These days the lack of respect some people have for ao3/fanfic authors is really bothering me a lot. You can dislike something without being disrespectful.
There’s something so magical about ignoring things you don’t like. Why are you going around a community that you clearly don’t enjoy or belong just to talk trash is loser behavior, imagine having that much free time.
For me, authors and fanfiction are a big part of my life, reading fanfics is something that i enjoy and i’m so grateful for, some stories helped me to figure it out things, going through life, made me understand that is ok to feel whatever i was feeling back in the day. Those characters, those words, situations really mean a lot for some people.
So, please, whenever you have the time leave kudos, likes, comments. let’s appreciate the free work people is doing for our enjoyment.
summary: nuala is leaving the dreaming, not by choice but because her brother has come to take her back to faerie. before she goes, morpheus offers her a boon, and she asks for the most selfish thing she can: one night with him, as if he loved her. it is meant to be a performance, a farewell untouched by the future ahead… but as the night unfolds, sweetness and longing blur into something more real than either of them expected.
word count: 6.8k
˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞
The Dreaming’s light is different tonight… softer, as though the realm itself senses that she is leaving and wishes to make her farewell easier. Or perhaps it is only her eyes, heavy with the weight of what has just passed.
She had thought, foolishly, that she might have more time, that she might remain here until she chose to leave of her own accord. But Cluracan had arrived, every inch the charming emissary, speaking for the Queen as if his words did not scrape her raw.
The details of his request… no, his summons, blur in her mind. What she remembers instead are moments: the cold ribbon of dread winding through her chest, the way her brother’s smile faltered when he dared look at her, and the low, measured tone of Lord Morpheus’s voice when he told her she should go.
For her safety… those had been his words, but they had carried a finality that struck deeper than any command. She had seen it in his face: the quiet resignation, the kind that belongs to someone who has already counted his losses and knows his time is short.
And the knowledge had burned in her like ice, because she could not shake the thought that this might be the last time she would stand before him.
Then, almost unexpectedly, he had offered her a boon… a gift of her choosing before she departed the Dreaming. The gesture had caught her off guard, as if for a fleeting moment she could feel some faint pulse of fondness beneath his cool composure. And she knew, that if she let this moment pass, it would haunt her for the rest of her days.
So she had asked: not for freedom, not for protection, not for some political favor to bargain with back in faerie. She had asked for something far more selfish… a single night. One night in which he would act as if he loved her, as if she mattered to him in a way that was not bound by the laws of the Dreaming or the courtesy owed to a guest.
It was foolish, it was dangerous, and was the most honest request she had ever made. And when he had agreed, with that same unreadable stillness, something inside her had twisted tight: hope and sorrow tangled together until she could no longer tell them apart.
He does not come for her immediately. Nuala spends the time waiting in her chambers, pacing the length of the room like a caged bird that knows the bars are closing in. Her gown rustles softly with each turn, the sound seeming too loud in the heavy quiet. She half-expects one of the palace’s dreams to arrive instead, to tell her the Lord of the Dreaming has reconsidered, or to politely suggest she ready herself for departure.
But it is him, the door opens without sound, and the air changes, cooler, richer, as if the room inhales at his arrival. Morpheus stands there, framed by the spill of corridor light, and for a moment she can do nothing but look at him. He wears no crown, no armor of ceremony, just black… simple and severe, the kind of unadorned presence that makes the surrounding world dim.
“Nuala,” he says, and it is not a question or a summons, it is just her name, spoken in a way that feels like a pause in the endless turn of the Dreaming. She dips her head, not trusting her voice. He steps inside, the door whispering shut behind him. “Will you walk with me?”
It is not an order, though they both know she would obey one. There is something in the way he offers his arm, a subtle bend, a slight angle of his wrist, that feels almost courtly. She hesitates, not because she doubts him, but because the gesture makes her heart ache… she takes his arm.
His sleeve is smooth under her fingertips, but it is the warmth of him she notices most, steady and unyielding. They begin to walk, their steps unhurried, the silence between them neither hostile nor entirely easy. She finds herself acutely aware of each point of contact: his forearm beneath her hand, the faint brush of his shoulder when the corridor narrows, the way his stride subtly slows to match hers.
“You are… certain this is the boon you wish?” he asks after a while, his voice quiet enough that it almost seems meant for the stone and shadow rather than her. “Would you rather I asked for something else?” she replies, attempting lightness, though her tone wavers.
His gaze slides to her briefly, unreadable as moonlight. “I would rather you asked for nothing at all.” She swallows. “And yet you offered.” A flicker, barely there, touches his mouth, as if he might almost acknowledge the truth in that. “I did.”
They pass beneath one of the high arches that open onto the Dreaming’s gardens. The scent of night-blooming flowers drifts toward them, and she feels the ghost of a breeze curl around her hair.
He reaches out, without looking, without fanfare, and brushes his fingers lightly through a strand that’s caught against her cheek. It is nothing, really, a casual thing, and yet her pulse trips over itself. “Your hair has grown,” he says. Nuala’s lips curve faintly. “You noticed.”
“I notice more than you think.” She wants to ask what else he notices, she wants to demand why those things are locked away behind his silence… but the words lodge in her throat, and they walk on.
The corridors begin to change, less public now, less gilded. The walls here are darker, warmer, as if the stone remembers the shape of firelight. She realizes where they are going only when they reach the final turn, and the great black doors stand before them like the threshold to another kind of dream: his chambers.
Morpheus pauses, looking down at her as if to grant her one last chance to change her mind, but she only meets his gaze, her chin lifting the barest fraction, and he opens the door.
