influx
pairing: morpheus x f!reader | rating: E | words: 8.7k | ao3
tags: sexy dream stuff blurries the line between dreams and reality you say?, count me in, alternatively titled what no dick does to a mfer, service top dream, afab reader, oral sex, masturbation, sexual fantasies, pining, mentions of choking, mentions of spanking, mentions of public sex, no use of y/n
summary: "My name. You wondered about my name," the dream that is no longer a dream says. As plainly as possible, as if he's not a stranger in your home.
"Do- do you have one?"
"All beings do."
or
You meet a stranger in a dream.
And then you meet him again.
a/n: i am dipping my fat littles toes in this particular pond. hope y'all enjoy!<3 let me know what worked and what didn't!
It’s really starting to get cold out.
October has just rolled around – autumnal colors all around. Pumpkins freshly harvested from patches set out on the steps of the houses you pass, leaves slowly making their descent from tree crowns. A promise of frosts sits in the air; come morning, the cold would make the warm colors more vibrant.
If it gets too cold you might need to start commuting, you decide, no longer taking the oh-so familiar road you’ve incorporated into your daily routine for months now.
The streets are wide, a winding path you walk along – passing by garbage and street lights, small little shops and narrow alleyways just out of the corner of your eye every so often.
Every day, you walk down this road. It’s routine – just like how putting on socks or brushing your teeth is.
Yet, as you pass another alley, something stops you midstep.
Something about this particular alley on this particular day makes you turn your head as if you’d just caught the eyes of a long lost acquaintance across the room.
And unbidden, an image flickers across your mind.
Large hands pushing up your skirts, finding the gusset of your underwear between your thighs soaked through, all for him, deft fingers sliding beneath wet fabric. A teasing touch against you, the slick slide audible in the dark, quiet alley. Someone could find you, see you, if they had mind enough to just look hard enough for a moment longer.
Your heart skips a beat – the memory as clear as day on your retina.
As if it had been real.
The dreams… the visions, had started a while ago. Unbidden, as wet dreams – ugh – usually were. Of course, it was all just a normal part of being alive, you rationalized. Heated situations in a dream with a crush or someone whose outwardly attributes you liked more than the person themselves was a totally normal, natural response to non-reciprocated attraction.
What wasn’t normal was having them about a person you didn’t even know. And, that they were recurring.
Not one night of reprieve had been awarded to you since it all had first begun.
Every night, he visited you in your dreams.
The man in your dreams hadn’t been known to you. Well, not previously. Now, you felt as if you’d recognize him in a crowd, that you could pick him out in a lineup of all your previous lovers despite him not truly being one of them. Stoic and pale, tall and lithe, composed of lean muscles that rippled under smooth skin, with hands so very large in comparison to your own. A voice that whispered into your ear, deep and dark and holding promises of pleasure everytime it raked across your brain.
The first time you’d seen him it had been a seemingly ordinary dream. Usually, they’d be about losing all your teeth at once while simultaneously trying really hard at an exam in school only to realize you were taking it naked. All the people involved, witnesses to your embarrassment, were usually pieces of a puzzle coerced together simply under the guise that you had some bias from having them there.
Yet… the dream in particular had been nothing but ordinary; not even sexual. You had gone about your usual routine, said your usual hellos and goodbyes, walked on the very road you were trudging along right now, when he had caught your eye. A face in the crowd of muddled features.
He had stared back at you – with consciousness, a responsiveness that didn’t belong in dreams.
It had been impossible not to look back at him – meet his striking gaze.
One moment, he had been there, and in the next, he was gone.
They weren’t real, you tell yourself yet again, bending down, pretending to fix a shoelace in case some unbidden voyeur was privy to your mindless stop on the street. Above, a tree canopy rustles as a bird takes flight, the only evidence of it ever sitting there being the dark feather landing by your feet as you rise.
The way home is a winding one – but the scene replays in your head enough that you feel a sticky heat coil in the pit of your belly. A hunger wanting, no– needing to be slaked with the ease of your own fingers (all the while imagining someone else's) sliding across heated skin.
You think that you must've met him somewhere.
That your subconscious is pulling a mean prank on you with blurry half-imagined images of a man you might’ve maybe (hopefully) snogged on a night out and can’t recall more than that fuzzy encounter of.
That it’s not a stranger, but rather surely some acquaintance or a mutual friend of a friend you’ve been introduced to at a party and promptly forgotten the name of.
That you’ve somehow baked him into your subconsciousness like a calzone.
That you’re so starved for attention that you have wet dreams about the one guy who has proved to be somewhat of a constant in your life.
Good gods, were you really that starved for affection that you had wet dreams about a guy you’d only seen in your dreams?
Your depravity was endless, a bottomless pit.
Because it hadn’t happened just once – no, now, the image of him panting above you was etched to your mind as the code into your apartment complex was.
Finally, you reach your destination – home. You take the steps to your apartment two at a time, riled up by the promise of what awaits in the solace of your bedroom. The steps are made of polished limestone filled with fossilized ammonites that you’d otherwise stop and look at but you’re on a mission now.
Everything lays forgotten as you move into your abode, closing the door and securing it with a physical deadbolt. Then, the weight of the day hits you. A layer of grime and dust surely lingers on your skin, sweat and dirt that came with moving about your business–
A change of plans.
