming. Some leave immediately, returning to their realms with tight jaws and tighter fists.
But you do not leave. You slip from the hall like a whisper, unseen. You know where he will go, to the gardens.
The Dreaming’s gardens are endless, forever shifting. Tonight, they are a labyrinth of moonlit hedges and pale marble fountains, glowing softly under the distant stars overhead. The air smells faintly of jasmine and night-blooming flowers, the kind that only live for a single evening. You follow the faint crunch of gravel paths beneath your boots until you catch sight of him.
Morpheus stands at the center of the garden, next to a low fountain. His head is bowed, fingers brushing lightly against the water’s surface, sending ripples across the mirrored reflection of the stars above. His posture is deceptively relaxed, though you know there is nothing relaxed about the Endless.
He hears you approach. “You have come to make your case at last,” he says softly, without turning. His voice is low, a deep sound that vibrates through the air like distant thunder.
You smile as you step closer, letting the sound of your boots announce your presence. “I thought I might try a different tactic,” you murmur. He glances over his shoulder at you, black eyes catching the moonlight. “And what tactic is that?”
You tilt your head, letting your hair fall over one shoulder. “Seduction,” you say simply, and Morpheus stills.
For a long moment, there is nothing but the sound of the fountain trickling behind him. Then he turns, fully facing you now. His expression does not change, but you feel the full weight of his gaze settle upon you, heavy and sharp. “Do you think me so easily swayed?” he asks.
You close the distance between you slowly, the hem of your gown whispering across the stones. “Everyone else has tried threats and promises and bribery,” you say softly, stopping just close enough that you can feel the heat of his body in the cool night air. “Why not try something different?”
Your fingers lift, brushing lightly against the lapel of his coat. He does not stop you, but he does not move either. You look up into his face, deliberately softening your voice. “I could be anyone you desire, you know. Anyone you have ever loved, anyone you have ever longed for. Nada, was it?”
The name lands between you like a spark. His eyes narrow, the smallest crack in his mask of control. “Do not speak her name,” he says quietly.
You only smile, tilting your chin up as if in challenge. “Why not? I could look like her, if you wished it. Would that tempt you, Dream of the Endless?” Your hand trails lightly along the edge of his coat now, tracing the line of his chest beneath the fabric. He is still, so still, but you can feel the tension coiling in him like a wire pulled taut.
You think you have him exactly where you want him, until he speaks. “Tell me,” he murmurs, voice softer than the wind, “do you think this would work on me? That you could so easily bend me to your will, as if I were… a man?”
The question leaves you momentarily breathless, because for the first time, it feels as though the power has shifted.
His words slice through the night air and lodge themselves deep in your chest, unexpected and sharp. For a heartbeat, you forget to breathe. There is no rise in his voice, no show of temper, yet something about the way he says it sends a shiver down your spine. He does not move, but he does not need to. Morpheus carries stillness the way others carry weapons, and you suddenly feel how easily that weight can crush.
But you refuse to let it. You tilt your head, forcing your features into a mask of casual confidence, even though you feel his gaze like cold fire against your skin. “I think,” you murmur, fingers smoothing along the black fabric of his coat as though testing its weave, “that every man, Endless or otherwise, has his weaknesses. I wonder what yours are.”
For the first time, he moves. It is slow, deliberate. He closes the final inch between you until the space you had carefully left open is gone. His presence envelops you like a shadow swallowing the moon, and you become acutely aware of every detail: the way the night air feels cooler where it clings to his coat, the faint, otherworldly scent of rain and smoke that seems to rise from his skin, the deep, steady rhythm of his breath brushing the crown of your head.
“You would seek them out?” he asks, his voice no louder than before, though now it vibrates through you as though he were speaking from inside your ribcage. You dare to meet his eyes. “If it benefits my people,” you whisper.
His gaze drops to your lips, then lifts again, as though he’s dissecting the truth of your words. “And would you give yourself so freely,” he asks, “for the sake of those you represent?”
You open your mouth to answer, but the sound dies in your throat as his hand lifts. The tips of his fingers hover just above your cheekbone, close enough that you feel the faint pull of his energy thrumming in the air between you. He does not touch you, he seems to delight in not touching you, but the implication is devastating.
“You came here,” he says softly, “believing you could bend me to your will with your hands and your mouth and your practiced smile.” His voice is velvet, dangerous in its gentleness. “But tell me, little shapeshifter… are you certain you have not walked willingly into my snare?” Your breath catches.
He steps closer still, his height eclipsing the faint glow of the moonlight. The hem of his coat brushes against your shins. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs as though it wants to escape. “Does that frighten you?” he whispers.
You summon the last of your bravado, tilting your chin upward until it grazes the edge of his jaw. “No,” you lie. Morpheus’s mouth curves into the barest ghost of a smile. Not warm, not amused, but a knowing thing, like the dark itself bending at the corner of his lips.
“Perhaps it should.” His fingers finally, finally make contact with your skin. The touch is feather-light at first, barely skimming the hollow beneath your jaw. Then they slide lower, his knuckles brushing your collarbone before he pulls back, letting the sudden absence of contact leave you reeling.
You draw in a shaky breath. “You’re… very good at this,” you manage. He arches an eyebrow, black eyes glittering with something you can’t quite name. “At what?”
“At turning the tables,” you whisper, voice softer now, less sure. “I thought I would have you off-balance, but it seems I’m the one standing on unsteady ground.”
He leans down, close enough that you feel the ghost of his breath fan across your ear. “Then perhaps,” he murmurs, “you should reconsider who is hunting whom.”
Your body burns with the need to move, to do something, push closer or step away, you do not know which. Instead, you remain rooted in place as he draws back just far enough to look at you fully again. The night seems to still around you, even the gentle trickle of the fountain behind him fading into silence.
“I could change,” you hear yourself say suddenly, desperately, as though words might shift the balance back to your favor. “I could be anyone you’ve ever desired. Anyone you’ve ever loved. You wouldn’t have to…” His expression darkens instantly.
“I do not want another face,” he interrupts, quiet but firm. “I do not want a memory dressed in flesh. I want truth.” You falter, the weight of his words settling like lead in your stomach. He steps back, giving you space now, and the distance feels like punishment.
“Tell me,” he says, his tone softer now, almost coaxing, “what is it you truly seek from me? Is it only the key you hope to gain? Or is there something more you dare not name?” You swallow hard, realizing that he has done it. He has turned your game against you entirely.
Because now, you are the one who wants to be touched. You do not answer him, you cannot. Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, your chest rising and falling too fast as the silence stretches. He watches you as if your stillness is a confession, black eyes fixed on your face in a way that strips you bare.
Then, without a word, Morpheus begins to move. He steps past you slowly, deliberately, his coat whispering against your hip as he circles behind you. You remain rooted in place, every muscle coiled with anticipation, your breath catching when you feel the ghost of his presence at your back.
He does not touch you at first. He only lingers there, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body seeping through the cool night air. The weight of his stillness is unbearable, as though he is savoring the knowledge that you are aware of every heartbeat, every breath. “Do you know what I see?” he asks softly, his voice behind you now and you force your lips to move. “What?”
“I see someone who came here with the intent to play a role,” he murmurs, the faintest edge of amusement threading through his tone, “and who now wonders if the role is consuming her.”
Your fingers flex uselessly at your sides, your pulse thrumming in your ears. You feel him step closer, close enough that the fabric of his coat brushes lightly against the back of your dress.
Then his hand appears at your side, trailing slowly, agonizingly, toward the small of your back. When his fingers finally rest there, the contact is warm and steady, a quiet possession that makes your breath stutter.
“You have been very bold with me,” he says quietly, leaning in just enough that his breath grazes the curve of your neck. “Perhaps you hoped I would be flustered. Perhaps you thought I would yield to the touch of your hands, the softness of your lips.”
Your lips part, but the words won’t come. He is too close, too deliberate, his voice threading through you like silk and shadow. “Instead,” he continues, his hand pressing lightly at your lower back as though to anchor you, “you find yourself trembling.”
You swallow hard, wishing you could deny it. But you can’t. You are trembling. “Am I wrong?”
You shake your head, your voice barely more than a whisper. “No.” You feel him exhale against your skin, a soft, deliberate breath that sends shivers racing down your spine. His other hand lifts then, brushing an errant strand of hair from your shoulder with a gentleness that feels devastating.
“You tempt me,” he says, so close now that the tip of his nose nearly grazes your jaw. “You tempt me in ways you do not understand. But I wonder… is it truly your intent to tempt me? Or are you the one now tempted?”
You draw in a sharp breath as his fingers trace the back of your neck, feather-light, before retreating once more. He steps around you, reclaiming the space in front of you now, his dark silhouette framed by the pale glow of moonlight.
Morpheus’s gaze is unrelenting. He knows, he knows exactly what he is doing to you. “Look at you,” he murmurs, tilting his head as he studies your expression. “So certain of your plan, yet now you cannot even speak.”
You want to speak. You want to tell him that you are not the one who has lost control, that you are not unraveling beneath his touch. But the words falter when his fingers lift to trace the curve of your jaw, soft as a sigh. “Do you wish me to kiss you?” he asks. The question steals your breath. “I…”
“Do not lie,” he interrupts softly, his thumb brushing against your lower lip, lingering there in quiet threat. “Not to me. Tell me the truth.”
Your heart feels like it will burst from the pressure. You nod, just barely, the motion small and fragile. Morpheus’s mouth curves in that same knowing shadow of a smile, and you suddenly understand that he has been guiding you here from the very first moment you touched his coat.
“Good,” he whispers, but he does not kiss you. Instead, he lets his hand drop, stepping back just enough to deny you what you so desperately want.
The space between you feels cavernous now. “I think,” he says softly, “that you are beginning to understand what it is to crave without certainty of reward.”
You stare at him, every nerve burning, every breath a prayer you do not dare voice. And Morpheus, King of Dreams, simply waits, letting you feel the ache of his absence.
The garden is silent but for the pounding of your own heart. The pale marble fountain behind you seems impossibly loud now, water trickling into water, a soft rhythm that feels like it is mocking the quick, shallow drag of your breath.
Morpheus steps toward you again with deliberate slowness, his coat catching the faint breeze as if even the air bends to his will. He moves with the patience of a predator, every step a calculation. You can feel it in the tight coil of his presence, in the way your body tenses without your consent.
He stops close enough that the faint brush of his coat against your thigh sends your nerves sparking. He does not touch you, not yet, but his nearness is a touch in itself.
“Do you feel it?” he asks softly, his voice curling around the edges of your thoughts like smoke. You swallow hard. “Feel what?”
“The way the air thickens when you want,” he whispers, leaning in so his mouth hovers just by your ear. “The way your body betrays you with every breath.”
You shiver as his warm breath ghosts over your neck. “You are trembling again,” he says. “Do you even realize?” Your answer is a choked whisper. “Yes.”
“Good,” he murmurs. “Awareness is a step toward truth.” His hand lifts slowly, sliding down the curve of your side until his palm rests against the small of your back. His fingers press lightly, just enough to pull you the slightest fraction closer. The warmth of his touch seeps through the thin fabric of your gown, and you fight to keep your balance as every nerve in your body leans toward him.
“Tell me,” he says, black eyes searching yours, “what is it you seek from me now?” You try to summon your original purpose, the speech you had prepared about your people, about what you could offer him, but the words scatter like leaves in a storm. “I…”
“You wish me to kiss you,” he finishes for you, voice like velvet. “You wish me to give you what you so boldly claimed to offer.” Your lips part but no sound comes.
He leans closer still, his nose brushing the edge of your jaw, and you feel your knees weaken. “But why should I reward your arrogance?” he whispers, his breath a warm ghost over your skin.
Your chest rises sharply as his hand presses firmer at your lower back, drawing you in just enough that you can feel the faint brush of his chest against yours. You are close enough now that if you leaned forward, even slightly, your lips would meet his, but you do not. You cannot.
“Do you know,” he murmurs, his voice almost too soft to hear, “that the anticipation is often far sweeter than the thing itself?” You close your eyes for just a moment, because the look in his dark gaze is undoing you.
“That is cruel,” you whisper. His fingers flex slightly at your back. “Cruel?”
“Yes,” you breathe. “To bring me this close and not…” He tilts his head, a soft hum in his throat as though he is savoring your inability to finish.
“Not what?” he asks, coaxing. “Kiss me,” you whisper, the word spilling out before you can stop it.
The corner of his mouth curves. “So you do wish it,” he says softly. “Yes,” you admit, the word a fragile surrender.
He studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, his hand lifts from your back, tracing up the length of your spine until his knuckles brush the sensitive nape of your neck. You feel his breath warm against your lips now, so close, so devastatingly close.
But instead of closing the distance, Morpheus lets his lips barely, barely graze the corner of your mouth before he withdraws again, leaving you trembling in the emptiness he creates.
The frustration that sears through you is almost unbearable, and he knows it. You can see it in the faint shadow of his smile, in the glint in his black eyes as he circles you once more. His hand brushes your arm as he passes, the lightest of touches, and then he is behind you again, close enough that the warmth of his breath stirs the hair at your neck.
“Do you understand now?” he whispers. You turn your head slightly, just enough that your temple brushes his jaw. “Understand what?”
“How easily longing can unmake you,” he says, his voice soft but unrelenting. “How quickly desire can become need.” Your breath hitches. “And what if I want to be unmade?”
He stills at your words, then he steps around you once more, reclaiming the space in front of you, his black coat swirling faintly around his legs. He studies you with that same inscrutable expression, his hand rising to cup your cheek this time, thumb tracing along your cheekbone.
“Then you must ask,” he says softly. Your heart pounds so hard you are certain he can hear it. “Ask?”
“Yes,” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips hover just over yours, his voice a whisper you can feel more than hear. “Ask me to take what you offer. Ask me to undo you.”
Your mouth is dry, your entire body trembling with the weight of what he is asking. He holds your gaze with the unrelenting gravity of a storm, thumb still caressing your cheek as if you might shatter at any moment.
“Ask,” he murmurs again, softer this time, the word threading through you like a spell. You swallow hard, the air thick in your throat. “Please,” you whisper, barely audible.
He tilts his head, his dark eyes glittering with a satisfaction he does not bother to hide. “Please what?” Your chest rises sharply. “Please… undo me.”
The sound that leaves him is not a laugh, not quite, but something low and pleased, like the growl of distant thunder. His hand slides from your cheek down to the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair as he draws you closer with devastating slowness.
When his lips finally press against yours, the contact is light, barely a brush, yet it sends a rush of heat straight through your veins. You gasp softly, and Morpheus uses that moment to deepen the kiss, his mouth claiming yours with deliberate control.
You melt against him instantly, hands fisting in the fabric of his coat as he pulls you flush against his body. The hard planes of his chest and the soft swirl of his coat envelop you completely, drowning out everything else.
He kisses you until your lungs burn, then pulls back just far enough that you are forced to follow him forward with a small, needy sound.
“Do you enjoy this?” he asks softly, his breath warm against your swollen lips. “Yes,” you whisper, your voice shaking.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Do you enjoy the knowledge,” he continues, brushing his nose along the curve of your jaw, “that any one of my guests might emerge from the banquet hall at any moment and see you like this?”
A shiver tears through you, equal parts fear and arousal. “See how desperate you are for me,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over the sensitive skin of your neck. “How undone you are by a single touch?”
“Lord Morpheus…” He hums at the sound of his name on your lips, one hand slipping lower to rest at the small of your back, the other sliding down the side of your thigh, gathering the fabric of your gown as he goes. He lifts the hem slowly, deliberately, until the cool night air licks at your bare skin.
“Tell me,” he whispers, his voice a silken caress, “would that thrill you? Or would you be ashamed to be seen like this?” You tremble against him, your fingers tightening at his shoulders. “I don’t know,” you admit, your voice barely a breath.
He pulls back just enough to look down at you, black eyes catching the faint starlight overhead. “I think,” he says softly, “that you would like it. That a part of you would enjoy the danger.”
His hand slips higher, the tips of his fingers brushing the curve of your hip beneath the gathered fabric of your gown. Your breath catches sharply, the sound breaking on your lips.
“You are trembling again,” he notes, his voice as calm as ever. “Is it because of me? Or because you fear being discovered?” Your lips part helplessly. “Because of you.”
A shadow of a smile touches his mouth. “Good,” he murmurs. He lowers his head to kiss you again, deeper this time, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you open for him with a soft, desperate sound. He swallows the noise as he kisses you harder, his hand at your hip sliding slowly upward until it rests just beneath the edge of your ribs, his thumb caressing the soft curve of your waist.
When he finally pulls back, you are breathless, your pulse a frantic drumbeat against your skin. “You see,” he whispers, his lips brushing yours as he speaks, “I could make you beg for me. Here, where anyone might see. I could make you cry out my name beneath the moonlight, and you would not care who heard.”
Your knees weaken at the thought, and Morpheus steadies you with a hand at the small of your back, pressing you against him as if he could hold you up by will alone.
“Do you want me to?” he asks softly, his voice laced with that same devastating patience. “Yes,” you whisper, your answer immediate and unguarded.
The satisfaction in his expression is unmistakable. He kisses you again, slow and deep, and this time there is no restraint. He presses you back against the cool marble edge of the fountain, the stone biting faintly into your spine as he claims your mouth, his hand sliding lower once more to grip the back of your thigh.
The fabric of your gown gathers higher and higher as he lifts your leg, bracing it at his hip. You clutch at his coat, nails digging into the dense black fabric, the pressure of his body between your legs making you gasp into his mouth.
“Tell me,” he whispers against your lips, his voice low and coaxing, “if they came upon us now, would you be silent? Or would you cry out and let them see what I am doing to you?” Your face burns, but the thrill of his words coils deep inside you.
“I… I don’t know,” you admit again, the confession trembling on your tongue. He presses closer, the edge of his mouth brushing the shell of your ear as he speaks. “Then we shall find out.”
The fountain presses into your back as he holds you in place, his grip unyielding on your thigh. The fabric of your gown is bunched high now, gathered in his strong hand as his hip presses forward, fitting you snugly against him. You can feel the hard line of his body through the layers of fabric separating you, and the knowledge steals the air from your lungs.
Morpheus does not rush. He moves with the same devastating patience he has wielded from the very beginning, his lips grazing the delicate skin just below your ear as he breathes you in.
“You tremble,” he murmurs, his voice deep and steady, each word feathering over your sensitive skin. “Do you realize how much I feel it? How the smallest shiver tells me exactly how undone you are?”
“Yes,” you breathe, your voice breaking on the word. His mouth brushes lower, tracing a slow path down your neck. The scrape of his teeth at your pulse point makes you gasp, your hands tightening on his shoulders for balance. He rewards the sound with a low, approving hum that vibrates against your throat.
“You are so desperate,” he whispers, his lips moving lower still until he is tasting the curve of your collarbone. “So ready to give yourself over.”
You tip your head back helplessly, baring your throat to him as he speaks. “Please…” He pulls back at the sound, his hand gripping your thigh a little harder as he lifts his gaze to meet yours. “Please what?”
“Please don’t stop,” you whisper, the words tumbling out before you can think to temper them. Morpheus studies you for a long, quiet moment, his black eyes fathomless. Then he leans forward, catching your lower lip gently between his teeth before releasing it with a soft, wet sound.
“Would you like me to take you here,” he asks softly, his voice threaded with quiet command, “where anyone might step from the shadows and see what I am doing to you?” The thought sends a shudder through you.
