#morpheus smut

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

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

And then there were his eyes.

Oh, his eyes.

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

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

He was old.

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

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

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

He stopped you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It went on for months.

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

The days shrink. The nights length.

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

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

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

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

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

"...Who are you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once again, alone, in your bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You see him.

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

His skin is impossibly pale. His eyes are—

Your breath catches.

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

He’s real.

He’s real. Here. Now.

And he’s looking at you.

Not past you. Not through you.

At you.

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

The crosswalk signal changes.

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

A car horn blares somewhere behind you.

When you blink, he’s gone.

He moves quickly, following the faint shimmer of his sister’s form as it drifts away from him through the train. The carriage around him breathes and bends in impossible ways: walls that stretch like taffy, windows that bleed into nothing, aisles that lengthen with every step. Delirium is pulling away, her colors dimming, her voice distant.

And then you are there, not truly you, he knows it instantly. This is a projection, an echo, shaped to lure him, to test and distract him. The air shifts around you the way it does in dreams, your figure haloed in the dark red light pouring through windows that weren’t there a moment ago. You are leaning casually against the edge of a seat, as though you have been waiting for him.

The look you give him is dangerous, not the wary defiance of the last time he saw you in the waking world, but something softer, sharper: an invitation wrapped in memory. The curve of your lips is not quite a smile, but it’s enough to make his chest ache. He stops as Delirium’s shape flickers ahead, slipping further away.

You take a step toward him. There’s something in your eyes… heat, longing, the promise of things he has not let himself think about in too long. It’s wrong, he tells himself. You are not here, you are somewhere in the waking world, far from his reach, perhaps far from any thought of him. Still, his hand twitches at his side, the urge to reach for you almost overpowering.

“Dream.” Your voice is exactly right: the pitch, the cadence, and it curls around him like smoke. For a moment, the train feels silent except for the sound of it. He exhales, forcing his gaze away from you, away from the way Delirium has so perfectly shaped this trap, but the image doesn’t dissolve. You tilt your head, and that single movement pulls at every carefully locked door inside him.

He could go to you, he could take just a moment… no, his sister is slipping away. With more effort than he has had to summon in centuries, he turns from you and keeps walking. The train hums beneath his feet, the air thick with the scent of his sister’s realm: rain on painted glass, sugar melting on the tongue. Delirium’s form wavers ahead of him, flickering between shapes, always just far enough that he cannot quite catch her.

And then she is there, in front of him, her eyes bright with colors that do not exist, her voice soft and far more forgiving then he deserves. He speaks and she listens, she speaks and he listens. Words pass between them, mending threads frayed not that long ago. When at last the train slows and the world outside shifts, she is gone, off to somewhere he cannot follow for now, and he is left in the quiet.

The quiet does not feel like victory, because even as the carriage empties, as the air cools and steadies, he is still back there in that moment: your gaze catching him mid-step, your voice curling through the noise, the subtle heat in the way you stood as if you had been waiting for him all along.

It was not you, he knows this. His sister had shaped it from memory and longing, a lure wrapped in a face she knew would make him falter and yet… the thought of you, the real you, will not leave him.

The Dreaming greets him like an old palace: vast, shadowed, waiting. The train is gone, the scent of his sister’s realm faded, but the echo of her trick lingers. He moves through the halls of his palace in silence. The library stands still, the great gates are closed and somewhere far away, a fountain sings its endless, silver song. It should be enough to calm him but it is not.

Because every time he closes his eyes, he sees you. Not the waking you: sharper, colder, full of anger and exhaustion, but the version Delirium conjured: the one who leaned toward him with heat in her gaze, who said his name like it still belonged to you.

It should not matter, he knows his sister and her games, he knows you were not truly there. And yet the memory drags at him like an undertow. He tells himself to attend to his realm, he tells himself there is no need to see you, no reason to disturb whatever life you’ve built without him. But the ache has a will of its own, it has been too long since he’s been close enough to breathe the same air as you, too long since he’s felt your presence folding around him like a storm.

He stops at the edge of a balcony, looking out over the infinite horizon of The Dreaming. Every dreamer in the world lies below, their worlds blooming and dissolving in a thousand shifting landscapes, and somewhere among them is yours. His hand curls on the stone railing. If he goes to you now, it will not be for apologies or mending, it will be because he wants you, because he needs you.

He closes his eyes, finds you. Your dream glows against the dark like a pulse and before he can give himself another order to resist, he steps inside.

Your dream is small tonight, quiet. It begins in the corner of a dimly lit cafe, one you have never been to in waking life but that your mind seems to know intimately. The smell of fresh coffee and rain on pavement lingers in the air. There is a soft scrape of chairs mixed with the low murmur of strangers’ voices. You sit alone at a table by the window, one knee bent up toward your chest, a book open in your lap.

It is disarming, this unguarded version of you. You are not braced for anything, not looking for anyone, the curve of your spine as you lean into the seat feels achingly familiar. He stands at the edge of the dream and watches for a long moment, unseen.

The pull toward you is a physical ache in his chest, a slow, steady tightening that has lived in him since the moment Delirium conjured your likeness on the train. He could stay here, simply watching, but already, the desire to step closer is pressing against his resolve.

The space breathes around you: the street beyond the glass shifts, the sound of the café thins and slowly, with the precision of someone testing each note of a melody, he changes your dream. The walls stretch taller, the light fades from amber to the dim grey of a sky just before storm, the floor under your feet hums faintly: the sound of motion.

Your table slides away from the window, the window becomes a panel of glass that shows not a street but endless sky and somewhere beneath, the rumble of wheels on unseen rails begins. You frown, glancing around, the way dreamers do when their world tilts but they cannot say why.

The hum grows steadier, the air thickening into the strange hush of a train in motion. The chairs and the tables, all of them dissolve into narrow aisles and rows of plush seats. The soft scrape of cutlery becomes the muted sway of the carriage. And when you look up he is there.

He has placed himself at the far end of the aisle, one gloved hand resting lightly against the frame of the door, his long coat spilling in dark folds around him. The expression on his face is unreadable from this distance, but his eyes are locked on you as if he has been waiting for this moment for far longer than you could guess.

You do not speak right away and neither does he, the train rocks gently between you. He takes one step forward. The sound of his boots on the carriage floor is barely more than a whisper, but in the dream’s hush, it seems to echo. Each step is deliberate, unhurried, as if he means to give you every chance to flee and knows you won’t.

Your breath catches without warning and you don’t look away, you can’t, because there’s something in his gaze that pins you in place: something dark and endless, and yet burning with a heat you remember far too well. It’s not anger and it’s not tenderness either. It’s desire, honed sharp as a blade.

The dream is not still, with every pace he closes between you, the carriage seems to narrow: the aisle tightening, the walls drawing in just slightly, enough to press you deeper into your seat without ever touching you. Outside the windows, the sky bruises darker, streaked with light that shifts and curls like it’s alive.

He stops only once, halfway down the aisle, as though to take you in from a different angle. His eyes sweep over you, slow and unhurried, like he’s cataloguing every inch of you for the first time and the thousandth all at once. His mouth doesn’t move, but you feel the weight of unspoken words in the space between you.

You shift your weight in the seat, unsure if it’s an act of defiance or the smallest instinct to present yourself to him more fully. Either way, his gaze lingers. He takes another step, and another.

By the time he reaches your row, the train is swaying in that deep, steady rhythm that makes the world feel like it’s leaning you into him. He pauses at your side, close enough that the air around him brushes your skin, that scent of cold air and something darker, older, that you’ve never been able to name.

He doesn’t speak at first, and his silence is not uncertainty, it is intention. The kind that tightens your skin from the inside, drawing you taut over the shape of your own hunger until even breathing feels too loud. He braces one gloved hand on the back of the seat across from you, the leather a whisper against fabric, and you can feel the quality of his attention like heat pressed an inch above your bare throat. The carriage hums, the world beyond the windows is a slow bruise of sky and ghost-light, and the train’s endless forward motion makes it feel like there’s nowhere to go but closer.

“Dream,” you say, because the alternative is to say nothing and surrender without terms. His name is a weight on your tongue, the oldest habit you’ve ever tried to break.

His gaze finds your mouth as if your voice lives there and must be seen to be understood. “You are dreaming,” he says at last, his tone low and even, shaped deliberately around words that should not carry heat and somehow do anyway. “And I am here.”

“You shouldn’t be.” You mean to make it sound hard, accusatory but it comes out thin, tugged too close to a tremor. He hears it, of course he does. “No,” he agrees, and the admission does not soften him at all, if anything, it sharpens the moment to a point you can bleed on. “I should not.” A breath you don’t see him take seems to reshape the air. “I tried not to be.”

Your pulse trips and you wonder, briefly and recklessly, how many times he tried not to step into you, how many times he put his hands on the cool stone of that balcony and told himself no. The thought burns through you like the first mouthful of liquor after months of sobriety. “And yet.”

“And yet,” he echoes, and the echo is halfway to a promise. He lifts his hand from the opposite seat, gloved fingers leaving their quiet imprint in your senses, and then, finally, he touches you. Not with the boldness you braced for, not with the roughness your body is already half-wild to meet. He starts with the softest claim he can make and still call it a claim at all: the backs of his knuckles brush along the line of your jaw, a ghosting stroke that barely counts as contact until your lungs forget how to work and your whole body leans infinitesimally into it.

It is cruel the way he does it, cruel because he knows exactly what so little will do to you. His mouth remains unreadable, but something inside the stillness of his face is paying rapt attention to every micro-flinch, every flutter of your throat. When you don’t pull back, when you tilt almost imperceptibly into that touch, the faintest shift pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“You are cruel,” you whisper, because it’s safer than admitting you missed his hands. He accepts this like a coronation, like you have named him something he was always meant to be for you. “Yes.” His knuckles trace up the hinge of your jaw to the soft edge beneath your ear, then forward to the dip just behind it, a slow arc that maps old territory with a patience that feels like being stalked. “And you are dreaming of me.”

“I didn’t choose this,” you manage, even as heat unfurls low and deep, heavy as a storm. You mean the train, the setting, the way he has lifted your small, safe café and replaced it with a corridor of motion and inevitability. You mean him, you mean you.

“No,” he says again, quiet as the dark between lightning and thunder. “You chose to sleep.” The tip of his gloved finger draws down the column of your neck, pausing when it reaches the quick, shallow flutter of your pulse. He lingers there, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep sound where it belongs. “You chose to dream.” A beat. “And I chose to come.”

You should tell him to leave, you should spit the old words like curses, the ones you threw at him when you walked away: that you won’t love a monolith, that devotion without change is a cage. You should, instead you drag air into your lungs and say, “If you’re here to hurt me, do it quickly.”

There is a stilling in him, a perfect stop, like a bird of prey freezing mid-scan because it has found exactly what it was looking for. His hand leaves your throat and for three long heartbeats you think you’ve startled him back into gentleness, that he will step away and you will hate him anew for leaving you full with the ache he made. He doesn’t, he strips his glove off, finger by finger, neat and unhurried, and the sight of that black leather surrendering the long pale bones of his hand turns your insides molten.

When his bare fingers return to your neck, the difference is devastating. He is cool to the touch, and your heat rises to meet him like a flower to the sun. He fits the curve of his palm under your jaw, thumb finding the delicate notch where your pulse knocks hard enough to bruise, and angles your face up. “I am not here to punish you my beloved,” he says, and the words are a blade wrapped in velvet. “I am here because I want you.” His thumb presses, not enough to impede anything but enough to make your mouth open on instinct, for oxygen or to protest, you don’t know… and his gaze drops to the small startle of your lips parting. He inhales like he’s been offered first fruit. “I am here because I need you.”

Something in you breaks neatly along an old fracture. “Say it,” you push, reckless, aching. “Say you came because you couldn’t stay away.” His eyes lift to yours and the force of that look is almost a physical shove: centuries and storms and a man who swore once that he would not change and then did, just enough to make this moment possible. “I came,” he says, each syllable deliberate, “because staying away felt like drowning.”

The train tilts gently, a deeper sway, as if the realm itself throws its weight behind the confession. You swallow hard and then hate that you do, because he feels it under his thumb and the sound it drags from him is low and private, like something he rarely allows himself to make. “Stand,” he says.

It is not loud and it does not have to be, because your body obeys, knees unhooking from the angle of the seat, your hands catching the armrest as the motion of the carriage conspires to tip you forward, toward him. He doesn’t step back, he doesn’t give you an inch as his hand leaves your throat only to settle at your waist, fingers curving, anchoring, staking a claim that makes every deep muscle under your skin tighten and heat.

“Turn,” he adds, guiding you with that palm until your hips brush the side of the seat and your back meets the cool pane of glass. The window breathes a sheen of condensation at the heat of you, at the heat between you, and your breath ghosts pale against it before the dream erases the mark. He follows you in, crowding without contact, so close that your nipples brush the linen of his shirt with each rise of your chest and the ache of wanting a real press, a real weight, becomes excruciating.

“This is a dream,” you say, a last defense that hopes to bargain everything down to illusion. “You can make me want this.” His mouth moves in something that is not kindness. “I don’t have to.”

He lifts both hands to the wall on either side of your head, caging you without touching you, and you feel the old, familiar, infuriating thrill of being cornered by him rise sharp and bright. Your thighs press for friction you will not give yourself, not yet, and his gaze drops, lazy and devastating, to watch. The hum he gives is approval and warning at once.

“Tell me to leave.” He leans in the breadth of one more breath, the edges of him brushing the edges of you: a coat seam at your hip, the cool whisper of his jaw near your temple, the hint of his mouth hovering a hair from your cheek. “If you wish it, I will.”

“You lie,” you whisper, because if you say anything else you may say yes in a way you cannot take back. “You promised change and yet you still play the same games.” He turns his head so the next exhale skims your lips. “I have changed enough to ask.” A heartbeat. “I have not changed enough to stop wanting.”