Inside, the room is a study in shadow and quiet luxury: deep blues and greys, the faint shimmer of starlight spilling in through tall windows, shelves lined with volumes whose spines glow faintly in the dim. A low table is already set with a decanter of dark wine and two glasses, as if the Dreaming itself had anticipated their arrival.
He leads her in with a light touch at the small of her back: steady, grounding, achingly intimate in its restraint. “Sit,” he says softly.
She does, the fabric of her gown whispering against the velvet chair. Her fingers knot together in her lap as he pours the wine, the liquid catching the starlight as it streams into the glass. He hands it to her, his fingers brushing hers in a way that feels almost accidental but lingers a fraction too long.
She takes a sip, it is sweet, just as she likes it. “You remembered,” she murmurs. “I remember everything that matters,” he says. Her chest tightens and she wonders if he hears how easily he could undo her with such a simple truth.
The wine settles on her tongue like liquid dusk, sweet and lingering. She watches him pour his own glass, his long fingers precise even in so small a task. Morpheus takes the chair opposite hers, not the throne-like seat she has seen him use for audiences, but something lower, closer. His knees angle slightly toward her, and the starlight catches in the planes of his face, softening what the shadows can’t quite touch.
They drink in silence at first. It is not awkward, silence with him rarely is, but she feels the edges of it pressing in, as if every unspoken thing between them has taken a seat at the table as well.
“You should know,” he says eventually, his gaze steady on her, “I do not offer boons lightly.” She smiles faintly into her glass. “I imagine not… I wonder what the other dreamers and monarchs of realms past have asked for when you’ve given them one.”
“Many things.” His tone is almost wry. “Immortality, power, riches beyond counting, the undoing of enemies…” “And yet I asked for none of those.”
“Yet you did not ask for nothing.” Her lips quirk in a humorless smile. “No, I suppose I am greedy in my own way.” He studies her over the rim of his glass. “Greed is… not the word I would choose.”
She wants to ask what word he would use, but the thought of hearing it aloud, of what it might mean, makes her hesitate… instead, she lets the wine fill the pause.
Morpheus reaches across the low table, lifting the bottle again, and this time he pours without asking, the faint brush of his fingers against hers as he passes the refilled glass sends a small jolt through her. She tells herself it is the wine.
Another gesture follows, small but deliberate: his hand lifting to adjust the fall of her hair where it has slipped over her shoulder, tucking it back with a touch that lingers a beat too long. The warmth of his palm against the side of her neck sears into her, and she knows she will remember it long after she leaves the Dreaming.
It is sweet, achingly so, and yet every kindness makes something twist in her chest. She begins to second-guess the truth of it. Would he be doing this if she had not asked? If she had not, in her own way, cornered him into playing this role for a night?
Perhaps he is simply… good at this: a skilled actor, performing a part to satisfy the terms of her request. And if that is so, if every soft word, every gentle touch is nothing more than a duty, then she is only deepening the cut she will have to live with after tonight.
Her gaze drops to the dark surface of her wine, her reflection caught and warped in the curve of the glass… he notices, of course he notices…
“Nuala.” His voice draws her back up, and when she meets his eyes there is no trace of offense, only a patient, piercing awareness. “You are thinking something that is not true.” Her fingers tighten on the stem of the glass. “Am I?”
He leans forward slightly, the space between them contracting until it feels as though his presence wraps around her. “Boon or no boon,” he says, each word deliberate, “I would not be here, by your side, if I did not wish to be.”
The sentence is spare, without flourish or poetry, but it feels heavier than anything he has said to her before. And for a heartbeat, the part of her that has doubted all night goes quiet.
Her breath leaves her in a slow exhale, as if the words have loosened something deep in her chest. She sets the glass down, the faint chime of crystal on wood swallowed by the room’s hush.
“Then I will believe you,” she says, and for once she doesn’t lace the words with challenge or humor. A ghost of a smile passes over his face, so slight that if she blinked she might miss it. Then he stands, fluid and unhurried, and extends a hand toward her. “Come,” he murmurs.
She takes it without hesitation, and his fingers close gently around hers, warm and sure, as he guides her away from the table. They cross the chamber to where a long couch rests beneath one of the tall windows, its cushions deep and dark, half in shadow. The starlight beyond spills across the floor, tracing silver over the black weave of the rug.
He does not release her hand until she is seated, and even then, his palm brushes along her knuckles before withdrawing. When he lowers himself beside her, the distance between them feels smaller than it should.
For a time, they simply sit. The Dreaming moves beyond the glass, clouds that curl like ink in water, constellations rearranging themselves in slow, deliberate arcs… but inside, the moment holds still. “You have been… a part of this realm,” he says, his voice quieter now, shaped for her alone. “It will not be the same without you.”
The admission catches her off guard, enough that her lips part without forming a reply. He turns his gaze toward the stars, as if granting her the space to collect herself. His profile is etched in pale light, and she finds herself tracing every line, every shadow.
She wonders how many mortals, how many fae, have sat where she sits now and seen this same face, how many have been allowed this closeness. “I will miss it,” she says finally. “…the Dreaming.” There is a pause, before she adds, softer. “And you.” The last two words hang between them, unflinching.
When he looks at her again, there is a depth in his eyes that she cannot name, something that feels like the echo of a touch not yet given. His hand lifts, slowly, as if giving her every chance to draw away, and he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture is simple, almost mundane, but his fingers linger just long enough that it becomes something else entirely.
She leans into it before she can think better of it, her cheek brushing the inside of his palm, and Morpheus does not pull back. His thumb traces once along her cheekbone, feather-light, and then he lets his hand fall, only to take hers again.