“Yes,” you whisper. He smiles faintly at your answer, dark and knowing, and presses closer. His thigh shifts between your legs, the deliberate friction making you gasp as he presses you firmly against the edge of the fountain. His hand slides beneath your gown, fingers tracing slow, maddening circles against your bare skin, climbing higher and higher.
You clutch at his coat, your nails dragging lightly over the thick fabric, desperate for more. He watches you intently, clearly savoring every fractured breath, every quiver of your body as he teases you with just enough contact to leave you aching.
“Do you enjoy this?” he asks, his thumb brushing dangerously close to where you need him most. “Yes,” you gasp.
“Do you enjoy the knowledge that if one of my guests appeared, they would see you like this?” Your breath stutters. “Yes,” you whisper again, and the confession feels like a release.
He leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “I wonder if they would recognize you,” he murmurs. “Or if you would be so lost in me that you would forget who you are.”
Your knees weaken, the strength leaving your body as his fingers finally, finally slip beneath the final barrier of your clothing. You suck in a sharp breath, your head falling forward against his shoulder as he strokes you with agonizing precision, each movement slow and controlled, designed to unravel you entirely.
“Lord Morpheus,” you gasp, clutching at him, your voice a broken plea. “Yes,” he whispers, his mouth at your temple. “Say my name again.”
“Morpheus,” you moan, louder this time, and he rewards you with a firmer touch that makes your entire body shudder. “Do you feel how wet you are for me?” he murmurs, each word warm against your skin. “How your body betrays you?”
“Yes,” you manage, your voice trembling. “Good,” he says softly, his breath catching faintly in your ear. “I want you to remember how it feels to need me like this. I want you to remember that it was I who unmade you.”
You cling to him helplessly as his pace quickens, the pressure of his fingers building with devastating accuracy. The garden spins around you, the cool night air sharp against your heated skin as the coil inside you winds tighter and tighter. “Please,” you gasp, your voice breaking. “Please what?”
“Please… I can’t…”
“Yes, you can,” he whispers. “You will. You will come for me, and you will not care if the entire court of my realm hears your cry.” You whimper, the words sending a shock of pleasure through your body, and then he shifts just enough to press his thumb against the place you need it most. The sensation rips through you like lightning, your body arching against him as the coil snaps and you unravel in his arms.
You hear yourself cry out his name, raw and unguarded, but you cannot care. Not when the pleasure is crashing through you in waves, not when his mouth is at your ear whispering how beautiful you are as you come apart in his grasp.
He holds you steady, his hand still working you through every tremor, his other arm a firm band around your waist as you collapse against him.
“Do you see?” he murmurs softly, brushing his lips against your damp temple. “You are mine in this moment. Entirely mine.”
Your body sags against him, still trembling as the last aftershocks ripple through you. He does not let you fall. Morpheus holds you upright, one arm firm around your waist, the other hand lingering between your thighs, teasing you with the lightest strokes that make your body twitch in overstimulated pleasure.
You whimper softly against his shoulder, unsure whether to beg him to stop or to plead for more. “Shh,” he murmurs against your temple, his voice a velvet caress. “Do not be afraid of how much you feel. That is the beauty of surrender.”
Your breath hitches as he presses his thumb gently against your most sensitive point, the faintest pressure coaxing another helpless gasp from your lips. You feel utterly raw in his arms, undone in a way you had not thought possible.
“Morpheus,” you whisper, clutching at his coat as though it is the only thing tethering you to the world. “Yes,” he says softly, as if your voice is the thing he has been waiting to hear.
“Please,” you breathe, the plea coming out instinctively. “Please what?” he whispers, nipping lightly at the corner of your jaw.
“I… I don’t know,” you admit, your voice breaking. He hums at your answer, as though savoring your helplessness. Then he shifts slightly, pulling his hand free from beneath the folds of your gown, his thumb dragging a final teasing stroke along your slick skin before he withdraws completely.
The loss of contact leaves you trembling all over again. “You see,” he says softly, cupping your cheek now, his thumb brushing the corner of your lips, “how little it took to undo you? How easily I could make you beg?”
“Yes,” you whisper, shame and desire warring in your chest. “And yet,” he continues, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “you do not seem displeased.”
You can only shake your head, unable to form the words. He pulls back at last, releasing you from the cage of his arms. Your legs are unsteady, the hem of your gown still gathered high around your thighs, and you grasp at the edge of the fountain for balance.
Morpheus, by contrast, is entirely composed. He adjusts the fall of his coat with a flick of his hand, his black hair falling artfully into his pale, perfect face as though nothing had happened. His breathing is steady, his expression inscrutable once more, save for the faintest shadow of a smirk curving his mouth.
You stare at him, still reeling, still aching for more, and he knows. He knows exactly what he has done to you.
He steps close again, just close enough that you can feel the faint brush of his coat against your bare knee. One gloved finger lifts your chin, tipping your face upward to meet his gaze.
“The matter,” he says softly, his voice a blade of velvet, “will be given my most careful consideration.” Your breath catches.
He lets his finger slip from your chin, the contact breaking as he steps back. He does not touch you again. Instead, he turns and begins to walk away, his coat sweeping behind him like a shadow reclaiming the night.
You watch him go, your entire body still humming from his touch, and realize that you have no idea whether he was speaking of the key to Hell… or of you.
Either way, the smirk lingering at the corner of his mouth as he disappears back into the Dreaming’s great hall tells you he knows precisely how thoroughly he has left you undone.
between the tides ✩｡⋆⸜ dream of the endless and hob galdling ˚⋆𐙚｡⋆
summary: after decades locked away by a demon, you are rescued by morpheus and hob, your soulmates. half dream, half nightmare, you’ve never seen the dreaming or felt its pull because of the magic-forged bracelet that’s bound you since birth. they bring you home, show you patience and care, and you begin to crave them in a way you don’t fully understand.
word count: 7.2k
request: “Ooo hii if it’s okay (I’m sorry if this is too detailed!), can I please request a soulmate fic with Morpheus x Hob x Reader fic where she is part dream part nightmare and they’re all soulmates? When Morpheus was trapped in the basement, her parents, one a dream and one a nightmare, left the Dreaming and had Y/n. Her parents gave her a magic bracelet to suppress her powers so she grew up thinking she’s human. Destiny tells Dream that he has a third soulmate (Y/n) and that she’s in danger, and Hob and Dream save her from a Demon who found out that one, she’s technically one of his dreams/nightmares, but she’s also one of his soulmates so the demon went after her. Dream would explain what she is and Dream and Hob would take care of their soulmate and get her settled in the Dreaming and love up on her and make her feel safe🥹”
˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞
The first thing you know is the smell of cinnamon bread. It drifts up from the ovens below your family’s rented attic room, curling through the air like a soft invitation. You do not know yet that you are not supposed to be here, not in this world and not in this form. All you know is that your mother’s arms are steady and cool as she lifts you from the cot, and your father’s shadow leans long and dark across the far wall.
Your parents tell you bedtime stories in voices that are nothing alike but fit together all the same. Your mother’s is light and warm, your father’s deep enough to make the candle flames bend as though they are listening too. You do not know that they are not like the humans who smile at you in the shop below, and you do not know that you are not like them either.
The bracelet is there from the beginning, iron and silver, etched with twisting sigils that seem to shift if you look at them for too long. When you are old enough to notice it, you ask your mother about it, she tells you it is for your safety. Your father says nothing at all, only glances toward the window as though something out there might hear.
Even with the bracelet on, people love you, not in the shallow way they love a pretty child but in the quiet way they love a warm fire or the first bite of a good meal. Strangers in the shop find reasons to talk to you, the baker’s daughter slips you sugared rolls and winks, the postman whistles for you every morning as if you are part of his route.
You grow up surrounded by a kindness you cannot explain. And you never dream, not once, but you do not know that is unusual. You sleep and wake and fill your days with the small rhythms of life in the city.
The first changes are almost invisible. Your parents start locking the windows at night, even in the summer heat. Your father checks the attic trapdoor again and again before bed, your mother stops going to the market alone. They do not explain any of it, but you can feel something tightening in the air between them.
You hear them whisper in languages you do not know, your father’s shadow sometimes moves when he is still and your mother’s eyes linger on your bracelet in a way that makes your stomach twist.
By the time you are a teenager, the feeling of being watched is constant. You are not sure if it is your own imagination or something real, but every time you think about asking them, their faces make you stop.
The night it happens begins with rain. You wake to the sound of it hammering against the roof tiles, sharp and uneven and the smell of smoke follows a moment later. Before you can call out, your mother is in the room, her hands on your shoulders, her voice low but urgent. She pushes you toward the small trapdoor in the corner of the attic.
Your father’s voice rises from the floor below. You have never heard it sound like that before, sharp and dangerous, like a blade drawn from a sheath. The wood under your feet shudders as your mother shoves you through the trapdoor into the crawl space and closes it.
You crouch in the dark, the smell of dust thick in your nose, and you hear the footsteps. Not your father’s, not your mother’s. Slow, deliberate, too heavy for the wooden floor. There is a voice you do not know, smooth and cold as stone. You hear your father snarl something in return. Then there is silence, followed by a sound that is not human. When the trapdoor opens again, it is not your mother or your father who lifts it.
The demon’s eyes are molten gold in the dark, its smile does not reach them. It takes you by the arm and pulls you down into the wreckage of your home. You see your parents only once more, lying still on the floor, the light gone from them entirely. It takes you to an old manor on the edge of nowhere where the air smells of damp wood and rust. The windows are boarded and the only light comes from a few weak bulbs strung along the ceiling.
It tries to remove your bracelet, but the first time it touches the metal, the sigils flare with a faint, cold light that burns its skin. It hisses in pain, but its smile returns. “Not yet,” it says, as if to itself.
You do not understand what it wants as the questions you ask are met with long silences or words so vague they could mean anything. It tells you that you are valuable, that your nature makes you useful, that you will help it in ways you cannot yet imagine. But it does not tell you why.
The demon keeps you on Earth, that surprises you at first. You had thought, without words to explain why, that something like it should belong somewhere deeper, hotter, further away from the sound of the wind in the trees, but it seems almost proud of its choice.
The old manor sits on a hill far from any road. From the outside, you imagine it could look abandoned. The boards nailed across the windows, the ivy climbing unchecked along the stone. Inside, the air is heavy with damp and dust, the walls lined with peeling wallpaper patterned in flowers so faded you can barely tell their shape.
It takes you to the basement first. The door is thick wood reinforced with steel, there is one small, grimy window set high into the wall, but the light that filters through it is never enough to show you anything beyond shadow. When the demon shuts the door, the world is muffled to the sound of your own breathing.
The first days, you count every creak of the floorboards above you, you trace the old mortar between the stones, you try to keep your mind sharp by reciting the names of the people from the shop back home, you are sure someone will notice you are gone. But no one comes.
The demon feeds you. Never lavishly, never with care, but enough. It seems to understand the human body well enough to keep yours from breaking. You eat alone, the scrape of a plate against the basement floor the only signal that you are allowed to move toward it.
It talks to you sometimes, in a voice that sounds almost amused, as though every word is a private joke. It calls you a little half-thing. It tells you that your parents tried to make you invisible, that they paid for your bracelet to hide you from all eyes, its own included, until they could no longer pay the price.
It tells you that the bracelet is older than it expected, that it does not come from its magic alone, that it will not break easily. That seems to bother it and please it all at once. When you ask what it wants from you, it says, “You will help me when the time comes.” When you press for more, it only smiles.
The years begin to dull into each other. The demon leaves for long stretches of time and you can never tell how long, days or weeks, but the air always smells different when it returns, like smoke or metal or rain from places you have never seen. It never tells you where it has been.
When it is gone, you sometimes climb onto the small wooden chair it left in the corner to look out of the narrow basement window. All you ever see is grey sky, the tops of bare branches, sometimes the shadow of a bird.
The seasons change in small ways you have to teach yourself to notice. The scent of wet earth in the spring, the way the air sharpens in autumn. Winter is the worst, the cold sinks into the stone and into your bones until it feels like part of you.
You begin to dream without sleeping. Not real dreams, not the kind with shifting scenes and impossible places, but you imagine the shop below your old home, the smell of bread, your mother’s voice. You hold on to these pieces so tightly that they almost start to feel like they happened to someone else.
The demon keeps you this way for decades, never harming you enough to break you, but never letting you go, always reminding you that you are important to it, even if it will not say why. Sometimes, when it thinks you are not looking, its gaze falls on the bracelet with something like hunger. You wonder if it is waiting for something to happen, or for someone to find you.
The air in the basement is still, you sit on the floor with your back to the wall, fingers resting on the iron and silver at your wrist. You do not remember the last time the demon came. The window is pale with winter light, but the sky beyond it is flat and without detail. You breathe, you wait.
Far away, in a place where there is no sky at all, a man in a grey robe stands before a great book, its pages turn themselves with the sound of wind through leaves. He reads without expression, but when the lines before him darken, he pauses. Destiny of the Endless closes the book and the path beneath his feet leads him to a realm of shifting skies and towers carved from dreamstuff.
Morpheus meets him at the gates of the Dreaming, shadows moving around him like restless wings. “Brother,” he says, his voice low.
“Another of your soul-bonds lives,” Destiny answers, his tone is not urgent, but the air between them feels heavier. “She is of your realm.” Morpheus’s gaze sharpens. “You speak of Hob Gadling.”
“I speak of another,” Destiny says. “Born while you were… away. The child of one of your dreams and one of your nightmares. She has been bound from you since birth. She is held by a demon on Earth.” Morpheus’s jaw tightens. “For what purpose?”
Destiny’s eyes are unreadable. “Its goals are its own. But it hides her from Hell and from the Dreaming alike. And if you do not act now, her thread will break.”
“Where?” Destiny names a place, a stretch of land far from any road, where a crumbling manor sits alone among bare trees. When he has finished, Morpheus is already turning away, the wind in the Dreaming curling hard against his coat.
The next mortal sunrise, Hob Gadling is standing on the roof of his London flat, coffee in hand, when the air beside him folds inward and Dream steps out. “I have need of your help,” Morpheus says without preamble. Hob lowers the mug. “You’ve never asked me for anything in six hundred years. What’s happened?”
“There is someone we must retrieve. She is important to me, and to you.” Hob frowns. “You mean… another soulmate?”
“You share a thread with me, and with her.” It takes Hob a moment to process, and then there’s something protective and fierce rising in his chest for someone he has never met. “Alright then,” he says. “Where are we going?”
The road to the manor is narrow and crooked, the kind that disappears from maps. Hob drives, the old trees leaning over the car as if trying to keep them out. Beside him, Morpheus sits in silence, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. When the roof of the manor appears through the branches, Hob feels the shift in the air, it’s heavy, expectant. “She is here,” Morpheus says.
The boards above you groan. Not the slow, measured creak of the demon’s tread. This is lighter, steadier, but with a weight that hums through the air in a way you have never felt before.
You rise from the corner, your back pressed to the wall without thinking. The basement is dim except for the weak light that seeps through the narrow window, enough to catch the pale frost outside. You keep your eyes on the door as the lock clicks. The first figure through is not the demon. He is tall, all shadow and pale skin, his coat stirring in a breeze that does not exist in this room. His eyes are night sky: deep enough that you almost step backward, afraid you might fall into them.
The second is human, or at least human-shaped and his presence is warm, grounding, the kind of warmth that belongs beside a fire in winter. The moment they step inside, something in your chest jerks taut. It feels like breath rushing into a place inside you that has been empty your whole life, the force of it makes your knees weaken, and that terrifies you.
You have learned to fear strong things, strong things want to own you, use you, break you. The shadows in the first man’s coat shift, almost like wings folding. His gaze fixes on you with an intensity that makes your heart stumble. The other man takes a slow step forward, his eyes searching yours like he’s looking for someone he already knows.
You want to flinch back and you want to step closer, the contradiction freezes you in place. From the hallway above, a voice slides into the air: smooth, cold, and horribly familiar. “My little half-thing,” the demon says, its steps beginning down the stairs. “You have visitors.”
The tall man turns his head toward the sound. “Release her.” The demon laughs. “Do you know how long I’ve kept her? How carefully I’ve hidden her from the rest of my kind? You can’t imagine the use she will be to me.”
“She is not yours,” the pale man says, his voice like a blade drawn from stone. The human beside him: Hob, though you do not know his name, shifts his stance like someone ready to fight.
The next moments happen too fast and too slowly all at once. The shadows in the pale man’s coat unravel and spill across the floor like smoke. They race toward the demon, and the light in the room bends away from them. The demon snarls, striking at the darkness, but it only folds around its limbs, pulling it backward, upward, away from you.
Hob is suddenly at your side, you don’t see him move, but his hands are on the chain at your wrists. You stiffen at the contact, the heat of it burning after decades of nothing. Your breath catches, your body uncertain whether to lean into it or pull away.
“It’s alright,” he says quietly, voice steady. “We’re here to get you out.” The chain gives with a sharp metallic sound and your arms fall heavy to your sides, skin prickling where the cold air touches you. Hob’s hand stays near but not on you, as if he knows that too much might send you reeling.
The pale man steps closer, the demon now bound in writhing darkness at the far side of the room. His presence makes the air feel strange, warm and cold at once, like standing in sunlight while a storm gathers. You look at him, and for an instant you see your own nature reflected back.
One half of you feels soft, filled with the aching desire to step into his shadow and let it shelter you. The other half feels sharp, dangerous, a flicker of nightmare curling at the edges of your vision as if in answer to his power. The pull between you all is unbearable, it feels like recognition and like drowning.
The pale man, the one whose eyes feel like they could hold centuries, turns fully toward you. His voice is low, certain. “You are safe now.” Safe: the word almost makes you laugh, except it would sound too much like a sob.
The demon shifts in its bindings, a slow scrape of claw against shadow. “She won’t go with you,” it says, its voice curling like smoke toward your ears. “She doesn’t know you, she knows me.”
A ripple of nightmare moves through you, unbidden. Your vision sharpens, colors deepening until the pale man’s coat seems almost blacker than shadow, you see the demon’s teeth gleam in the dim light, and for one sickening heartbeat you can almost believe it’s right. Hob’s voice cuts through the air, warm and solid. “We’re getting you out of here. If you don’t want to trust us yet, fine. But you deserve to see the sky again.” The sky, it’s been so long you’re not sure it will feel real.
Morpheus, though you don’t know his name yet, keeps his gaze locked on the demon as he gestures for you to move toward the stairs. Hob falls into step beside you, careful to keep a half-step back.
The climb up feels endless and the air changes with each step, becoming cooler, fresher, until you can smell damp wood and leaves. Your legs tremble from disuse, every muscle screaming with the effort, but you keep going. When you push through the door at the top, the world explodes.
Light pours over you, soft but blinding after so many years in dimness, the cold air hits your face like a rush of water. You can hear the wind in the bare branches, the distant caw of a crow, the creak of the manor behind you.
You stumble forward, almost tripping on the uneven ground. Hob steadies you without grabbing, his hand hovers at your elbow, close enough that you can feel the heat but not the pressure. You can’t stop staring upward. The sky is pale winter blue, streaked with thin clouds. It’s vast, impossibly so, and something inside you aches with both joy and grief.
The pull between you and the two men is stronger out here, almost painful. You catch Morpheus watching you, his expression unreadable but his eyes… softer than you expect. You can feel the dream in you reaching toward him, like a tide drawn to the moon, and the nightmare in you whispers that if you step too close, he’ll take you apart.