Your hands, traitors, rise. You put your palms against his chest as if to push him away and discover the opposite, the feel of him under your hands is a memory you never stopped carrying. Hard lines under linen: the solid, immovable heat of him, the way his ribs expand and slow under your touch as if your hands have just become the reason he breathes. You curl your fingers in the fabric and hate how your knees soften with the relief of contact.

“You torment me,” you tell him, but your mouth is closer to his now, your breath striking his lower lip, and the words no longer sounds like accusations, they sound like ceremony, like consent written in the alphabet of old sins. “Take what you came for.”

He does not pounce, he does not seize, he takes, and it is worse. He covers your mouth with his like the first sip after a fast, like the first lungful after surfacing, like he came here to practice restraint and discovered there is a very fine line between restraint and reverence and decided to stand exactly on it. The kiss is slow enough to make you crazy, deep enough to make you gasp, soft enough to make your eyes prickle because you remember when softness was the only thing he denied you.

His hands leave the wall and bracket your jaw, angling your mouth for the shape he wants, and when you open for him properly, when the slick slide of his tongue meets yours and the low sound he makes rumbles through both of you, you feel the train lean in, the whole carriage tipping toward the gravity you’ve become.

You bite him, a small, vicious answer to an ache he kept alive too long, and he breaks the kiss on a breath that is almost a laugh, almost a snarl. “There you are,” he murmurs against your open mouth, not moving away, the tip of his nose brushing yours in a frictionless touch that somehow makes your thighs press harder. “My fierce thing. My…”

“Don’t,” you warn, because the word he almost said is a ruin you are not ready to revisit. He listens, for once, he listens. Instead he palms your throat again, thumb under your chin, the other hand sliding down: over your collarbone, the slope of your shoulder, the outer line of your arm, like he is reminding himself of the map he used to be able to draw blind.

He takes your wrist and pins it lightly to the window above your head, not forceful but not gentle either. His eyes flick to your other hand, still fisted in his shirt, and he waits. You keep it there, he approves, Gods you can feel his approval, and the heat that unspools between your hips is a low, hungry ache that will not be soothed by suggestion anymore.

“Ask,” you say, throat rough, because you can still make him do that much. “If you’ve changed, ask.” He doesn’t blink. “May I?” He asks it like a vow, like he is carving your consent into the stone of the Dreaming so it can be read back to you in a thousand years.

You should drag him, make him crawl through apologies before you let him lay a finger where you need him most. “Yes,” you breathe, and the glass behind you fogs again with how hot the word is when it leaves your mouth.

His reply is not verbal, his mouth returns to yours in a kiss that has lost its last tether to patience, and his free hand, at last, drops to your hip and closes. The grip is possessive and precise: he slots you to him with the pressure of a palm that has always known exactly how you fit.

He angles you forward, uses the roll of the train to pull your pelvis flush to his, and the hard line of him lands perfectly against the soft, aching place between your thighs. You exhale like a confession, he inhales like an absolution.

“You are so cruel,” you say again, but the word dissolves when he rocks you once, slow, against himself, the friction a dark, pulling thing that steals your knees. His hand leaves your wrist just long enough to catch your hip and set the pace, and then he cages you again above your head because he knows what holding yourself there does to your spine, to your arch, to the way your breasts press into him, to the dangerous, helpless line of your throat under his hand.

“Hold,” he murmurs, and your fingers flex against glass. He rewards obedience with heat: his mouth leaves yours to drag open kisses along your jaw, the hollow beneath your ear, the soft place where your pulse jumps. He sucks there, slow, decadent, marking you in a plane of existence where ownership is a kind of spell, and when you shiver so sharply your teeth click, he groans at the feel of it… at the way you tremble for him, still fighting it, still giving in.

You push your hips forward for more, for harder, and he laughs against your neck, the sound dark and deeply pleased. “Greedy.”

“You made me like that,” you answer, breathless enough that it sounds like praise, and his answering bite is careful and ruthless and exactly what you asked for.

He drags a palm up your thigh, fingers skimming the hem of your dress, the backs of his knuckles setting spark after spark along your skin. He could rip the fabric away with a thought, but he doesn’t. He wants the ceremony of discovery, ge wants you writhing in a pace he controls.

When his fingers finally slide beneath, cool skin along your overheated inner thigh, your head hits the glass and your mouth falls open on a quiet, shocked sound you never meant him to hear again. He stills, savoring it. “Again,” he says, not a command so much as a request sharpened until it feels like one.

He presses, just a fraction higher, and you give him what he asks for, sound and all, because you want to be the reason he loses the last thin thread of composure he walked in with. He kisses you for it, deep and grateful and greedy, and then, at last, his fingers find the slick heat they were seeking, and the way he exhales against your tongue tells you everything about how long he has been starving for this.

He circles you once, gentle, and your hips jerk into his hand as if drawn by a current. He does it again, slower, crueler, and your knees go loose, your grip on the window the only thing keeping you upright. He rewards your struggle by letting you grind against the hard line of his cock while his fingers tease and deny, tease and deny, and the train’s sway becomes part of his rhythm, an accomplice in your undoing.

“Say you want it,” he whispers into your mouth, and you want to slap him for the gall of it, for needing the confession when your body is already shouting it into his palm. You drag in air and find the shard of steel you keep for him. “You want it,” you counter, and his eyes flash: dangerous, delighted.

“Yes,” he says simply, and the honesty is a blow you feel between your ribs. He presses his thumb to you and your spine bows. “I want you messy.” He glides lower, slicker, and your breath snags. “I want you hoarse.” One finger slides inside, slow, inexorable, and your mouth opens on a sound that has his eyes rolling shut for a heartbeat like he’s been dealt a mercy. “I want you ruined on my hands before I ruin you on my cock.”

You were right to call him cruel, and you were wrong to think you could live without this. “Please,” you say, because pride is a currency and you are done saving it. His forehead drops to yours like the word physically dragged him closer, and his pace changes: less teasing, more intent, two fingers now, clever and patient, his thumb a steady, ruthless metronome that has your thighs shaking, your breath breaking, your body climbing toward a wave you both can see coming from a mile away. He holds you there, hovering, hunting the perfect angle like a scholar solving for x, and when he finds it… the world goes white.

You break against his hand with a shudder that runs the length of you, your voice catching on his name like prayer and profanity at once, and he groans: low, wrecked, victorious, like the sound of you coming just rewired the Dreaming’s stars. He doesn’t stop until you sag against the window and then he slows, murmuring nothing-words against your jaw, against your mouth, his fingers easing you back down as if he’s gentle only at the edges of your destruction.

When you can breathe, you realize he’s shaking. Only a little, a fine tremor where his body presses to yours, where his cock throbs hard and insistent against your belly. You smile, wrecked and unkind. “Suffering?”

“Immensely,” he says, and you love him for the dryness of it, for the way he can sound like midnight and grave-dirt and still be undone by you. “Good.” Your hand finally leaves the window as you put it between your bodies and close it around him through his trousers, and his head tilts back with a sound he does not give other people, a raw thin groan that makes your thighs press together like you could trap it there and keep it. “Then suffer more.”

His laugh is breathless and disbelieving… and then it isn’t a laugh at all, because as your grip tightens, his control snaps, and the next phase is not patient, not gentle, not merciful. “Turn around,” he says, voice gone dark and rough, and this time it’s not a test. It’s a sentence you’ve been waiting to serve since the moment you saw him standing in the aisle.

You do, slowly, hands flattening to the window, your cheek grazing cool glass, your hips angling back because your body knows where this is going and is already there. His hands are at your waist in an instant, dragging you into place, and the way he breathes when he has you lined exactly how he wants is the sound of a king reclaiming his throne. “Mine,” he says, barely audible.

“Not yours,” you counter, because some wars deserve to be fought forever. He smiles into your shoulder, and the press of his mouth there is the last soft thing you get for a while. “Then lend yourself.”

“Fine,” you grit, and he laughs: wrecked, worshipful, and unfastens his belt. It slides through its loops with a sound that feels louder than the train itself, each whisper of leather against fabric winding the spring in your chest tighter. You can’t see him, not properly, your cheek still to the glass, but you can feel the air shift as he loosens the last barrier between your body and his. The small, soft scrape of metal as the buckle swings once is obscene in its intimacy.

You start to look back over your shoulder, but his hand is there instantly, flat and firm between your shoulder blades, pressing… not to hold you down, not yet, but to remind you exactly where he wants you. “Face forward,” he says, voice low enough that it seems to speak from inside your bones. The train rocks, and the window breathes cool against your lips, you obey.

The first brush of him against you is almost nothing, the barest graze, but it draws a startled, sharp breath from your lungs anyway. He hisses softly at the contact, his hand at your hip flexing just enough to pull you back that fraction more. “You feel,” he murmurs, as if he’s speaking to himself, “exactly as I remember.”

“Then you remember too much,” you manage, though your voice is already too soft, too frayed at the edges to land the blow you intend.

His laugh is quiet, almost indulgent. “Not enough.” His other hand slides along your side, over the curve of your waist, the flare of your hip, until his fingers find the hem of your dress again and this time he doesn’t delay.

He drags the fabric up with steady, measured precision, baring you inch by inch until the cool air skims the tops of your thighs, the back of your knees. His knuckles skim over the backs of your legs as he pushes the dress higher still, and your muscles shiver under the touch like they’re caught between retreat and welcome.

When he’s satisfied, the dress is bunched indecently high at your waist, and the exposed skin of your backside is lit by the muted, otherworldly glow spilling through the train’s windows. His palm covers one cheek in a slow, deliberate press, testing the give of you, the angle. You hear him inhale, long and deep, and your stomach drops when he exhales the air in a faint, unsteady sound that borders on reverence.

Then he steps closer. Close enough that his hips align with yours, the hard heat of him settling exactly where you’ve been aching for it. The fabric between you is only the thinnest layer now, and when he rocks forward once, barely more than a pulse of movement, it’s enough to make your fingers curl against the glass.

“You’ve thought of this,” he says, not as a question. His voice is steady, but beneath it you can hear the crack in his control, the strain in his restraint. “Even after you left me, you’ve dreamt of me like this.”

You want to deny him, to throw the truth back in his face, but when his hand at your hip tightens and he grinds that single, slow pass of his body against you again, all you can do is bite the inside of your cheek and breathe like you’re trying to keep your balance on the edge of something dangerous.

“I am in your head even when you hate me,” he says, leaning in until the words slide warm along the shell of your ear. “Especially when you hate me.”

“You’re arrogant,” you bite out, though the tremor in your voice betrays you. “And you’re wet for me,” he replies, and the way he says it, quiet, almost wondering… it robs the words of crudeness and replaces it with something far more lethal. You hate that your body answers for you, the slick heat between your thighs an unignorable truth.

His hand slips from your hip, sliding forward and down, and the tips of his fingers find you with unnerving precision. The low, satisfied hum he gives when he feels exactly what you’ve been trying not to show makes your knees threaten to give way.

He doesn’t rush, he strokes you once, unhurried, a slow sweep that leaves you shivering, then again with just enough pressure to make your head tip forward against the window. His other hand remains at your waist, keeping you where he wants you, not holding you in place so much as making it clear you will not move unless he wills it. “Say it,” he murmurs. “Say you want me to take you.” You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. “If I say it?”

“I will give you exactly what you ask for,” he finishes, his tone smooth as a promise carved in stone. “And if I don’t?” His fingers still for a moment, resting in the wet heat of you, and the quiet between you is filled with the sound of the train and the thud of your pulse in your ears. “Then I will keep you right here,” he says at last, “on the edge, until you are begging to be taken.”

Your eyes slip shut. The threat, if it is a threat, has teeth and they sink into you in a way that makes your thighs press together against his hand. He chuckles low at the motion, a sound that vibrates through his chest and into your back.

“You cruel bastard,” you whisper, but there’s no bite left in it. “Yes,” he says simply, and begins to move his fingers again, slow and deliberate, circling you until you are breathing too fast to keep your head clear. The swaying rhythm of the train becomes his accomplice, adding a subtle forward-and-back sway that works you against him in ways you don’t have the strength to stop. You break first, you always did. “Take me.”

The sound he makes is almost a sigh, but weighted, heavy with satisfaction. His hand leaves you only long enough to free himself completely, the sound of fabric shifting and the faint, warm brush of him against your bare skin making your breath hitch. He aligns himself with a precision that speaks of memory, of knowing exactly how to fit into the space you’ve been carrying for him all this time.

And when he pushes in: slow at first, deliberate, making you feel every inch, it’s like the train itself inhales with you. The stretch of him pulls a soft, involuntary sound from your throat, and he groans in response, his hands gripping your hips with a force that borders on desperate.

“Still perfect,” he says against your ear, the words almost too soft to catch. He pulls back, then drives in again, harder this time, and your palms flatten against the glass as if bracing for the quake.

The pace he sets is not hurried, but it is deep and thorough, each thrust measured to drag against every place inside you that makes your breath catch, to make you feel him for long, aching seconds after he withdraws. His hands guide you into every motion, hips angling you to take him deeper, the glass before you fogging more with each exhale.

“You remember this,” he says between thrusts, his voice a low tide you could drown in. “Your body remembers me even when you pretend not to.” You want to deny him again, to fight, but the words dissolve in your mouth with every movement of his hips.

All that’s left is sound, soft and broken, answering the rhythm he’s building between you until the train seems to be carrying you both somewhere far past the end of the line. He holds the pace for as long as he can, deep and deliberate, as if dragging you over coals just to feel the way you burn for him.

But the longer he’s inside you, the tighter the heat coils low in your body, the more your hips start to move in small, instinctive rolls against him, chasing every thick drag of him through you… the more you can feel that control starting to splinter.