This time, he does not merely guide, he folds their fingers together, his grip warm and steady, grounding her as if he could anchor them both against the pull of everything that waits beyond tonight. No part of this feels like performance, no part of it feels like the hollow echo of a request granted. This is him, in whatever way he can be, offering her something unmarked by the weight of the crown or the shadow of his fate.
His voice is quiet when it comes. “Then let us not speak of what comes after.” She nods, grateful. “Just tonight.”
“Just tonight,” he echoes, and somehow, with those two words, the edges of the world seem to blur, the future slipping mercifully out of reach.
They sit like that for a while, her fingers curled loosely between his, the weight of his hand anchoring her in the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty. Outside, a star drifts lazily across the sky, bright as a lantern. She watches it trace its slow path and feels the urge to make a wish, ridiculous, when she already has hers for the night.
But the thought sparks something else in her, a desire to fill this stillness with something that will leave a warmer mark in her memory than silence. Her eyes slip from the stars to him. “Dance with me,” she says.
Morpheus’s head tilts slightly, as though the words are in a language he hasn’t heard in centuries. “Dance?”
“Yes.” She smiles faintly, though her pulse is quick. “We have the space… and I’ve heard there is no finer partner in the Dreaming.” That earns her the smallest shift at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, not quite denial.
“I am not… in the habit of such things,” he says, but there’s no real dismissal in his tone. “You were not in the habit of granting boons, either,” she points out gently. “And yet here we are.”
He looks away, the faintest hint of a sigh escaping him, though she knows it is not from irritation… more like the soft surrender of someone already halfway convinced.
When his gaze returns to her, it’s caught, held, by the way she’s looking at him. She knows her expression is open, unguarded in a way it rarely is, and she doesn’t try to hide it. She lets him see the hope there, the unashamed longing for this one more thing.
And something in him bends. “Very well,” he says, his voice low. He rises first, his fingers loosening from hers only to offer his hand again, palm up, inviting her into the space between them. She takes it, her own fitting into his with an ease that makes her chest ache.
There is no music at first, only the faint hum of the Dreaming beyond the glass. But then, as if answering his unspoken will, a thread of melody drifts through the chamber: soft, slow, the kind of tune meant for movements that linger rather than hurry.
He draws her close with a care that is almost ceremonial, one hand finding the curve of her waist, the other holding her hand just firmly enough to guide without confining.
They begin to move, and she is surprised at how natural it feels, as though the two of them have done this a hundred times before in some life neither remembers. His steps are measured, but not stiff, each one seems to find its place around her, adjusting to her rhythm without effort.
Her skirts whisper over the rug, brushing his boots with each turn. The starlight shifts across them, catching in his hair, sliding over the line of his jaw when he glances down at her. “You do this well for someone ‘not in the habit,’” she teases softly.
His eyes meet hers, and there is the faintest spark there, as if he takes a certain satisfaction in proving her wrong. “Perhaps,” he murmurs, “I simply required the right partner.” The words settle between them, warm, and she feels herself hold them tighter than she should.
The melody winds around them like a ribbon, thin and silver, as though the Dreaming itself knows to keep its distance and let them have this space. Her hand rests lightly against his shoulder, fingers splayed over the soft black of his coat, and she can feel the subtle shifts of his body beneath the fabric as they move.
Each step, each turn, brings them a fraction closer, until her skirt brushes fully against his legs, until the faintest whisper of his breath grazes her temple when he leans into a turn.
He does not hurry, if anything, he slows, the rhythm of their steps stretching to match the unhurried pulse of the music. His hand at her waist shifts fractionally lower, the curve of his palm resting more firmly, steadying her as though he means to keep her exactly where she is.
“You are smiling,” he observes quietly. “Am I?” she murmurs, though she already knows she is. It’s not the practiced smile she has worn in courts, or the one she summons for diplomacy: it’s smaller, unguarded, the kind that grows without permission.
“You are,” he says, and there is no judgment in it, only something that feels dangerously like fondness. They turn again, and this time she looks up at him rather than past him, meeting his eyes fully.
The space between their faces narrows without conscious thought, the motion of their dance becoming more sway than step. His thumb strokes once over the side of her waist, subtle but deliberate, and her breath catches.
The music changes, just slightly, slowing as if it, too, feels the shift in them. Her free hand drifts from his shoulder to the line of his collar, the edge of her fingers brushing the skin just above it. She feels him inhale, steady and deep, but he does not pull back, if anything, he draws her a touch nearer, his forehead almost brushing hers.
Neither of them speaks, thr air between them is thick with all the words that would only ruin this perfect suspension of time. The heat of his body seeps into her, and she can feel the faint, steady beat of his heart beneath the layers of cloth and darkness.
When the last notes fade, they don’t stop, they stand there in the quiet, his hand still at her waist, her fingers still curled lightly in the fabric of his coat. The absence of music only makes the silence heavier, more intimate.
His gaze drops to her mouth for the briefest moment before returning to her eyes, and it’s enough, more than enough, to make her pulse race. “May I?” he asks, voice low, each syllable shaped like an offering.
Her breath catches at his question. It is not the words themselves, though she cannot remember the last time someone asked her for permission with such care, but the weight of them: the fact that they came from him.
“You may,” she says, and the faint tremor in her voice does nothing to hide the truth in it. The distance between them dissolves. His lips meet hers slowly, almost cautiously, as though he means to give her every chance to decide this is not what she wants after all. But when she leans into him, his hand at her waist draws her closer, eliminating the final gap between them.