Hob opens the passenger door of a dark car parked on the overgrown drive. “Come on. It’s warmer inside.” You hesitate, the car is small and enclosed. You’ve only just gotten out of one cage. Morpheus’s voice comes from behind you, quiet but steady. “You have my word, nothing will harm you.”
The nightmare part of you curls its lip at promises and the dream part aches to believe him, you step into the car.
The seat is soft, the kind of soft that makes you wary. The door clicks shut beside you, and the enclosed air smells faintly of leather and something sharper: Hob’s cologne, warm and spiced, layered over a trace of rain that clings to Morpheus like a shadow you can breathe in. Hob settles into the driver’s seat, glancing at you once before starting the engine. “Seatbelt,” he says, gentle but expectant.
You blink at him, the word unfamiliar in your mouth. He leans over slowly, not touching you until he sees you don’t pull away, then pulls the belt across your chest and clicks it into place. His hand is warm against your side for that brief moment, it’s the first deliberate human contact you’ve had in decades and it leaves your skin prickling long after he pulls back.
Morpheus sits behind you, silent but present. You can feel him like gravity, the way the air shifts slightly when he moves. Your body is hyperaware of both of them, caught between warmth and shadow.
The car jolts into motion, and you tense instinctively. The movement is smooth but constant, the world outside flickering past in shades of brown and grey as winter trees blur together.
You can’t stop watching the sky through the glass. It changes with every bend of the road, the pale clouds shifting like water. Every now and then, the sunlight catches on frost in the branches and flares so bright it makes your breath catch. “First time in a car?” Hob asks after a few minutes, glancing at you in the rearview mirror.
You hesitate. “First time… out.” The silence that follows is heavy: Hob’s hands tighten briefly on the wheel and Morpheus’s gaze, though you can’t see it, feels sharper against the back of your neck.
It’s almost too much: the sound of the tires on the road, the steady vibration of the seat beneath you, the smell of leather and rain and human warmth. Your fingers curl against your knees to keep from shaking, you don’t know if you want to lean into Hob’s presence or melt back into Morpheus’s shadow behind you.
Every few miles, Hob checks on you in the mirror. Every time your eyes meet his, he offers a small, steady smile, like he’s trying to remind you that you’re here now, that the manor is behind you. Morpheus says nothing, but there’s a constant sense of watchfulness from him, as if he’s studying every shift in your breathing, every twitch of your hands.
When the car slows, the landscape outside has changed. The bare trees seem taller, older, their trunks twisting toward one another in ways that make your eyes blur if you look too long. The air grows heavier, but not in the suffocating way of the basement, this is weight like a hand pressed against your heart. Morpheus leans forward slightly. “We are here.”
Hob parks the car at the edge of a narrow path that winds into shadows too deep to belong to this world. When you step out, the air feels different: thicker, almost humming, carrying scents you’ve never known yet somehow recognize. The moment your foot touches the path, something inside you shifts. The bracelet on your wrist warms, the sigils faintly pulsing against your skin. You inhale, and it feels like the breath travels deeper than your lungs, into some place you’ve never been allowed to touch.
The path curves, and then the Dreaming unfolds in front of you. It is not one thing, it is every impossible thing at once: skies painted in colors you’ve never seen, towers of glass and stone, rivers that shine like liquid starlight. The air tastes of memory and possibility, sweet and sharp together.
Your knees go weak and you don’t realize you’ve stopped walking until Hob is at your side again, not touching, but close enough that his warmth steadies you. Morpheus stands ahead, watching your face. “This is your home,” he says softly. “Though you have never walked it before.” The dream half of you aches toward it, the nightmare half curls its claws tighter.
The path into the Dreaming is alive beneath your feet: not in the way of roots and soil, but in a way that hums faintly into your bones, as though each step is acknowledged. The colors around you feel sharper, richer, yet not overwhelming like the world here seems to know you have been without beauty for too long.
The air is neither warm nor cold, but exactly the temperature that keeps your breath easy. Somewhere far away, music threads through the wind, the kind of music that is too layered to come from instruments alone.
You glance sideways, and Hob is there. He’s not crowding you, but matching your pace so precisely that you could close your eyes and still know where he is. Every so often his gaze flicks to you, measuring your breathing, the tension in your shoulders. And when you look back at him, he gives that same small, sure smile he had in the car.
“You’re doing alright?” he asks, voice soft enough that it doesn’t disturb the air around you. You don’t answer right away, because you’re not sure if you are, but you nod. His smile lingers, warm and patient, like he’s willing to let you take years to decide the truth.
Morpheus walks ahead, and even at a distance you can feel the tether that runs from him to you. His steps are unhurried, his hands tucked behind his back, the hem of his coat stirring against the path. Every so often he glances over his shoulder, not enough to invite you forward but enough to let you know he is aware of every move you make.
There’s curiosity in the way his gaze settles on you, not the hungry, prying curiosity of the demon, but something quieter: calculating. As though he’s trying to fit the reality of you against some truth he has always known. He does not step closer, and somehow, that distance feels almost more intense than if he had.
The first building you reach is not a palace or a hall but a long, low structure with arched windows open to the air. Inside, the light is golden, pooled on a mosaic floor that shifts colors when you step across it. “This is one of the guest houses,” Morpheus says, his voice echoing faintly. “You may stay here until you wish for something else.”
Hob moves past you to open the nearest set of double doors, letting in a soft rush of air scented faintly with something floral. “Figured you might like somewhere quiet,” he says. “Too much too fast is… well, too much.” The words sink into you like warm water.
The space seems to rearrange itself around you: the ceiling stretches higher, the bed grows softer, the colors on the walls deepen. The realm is reacting, you realize, responding to your presence as if you are not a stranger at all.
Your bracelet pulses faintly again and you look down at it, then at Morpheus, who is watching you with that same unreadable expression. “The Dreaming knows its own,” he says quietly.
Hob is the one who moves closer. “We’ll take it slow, yeah? No rush. Just… settle. You’ve got time now.” His tone makes the word time sound like a promise, Morpheus does not echo the sentiment aloud, but you can feel it in the air between you, a silent agreement that you are not going anywhere unless you choose to.
Hob shows you how the windows open, how the curtains draw themselves at a thought, how the bed adjusts to whatever shape you need. He explains it all in a way that makes it feel safe rather than strange, grounding you in the details instead of flooding you with wonder you aren’t ready to carry yet.
The space reacts to his presence too: the light warms when he’s near, the air feels easier to breathe. You stay close to him without meaning to, not because you trust easily, but because there’s no sharpness in him at all. He is steady heat, an anchor after too many years adrift.
Morpheus lingers at the edges, he doesn’t enter the space fully, preferring the shadows near the windows. But his attention never leaves you, you can feel it in the air: a constant pull, like standing at the shore with the tide reaching toward you. His distance isn’t coldness, it’s restraint.
When Hob excuses himself to fetch food, the Dream Lord steps forward. His presence fills the room without pressing on you, his voice a deep current in the quiet. “You have questions,” he says. It isn’t a guess.
You nod slowly, your fingers curling against the edge of the blanket. “What am I?” He comes closer, stopping a few paces away. “You are of the Dreaming. The child of one of my dreams and one of my nightmares. When I was… held away from my realm, they left and found life in the waking world, there they made you.”
His eyes darken, though not with anger. “The bracelet was forged to suppress your nature, it has kept you from dreaming, it has kept you from the realm that is your birthright. And…” his gaze sharpens slightly “…it has kept you hidden from me.”
You glance down at the metal, at the faint pulse beneath the sigils. “Then why haven’t you taken it off?” For a moment, his expression softens in a way that makes your chest ache. “Because if I did, it would be… overwhelming. You would feel the full depth of the Dreaming’s bond to you, and mine, and Hob’s. After so long without it, it would be too much.”
He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “It will be removed the moment you wish for it, not before.” The words settle into you, strange and heavy. It’s not the promise you expected: not rescue by force, but freedom by choice.
Hob returns with a tray of food that smells like home, though you can’t say which home. He sets it in front of you without comment, only giving you that small, steady smile again. You eat in silence, feeling both of them in different ways: Hob’s warmth like a hand at your back, Morpheus’s presence like the pull of deep water just ahead. That night, you sleep in a bed for the first time in decades and for the first time in your life, you dream.
Morning in the Dreaming doesn’t feel like morning in the waking world. There’s no sharp divide between dark and light, instead, the colors in the air grow warmer, richer, and the sound of wind through the trees deepens until it hums in your chest. You wake slowly, as if the bed itself refuses to let you go too quickly.
When you sit up, the curtains shift open on their own and Hob is already there, sitting in a chair by the window with a mug in hand. His smile is easy, but there’s relief in his eyes when he sees you awake. “Morning,” he says. “Didn’t know if you’d sleep.”
“I… did,” you admit. “I think I dreamed.” His smile widens, warm and real. “Good, you deserve a lot more of that.”
He doesn’t crowd you, but he makes sure you eat. There’s fresh bread on the table, still warm and smelling faintly of cinnamon, and fruit you’ve never seen before, colors like molten glass. Hob talks about nothing urgent while you eat, telling you stories about ridiculous students he’s taught, strange things he’s seen in his lifetime. It’s not filler, it’s a way to make the silence between you safe, to give you space to exist without questions pressing in.
When the mug in your hands runs empty, another one appears beside it, tea this time, sweetened just enough. You glance up and realize Morpheus is standing at the far side of the room, you didn’t hear him come in.
He doesn’t sit, doesn’t cross the space between you, but the Dreaming itself reacts to him being here. The air is steadier, the shadows softer and the warmth of the tea seeps through your fingers like it’s carrying something more than heat.
“You dreamed because you were here,” he says simply, his voice like a low chord. “Even with the bracelet, the realm will reach for you now that it knows where you are.” Hob leans back in his chair, giving a small huff of amusement. “See? You’re already changing things.”
The rest of the day, they take turns in ways that don’t feel deliberate but leave you surrounded all the same. Hob walks you through the gardens, pointing out flowers that shift colors when you touch them, making you laugh when one turns bright orange and releases a puff of glittering dust.
Morpheus shows you the library, vast and endless, he tells you you may request any book you wish. He doesn’t stay at your shoulder, but you can feel his attention follow you from aisle to aisle, like a shadow that wants to be sure you’re never alone again.
When your steps falter, Hob is there to steady you without gripping too tightly. When your thoughts start to spiral, Morpheus changes the scene around you: the air freshens, the floor underfoot softens before you even have to say anything.
By the time you return to the guest house in the evening, you are exhausted, but not in the way you were in the manor. This is the ache of a body remembering it’s allowed to exist. Hob pulls a blanket from the back of the chair and drapes it over your shoulders. “We’ll figure this out together,” he says simply. “All of it.”
Morpheus meets your eyes across the room. “You are not alone. Not any longer.” And though you have not known them long, you can already feel it: the truth in both their words.
It begins in small, almost forgettable ways: Hob steps out of the room to fetch something from the kitchen, and you catch yourself counting the seconds until you hear his footsteps coming back. Morpheus leaves the library to speak with Lucienne, and even with the vast beauty of the shelves around you, the air feels thinner until he returns.
It isn’t panic, it isn’t the sharp, breathless fear of the manor, it’s… absence: a wrongness you feel in your skin, as if something that should be there has been quietly taken away. You don’t understand it, and yet you can’t imagine not being near them.
The bond hums louder now, the thread between you three pulling even when you try to resist it. In the gardens, you find yourself walking a little closer to Hob than necessary, brushing shoulders when you pass him the strange fruit he swears tastes like strawberry pie. He never comments, just smiles like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
With Morpheus, it’s different. The distance he keeps feels deliberate, as though he’s holding back an entire world just out of reach. And yet when your eyes meet across a room, the connection is immediate and consuming. Your breath always catches first and his gaze always lingers a heartbeat longer than it should.
One evening, you’re in the guest house with Hob at the table and Morpheus standing by the window. The space between you is small, not even an arm’s length, and still the craving rises like a tide. You want them closer, you want to feel them against you, to prove to some deep, quiet place inside that they’re real.
The thought startles you enough that you stand up, moving to the balcony for air. The Dreaming’s night sky curves above, alive with constellations you’ve never seen, some shifting lazily like schools of fish. You hear footsteps behind you, Hob’s first, steady and warm, then the softer glide of Morpheus’s coat. They don’t speak, just stand on either side of you. You feel them without touching, their presence closing around you like the tide reclaiming the shore. And the craving eases.
That night, when you lie down, it’s the first time you admit it to yourself, whatever this bond is, it’s already in your blood and you don’t know if you’d survive losing it now.
The decision begins as a thought you push away. You wake with it in the middle of the night, the silver-and-iron weight at your wrist pulsing faintly against your skin. It’s not uncomfortable, not in a physical sense, but it’s heavy in a way that feels more obvious now. A dam against a tide you’ve only just begun to feel pressing in.
You roll over, listening to the soft quiet of the guest house. There’s no sound of footsteps, no whisper of Morpheus’s coat or the warm scrape of Hob’s chair. They’re in the other room, you know that much, speaking low. But even from here you can feel them, a low, steady hum through your bones and it is not enough anymore.
You try to ignore it the next day when Hob walks you through one of the Dreaming’s markets, full of stalls selling things that shouldn’t exist. A baker hands you a small pastry shaped like a flower, and when you bite into it, it tastes like the exact bread from the shop you grew up in. Hob watches your face carefully, smiling when you smile, leaning just close enough that his arm brushes yours every now and then, it’s grounding, safe and yet…
Every time Morpheus’s shadow slides across the corner of your vision, the craving spikes. He never touches you, but the space between you feels alive, a single step would bridge it and you want to take that step so badly it makes your chest tight.
By evening, it’s unbearable. You’re back in the guest house, the air heavy with the scent of tea Hob brewed earlier, the fire in the hearth burns low, casting the room in warm gold and deep shadow.
Morpheus is standing near the window again, the light painting the edges of his coat and Hob is on the couch, one arm draped across the back, watching the flames. Neither of them are far from you, and yet it feels like they are oceans away.
Your hand drifts to the bracelet. The sigils are cool, the metal smooth under your fingertips, you remember Morpheus’s voice, low and certain: It will be removed the moment you wish for it, not before. You hear yourself speak before you’ve fully decided. “I want it off.”
Both men turn toward you immediately, Hob straightens, his eyes wide but steady and Morpheus’s gaze sharpens, a flicker of something you can’t name passing across his face. He takes one step forward. “Are you certain?”
You nod, your throat dry. “I… I can’t keep feeling like this with half of it cut away. I want to know what it’s really like.” Hob rises from the couch, moving to stand at your side without touching. His presence is warm, grounding you while Morpheus closes the remaining distance between you.
“Hold out your arm,” the Dream Lord says quietly. You do and the moment his fingers brush your skin, every muscle in your body tightens. His touch is cool, almost weightless, yet it sends a shiver straight to your core. He studies the bracelet for a long moment, then looks up to meet your eyes. “This will change everything,” he says.
“I know.” His fingers trace one of the sigils, and the metal warms. Light blooms along the etchings, pale silver laced with shadowy black, pulsing like a heartbeat. The air thickens, pressing against your lungs, not painfully but insistently, as if the world itself is waiting. With a final, precise movement, he slides the bracelet free.
The first breath you take is like drowning in light and shadow at once. It crashes into you: the Dreaming, alive and vast, wrapping around every nerve. You feel Hob’s presence like fire and Morpheus’s like a deep, endless tide, both threads binding to you fully for the first time.
Your knees buckle and Hob catches you instantly, his hands firm at your waist. Morpheus’s shadow curls around you from the other side, steadying you without holding you.
It’s too much and it’s perfect. You lift your head, searching their faces, and realize there’s only one thing you can do to survive this without splintering apart.
You lean in and kiss Hob first, he makes a quiet, startled sound against your mouth, but then his hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer. He tastes warm, familiar, like the kind of safety you’d forgotten existed. When you pull back, his eyes are bright, his breath unsteady. Before the space between you can close again, you turn toward Morpheus.
He doesn’t move, not away and not toward, but when your hands rise to frame his face, he lets you. His skin is cool under your palms. The kiss is slower, deeper, pulling something out of you you didn’t know was there. It’s like falling into a dream you’ve been aching for your whole life.
When you draw back, you’re breathless. Both of them are watching you: Hob’s gaze warm and full, Morpheus’s unreadable but softer than you’ve ever seen it.
You don’t sit back down, you stay between them, one of Hob’s hands still at your waist, Morpheus’s shadow brushing your shoulder like a ghost of a touch. The bond is a steady thrum now, no longer muted, each heartbeat shared across three bodies. It’s overwhelming, it’s intimate and you don’t want to pull away from it.
The fire in the guest house has burned low, painting the walls in slow-moving gold. The air is warm, and you can still feel the ghost of the bracelet’s weight on your wrist, except now there’s no barrier. Every breath you take carries them with it, the bond humming through your blood like a second pulse.
You don’t remember who suggests lying down first, but somehow you’re in the wide bed, the covers drawn over all three of you. Hob is on your right, warm and solid, his chest rising slow against your side. Morpheus is on your left, his presence quieter but no less consuming, the curve of his shoulder a perfect place for your head to rest.
Hob’s arm wraps around your waist, not to hold you in place but to make it clear you’re welcome there. His thumb moves in slow circles against your hip, the motion unhurried, endlessly steady.
Morpheus’s fingers comb gently through your hair, each stroke slow enough to let you breathe between them. When his hand trails down, it lingers along your back, then traces a light path down your arm. His touch is cool, a contrast to Hob’s heat, and together they keep you balanced.
It doesn’t feel like they’re keeping you between them as much as they’re keeping the rest of the world out. Every now and then, Hob murmurs something: a quiet reassurance, a bit of nothing meant only to remind you he’s here. Morpheus is silent, but when you glance up, you find his eyes on you. It’s not the distant curiosity he’s kept until now. It’s something nearer, something that makes your chest ache with its depth.
You shift a little closer to Hob’s side, the weight of his arm pulling you in until you’re pressed against him. Your head stays on Morpheus’s shoulder, your cheek against the cool fabric of his coat. The rhythm of their breathing evens out, and yours slowly falls into step with it.
Time in the Dreaming bends. You don’t know how long you stay like that: minutes, hours, maybe the whole night. But you memorize the feel of it. The solid warmth of Hob’s body, the steady slide of his thumb against your side. The quiet strength of Morpheus beside you, his fingers weaving through your hair as though he’s learning the shape of every strand.
Every so often, Hob’s hand drifts up your back, slow and reassuring. Every so often, Morpheus’s hand brushes the inside of your arm, a touch so light it sends a shiver through you. Neither touch is hurried and neither is hesitant. They’re simply there, as if they have already decided they will be for as long as you let them.