It starts in his breath… that low, even rhythm you know so well begins to fray at the edges, a fraction heavier each time his hips meet yours. Then his fingers tighten on your waist, not enough to hurt, but enough to feel the pulse of his need there, hot and restless under the pale skin.

And then he groans: a real sound, raw and thick, spilling from deep in his chest as he drives into you harder, faster, as if the slow ache he was building is no longer enough. The Dreaming seems to know as the floor rocks harder beneath your feet, the glass vibrating faintly under your palms, the sound of the wheels below growing louder… as though the realm itself is caught in the same fever. Outside, the impossible sky darkens, clouds boiling low and lit from within by lightning that arcs and fades before it can strike.

His hips snap forward again, the force jolting you into the window, your cheek fogging the glass with every breathless exhale. You make a small, helpless sound, and it seems to rip the last thread of patience out of him.

One hand leaves your waist and slides up your spine, following the curve until his palm is splayed between your shoulder blades. He presses you into the glass, the new angle dragging him deeper, and the sound that leaves your mouth is half shock, half plea. His other hand stays anchored at your hip, holding you exactly where he wants you while his body drives into yours with a rhythm that’s nothing like the measured control he arrived with.

“I could keep you here,” he murmurs against the back of your neck between thrusts, his voice roughened, unpolished now. “In this dream. Until you scream my name and forget your own.”

The words shouldn’t make you clench around him, shouldn’t make your body arch back into his like you’re offering yourself up to be taken exactly as he’s promising. But they do, and he feels it, you can tell by the deep, shuddering groan that breaks against your skin and the way his hips slam harder into yours, as though chasing that reaction again.

The window fogs so thick you can no longer see the lightning outside. All you can see is the faint reflection of him behind you: tall, dark, his body pressed to yours in perfect alignment, his eyes half-lidded but locked on you with something between hunger and possession. “You were mine,” he says, low and certain, each word punctuated by the relentless push of his body into yours. “You will be again.”

“You think,” Your voice catches on a sharp gasp as he thrusts deep enough to make your toes curl. “…you can just take what you want.”

“Yes,” he says simply, and his hand leaves your back to slide up, fingers curling around your throat from behind. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds you there, your head tipped back against his shoulder as he leans in close enough that you feel the heat of his breath against your ear. “And you will let me.”

The hand on your hip drags you back into each thrust, the force of it echoing up through your spine until you can’t tell if the trembling in your legs is from the strain of standing or the sheer overload of sensation. Your palms slide against the fogged glass, searching for something to anchor you, but all you can feel is him, filling you, pressing against the deepest, most sensitive places inside you until your breath comes in broken, desperate fragments.

He tilts his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he growls, “Say it.” You know what he means and you want to hold it back, to keep the last scrap of defiance between you. But then his hips grind forward at the end of a thrust, his thumb stroking the pulse at your throat, and the pressure that’s been building inside you bursts.

“Yes,” you gasp, your voice breaking around the word. “Yes, I am…” The rest is lost in a sharp cry as your climax slams into you, your body clenching hard around him, heat washing through you in waves. He keeps moving, riding you through it, his rhythm stuttering now as the muscles in his abdomen tighten against your back.

“Mine,” he rasps, the word dragged out of him like a confession as he drives into you one last time, holding deep as his own release shudders through him. You feel the pulse of it, the deep, hot flood inside you, his grip on your throat tightening just slightly as his hips press flush to yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The train hums around you, the sky outside bleeding slowly back toward pale, and his forehead drops to the back of your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your skin.

For a while, all there is is breath: yours, quick and uneven, fogging the glass in front of you and his, slower but still frayed at the edges, warm against the back of your shoulder. The train hums steadily beneath your feet, the sway of it gentler now, as if the whole realm has exhaled with you. Outside, the lightning is gone, replaced by a low stretch of violet cloud and the shimmer of distant stars.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. His hips stay flush to yours, the hard line of his body braced along your back like he’s anchoring you there, or himself. One of his hands leaves your throat and drifts down, slow and almost absent, until his palm rests flat against your stomach, holding you in place with nothing more than that cool, steady weight. The other hand still cradles your hip, thumb stroking over the bone in a motion so lazy and unconscious it almost feels like a slip in his armour.

When he finally moves, it’s not retreat but a shift, easing back just far enough to free you without breaking the seal of his body from yours entirely. The change lets you draw your first real deep breath in minutes, though your knees threaten to buckle with it. He notices, of course he does.

His hand at your stomach curls, supporting you as he murmurs against your ear, “Easy.” The word is low, not a command but a tether, and it keeps you upright even as your muscles tremble.

You expect him to step away then, to smooth his coat and put distance between you like he always did after moments like this in the past, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stays close enough that you feel the whisper of his trousers brushing the backs of your thighs as he lets go of your hip and slides that hand down, fingertips trailing over the curve of your ass in a touch so light it borders on reverent.

“You’re shaking,” he observes, his voice quieter now, but still carrying that edge of possession that makes your skin prickle. “You did that,” you manage, though the heat has softened in your tone, the bite dulled into something nearer to surrender.

“Yes,” he agrees, and his hand shifts from your hip to the outside of your thigh, smoothing down until his palm cups the back of your knee. “And I could do it again.” The promise is spoken as if it were fact, as if the dream itself would conspire to make it true.

You finally turn your head enough to see him in the reflection of the window: pale, sharp, his eyes still shadowed with the remnants of hunger. His gaze catches yours in the glass, and for a moment you’re not sure whether the heat that stirs in your chest is from what’s just happened or the knowledge that he’s looking at you like he’s still not finished.

His hand leaves your stomach only to slide around your side, fingertips brushing the underside of your breast through the thin fabric of your dress. The touch is slow, teasing, but not without care, he’s reading the give in your body, measuring how much you’ll let him take now that the sharpest edge has dulled.

“You’re still here,” you murmur, not entirely meaning it as a question. “Where else,” he says, “would I be?”

It’s too soft of an answer for the man you knew before, the man you left. It sits between you like a new and fragile thing, but before you can test it, his mouth is on your shoulder, lips parting just enough to let his breath warm your skin. The kiss that follows is slow, coaxing rather than claiming, though the arm around your waist tightens infinitesimally, as if to remind you that letting you go has never come easily to him.

The train rocks again, more gently now, the rhythm syncing with the slow drag of his lips along the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. “You could stay,” he says quietly, as if the thought just occurred to him, but you know better. He’s been thinking it since the moment he stepped into your dream.

“And if I don’t?” you ask, though the question lacks the venom it once would have carried. His smile is a ghost against your skin. “Then I will find you again, and again, hntil you stop running from what you want.”

It should feel like a threat… instead, it feels like a promise, one your body has already betrayed you by leaning into.

To say that you had a shitty day would have been a gross misunderstanding. Pretty much everything that could have gone wrong, had.

First, you woke up hours before you were supposed to be up for the day, when you heard a weird noise in your bedroom. It took you just a couple of moments to wake up fully to realise that the noise you were hearing is from dripping water. Water, that was currently dripping from your ceiling and slattering on the floor.

By the time it took you to put a bucket under the leak, reach your neighbours, who, apparently, had a burst pipe, and call for your building maintenance team, there was barely an hour left before you had to be up for the day.

You sighed, knowing that there was no point by then to even attempt to go back to sleep. As much as you wanted to go back to the soothing embrace of The Dreaming, you knew that Morpheus had to go back to his duties. It was better to just start the day bright and early. And, maybe, if you're lucky, you can try to sneak back into the Dreaming a little bit earlier than usual.

The universe had other plans, though. Being awake from such an unusual hour put your head in a weird place. The whole world felt like it was moving 2 seconds faster than you did, and you felt completely off balance.

The sleeve of your favourite cosy knit sweater got caught on the door handle just as you were going through the door, yanking your body back with an unmistakable rip. Mourning the loss of your sweater, you changed out of it in a rush and ran out the door to catch the train to work. Only there did you realise that you put the new blouse inside out in your haste.

Burrowing deeper into your scarf, in both shame and cold, you decided to just pop into the café bathroom on the way to work. You needed more caffeine anyway.

Changing out of the blouse in lightning speed, you thanked the barista behind the counter, grabbed your coffee and rushed out the door. Only to have your boot slip right next to the entrance to your work, making you lose your footing. In the last-ditch effort to save yourself from further embarrassment this fine morning, you grabbed onto the wall for support, which stopped your descent to the cement pavement. But nothing comes free, and you paid the price for that dearly in the currency of your precious coffee. The cup crumpled in your hand and spilt the, thankfully not scalding anymore, liquid right down your pants.

You ended up using your scarf to try and soak up the coffee-drenched material, giving up halfway through. You stuffed the ruined scarf back in your bag and rushed up the stairs to, hopefully, survive the workday.

The dark colour of your pants thankfully covered the coffee stain, so you weren't that bad off, all things considered. What was bad, though, was your entire workday.

From sending an important email to the wrong Reece in the company (why are there so many of them?? Just pick another name!) to your laptop having to update its software right before an important video meeting. You ended up joining that halfway through, barging in with your microphone unmuted, where the host actually had to stop and ask you to mute yourself. During lunch, you swallowed a small fish bone that you felt lodge in your throat for hours after that. The elevator was not working right when you had to go 7 floors up for another meeting, so you arrived all sweaty and panting out of breath - you really should make use of that free gym membership that the company offered.

So, you definitely had better days this year.

In the attempt to change the day, you decided to take it easy for the evening. You knew you had a bottle of wine calling your name somewhere in the cupboard. After work, you stopped at a supermarket and got yourself a box of cupcakes, as a means to drown yourself in sugar.

Thankfully, the way back home was less of a fight for your life. You closed the doors behind yourself, kicked off your shoes, and collapsed on the sofa. As much as you wanted to wrap yourself in a blanket, watch some trashy TV and stuff your mouth full of cupcake icing, or, better yet, to fall asleep and wake up in the Dreaming, you felt sweaty. The coffee stains dried ages ago, and your pants felt stiff and sticky.

You dragged yourself off the sofa and into your bathroom, dedicating the last of your energy to the task at hand. You started filling your tub full of water, dropped a bath bomb in and watched it fizz, creating a mountain of bubbles. You grabbed your box of cheap cupcakes, a glass of wine, some half-decent candles and the cosiest shirt to sleep in afterwards, and closed the doors to trap the steam in.

Dipping a foot in, you sighed in bliss. The water, just on the pleasant side of hot, tingling the skin and sending goosebumps down your back. You could feel it seeping through the skin and muscles, before finally reaching your freezing bones. You haven't even realised how cold you've been, but it would make sense given your poor attire for the day, which ended up being plagued with unrelenting winds and sporadic rains.

You slowly eased yourself in until your neck, and then deeper some more, until the bubbles tickled your nose, and stayed there. When it felt like you could feel your limbs again, you reached out for the cupcake that you left on the rim of the bathtub and stuffed it in your mouth.

Self-care at its best.

Somewhere between your third cupcake and half an overfilled glass of wine, you felt the air in your small bathroom, now resembling more of a sauna, shift. You didn't need to turn your head to know that you were no longer alone, and a smile touched your lips.

You were feeling much better already, so you opened your eyes just to drink in the sheer beauty of him.

Your Dream stood by the door in all his regal beauty. Head held high, back straight, wrapped in black. His lips, for once, were not set in a hard frown, shoulders relaxed just a fraction. An unmistakable softness in his eyes.

The same look, only you were ever privy to.

"My love." He greets you, eyes softening even further at the sight of you, submerged in bubbles and warm candlelight. Voice a touch above a whisper, as if he was afraid to disturb the tranquil bubble you created for yourself.

"Hi, love." You smile back at him, lifting a hand out of the water and reaching toward him with a grabby hand. He takes it as a confirmation that you want him closer, and wastes not a single second before he glides over to your side.

His hand grasps yours as he lowers his head to lay a kiss on the back of your hand. His eyes are still watching you like you're the single most important creation in this universe. Reverent tenderness etched into every move, to convey just how grateful he is that you deem him worthy of your presence.

You can feel a hot blush climbing its way over your neck and cheeks. You hoped it would have been harder to notice with the small room being this steamy and bathed in candlelight, but he knew you well enough to know the effect he always has on you. Amusement dances in his eyes, and he keeps a lingering kiss pressed to your skin, lips softly brushing the back of your hand for longer than he should have.

A corner of your lips twitches into a wicked smile you direct at him, and you tug your arm back. With him absolutely refusing to relinquish his hold, he follows. He leans over the rim of the bathtub and lays a kiss on your forehead. You close your eyes in bliss and drink in the peace and rightness of this very moment after the day of never-ending chaos. 

"Long day?" He mumbles into your skin, moving a hairbreadth away, refusing to let more distance between the two of you. You hum in response.

"Endless." Your body shakes in laughter at the stupid joke you made. It was reassuring to know that you haven’t been defeated by this crappy day, and you were still the funniest person in this room.

He fights the urge to roll his eyes, but his lips twitch in amusement. Not because the joke was funny - far from that. He simply enjoyed watching happiness dance across your cheeks, touching the corners of your eyes and settling on your plump, soft lips. He will stomach a lifetime of less-than-funny jokes, just for the privilege of seeing you like this. And he will do it gladly.

He reaches his other hand out and brushes your hair back from your face.

"Tell me about it." He kneels next to the bathtub you’re lying in, one hand still grasping yours. You lower it and settle on your stomach, his coat sleeve submerging into the colourful water hidden under the mountain of bubbles. His other hand continues to brush your hair softly, thumb occasionally brushing your cheek or temple, eyes not leaving your face for a moment.

His undivided attention would put anyone, Gods and mortals, on the edge. But to you, the intensity in his gaze will always feel like home. Like safety.

You start recounting your day and how everything that could have gone wrong, pretty much had. Morpheus listens attentively, letting out small hums here and there. His gaze flickering across your face, but never straying any further.