The kiss is warm, unhurried. His mouth moves against hers with a deliberation that feels less like restraint and more like reverence, as if he means to memorize the shape of this moment. The faint taste of the sweet wine lingers between them, mingling with the soft exhale he lets out when her fingers curl more firmly in his coat.
Her free hand rises, threading into the dark silk of his hair, and she feels the give of it under her fingers, the way it slips and tangles, and he tilts his head slightly to deepen the kiss. Even then, there is no rush, no force, just the steady build of something that feels both like an opening and a farewell.
When he finally draws back, it is only enough to rest his forehead against hers. His breath brushes her lips when he speaks. “I would have kissed you long before now, had I thought you would welcome it.” She smiles faintly, though it wavers. “I would have.”
Something passes over his face, relief, perhaps… or regret, and he presses another kiss to her, softer this time, before straightening enough to guide her toward the couch’s edge. His hand slides from her waist to her back, warm through the thin fabric, steady as he helps her to her feet.
Neither of them speaks as they cross the chamber. The only sound is the faint whisper of her skirts and the muted thud of his boots over the rug. The bed dominates the far wall, draped in layers of deep blue and shadow, its headboard carved with constellations that glimmer faintly in the starlight spilling through the tall windows.
When they reach it, he turns to her rather than stepping away. His hands find her shoulders, fingertips brushing down the length of her arms until they meet her hands again, he holds them as though they are something precious, his thumbs stroking lightly over her knuckles.
“If we do this,” he says, voice low, “it will not be as a performance of your boon, it will be because I wish it.” The words pierce through her lingering doubt like sunlight through fog. She searches his face, looking for any hint of falseness, and finds none, only him… only this.
Her answer is simple: she leans in and kisses him again. This time there is more heat behind it, more need, though still tempered by that same gentleness. His hands release hers only to frame her face, his thumbs brushing along her jaw as if he means to hold her steady while the world tips and turns beneath them.
When he finally urges her backward toward the bed, it is done with the same unhurried care, step by step, his body a constant presence against hers, his mouth never straying far from hers for long.
When her knees meet the edge of the mattress, he breaks the kiss just long enough to look into her eyes. No words, no questions… just a silent offering of choice.
The mattress yields beneath her as she sits, the deep-blue coverlet cool under her palms. Morpheus remains standing for a breath, framed by the dim spill of starlight, as though memorizing the sight of her here. Then he moves, fluid and deliberate, lowering himself to the bed so that his knees bracket hers.
He leans in, his hands braced on either side of her thighs, and kisses her again. This one is deeper, more certain, the press of his mouth coaxing hers open. His tongue brushes against hers with a tenderness that makes her shiver, tasting her slowly, like the sweet wine they shared was only the prelude.
Her hands rise to his chest, sliding over the firm lines beneath his coatc she feels the steady rise and fall of his breath under her palms, the solid heat of him soaking through the fabric. When her fingers find the edge of his lapel, he lets her tug him closer until his body presses fully against hers, his weight a welcome anchor.
One of his hands leaves the mattress, gliding over her hip in a slow arc before settling at her waist. His thumb strokes there, barely moving, as if mapping the shape of her through the thin material. The other hand comes to her face again, tilting her just so, deepening the kiss with a languid certainty that leaves no room for doubt: he wants this… he wants her.
When he finally breaks away, it is only far enough to trail his lips along her jaw, down the line of her neck. His mouth is warm, his breath a soft counterpoint to the faint scrape of teeth that follows, gentle enough to make her sigh. “Lie back,” he murmurs, and the low timbre of it sends heat coiling in her belly.
She does, the coverlet cool against her spine, the starlight shifting across the ceiling above. He follows, one knee on the mattress, one hand at her hip, guiding himself down until he’s over her. His hair falls forward as he kisses her again, one hand sliding beneath the fall of her skirt to rest against the smooth skin just above her knee.
The touch is reverent, fingers tracing upward with a slowness that makes her breath stutter. His palm glides over the curve of her thigh, the pads of his fingers brushing higher, inch by inch, until they find the edge of her underthings. He pauses there, his eyes on hers, waiting.
She nods once, wordless, and the tension in his shoulders loosens. His fingers slip beneath the fabric, the heat of his hand startling against the softness of her skin. He strokes her gently at first, learning her with each careful pass, the pace steady and unhurried.
Her own hands find the fastenings of his coat, pushing the black fabric back over his shoulders. He lets it fall away without protest, revealing the lean lines of him beneath. She smooths her palms over the crisp shirt, feeling the subtle flex of muscle as he moves against her.
When his fingers slide lower and press into her more firmly, her breath catches against his mouth. He swallows the sound with another kiss, his tongue stroking hers as his hand works her toward a slow, building ache. “Tell me what you need,” he murmurs against her lips, his voice deep and quiet, like the space between dreams.
“You,” she answers, without hesitation. The faintest smile ghosts across his mouth before he kisses her again, his hand withdrawing only long enough to hook into the waistband of her underthings and ease them down her legs. The fabric pools on the floor in silence, forgotten.
Her breath hitches as the last barrier falls away, the air cool against her bare skin until his hands find her again. His palms are warm, steady, sliding up the length of her thighs in a slow, deliberate sweep. It’s not just touch, it’s the way he looks at her as he does it, his eyes dark and intent, as though he’s etching her into himself.
He lowers himself, the weight of his body settling more fully over hers. The contact is grounding, the heat between them blooming in the quiet. She runs her hands over his chest, down his sides, feeling the long lines of muscle through his shirt until the need to see him, really see him, becomes too much.
