Where Memories Never Fade and Fairy Tales Come True | Dream of the Endless x f!Reader
The title is a mouthful, but the Dreaming and its master never do anything by half measures. Whether it's creating worlds or courting a new lover.
Rated S for Smiling Morpheus (and also sorta kissing)
Thanks to @captainpoopweinersoldier @whats-rambled-rambled and @laurelwen for putting up with me going on and on about the damn thing.
I'd apologize for the delay, but I'm honestly just happy I got this one done lol
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The lush and verdant landscape before you can only be a dream. The green of the rolling hills is too vibrant, the blue of the sky with its perfectly painted clouds too brilliant. And yet, even knowing this, you find yourself in awe, feet trailing the gently worn path that splits through the field of wildflowers. The air is thick with the perfume of them and you smile in the vague knowledge that no pollen will irritate your sinuses and that the butterflies and bees will leave you in peace.
A tree looms ahead, branches stretching upward and outward, blossoming against the vault of sky. It draws you ever so gently, a tug in your chest you’re all too eager to follow. But it’s beneath the breeze-blown boughs that you discover what truly calls. A toy box. Your toy box. The one from your childhood that you haven’t seen in far too many years.
How strange and delightful to pick your way through it. Old toys greet you as old friends, your heart aching with glee at the sight of ancient stuffed animals and wind-up toys long since forgotten. All in perfect repair, as shiny and new as your furthest memories of them. Still, it’s at the bottom of this mountain of joy that you find it. You know this is what you were meant to find all along. And you know, with a giddy sob, exactly who has left it here for you.
There, sitting pristinely in the recesses of the toybox, untouched by the hands of time, you find your old typewriter.
It’s a child’s thing, and just as well since you were a child when you had it; long before you even knew what typing was or how to craft a story. With great reverence, you lift the precious plastic thing into the dappled sunlight beneath the tree. Turn it this way and that to inspect it, to recall the lines of it and the weight of it in your hands. You remember it much heavier, in the hands of a little girl all of nine or ten. Something in so minute a difference swells in your chest, makes it more real.
Vibrant color flutters in your peripheral, pulling your attention to the incandescent butterfly crossing your path. You turn to follow it, watching the rainbows of its wings shimmering in the speckled sunlight. And your wonder only grows when you see where the little creature leads you. A desk, set amongst the wildflowers, chair pulled out so invitingly. The butterfly alights upon a stack of clean white paper that awaits you and the typewriter in your hands.
With a delighted grin, you take the offered seat, placing the machine down gently. Your kaleidoscope companion flutters lazily when you pull a sheet from the stack beneath it, but settles right back in while you spool the paper into the typewriter. It’s been so long, you’re surprised you remember how, but you find things moving with practiced ease. And like many a dream, the letters and symbols on the keys don’t seem quite right. Yet, your fingers find their appointed places just the same.
The keystrokes flow from you in a fervor, your excitement tangible. And while the inky symbols appear on the page in different fonts and sizes, hardly recognizable to the eyes, you know exactly in your heart what you type. You think in a place like this, that’s all that really matters.
Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless…
A gentle breeze rustles through the leaves above you. It even buffers against your little butterfly, sending it flittering into the air in a delicate twirl of color before the lively thing disappears into the grassland. Anticipation thrums in goosebumps along your skin as you turn in your seat. Feeling him before you see him.
“You called for me, little writer?”
Your smile grows at the sight of the Dream Lord mere feet away. To say he looks out of place in such a natural scene isn’t entirely accurate. If anything, his presence seems to bring everything into sharper focus, the romantic haze giving way to something more palpable. His kingly countenance commands the attention of the entire world around him. But his eyes are on you, curious and amused as he regards you.
“I suppose I did,” you tease, rising to your feet to greet him properly. “I’m actually a little surprised you weren’t here already.”
“I thought, perhaps, you could use a reprieve from my company.” His eyes never leave yours as you stand before him, lip quirking ever so gently. “Our last encounter seemed to trouble you. I wish for you to be at peace while you are in my realm.”