At some point during your story, you feel his fingertips start to wander over the slick skin of your stomach, down the side of your hip. He draws soothing circles over your thighs, moving up and down, featherlight touches just on the side of soft and not ticklish. You start to relax deeper into soapy water without even realising it.

Soon, shapes and patterns start moving up your hip and back over your stomach, large hand splaying there in a gesture that could only be described as possessive.

Curious fingertips move up your ribs, reacquainting with the softness of your body. The one he will spend an eternity worshipping, if you only let him.

Your fingers follow his in their path, settling on the back of his hand, tracing soft shapes of your own.

Once your story starts winding down, you feel his hand inching up once again. He stops just at the underside of your breast, brushing the delicate skin there with the backs of his fingers, but refusing to go any further. You interlock your hands and move them up, letting him know you're just as excited as he is to have his hands wandering. He squeezes your breast softly, and you can see his shoulders loosen up just a fraction more. His impeccable posture, even when kneeling next to you, unwinding more, as if he was breathing out the stress of his own day. You make out the softest of sighs leaving his lips.

You crack your eye open and send him a questioning look. He was very touchy this evening. Not that you're complaining, of course.

His thumb brushes over your nipple, and your breath catches. You barely suppress a shiver racing down your spine as he continues to watch you, eyes full of wonder. As if you were the most beautiful life in this realm and any other. The most wondrous creature that even he, the Lord of Dreams and Nightmares, could have ever imagined. His beautiful, strong, smart, resilient queen.

"Let me take care of you, my love." He whispers. He turns his palm to grasp your wrist and lifts your hands up to his lips once more. He plants a soft kiss, eyes closing in comfort.

You sigh, mesmerised. The love in his eyes, the adoration etched into every single line of his body. This beautiful, powerful being, on his knees in front of you, pleading with you just so he could touch you. You never felt more beautiful. Never felt this powerful. You nod your head, as words refuse to form on your tongue any longer, and he leans down, locking his lips with yours.

The kiss is all-consuming. Heavy and filled with passion. His tongue locking in a dance with yours, fighting for dominance, lips nipping yours softly. You feel his hand grip the back of your neck, holding you in place as he indulges in something he could not stop thinking about since the last time he saw you. His other hand moves over your chest, a familiar weight of your breast settling in his palm. He could feel something deep in his chest flip with the rightness of this moment.

You’re so lost in the burning feeling coursing through your veins that you don’t even notice when you start sitting up, pushing back into him. You wrap both your arms around his neck, trying to use them as leverage to pull yourself, and tangle your fingers in his messy hair.

You feel his hand leave your chest to cradle your ribcage, nudging you to lie back into the steaming water, and you crack an eye open to look at him in confusion again. He's there, bent over the porcelain rim of the bathtub, and you have half a mind to ask him what he’s doing, before you feel his hands slowly start to wander again. 

He moves slowly, taking his time and indulging. Testing and teasing, fingers dipping in and out of the water to follow the curves of your skin. Still so tender that it sends tingles down your arms and legs, but never more than that.

He moves his fingertips up and down the length of your side, but his game starts to get tiresome to you, and you open your eyes to glare at him in reprimand. He has absolutely no shame. No guilt in his eyes. Just open wonder and insatiable hunger in the depths of his bottomless black eyes, flecked in stardust.

You open your mouth to tell him off when you feel his fingers inch up your inner thigh towards where you want him the most right now. He moves with a clear purpose, and it's enough to make you choke on your own words, lips parting in a choked gasp. He clearly takes that as a prized victory, judging by the slight twitch of his lips.

His thumb brushes over your clit briefly, but you know him well enough to know that that was no accident.

'Smug bastard...'

Before you can say anything to him, his finger circles your sensitive nub, and you can feel your knees jerk in automatic response. He rubs circles around it, alternating between tight and fast, and featherlight, for so long, but you have no chance to predict what he will do next and stay just on the edge. But never enough to actually push you over it.

You let out a mewl, thighs trembling and bending at your knees. Your hand shoots out to wrap around his wrist, and he tuts at you in reprimand, eyes boring deep into yours.

"Do not deprive me of yourself." His deep drawl makes your heart flip, the demand leaving no room for argument. But he clearly misunderstood your intentions - you were not aiming to stop him. You just needed him to stop teasing already. You roll your eyes at him and his antics.

"Then touch me properly."

Your fingers relax around his wrist, and that's all the invitation he was looking for.

His fingers slide lower, leaving your throbbing clit, and you feel his finger plunging inside you with barely any preamble. Your breath catches at the sudden intrusion, but you feel no discomfort. You were past the prep needing stage of his little game. His ring finger follows shortly after, and you involuntarily let out a gasp.

His other hand moves your head towards him, and he leans in to claim your lips again. He could feel your hot, tight walls quiver around his fingers, and he sighs in delight.

Morpheus continues kissing you breathless, one hand still keeping your head in place, and you're happy to give him the control he's looking for. His fingers finally start moving and curling, finding that perfect sweet spot deep inside you with ease and familiarity, and you lurch from the water and into him.

But he's already there, laying you back down, his curled fingers never stopping their perfect assault, and you barely have the mind to fill your lungs with oxygen. You close your eyes, losing yourself in the sensations burning through your limbs. You arch your chest, vaguely aware of the water sloshing around you. 

"Eyes on me." He commands, and you no longer have any willpower to deny him. Anything. You will do anything he wants, as long as he doesn’t stop.

Your eyes meet, and the absolute hunger and adoration in his eyes makes you let you the most pathetic moan. His fingers still working you open, you reach out your other hand towards his face, and he leans his cheek into your palm, nuzzling the skin there. The act so pure and innocent, and so opposite from what he's currently doing with his other hand, that it threatens to give you whiplash.

The obscene squelching you can hear over the blood rushing in your ears makes you let out a deep moan, heat coiling at the pit of your stomach. You’re breathing hard, not able to fill your lungs nearly enough, but you tug his face back towards yours until your lips clash once again. It’s all teeth and tongue and all shaking desperation to be closer. 

Your hands anchor to him, one tangled in his messy hair, the other gripping his coat lapel. 

His hand is moving faster now, and it's not long before you can feel a third finger enter you, stretching you further. You grip his hair tighter, and you can feel his chest vibrate with a moan he's fighting to suppress.

You know he likes you much more vocal, though, so you detach your lips from his with some difficulty and let out a long whine.

His hand moves faster, thumb drawing tight and fast circles around your clit to bring you closer and closer. Rapidly cooling water is sloshing around you, and you’re pretty sure there’s a puddle on your bathroom floor. Wouldn't it be fun to flood your neighbours tonight?

You feel his pace slowing down again, fingers curling just right to hit that sweetest spot over and over again. Your whines are getting louder, no longer being completely drowned out by the squelching and water sloshing and spilling from your tub.

You feel his nose nudge your cheek, and he whispers something in your ear, but you're far too lost in your pleasure to understand or even hear him. His name leaves your lips in a never-ending chant, as if it's the only thing you still know how to do.

His thumb moves across your clit, fingers moving in and out of your hole at a swift pace, and you feel the coil tighten even further. Morpheus's fingers tighten around the back of your neck to turn you back to him, and he slots his mouth over yours. He swallows up the moans leaving your lips, letting them slither down his throat as he continues to kiss the life out of you.

You come crashing with no warning, lips parting from his to let out the most guttural moan. He lets the moment pass, committing the sound to his memory to revisit later, before he follows after your lips again and continues to steal the breath right out of your lungs. Your body is trembling uncontrollably, heat coursing through and spreading in your veins.

He lets you ride out your high on his fingers, never ceasing the softest touches, teeth nipping at your kiss-bitten lips, brushing against the crown of your head and leaving soft kisses, thumb brushing your cheek. You vaguely note that he's breathing harder and deeper than normal, exhales catching on his lips.

Your breathing is ragged, and you can't seem to fill your lungs with enough air. The humid air in the bathroom is not helping with the task at hand, but he doesn't rush you. Your heart feels like it's about to burst out of your chest. He keeps planting little kisses everywhere his lips could reach, giving you enough time to come back to him.

Once you have enough strength to open your eyes, you feel him cradle your jaw with both hands and return to your lips for a messy, sloppy kiss. Your trembling hands lift off from where they were gripping the tub rim to grasp at his coat, desperately clinging to the safety and security that his arms guarantee.

You want to be closer to him. You need him closer.

He's wearing too many clothes, and you need to touch his skin, now.

"Please…" you mutter right into his mouth, and he doesn't need more than that to understand what you need. He plants a kiss on the tip of your nose, before you feel his arm wrap around the backs of your knees, the other supporting your back, and you use your remaining strength to grip his shoulders.

He stands up with you in his arms, dripping water all over, but he doesn't seem to mind. If anything, he can't seem to stop kissing every inch of you that his lips can reach. He goes down on one knee once again and sits you up on the rim of the bathtub.

Morpheus grabs a towel and starts drying your body off, wrapping it around your shoulders and kissing your temple. He moves down your body, his eyes tracking his own hands and their path, making sure to catch every single drop of water as if it's the most important job that he's been blessed with in his existence. As if you're the most precious thing to him that ever existed.

He makes sure to taste every newly dry inch of your skin on his lips. You can feel his lips on your shoulders, moving down to your chest in the most comforting of ways. He kisses your wrists and palms, and the warmth spreads through your insides. The kisses he lies across your ribs makes you suppress a giggle from the ticklish feeling, and he cracks a small smile in response. When his lips move from your knee to the inside of your thigh, nipping at the sensitive skin there, you grip his hair in warning and Morpheus all but growls.

"My love." You mutter in a voice as stern as you could muster at this moment, which, to be fair, wasn't much, but he stills, eyes lifting to yours. Your fingers relax in his hair, and you brush it softly, fingers hooking under his chin, bringing his face up. He follows as if under a spell.

"Let's get out of here, love. It's getting chilly." You continue, wanting more than anything to lie down in your soft bed and wrap yourself around your Dream.

Morpheus, by the looks of it, could not agree more with your idea. He flicks his wrist, and the fluffiest bathrobe wraps around you. You snuggle deeper into it, vaguely registering that it's definitely not one of the ones you own - he must have created it for you just now.

You smile at him in gratefulness and lean down to peck his forehead. He basks in the moment, fingers flexing at your sides, before lifting you back in his arms and standing up. You lean your head on his shoulder as he carries you out and into your bedroom.

Your head hits the pillow, and you feel his familiar weight settle between your legs as you give him a smile that he returns in earnest. His nose bumps into yours, and you hear him whisper against your lips.

"Let us see if we can make this evening more pleasing, my love." His eyes twinkle with the galaxies you'll never get tired of getting lost in, and you grin back at him.

He brushes a strand of hair back from your forehead.

The dreaming is beautiful, always has been and as far as you know, it always will be.

You werent anyone special...at least by human standards. you slept, wandered the dreaming frollicking in your fantasies, and woke up the next morning like everyone else. but for the prince of stories, you were EXTRAORDINARY.

kind, sympathetic, selfless, everything he loved about humanity. It amazed him how someone like YOU could still hold that purity in a world so cold and cruel. Dream had to meet you, to know you, and he wanted you to know him as well.

Of course, as it often does Lord Morpheus' curiosity had gotten the best of him. From visiting you in your dreams, to inviting you to his palace in the dreaming, you werent sure how you caught his attention, but youre VERY glad you did.

However, the dreaming wasnt always butterflies and unicorns with morpheus. when he was free of his duties, the two of you would go for long, thoughtful walks in the gardens of fiddlers green, or along the dark black sands under the bright stars when you knew the world was at rest.

Other times though, the king of dreams was far too busy to even concern himself with where you were in the dreaming when you arrived. tonight, was one of those nights.

You found yourself roaming the halls of his palace, admiring his art. the fine details in the oil paintings, carvings of the marble statues, everything perfect down to the last inch. even in the resting hours of the dreaming, the realm seemed to glow in its beauty.

It wasnt long in your wandering before you grabbed the attention of the endless lord. Morpheus could hear your footsteps drawing closer, and knew he would be disturbed soon. either by your presence, or the fact that youd get lost if he didnt intervene... so naturally, he did.

"my darling...have you lost your way?"

you stop in your tracks, caught off guard by his sudden deep voice echoing off the walls.

"Dream? where are you...? i can hear you but..."

Your footsteps become frantic, eager to find your king in the dark halls of his dimly lit palace. a small smile appears on his face as he realizes how badly you want to see him.

"this way dearest. i can hear you getting closer."

He responds to you. after the short pitter patter of your erratic feet, you find yourself gazing at him from beyond his desk. his long fingers shuffling and flipping through loose papers as he glances up at you behind his black lashes.

"finally, you sure know how to hide from a girl dont you my lord?"

"i am not hiding, im busy."

his eyes fall back to the papers he signs in front of you. after doing so, the paper disappears with a sandy gold glow.

"may i....ask what youre busy doing?"

you fiddle with your fingers as you speak to him. knowing that when hes in certain moods, its very hard to get through to him. "neck deep in paperwork," is one of those moods.

"its none of your concern. however i AM sure you wouldnt mind waiting for me in my chambers while i finish my work."

Morpheus never takes his eyes off the papers as he continues to scribble his name on some of them, setting others to the side for later approval. Puffing your lips up into a pout, you take a seat on his desk. this time, he raises his eyes once more to you, his hands freezing for the first time the whole night.

"Y/N..."

Stern in his tone, you can tell he's serious and not in the mood to play any of your games. were you being a brat? of course you were. the man rules his own realm, theres obviously matters that concern him in the late hours. but even an endless needs a break sometimes, and with you as his "official, not official girlfriend" it was up to you to convince your lover to at LEAST do that.

"i'm not bothering you am i? i dont mind waiting id just...rather wait here."

You reply, cutely smiling at him. the lord shaper scoffs at you as he continues digging through the paperwork. your own eyes scan over the many trinkets and gadgets he has aligning his desk, and you cant help but find it so cute that a man like him, still decorated his personal spaces.