At some point, your eyes close, the warmth and the bond blur together until you can’t tell where your own body ends and theirs begin. And for the first time you can remember, the last thing you feel before sleep isn’t fear, it’s them.
i miss him. he’s an absolute dumbass 97% of the time but he’s my dumbass and i miss him so much i could physically bite something. i’ve never read the comics (+ i was out here doing my best to avoid most major spoilers when i started watching) so i only recently found out how his story ends. and knowing what will happen is literally ripping my heart out with a rusty spoon!! this man has spent the whole damn time trying his best to do better, to BE better.
and he’s SHOCKED every single time someone goes “hey, that thing you did? kinda bad/rash, maybe you made a mistake and hurt someone”, and he’s instantly like “oh?? i did?? well okay guess i’ll go to hell and fix it??” and then he goes and tries to fix it in his own dumb little way that sometimes makes it worse but HE TRIES and i love him for it. and now it’s 1am and i’m just here overemotional, staring into the void, mourning the fate of my problematic, broody, self-improving emo man… he deserved better. he deserved EVERYTHING. i’m gonna start a petition. 😭😭😭
LOOK AT HIM!!! HE’S A BABY AND I NEED HIM TO BE HAPPY PLEASEEEE
therapy for the endless ³ ✩｡⋆⸜ dream of the endless
summary: you’re a therapist who’s used to listening to everyone else’s problems, not untangling the mysteries of your own subconscious. but one night your dream changes, what begins as a slow dance with your office crush abruptly transforms into a therapy session with a man who feels far too real to be your imagination. he’s dramatic, distant, and a little too convinced he doesn’t need your help, but he keeps talking. and you keep listening, even as the lines between dream and reality start to blur.
word count: 4.8k || PART ONE || PART TWO
˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞
You are running on fumes. No, less than fumes. Whatever is left is barely enough to keep your head upright as you stare blankly at the empty reception desk. The fluorescent lights above hum softly, casting everything in that washed-out, too-bright glow that makes even your office plants look like they’re wilting in solidarity with you.
Your receptionist, your former receptionist, quit this morning. She hadn’t even said it to your face. Just a short text message, a half-hearted “sorry” tacked on at the end, and an email forwarding a half-finished scheduling calendar like it was a parting gift.
You’d stared at it for five full minutes, wondering if you could just ignore it all and walk out of the building. But then the phone started ringing and you realized you’d have to answer it yourself again, and the sheer weight of it made you want to cry.
Now, hours later, you’re slumped in your chair behind the front desk, watching the second hand of the cheap wall clock tick louder than your own thoughts. Your charting isn’t finished, you haven’t eaten since breakfast, and there’s a cup of coffee growing cold next to you that might as well be an accessory because you haven’t touched it in over an hour.
“Okay,” you murmur to yourself, rubbing at your temples. “One more. Just one more patient and then you can die on your office floor. No one will blame you.”
The problem is, you don’t even know who that last patient is. Whoever they are, they’re new, and your ex-receptionist hadn’t bothered to write down a name in the time slot. There’s a phone number in the notes, but you were too tired to call it.
Which is how you end up sitting here with your cheek propped against your palm, eyes half-lidded, wondering if you can get away with closing them for just a second. You’re so close to dozing off that you almost miss the sound of the door opening.
The bell above the frame chimes faintly, pulling you upright with a jolt. You glance up and your breath catches in your throat. Standing in the doorway is… him.
For a second, your exhausted brain can’t make sense of it. The man looks exactly like the one you’ve dreamed of twice now: tall and lean, pale as moonlight, hair black and unruly enough to fall into his eyes. He’s dressed entirely in black, a sharp contrast to the soft, amber light filtering through the blinds behind him, his coat tailored perfectly, brushing against his calves as he steps inside.
You blink, but he doesn’t vanish. “Oh,” you say out loud, because your brain has apparently forgotten how words work.
He inclines his head slightly, as if greeting you from another century. “Hello,” he says, and his voice is exactly the same as you remember it: low and steady, the kind of sound that could roll straight through your chest and settle there.
Okay, you definitely just fell asleep at the desk. That’s the only explanation. “Uh… hi?” you manage, though it comes out more like a question.
He steps further into the waiting area, his movements unhurried and impossibly graceful, like the world has bent itself to accommodate him. His presence fills the room, eclipsing the hum of the lights and the distant whoosh of passing cars.
You rub your eyes, hoping he’ll vanish when you open them again. He doesn’t. “Sorry,” you say quickly, forcing yourself to sit up straighter. “This is… going to sound weird, but have we met before?”
He stops a few feet from your desk, looking at you with an expression that’s utterly unreadable. “Perhaps,” he says at last, his tone giving nothing away. You squint at him, heart pounding. “No, like… in real life. Because my brain is doing this really strong déjà vu thing right now, and I don’t think I can handle it.”
“I assure you,” he says, his gaze steady and unblinking, “I am very real.” That… does not help. You pinch the inside of your arm under the desk, hard, and hiss when it hurts. “Oh no,” you whisper. His brows lift slightly, a shadow of curiosity flickering across his face. “Oh no?”
“You’re real,” you mutter, your voice cracking on the last word. “Oh my god, you’re actually real.” He doesn’t confirm or deny it, just watches you with that same quiet intensity. It’s unnerving and oddly magnetic all at once, and it makes your skin prickle like static.
You try to collect yourself, clearing your throat. “Okay, uh… sorry. You’re my last appointment, and I have no idea what your name is because my receptionist quit on me this morning. So…?” He’s silent for a beat, like he’s weighing something. Then, “Morpheus,” he says smoothly. You stare. “Morpheus. As in… the Greek god of dreams?”
“Yes,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You blink. “You’re joking.” “I am not,” he replies, completely deadpan. “Oh my god,” you mutter, dragging your hands down your face. “Of course you’re not. Okay, sure, fine… come on back. I don’t have the energy to question this right now.”
You wave him toward your office, trying very hard not to notice how he moves: slow, deliberate, like the hallway belongs to him.
Once you’re both inside, you shut the door and drop into your chair with a heavy exhale. He takes the seat across from you with the same impossible elegance, folding his hands in his lap as though he’s about to preside over a royal council.
“Alright, Morpheus,” you say, bracing your elbows on your desk. “Why don’t you tell me what brings you here today?” He leans back slightly, his gaze locked on yours. “Because I wished to be,” he says calmly.
You blink at him. “Okay… I’m gonna need a little more than that.” The corners of his mouth twitch, almost imperceptibly. “I have questions,” he says finally.
“Great,” you mutter, wrapping your hands around your long-cold coffee. “Questions about what?” He doesn’t look away. “About you,” he says simply.
Your fingers tighten around your coffee mug, though it’s so cold it’s more sad than comforting. “About me,” you repeat slowly. “Right, okay. Totally normal thing for a new patient to say to their therapist.” Morpheus doesn’t flinch. “You do not believe me.”
“Not really,” you admit, because you’re too tired to dance around it. “I mean, usually patients come in to talk about themselves, not… grill me.” “I do not intend to ‘grill’ you,” he says, and his voice is so serious you almost laugh.
“Okay, bad choice of words,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose. “But you have to understand how weird this sounds, right? I mean, you walk in here, you’ve got the same face as someone I,” you stop yourself just in time, swallowing the word dreamed. “…someone I could swear I’ve seen before. And now you’re saying you want to ask questions about me? That’s… strange.”
“I am aware,” he says evenly. You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “Okay, then what exactly do you want to know? Because I really don’t have the energy for twenty questions right now.”
He watches you for a long moment, and you’re struck by how unnerving it is to be on the other side of that stare. You’re used to being the one observing, letting your patients fill silences, but Morpheus just… waits.
Finally, he says, “Why do you not believe you have seen me before?” Your brows knit together. “That’s your question? Really?”
“Yes,” he says simply. You set your coffee down with a soft thunk. “Because I would remember you,” you say flatly. “Trust me. You’re not exactly forgettable.”
Something in his expression flickers, quick as a shadow across water. “Yet you do not remember me.”
You stare at him, at the way he’s sitting there like he owns the entire room. He’s absurdly striking, and the quiet certainty in his voice makes something twist low in your stomach.
“Okay,” you say finally, pushing your chair back just a little. “I’m gonna be honest with you, Morpheus. I’m so tired right now I’m not even sure if you’re real or if I fell asleep waiting for you to show up. So if this is a dream, fine. If it’s not, also fine. But can we please get to the part where you tell me why you’re actually here?”
He tilts his head slightly, regarding you with a kind of patient curiosity that makes your skin prickle. “I have already told you. I wished to be here.”
“That’s not an answer,” you mutter. “It is the truth,” he counters, and there’s something almost soft in the way he says it, like he’s speaking to a wild animal that might spook.
You fold your arms, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Alright, well, you’ve got me at a disadvantage here. You know who I am, but I know nothing about you. I mean, Morpheus? Really?”
“Yes,” he says, his tone brooking no argument. You can’t help a small, incredulous laugh. “That’s… that’s actually your name? Like the god of dreams?”
He leans forward just slightly, and the movement feels like the room itself is shifting around you. “Would that trouble you?” You blink at him. “I… I don’t even know how to answer that. I mean, are you telling me you’re actually…?”
His lips curve, the faintest ghost of a smile. “If you wish to believe so.” You gape at him. “That’s not an answer!”
“Perhaps not,” he says softly. You drag your hands down your face, groaning. “Oh my god. You’re infuriating…” “Yes,” he says simply and you drop your hands and stare at him. “That wasn’t even a question!”
“I know,” he replies, his voice so perfectly calm it makes you want to scream. And for some ridiculous reason, you find yourself smiling.
You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. “You know what? You are infuriating, and dramatic. So, so dramatic… it’s like you walked in here from a Shakespearean tragedy.”
“Dramatic,” he repeats, as though tasting the word. “Yes,” you say firmly. “Dramatic. You speak in riddles, you don’t answer questions directly, and… look at you. You’re dressed like you’re about to deliver a royal decree. You make me feel underdressed just sitting here in my work clothes.”
He studies you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching, and you can feel your pulse start to climb. “You have called me worse things,” he says at last, his voice quiet but steady. You blink at him. “What does that even mean?”
“You are fond of naming things you cannot quite understand,” he murmurs, and there’s something almost teasing in the way he says it. “Diva, brooding, hopeless… attractive.” Your breath catches. “Wait, what?”
His eyes glint as they meet yours. “You have called me attractive before,” he says smoothly, like it’s a fact carved in stone. Your mouth opens and closes uselessly. “I… no, I didn’t. That was…”
“…a dream?” he finishes for you, his tone deliberately even. Heat floods your cheeks. “Oh my god. You… no. You can’t just… say things like that.”
“Why not?” he asks softly, leaning forward just a fraction, and it’s enough to make the air feel heavier between you. “Because it’s unprofessional!” you blurt, scrambling for something to shield yourself with. “And I was, ugh, I was tired, I didn’t mean it, it was just a meaningless dream.”
“Dreams,” he says quietly, “are rarely meaningless.” Your heart is hammering now, and you have to look away before you combust under that stare. “You’re impossible,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. “Am I?”
“Yes,” you snap, but it’s weak, unconvincing, because when you finally dare to glance at him again, his expression has softened just slightly, like he’s… enjoying this. “Then why,” he says softly, “do you look at me the way you do?” Your throat goes dry. “I don’t,” you stammer.
“You do,” he says, utterly certain. And suddenly you feel very, very awake. You clear your throat and sit up straighter, as if better posture might restore your sense of professionalism. “Okay, let’s… let’s back up,” you say, forcing your voice to sound firm. “We’re in my office, and I’m your therapist, and you’re…”
“Closer than you expected,” he interrupts softly. Your head jerks up. He has shifted forward in his chair without you noticing, and now he’s leaning toward you, elbows resting lightly on his knees, his presence filling the space between you. He’s not even touching you, but it feels like he might, and the thought alone makes your breath stutter.
“What are you doing?” you ask, hating how unsteady your voice sounds. He tilts his head slightly, his dark hair falling forward. “You seemed… far away,” he says, and there’s something so quiet, so deliberate in the words that your heart gives a traitorous lurch.
“I wasn’t far away,” you say quickly, but you’re not sure you believe it. “You were,” he murmurs. “Just now. In your thoughts.”
“Right,” you say, rubbing the back of your neck, trying to ignore the way his gaze is crawling over your skin like a physical touch. “Okay, well… I was just trying to do my job, which, for the record, is not to… to…”
“To what?” he asks softly. “Be whatever this is,” you mutter.
He leans even closer, and your chair creaks softly when you instinctively shift back. He stops just short of your knees, his voice dropping to something low and careful. “This unsettles you.”
“Yes,” you say immediately, because it’s the truth. “Of course it does! You show up here, you look exactly like… like,”
“Like what?”
“Like someone I dreamed about,” you finish in a rush, heat creeping up the back of your neck. He doesn’t react the way you expect. There’s no surprise, no confusion. If anything, his gaze softens further, a shadow of something unreadable flickering there.
“I see,” he says quietly. You grip the edge of your desk, trying to steady yourself. “Look, this is… you’re making me lose focus. And I don’t lose focus. So I need you to sit back, and stop staring at me like that.”
“Like what?” he asks, his voice a velvet thread. “Like you can see through me,” you whisper.
His lips curve slightly, and instead of leaning back, he holds your gaze, the weight of it making your chest feel too tight. “Perhaps I can,” he says softly. You exhale shakily. “You’re… you’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, “you are still looking at me.” You hate that he’s right.
You can’t look away, and that annoys you almost as much as the way your pulse keeps hammering. “You know,” you mutter, “for someone who allegedly just came here to ask questions, you’re awfully good at… whatever this is.”
“Whatever this is,” he repeats softly, as though savoring the words. “Yes,” you say, leaning back an inch even though it does nothing to break the spell. “You’re getting way too close. That’s, like… violation of therapist-client boundaries 101.”
“Am I your client?” he asks, tilting his head. Your mouth opens, then shuts, because you’re suddenly not sure how to answer that. “I don’t even know what you are,” you say honestly. “Half the time I think I’m still asleep at my desk and I’m going to wake up drooling on my appointment book.”
“Do you wish this to be a dream?” he asks, leaning closer still, his voice dropping to something intimate. You swallow hard. “I… I don’t know,” you admit.
His eyes linger on your face, and then, so carefully you almost miss it, he reaches out and lets the tips of his fingers brush the back of your hand where it rests on the desk. It’s the lightest touch, barely there, but it sends a jolt through you so sharp it makes you gasp softly.
“Morpheus,” you whisper before you can stop yourself, and the name feels strange and electric on your tongue. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, the faintest smile ghosts across his lips, as though he’s pleased to hear it. “You see?” he says quietly. “You remember.”
“That’s not, I wasn’t…” You trail off, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Oh my god, you’re impossible.”
“Am I?”
“Yes,” you hiss, though it’s weak, unconvincing. “And you’re… you’re dangerous like this.”
“Dangerous,” he repeats, his thumb grazing your knuckles now in a deliberate, steady motion. “Yes,” you whisper, forcing yourself not to yank your hand away. “Because I can’t think straight when you’re this close.”
He hums softly, as if the confession pleases him. “Perhaps,” he murmurs, “I do not wish for you to think straight.” You gape at him. “That’s not fair!”
“Fairness,” he says, his voice like velvet, “is overrated.” You’re still trying to remember how to breathe when he stands, the movement fluid and purposeful. He doesn’t break eye contact as he steps around the desk, and suddenly he’s in your space, close enough that you can feel the faint, cool whisper of his presence against your skin.
“What are you doing?” you ask, hating how unsteady your voice sounds. “Closing the distance,” he says softly.
Your chair tips back slightly when you instinctively lean away, but he catches it with one hand on the armrest, steadying you with effortless strength. He’s close now, so close you can see the tiny flecks of light in his dark eyes, the faint curve of his mouth.
“Morpheus…” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say. He tilts his head just slightly. “Say my name again.” The quiet command sends another shiver through you. “Morpheus,” you murmur, softer this time.
His gaze darkens with something you can’t quite name, and before you can second-guess it, his hand is cupping your jaw, tilting your face up toward his. The kiss is unhurried, deliberate, his lips brushing yours like he’s savoring the feel of you: so careful, yet it steals the breath from your lungs all the same.
You find yourself clutching the edge of the desk just to keep from melting into him completely. When he finally pulls back, his thumb still grazing your cheek, you can barely form words. “Why… why are you doing this?” you whisper.
His lips hover near yours, close enough that you can feel the faintest ghost of his breath. “Because I wished to,” he says quietly.
And then, a sharp knock at the office door. You jolt back, heart lurching as reality slams into you like a freight train. “Uh, come in?” you call, your voice embarrassingly shaky.
The door creaks open, and there stands a man holding a clipboard, looking confused. “Hi, uh, I’m here for my appointment? I think I’m your last patient of the day? Sorry I’m a few minutes early, traffic was better than I thought.”
You stare at him, then glance back at Morpheus. Only he’s gone. The space next to your desk is empty, like he was never there at all. Your new patient frowns. “Are you… okay?”
You force a strained smile. “Yeah. Yes. Sorry, come in. You’re… right on time, actually.” As the man steps into the room, you can still feel the ghost of cool lips against yours and hear the echo of a voice whispering, ‘I will see you again.’
And you can’t help wondering, with your pulse still pounding, whether you want that more than you’re willing to admit.
You do your best to hold it together, walking your actual last patient back to the waiting area with a polite smile plastered on your face, even though your heart is still racing and your hands feel like they’re buzzing.
When you finally close the door behind him and are alone in the office again, you collapse into your chair, covering your face with both hands. “Okay,” you whisper, the word muffled by your palms. “What the hell was that?”
You drag your hands down your face, staring at the empty spot next to your desk. There’s no trace of him, no evidence he’d been here at all. Just the lingering ghost of his kiss and the way your name had sounded in that low, careful voice.
You press your fingers to your lips and tell yourself, for the hundredth time, that it had to have been a hallucination born of exhaustion. It had to be. And yet, a part of you wonders.
Far from your office, in a space that exists beyond the waking world, Morpheus stands still as stone, his head bowed.
He can still feel the warmth of your skin against his fingertips, the way you’d said his name just before he kissed you. The echo of it lingers with him now, soft and fragile in the vast quiet of the Dreaming.
It had been foolish to stay as long as he had. Foolish to let himself linger close enough to taste your breath, foolish to kiss you again when he knew the waking world could have claimed you at any moment.
But when your eyes had lifted to his and your pulse had fluttered under his touch, he had not been able to stop himself. “Unwise,” he murmurs into the empty air. And yet he does not regret it.
Not the way your lips had parted under his, not the way your heart had raced when he whispered that he would see you again. He straightens slowly, his expression unreadable, and the shadows of the Dreaming curl closer to him like they sense the weight of his thoughts.
He will see you again. He knows this as surely as he knows the sun will rise over the waking world tomorrow, but he also knows the longer he stays at your side, the harder it will become to leave.
You are useless the next day. Absolutely, completely useless. You spill coffee on yourself twice before lunch, misplace your phone three separate times, and stare through two full patient sessions without retaining a single word. Your coworkers notice, of course, but you’re too busy fighting the phantom feel of cool lips against yours to care.
Because it had to have been a dream, right? Except you felt him. His hands had been steady and real when he’d cupped your jaw, his thumb grazing your cheek. You can still remember the weight of his gaze, the way he’d leaned close enough for his breath to ghost over your mouth.
You catch yourself pressing your fingers to your lips again and quickly drop your hand, glancing around the break room like someone might have caught you.
Ridiculous, you’re ridiculous. By the time you’re back in your office, you’re ready to crawl under your desk and hide from yourself. You lean against the closed door, breathing out a frustrated laugh.
“Get a grip,” you mutter. “He’s not real. This is just sleep deprivation melting your brain.”
“That is not the truth.” Your head snaps up. He’s standing in the corner of your office, cloaked in black as though he stepped straight from the shadows themselves. His presence fills the room instantly, cutting through the afternoon light like a blade.
“Morpheus,” you breathe, heart hammering. He steps forward, silent and deliberate, until the distance between you is unbearable. “You called for me,” he says softly. “I what? No, I didn’t!”
“You did,” he says, his gaze locking on yours. “Your thoughts reached for me even as you told yourself they did not. And so… I came.”