Though his voice holds a playful lilt, there’s enough sincerity in his words to set your cheeks ablaze. Perhaps a reprieve is in order, though nothing quite so harsh as his absence. You settle for turning to eye the greenery around you, to catch a breath. “Very peaceful… and gorgeous. Is every place you make here so beautiful?”
To your surprise and delight, Morpheus beams with pride and surveys the land beside you. “I take great care in the things I create.”
“Like my typewriter?”
His attention cuts to you from the corner of his eyes, finding your smile there seems to ease him, though his head still ducks a little in chagrin. “Pray you, forgive me for taking the liberties. I’d only hoped to encourage you.”
There is something so soft about this ethereal creature beside you, that without thinking you reach to touch the sleeve of his black coat. His head turns to regard your fingers, then your face, but he makes no move and you make no mention.
“Thank you.” And you can only hope to sound as sincere as you feel. “I can’t even imagine how you…”
You trail off, a realization dawning on you with a gentle gasp. “Half of dreams are memories, aren’t they? Whether mine or someone else’s.”
At this, Dream turns back to you fully, and the warmth of his expression nearly knocks the breath from you. “You’ve found me out, little writer.”
It’s his turn to reach for you, with one graceful twist of his wrist, he finds your hand with his own, thumb grazing against your knuckles. “There were a few different writing instruments in your memory, but this one seemed to have the most meaning.”
“That is… incredibly thoughtful.” And finding yourself yet again at a loss for words before the King of Dreams, you settle for the ones that stick and swell in your heart. “Thank you.”
If your ineloquence bothers him, Morpheus gives no sign. In fact, he bows his head regally, bringing the back of your hand to his lips for a chaste kiss. “I’m happy it pleases you.”
You try to school the giddy grin that overtakes you. It wouldn’t do, to just melt entirely right in front of him, not when he’s just arrived. And sure, he told you he wants to court you, but he’s still the King of Dreams and you don’t want to look like a complete… Holy shit, you’re being courted by an Endless! What the –
“Will you walk with me, then?” That soothing voice interrupts the start of a good mental spiral. And judging from the tilt of his head as he looks at you, he is well aware of it, too. Still, you’re thankful, even if it takes you a moment to recover yourself. “That is, if you’ve no intent to write at the moment.”
“Absolutely.”
Your nod is all eager relief as he tucks your hand into the crook of his elbow. How easy it is to follow his lead down the gently beaten path. Sneaking a glance at him, you note just how proudly he walks, yet there’s nothing so severe in his face. It’s formal, old-fashioned, some might even say a little stiff, but…. Somehow, this feels as intimate as any kiss upon your knuckles. At least, if this Morpheus truly is anything like the one from your stories.
“Speaking of being pleased,” you eventually say, smiling when he crooks an eyebrow at you. “I finished writing another story.”
His head tips in acknowledgement, but there’s a playful glint in his twinkling eyes. “Yes. You should be pleased. Though… Matthew was quite saddened you had not worked on his tale first.”
The memory of your last meeting strikes you then, the gentle jibe of jealousy on his part and the fond look he’d given you. You wonder briefly if you look the same when you say “Well, I only follow where the inspiration leads.”
This seems to tickle the Dream Lord, a sharp amused snort shaking his shoulders slightly. It’s hard not to raise your chin in a bit of triumph at having elicited such a response.
“Actually,” you dare to add, bolstered by the easy camaraderie. “What I meant was I thought you’d be pleased to hear I finished it.”
“I am pleased indeed,” Morpheus assures, though he gently slows you both to a stop beneath another tree, a lush willow near a sweetly babbling creek. “I was already fond of this particular story. But you should take pride in your crafting. It was… quite beautiful.”
The compliment lights you up like nothing else. “You really think so?”
“Yes, Little Writer.” An indulgent smile curls the corners of his mouth. “It felt every bit the dream it was meant to; fever-pitched and ethereal.”