"may i suggest, perhaps sitting elsewhere...?"

Clearly agitated with your presence, dream gently pushes your thigh with his finger tip making more area room to sign his papers. happily, you ignore his question, and instead ask your own.

"....wont you take a break with me dream? just a few minutes. we can sit out in your garden with the roses."

"No."

well THAT was quick. did he even think about it? you ask yourself a million questions before pushing one of his trinkets to the floor, "happiness" turning to anger.

"Please dont do that."

He stops his writing long enough to glance at you in annoyance before his pen began its job once more.

"please take a break."

you retort, Noticing his concern for the item you purposely pushed to the ground in front of him.

"dont worry, its not broken. besides that was an....accident."

hand resting on another object, dream quickly grabs your wrist.

"Dont. i said please."

"so did i."

you both stare at each other for what felt like minutes. his cold, blue eyes burning into yours and suddenly, you get an idea. a deliciously devious idea.

"i cannot take a break. surely you understand the extent of my duties. if you cannot respect them, i may be forced to send you back to the waking world."

so strict, by the gods you loved it. and he loved you. how you pushed him to explore his humanity, to enjoy his immortal, endless life. he wasnt human by any means, but he knew if ANYONE could make him feel so, it was you.

"i respect you dream....my lord... and, im sorry. i just dont want you to be overwhelmed with your responsibilities my love."

You raise your hand, gently kissing his knuckles and he slowly lets your wrist go afterwards.

"thank you."

He replies, pulling another small stack of papers from an envelope within his desk.

"i should...probably pick that thing up for you."

Smirking to yourself, you slink down off of his desk. on your hands and knees, you grab dreams possession from the floor but you also have something else on your mind. it doesnt take long for morpheus to become suspicious of you.

"y/n? what are you-"

He's taken aback by your sudden hands on his inner thighs, massaging him dangerously close to his clothed cock in his pants.

"Im sorry my lord. i just...got distracted."

you tease, dreams hands instantly fly to yours to move them. but instead, you take his trinket and place it into his rough palm.

"as promised, see?"

A giggle escapes you, and you gaze into his eyes from between his legs. you little devil, you KNOW how much that drives him MAD with lust for you.

"thats enough. come from under there this instant."

Theres a change in his tone. this time, you hear him fighting his desire, and it makes you plant soft kisses along his thigh instead of obeying his command. morpheus would be a pure blooded LIAR if he said it didnt arouse him.

"please...i am...begging you-"

his grip tightens on the trinket in his hand before he tosses it onto his desk. the paperwork no longer his concern, no matter how badly he fails at claiming it is. in this moment, all he wants is to feel the inside of your mouth. of course, he CANT let you know that.

"i dont wanna dream...i want to stay right here, while you continue your 'duties'"

Mocking his deep voice, your hands rise up his thighs and make contact with his hardening dick in his pants, a heavy sigh leaves him as he realizes he will NOT be finishing his work tonight, but instead taking on a new task.

"is THAT what you want...? so be it."

Suddenly, dreams hands find their way into your hair as he firmly presses your face down into his crotch where you so LONGFULLY wished to be.

"You are such a needful little brat y/n. not allowing me to tend to the responsibilities of my realm, yet believing you deserve my gentle treatment?"

his voice is deep and sultry as he grinds his hips across your face. you can feel his length, rock hard on your cheek as his breath becomes heavy and ragged.

"you are quite the enigma my darling. so nurturing, meek, and docile in the waking world, but your dreams...they show me a different, subtle side of you."

He scoffs as his hands loosen from your hair, and take solace around your neck instead.

"Most people like you, have this carnal craving. this desire to be at the mercy of anyone who will give them just a hint of attention. its rather....pathetic."

Breathless...is one way to describe the feeling he gives you. he pulls at your neck, urging you to climb from under his desk and stand with him. his grip never falters as he stares down at your dark red face. you LOVE this, and he knows it.

"Nothing to say now...has the cat of dreams finally claimed your tongue?"

He's smiling. that adorable smile brings the same to your lips as you answer him.

"Y-yes my lord. its all ive wanted this evening."

Somehow, your confidence is gone. youre not sure if its his hands on your neck, or the fact that hes taken pure control of you, but every bone in your body wants to obey him. to let him use you. to let him FUCK you like the bratty whore youve been all night. and who would morpheus be to deny you?

"im sure it is. since you would like to be a nuisance, and keep me from my work, perhaps i should give you a task of your own."

He forcefully turns you around, bending you over all his paper work and folders as his strong hands make their way down your back. you try to push your ass back onto him, but with unimaginable strength, he holds you still by your hips.

"Enough. stay."

His voice is heavy with authority as he tugs your pajama shorts down to your knees with his free hand. your pussy drenched as he admires his prey from above. a truely beautiful sight to behold.

"can you recall how many times ive visited you in your dreams?"

Rough hands caresses your bare ass as he awaits your answer.

"n-no my lord."

Good girl. you know not to keep him waiting.

"And yet, you have no idea how many of your filthy delusions ive stood and witnessed for myself."

You didnt think you could be more aroused, but you clench your thighs together at the thought of the lord shaper watching your dreams. your DIRTY, WET dreams. the fantasies you wouldnt dare utter to a human soul, yet here he was. casually admiting that he may have seen them all.

"if your dreams are anything like your reality..."

He grinds into you. his cock clothed, but the heat still beautiful on your pussy as you moan his name for him, begging splendidly without doing so out loud.

"...then i know just how to break you."

The weight on your body grows heavy as morpheus leans over you, his strong hands returning to their grip on your hips.

a shiver travels down your spine, as his thick deliciously sexy voice makes its way into your ear.

"tell me my darling...do i have permission to BREAK you?"

(you guys, i wanted to make this SO MUCH LONGER and filthier!! but i wasnt too sure about it. 😅 please if you read this far, let me know if youd like me to go ALL OUT next time! or make a part 2 to this)

The Dreaming withered in his absence. Rivers stilled, flowers closed, libraries crumbled. And still he endured, his eyes burning with stars older than gods, a king stripped to stillness.

Until one night, something changed.

Not the circle, not the prison, not the chains of glass and spell. But the air itself—shifting like a tide. A mortal’s dream had wandered too close.

Not to the waking world above. Not to the cellar. But to him.

The sea of stars that always hung behind the glass stirred, shimmering brighter. A figure stepped into view, hesitant yet unafraid. Bare feet on starlight, hair spilling like ink over her shoulders, eyes steady in the impossible dark.

She drew closer until the starlit sea lapped against the glass. And then she raised her hand, pressing her palm to the smooth surface.

A voice filled the air—not spoken with lips, but carried on the gravity of storms, the weight of night itself.

“You are not supposed to be here.”

The woman did not flinch. “And yet,” she murmured, her voice low but certain, “here I am.”

For the first time in years, his gaze sharpened, focusing on her as though she were not merely a dream, but something more.

“My name is [Y/N],” she said, her hand still against the glass.

“Leave,” he commanded. The sound cracked the silence like thunder. “Before they notice you.”

She did. The dream dissolved, the stars retreating, and the silence folded back in on itself.

But she returned the next night. And the night after. And the night after that.

She never begged, never asked questions, never sought to claim or command. She stood in silence with him, her palm pressed to the glass, her eyes steady and calm.

She offered nothing but presence.

And in her presence, something impossible stirred.

For the first time in an age, the Endless remembered the taste of something he had long abandoned — a small, stubborn, dangerous thing.

Hope.

READ NEXT Chapter 1 — The Dream That Would Not Fade

You knew it the moment Morpheus stepped into the mortal realm with the intention of finding you. A weird, but familiar, shiver danced up and down your spine. He was here. You knew he was coming straight for you. He was on a hunt. You, the prey. There was one question bothering you though. Morpheus knew where you were this whole time, why come find you now? 

Deep down, you knew the answer. As bitter as the truth was, you knew the answer. Dream was heartbroken. Alone. So he was seeking that which is familiar, an old friend, anything that would stroke his ego and soothe his pain – something you had the habit of always doing, lifetimes ago – letting him know that he was still loveable. That he was not someone you could easily leave behind in the past. Cajoling him, uplifting his mood, there was a time when you’d do anything for him. Anything. But not now. 

Not anymore. 

You knew he was here, still you went about your day like it was just another one. Of course, like the nocturnal creature you’d become ever since opening your clubs all over the globe, your ‘day’ began after nine o’clock at night. 

You got ready and drove to the heart of the city, to your own little, salacious slice of heaven. Your clubs were everything to you. And you knew it meant a lot to your members as well. A safe place, a judgement free zone where they could meet others with similar tastes, kinks, and desires; where they could explore and experiment in a safe environment, where they could mingle and get away from their mundane lives. Where they could hide in the shadows and whisper their deepest, darkest secrets to people who would understand. 

The dark red interior, the dimmed scones on the walls, the private rooms… the sound of hushed voices, giggles and laughs, muffled moans and the energy in the air. Buzzing. Alive. Intense. 

But it all ceased. Everything stopped for you. The sounds, the excitement, that feeling of utter belonging – it all stopped the moment you caught a pair of painfully familiar dark eyes. In the sea of red decor, dark shadows, soft dim lights, Morpheus both stood out and blended in at the same time. 

Morpheus, darkness personified. With ridiculous soft lips and yearning in his eyes. He carried himself like a king, like an old god. “There you are.” His calm, steady words both soothed and irritated an old wound. He sounded relieved. 

“Dream.” You whispered, your voice void of all emotions. You always thought you’d have so much to tell him when you’d see him again. So much hate. So many harsh words to throw at his arrogant face. But this was all you could utter in the moment. Just his name. Nothing else. 

He stepped closer, ignoring the people scattered about around you like they never existed. This was how he was. How he always was. Long ago, you were too blind to see it. To blind to see how he treated others because all that mattered was how he treated you. Until, it was your turn to be discarded like an unwanted toy by a petulant child. Only then did you see him for who he was. 

Yet, even now, you hated how fast your heart began racing the moment he stepped closer to you. The moment he took up all the space in front of you. When all you could see, hear, smell, and feel was him. You hated how your body reacted to him. Even now, even so many lifetimes later. You hated feeling that sense of belonging. That feeling of puzzle pieces slotting back into the right place. 

“This is not where I thought I’d find you.” He said. “You look different.” His eyes lowered, roaming all over your body. 

You watched him as he took you in. You knew exactly why he had that look on his face. That betrayed look. Because you looked good, in your little, lacy red dress. Your dark red undergarments very much visible. Your outfit didn’t leave much to the imagination. Except this time around, you weren’t dressed up for him. Anyone who walked by could see you. Could want you. You weren’t his anymore. You watched him realise this. And Morpheus had always been jealous. 

He continued, “The last time I saw you–,” 

You couldn’t help but scoff and cut him off. “Do you even remember when that was? The last time you saw me?” 

The surprised look on his face told you that he wasn’t expecting this tone from you. This defiance. This boldness. So he frowned and said, stepping even closer, “Need I remind you that you chose to come and hide in the mortal realm?” 

“It’s not hiding if you knew where I was the whole time, Dream.” You reminded him. You knew. He knew. Everyone fucking knew where you were. “Why are you here?” You taunted, for a moment you forgot what he was capable of and carried on goading him. “I take it she left you for good then, Nada? And now you need to prove to yourself and everyone else that you’re still loveable, so you’ve come to find me?” You chuckled, dryly. “I’m not who I used to be, Morpheus. I won’t be your little toy. That vicious cycle, that push and pull, those games… It's all over. I won’t fall for it, for you. Not this time.” 

“I can see that.” He hissed. 

“Oh good then.” You rolled your eyes, sighing, “I was wondering if I’d have to kick you out or if you’d get the memo and–,” 

“Come back to me.” It was his turn to surprise you. His voice firm, and cold. “It’s never been the same without you. Everyone misses you.” He said. “I miss you.” 

Everyone misses you… your friends. You hadn’t thought about them in a long time. You felt a strange weight on your chest upon remembering your time with The Endless. The fun, the laughs, the parties, the pranks. 

“Go away, Dream.” You sounded tired. 

But Dream didn’t move. “I won’t leave without you.” It sounded like he had his mind made up. 

“Oh?” You taunted him again. “So now you need me? Now that Nada has left you? Now that you’re all alone again? Now you want your little toy back?” 

Your tone was so condescending and insulting that Morpheus visibly flinched. Again, not expecting it. Not from you. How could he? You used to be so obedient. His most well-behaved little plaything. 

He was careful when he spoke next. His voice just as steady as earlier, but colder, deeper. His cadence slower when he said, “It was her departure that brought me back to my senses. Nada was the forbidden fruit I was never meant nor allowed to have. And she left, rightfully so, because I gave her hell.” Literally. “But you,” He paused, “You were always mine. And I was to blind to see it. I cannot escape you. I’ve tried everything. I cannot let you go.” 

You had to laugh in his face. He looked offended, pissed off, and guilty all at once. 

“Truly,” Your laughter ended with giggles, "I had forgotten, and frankly I’ve missed, your theatrics.” You gave him a fake smile and said, “Leave,” You told him, “Surely this place isn’t suitable for you, my Lord.” You added, “Desire would adore this place though. They’ve always been much more fun and just better than you in every way.” You knew exactly how tense Dream and Desire’s bond was. “Go back to your castle, Morpheus, and craft away your precious dreams and nightmares. And maybe think about what you did while brooding.” 

“Careful.” He warned. 

That pissed you off. “Why? You get to be selfish, and cruel, and heartless. But I must be careful?” 

A slow blink, then he said, “You don’t belong here. Not anymore. You’ve forgotten who you are, you were almost a god once, do you remember?” 