You shake your head, pressing your back to the door. “I can’t do this right now. I’m at work, and you’re, this isn’t real, it can’t be.”
“It is,” he says simply. You open your mouth to argue, but the words die in your throat when he does the most unexpected thing:
He drops to one knee in front of you. The motion is slow and deliberate, impossibly graceful, his cape pooling around him in perfect lines. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t move closer, just bows his head slightly as if offering himself to you in some wordless vow.
“Morpheus,” you whisper, completely undone. “Do not doubt,” he murmurs, lifting his eyes to yours. “I am here because I wish to be. Only because of that.” You stare down at him, heat creeping up the back of your neck. “You’re… you’re kneeling. In my office.”
“Yes,” he says calmly, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You are the most dramatic person I have ever met,” you blurt, your voice trembling.
His lips twitch, the faintest flicker of a smile. “I have been called worse.”
You can barely process the sight of him kneeling in front of you, your heart hammering in your chest. It feels entirely wrong and impossibly right all at once, like the ground has shifted and you’re the only one who notices. “Morpheus,” you whisper again, because it’s the only word your mouth can form.
He looks up at you, dark eyes steady and unflinching. “Yes,” he murmurs. “You… this…” you stammer, shaking your head. “You can’t just kneel in front of me like this. It’s… weird. People don’t do this.”
“Perhaps they should,” he says softly, and there’s something in the way he says it that makes your breath catch. You groan, half from exasperation and half from the sheer force of your own confusion. “Okay, stand up. Please. I can’t think when you’re down there like that.”
You reach for his arm, intending to pull him to his feet, but he catches your hands in his before you can touch him. His grip is firm but gentle, his fingers cool against your skin as he brings your hands together in his.
You freeze, every nerve lighting up at once. “Morpheus…” He shakes his head slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Do not send me away,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”
“I’m not, I’m not sending you away,” you whisper, though your voice shakes. “I just… I don’t understand why you’re here. Why me?”
His thumb brushes lightly over the back of your knuckles, an absent, soothing motion that makes your knees weak. “Because you see me,” he says softly. “And I do not wish to be unseen.”
Your throat tightens painfully. “That’s… you can’t just say things like that,” you manage, even as your fingers curl instinctively into his.
“Why not?” he asks, voice like velvet, and he leans closer, his dark hair falling forward to brush against your hands. “Because it’s too much,” you whisper, unable to look away.
“Too much,” he repeats quietly, and you feel the faintest ghost of his breath against your knuckles. “Yes,” you say, barely audible.
His eyes soften as he watches you, like he’s memorizing every flicker of emotion that crosses your face. “And yet you do not let go,” he says gently. You swallow hard, because he’s right. You’re holding onto him like you’ll drown if you don’t.
Morpheus lifts his gaze from your hands to your face, and the air between you thickens with something you can’t name. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t break the fragile thread of connection as he slowly rises to his feet, your hands still cradled in his. You don’t move, you can’t.
He’s so close now that the hem of his coat brushes your legs, his presence a soft shadow wrapping around you. He lifts your hands carefully, as if they’re something precious, and brushes his lips over your knuckles.
The touch is featherlight, but it knocks the breath right out of you. “Morpheus…” you whisper, and your voice cracks on his name.
He leans in, dark eyes holding yours like a vow, and you know what’s coming even before it happens. You could stop him if you wanted to, but you don’t.
His lips meet yours slowly, deliberately, and it’s nothing like the sudden heat of the first kiss in your office. This one is deeper, unhurried, carrying with it everything he won’t say aloud.
He kisses you like he’s memorizing you: the shape of your mouth, the tremor in your breath, the way your fingers tighten in his as if you’re afraid he’ll disappear again.
Your free hand finds its way to his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath his coat. He leans closer, his thumb brushing the line of your jaw as though he’s afraid you might vanish.
There are no words, only the weight of the kiss, and it says everything neither of you can bring yourself to speak.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His eyes are closed, his breath mingling with yours in the fragile space left between you. You swallow hard, your heart still pounding. “Why… why does this feel like…”
“Like what?” he murmurs, his voice soft, reverent. “Like it matters too much,” you whisper.
His fingers tighten around yours, his lips brushing against your skin as he speaks. “Because it does.”
i am on the verge of tears with every single comment anyone leaves on any of my fics 😭😭 like you don’t understand, i read them and immediately have to go lay on the floor for a minute. unfortunately i am also physically incapable of being a functional human being (i spend 90% of my awake time either writing or reading and the other 10% staring at walls… thinking about morpheus 💔) so my replies are usually about 100 years late. but i love every single comment with my whole heart and it genuinely means the world to me. THANK YOU! ❤️😭
i am on the verge of tears with every single comment anyone leaves on any of my fics 😭😭 like you don’t understand, i read them and immediately have to go lay on the floor for a minute. unfortunately i am also physically incapable of being a functional human being (i spend 90% of my awake time either writing or reading and the other 10% staring at walls… thinking about morpheus 💔) so my replies are usually about 100 years late. but i love every single comment with my whole heart and it genuinely means the world to me. THANK YOU! ❤️😭
therapy for the endless ² ✩｡⋆⸜ dream of the endless
summary: you’re a therapist who’s used to listening to everyone else’s problems, not untangling the mysteries of your own subconscious. but one night your dream changes, what begins as a slow dance with your office crush abruptly transforms into a therapy session with a man who feels far too real to be your imagination. he’s dramatic, distant, and a little too convinced he doesn’t need your help, but he keeps talking. and you keep listening, even as the lines between dream and reality start to blur.
word count: 2.7k || PART ONE || PART THREE
˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞
The first thing you notice is the sun. It’s warm and golden, the kind of warmth that seeps deep into your bones. You stretch lazily on a lounge chair, curling your toes into soft sand as waves crash softly nearby, the tide’s rhythm lulling you deeper into relaxation.
“Wow,” you murmur, shifting into a more comfortable sprawl. “Dream me really knows how to set the mood.” Then it hits you, last time you dreamed you’d been in your office. You remember the pale man with eyes like shadows and a voice that carved every word from stone. He’d looked at you as if he could see every thought you tried to hide and your breath catches at the memory.
“Oh no,” you whisper. “Oh yes,” a familiar voice answers, smooth as velvet. You sit up so quickly your sunglasses nearly fall off. He’s there, a dark figure standing on the sand like he belongs in a painting: tall, pale, cloaked in a black cape that doesn’t stir in the breeze.
“Oh my god,” you breathe. “It’s you again.” His expression is unreadable, though you think you catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You sound… disappointed.”
“I’m not,” you say quickly, then frown. “Okay, maybe a little freaked out. Do you just… live in my subconscious now? Are you some kind of recurring character? Because if so, you’re seriously overachieving at the whole mysterious dream man thing.” He tilts his head slightly. “I am… consistent.”
“You’re also wearing a cape. At the beach.” You gesture at him incredulously. “Do you not own anything lighter? A t-shirt? Shorts? Something that doesn’t scream ‘vampire prince’?”
“I do not suffer from such mortal ailments,” he replies, calm as ever. You blink. “…Right. Because you’re not real.” Something flickers in his gaze at that, but you’re too busy continuing your rant to notice.
“Anyway,” you say, leaning back against the lounge chair, “I shouldn’t be surprised my brain dragged you back. You were… intense last time. Probably left a lasting impression. But now you’ve decided to crash my beach vacation. Which, fine, but at least match the vibe.”
He studies you silently, like he’s cataloging every movement: the way you shove your sunglasses higher, the way you adjust your bikini top with a faint huff. You notice him noticing and narrow your eyes. “Wait. Did you change the scenery this time? Because I do not usually dream about the beach.”
He raises a brow. “Do you believe I control this?”
“Of course you do,” you say, smirking. “You’re my subconscious. You set the scene. You probably just wanted to see me in a bikini, didn’t you?” For a beat, he’s so still you think you’ve broken him. Then he answers, quietly, “Perhaps.” You choke on air. “Did you just admit that?”
“If that is what you wish to believe,” he says smoothly, though you swear you see a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Oh my god,” you mutter, flopping back with a groan. “You’re impossible. And way too self-assured for someone I invented.”
He doesn’t rise to the bait, just stands there with that same timeless patience. “So you’re just going to keep standing there, looming over me like some extremely overdressed lifeguard? That’s the plan?” you ask, squinting at him.
He glances briefly at the sand, then back at you. “No,” he says simply. Before you can respond, the air around him shifts. There’s no sound, no flash, just a subtle ripple, like the world itself is adjusting to accommodate him. Where there was only sand, a second lounge chair now stands.
“Okay,” you say slowly, sitting up straighter. “That’s… not weird at all.” He ignores the comment and steps toward the chair with measured grace. But when he sits, it’s not casual at all. His posture is impeccable, hands resting lightly on the arms as though it’s a throne, his cape spilling dramatically over the sides and pooling in the sand.
You stare. “You realize you don’t have to sit like you’re about to pass judgment on my entire existence, right?”
“This is… how I sit,” he says mildly, as though the concept of lounging is foreign. “You’re on a lounge chair,” you remind him. “The entire point is to lounge.” He looks at you like you’ve just asked him to sprout wings. “I am… comfortable.”
“You’re not,” you mutter, pulling your sunglasses off so he can see your glare. “You look like you’re about to condemn my mortal soul.” His gaze slides to you, unreadable and then, unexpectedly, amused. “Perhaps I am.” You gape at him, then laugh. “Wow. And you wonder why I called you a diva last time.”
“I do not wonder,” he says calmly, leaning back just enough to make the movement look intentional, regal even. You shake your head, biting back a smile. “I swear, my subconscious is really doubling down on the mysterious brooding thing with you.”
“Brooding,” he repeats, tone edged with mild offense. “Yes,” you confirm, grinning now. “The cape, the throne-sitting, the intense staring… you’re like a gothic superhero on vacation.”
He doesn’t answer right away, but there’s the faintest glimmer in his eyes, like he’s humoring you.
“Fine,” you sigh, settling back into your own chair. “But if you’re going to sit there like you rule the beach, the least you could do is talk to me. You’re not allowed to just… sit there silently judging me.”
“I do not judge,” he says evenly. “You definitely do,” you tease. “And you’re doing it right now.”
He exhales softly, almost like a sigh, but you catch the way his gaze lingers on you a second too long before drifting back to the horizon.
For a moment, the silence between you isn’t awkward at all. It’s easy, warm, like you’re tethered by something you can’t quite name.
You turn toward him on your lounge chair, propping your chin in your hand. “So… is the cape non-negotiable?” His brow furrows faintly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” you say, gesturing at the black fabric cascading dramatically around his chair, “you’re at the beach, and you’re dressed like you’re about to crown yourself ruler of the underworld. Isn’t it… hot?”
“I do not experience discomfort,” he says, entirely too composed. “Yeah, you keep saying that,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “But this isn’t about comfort. It’s about blending in, having some fun, looking like you’re not one deep sigh away from declaring war on a rival kingdom.”
His head tilts slowly, like you’ve just spoken in another language. “Fun,” he repeats, flat and faintly suspicious. “Yes, fun,” you confirm. “You ever heard of it?”
The corners of his mouth twitch. “I have… observed it,” he admits carefully and you snort. “That’s not the same as doing it. You know, you’re really lucky you’re just a figment of my imagination, because if you were real, you’d be exhausting.”
Something flickers in his eyes at the word figment but you’re too busy grinning at him to notice. “You’re not even denying it,” you tease. “That’s how I know I’m right.”
Then your smile softens, and you study him more carefully. “So… what’s wrong this time?” His gaze sharpens, the faint humor in it fading as quickly as it appeared. “Wrong?”
“Yeah,” you say quietly, resting your elbows on your knees. “Last time we talked, you had this whole tortured, ‘lonely but I don’t want to need anyone’ thing going on. It was a lot. And now you’re here again, so… what’s eating you?”
He’s silent for a long moment, and you can feel the dream shift: the faintest weight settling over the air, like the tide pulling a little harder. “You presume,” he says softly, “that something must be wrong for me to seek you out.”
You shrug, though your chest feels tight. “Don’t you? I mean… I’m a therapist. This is what I do.” His eyes narrow faintly. “And if I told you nothing is wrong?”
“I’d call bullshit,” you say without hesitation. That earns you a look, sharp and assessing, but with a ghost of something softer there too. “You are… unrelenting,” he murmurs.
“Guilty,” you reply, smiling faintly. He leans back just slightly, the black of his cape spilling over the arms of his conjured chair, and stares out at the ocean. “There is… less wrong than before,” he admits finally, voice low enough that the waves nearly swallow it.
Your brows lift. “Less wrong? That’s… progress.”
“Perhaps,” he says, and for a moment you swear the dream itself leans closer.
You find your gaze drifting back to him as the waves crash softly in the background. It’s impossible not to. He’s sitting like the beach itself is his domain, the sun catching in his dark hair and turning it almost blue-black, the folds of his cape draped in perfect lines.
“You are staring,” he says suddenly, gaze cutting to yours and you jerk back like you’ve been caught doing something illegal. “What? No, I’m not.”
“You are,” he says calmly, voice like a verdict. “You have been for some time.” Your mouth opens, closes, then you narrow your eyes. “Okay, yeah, so what if I was? This is my dream. If my brain wants to create some ridiculously attractive guy to hang out with, I’m allowed to… you know, appreciate the view.”
There’s the slightest pause before he speaks again. “Ridiculously attractive?” Oh no.
You cross your arms over your chest like it might protect you. “Don’t act like you didn’t already know that. You show up in a cape at the beach, sit like you’re posing for the cover of some dark fantasy novel, and I’m just supposed to not notice?”
Something flickers in his eyes, maybe amusement, or something warmer. “You presume much,” he says, but there’s no bite to it this time. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before,” you shoot back, smirking. “But I’m not wrong, am I?”
He leans forward slightly, and the cape shifts with him like liquid shadow. “If you believe yourself correct, who am I to contradict you?”
You blink at him, startled by the unexpected answer, and for a moment the banter dies on your tongue. He’s watching you closely now, dark gaze steady, and the dream feels smaller, tighter, like it’s pulling you closer together.
“You’re… weird,” you say finally, softer now. His head tilts. “Weird?”
“Yes,” you confirm, though your voice wavers. “Weird, confusing, and…” you bite your lip, regretting how honest you’re about to be, “kind of nice to talk to.” The words hang there, and for a beat you think he’ll deflect but he doesn’t.
“As are you,” he says softly. Your heart skips a beat, and you have to look away before you give yourself away completely.
He’s still watching you when you glance back, and something about the weight of his gaze makes you restless. “You know,” you say, forcing a light tone, “the great thing about dreams is that I can do whatever I want without feeling weird about it.” His brows lift slightly. “Is that so?”
“Mm-hm,” you hum, and before you can second-guess yourself, you lean across the narrow space between your chairs and press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.
It’s over in an instant, just a brush of your lips against cool skin, but the effect is immediate. He goes perfectly still, like the world has stopped spinning.
“See?” you say lightly, retreating just far enough to meet his eyes. “Dream world, dream rules. It doesn’t have to mean anything.” He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze lingers on you, dark and intense, and you swear the dream itself shivers around you.
“Does it not?” he says finally, voice low and your breath hitches. “No,” you say, too quickly. “Of course not. It’s just… you know. A kiss, no big deal.”
But the way he’s looking at you now makes it feel like the biggest deal in the world. The kiss lingers in the air between you, heavier than it has any right to be. The soft rush of the waves fades into the background, and for a moment it feels like the entire dream is holding its breath.
He’s still looking at you, dark eyes fixed and unreadable, and the intensity of it makes your pulse skip. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly too aware of the way your face feels hot.
“Okay,” you say finally, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to breathless, “you’re staring again. And it’s… not really helping my case here.”
“I am… considering,” he says slowly, voice like distant thunder. “Considering what?” you ask, your voice softer now. “Whether you believe your own words,” he murmurs. You blink. “What words?”
“That it does not mean anything.” The way he says it makes your chest tighten. “It doesn’t,” you say, though the words feel thin, unconvincing. His gaze travels over your face, as if memorizing every line. “You are certain.”
“Completely,” you reply, nodding a little too quickly. He leans forward ever so slightly, and you swear the dream itself shifts with him. “I am not,” he says softly. Your breath catches and you can’t look away, not when his voice is so low and sure it sends a shiver down your spine. “You’re not?”
“No,” he says simply. The word is impossibly heavy. You glance away, trying to breathe past the knot in your chest, but his presence is impossible to ignore: his cape draped like liquid shadow over the chair, his gaze steady and consuming.
“Okay,” you murmur after a long beat, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. “So what now? You’re just going to… keep staring at me until I implode?” His lips twitch, the faintest hint of a smile. “Perhaps.”
“That’s… not fair,” you mutter, but you can’t bring yourself to look away again. “I am not concerned with fairness,” he says quietly.
He’s so close without actually being close at all, the tension pulled taut like a wire between you. For a moment, you think you might close the distance again, but you stay rooted to your chair, every nerve screaming at you to move. He doesn’t, either.
The waves crash softly, the dream holding you both suspended in place, and you wonder what might happen if either of you dares to break the spell. For a moment, the silence stretches, heavy and fragile, and then, so slowly you almost think you’re imagining it, he moves.
The lounge chair he conjured dissolves into nothing, and suddenly he’s standing right in front of you, his cape whispering against the sand as he closes the distance. You sit frozen, looking up at him, your heart thudding so hard it feels like it might break free from your chest.
He doesn’t speak at first. Instead, he reaches out and takes your hand. The touch is cool and deliberate, sending a shiver through you. His thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles, like he’s committing the sensation to memory. “I will see you again,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches. “You… promise?” His gaze locks with yours, steady and unwavering. “Yes.”
Before you can say another word, before you can even process the weight of that simple answer, he leans down and kisses you.
It’s nothing like the quick peck you gave him earlier. This is slower, certain, his mouth soft and cool against yours. One of his hands cradles your jaw as if you might vanish, the other still holding your fingers, anchoring you to him. It’s gentle, but it steals the breath from your lungs, leaves you dizzy and aching for more.
And then he’s gone. The beach dissolves into black, the sand and sun and the sound of the waves disappearing all at once. You reach out instinctively, desperate to hold on, but there’s nothing there, only the ghost of his touch and the echo of his voice in your mind.
‘I will see you again.’ You wake with a sharp inhale, tangled in your sheets, your heart still racing. For a moment the memory of the kiss is so vivid it feels real, but you shake your head. It was just a dream.