Instinctively, you move towards the bathroom, chucking clothing items as you go, leaving them for a future you to take care of.
You let the water get hot before getting in.
In the shower, you let yourself go, fingers slipping down between wet skin to an even wetter core, teasing yourself just slightly before really getting to work at easing the orgasm out of your body.
In your mind's eye, in your dreams, it’s easy to let fantasy do the work; change your position, have your hands tied or free at a mere whim, shoved faced down or facing your unknown, nameless lover.
It blurs together into a mess – but it’s orderly, kind of – every whim you have is met.
If you imagine him grabbing fistfulls of your hips and pushing down, spewing lewd vitriol against your ear – you get it.
If you imagine your hands tied and him using them for leverage until the change of altitude makes you woozy – you get that too.
Every urge is abid and sated, the fantasy adjusting at once depending on however you’re feeling inclined.
That’s the easy part, recalling the intimate moments as if they’ve been real, emulating his touch on your body.
His hand moving down along your naked front; cupping your pussy in his hand, fingers skirting along slick folds but being withholding, not giving you anything, not until you’re writhing in his grip, reduced into a needy, begging mess–
He talks, too, you recall, fingers picking up their pace – with a deep, baritone voice that ushers praises and harsh little words at just the right moment. Instantly, you incorporate it in your fantasy.
“So good,” he whispers by your ear as you titter on the precipice of yet another orgasm at his hands, fingers working inside you just so, “so good for me.”
No, take it slow, you inwardly scold. Prolong the pleasure just a bit longer. Listening to the constant stream of water running over your body and down down the drain, you steady yourself.
Rewinding, you alter the daydream.
Fingers pressing into you only after you’ve earned them on your knees – your reward a perfect curling motion that has you keening. A sound that only has him roughly pulling you deeper down on his fingers, your back arching as heady pleasure rolls over you in thick, heavy waves.
You moan into the air, air that’s filled with water vapor that condenses, droplets of saturated water that run down your bathroom mirror. Despite the water steadily streaming across your body, you feel the sensation of sweat beading behind your knees; a surefire way of predicting the impending orgasm. Swallowing thickly, fingers pick up their pace.
Hands tied tightly behind your back, large fingers skirting along your innermost thighs, grabbing fistfulls of plump, supple flesh, lightly smacking the fat of your ass, the soft waves of pain and pleasure making your belly coil together hotly. Knowing what’s to come when–
Just right, you curl your fingers, pinching a nipple simultaneously. Teasing at first, building up the anticipation of filling yourself up with your fingers, circling your core until you can’t take it any longer and give into the first few moments of blissful fullness.
One moment, on your back, the other, on your knees. Throat stuffed with cock and cum, and in the next–
Shamelessly moaning into the air, you goad yourself with more to tip over the edge.
His hand twisting in locks of hair, gently coaxing your head towards him, tucking his face against your shoulder, hand covering your mouth as he whispers for you to be quiet, pounding you through an orgasm in a dirty back alley.
Hips undulating, you tense up – voice vibrating in the humid air, reaching a crescendo.
Slender fingers circling your waist, before finally settling on your hips and pulling you down on his cock with soft, pliable resistance–
But it isn’t him. It isn’t real. Has never been.
You stop abruptly.
Defeat washes over you – and still, you try again, scratching at that particular itch, that particular daydream, yearning for the release.
The fall over the edge never comes. Blissful pleasure never arrives despite being right there, and soon the movement of your fingers is a chore, the throbbing in your lower belly almost hurting.
A groan leaves you, head against the bathroom tile, as you flex your cramping fingers, finally relenting. Panting now, hot all over, water still flowing freely across your body.
Only thing you were achieving now was running up your water bill.
Pride swallowed, you twist the blender into icy cold, dousing yourself until you’re nothing but a shivering mess.
You step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around your body, cursing yourself under your breath.
This was all so– so stupid.
It had never been an issue before. Really, you could bust a couple out in an evening if the mood struck – but since this all started, your statistics for masturbation ending with a climax had dwindled hard. Had the graph of your sexual habits been recorded somewhere it would’ve been exponential in it’s decline – off the charts with failure.
You take the disappointment and frustration out on your hair, doing your best in drying it before making your way into the living room. It’s cold there too, and you feel goosebumps rise along your arms, prickling on the back of your neck. Even the mess you’ve left for yourself to take care of annoys you, no help in bettering your rapidly souring mood. You kick a shapeless mass of clothing into a corner, trying to stop the beast in your belly from blossoming and tearing through.
One blanket secured later, you plop down into the sunken down couch – exhausted. Still shivering, you turn on a rerun of some show you’ve already seen a hundred times on Netflix.
All in all – it serves as a little distraction from your already wandering thoughts.
The failed orgasm is still lingering in the back of your mind, a steady thumping in your core that won’t go away with anything other than time. You don’t click the little skip intro prompt that pops up this time; and boredom soon takes over as a scene you know by heart starts playing. With a sigh, you turn over, starting a mindless scroll on your phone instead, nuzzling into the couch that’s finally starting to warm up your shivering body. The show provides a soft chatter in the background, filling the void with some non-tangible noise – a mere background buzz.
Body heavy, you sink down, down, until there’s nothing but the soft embrace of sleep to catch you.
Bent over a desk, cheek pressed into unrelenting varnished wood, slender fingers around your neck as he thrusts inside you, buried to the hilt with one languid roll of his hips. A deep groan ringing through the air, your own sounds muted from his grip around your windpipe.