“Let me,” she whispers, fingers finding the buttons at his collar. He doesn’t speak, but he nods, leaning back just enough to give her room.
She works each button open with care, her knuckles brushing the cool expanse of his chest as she goes. When the last one comes undone, she pushes the shirt from his shoulders, her palms sliding over his skin… i’s smooth and cool in some places, warm in others, alive beneath her touch.
Morpheus bends to kiss her again, and as his mouth moves over hers, his hands begin a slow exploration: over her hips, the curve of her waist, up to cup her breasts with a reverence that makes her shiver. His thumbs brush lightly over her nipples, coaxing a sigh from her that he swallows with his next kiss. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, so soft she almost thinks she imagined it.
She arches into his touch, her fingers finding the fastening of his trousers. He shifts, helping her ease them down his hips, until the last of the barriers between them falls away. The heat of him against her bare thigh makes her breath catch, her body tightening in anticipation. He pauses there, his forehead resting against hers, breathing her in. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she answers, the word certain and steady despite the racing of her heart. He kisses her once more, slow, deep, like a seal on her choice, before lowering himself, his hips fitting between her thighs. One hand cradles her face, the other steadying himself as he presses forward. The stretch is slow, careful, every inch deliberate until he is fully seated in her.
For a moment, neither of them moves. She holds onto him, her hands framing his face, memorizing the feel of him here, the weight and heat and solidity. His eyes close briefly, a flicker of something almost vulnerable passing over his features before he begins to move.
Each thrust is unhurried, measured, the kind of rhythm meant for savoring rather than racing toward an end. His body fits to hers with a precision that feels inevitable, as if this was always where they were meant to meet. His hand strokes up her side, his thumb tracing idle circles at her waist, grounding her even as each motion builds the heat between them.
She tangles her legs around his hips, drawing him closer, deeper. The shift pulls a low sound from him, quiet but raw, and she feels it reverberate in her own chest. “Nuala,” he breathes, as though the name itself is an anchor.
Her fingers thread through his hair, pulling him down to kiss her again, her lips parting under his with a desperation that is still somehow tender. The world beyond this bed… the summons to faerie, the shadow over his fate, falls away entirely, leaving only this moment, only them.
The pace between them stays unhurried, as though they both know the moment they give in fully, it will tip them closer to the end. His hips roll into hers with a measured rhythm, each stroke deep and deliberate, his body moving in perfect sync with the soft, involuntary sounds she makes against his mouth.
Every thrust draws her tighter around him, every brush of his hand against her waist or thigh grounding her even as her pulse climbs. Her nails skim his back, just enough to make him breathe a little harder, and the sound sends a fresh wave of heat through her. He kisses her again, slower now, his tongue sliding lazily against hers as if tasting her is as important as the way their bodies fit.
When his mouth leaves hers, it travels to her neck, the hollow beneath her ear, down over her collarbone. Each kiss feels like a deliberate mark, not possession but memory. She tilts her head back, giving him more, and his hand slides between them, fingers finding her with the same patience he’s kept all night. Her breath stutters. “Morpheus…”
“Let go,” he murmurs, low and steady, his forehead pressing to her temple as his fingers work in perfect counterpoint to his thrusts. It builds slowly, the pressure winding higher and higher until it feels like she’s suspended on the edge of something vast. The care in his movements makes it sharper, almost unbearable in its intimacy, like he’s not just touching her body but holding every fraying thread of her together.
When it hits, it’s like falling into a tide that’s been waiting for her all along. Her body tightens around him, the rush of pleasure pulling a soft, startled cry from her lips. He follows her down into it, his hips pressing deep one last time before he groans quietly, the sound rough and almost reluctant, spilling into her with a shudder that seems to sink into his very bones.
For a long moment, neither of them moves, the only sounds are the slowing of their breaths and the faint hum of the Dreaming outside the windows. His weight is warm and solid above her, his face buried briefly against her neck as if he can hide there from the inevitability waiting for them.
When he finally shifts, it’s only enough to ease them onto their sides, his body still wrapped around hers: one arm curls beneath her head, the other draped over her waist, holding her close as if the act alone could keep the morning from coming.
She rests her forehead against his collarbone, her eyes closed, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. His fingers trace idle lines over her hip, over the dip of her back, never straying far, as though even in stillness he needs the reassurance of her presence. “Thank you,” she whispers, though she’s not sure if she means for tonight, for the boon, or for letting himself be this with her at all.
He doesn’t answer right away, instead, he presses a slow kiss to the crown of her head. “You will not be forgotten,” he says at last, and though it is not quite a promise, it feels close enough to one that she lets herself believe it.
In the dark quiet of his chambers, with his arms still around her, Nuala lets herself pretend, for tonight only, that there is no leaving, no parting, no shadow waiting for him… there is only this.
The night folds in around them, the kind of darkness that feels more like shelter than absence. Nuala drifts in and out of sleep, never fully slipping from the awareness of his body against hers: the steady, grounding weight of his arm draped over her waist, the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek.
When she wakes enough to shift, he adjusts without stirring fully, tucking her closer as though some part of him refuses to let her go even in dreams. When the pale light of false dawn begins to creep across the chamber, she knows it’s time. She can feel it in the subtle tightening of his arm around her, in the way his breathing changes, not the deep, even rhythm of rest, but the measured quiet of someone already bracing for the inevitable.
She opens her eyes to find him watching her, his expression unreadable except for the faint shadow of something she doesn’t often see in him: reluctance. “Morning,” she says softly, though it feels strange to name it in a realm where time bends and folds as it pleases.