And yet you can still feel the ghost of his lips on yours.
i am currently experiencing two (2) equally life-ruining obsessions and they are:
1. wife/ex-wife!reader dynamics (the married once, still emotionally entangled, will either make out or murder each other kind)
2. morpheus in episodes 2 and 3 of season 2 because i love watching him suffer in the tiniest, pettiest ways. like yes king, go deal with hell’s property dispute while every delegation is trying to either flirt with you, bribe you or threaten you. go and learn how to apologise like a real boy for the first time in your endless life. he is beautiful and dramatic and i want him mildly inconvenienced at all times.
do NOT ask me for anything else right now because my brain is a two-tab browser and both tabs are these.
me: ok but what if i wrote just one more morpheus fic
i have SO many wips it’s ridiculous, just an endless pit of drafts and unhinged ideas. i can’t relax, i can’t function, i’m being haunted by a skinny goth dream god and his stupid tragic love life. send help 😭
okay so this is actually from a bigger fic i started days ago and ended up scrapping because the pacing just wasn’t working the way i wanted, but i really liked this one scene, so i figured i’d still post it on its own.
the story itself was set post-orpheus’ wedding (and everything that followed) with reader having been in a relationship with morpheus beforehand. after the tragedy, he distances himself and disappears without saying goodbye. a few weeks later, reader finds out she’s pregnant but, afraid of how morpheus might react so soon after losing his son, she decides to keep it from him. she goes to a witch for herbs that stop her from dreaming, thinking it will protect the child from the dreaming (and from him, if it came to that). morpheus assumes she’s cut him off on purpose and has abandoned him.
this scene happens much later, when the pregnancy has progressed but complications arise. the herbs are still in her system, making it hard for morpheus to hear her calling for him (which she takes as him ignoring her out of anger). after nearly an hour, he finally hears her and comes to her side.
warnings for this scene: mentions of heavy bleeding and near miscarriage (both described), panic, emotional distress, and references to pregnancy loss fears. || word count: 2.1k
˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞
The night is still, the oil lamp on your bedside table has burned low, its light barely reaching the far corner of the room. Outside, the wind brushes against the shutters, just enough to make them creak. Your hand rests on the swell of your belly as you lie on your side, the sheets tangled around your legs.
You’re used to the little shifts and flutters now, the way the child will press a foot or curl just beneath your ribs, but tonight they have been still, and you find yourself comforted by it. A rare moment of quiet inside your own body.
Sleep comes in thin layers. You drift near the surface, never quite falling deep, the way you have since you began the herbs. The Dreaming is barred to you, there’s no soft gardens and no shoreline skies, but even the empty sleep you have now has a muted safety to it.
The first pain feels like a tightening band low in your belly: sharp, but brief enough that at first you think it’s nothing more than the child turning. You breathe through it and close your eyes again. It comes again, harder.
You shift in the bed, sliding one hand under your stomach as if you could cradle the ache away. The pain fades, but something else blooms in its place: a warm, wet sensation between your legs. Confusion prickles through you. You push the blanket back and look down, there’s blood.
At first, it’s a smear across the linen. Then, as you move to sit up, it’s more, far more: a deep, spreading stain that soaks through the thin shift you wear to bed. Your pulse kicks hard, cold rushing through your veins as the reality of it hits.
You swing your legs over the edge of the bed and the movement brings another rush of warmth, this time running down your thigh. Your knees almost buckle as you stand. One hand grips the post of the bed, the other pressing against your belly, as though you could shield the life inside from what’s happening. “No,” you whisper, the word breaking as you try to steady your breath. “No, no, no…”
Instinct takes over before thought. You close your eyes and reach for him, Morpheus. The name is a thread you pull tight in your mind, the way you’ve done before, but the herbs work against you. It’s like shouting into a deep fog: your voice absorbed, muffled, scattered before it can reach him. You try again, harder this time, the desperation in your chest turning the call into a plea. Still, there’s nothing.
And in that nothing, the fear takes root: he’s not coming… he’s heard you, and he’s not coming.
The pain comes sharper now, twisting low in your belly and pulling the air from your lungs. You grip the edge of the bed until your knuckles ache, your other hand pressed to your abdomen as if sheer pressure might keep the child safe. You try again, you plead for Morpheus. The call leaves you in a rush, sharp and pleading, but it’s like flinging a stone into an endless ocean, the sound swallowed whole before it can find its mark. You reach again, harder, louder in your mind, willing it to pierce the heavy walls the witch’s herbs have built around you. Nothing.
The blood is warm against your thighs, pooling beneath you as you stagger toward the corner where a low stool sits. You drop down onto it hard enough to make your teeth click, pressing your knees together as though it could hold in what’s already slipping away.
You call him again and again. The words inside your head turn ragged, desperate, until they no longer sound like words at all but the raw sound of someone breaking.
Time loses shape. Minutes or hours, you can’t tell. The pain comes and goes, but the bleeding does not stop. Your shift is soaked through, the dark stain spreading across the floor beneath you.
At some point, your mind begins to drift. The edges blur, you see flashes: not dreams, just fragments of memory, his face turning toward you at the feast, the weight of his hands in your hair, the steady, unreadable way he looked at you the last night before he left. And in the gaps between the memories, the thought festers.
He’s not coming, he’s heard you and he’s not coming. You left him first, so this is what you deserve. The words twist themselves into a kind of certainty, it feels like punishment.
Your head drops forward, your breaths shallow. You whisper into the quiet, your voice shaking. “Please… even if you hate me, even if you want nothing to do with me, just save them… please.” The words fall into the same silence.
The cold is setting in now, creeping up from the stone floor into your feet, your legs. You press your hands harder to your belly, rocking slightly, the motion more instinct than choice. And then, fainter than the sound of your own pulse, the air shifts.
Like a curtain stirring in a wind you cannot feel, the space around you changes. You almost don’t notice at first, you’re too far gone and too deep into the fog, but the thread between you pulls tight, not enough to anchor you, but enough to make your heart trip once in your chest. Somewhere far away, he hears you.
In the heart of the Dreaming, he is standing in the library. The shelves stretch endless in every direction, Lucienne speaking softly beside him about some matter he is barely hearing. And then he hears it: a sound, faint and fractured, like a voice speaking through water.
Not the words at first, just the urgency, a pulse of desperation so sharp it slices through the hum of the realm. He stills.
Lucienne’s voice fades entirely from his awareness as the sound grows clearer. Your voice, it carries no shape of dream, no setting and no form only raw need, shaking and urgent. The haze of something unfamiliar clings to it, an interference that makes it sound far away, as though you’ve been buried in stone.
He moves without thought. One blink, and the library dissolves into shadow. Another, and the shadow becomes your chamber. The scent of iron hits him first, heavy and metallic in the air, and then the sight: you, on the floor, your shift soaked through with blood, hands pressed to your belly, face pale and streaked with tears.
He freezes. Not out of hesitation, but because for the space of a breath, the image carves itself into him so deep he cannot move. Your head jerks up, eyes wide. “You…” Your voice is hoarse. “You came.”
Something sharp flickers in his gaze, and when he speaks, the words are rougher than you’ve ever heard them. “You thought I would not?”
You blink at him, chest rising fast. “I called for so long. You didn’t come. I thought…” Your voice shakes. “I thought you wouldn’t. That you were… angry.”
His expression tightens, the hurt plain even in his stillness. “That you believed me capable of hearing your desperation and turning from it wounds me more than you seem to know.”
You can’t answer, not with the pain still twisting in your belly, not with the blood still warm against your skin. The truth is you had thought it, you’d believed it with the certainty of someone who’d been abandoned before.
He takes a step toward you, the shadow of his coat spilling over the floor between you. “Is the child mine?” The question is quiet, but there is no hesitation in it. And though you see in his eyes that he already knows the answer, he waits.
You nod, and the smallest flicker passes over his face, not surprise and not relief, but something that feels like a terrible kind of resolve.
The words tumble out before you can think. “Please,” Your voice cracks and you press your hands harder to your stomach, as if you can shield the child from the bleeding. “Please my Lord save them. Even if you don’t want them, even if you want nothing to do with either of us, just…” Your breath hitches on a sob. “I’ll give you anything. Name it. Whatever you want, I’ll swear it, if you just let me keep this.”
His eyes darken, not with anger for you, but with something heavier, something that cuts deeper. He kneels in front of you, the movement swift but silent, his hands hovering over yours without yet touching. “You would bargain with me for your own child?” His voice is low, almost disbelieving. Your throat is raw, your vision swimming. “I know you might not care for them…”
“Stop.” The word comes sharper than you expect, but not unkind. His gaze holds yours, steady and unyielding. “That you think me so cruel as to weigh a life, our child’s life, against some imagined price…” His jaw works once, a visible effort to contain the emotion in his voice. “It wounds me more than your silence these past months.”
Fresh tears spill down your cheeks, hot and useless. “I didn’t know if you’d help. Not after…” Your voice catches. “Not after Orpheus.”
For a moment, something in his expression softens, a shadow of grief crossing his features. “Even if this child were not mine, I would save them for you.” His hands close over yours then, firm and grounding. “Because you asked me to, because I still care for you.”
The breath shudders out of you, the fight to stay upright slipping from your limbs. He senses it immediately, shifting closer so his knees are almost touching yours. “And because they are mine,” he says quietly, “there will be no cost, no bargain, I promise.”
His hands move from atop yours to your sides, careful but unhesitating, his long fingers curling lightly around your waist to guide you into a more stable position on the floor. The shift in his touch is subtle: not forceful, but certain, like a man who has already decided he will not let you slip from him again tonight. “Stay with me,” he murmurs, the tone low and steady, meant to anchor you.
Your tears are hot on your cheeks, falling faster now that you feel the first touch of safety in hours. The pressure in your chest loosens just enough for sobs to push their way out, unsteady and raw and he doesn’t flinch from them, he doesn’t rush you to stop.
Instead, he draws one hand away from your side and places it flat against the curve of your belly, just below where your own shaking palms have been. The other hand settles lightly against the back of your neck, supporting your head so you don’t slump forward.
The warmth comes slowly at first: a deep, low hum under your skin, like a river thawing after a long winter. It seeps into the muscles, into the ache, soothing before it mends. You can feel it searching, precise and careful, tracing the places where the bleeding has torn through you. Your breath catches, a sharp inhale, and his thumb strokes a small circle at the base of your skull. “It will not hurt,” he says softly. “Not while I am here.”
It’s the gentleness in his voice that undoes you more than the words. You close your eyes, tears slipping past them, and let yourself lean into the hold he has on you.
The hum deepens, spreading through your core, closing the unseen wounds with each slow wave. You can feel your body responding, your pulse steadying, the tension in your abdomen easing bit by bit. The child shifts faintly under his palm, a small, living movement that draws a quiet exhale from him. “That’s it,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
You press your hand over his, your fingers curling weakly against the cool, strong lines of his. “I was so afraid,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I thought I’d lose them.”
“You will not,” he answers, and there is no hesitation in it. The warmth lingers until the last of the bleeding stops, replaced by the steady, rhythmic beat of your own body knitting itself whole under his power. By the time he draws his hand away, you’re trembling for a different reason, exhaustion, yes, but also the weight of the relief pressing into every corner of you.
Your head tips forward until your brow rests against his shoulder, your tears soaking into the fabric of his coat. His arm comes around you fully then, drawing you closer, one large hand covering the back of your head in a gesture both protective and unbearably tender.
“I have you,” he says quietly, his voice low in your ear. “You and the child, I have you both.” And for the first time since the pain began, you believe him.
summary: you only meant to drink away your breakup at the white horse, but hob gadling shows up and drags you into his night out. then his friend arrives: tall, dark, intense, and far too attractive for your own good. you tell yourself you can charm anyone, but morpheus isn’t just anyone… and suddenly you’re in way over your head.
word count: 4.6k
˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞
You do not plan on winding up at The White Horse tonight. You were supposed to be clinking wine glasses at a bistro across town with a man who’d looked you in the eye and sworn he was different. Instead, you had the misfortune of finding out he was very much the same as every other idiot who thinks cheating is an Olympic sport.
Now you are on your third glass of cheap merlot, sulking at a corner table. Hair perfect, makeup flawless, dress that hugs in all the right places, and absolutely no one to admire the effort. You can feel eyes on you from the bar but none of them belong to the man you want.
“You’re a picture of despair,” a familiar voice says. You look up and find Hob Gadling sliding into the seat across from you. He looks like he stepped right out of some academic catalogue, all tweed and soft smiles. He is carrying a pint and his usual faint air of warmth.
“Hob,” you sigh, already reaching for his drink like you are entitled to it. “What are you doing here?”
“Meeting a friend,” he says, pulling his pint away before you can snatch it. “But clearly fate decided I should rescue you from drinking yourself into oblivion.”
“Bold of you to assume I don’t want to drink myself into oblivion.”
“Care to share why?” You tell him, briefly and bitterly, Hob’s expression twists from sympathetic to amused as you recount catching your ex practically glued to someone else’s lips.
“You deserve better,” Hob says finally. “If he’s fool enough to let you go, good riddance.” You appreciate the sentiment, even if it doesn’t fix the hollow ache. You glance at his watch and raise an eyebrow. “So, who’s this mysterious friend? Another professor? One of your… what do you even call them… history club mates?”
“You’ll see,” he says. “And behave, alright? He’s… a bit intense.” You snort into your wine. “Please. I can charm anyone.” Hob rolls his eyes, but before you can tease him further the pub door opens and he walks in.
For a moment, you think your drunken brain is embellishing. He is tall, painfully so, with a lean frame wrapped in an immaculate black coat that seems to drink in the light. His face is all sharp planes and dark, arresting eyes that skim the room with quiet authority.
Every head turns when he enters, but he pays none of them any mind. He moves like the room itself bends to accommodate him, like the pub is just a brief inconvenience on the way to somewhere far more important. “Bloody hell,” you whisper.
Hob clears his throat. “Yeah. That’s him.” The stranger crosses the room in measured strides and takes a seat opposite Hob, sparing you only the faintest of glances. It is enough to send heat crawling down your neck.
“Hob,” he says. His voice is low, smooth, and devastating. “Mate,” Hob says with a smile. “Good to see you.”
There’s no handshake, no small talk, the stranger simply inclines his head in acknowledgment and fixes those fathomless eyes on Hob. Hob gestures vaguely at you. “This is my friend. She… well, she had a rough night, so I invited her along. Hope you don’t mind.”
The stranger looks at you properly this time. You meet his gaze and feel like you’ve stepped off the edge of a cliff. “Not at all,” he says.
His voice curls in your gut like smoke. You lean forward with a grin. “And you are?” Hob groans under his breath.
The stranger’s lips quirk the faintest fraction. “I am called many things,” he says, and there is a weight to it that makes you sit up straighter. “The Shaper of Forms. The Prince of Stories. The Dreamlord. To some, I am simply King of Dreams.” You stare. “That’s… a lot to fit on a business card.”
Something glimmers in his eyes, amusement maybe, though he does not smile. He leans forward, close enough that you catch the faint scent of rain and something older, something you cannot name. “But you,” he murmurs, “may call me Morpheus.”
Your heart does something dangerous. “Right,” you say, your voice a little too breathless. “Morpheus. Noted.” Hob looks like he regrets every decision that led to you sitting at this table.
You cross one leg over the other, very aware of Morpheus’ eyes following the movement. “So, Morpheus… do you always show up to pubs dressed like you’re about to haunt someone?”
“I dress as I please,” he says. “And does it please you to look like the sexiest man in a five-mile radius?” Hob makes a strangled noise. “Oh for…” You ignore him, Morpheus tilts his head as if your words are worth pondering.
“If it disturbs you,” he says, voice smooth as velvet, “I could leave.”
“No!” you blurt, then immediately wince. “I mean… no. Stay. Please. I’m sure Hob would be devastated if you left. Right, Hob?” Hob looks like he wants to melt through the floor.
You sip your wine slowly, letting your eyes roam over Morpheus’ jaw, his throat, the way his coat gapes just enough to hint at the stark lines of his frame. He feels like the sort of man you should not touch but desperately want to.
“So tell me, Morpheus,” you say, voice dropping low. “Do you do more than haunt pubs? Because I could think of… other places.” Hob chokes on his pint.
Morpheus’ gaze drops to your lips for the briefest flicker before returning to your eyes. He does not answer right away, and that silence is maddening. “I am… capable of many things,” he says finally. Your breath catches, and that is when you know you are in trouble.
You are tipsy now. Actually, no, you’re downright wasted. And Morpheus, because you’ve decided his ridiculous name fits him somehow, is watching you like he’s curious how far you’ll go.
You reach for your wine and find the glass empty. “Oh no. Tragedy has struck,” you sigh dramatically, setting it down. “I require another drink immediately.”
“You’ve had enough,” Hob says, hand darting to cover your glass. But you are faster. “Relax, Dad,” you shoot back, and before Hob can protest, you lean toward Morpheus and pluck his drink right out of his hand.
Hob blinks at you. “Oh for Christ’s sake…” You hold Morpheus’ drink up like a challenge. “This is mine now.” His eyes flick down to your lips as you take a long, slow sip. It burns going down, some kind of dark liquor, and you shiver from the taste.
Morpheus says nothing, he simply watches as you lower the glass and, without breaking eye contact, takes it gently from your fingers. Then he raises it to his own lips and drinks from the same spot your mouth touched. Your pulse stutters.
Hob coughs into his pint like he might drown. “Are you two serious right now?” You ignore him, leaning forward until your elbow brushes Morpheus’ sleeve. “You really are… dreamy, you know that? Like, it’s offensive. And your eyes. God, your eyes.”
Hob makes another strangled noise, but you are too busy staring at the man in front of you. Morpheus’ voice is soft and deliberate. “What about them?”
“They’re…” You lean closer, practically whispering now. “They’re the kind of eyes you could fall into and never come back. Like black holes. Or oceans at night.” The corner of his mouth tilts up, just barely. “You are drunk.”
“Mm-hmm,” you say, shifting closer. Your knee brushes his. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” You are acutely aware of how close you are now, how his coat sleeve brushes your bare arm and sends goosebumps skittering up your skin. Without thinking, you reach up and push a stray lock of his dark hair back from his face. It is soft, softer than you expected.
Morpheus’ lashes flutter at the touch, but he does not move away. If anything, he leans just slightly into your hand. “Oh my god,” Hob mutters, dragging a hand over his face. “I feel like I’m third-wheeling my own night out.”
You smirk and let your fingers trail lazily through Morpheus’ hair. “Sorry, Hob. But you really should have warned me your friend was… this.”
Morpheus finally moves. He places a single large hand against the small of your back, steadying you as you sway closer. The contact is light, barely there, but it makes your breath hitch all the same.
“You are… persistent,” he says, his voice low enough that you feel it rather than hear it. You grin. “Persistent is sexy.” Hob slams his pint down. “Okay, enough! You are practically in his lap now, and he’s…”
Morpheus’ arm shifts, and suddenly you are very aware that Hob is not wrong. You are straddling the edge of Morpheus’ thigh, your leg pressed firmly against him, his hand still steady at the small of your back as though he is perfectly content to let you stay there.
You glance up at him, heart hammering. He looks back at you calmly, unbothered by Hob’s protest, unbothered by your closeness. But you can see it, just barely, in the slight dilation of his pupils and the way his gaze lingers on your mouth for one heartbeat too long.
“You don’t seem to mind,” you whisper. His answer is just as quiet. “I do not.” You bite your lip. Hob groans and drops his head into his hands. “I can’t be here for this. I can’t. I’ve made a terrible mistake bringing you two together.”
But you are not listening. Your hand slides back up into Morpheus’ hair and he allows it, his posture deceptively relaxed as if you are not undoing him thread by thread. “Do you always let strangers crawl into your lap and steal your drinks?” you ask.
“No,” Morpheus says, and there is something dark and possessive in the way the word lingers. “Only you.” Your breath catches.
Hob is babbling something about finding a distraction before he combusts, but his words are a distant hum now. All you can focus on is the man in front of you, the hand at your back, the quiet promise in his voice. And for the first time tonight, you feel absolutely sober.
You shift further into Morpheus’ lap, and this time there is no denying it. You are straddling him now, one knee pressed against the outside of his thigh, the other braced on the seat. Your skirt rides scandalously high, and Morpheus’ hands, large and elegant, slide from the small of your back to settle firmly on your hips as though to steady you, or maybe to keep you there.