Your ass high in the air, fingers digging into the divot where thigh meets hips, one large palm ghosting over the round surface of your rear, rising up to give the already tender flesh another well placed hit.
The same rough pace still persists, forcing stuttering little words from your lips, fingers now digging into the softness of your sides. Livid bites left along your neck and shoulders, a hand slipping between your thighs. A sheen of sweat covers your back, as well as the forehead that’s pressed to a shoulder blade.
The gasp that escapes you as the room contorts until it’s no longer recognizable echoes through the void. It’s not even your bed anymore, the sheets you’d hand picked out of the bargain barrel replaced with the softest of silk that flows like water between your clutching fingers.
He’s in front of you, above you–
Behind you.
Fingers tug the towel wrapped around your body off.
You yelp – instantly going to cover yourself.
“Nothing I haven’t already seen,” a murmured whisper intones, goosebumps rising along your skin. “Don’t be shy.”
His hands are cold – in clear difference to your already much too hot body – and your back arches as if to escape from his light touch against your ribcage.
Instead, he’s behind you, and you’re in his lap, with nowhere to run now.
You try again to cover up, but large hands grasp your wrists and pull them back.
Finally, you relent, relaxing.
“There we go,” right by your ear, you hear him, feel him rest his chin on your shoulder, peeking down the valley of your now bared breasts.
Eyes glimmering like stars watching as his own fingers trace gently along bare thighs before finally pushing apart the sticky folds of your pussy. Soft, teasing graces toying with you before finally pushing inside. Curling just right, adding just the right pressure, until you throw your head back against his shoulder, a leg darting out for purchase against the incoming wave of pleasure, thumb flicking against your clit just as he finds that spot inside you–
He stops.
You whine – almost crying from the let down, feeling that fire die down by not being tended to.
“So desperate,” he chides, lips barely tracing yours as you jerk more, convulsing in his hands from being denied. “Still not enough?”
“No– please, more,” you murmur against soft lips, speech rendered into a mess of sloppy and slurred kisses. It could never be enough – you want him, you want to beg for him, want a name to call out into the night, some title to give him more than this shape that comes to you each night.
Your hand digs into him, keeping him close. As if he would disappear if you didn’t.
You want to know him – taste him, share more than just this simple fantasy with him – you want more, crave it even as he’s on top of you, inside you–
“Tell me, do you think you’re awake?”
His voice echoes in the nothingness surrounding you.
What did he mean by that?
He has deviated from the usual course, the script that you’ve willfully, intently, set in your mind and eagerly fulfilled your role in–
“Realizing you’re dreaming wakes most people up.” His hands are on you again, moving across your skin until he’s right by your ear, whispering. “Interesting.”
Halfway – that is how far your fingers, reaching out to grab his own, make it before the world tilts and changes again.
With a start, you wake up, immediately sitting up from the pile of blankets on top of you.
Blearily, you blink.
Are you still watching? Netflix questions, mockingly.
You– you must’ve fallen asleep – the throb between your legs has only intensified, coupled with your heart hammering in your throat and you know– you remember what he had said–
Out of the corner of your eye, something moves.
A man is in your living room.
Not just any man – it’s him.
As clear as day – across the room from you. Dressed in all black and staring at you with familiar, gleaming eyes.
“Um,” you start, heart hammering hard behind your ribcage, working overtime in keeping you alive, “c-c-can I h-help you?”
Ah. Yes, the good ol’ fight or flee or freeze or fawn or–
Customer service.
You clutch the blanket around you even tighter, backing up into the corner of the couch – hyperaware and noticing everything in what feels like a millisecond.
How you’ve slept through at least two episodes of the show you put on. That the street lights outside your windows are bright, casting luminosity on the streets below. That there’s no immediate sign of a break in, no broken door hanging off its hinges. That you’re in nothing but a towel and covered by a blanket.
And, that the man currently across your living room is staring at you.
“My name. You wondered about my name,” the dream that is no longer a dream says. As plainly as possible, as if he’s not a stranger in your home.
“Do–do you have one?”
“All beings do.“
At a loss for words for a moment, mind racing (how did he know that? followed by a frantic oh god why is he here? and how did he even get in?) you offer him your own name, and the side of his mouth twitches upwards, as if he’s known it all along.
“I am Dream of the Endless. Lord of dreams and nightmares, and ruler of the Dreaming.” His voice is deep and calm, much calmer than you yourself feel at the moment. A rich baritone that carries across the room despite him not even raising his voice.
It sounds… pompous, but not untrue. Still, you can’t keep yourself from asking. “Any more titles?”
“Morpheus. Lord Morpheus.”
You hadn’t seriously considered that there’d be more.
“... The Dreaming?”
“Yes, it is my realm, where I hold sovereignty,” he explains, “I am the maker of dreams and nightmares for all beings of this plane.”
For a moment, you wonder if you’ve gone insane. If not getting your rocks off for the past weeks has changed your physiology somehow, that you’re so pent up that you’re hallucinating this. That this isn’t real – just a dream of a dream to soothe your already fragile, underfucked psyche.
“Sleep well?”
Your breath hitches in the otherwise silent room at the question.