“I’m so glad you liked it.” You beam, barely able to meet his gaze, fingers curling more firmly around his elbow lest your bout of giddiness send you reeling. “I was a little worried since you didn’t really make a full appearance…”
“But I was there. In the sand and the stars.” His hand finds yours again, engulfing it with his fine pale fingers. Something thick in his velvet voice feels like a promise, drawing your attention to his glimmering eyes so intent upon you.
Though, you do manage a bashful smirk. “I didn’t think you danced.”
“I confess, I do not. But that does not keep me from enjoying the sight of you doing so. A wild and free thing.” Dream tips his head closer to you, his little smile conspiratorial, and you’re struck by it as much as the sight and sound of the willow’s branches beginning to move; twisting and twining into a soft curtain of green to surround just the two of you. “Is that how you wish for me to court you? Shall I help you dance among the stars?”
“I…” The reminder of his intentions flutters in your stomach, a nervous, airy chuckle squeaking its way out of your throat. “I don’t think I’m much of a dancer either.”
By the twitch between his brows, you think Morpheus means to argue, but he only offers a placating nod. “Very well. Then what else shall I offer you? What might you wish of me? You need only ask.”
“I think you offering yourself is more than enough,” you guffaw, the giddy absurdity taking you.
But when a ghost of an expression crosses his lips, as though surprised and flattered by your words, you find yourself suddenly much more sobered. It calls to question the smallness you feel before such an Endless being. That you’d be so lucky to capture his attention, let alone his favor. And because he liked your writing of all things?
“I suppose I might ask…” You suddenly feel a little ridiculous, but the curious arch of his brow serves to pry your bottom lip from between your teeth. “Well, you said you like my stories. For whatever reason, you enjoy my writing.”
“I do.”
“And you’ve read every story I’ve thought of, written or not, because they’re all in your library?”
The slightest nod of his head seems to urge you on, eager to follow where you’re going with this line of thought. “But then, why does it matter if I actually write them in the Waking World? If they’re already here, you already have them to read whenever you want.”
Dream straightens a little, lips pursing as he seems to mull over his answer. You get the feeling he knows exactly why, but perhaps is less sure how to put voice to it. And there’s something beautifully mundane and endearing about the little crease of concentration between his brow.
“Stories fuel the unconscious which, in turn, fuels The Dreaming,” he begins, slow and measured, as if weighing each word on his tongue. “The more stories there are, the more people who read them, the more robust it makes this realm.”
There’s no denying his sentiment, of course, but… but something still tickles at the back of your mind. Teases out your curiosity with an amused huff. “Can’t that be said of any story, though? Why these? Why mine?”
The Dream King’s dark crown tilts back at a regarding angle, only the softness of his features keeping his demeanor from aloofness. A softness that melts some of the stiff angles of him, until he moves your hand from the crook of his elbow downward to cradle between his own. “When I first took notice, you were standing at the Gates of Horn, staring in, but too frightened to walk through.”
He levels his gaze with yours, expression gentle and imploring. “I merely opened the way. You took the steps that lead you here, to this place.”
To me, your brain supplies. And your stomach swoops, uncertain if it was your own voice in your ears or his. With a gentle shake of your head, as much to hide your flushed skin as to express your confusion, you reply. “I don’t understand. I thought the Gates of Horn were for true dreams.”
“Your words may be fiction, but there is truth at the heart of them.” No small amount of pride flashes through his eyes, gaze hot upon your cheeks. “I see it in the way you write The Dreaming. And in how you speak of my siblings.”
“That… didn’t come from you?” You blink in surprise at the thought. Certainly you recognized the other Endless in your little fics. Despair, Delirium… They’d presented themselves quite naturally in the narrative. You only assumed it was the influence of the Dream Lord himself.
“No,” he insists, amusement tinting his voice. “Yet you write them as I know them to be. And the way you write me…”
Here his eyes finally stray from yours; flitting down to your hand in his, where his thumb traces the ridge of your knuckles, before finding you again through the dark rim of his lashes, an almost timid smile curling the corner of his lips. “Flattering as it may be, there is a realness to it that I can only hope to strive for.”