Your head tips forward onto his shoulder, the fine fabric of his coat brushing your cheek. He is solid, cool, and immovable beneath you, but there is an unmistakable hum of something else. Something alive and thrumming just beneath the surface.
“This is comfortable,” you murmur into his shoulder, nuzzling slightly, letting your breath warm the side of his neck. “I am glad you find it so,” he says quietly, his voice brushing over your skin like a secret.
Hob lets out a loud groan. “She is literally on top of you, mate. Are we just… ignoring this?” You peek up at Hob from Morpheus’ shoulder and grin. “I’m fine. He’s fine. We’re all fine.”
Morpheus’ thumb moves slowly against the curve of your waist, subtle but enough to make your stomach twist. You shift slightly, and your thigh brushes his. The friction makes your breath stutter, but you cover it with a teasing smirk. “You’re really not going to push me off, are you?”
“Why would I?” Morpheus replies softly, his hands tightening ever so slightly at your hips. Your grin widens. “Oh, I like you.”
“You have made that abundantly clear.” Hob coughs, spluttering into his pint. “Abundantly clear? She’s practically declaring it on a bloody billboard.”
You ignore him and lean closer to Morpheus’ ear, letting your lips ghost over the curve of it. “I could call you Dreamy again,” you whisper, soft enough that Hob cannot hear. “Would you like that?”
Morpheus’ hands still for a fraction of a second. You feel the tiniest shift in his breathing, like you’ve managed to surprise him.
“Call me what you wish,” he murmurs, voice low and deliberate. “It changes nothing.” But you can feel the subtle flex of his fingers at your waist as you roll your hips just slightly, teasingly, against him. It is barely movement at all, but the way his hands dig in a little more makes you want to push further.
Hob suddenly stands, his chair scraping back. “Alright, nope. I need a minute. I can’t watch this trainwreck for another second.”
“Where are you going?” you ask sweetly, still nestled against Morpheus’ shoulder. “To the bar,” Hob says, throwing his hands up. “To breathe. To drink. To remind myself this night is not cursed.” He stalks off, muttering to himself.
You lift your head slowly and find Morpheus watching you with those bottomless eyes. He has not moved his hands. They are still on your hips, anchoring you, and the way he looks at you now makes the air feel heavier.
“Seems we’re alone,” you say softly, a hint of a smile curling your lips. “Indeed,” he replies.
You slide your arms around his neck, playing with the soft hair at the nape, and the intimacy of the gesture makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the wine. You shift again, this time intentionally, your hips brushing against the line of his thigh. His hands tighten.
“Morpheus,” you murmur, testing his name on your tongue. He exhales slowly through his nose. “Yes?”
“I think you like this.” There is a pause. He does not deny it. You smirk, leaning in so your lips nearly brush his jaw. “You could kiss me, you know. I wouldn’t stop you.”
His fingers slide a fraction lower on your hips, and you feel the faintest tremor of restraint in the way he holds you. “That is… not wise,” he says, his voice like velvet scraping over stone.
“Who said I wanted wise?” Your nose brushes his cheek, and the warmth of his breath hits your lips. You are so close now that the rest of the pub disappears. There is only the weight of him beneath you, the way his arms keep you exactly where he wants you, and the quiet storm building in his gaze. Your voice is a whisper. “You want to, though. Don’t you?”
This time, he does not answer with words. One of his hands slides slowly up your back, firm and unyielding, until it cups the back of your neck. He holds you there, close enough that you can feel the thrum of his pulse through your lips, and you have never wanted anyone more.
Morpheus’ hand is warm and steady at the back of your neck, holding you just close enough to feel his breath ghosting over your lips but not close enough to kiss. The restraint in it is maddening. “Why are you torturing me?” you whisper, your fingers curling in the soft hair at the base of his skull.
“Because,” he murmurs, voice like a caress, “the anticipation makes it sweeter.” A frustrated noise escapes your throat, and you shift against him, pressing your hips down ever so slightly. The sharp exhale that slips from him is your victory.
You glance over his shoulder toward the bar. Hob is deep in conversation with the bartender, his back to you, oblivious. Your eyes meet Morpheus’, and there’s no need for words.
You rise slowly from his lap, letting your body drag against his in the process, and you feel the way his hands flex at your hips before he reluctantly lets go. Without saying a thing, you take his hand and lead him toward the narrow hallway at the back of the pub, every step heavy with heat.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind you, and the quiet that follows makes your heart race. It’s dim in here, the mirror streaked with condensation from the heat of too many bodies, and you barely have time to catch your breath before Morpheus is on you.
He backs you against the cool tile wall, his hands braced on either side of your head. The sheer intensity of his presence makes you shiver, and you barely manage a shaky smile. “Took you long enough,” you tease, voice breathless.
Morpheus doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans in and captures your mouth with his, and it’s like falling through the earth. His lips are firm, deliberate, commanding, and you melt instantly, your hands clawing at his coat as he devours you.
The kiss deepens, all teeth and tongues and desperate little sounds that echo against the bathroom tiles. His hands slide down your sides and grip your hips, pulling you flush against him. You can feel him, hard and unyielding, and the low groan that slips from his throat when you grind against him nearly undoes you.
“Morpheus,” you gasp, breaking the kiss just long enough to drag his name out like a prayer. His mouth finds your jaw, then your neck, kissing, biting, marking. “Say it again,” he growls softly.
“Morpheus,” you whimper, tugging at the lapels of his coat. He lifts you effortlessly, and your legs wrap around his waist as if they belong there. He presses you back against the wall, his mouth trailing hot open-mouthed kisses down your throat as his hands grip your thighs hard enough to leave bruises.
Your dress rides up as he grinds into you, and the friction is dizzying. You cling to him, your fingers buried in his hair, your breath coming in sharp little gasps. “You’re…” you gasp, “you’re so… god, you’re…”
“Yours,” he finishes for you, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “For as long as you’ll have me.” The words make your pulse stutter.
He frees one hand from your thigh and slides it up under your dress, fingers teasing the edge of your panties. You gasp at the first touch of his skin on yours, and he smiles against your neck, slow and deliberate. “Please,” you whisper, unable to stop yourself.
Morpheus lifts his head just enough to look at you, his dark eyes burning with something that feels older than the stars. “As you wish,” he says softly. And then his hand slides between your legs.
You bite back a moan, burying your face against his shoulder, your hips jerking against his touch as he teases you with maddening patience. Every stroke, every brush of his fingers is precise, controlled, designed to drive you insane. “Morpheus…”
“Yes,” he breathes, his voice wrecked now, his forehead pressing against yours. “Say it for me.” Your nails scrape against the back of his neck as you obey, whispering his name again and again, each time more broken than the last.
And just when you think you can’t take any more, he stills, his lips finding yours once more, swallowing your desperate little cry as he pushes you over the edge. The world tilts.
Your pulse is still hammering in your ears when you hear the faintest sound outside the bathroom door: a creak, a muffled voice. Morpheus stills instantly, his dark eyes flicking up to meet yours. You’re both breathing hard, your lips swollen from his kisses, and the look he gives you says everything: you’re about to get caught.
“Shit,” you whisper, scrambling to straighten your dress as he gently sets you back on your feet. There’s a knock at the door. “Uh, occupied!” you call, a little too high-pitched.
You can feel his hands still on your hips, steadying you as you wobble slightly in your heels. He’s far too composed compared to you, though the smear of your lipstick on his neck says otherwise. “Can’t a girl get five minutes?” you mutter under your breath, smoothing your hair in the mirror.
“Five minutes?” Morpheus says quietly, an almost imperceptible curve to his lips. You swat his chest. “Not helping, Dreamy.”
There’s another impatient knock, and you sigh. “We have to go before Hob comes looking for us.” Morpheus nods once, his hand sliding reluctantly from your hip as you crack the door open. You peek into the hallway first, then step out, tugging at the hem of your dress as though that will somehow make you look less debauched.
You don’t even make it three steps before Hob appears, pint in hand, looking frazzled. His eyes dart between you and Morpheus, and his mouth falls open. “Oh, for…are you kidding me?”
“We were just…” you begin. “Don’t,” Hob says, holding up a finger. “Don’t even bother. You’ve been gone twenty minutes. Everyone in this pub heard the… noises.”
Your face burns, and you desperately try to muster a convincing smile. “What noises?” Hob gapes at you, then turns to Morpheus, his eyes narrowing. “And you. You’ve got lipstick all over your neck.”
You glance up, mortified, and sure enough, there’s a vivid smear of red at the edge of Morpheus’ jaw. Morpheus does not flinch. “It is… nothing,” he says, though his gaze slides to you for a fraction of a second.
Hob pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer for patience. “I am so done. So completely done. I invited you along to distract you from your breakup, and instead you…” He throws his hands up. “This. Whatever this is. I don’t want to know.” You fight a smile, but the corners of your mouth betray you. “Hob, it’s not that serious…”
“Oh, it’s serious,” Hob says, already heading back to the table. “And when you two come sit down, you’re keeping at least a full chair of space between you. I mean it.”
You glance at Morpheus, who is just as unreadable as ever, though there’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he is nowhere near as unaffected as he looks. You lean closer, just enough for your lips to brush his ear as you whisper, “I liked the lipstick, by the way. Looks good on you.”
Morpheus’ jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and he gives you the smallest look of warning, but you are already smiling as you follow Hob back to the table, your body still humming with the memory of his hands on you.
Hob is already seated when you return, his pint clutched like it is the only thing keeping him sane. He points to the chair across from him with the authority of a weary parent.
“There,” he says, his voice clipped. “You sit there. And you,” he jabs a finger at Morpheus “…sit there. One chair apart. I don’t care if you hate the distance. You are keeping it.”
You bite your lip to keep from smiling, mostly because Hob looks like he’s one thread away from unraveling completely. “Okay, okay. We’ll behave.”
“Forgive me,” Morpheus says softly as he sits down with you, his voice maddeningly calm, “if I do not make promises I cannot keep.” Hob groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
You settle into the designated seat, prim and proper, hands folded neatly in your lap as though you are the picture of innocence. Hob visibly relaxes… until he notices Morpheus’ knee brushing yours under the table. “Don’t you dare,” Hob warns.
“I’m not doing anything,” you say sweetly, even as Morpheus’ leg presses a little more firmly against yours, the subtle pressure sending shivers up your spine.
“Neither am I,” Morpheus adds, voice low, but you feel the ghost of his fingers brushing your thigh beneath the tablecloth. The touch is maddening, featherlight, and you shift slightly closer to him in a way Hob can’t see.
Hob slams his pint down. “I see you both. I can feel the energy radiating off you like a furnace. For the love of God, could you at least pretend I’m still sitting here?”
You lean back in your chair, resting your elbow casually on the table, and let your fingers trail along Morpheus’ coat sleeve. “We’re not doing anything, Hob. Right, Morpheus?” Morpheus turns his head toward you, his voice low enough to be for you alone. “Not yet.”
Your breath catches, and you duck your head quickly, hoping Hob doesn’t notice the way your cheeks flush. But of course, he does.
“Oh, this is unbearable,” Hob says, throwing his hands up. “You’re both unbearable. I’m going to need therapy after tonight.”
You bite back a laugh, and under the table, Morpheus’ hand slips into yours, his thumb brushing lazily over your knuckles. He holds your gaze from across the small gap, and the sheer intensity in his eyes makes it impossible to breathe for a moment.
“I swear,” Hob mutters, “if I hear one more suggestive whisper or see another smudge of lipstick, I’m leaving the two of you here and never speaking to either of you again.”
Morpheus’ lips curve in the faintest of smiles, the kind that promises trouble. “Duly noted,” he says, but he does not let go of your hand.
Hob is visibly reaching the end of his patience, his pint drained and his foot tapping restlessly against the floor. You can practically see the vein in his temple pulsing as Morpheus’ thumb continues its slow, deliberate circles over your knuckles beneath the table.
“Right,” Hob says suddenly, slapping his palms against his knees. “I’m calling it. We’re done here, night’s over. Go home, drink some water, sober up, and for the love of everything holy, stop… whatever this is.”
You glance at Morpheus, your lips twitching. He is perfectly composed, the only evidence of your earlier tryst the faint trace of your lipstick still smudged along the edge of his jaw. His dark eyes meet yours, unblinking, as though Hob’s words do not apply to him at all.
“I’m fine,” you say, though your voice comes out a little too light. “No,” Hob says firmly. “No, you’re coming with me. I’m not letting you out of my sight, not after you disappeared for twenty bloody minutes.” He rises from his seat and gestures for you to follow.
You push your chair back reluctantly, your fingers brushing Morpheus’ one last time under the table. He does not move to follow, but his gaze tracks you as you stand, as if committing every detail of you to memory.
You linger for a beat, heart pounding, before reaching into your clutch for a scrap of paper and a pen. You scrawl your number with a flourish, fold the paper twice, and as you pass behind him, you slip it into the pocket of his coat with practiced ease. He does not flinch.
But when you lean down, your lips brushing the edge of his ear, you whisper, “Call me, Dreamy,” and press a soft kiss just below his jaw, directly over the faint smear of lipstick you left there earlier.
He tilts his head almost imperceptibly toward you, enough that you can feel the hum of approval in his chest. Then you straighten, flashing him a wink as you turn on your heel and head toward the door. Hob is waiting, looking tired and utterly done with the both of you.
“I’m going to regret tonight forever,” he mutters as you step outside, the cool night air washing over your overheated skin. You glance back one last time. Through the pub window, Morpheus is still seated at the table, perfectly still, his eyes locked on yours from across the room.
And when you give him one final, deliberate little wink, you swear you see the faintest ghost of a smile curve his lips before he vanishes from view entirely. Your stomach flips, and you clutch your coat tighter as Hob leads you down the street. You know, without a shred of doubt, that he will call.
therapy for the endless ¹ ✩｡⋆⸜ dream of the endless
summary: you’re a therapist who’s used to listening to everyone else’s problems, not untangling the mysteries of your own subconscious. but one night your dream changes, what begins as a slow dance with your office crush abruptly transforms into a therapy session with a man who feels far too real to be your imagination. he’s dramatic, distant, and a little too convinced he doesn’t need your help, but he keeps talking. and you keep listening, even as the lines between dream and reality start to blur.
word count: 5.1k || PART TWO
˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞
Desire leans back on their throne like a cat in a sunbeam, nails tracing the curve of their own throat with languid amusement. “You are so predictable, brother,” they purr. “Always sulking, always brooding, always convinced no one understands you. Perhaps what you need…” they pause, smiling wickedly, “…is a therapist.”
Dream’s jaw clenches and he does not grace them with a reply at first. He is still, a tower of shadow and pale flesh, but Desire has known him too long not to notice the flicker in his dark eyes.
“You mock,” he says finally, voice low and rolling like distant thunder, “as though my realm is not built upon understanding the minds of mortals.”
“Oh, darling, I mock because you are utterly terrible at it when it comes to your own,” Desire says, sitting forward, voice syrup-sweet. “All that power, and yet you cannot fix your own problems. You sulk instead. You avoid. You…” their tongue darts against their teeth, “…fail. Maybe a mortal could do better.”
Dream narrows his eyes. He knows they want a reaction, but even knowing this, he feels it bite deeper than it should. He turns sharply and leaves, the gallery whispering shut behind him, Desire’s laughter echoing in his ears long after the doors seal.
Later, back in the quiet of the Dreaming, he finds himself unable to focus. He stares at the strands of dreamstuff that coil and twist in his hands and imagines what Desire meant. The idea is insulting, absurd, yet… a ‘therapist’. The word hangs in his mind like a thorn.
It is not as though he does not know of you. He has brushed against your dreams many times before. You are a mortal therapist, dedicated to your work, compassionate even when weary. He has watched the shape of your dreamscape bloom into ballrooms, bookstores, winding city streets, whatever space your subconscious desires.
And you… listen. That is what draws him. Even when alone in your dreams, your patience is evident in the way you move, the way you tend to each character your mind invents. That night, he decides to test Desire’s taunt.
You dream of a dance. It begins softly, music curling through the air like candlelight, warm and muted. The ballroom glitters, all marble and chandeliers, and your work crush, why is it always him, is there, tall and smiling, spinning you gently in circles. Your head is tipped back, the motion dizzying, the faint smell of his cologne filling the air. “Not bad,” you murmur as he twirls you again.
Then, suddenly, the music skips. A hush spreads through the room like ink in water. The lights dim, the chandeliers gutter out, and the dancers around you vanish one by one until only you remain in the vast, echoing space. The ballroom shudders and reshapes, the walls folding inward, the marble floor rippling into soft carpet beneath your feet.
You blink rapidly as the world steadies. You are seated now and there is a desk between you and the man who has appeared across from you, tall and impossibly pale, dressed in black so stark it seems to drink the light. His hair falls in disordered waves, shadows clinging to his shoulders like reluctant companions.
He is… breathtaking. That’s your first coherent thought, quickly followed by the realization that this isn’t where your dream was headed at all. “Where… am I?” you ask, glancing around.
The space is familiar now. Your office, down to the mug of lukewarm tea on the desk and the faintly peeling paint by the window. “Your dream has… shifted,” the man says, voice deep and soft, every word deliberate. He does not smile.
You squint at him. “Okay. And who exactly are you? I don’t usually cast such… attractive leading men in my therapy room.” His lips twitch. “I am here,” he says, “because I was told I require… assistance. From one such as yourself.”
You laugh once, incredulous. “Wait. You’re here for… therapy? In my dream?”
“Yes,” he says simply. He folds his hands in his lap, watching you with an intensity that borders on unnerving. “You will listen. That is what you do.” This is not how your dreams usually go. Still, you take a breath, channel the automatic professional instinct that has carried you through countless sessions in the waking world.
“Alright,” you say, settling back in your chair. “Then I guess we should start at the beginning. Tell me why you’re here.” He does not look away. “Because my siblings believe I am… incapable of solving my own troubles.”
“Uh-huh.” You raise a brow, penning the air like you’re holding a clipboard. “And are you?” His jaw tightens. “I am not.”
“Sure,” you murmur, half amused, half fascinated. Whoever this man is, he carries himself like he’s carved from pride and brittle edges. You can feel it. And for some reason, you don’t think he’s entirely aware of how much he’s revealing already. “Alright,” you say softly, leaning forward. “Then let’s talk about those troubles of yours.”
The man across from you leans back in his chair as if he owns not only the office but the entire dream you’re in. Which, okay, technically he might. He laces long, pale fingers together and rests them against his chin, his posture so regal you half-expect a crown to materialize.
“I suppose,” he says at last, voice low and reverberating, “we should speak of my family. That is where all… difficulties begin.” You blink. “Your family?”
“Yes,” he intones. He doesn’t blink. You swear you can hear the capital letter on the word. “They are… persistent, interfering. They’re unable to comprehend that I act not out of cruelty, but necessity.” You tilt your head. “Right. And they told you to see a therapist?”
A shadow flickers across his face. “My sibling, Desire,” he says, the name dripping like venom, “suggested I might require one. They were… mocking.” Your lips twitch despite yourself. “So you decided to prove them wrong by… coming to therapy. In my dream.”
His eyes narrow slightly, as if you’ve just challenged the integrity of the universe. “I am here,” he says, “because they believe I cannot change. That I am incapable of self-reflection. They are mistaken.”
“Sure,” you murmur, folding your arms. “You seem like the very definition of open-minded.” Something in his jaw tightens, and for one thrilling second you think he might stand up and storm out of your own dream. Instead, he straightens further, spine a line of unbending steel.