“Don’t patronise me!” You hissed, leaning in just a little, really getting in his face to say, “I was always “almost” everything, wasn’t I, Dream? Almost perfect. Almost yours. Always, almost. But I was never good enough for you, was I?” 

“You’re angry.” Was all he said. 

“Yes, I am fucking angry.” You refused to look away from his eyes, no matter how intense his stare got. 

“Tell me how to make it better.” 

“Leave. Go away. And never, ever come back here.” 

Morpheus sighed, “And leave you alone here? In this… place?” 

You get defensive. “It’s my club. What’s the issue?” 

“This isn’t you.” He argued. 

“Oh stop it, Dream.” You almost laughed again. “Stop acting like you know me.”  

“But I do know you.” He argued in that calm, collected, annoying way of his. “I have known you for so long. You’re my oldest friend. I have known you for so long I barely remember what it was like before you. It’s almost as if… there never was a before you.” 

You scoffed. “Always so dramatic, Dream.” 

“I know I’ve hurt you. I abandoned you. I never checked in. I thought…” He closed his eyes and sighed, like it pained him to say it. “I thought you were better off without me.” 

“No,” You corrected him, “You discarded me like I was something you had no use for anymore.” 

It angered him when you threw the truth in his face. “I never asked you to leave, I never kicked you out–,” 

“You didn’t have to!” You raised your voice a little, not that it made a difference. The music, the sound of glasses clinking, the sound of laughter and soft conversations all around you concealed your anger. “It was… understood that I was nothing other than a distraction.” 

“No.” He began, “I thought you–,” 

“Oh that’s your problem, Dream. You think you know everything.” You shook your head and tried to leave, but Morpheus grabbed you by the wrist and pulled you into him. “Don’t.” You said, “Don’t do this.” 

“I need you back.” He repeated his words from earlier, his one hand tightly wrapped around your wrist while his other arm wrapped around your waist, keeping your body pressed against his. 

For a moment, only for a moment you felt like you could so easily give in. His warmth, the intensity in his stare, his lean body… you almost gave in. But you quickly recovered, “It doesn’t work like that. Not here. Not anymore. You don’t make the rules here.” 

“Then make them.” He offered. “Make your rules, punish me. Use me. Take whatever you want. Hurt me, if you must. But please forgive me. And come back to me.” 

You didn’t know how it happened, but you weren’t thinking straight. And next thing you knew, your hand was firmly wrapped around his delicate neck, you squeezed just enough to surprise him yet again. “Stop telling me what to do, Morpheus.” You whispered, your voice darker than you expected. 

His hand released your other wrist immediately, almost as if in shock. “Fine.” He swallowed, whispering, “I won’t.” He was breathing heavier, you could also feel his pulse quicken. 

Could it be…? 

“You want to be forgiven?” 

“Yes.” He answered quickly, a softer look in his eyes. 

“You’re gonna have to earn it, Dream.” You knew exactly how much that would hurt his ego. He was Dream of The Endless. The Lord of The Dreaming. One of the most powerful cosmic beings to ever exist. 

Surely he wouldn’t– 

“I’ll do anything for you.” He said, surprising you yet again. “Anything.” He sounded breathless. 

— 

Finding your way to your private room was easy, and Morpheus followed you without any word said. 

And upon entering, you tried to visualise the room through his eyes. It was so obvious that this was your playroom. And he could tell. And he wasn’t entirely happy about it. You could almost hear the questions he asked himself mentally. 

Who else had you had here? Who else had touched you? How many times? Did you like it? Were they good to you? Were they better than him? 

Even as you shut the door behind you and faced him, he was so quiet – not in control for once. His unanswered questions bothered him. You could tell because he looked at you like you’d betrayed him. Like you were the one causing him pain. His stare was accusatory. You almost smirked at the thought. 

“We’ve played these games before, haven’t we?” 

“We have.” He answered, probably also thinking back to all those hours you’d spent in his bed. Always his to play with. Always ready. Always eager. 

“And you know the rules.” 

“I do.” 

You advanced towards him. “Just one little difference this time around, you are not in charge. You understand, Dream?” 

“Yes.” He stood so perfectly still, it was like he was not here at all. But he was. And he was powerful enough to leave whenever he wanted. You both knew that. The fact that he chose to still be here… it meant something. 

But you refused to give in. Not yet. So you just said, “Good.” 

He was surprised, and slightly disoriented as you led him to the soft bed and pushed him down. You climbed on top of him. You settled comfortably, your legs around his lean waist, your dress barely covering your body but neither one of you cared. 

Morpheus looked up at you with nothing but surprise, adoration, and lust. “I’ve missed you.” He murmured, as you leaned down to gently brush your lips with his. He gasped, surprised and maybe overwhelmed. His hands immediately rubbed up and down your sides lovingly. Like an old habit of his. 

“It’s funny how everyone says the same thing whenever I bring them in here and get on top of them.” You whispered, your lips brushing with his ever so gently. 

A pause. He processed, then got angry. His grip tightened as he grabbed you by the hips. “How dare you let someone else touch what’s–,” 

“Shh,” You cut him off, pulling away a little to look down at him. “Watch your tone.” You said, sternly. Morpheus tried reaching up to press his lips to yours, but you pulled away really quickly. “So bratty, Dream.” You smirked. “For someone so powerful, you’ve always been so bratty. I wonder why no one’s ever punished you for it.” 

He scoffed. “I wonder.” He taunted, his tone as pompous as always. Dream did like to gloat. 

“Drop the attitude, Dream. Else I will do something about it. And you won’t like it.” 

Morpheus smirked, with you still straddling him, your core pressing down on his crotch. “And what are you gonna do about it?” He sassed. 

Ah. Yes. He always did underestimate everyone else. You reached out and slowly traced his mouth with your finger. You spoke softly when you did. “I’ll shut your bratty mouth up. That’s what I’m gonna do.” You promised.

And there it was again. That defiance in his stare. The hunger, the lust. And the mischief as he looked up at you. You could feel his muscles tensing underneath you. You smirked when you noticed the effect you have on him, and how he couldn’t help but stare at your almost naked body on top of his. At least some things remained the same. 

“You need to learn how to not be such an arrogant fuck sometimes.” You trailed your fingertips down and back up his slender neck, making him squirm just a little as you grabbed his jaw and forced him to look you in the eyes. “Need to learn how to be less of an entitled prick.” 

Morpheus was pleasantly surprised. “There was a time you’d tell me I was perfect. That I was everything you ever wanted.” 

“I was an idiot, clearly.” 

That smirk on his pretty lips annoyed you. “No.” He dared argue, touching you wherever he could. “You were mine. You were happy. With me, by my side. Where you belong. You left and now look at what’s happened. You’ve gotten–” 

“You talk too much.” Without another word said, you grabbed both his hands and pulled them away from your body and pinned both of his wrists above his head, down on the pillows. “And keep your hands there.” You ordered. “Don’t touch me.” 

But as expected, Morpheus didn’t listen. He wasn’t used to being ordered around. So he moved his hands back on you, pulling you closer and caressing your skin. He just needed to touch you. 

But you were running out of patience. You grabbed both his hands and pinned them above his head again. “I said, keep them there.” You said slowly, in a strict voice.

He smirked at first, but upon seeing that you were reaching for the silky black ropes on the small bedside table, his smile faded at once. “You won’t dare–,” 

You chuckled, “Oh, Dream. You keep forgetting the rules.” Maybe it’s because he was in shock or maybe he finally surrendered, because he didn’t struggle as you carefully tied his wrists together. He just looked up at you with those eyes, and pouty mouth. The cool, silky rope glided against his skin. You secured his wrists to the metal headboard. 

Once done, you pulled away to get a good look at him, beneath you, tied up and pink, soft lips parted as he awaited what’s next. You smirked at how he gave you his best tortured, teary, puppy dog eyes. “There, now stay still. I don’t have much time, my… friends out there must be waiting for me.” You said, making him even more furious. One thing about Morpheus, he did not like not being a priority. Plus, you made this sound like a chore. 

He clenched his jaw.  

You felt a sudden rush at the mere thought of having him like this. Completely at your mercy. Of course, he could get out of the weak knots you tied him with in the blink of an eye. But the realization of how he chose to play along and be there, all for you to play with, filled you with pride. 

Morpheus’s face was flushed, and you could tell he was flustered and hot and bothered already – and you had barely touched him yet. “You think you can always have your way, don’t you, Dream?” Your voice barely above a whisper as you beckoned that power from deep inside you. 

After spending centuries beside the Endless and other gods, you’d learned a thing or two. You had no powers as destructive as the ones the Endless had, but magic could still be learned. And given you were no longer fully human, it came easily to you. So you perfected it. 

A wave of your hand and you were both naked, warm skin pressing against one another. Hearts racing, because while you had done this before, you’d never taken control in bed with Morpheus. And while it was a long time coming, it was still new. 

But, he deserved this. To be messed with and for once, not calling the shots. So you ignored the doubts and did what you did best. 

You put on a show. 

You settled on his right thigh. His warm, smooth skin pressing against your bare, wet core. You rolled your hips gently against his thigh and you felt the familiar tingle dance down your spine. “Fuck…” 

Morpheus watched you ride his thigh slowly, lips parted, his cock beginning to throb and leak. He knew then that this was going to be a long, hard night for him.

“You will regret this.” He said, sounding a little out of breath. His voice deeper somehow. 

You chuckled, pressing both your palms against his toned abdomen, carefully avoiding touching him right where he needed you as you worked to get yourself off by humping his thigh. “Oh, will I?” 

You were leaving behind a damp patch on his skin, breasts bouncing gently, lips parted, softly gasping as you made yourself come. 

He watched how your soft moans got louder and how you humped his thigh faster, getting higher… and higher… you tilted your head back, purposely putting on a show just for him. “Oh,” You gasped, “Morpheus…” 

“You’re cruel.” He groaned when you whined wantonly, and he gently lifted his thigh – pressing further into your clit. He felt your wetness smearing all over his skin and he hopelessly wanted a taste. “Let me touch you.” 

“No.” 

Morpheus’s cock was leaking by the time you came undone above him, leaving him still hard and throbbing.  

“Let me…” he murmured as he watched you come down from your high. He was desperate, and hungry and he just wanted you wrapped around him. He needed to feel you, and your warmth. “I–,” 

You cut him off quickly, “Don’t make me gag you, Morpheus.” You chuckled as you slowed down and finally came to a stop, still straddling his thigh. “Let me…,” You mimicked in a voice that was sure to annoy him. “Let me touch you.” You mocked him, chuckling. “Such a brat. You’ve never known patience, or learned how to ask nicely, have you?” You smirked again, leaning in to trace his lips with your tongue, kissing the corners of his mouth. “You always just take whatever you want. You never ask, you never wait. You just take, and take, and take.” 

You gave him a brief kiss before finally wrapping your hand around his cock. He almost hissed and whimpered as he closed his eyes and gasped, relishing your touch. He felt nice and hard, and big. 

“Not so scary and mean now, are you, Dream?” You lazily stroked his length, up and down. “All tied up and helpless in my bed.” Your thumb rubbed his tip slowly, making him groan as you kissed your way down his neck. You kissed his skin feverishly, leaving your marks behind as you bit and sucked around the base of his throat, making him shudder in pleasure and moan quietly. 

A soft chuckle left his lips. “Go ahead,” He spoke again, clearly not understanding your previous threat. Hence the condescending tone. “Use me and have your little fun, pet.” He tilted his head back, exposing his throat. 

You froze. That damned nickname. Then you pulled away to look down at him. The arrogance in his eyes was back now that the surprise had vanished. And you had to do something about that, didn’t you? 

“Oh, Dream.” You said, reaching for the nearest piece of clothing you could find. Your lacy, dark red underwear from earlier. How perfect. You held back a giggle as you balled it up and shoved it in his mouth before he could process it. And he allowed it. “I did warn you about keeping your mouth shut, didn’t I?” 

It was rare to see Morpheus so… defeated. So… submissive. You placed your palm over his stuffed mouth and said, “Now that you won’t interrupt my fun, where were we?” 

His eyes rolled to the back of his head as you resumed touching him, your hand moving carefully up and down his cock. His whines were now muffled. His face in a pleasurable frown. He was… quite a sight to behold. Dream has always been so… heavenly to look at. 

Morpheus opened his eyes to look at you. His eyes were darker, his gaze more intense and he tried to thrust his cock up into your fist but then gave up because each time he did, you would just let go of him. 

“Don’t even try, Dream.” You glared at him. 

So he didn’t do anything except let you toy with him however you liked. Morpheus, arrogant Morpheus, was quiet for once. 

You chuckled each time you felt him twitch under you. You smirked as you brought him right on the edge, the sound of music from the main area of the club reached your room but it was muffled, as were Morpheus’ moans and groans. He was painfully hard and throbbing and desperate. You leaned down to kiss him on his hip bones, gentle kisses at first, which turned into greedy nips and bites until you heard him groan even more. 

Without any warning, you took him into your mouth, all of him. You placed your mouth on his tip, your tongue slowly circling his tip before you sucked him in. 

Morpheus was a mess as you took him in until he hit the back of your throat. You kept your eyes on his perfect face as you sucked on his cock. He closed his eyes momentarily, red fabric obediently stuffed into his mouth, his lips parted as he tilted his head back. 

He looked godly, even when he was tied up and powerless. 

The muffled gasps and moans which escaped his lips as he squirmed made you smirk. It only made you want to tease him even more, and keep him on the edge. It made you feel even more powerful than usual. 

Morpheus relished the warmth of your mouth wrapped around him, perfect like he had dreamt of so often over the past many, many years. 

He twitched against your tongue and you tasted some of his pre cum. You slowed down, not wanting to grant him the satisfaction just yet. You took him out of your mouth, licking his cock from bottom to top. Morpheus moaned, the sounds he made were weak and desperate. And so unlike The Dream King. 