“Morning,” he echoes, his voice low, still softened by the night. Neither of them moves for a long moment, the silence feels fragile now, as if the smallest wrong word might shatter it into something sharp.
Eventually, he shifts, his hand smoothing once over her hair before he draws back enough to sit, and the absence of his warmth is immediate. She follows him up, the sheets pooling around her waist, watching as he reaches for the shirt discarded the night before. His movements are deliberate, unhurried, but they carry the quiet finality of someone preparing for parting.
When they stand, they face each other in the wash of early light, the faint gleam of the constellations carved into the headboard still glimmering behind them. She wants to reach for him, to anchor herself in his presence just a little longer, but she forces her hands to remain at her sides.
“I won’t ask for another boon,” she says, her voice steadier than she feels. “I won’t ask for a promise you can’t keep.” He tilts his head slightly, studying her as if waiting for the rest.
“I will only ask this,” she continues, her eyes holding his. “Try to survive… for yourself, if not for me, just… try to keep yourself alive. Don’t give up hope.”
Something flickers in his expression, a ripple of emotion that moves too quickly to name, before he nods once, slow and deliberate. “I will try.” It’s all she can ask.
He steps forward then, closing the space between them, and cups her face in both hands. His kiss is brief, but it holds the same care as the night before, the same unspoken weight. When he lets her go, it is with a touch that lingers at her jaw before falling away entirely.
And then the moment is over, and the Lord of the Dreaming stands before her again, every inch the figure she first met, except now she knows the warmth he can hold, and she carries it with her as she leaves.
He lets her go with that final touch, and the quiet in the room settles heavy between them. Nuala draws in a slow breath, willing the burn in her throat to ease, she will not leave him with the sight of her falling apart: she will not stain this night with anything that might cheapen it.
Morpheus does not follow as she turns toward the door, but she can feel his gaze on her with every step. The black wood parts at her approach, opening onto the long corridor beyond, where the pale light of the Dreaming’s dawn seeps in through the high windows.
Her feet carry her through familiar halls, each turn a reminder of the life she is about to leave behind: the vaulted ceilings she has walked beneath countless times, the soft, dreamlike air that always smelled faintly of starlight and earth after rain… every step seems louder than it should, the echo of her boots on stone cutting through the stillness.
She passes the gardens, the archways framing glimpses of moon-pale blossoms and silver fountains. The flowers sway gently in the breeze, though there is no wind, as if the Dreaming itself knows she is going and is offering its farewell. Her fingers itch to reach out, to touch one of the blossoms and let its cool petals anchor her here for one more heartbeat, but she doesn’t… she keeps moving.
Ahead, the great doors to the palace loom, their carved panels shifting subtly in the dim light, scenes and shapes rippling like memories. Two sentry-dreams stand on either side, motionless, their eyes following her without comment.
Just before she crosses the threshold, she hesitates. Slowly, she turns her head, looking back down the long stretch of corridor… he is there.
Far away, at the opposite end, framed by shadow and the faint spill of morning light, Morpheus stands where she left him. He hasn’t moved, and though she can’t make out the details of his expression, she knows he is still watching her.
For a moment, it feels like the Dreaming holds its breath. She gives him the smallest of nods, not a bow, not the formal farewell of a subject to her ruler, but something quieter: personal. He inclines his head in return, just enough for her to know it is meant for her alone.
Then she turns away, stepping out into the pale air beyond the palace doors. The great panels close behind her with a muted, final sound, and though she does not let the tears fall, her hands curl tightly at her sides as she walks, holding herself together until she is far enough from the gates that the Dreaming can no longer see her face.
The fact Dream of the Endless will hold Nuala’s chin in a similar way. I’m unwell. We are not ready for Sandflower. We really aren’t. Ann Skelly and Tom Sturridge are about to make history.
summary: morpheus walks alone in the dreaming, turning over every thought like a stone in his hands. he examines nuala’s quiet infatuation, the way she has been embraced by his realm, and what that says about her (and about him). he measures the man he was against the man he is now, questioning how either might have loved her, and if either could have kept her. it is less a longing for her than it is a relentless self-audit, an unflinching look at what he offers, what he withholds, and why he will not reach for what he secretly wants.
word count: 2.7k
˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞
The Dreaming breathes with him, it is not something his subjects are ever meant to notice: the way the realm shifts and stills in rhythm with its ruler’s thoughts. But Nuala… she seems to notice everything, not always with words, sometimes it’s just the way her head tilts slightly when he enters a room, as if catching the faintest change in the air.
Sometimes it’s her gaze, sharp but softened at the edges, as though she is cataloguing every detail of him and storing it away. Morpheus tells himself she watches out of duty, that it is in her nature, as one who serves, to attend closely to her lord’s mood. But that would be a comfortable lie, and he does not tolerate lies in himself… not anymore.
He sees her, not just as a figure in his court, another guest stranded here by the politics of realms. He sees her as she moves through the Dreaming, her presence folding seamlessly into its tapestry, as though the land itself has decided she belongs.
She is careful with it, never treading carelessly in gardens spun from centuries of dreams, never touching what should not be touched. She speaks to the dreams as if they are living things, which of course they are, but her tone carries that rare, intuitive understanding that such beings crave: respect wrapped in warmth, authority hidden in kindness.
The others respond in kind: Lucienne greets her with something more than politeness these days, Matthew has stopped his cautious circling and now lands on her arm without hesitation, even the more willful dreams (the ones who delight in needling newcomers until they flee) have found themselves curiously reluctant to test her patience.