“I have ruled my realm for eons,” he says, dramatic enough to make your eyebrows shoot up. “I understand more of the mortal psyche than any… therapist could hope to. But you will listen. That is… what you do.”
The way he says it, like he’s handing you a royal decree, makes you bite back a laugh. You shouldn’t mock a patient, even an imaginary one. But it’s a dream, right? And he’s so… “Okay, your majesty,” you say before you can stop yourself.
His head snaps toward you, eyes blazing. “I am not your king,” he says, every word like a warning. You lift your hands in surrender. “Figure of speech! You’re just… a little intense, is all. Most people don’t loom when they talk about their siblings.”
“I do not loom,” he says immediately, which is absolutely something only a person who looms would say. “Right,” you say, barely holding back a grin. “So. Family drama. Sounds complicated. Tell me what’s going on.”
For a moment he just stares at you, silent, unreadable. Then, with a soft rustle like the shift of a thousand pages, he leans forward.
“They do not understand the burden I carry,” he says, voice softer now, though no less dramatic. “They call me cold and arrogant. But they do not see what I see. The weight of my responsibility. The consequences of even the smallest error. I have made mistakes, yes, but… always with reason. Always with purpose.”
You nod slowly, therapist mode fully kicking in despite your confusion. “And do you think they’re wrong? That there’s no truth to what they’re saying?” He hesitates. It’s tiny, but it’s there.
“I…” He clears his throat, gaze sliding away for the first time. “I do what must be done. I am… necessary. My role is necessary. They cannot understand that because they are… frivolous. Impulsive. They do not see the bigger picture.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a lot on your shoulders,” you say gently. “And maybe you feel like no one’s really listening to you about it.” His eyes snap back to yours. There’s something raw in them now, a flicker beneath all that pride and drama.
“Yes,” he says, almost too quietly. You soften. “That’s why we’re here. So I can listen. And maybe help you figure out why you’re feeling this way.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s fighting the idea of actually needing help. “You presume much,” he says finally, voice back to its measured grandeur. “And you deflect much,” you shoot back.
He blinks at you, no one ever talks to him like that, you can tell. “I like this,” you continue, leaning forward with a little smile. “You’re all drama and doom, but you’ve got feelings under there. We can work with that.”
“I do not… possess feelings,” he says stiffly. “Uh-huh.” You can’t stop the smirk now. “Tell me more about how you don’t have feelings.” He sits there, silent and visibly offended, and for one insane second you think he might actually dissolve into mist out of pure indignation.
He’s still glaring at you, but it feels different now. Less like he wants to obliterate you from existence and more like he’s… unsettled. Which is funny, considering this is your dream.
“You do realize,” he says finally, voice low, “that I do not require this. That this,” he gestures broadly, the air itself seeming to ripple at the motion “…is nothing but an exercise in futility.”
You rest your chin in your hand, pretending to consider. “Mm, that’s usually what people say when they’re secretly afraid therapy might actually help.” His eyes narrow. “I am afraid of nothing.”
“Right,” you say dryly. “You’re completely fearless, totally flawless, and definitely don’t have feelings. Did I miss anything?” For a second, you swear the corner of his mouth twitches. Not in a smile, exactly, but something close.
“Mock me if you wish,” he says, leaning forward, voice dipping lower. “But you cannot begin to comprehend the scope of my existence. You would crumble beneath it.”
You blink at him, trying not to be distracted by how close he’s gotten. His presence seems to fill the room, a weightless pressure that makes the air taste different.
“Wow,” you say after a beat, forcing a lightness you don’t quite feel. “Do you rehearse lines like that, or are you just naturally this dramatic?” This time, you catch it. The tiniest flicker of a smirk before his expression shutters again.
“Tell me,” you continue, leaning back in your chair, “do you ever just… relax? Or is everything always about responsibility and cosmic burdens?” His gaze sharpens. “I have no time for… leisure.”
“Sounds exhausting,” you say softly, without teasing this time. He blinks, the tiniest hitch in his breath. The office feels smaller suddenly, the air warmer, and you realize the lighting has changed, dimmed slightly, the glow soft and amber like sunset.
You glance around. “Did you… change something?” He looks faintly startled, like you’ve caught him doing something unintentional. “No,” he says quickly, too quickly.
“Uh-huh,” you murmur, hiding a smile. There’s a silence then, not awkward but weighted, and you’re suddenly aware of the way he’s studying you. His gaze isn’t harsh or condescending now. It’s… curious. Like he’s cataloging the shape of your mouth, the tilt of your head, the way you chew absently on your pen as you think.
You clear your throat, trying to shake off the weird flutter in your chest. “So,” you say, leaning forward again. “You’ve told me your siblings don’t understand you. What would you want them to understand, if they could?”
He exhales slowly, and the sound feels like the wind moving through empty halls. “That I am not… cruel. That I have not chosen this role out of some hunger for power. That I… care. Even when I must be distant.”
You nod, softer this time. “That makes sense. But do you ever tell them that? Or do you just… assume they’ll figure it out while you stand in the corner looking all mysterious and moody?” The look he gives you is almost affronted. “I do not… stand in corners.”
You laugh, and it’s warm enough that for the briefest moment his shoulders loosen. “You’re doing it now,” you tease, and gesture vaguely to his posture, all shadowy elegance and intensity.
“I am seated,” he says flatly, which just makes you laugh harder.
But under the humor, there’s that same stillness in his gaze. He doesn’t look away when you meet his eyes, and you’re struck by how much it feels like he’s… listening. Like no one else in the world exists for him but you. It’s a dream, you remind yourself firmly. Just a dream.
“Alright,” you say, breaking the silence because you suddenly need to. “Let’s try something different. What’s one thing you wish you could change about yourself?” He freezes, every muscle going taut. You’ve hit something tender, you can feel it.
“I…” He stops, clears his throat, and the air shifts again, cooler now, like a breeze from nowhere. You wait, patient, the way you always are with clients who need space.
At last, he says quietly, “I would wish… to be less alone.” Your chest squeezes, unexpected sympathy rushing in. You open your mouth to say something: something kind, maybe, something real but before you can, the office flickers. The walls ripple like water and then solidify again, and you realize he’s the one doing it, whether he knows it or not.
“Okay,” you say gently. “That’s a good place to start. We can work on that.” His head tilts, black hair falling forward like ink, and there’s something in his expression now you can’t name.
“You would… help me?” he asks, as if the idea is incomprehensible. You shrug lightly. “It’s literally my job.” He stares at you for a long moment. Then, almost too soft to hear, “You are… different.”
The words linger, warm and strange, and you feel the dream shift again: smaller this time, the distance between you shrinking, as if the world itself wants to draw you closer together.
You let his words hang between you for a beat, feeling their weight settle like dust motes in the warm glow of the room. “Different, huh?” you say finally, tilting your head. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was not intended as one,” he says, too quickly. You smirk. “Oh, I think it was.” He bristles, and you catch the faintest spark in his eyes. “You presume far too much.”
“Probably,” you admit with a shrug. “But you’re sitting here in my office in my dream, which kind of makes me the boss. So I get to presume all I want.”
The corner of his mouth twitches again, that almost-smile you’ve seen flash and vanish. “You are… insufferable.”
“Thanks,” you say sweetly. This time the smirk doesn’t vanish quite as fast. He leans back, still regal, still brooding, but there’s a subtle shift in the way he looks at you now. Less disdain, more… intrigue.
“Tell me,” he says suddenly, voice smooth as velvet. “Do you mock all who seek your counsel, or am I the exception?” You arch a brow. “Only the ones who act like they’re auditioning for the role of ‘tortured immortal prince’ in a gothic drama.”
The dream flickers at your words, the walls momentarily stretching taller, the windows narrowing into pointed arches. You blink and the office is normal again, but your pulse is thrumming.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studies you with that same too-intense focus, like he’s dissecting every expression on your face. “Why do you… persist?” he asks finally. “Most mortals would have woken by now. Or fled.”
You shrug, though the truth is your heart’s beating too fast. “Because I care about my patients. Even the dramatic ones.”
“Dramatic,” he repeats flatly. “Extremely,” you say, trying not to smile. He leans forward slowly, forearms resting on his knees. The room seems to tilt with the motion, the air growing warmer, heavier. “You… do not fear me.”
The way he says it makes something flutter low in your stomach. You force a light tone. “Should I?” His gaze drops briefly to your lips before rising to meet your eyes again. “Most do.”
“Well,” you say, voice softer now, “maybe that’s your problem. You’re used to people being afraid of you, so you don’t know how to connect with them.” He goes very still, like you’ve brushed against a wound he doesn’t want you to see.
“That is… untrue,” he says eventually, though it lacks conviction. “Sure,” you murmur. “And I definitely believe you.”
His mouth opens like he wants to argue, but then the room flickers again, the walls drawing closer by inches. You glance around and realize your chairs aren’t as far apart as they were.
“Did you just move us closer?” you ask and his brow furrows faintly. “No.” You point at the space between your knees and his. “Because we’re definitely closer.”
He looks down and, for the briefest second, you think he might actually blush. “It is… the nature of dreams,” he says stiffly. “Uh-huh,” you say, biting back a grin.
He ignores you, straightening with all the dignity of a man determined to pretend he hasn’t been caught. “You believe I cannot connect with others,” he says, his tone deliberately measured now. “And yet here you are, still speaking to me.”
You blink at the shift, the sudden edge to his voice. “You think you’re proving a point right now, don’t you?”
“Am I not?” You laugh, leaning back and folding your arms. “You’re unbelievable. You can’t just… force people to care by glaring at them until they do.”
“I do not glare,” he says as you snort. “You absolutely do. You’re doing it right now.” He exhales, long and slow, like he’s reining himself in. “You are… infuriating,” he says, but it sounds less like an insult and more like an observation he finds oddly fascinating.
“Funny,” you say softly. “I was about to say the same about you.” His gaze lingers on yours then, something softer creeping in, and you feel the shift again, the office walls fading slightly at the edges, the air charged like a storm is about to break.
“Tell me,” he says, voice quieter now, “do you always speak so… freely?” You blink at the unexpected question. “You mean… honestly?”
“Yes,” he says simply. You hesitate, then nod. “I try. I figure dreams are one of the few places I can really say what I mean without worrying about hurting someone.”
Something unreadable flickers in his eyes, and the dream pulls tighter around you, like the universe itself is holding its breath. “I see,” he says finally, though it sounds like there’s more behind the words.
You watch him carefully, feeling that subtle weight in the air again, the way the dream seems to hum between the two of you. “Okay,” you say softly. “So you don’t think you can connect with people because you… can’t be honest with them. That makes sense.”
His head snaps up, sharp as a blade. “I did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” you say, gentle but firm. “I think you build walls because you’re scared they’ll see the parts of you you’re not proud of. It’s a defense mechanism. Pretty common, actually.” He goes still in that way that makes the hairs on your arms lift.
“I am not,” he says slowly, “afraid.” You hold his gaze. “You are. And that’s okay.”
The air tightens like a storm front closing in. “You presume much,” he says, his voice quieter now, dangerous in the way a shadow is dangerous when it grows too long. “I’m just trying to help,” you say softly.
He leans forward abruptly, and the dream responds, your chair scraping minutely closer to his. You can feel his presence like a hand on your chest.
“You think you understand me,” he says, voice low and cutting. “But you do not. You cannot. You are a mortal, fleeting and fragile, and you believe your small insights can untangle what is infinite.” Your breath catches, the words hit harder than you want to admit.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” you whisper. “Is it not?” he presses, and for a moment you catch a flicker of something raw in his eyes. “You dig and prod and demand, as though my soul is a puzzle you can solve in a single session. You think yourself brave, but you know nothing of true isolation. Of the weight that never ends.”
You flinch despite yourself. “That was uncalled for.” He freezes and it’s so quiet now, the office holding its breath. He looks at you and you can see it: the regret that flashes across his features, too fast for him to hide.
“I…” he begins, but stops, the word crumbling in his throat. You swallow, willing your voice not to shake. “You don’t have to lash out at me just because I’m asking questions you don’t like.”
“I did not…” He stops again, fists curling in his lap. “It was not my intent to…”
“Yeah, well, it hurt,” you say bluntly. His jaw tightens, like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. He just looks at you, and the silence stretches long enough for you to hear the faint hum of the dream shifting again. The space between you feels heavier now, more fragile.
“I am…” He swallows hard, the word foreign on his tongue. “Sorry.” The apology takes you by surprise. You blink at him, trying to gauge whether he means it. He does. You can see it in the way his shoulders have drawn inward, the way his eyes won’t quite meet yours.
You take a slow breath, softening. “It’s okay,” you say after a beat. “I… probably pushed too hard.”
He shakes his head sharply. “No. You were… correct.” That admission stuns you more than the apology. He lifts his gaze then, and for once, there’s no barrier in it. Just quiet, unguarded sorrow.
“I do not wish to be…” He searches for the word. “Alone. But I do not know how to be otherwise.” The dream seems to soften with the words. The light dims to a warmer hue, the walls edging closer almost imperceptibly, as if the world itself wants to comfort him.
You lean forward slightly, careful this time. “That’s something we can work on. If you let me.” He stares at you like you’ve just offered him a map out of a labyrinth he’s wandered for centuries.
The words hang there, fragile but steady, and you feel the dream settle into a quieter rhythm. The distance between you hasn’t shrunk much, but it doesn’t feel as wide anymore. You lean back slowly, studying him. “That was… progress,” you say gently. He blinks. “Progress?”
“Yeah,” you murmur. “You owned up to what you were feeling instead of deflecting. That’s not easy.” His gaze drops to his hands, the faintest crease between his brows. “I am… unaccustomed to such things.”
You smile a little, unable to help it. “I can tell. But you did it anyway. That means something.”
He looks at you then, and there’s something soft and searching in his eyes, like he’s trying to figure out why you’d even bother. It makes your chest ache in a way you don’t entirely understand.
“Don’t overthink it,” you add, your tone lighter now. “You might sprain something.” The corner of his mouth twitches, a reluctant ghost of a smile, and you feel the tension in the room ease just a little.
You let the silence stretch a little, giving him space, before you lean forward again, resting your elbows on your knees. “You know,” you say casually, “for someone who swore they didn’t need therapy, you’re doing surprisingly well at it.” His head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “I am not… enjoying this.”
“You sure?” you ask, grinning. “Because I think you just almost smiled.”
“I did no such thing,” he says flatly. “Right,” you say, still grinning. “And that wasn’t an apology earlier either, I must have imagined it.” His jaw tightens. “I… do not apologize.”
“Mm-hm,” you hum, leaning back. “Of course you don’t. I guess that’s why I’m imagining the warmth in your voice when you said sorry.”
“I was not warm,” he says sharply, though you catch the faintest flush high on his cheekbones. “You totally were,” you tease.
He exhales through his nose, long and slow, as if he’s debating whether to vanish into a puff of dignified mist. Instead, he settles deeper into his chair, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him. “You are… vexing,” he mutters.
“I get that a lot,” you say lightly. Then, softer, “But I’m glad you didn’t walk out.” That gets his attention. He glances at you, and there’s something hesitant in his gaze now. “Why?”
You blink at him. “Because… I like talking to you. Even when you’re being a diva about it.” The word makes him stiffen. “I am not a… diva,” he says, clearly unfamiliar with the term.
“Oh, you definitely are,” you say, biting back a laugh. “You’ve got the whole brooding-and-doom monologue thing down pat. If you start sighing about how hopeless the world is, I might have to get you a velvet cape.”
His mouth opens, closes, and then, miraculously, he huffs out a single quiet laugh. You blink, startled by the sound. “Wait. Did you just…?”
“No,” he says immediately. “You did,” you whisper, delighted. “You laughed.”
“It was not laughter,” he insists, though his eyes have softened in a way you can’t ignore. You lean in, lowering your voice. “I think you might actually like me.”
He leans forward too, slow and deliberate, closing just enough distance to make your breath catch. “You presume too much,” he murmurs, voice dark silk, but he doesn’t move away.
You feel the dream tilt slightly, the office folding closer again, but it’s so subtle you’re not sure if it’s the room shifting or just your own heartbeat thrumming louder.
“Maybe,” you say softly, holding his gaze, “I’m not wrong this time.” For a moment, he just watches you, silent and unreadable. Then, finally, he leans back, retreating just enough to make the air between you feel too wide again.
“We should… continue,” he says, the words feeling like a shield he’s pulling up. You swallow, trying not to show how disappointed you are at the loss of his closeness. “Right. Okay. Let’s get back to it.”
But you can feel the change lingering between you: the warmth of his laugh, the way he didn’t deny it quite as quickly as before, the way the dream feels different now.
You settle back into your chair, letting the quiet hold for a few seconds. “Alright,” you say softly, “let’s keep going. But this time… I want you to tell me something real. Something you’ve never told anyone.”
His gaze snaps to yours, sharp and suspicious. “Why?”
“Because we’re making progress,” you say, calm but steady. “And because I think you want to.”
“I do not,” he says automatically. You tilt your head. “You sure about that?” He hesitates.
The office feels heavier now, quieter, the warm lamplight dimming just a little as if the dream itself is waiting.
Finally, Dream leans forward, his hands clasped so tightly in his lap his knuckles are pale. “There was a time,” he begins, voice low, “when I believed my purpose was all that mattered. That the work I did was more important than any bond I might form. I thought I could not falter, could not… care, because to do so would be a weakness.”
You stay silent, letting him find his own pace. He exhales slowly. “But I was wrong. My refusal to… soften… has cost me much. Those I loved have left. Some are lost forever because I would not bend. I have built walls so high they cage even myself.”
Your throat tightens. You want to say something, but you know instinctively that if you do, he’ll stop. “I have stood alone for so long,” he whispers, and this time there’s no grandeur in it, no theatrical weight. Just raw truth. “I do not know how to be anything else. But I do not wish to be… this. Not anymore.”
Your heart aches at the admission, at the flicker of pain in his eyes. You lean forward slowly, careful not to break the fragile space you’ve built. “That was… incredible,” you say softly. “Thank you for trusting me with it.”
He looks at you like the words don’t make sense. “You… do not recoil.”
“Why would I?” you ask, confused. “Because,” he says, voice catching slightly, “when I show myself, most do.” You shake your head. “Not me.”
For a moment, neither of you moves. The dream feels hushed and golden, like the world has narrowed to just the two of you. He’s looking at you with a tenderness you didn’t think he was capable of, and you have to fight the sudden, ridiculous urge to reach out and touch him.
Then the air shifts. His eyes darken, and you see it, realization flashing like a shadow across his features. “You are waking,” he says quietly and your breath catches. “What?”
“The dream is ending,” he says, and there’s something in his voice you’ve never heard before. “You will return to your world. You will forget me.”
The words make something in your chest twist painfully. “I… I don’t want to,” you admit, surprising yourself with how much you mean it.
His jaw tightens, and for a second you swear he’s about to reach for you but he doesn’t. He just watches you, that same soft, searching look in his eyes.
“Goodbye,” he says softly, and then the dream begins to unravel. You feel the office dissolve around you, the floor falling away, the golden light scattering into nothing. You try to hold on to the sound of his voice, the shape of his face, but it’s slipping, slipping, until there’s only waking.
And the strange, hollow ache of missing someone you’re not even sure was real.
omg yes please send it!! i’ve never written morpheus x hob x reader before but i’d love to give it a try, i’ll do my best to keep them both in character ❤️