At once, you’re aware that he knows. He knows. He’s solidifying that fact with that question – a question he probably knows the answer to too, and is simply asking because your inherent uneasiness of the situation must also be known to him.
Or, as you might suspect when your eyes flick to meet his own and notice the hint of smugness present in them, he is simply asking to embarrass you further.
“Ah, yes, uh,” the heat on your cheeks is mortifying, shame welling up at the base of your throat, “I’m sorry. If– if you’re able to see them and all–”
“I do.”
No need in explaining what they are, then.
“So sorry about that, erm,” the words fumble out of your mouth, “they’re just– fantasies, right, my, uh– my l-lord?”
You probably actually don’t need to address him as such, one of the many titles, but something about him demands your attention, your respect. Is it shame? A part of you cringes inwardly, finding it difficult to meet his hard eyed stare. Eyes that are simply observing you – not eating you alive, not even undressing you. Yet you get the distinct feeling of being under a microscope, every part of you being dissected. Evaluated.
Deciding to err on the side of caution – he is, afterall, a stranger – because you’re not completely sold on what he’s selling you.
Which is an explanation to all of this.
“I don’t understand,” you say, shaking your head. “Are you– are you the one doing this to me?”
Dark brows pull down. For a moment, you think he’s cross with you–
Maybe that’s just the guilt rolling together in your stomach, all bile and acid, because he knows. He knows everything. He’s the unwilling participant, no– object, of your fantasies.
“... These dreams are–” Morpheus pauses.
Filthy, dirty, wholly indecent, you mind intones on its own, preemptively wincing.
”Very imaginative. Thoughts that are all your own work.”
No hammer falls to sentence you – judgment simply not present in his tone.
Unbeknownst (or simply not caring) of your internal dilemma, Morpheus takes in your space, the adjoining kitchen and door to your bedroom before continuing, voice the same even tone. “My involvement never stemmed greater than simply… appearing. It seems you’ve grown attached.”
Attached to the idea of him, just as you’d find a kind stranger enticing. It wasn’t… had it truly been him?
“I just thought–” you don’t even know what you’ve been thinking, how you’ve cause this more than– “that since I daydreamed about it– it could alter what I dreamed of while sleeping–”
“It does. Not to this extent, usually, but you seem to have acquired a gift not many are even born with.” Morpheus says, carefully stepping over the heap of clothes you kicked earlier. “A form of lucid dreaming.”
“... I’m shaping my dreams?” You had seen a couple of videos on lucid dreaming during your teenage years. Followed the seemingly simple instructions a lady in harem pants had listed in a 16 minute long youtube video – but to no avail. Now, however, you would envision scenarios, make up context for your fantasies, was that what he meant?
“Are you surprised?” Morpheus asks, head tilted to the side slightly. “Every day life affects dreams, yes, even fantasies and wishes do. That is not the unusual part.”
Pieces of a puzzle started to form a cohesive picture – you couldn’t control what happened in your dreams as much as you could perhaps entice a certain end to happen. Set one ball rolling and hoping it triggered a response in kind.
Maybe, if you could still find it, you should leave a comment on that video praising its effectiveness.
“Willing them to happen as you see fit, however, is.”
Immediately, you think back on the dream you’d just been pulled out of rather roughly – where you’d been denied, where he had denied you–
“That is why I’m here.” He answers your unasked question as he steps further into your living room, continuing. “It’s usually a gift sought out and refined by dark arts practitioners, not by… lonely girls.” Morpheus almost scoffs a bit at that, as if he’s noticed the singular plate drying on your dish rack, the adjoining single pair of cutlery and glass from last night's dinner, and realized exactly what you are.
Now, you glower at him. You weren’t lonely in many ways of your life – you had friends, family, hell, even coworkers who all adored you. It was just… a lonely life in one particular department, one that you weren’t fully ready to admit to even really coveting.
Yet he isn’t outright judging you – nor the contents of your dreams. Moreso, he seems mildly annoyed at being pulled into this.
That wasn’t wholly true though, was it? No, he had done this – he was the weird magic dream guy, not you.
“I didn’t want this,” you almost hiss back at him, “you’re the one– who's done this– you’re the reason I can’t–”
The words hang in the air, unfinished.
–can’t get my rocks off.
You don’t want to say that – to frame it that way, to admit it.
Some part of your subconsciousness obviously found him desirable, attractive – you couldn’t keep that from him, even now, as he imposed himself in your apartment and had almost scared you half to death – because he had been in every single dream since you’d first laid your eyes on him. Appeared in them, he had said, as if he was just a supporting role in all your fantasies. Knows about the predicament the dreams leave you in every morning – has to know.
Instead, you just glare at him now, grit your teeth. Accusingly. “Fix it.”
At your words, he looks like he’s on the verge of an emotion – but like he can’t decide on which one. Incredulity and genuine curiosity both flit over his stoic features; you dare order him? as well as clear unfeigned interest that that’s exactly what you’re doing.
“As I said,” he finally says after a moment, “you’ve grown attached.”
It’s your turn to scoff. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “You mortals do like excuses.”
Instantly, you regret all the very good things you’ve inwardly thought of him, a flash of annoyance welling up inside of you. Morpheus was certainly much ruder like this than in your dreams, where he was all willful, enthusiastic compliance to your whims. You suck your teeth at him. “Why are you even here?”
“I have already told you. It’s a phenomenon rarely seen, and I’ve come to inspect it further.”