He swore under his breath as you dragged your tongue over the slit of his tip lazily. You chuckled as he tried thrusting his hips up, hoping that you would stop messing with him already. Your ability of bringing him right to the edge and mercilessly keeping him there for as long as you wished to was driving him insane.

And he could break out of the bondage anytime. He knew that. You knew that. And yet, there he remained. 

All for you to play with. 

But while you desperately wanted to, you couldn’t play all night. You had your club to look after, and you had Morpheus to kick out when you were done with him. Maybe then he’d know what it’s like to be discarded once you were no longer useful. 

Morpheus lost all self-control the moment you sank down on him, your wet warmth wrapping all around him, making him groan in pleasure and sensitivity. 

You leaned in, not quite moving like how he wanted you to just yet, and caressed his pretty face, looking him deep in his pretty eyes as you took the now wet fabric out of his mouth and replaced it with three of your fingers. Sliding them gently across his tongue, in and out in slow strokes. 

Morpheus gasped, his warm breath sending shivers along your arm while you rocked your hips against his. He was quite a sight, lean body, strong, and handsome but tied to your bed. 

“Does that feel good?” You asked, moving against him perfectly, feeling him somehow get harder inside you. 

He nodded, applying just the slightest bit of suction to your fingers. You slid them deeper, messing with him. Testing. Teasing. Owning. 

You kept moving, so slowly that it was agonising even for you. And then just when you felt him twitch inside you, you lifted your hips up and pulled him out of you. You watched as he almost whined. Wild eyes, gasping for air, he was not used to this. Not used to being the one begging for someone to touch him. Just touch him. Make the pain go away. Make it feel good, please… 

“Come on,” You already knew what he was thinking. “Ask nicely, Dream.” You teased. “I don’t have all night.” You added, purposely reminding him that you’d built a life without him. “Beg me. Beg for it.” You said more sternly, whispering against his mouth, lips hovering above his parted ones. You removed your fingers and leaned in to kiss his wet, warm, open mouth ravenously. “Beg me to give you what you want.” 

“Please… I need you.” His voice was low, barely even a whisper. But you heard it. His desperation was quite clear. And he was so sensitive, from all that teasing, that once you started riding him again, he began to thrust his hips up trying to match your movements. 

But you messed with him even then, you slowed down your pace whenever he got too excited, and you sped up when he least expected it. 

“Yes,” You gasped, “This is familiar isn’t it, Dream?” 

At some point, he was nothing but a sweaty, moaning mess under you, messy hair, swollen lips, and a throbbing cock. But you wanted more, you wanted to hear him whine some more, you wanted to hear how desperate he could get. 

You messed with him for as long as you could, and Morpheus got loud, very loud, growling as you teased him, and whining your name whenever you kept him on the edge for too long. Begging constantly… please, please, please. 

You alternated between having him in your mouth and riding his cock, and there was nothing else he could focus on in that moment. 

Just you. Only you. He was yours, yours to toy with and tease, yours to use as you pleased.

“Haven’t you tortured me enough?” He asked, breathless and sensitive. 

“Is it? Is it enough?” You taunted. “Do you have any idea what it was like being away from you?” Your voice cracked. “You don’t. You were busy while I was here licking my fucking wounds. Wounds I got while thinking I could ever be worthy of your love.” 

“But I’m back. And I’m not leaving this time.” 

“Yes you are.” You admitted. “You will leave the moment I’m done with you and you will never come back in my life, you hear me?” 

Your walls clenched around him, gripping him and milking him perfectly. He was completely gone, begging you to slow down when you kept riding his sensitive, throbbing cock even after he came. Once, twice. 

His heart raced, he was breathing hard and fast. 

“Please,” He begged one more time. 

You made him come again, then finally, you came right after. Both of you gasping for air. The room felt warmer, your head felt cloudy. You calmed your racing heart then grabbed him by the jaw and looked deep into his eyes while you spoke, bitterly. His hands were still tied, and they were itching to just reach out and touch you. “You don’t get to just walk in here and want me back.” 

Morpheus simply said, “But you are mine.” He argued, his voice growly like he was losing patience. 

“What kind of fucked up logic is this, Dream?” You could see how he was gasping for air, how he was unsure of what you intended to do next. So you left him guessing for as long as you could. “You and I were always like this, weren’t we? Too much. Not enough. Always crossing lines and boundaries, trapped in that vicious cycle because we couldn’t get enough of each other.” 

“Let me fix us. Come back to me. It will be different this time. I promise you. I will be yours, wholeheartedly.” 

You smiled. “No.” 

You went to get up and get out of bed. 

But everything happened all at once. Morpheus got his wrists free from the rope with efforts so minimal you gasped in shock. He reached for you, grabbed you and pulled you back in bed so quickly that you barely had time to form a thought. 

Next thing you knew, you were lying on your stomach with Morpheus’ hard, warm, lithe body on top of you, his chest pressing into your back, his hands holding you firmly. And his chuckle echoing inside your head. 

“Had your fun, little one?” He asked, keeping you trapped in his grip. “Are you done? Hmm? Are you done showing off? Are you done proving your point? Are you done punishing me for what I did? Are you done pretending you’re in control?” 

“Dream…” You gasped, feeling his hand finding its way in between your legs. And you whimpered at the feeling of his fingers touching your sensitive clit. Teasing it relentlessly as he spoke. 

“Your heart shall soon belong to him alone. You being my High Priestess has been a blessing, and I thank you for your service by my temple. Now it’s time for you to explore yourself, your passions outside these walls of white marble. I’ll always be with you in spirit, but you need to leave behind my voice and your other spiritual sisters. A whole new world awaits you, and so does the one who will fall for you. Farewell, my child".

Your eternal Lord was no more. His words, spoken in a golden-hued vision he sent the night before, had hit you unexpectedly.

You’d been his vessel for over twelve years and he never confessed anything unsettling regarding the messages you’ve delivered, or discredited your gifts whatsoever.

But you were not going to contrast his orders, for Apollo was the god of prophecies and utter truth. If he said another destiny was about to tangle you in the spires of love, you must leave him and your sisters behind. It was no easy task, but it had to be done for your and theirs’ sakes.

«Don’t be sad for too long, sister. If our Lord talked about a fresh start, it must be really important. I’m sure he’s devastated to let you go, just as much as we are.»

The order of the Pythias had been your home ever since you were born and now, free of your duties and stripped away of your family, you could do nothing but shed a single tear of anguished sorrow.

It was time for you to leave the temple and its sacred grounds. Before leaving, you drank the holy waters of Cassotis one last time. You had to say goodbye to its naiad and flowing forms nestled in the hard rock, and you did so accompanied by your sisters.

The oldest out of you three, Klea, was whispering about some sort of secret encounter a farmer’s wife had with a general when you saw it.

The river from which you were drinking was crystal clear, and at that moment it was acting as a mirror.

And right through the small waves of the fluid surface, your eyes landed on the figure’s reflection. It was behind you.

But right when you looked over the shoulder to better look at the man, he was already gone.

Hand still close to your mouth, you dropped into the water and stared at the sun. It wasn’t Apollo. It was somebody else. The only shred of information you had about him was the memory of his clothes.

«Sister? Are you alright?»

You couldn’t say you were, but the moment flew over your head a second later and the purple veil you wore fell on your face again. Veiling your features was an act of purity in Apollo’s regards, even if it wasn’t required of you any longer. You’d take it off once the one He spoke about would’ve revealed themselves.

After drinking and spending some time together, you finally parted ways with the two other girls and kissed them goodbye. You were going to miss them really much.

Then your feet guided through the sylvan maze automatically: you knew those woods by heart, even if it was almost midnight and Artemis loved to saunter the surroundings. Brother and sister saw each other pretty often, and those meetings had to remain absolutely private, so you shied away faster.

Right at the centre of the labyrinth stood the Castalian Spring you used to go to before the rituals, but now it wasn’t a cleansing bath. It was one that spoke of fresh nostalgia, the one who would’ve haunted a person’s dreams for years before it faded away.

And now it belongs to you, too was your brain’s answer to the previous thought.

You shrugged your shoulders at that, yet it was clear the rational part of yourself was right.

You had been forced to abandon commodities and familial affection to travel the world, swaying helplessly in the winds of life while you tried to push forward.

The vest draped on you pooled at your feet while your mind wandered around, so you disposed of it alongside sandals and personal belongings with an absent-minded sigh.

However, your face was veiled in purple, for the presence felt before in Cassotis was with you still.

Trying your best to calm the nerves, you immersed yourself in the fresh waters of the spring. If their intention was to scare you away, they’d be in for a very gruesome mental fight with you. You’d been trained for it.

As soon as your lips rose to the water’s level, you said out loud:

«Even if my career as Apollo’s High Priestess has dawned, I’m sure the God of Diseases will cast a hex upon your famished eyes to protect my chastity. Show yourself.»

Unbeknownst to you, the visitor stood behind you again. His presence had been so faint until then that you hadn’t bothered to look behind your back.

«And I will not go against your words: the child loves to protect the women whose hearts are so close to his.»

The intensity of the voice pinned you to the ground and covered your wet skin in a coat of shivers. You didn’t even dare to move. Such was their power on you, and they had done nothing more than putting you in place.

Moreover, did the visitor just call Apollo a child? Who were they?

You were about to turn around a bit before they added: «But that’s where my courtesy ends. I intended to show myself but you’ll have to settle for my voice only, now.

Ordering someone like you tried to do with me isn’t very far-sighted of you, ex-Pythia.»

Ouch. It would’ve hurt less if they stabbed you in the ribs rather than saying “ex”.

The imperative underlying in their tone would’ve terrorised others, but not you. The only thing that got injured in the small conversation was your ego.

«I could say the same. Leaving a damsel fencing for herself in the dark because you decided to act upon pettiness isn’t very polite of you, stranger. Also, you already saw what had to be seen of my body, but what about me? Do I really have to settle for your voice only? It doesn’t seem fair.»

The darkness provided by the approaching night was at your disadvantage, but the blow went through the visitor’s armour. You were in no way defenceless, but if your intuition was right, the person behind you highly despised rudeness.

You were even, now.

«Very well. You have a gift with words that many others lost during the early ages of men. It doesn’t surprise me you were Apollo’s favourite priestess. However.»

Suddenly the winds shifted course, and you felt a tickling sensation at the base of your nape. It was such a sensitive spot, for your hair was gathered up.

The stranger must’ve sensed it, for they exhaled right there before adding: «Let’s not talk about what is fair and what is not. You claim that I have seen more than you intended on showing, but it is not true. In the waking world, I have never seen anything else but your veiled face, even when clothes escaped your body. Whereby it remains a mystery to me, but it can’t be said the same for you about mine.»

To say you were dumbfounded would’ve been an understatement.

They were really tricking you into believing it was you who saw more than they did? And why did they talk about the waking world?

«I only saw your clot- listen to me very carefully. I will indulge you on this and say that you are right», the pond you were still in was getting colder and you with it, «will you show yourself to me then? I can be reasonable if the context benefits both me and the person I’m involved with.»

For the first time in millennia, the visitor’s heart had been pinched by the piercing bite of curiosity… and deep down, passion waited for the right moment to surface.

It had been the right decision to speak with Apollo about her.

Their whispers caressed your ear once more, but this time the tender touch of lips grazing the earshell increased the blood flow in your body, especially the lower ones. Oh, sweet mercy.

«Thus it is decided. Meet my eyes without fear, mortal, for I am Dream of the Endless. It seems our fates have now officially crossed.»

He was Oneiros, King of Dreams and Nightmares. No wonder he considered Apollo a youngling: compared to him, the God of poetry saw half of the universes Morpheus did in the first part of his infinite existence.

And you spoke down to him multiple times. You were doome- wait.

Every attempt at being polite had vanished like the smoke you inhaled to convey Apollo’s divine words, so you might’ve as well unearth as many truths as possible and fear no backlash.

«"Officially"? Does this mean we’ve met elsewhere before?»

And that was when you finally, finally turned around to get a glimpse of his features, and an audible gasp escaped you.

Hair akin to tresses of black silk circled his head while his slim body was strapped in the same dark robe you saw him wearing back at Cassotis. But what stuck with you the most were his eyes: pitch-black orbs that captured those who saw them but not in a terrifying way, rather a more mesmerising one.

The stern look softened at the view of your tilted head. It was if you were attempting to decipher a very complicated enigma.

Funny, because Morpheus was doing the same but with your concealed face.

You were out of breath and he smirked internally. Majestic and confident in both his beauty and power he was, and your hands itched to raise up and touch him.

«I’ve seen every dream and vision of yours ever since you were born and yet, I’ve never managed to catch even the smallest sight of your face. But your unconscious flooded my psyche, and the things you dreamt about became part of me.»

His tone dropped even lower when his face came impossibly close to your already panicking one. «Even the ones that make you stir in your sleep, almost as if restlessness holds onto you tightly.»

Oneiros placed a thumb on your lower lip and lifted your chin just enough for him to lean over more. «Even the most forbidden ones. A High Priestess shouldn’t indulge such carnal instincts, now, should she?»

He was getting all his devastating power over your senses and up your face. But you didn’t budge, and another red flower bloomed under his skin. His interest in you grew stronger by the second.

You didn’t pull away until he showed you where your clothes were. Only then you lurched away from his touch, still feeling more vulnerable than ever.

After breaking eye contact with the Endless, you walked towards the garment and once you put it back on, you looked back. You didn’t know whether to be extremely embarrassed — which you were — or flattered against common sense.

No one had ever perceived the most primordial part of yourself with such ease. It was buried just below the surface, but it was there nonetheless. At this point you were way past the point of no return, so you let your body feel everything the religious system denied it till now. Apparently, it included being attracted to a stranger, as well.

No, not a stranger. To the Lord of the Dreams.

«You’re the one He warned me about», the realisation of it all hit you altogether, «he didn’t tell me you weren’t human, but to think my life is connected to yours is unthinkable.»