She is no ruler here, yet the Dreaming grants her the courtesy and quiet loyalty it offers only to those who are undeniably its own. He wonders if she realises how unusual that is, he wonders if she realises that he notices.
It is… dangerous, to notice her this way. Morpheus is not blind… he knows of the infatuation that glows in her like a candle left in an open window, too purposeful to be mistaken for the flicker of happenstance.
He catches it in the way her eyes linger on him just a fraction too long, in touches that hover at the edge of propriety but never cross it: fingertips grazing his sleeve under the guise of offering a scroll, the faintest brush of her hand as she steps past him in a narrow hall, measured and intentional. She knows exactly where the lines are, and she dances on them with delicate precision.
Once, long ago, in the centuries before his latest imprisonment, before the slow reshaping of his soul, he might have seen that look in her eyes and reached for it. He might have allowed himself to test her resolve with a murmured word or a glance designed to spark fire in return. He might have taken her warmth and bent it toward his own ends, letting her admiration serve as fuel for his own hunger. He had been less patient then, less bound by caution.
Now, he only observes, but observation is not the same as detachment. The more he watches, the more he learns her. How her voice softens when she speaks to the smallest dreams. How she keeps her hands folded before her when she listens, not out of submission but out of focus, the way someone might clasp their hands to still the rest of their body so the mind can move freely.
How she carries herself with a regal bearing that seems unconscious, the kind of grace that cannot be taught. She is not queen of any realm now, yet she moves as though she is still answerable to a crown, still aware that every step is a silent declaration of who she is.
There is charm in her… not the kind spun from enchantment or artifice, but something older, quieter, more insidious in its persistence: a genuine delight in the world and in the beings who inhabit it. Even here, where the landscape shifts like water underfoot, she walks as though she will find something worth loving in every turn of the path.
For a moment, dangerous and treacherous, he lets himself imagine what it would be to indulge her… what it would be to fall. He entertains the fantasy privately, the way one studies a dangerous artifact without breaking its seal.
What if they had met before? He traces the idea as if it were a constellation only he can see, points of light strung between eras, the man he was and the woman she is, and all the gulfs between those facts.
Before the glass cell, before absence carved concavities into him that he still mistakes for purity… before the long, slow unlearning of a divinity that once delighted in righteousness for its own sake.
In that older life, he had been a blade kept honed for a single purpose: the Dreaming must be maintained. He had loved, yes, in ways scorching, in ways catastrophic… but love then had been another instrument he used or was used by.
A pattern he could not stop repeating, Desire met him as a challenge he refused to lose. He remembers how easily the old self split the world into vows and verdicts, how he swore and punished in equal measure, as though both acts were sacred liturgy.
Nuala would have arrived in that era with the same eyes she wears now: earnest, brimming, disconcertingly transparent about what she feels, and he would have seen the infatuation and mistaken it for invitation.
He can all but hear the phantom version of himself purring some silver-threaded line across the space between them, just to taste the heat of her answer. How quickly the old him would have made her a story he told to himself in the dark, a proof that he was wanted, a mirror that reflected him back magnified.
Would she have accepted him? He thinks yes, and the admission is bitter as it is bright. She is kind, she offers herself freely to the places she chooses to belong. He sees how she gives the Dreaming her attention without withholding, how she walks its halls with a gratitude that asks for nothing and still receives.
A younger Morpheus would have stepped forward into that generosity with feet unwashed from other battles, wearing the dust of other names. He would have taken her hand as if to lead her… and gathered her, subtly, around himself. Would it have lasted? He suspects not, and the thought is not self-flagellation so much as it is realistic.
He knows the angles of his old constraints too well. He would have demanded constancy from her heart while hoarding his own hours for the realm. He would have loved in absolutes and expected her to bear the weather of them without balking. He would, inevitably, have punished any tremor of doubt as betrayal, because he punished his own doubts the same way (Calliope learned this cruelty and named it by its right name, Nada learned it and burned).
He almost sees Nuala flinching from the draft his certainty made in those days, that loud wind that swept through rooms and insisted all other voices hush. He almost sees her smile tighten, her kindness grow wary, her step become measured in the way of those who anticipate sudden changes in tide.
The old him would have mistaken her caution for faithlessness, her need to breathe for ingratitude. He might have given her a throne of silence to sit on and asked her to call it honor.
“No,” he tells his phantom self, and the word drops like a pebble in the well of him, rippling outward. “You would have broken her.”
The realm shifts, minutely. Out in the gallery beyond his throne, a door decides to become a window and then returns to door again, as if embarrassed. He hears the scuttle of Merv’s broom, irritated at the architectural indecision of a place that refuses to stay still when its master is thinking too hard. The hypothesis remains: before would have devoured her, and after is more complicated.
He watches after unfold in the quiet increments that kindness prefers. He watches the way Lucienne begins to consult Nuala about the small matters that oil the hinges of a realm: which minor dreams to post at the margins of unfamiliar visitor’s paths, which new corridors want names, whether the lighting in the west wing is more honey or straw at sunset.
Lucienne’s questions are not tests… they are invitations, and when Nuala replies, her voice is soft but assured, a register that recognizes responsibility without craving it.
The library, too, seems to welcome her. It possesses no doors, only thresholds that open or close at their own discretion, but it opens for Nuala every time. Once, Morpheus pauses unseen in one of the upper ledges while Nuala climbs the spiral to the mezzanine where Lucienne keeps her cart of repairs.