Describing it like you’re nothing more than bacteria on a petri dish, a mere body ready for autopsy – clinical, medical, distanced.
“And you’re doing that by… breaking and entering my home?” You look away from him, fighting against the flush of emotion moving up your shoulders and neck. “Could’ve just knocked on my door instead of sneaking up on me in my sleep.”
“Only one of those statements is true.”
You’re just about to question which one he meant when you note the faint lilt of amusement in his tone.
You don’t need to see him to know that he’s pressing closer to where you’re still sprawled out on the couch.
“Here I thought you were inviting me over when you asked for more.”
Your head whips back to him – just to find him peering down at you.
Much closer than before.
Tendrils of heat sink their clutches into you at once.
“I can’t help but wonder… if you got a taste of the real thing, would it stop? Would you stop calling me to come fill you up in the middle of the night?” Leaning down, his fingers wrap around your chin. “I do have a realm to tend to, other duties to… see to.”
The shift in the air is palpable.
Your mouth is so dry now. This feels so much more real than anything else before – you’re conscious, this is not a dream, you finalize like a mantra, fingernails digging into your palms.
A light slap to your cheek, ordering you to open up your mouth, to show him his spend on your tongue before being allowed to swallow.
The image had come unbidden – that it’s a particularly degrading one is even more mortifying. Pupils blown wide, you peer up at him through your lashes.
“Even now, you want it.” His thumb brushes against the plump of your lower lip as he regards you. His tone indicates that he’s almost… surprised at it, your willingness.
Embarrassed, you come to your own defense.
“I don’t.” You lie.
A peculiar sound leaves him – something halfway between a scoff and a laugh.
“You are as predictable here as you are in your dreams,” he says, sounding far too amused for your liking, thumb sweeping along your cheekbone.
Then, he kisses you, all slow and soft.
The protest that had sat on the tip of your tongue is swallowed down.
One hand curls in the front of his shirt, the other wrapping around a bicep reached out to support himself on the couch’s backrest, searching for purchase. The rest of your body freezes, not yet answering the kiss in kind.
Eyes squeezing shut, you try making sense of this, this whole situation. The interest that’s been rewarded you has been for reasons you barely understand, abilities you didn’t even know you possessed in the first place–
At once, you sink into the couch pillows, escaping the kiss but not the hand that has settled on the back of your neck. Still, it lets you fall back with no resistance.
He – Morpheus, you inwardly remind yourself of his name – hovers above you, tilting his head to the side imploringly. Like a crow would, or how dogs do at funny sounds.
Swallowing uncomfortably, you break the gaze he has you in. Despite that, his eyes stay on your face, pinning you to the couch as much as the weight of him above you does.
At first, you don’t know how to put the words that sit on the forefront of your mind. You were overthinking this, you were thinking far too little, you were–
“What you said before… Am I controlling you? H-have I been controlling you?” Your eyes search Morpheus' face.
He snorts. “You are not nearly powerful enough for that.”
Good to know, you think, shifting beneath him, still. At least there’s that.
Even with his body hovering above you, with layers of clothes and fabric separating your bodies, you feel yourself flush, an instinctive reaction to him, the object of all your desires and pining, being so close, so real.
After a moment of silence, you start again. “You’re doing this to make it stop? Will it work?”
Morpheus seems to weigh his options a bit – all of them, the consequences of whatever reply he’ll give you obviously fluttering across his mind – before he goes on.
“It is… a working theory. If simply fulfilling your imaginations in the Dreaming would have been enough to keep you satiated,” he lingers on the word enough that you feel a fresh flush travel up your shoulders, “then I would worry about how much power you’ve already managed to steal from me.” After a moment’s longer deliberation, he adds: “... Honestly, it is seldom something like this occurs.”
“I haven’t stolen anything.” You huff. You hadn’t willfully robbed him of anything.
“Maybe not. Perhaps it was a gift.” Fingers trail up your bare arm, goosebumps rising in its wake, his eyes following the path he traces. Almost contemplatively, as if he’s just seen you for the first time, he goes on. “When I first felt the promise within you as you dreamt… it was a mistake showing myself in your dreams. Now, I am simply dealing with the consequences of my own recklessness.”
Reassurement aside, it is also a bit gratifying, knowing that he’s at your beck and call. That he’s here because of you – because it’s you. That the interest is mutual, in some capacity.
That this isn’t a pity fuck – not one solely reserved for lonely girls who happen to call the Lord of Dreams into their own little fantasies. This was as much him as it was you.
“Then– take it back.”
“Oh, I am eager to make sure it is returned to where it belongs,” the slightest uptick of his mouth punctates the last bit, a promise of imminent closeness, the word stressed with weight as he leans down to whisper right by your ear, “for the both of us.”
And even though he’s kissed you hundreds of times in countless dreams – this first, proper one is tentative, uncertain. A chaste press of his lips to your own, all soft and unimposing.
Searching for any lingering doubts, making sure–
A pause follows as your eyes meet again. Morpheus pulls back slightly, brows tugging down again. Instantly, your arms move on their own accord, wrapping around his neck. You pull him back down, into another kiss, this one claiming more, allowing more. Fighting against the smile you feel spread across your lips when he answers the kiss with the same fervor is hopeless. At once, fire starts to spread under your skin, cinders smoking in your belly, his hands clutching you against him in return.