You’re not sure how to process this. This Endless cosmic being enjoys the way you write him, is flattered by it… Aspires to it. With dawning realization, you gasp. “Dream of a Thousand Cats.”
It’s the Dream King’s turn to look puzzled now, lips parted in silent question. But you know, in the way one can only know such things in a dream. And the thought alone leaves you awed.
“You hope if enough people read the way I write you…” A smile tugs your lips; the clench around your heart both fond and bittersweet in equal measure. “If enough people dream it, then it will always have been true.”
Whatever sourness threatens Morpheus’s features is quickly released with a lighthearted huff. “Quite the clever little writer.”
A part of you wants to keen in triumph, but this Endless being before you looks caught out enough, you don’t dare to rub it in. And you feel rewarded for it by the unexpected twinge of vulnerability in his velvet voice.
“Do you think it selfish of me?”
“I…” Your fingers squeeze his a breath tighter, to reassure him or settle yourself, you’re not quite sure. “If you think it’s a better version of yourself, then who am I to judge? Of course… I might be a little partial to the way I write you.”
Any hint of uncertainty you might have imagined in him evaporates against the spark of fondness in his eyes; the brilliant blue of them fluttering behind your ribcage. “Another reason, then, to live up to it.”
You can’t help but think your knees ought to be buckling beneath you. Perhaps in the Waking World, they would. But here, with your hand in his, you managed to inch a little closer, your own boldness flushing you. “Can I ask something else of you?”
“Name it.” There’s a quiet eagerness to it you might have missed beneath the obliging tip of his head. Except you’re a little too focused on him in this closeness.
“May I…” It catches in your throat only a beat, slipping out before you can lose any more nerve. “Kiss you?”
The curious twitch of his brow has you bracing, but then his face lights up in amusement. “Is it not customary for the suitor to request the first kiss?”
If your laughter is quaking breathless, you still find a way to smile at him playfully. “Times change, my lord.”
“Morpheus,” he corrects gently, offering a gracious smile at your flash of confusion. “My station is deserving of respect and reverence, but when we are alone…”
It seems the Dream Lord’s turn to pause a thoughtful breath before speaking in a quiet voice meant just for you. “When it is only the two of us, I need only be Morpheus. Your Morpheus.”
His tone itself is enough to melt you, but his words… Those steal the air right out of your lungs. You have to lick away the dryness from your lips before you can respond. And even then, it’s little more than a reedy whisper. “Then, may I kiss you… my Morpheus?”
“By all means.”
Dappled sunlight catches in his glimmering eyes when he leans in ever so slightly closer. An offering. And that voice thick with a promise you can’t quite name, but want to hold him to more than anything. With a steadying hand on his chest, you close the meager distance, your lips finding the cool, pale expanse of his cheek. The kiss is chaste, but his sharp breath and the way his jaw clenches beneath it makes you wonder if you’ve scorched him.
Yet, you barely manage to part from him -how ever reluctant- before Dream’s delicate fingers find the curve of your neck; stilling you as he turns his face to yours. Your noses bump gently, parted lips sharing the same shaky breath as they brush together. And when you make no move to pull away, when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, Morpheus, your Morpheus, seals his mouth over yours…
—
Your Monday morning alarm is quite possibly the most hideous sound you’ve ever heard at this moment. Sure, you picked it because it would be enough to wake you without startling you silly first thing in the AM, but that hardly makes up for it pulling you from such a wonderful dream.
It’s left you in a strange state of longing, coupled with a clench around your fluttering heart. With a twinge of sadness, you realize the details are quickly fading, but you manage to grab your phone. Once the alarm has been silenced, you tap your note app and start typing what little is still solid in your mind.
The tall dark-haired man, his soft pink lips on yours, a butterfly with stained-glass windows for wings… your old typewriter?
That last one brings a confused smile to your face. How absolutely silly… How lovely.
You can only hope, as you finally pull yourself from the warmth of your bed, that it will be enough to work with later when you can find some time to write.