Nuala runs a finger along the spine of a book whose title moves when looked at too directly, and she chuckles under her breath as if the book had told her a joke. She returns it to the shelf precisely, and the shelf seems satisfied in that small, smug way of objects that were handled well. Morpheus notes the tiny exhale he makes when he sees her there and wonders when his body began believing that her presence signifies an exhale’s worth of safety.
He goes to the gardens at night. He tells himself it is for the sky he prefers there, a firmament stretched with darker cloth that shows the silk of stars to better effect… but the path he takes is the one that crosses the grove she favors.
She brings tea to the gardens in a porcelain cup from her own world, the scent minds its manners in the air, but lingers. He finds the faint ring the cup leaves in the dew beading the ancient bench, and he is surprised by the tenderness that passes through him at the proof of her comfort.
There is, too, the matter of Matthew, notorious skeptic. The raven exists to be contrarian and loyal in the same breath. He improbably assigns Nuala both roles as if it is the most natural division. Matthew complains about her when she is near. “She’s got that fae politeness, boss, you never know if you’re about to get a compliment or a riddle”… and sits on her shoulder anyway, preening himself into a shine he normally reserves for funerals.
More telling still: Goldie wriggles like a friendly comet whenever she approaches, and that small gargoyle disdains nearly everyone who is not Dream or Cain and Abel.
Perhaps most startling is the way even the nightmares adjust their angle around her. They do not flatter or defer: nightmares have their own dignity and their own hunger. But they do not needle her, and when she corrects them, gently, about matters of timing or discretion, they accept her edits with the stoicism they usually offer only to Lucienne.
He tells himself he will examine the metaphysics later: whether the Dreaming mirrors his regard or whether it speaks with its own voice on the subject of belonging. He postpones the inquiry again and again because either answer is dangerous.
In the throne room, she learns to stand at the precise distance that asserts both proximity and independence. He can feel when she enters; the air tightens in a way that is not unpleasant. She keeps her gaze lower than his when others are present, which is the choreography protocol demands, but when their eyes do meet, briefly, between petitions, there is no capitulation in hers… only clarity.
Admiration, yes, the warmth that seeks him even when she disciplines it into stillness. But also the steadied upturn at the corners that says she knows herself, and will not barter that knowledge for a more exalted place at his side.
He does not allow himself to imagine that place, not while he sits a king among witnesses. He does not allow the drift of thought that would place her nearer, that would bend his arm down so hers could settle into the crook it was, it seems, shaped for.
He becomes again a blade for the length of court: he points himself at justice, at the texture of dreams that have come unraveled, at the ordinary griefs that still find their way here and require him to weave some new mercy out of old thread.
Later, in the gallery of sigils, he indulges the spectacle of courage his reforms have required. He has attempted humility, one careful change at a time, and still it cuts. He thinks of Nada and he thinks of Calliope. He thinks of the old mask that he wore as justification, that ancient, implacable face of rightness.
He has set the mask down, and he is still not certain he knows how to live without its flinty comfort. He is learning, sometimes learning is a corridor with no lights and no promise that the door at the end will open.
Nuala finds him there once. He has not summoned her, she comes because the gallery has decided to admit her. He knows this because the air sings a note that is new, not warning and not alarm, something like the chord the sea makes in the ribcage when one stands facing the tide and refuses to step back.
He turns, and there she is, at the edge where the floor does not exactly meet the sky, hands folded in front of her as always. She is careful, not to intrude, but also not to flee. “My lord,” she says, without looking at any of the sigils, respect that has learned him. “I can return later, if…”
“You may remain,” he answers, and the permission feels less like indulgence than confession. He could tell her that this room is not for those who were never intended to be called, but he does not. The gallery has already made its ruling, and he has promised himself he will not contradict his realm when it speaks wisely.
She does not ask which sigil is which, and she does not devour the room with curiosity greedy for prestige. She stands in quiet companionship, facing the wall of tokens that represent the terrible arithmetic of his history: the friends he can ask for aid, the enemies he must answer, the bargains that bind even one such as he. He feels something loosen in him, the way a knot loosens when no one pulls.
“If you had come to me before,” he says, and the words take him by surprise. They arrive already formed, as if his mouth were the threshold and some other room had done the speaking. “Long before. You would have found another man.”
Her head tilts, that precise degree he already knows. She feels for the weather under words rather than their surface meaning. “Would he have welcomed me?” she asks softly.
“He would have wanted you,” he says, and it is almost vulgar to admit it plain. “He would not have asked whom you wanted to be.”
For a heartbeat, sadness crosses her face, but it does not stay, she considers him instead… not the past, not the hypothetical man who would have misnamed possession as devotion, but she considers him as he stands now, in the chamber where his solitude has always been loudest.
“And now?” she asks. “Now,” he says, and chooses each syllable with a care that borders on reverence, “I require time to become the man you already believe I am.”
She smiles then, not the bright, public smile that reassures and soothes, but a small, private one that breaks at one corner like light sliding around an edge. “I am patient,” she says. “I am a guest in patience’s house.”
She does not step closer, she does not touch him, she does not offer the kindness that would excuse him from the work. He loves her a little, in that moment, not because she offers herself but because she refuses to lubricate the hinge of change with her own future disappointment.
He feels the truth of it flare inside him and then bank itself carefully, he will not hand her a conflagration and call it warmth. When she leaves, the gallery acknowledges her with a sound like bells heard underwater. He stands very still until the air returns to its usual temperature, then he goes to the gardens because he cannot bear the ceiling any longer.
So. . .not trying to force this on anyone or something, but where are the SandFlower fanfics? i’ve seen multiple edits but no fanfics??? i have no writing skills but i would hype them like a mf if someone write them 😭