He tastes soft, like rainwater and fog, and dark and deep like wine, musky and minty all at once. Something to get drunk on, lost in. Nothing like you could ever conjure up yourself.
Your hands leave his neck – moving down his collar between layers of fabric and shoulder blades, feel them move as he settles against you, hands adjusting you underneath him, scratch your nails against whatever skin he’s allowing you to see, to touch. Searching for a definite clutch to assure you that it’s real. As if on cue, he lets the dark coat fall off him, your eager hands just as helpful as his own when in return he makes short work of the fabric between you. The towel falls off your body as easily as it had in your dream, discarded and out of sight.
Despite yourself, you keen into the kiss, feeling a soft haze settle into your mind, as if you’re on the verge of slipping into easy sleep, hitting your senses and spreading through you like the first warmth of a bath.
It’s delicious, languid bliss.
Bodies molding against each other, settling into the natural curve of each other, thighs spreading to let him between them; teeth and tongue and lips mingling together in the kiss. Your fingers tread through the hair at the nape of his neck, humming softly when he pulls back from the kiss.
Slender fingers dig into bare skin, his hands maneuvering you beneath him. They touch every inch of skin within reach; the pads of his fingers dragging against hip bones, along every rib, between your bare breasts and trailing along the natural curve of them.
Finally, his hand sweeps across your neck, the tips of his fingers running along the column of your throat before lightly tracing your collarbone. When the hand pulls back, it’s replaced with his mouth finding the side of your neck, teeth biting down. Your breath hitches from the sting, clutching at him even harder as a delicate sound leaves his own lips.
“What do you want?” Morpheus mummers against your ear, lips brushing against the sensitive skin. “Ask and I’ll give.”
“Mouth,” you whisper out, breathlessly, “I want your mouth on me.”
He must know what you meant, where you mean.
Yet the path there is tortuous and slow.
Arms unwrap around him to give him freedom to travel the path further down, another press of his lips to the intimately hidden skin behind your ears, your clavicle and sternum given the same attention. Little love bites left in his wake, never hard enough to bruise or break the skin even if they make you squirm beneath him.
Finally, he finally seals his lips around one stiff nipple without anymore of the slow, teasing buildup. Toying with the hard nub with lips and tongue, teeth nipping lightly, shockwaves of warm pain and pleasure spreading out from your chest, curling in on itself deep in your abdomen. It’s not until you start to shake and whine earnestly that he switches over and lavishes its twin with the same attention, kneading the other in his broad hand.
Your fingers tread through dark hair, urging him down with more force than needed to further incite him downwards. Even as he maneuvers you easily, your fingers fist in the back of his collar, tugging upwards before he catches on and lets you drag the shirt off him.
When he finally relents, it almost takes you by surprise. Large hands get a hold of your hips, hauling you down until you hang off the edge of the couch, before letting them settle on the back of your knees. The soft pressure of his forearms urges them up, like you’re nothing but a doll in his hand, tilting your pelvis up while he simultaneously sinks down his knees. Hearing his breathing deep at the visual of your spread legs, center slick and heated, is almost as gratifying as the swipe of his thumb against your clit that follows. Eyes locked with yours, he tastes the wetness as your mouth falls open as a new wave of want rushes through you, hips arching up to entice him into hurrying up.
As if on demand, a large hand circles around a thigh, butterflying out against the softness of your belly, a throaty hum leaving Morpheus.
It’s a visual for you too – seeing him on his knees, framed by soft thighs, eyes gleaming as he finally leans down–
Slowly, a silken, dexterous heat envelopes your clit.
The sound that leaves you is desperate; long and pitched low in your throat, the joints in your fingers almost locking with how you tense up. It nearly hurts with how good it feels – and you let it be known, vocal cords not able to keep in the loud moans. Thighs clamp shut around him, starting to squirm with a needy gasp as his tongue flutters over your clit in broad, slow strokes. His grip tightens around your thighs, giving a hard squeeze, the soft pressure on your belly increasing.
It’s almost impossible to not tilt your hips up and meet the unhurried laps of his tongue, and it’s almost harder to remain unmoving when you notice the prickly friction of stubble across your innermost thighs. Not a wholly unpleasant sensation but rather… tickling. The soft laugh that makes it past your lips as you squirm yet again is rewarded with a hard stare and an even harder hold circling your thighs, keeping them open as he pushes you further into the couch. A silent order to keep still.
You bite your lip as he uses his teeth softly against your thigh, fingers flexing in the upholstery below you. Morpheus has given you all the incentive to obey.
Not until you're well and properly still does he move again.
He’s warm, not at all like in your dreams, and he’s velveteen against you; tongue rolling in repeated soft circles against that bundle of nerves, swollen with need.
You think that there’s an easy way around this all – Morpheus doesn’t need to do… any of this. Not only the reassurement he had so willingly provided after you’d shown the slightest of doubt, but also–
You’d been slick and ready from the moment you woke up. Really, the dream he had pulled you out of had been more than enough to ensure that. This was as needless as an AC on the North Pole. Maybe, it’s simply because you asked.
Yet, as you peer down at him again at a particularly long stroke of his tongue, you meet his eyes yet again. The striking eyes are already watching you; taking it in, watching you come apart underneath him. A new rush of arousal surges through you, wetter at the mere thought that he’s enjoying this, that this is for him as much as it’s for you – following your whims, making your fantasies come alive–
Morpheus’ motivations are a mystery to you – and impossible to focus on, too busy letting the high tide of pleasure swallow you whole. His tongue circles around your center without pushing past the ridge into you, so close in giving you something to tighten around.