«I used to think the same, then Destiny and the Kindly Ones confirmed what I’ve been suspecting all along: you and I are bound to cross paths, no matter how far we travel from one another. We’ll always come back together. It’s written in the fabric of every universe known and unknown.»

Your legs gave up in the last bit of Morpheus’ speech, and he caught you in his arms with little to no effort. The stars shone bright above your heads and you took advantage of it.

The index of your left hand landed on Oneiros’ cheekbone, followed suit by the middle and anular finger. The Endless never flinched, not even as your pads caressed the soft skin under his unearthly orbs.

Apollo really set you up with one of the most dangerous beings who ever walked the Earth.

You were pretty sure he had forgotten that either him and Oneiros were immortal beings. Unlike them, Death would’ve knocked at your door in a decade, if not less.

«So what happens next?» you asked under your breath, the veil barely moving over your mouth.

«I made myself known, young priestess. Now, allow me to see behind the veil of your modesty. May I?»

Your shaky nod didn’t go unnoticed, so Oneiros pulled back the veil slowly. He somehow feared he would hurt you, when in reality it was quite the opposite: the unveiling was setting your heart aflame, as it was igniting each and every single limb and fracture of your persona one by one.

His fingers crashed against your soft features just as you felt Oneiros’ gaze bore a hole in you. Dismay gnawed at the upfront of your brain when he stopped, for you feared you had misunderstood everything, but then his husky, honey-like voice reached you.

Thick flickers of abrupt longing clawed you from the tip of your toes to the top of the head.

«Here you are at last, oh beautiful one. You’re the brightest star in all firmaments dear to humankind and not.»

The sentence was a declaration of love per se, but what brought you to tears had been the dialect in which he spoke those words. That was your hometown’s one, far lost in the multitude of islands comprising Greece for many to remember.

It was identical to the one you claimed you’d forgotten after years spent in Delphi. You deleted every last trace of the small village you loved to spend most of the days in, running through lavender fields and sleeping under the stars, but now here it was.

Morpheus reminded you who you’d been before becoming Apollo’s harbinger of truth among men: a little girl in love with her previous existence.

Droplets of sadness streamed down your glassy eyes and they didn’t stop. It was a silent ‘thank you’ for Oneiros and the precious gift he just donated to you. You’d treasure that fragment of time for the rest of your life.

He did nothing but press his forehead against yours for a second, then the softness of his lips traced down what was left of your tears on your cheeks.

He was kissing them away.

«I admire the woman you’ve become, but what about that young soul who yearned to dance for her mamá? To explore the world on her eldest brother’s shoulders?»

«The God of prophecies came to me in a dream when I was about to be married to an Athenian monger, you must know that. I’ve been his ever since. He saved me from a grime destiny.»

You couldn’t know that at the time, but Oneiros had the ability to comfort humans by reminding them of perfumes and memories of their childhood. The moment your nostrils impacted with the faint aroma of freshly baked bread and rain, your eyes met him once more and you felt it.

The knot within your stomach dissolved. Every doubt about his intentions, each dagger dug into your heart. It was all gone.

«But now he has set you free. The Three went to him and gave him a vision of what your future would’ve been like if you stayed longer under his care. Apollo comprehended everything shown to him and talked with me. When he summoned you, it was in the Dreaming. I was by his side while he freed you from your obligations, but you couldn’t see me. No chain or superior purpose keeps you anchored to him or this place any longer.»

Oneiros bent his head in a way that was unmistakable for another, and your every muscle stilled. «Your Grace-»

«You may call me Oneiros. No need to address me so formally.»

You visibly gulped. «-Oneiros. Shouldn’t we leave the Castalian Spring? This is a sacred space, after all. Phoebus won’t be lenient if he finds out that profanities have been performed here.»

His lips had touched yours for the briefest of moments right after your observation. A contact lasted less than a second, but it’d been enough for wildfire to spread across your body. It’d been your first kiss and Oneiros’ arms embraced your body tighter.

You were shaking.

«Naïve girl, Oneiros’ hair played with the wind as his breath touched yours, «as if Apollo never engaged in “profanities” right here himself, and with countless lovers. He’d be a hypocrite if ours disturbs him.»

Oh, great Heavens.

Relaxing against his body, you raised your head enough for the man to continue what he started earlier, although this time he was firmer, and your lips followed him in the final loss of your chastity.

You even opened your mouth slightly, remembering how your body responded and initiated such actions in the many dreams lived in the Endless’ realm. And just as your faceless lovers did back then, the man slid in and licked your tongue with his.

Immoral delight pervaded each fibre of your being.

«Where did you take inspiration from for your dreams, star-mine?» Oneiros cooed in your ear, not even noticing he had walked backwards until the catty kiss of laurel bushes stroked your back. Then he placed you down on a dark blank appeared out of the blue, smiling to himself when you crossed your ankles at his touch on your half-bare thighs.

He had barely got started and you were already that jumpy.

«N-Neighbours. Back home, they used to love each other in the fields close to our farm. And I heard many townspeople talk about what they d-did with their lovers.»

Your detailed statement softened the Endless’ gaze, which soon turned into liquid steel as he eventually convinced you to open your legs for him.

He inserted himself between them and while sliding to his knees he kissed one of yours, motioning for you to calm yourself. The dress you had on did nothing to hide your excitement, and Oneiros could see your erected nipples underneath the damp fabric. His fingers reached the single strap wrapped around your neck and after you smiled at him, it fell right away under your now bare breasts.

The air didn’t get the opportunity to kiss them because the man beat it on time: first his lips latched onto your neck, then they slowly made their way to the engorged buds ready to be loved. You just stared at Oneiros wide-eyed, hands itching to grab onto something quickly.

Despite the lack of experience, dreams taught you a fundamental lesson: pleasure would course through your veins in a crescendo, so you had to steady yourself.

The man between your legs came to your aid, and he did by lacing one of his hands’ fingers with yours. And right after he did so and pecked at your breasts, his mouth descended on your ribs, your stomach. Your most private parts.

«Oneiros.»

A jolt of elation prickled his skin when his name fell past your lips. It’d been so long since he had such an immediate affinity with a new lover. Moreover, a human one.

Maybe his time as a lonely being really had come to an end. The Fates told the truth: they had deemed you as the perfect match for him.

«Was being touched here», he pointed out the spot he was talking about by caressing the expanse of skin he could reach, «a part of your memories, as well? Or a desire you wanted to get yourself lost into? You dreamt about this often, haven’t you?»

He was taunting you and your naughty mind. Being chosen by a divine entity and relishing in the rigid rules set by them in order to satisfy their wills were two separate things.

You were learning all about the fatter right then, with the Lord of Dreams and Nightmares. He was going to reenact one of your favourite fantasies.

«I- please.» «Please what?»

Your body acted on its own. Maybe it was because his silken voice wrapped around you, or maybe it was just the position he put you in, but your hips snapped upwards.

The man growled under his breath and the sound went straight to your core.

«Please.» Despite the shyness you repeated the plea, strongly this time. He kicked back a smile, the first physical demonstration of his endearment with your innocent antics.

Fingers you were sure were going to be the undoing of you settled on the apex of your thighs, waiting for your consent; once it was given, the dress you so proudly had worn during your novice years, and as a sign of celibacy, existed no more.

Oneiros didn’t just take it off of you: once it was in the air, he literally let it shred to pieces amidst a violent swirl of wind conjured by the man himself.

«You’re in no need of such a limitant symbol, now. I will provide you with a new dress later.»

The absolute certainty of the promise hidden in a single sentence sank into your bones, much like a tree’s roots do when the ground in which it stands is comfortable enough for them. It provides stability, and right now that was what you craved the most.

You did nothing but give him a brazen smile. «Please show me what I’ve missed out until now, Oneiros. Let me finally partake in my fantasies, but guide me through them in this realm.»

His lips joined yours while the first digit brushed against your swollen tissues. Wetness coated every inch of them, and he took his sweet time to let you be accustomed to the new sensation, sliding up and down the slit. Once he sensed you weren’t as tense as you were before, Oneiros decided to step things up a notch.

He eased his middle finger inside you right as your teeth rubbed on his lower lip. What sounded almost like a pained hiss ruffled your hair, but it wasn’t because the action disturbed him, on the contrary.

It turned him on.

You almost fled your skin at the intrusion, yet you accommodated it without breaking a sweat.

The knowledge of it becoming pleasurable immediately after in the back of your head made everything smoother, so you acted upon instinctive feelings and spread your legs wider.

And so the second digit pushed through your walls slowly. Oneiros, careful not to unsettle you, lowered his eyes where you were squeezing him.

He’d probably seen similar scenes a million times, but something felt different with you: you were not giving yourself to him in exchange for power or fame among mortals. Other lovers of his slept with him only to talk about and take pride in it with their acquaintances the day after, which he found incredibly disheartening.

But not this time: your soul was aligned with his, and so was your heart beating so loudly against your heaving chest.

«How does it feel, star-mine?» Hoarse were those words spoken on your agape mouth for you interrupted the kiss to throw back your head and chant strings of soft moans to the sky.

«It’s even better than I expected, I-» your voice failed you once the man’s eyes fell onto your face again.

His beauty was mesmerising. Hypnotic, even.

The stretch increased after the third and final fingers plunged into you. Walls fluttered around his fingers as your eyelids did, the bliss of the act mounting in the pit of your stomach until it almost overflew.

It would’ve sent you over the edge many men and women alike whispered about in their heated exchanges outside the temple, if only Oneiros hadn’t stopped. The delicious motion halted and your free hand immediately flew to caress the man’s cheek.

«Don’t stop, I beg you. Did I say something wrong?»

He kissed your hand first, then his lips rapidly replaced the digits buried inside you. Before moving forward, he locked eyes with you. «No, you did not. I just want to fulfil your request. See? I am reasonable, too, if the context benefits me and the person I’m currently involved with. Tap on my hand if it gets too overwhelming, star-mine.»

And with that his tongue entered you effortlessly, lapping up the clear liquid gathered underneath your thighs and licking the outer folds with unsolicited momentum. Not only you ended up covering his hands with yours in an attempt to break away from the tingling sensation in your abdomen, but at some point the movements of your hips matched the Endless’.

Without you having taken a rational or active part in it, your body had done so by default.

Oneiros increased his speed soon after your body had gone taut once more. You were close and he wanted to provide for your every need, whatever it’d cost him.

«Let yourself go. Yes, like this.»

The tension in your body melted away in waves of blinding stars chasing each other behind your eyelids, and as Oneiros drew your first orgasm ever out of your system, he loosed his grip on your legs to allow more relaxation.

You’d visited Mount Olympus with merely a few, long motions of the man’s tongue in you. Impossible to think of such a profanity when you still were a High Priestess, but there you were.

It was only after five minutes of comfortable silence and various kisses on your thighs from the Endless’ part that you managed to come back to the physical plane.

Without waiting for him to say anything, your hand cupped the back of his head and dragged him upwards to meet your lips. The taste of your own arousal in your mouth overcame the dull ache between your legs, for your greedy body wanted more.

It needed more.

Oneiros perceived your hunger on his skin and after complying to your immediate needs, his hands circled your waist and flipped you over. The moment elicited a surprised squeak from you and an almost imperceptible laugh from the Endless, although the new position granted him less control over you.

But as you had proved him twice in such a short span of time, yours wasn’t a tug of war: curiosity moved your heart above everything else. And he was going to please its whims, always.

«Oneiros, it was beautiful», your breasts pressed against his chest as you spoke, «I thank you for such an unexpected gift. I’ll make sure I do your efforts justice and return it to you.» His deep chuckles echoed in your ears. «And I’m positive you’ll do as promised, but we’re not over yet. Here.»

Oneiros’ hands raised you by the back of your thighs, brushing through your lower lips with the tip of his erection. Bracing yourself for the penetration, you waited. And waited. Yet, the man wasn’t moving.

«Am I supposed to do something more?» «You are. If I let go of you now, you’ll become one with me in the fastest and sometimes unromantic way possible. But I will not, for I want us both to relish in the moment with no rush.»

Already understanding what he was implying, you tapped on his hands. You raised yourself onto your knees, settling on the outside of his naked thighs.

«When did you dispose of your robe, Oneiros? I didn’t notice it until now.» «Somewhere between the moment I took off your dress and when you grazed my lip with your teeth.»

He removed his hands from you and laughed. He laughed. The King of Dreams and Nightmares was being playful with you.

A sudden motion of confidence flooded you and you stroked his erection a few times. The laughter died out in his throat yet his fingers raised to land on your face.

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, he took your hand in his as you finally became one at your own pace, bending to breathe heavily in the crook of his neck. Then you asked him amidst kisses and shy giggles if he could teach you what to do next, and he complied.

Eventually tiredness got the best of you and Oneiros took over, and he did until the nightfall gave way to the warm nuances of daylight.

In your heart you knew the Endless who held you now would have scorched the entire Earth to find you again in your next lives, come what may.

But little did you know it’d been you, out of the two, to not be on your best behaviour some times.

Particularly relevant was the “70s digression”, as Morpheus preferred to call the one time you escaped the Dreaming before a hundred years had passed since you went to sleep. It wasn’t your time to wake up, yet you did and ran away.

It was also the first time Death and Desire met your mortal self sprawled on a rather squalid couch at the infamous Studio 54, located in New York City.

And it sure had been the most terrifying experience of your non-existence, because that day Morpheus almost went to war with his youngest sibling over you. Even amidst the foggy remembrances of your past lives, the view of Dream’s outrage still burned in the back of your brain.

Not because Desire had pushed him over the edge yet another time, oh no. Rather because they pushed you in the arms of another man.

But he was no man, rather a figment of Mopheus' nightmarishly endeavour.

That had been the first time you actually saw your lover's temperament take control over him.