“Please,” you gasp, hands twitching with need to hold onto something, to ground yourself with, to fill you up with, “I– I need–”
Two fingers sink into you.
Instinctively, one hand tangles in his disorderly dark hair, anchoring him closer, harder into you, the other grabbing his hand splayed out across your belly still.
Morpheus’ smug hum vibrates through you, nose brushing against your clit as you start to stutter.
Soft and easy, meeting plump resistance and your own tightening walls, soft and wet heat, a slick sound as he starts moving the digits. Lazy, languid movements that give you delicious stretch, friction. A steady rhythm that’s just what you need – flashes of electricity moving up your spine with every slow pump of his fingers.
Then, they curl into a coaxing motion, and the pressure is almost punishing, coupled with his lips locking around your clit again, sucking as he repeatedly taps against that soft place inside of you.
It’s devastating.
“I’m– I’m gonna– oh–” you breathe out, managing to unravel your voice from where it’s stuck in your throat, everything seizing up into one big wave, grip on his hair turning steely. He doubles down – giving you just what you need, latching onto anything you’ll give him.
Hot white lightning floods your veins – and the pent up weeklong backlog of being denied bursts through, wringing itself out, tightening up like a vice. Stars sparkle behind your eyes, a broken moan leaving your lips as you twist on the fingers working the orgasm through your entire system, legs trembling. All of your synapses are on fire, feeling every precise flick over the oversensitized nub wreak havoc on your nerve endings, every crook of his fingers prompting an influx of heat.
The force of it nearly makes you fall off the couch.
Luckily, his hands are there, holding you down, securing you against the furniture so you have no wiggle room, unable to do anything but take the shockwaves that flood your system, no choice but to just take the fingers working the orgasm through you.
When your muscles finally relax and you go limp in his hold, you fill your lungs with oxygen, chest rising and falling. Panting into the air, feeling the aftershocks sending flickers of electricity through muscles contracting. The scent of sex hangs heavy in the air, the faint soapy smell of your showergel, as well as something wholly different from yourself. The hand on your belly moves, and you notice that you’re still clutching at Morpheus’ hair. You let the cramp like hold relent, and he unlatches himself from between your still shaking thighs.
A line of gossamer slick still connects his mouth to your core. Thoughtlessly, you dart your hand out and collect the wetness with your fingers. All motor skills leave you in his hands – your body acting on its own accord rather than how you want it to.
Heady eyes move between the slippery fingers and your own gaze, peering up at you through thick, dark lashes. With the barest of motion, he takes the digits into his mouth.
Eyes wide, pupils blown, you watch the peek of pink tongue run over your fingers, heat coiling together tightly in the pit of your abdomen. His lips are warm, soft against the pads of your fingers, as he pulls back, drinking in the look plastered on your face.
“You are just as demanding here as you are in your dreams,” he says, sounding too amused for your liking. A secret joke you’re not wholly in on.
You watch him rise up between your thighs, eyes immediately lowering–
Now, you notice that he’s as naked as you are as he stands between your spread legs. And he wasn’t done with you yet.
You gasp when he pulls you up with him. He grabs just below your knees as he stands, adjusting you until your knees bend inwards towards your head.
A thin, barely there, trail of hair on his chest and stomach catches your eyes, almost translucent and unnoticeable if you weren’t looking for it. You run your hand over it, fingers skim along his adonis belt, following the natural curve of the bone and down. “Imagine if I was more demanding,” you say, a bit breathlessly, watching alabaster skin twitch under your touch, the flesh that’s stretched over bones and lean muscle, pressing your fingers to his heart to really see if there’s something there, “what then.”
In return, Morpheus grabs your wandering hand, pressing his lips to the back of your fingers hastily. The both dark and bright glimmering eyes catch your own. The cosmos must be in them, you think, as they sparkle with something much more indelible than you could ever hope to be.
What you’re thinking of, the realization that hit you, must show on your face, because the faintest of smiles graces his lips as he traps the wandering hand to your side, stopping any further investigation of him.
“More,” he finally answers, as something blunt and slick presses between the apex of your thighs, the glide made easy by your own wetness, when it catches on the ridge and–
“I’d give you more.”
With one surefire thrust, he’s filled you to the hilt – the baritone groan leaving him reverberating through the room.
Your mouth agape as your vocal cords work, but no sound comes.
Quickly, you snag your fingers around his wrist, around one bicep, and his own fingers dig into soft, pillowy flesh. He pulls back and thrusts down, the stretch of him instantly making your legs quiver, supporting himself on the edge of the couch, easily maneuvering a leg over his shoulder.
Staggered at first, the pace he sets has your eyes rolling with every inch pushed into your waiting cunt. A groan rattles through his narrow chest, cock seated inside of you, grinding his pelvis against your own. You moan, hips arching up, plainly asking for more. And he grants it; the leg over his shoulder that he’s keeping there almost cramps up from the pleasure, and you feel a hot breath let out against the soft skin behind your knee, his lips pressed against the skin he’s able to reach.
He fucks you through the couch.
At least, that's what it feels like.
It’s a pounding – the couch springs underneath you doing little to absorb the shock as you take his cock, barely offering any plush comfort. He fills you completely, reaching deep and hitting something completely shattering within you. Broad hands grip your thighs, keeping you flush and filled completely with him. Every snap of his hip brushes against your clit, adding little bursts of stars behind your eyelids.
When you start calling out his name, begging for more, he murmurs against your skin, back bending to kiss the salty sheen off your brows and collarbones.
And suddenly, you’re caged under him.
Slender fingers settle into the plump of your rear, and instinctively your ankles lock over narrow hips. Letting gravity do the work as he thrusts down, Morpheus drives the pace even further, making your wail and digging your nails into his back, shoulders, anything you can reach, tugging on the hair at the nape of his neck.
When his mouth covers yours it’s mostly to keep you quiet, you’re sure.
It’s comforting – the heat of him above you, covering you like how blankets of snow cover the streets in the middle of winter. Finding comfort in being wanted and needed, coveted, in the way that you feel you need him, cling to him, head thrown back as his strokes hit deeper and deeper, whispers of encouragement leaving his lips all the while.
What was tentative and searching at first turns into a fervor; more, you think, more.
Even as he surrounds you utterly, completely. In every breath, you smell him, taste him, feel him as he rocks into you. Lips eagerly opening for each other without any hesitation, a hot need, a want, rising in your chest. Every ounce of closeness that he offers, you take and swallow whole. Nails dig into his shoulders, as his own fingers do the same to your hips, grip on the cusp of bruising.
You feel bent in half – his forehead against yours, a salt sweat covering your body. You start to moan in earnest; you feel yourself clutching around him, the first warning pulses of an orgasm rippling through from your toes to the veins in your throat seizing up. All the air rushes through your lungs – up and out, twisting into a shout.
Every movement is precise, every caress and kiss and bite he rewards across your skin serving a purpose. It’s perfect; it has you keening, writhing like molten metal has filled your veins. The air is filled with your quick, rapid breathing. His own low, dark grunts and praises against the shell of your ear are private, reserved only for you. Your toes curl as if there’s hot sand below them, like you’re racing across the hot dunes of a desert, like you’re falling into quicksand and sinking down into the hot center of the earth. The way he takes you is rigorous; leaving nothing behind to have you wanting. It’s deliberate, knowing, of both you and your wants, and you think that anyone else would pale in comparison to him.
No one would – could – ever compare.
The second orgasm unfurls, wicked and hard, crashing through you. It burns a hole in the pit of your stomach, clutching at Morpheus, back arching to keep him close–
It doesn’t stop, he doesn’t stop, not relenting an inch as he pushes you over the edge you’ve been begging for, imagining for weeks on end. Every thrust tightens your cunt until everything inside you is fierce and tense, chest heaving with almost seismic force, wet and hot bliss.
It’s devastating, utterly destructive – complete pleasure that soars through you.
Head dropping to your shoulder, Morpheus drags himself over that same brink as soon as you’re done toppling over, hips stuttering against your own until his pelvis presses against yours and stays there, grinding deep with a throaty groan.
Gradually, things start to return to you; Morpheus' forehead pressed to your sternum, the tranquility around you, watching dust particles dance in the soft light coming from outside your window. The breath he takes as he holds you still is deep, slowly pulling himself out of you. Immediately, gravity makes itself known by the sticky wet that runs down your innermost thighs. You shudder at it, the unpleasant feeling of cum slowly leaking out of you.
It doesn’t matter though – no, you couldn’t do anything about it if you wanted to.
You’re boneless. Joints all locked up, stiff from the position, panting breath rising towards the ceiling. A dull throb still persists between your legs, aftershocks of the way your muscles have been working, the comedown starting to kick in.
The couch is worn down, sunken in after years of diligent use.
But at the moment, it’s the most comfortable thing you've ever felt.
And you sink down into it, let yourself be taken into Morpheus arms as he leans down into the couch.
You groan into the air, hand thrown over your eyes.
“Sated.” Morpheus’ voice is soothing, but the statement is plain. As if you’re some fairytale beast he’s just offered a sacrificial lamb to, and was now awaiting a boon. Pleasure lingers, as does the weight of him, the feel of him inside you. His voice is smooth, lulling, a promise of the sleep that would come, eventually – as inevitable as dreams themselves.
Fleetingly, you wonder if he’d still meet you there, in that inbetween place, where all your previous encounters had taken place.
“Are you serious? Who– where else could I get fucked like this? I’m ruined.” You moan, like you’re a maiden who's just been sneaked out of her virginal purity by showing too much ankle.
The thought, that certain consequence, hasn’t seemed to dawn on the King of Dreams, Lord Dream or whatever it was. Or at least, that’s what his silence tells you. When no reply comes after another moment, you part the fingers across your eyes, just in time to see him move.
And then, he’s rolling you over, hovering above you as you lay beneath him, heart suddenly stuck in your throat – staring down into your eyes intently.
“Maybe,” Morpheus closes in on you again, leaning over you, lips barely skimming yours as he follows up that particular thought, “this shouldn't be the last time then?”
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i read a total of three (3) morpheus/reader fics before i started writing this. happy sandman renewal and what not!!
is the ending a set up for a sequel? well,,,
let me know what worked and what didn’t! <3
EDIT: this ended up getting a sequel! read halcyon here
