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cosmictapestry · 1 year ago

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special request 2. lucienne/morpheus/lucien

this one is PROBABLY going to remain a tumblr exclusive but i mean, characterization-wise and everything it's still consistent with we, divinity.

the full request was lucienne domming morph in his throne while lucien provides helpful commentary. i also decided it would be about grief and closure, because being normal is very difficult for me

prompt fills here

When Lucien first met his counterpart in this reality, he thought she was a woman of unparalleled poise, logic, and wisdom. He feels the same now, with the notable addition that she is also. Exceedingly open-minded. And creative.

In every universe, Dream of the Endless struggles with the burden of the collective unconscious. In every universe, the steward of the realm—his librarian, usually—has some method of helping him manage it. In all Lucien's years of service to Morpheus, he never quite got close enough to try anything beyond helping manage the day-to-day workings of the realm. He has vowed to do better by his new ward, the young lord Dream.

On his quest to find the most efficacious means of relief (a private project that young lord Dream has expressed immense gratitude for) Lucien has stumbled upon some truly unique methods. Somehow, he still did not expect Lucienne.

She sat him down at a table in her library to hear out his mission statement, and he couldn't tell from her face what she was thinking when he explained what he was looking for. Her eyes narrowed and she cocked her head, ravenlike, and she asked if Lucien was friends with his own Dream.

Lucien had laughed, because the question was a strange one, and because it made him hopelessly sad. Lucienne's own lord was still Morpheus. She did not know that Morpheus was no longer Lucien's king, gone for thirty years now. He would not tell her, and the wards in place on his mind and being would hide the truth from anyone who might pry. "I should certainly hope so," he said. "Though I can only imagine his reaction if I asked."

Lucienne's smile was soft, fond, calculating. "And are you lovers?"

Lucien, struck dumb, could only blink and gape for a moment. "Pardon?"

So she explained it to him, her face and tone level, while Lucien sat there and tried desperately not to squirm.

He is familiar with the dynamic she described, of course. He is just not especially interested in such things, sexual things, and he has not been for a very long time. Or, so he thought, until she explained it to him, and he had questions, and she had answers, and his face was so hot and his curiosity so choking that she asked if he would be interested in meeting her lord, and he agreed with mortifying eagerness.

When Lucien first met this reality's Lord Morpheus, he was relieved and he was grieved to find him just as beautiful and strange and unpleasant as his departed counterpart. There were differences, though, key little markers that Lucien catalogued just as he would in any dream journal. He sat across from Lucienne and her lord at that same table in her library, and he tried not to make it obvious that he had not seen this beloved aspect of his king in decades, but he suspects he was not entirely successful.

He knew from Lucienne that this Morpheus was imprisoned several decades longer than Lucien's own. The echoes of this are palpable. That is not the difference that drew Lucien's attention. Where his own lord tended towards a self-assuredness that bordered on obliviousness to his own behavior, this Morpheus appears embarrassed to be perceived at all. In that first meeting Lucien was struck by the way the Dream Lord's eyes—human blue, lambent but not strangely so—skittered away from him when he was not speaking and often found their way back to Lucienne, sitting beside him.

Morpheus sat in silence while Lucienne explained their arrangement in further detail, answering the questions that Lucien could force past his lips. The need to hear his departed king's voice became too much, inevitably, and he directed the next question to Lord Morpheus. "And this helps you?"

Morpheus blinked, and he glanced at Lucienne, and she gave him an encouraging nod and smile, and he spoke, finally, in a voice deep and rich and familiar and beloved. "When I am Lucienne's, I am at peace, and I am. Safe," said the King of Dreams. She twined her fingers with his, flat on the table. "When I belong to her, I belong to myself. More than I have ever known."

It was devastating to hear that, damaging in a way Lucien could not have predicted; that what his lord needed might have always been so simple. Singularity pressed upon him gently, soft guidance into a role he need not think about, so simple and yet—Lucien was never—he could never have—

He gave himself away then if he hadn't already, Lucien is sure, in the clenching of his jaw or the rapid blink of his eyes. Lord Morpheus only looked at him and said, "perhaps you should like to join us."

Lucien gaped, and Lucienne regarded her lord with intrigued surprise. Unless Lucien was mistaken, there was a spark of excitement in those wide dark eyes. "There's an idea," she breathed, and, much more sharply, "one which we will discuss, at length—should our guest be interested, of course."

And Lucien wondered if perhaps he'd stumbled into the strangest timeline imaginable, and realized he didn't mind at all. "I believe I am interested."

He did not meet with them again for several days while they discussed whatever it was they needed to discuss. Lucien was left to peruse this time capsule of his home with all its whimsicality taken deadly seriously. He does not miss the austerity, only the thrumming lifeforce he felt here. Lucienne's own essence is entwined throughout, echoes of the realm's respect for its steward and regent made a solid part of the foundation with the king's return. Lucien is only slightly jealous, really.

In his time alone Lucien considered the tangled knot of his own feelings in a way he rarely did. He remembered his last meeting with his own Morpheus, how enraged he had been, how disappointed and certain of his own righteousness. He remembered how his lord never confided in him. He remembered never pressing him to. He remembered how it all ended, nothing left of his king but a sweet child who was so like him and so different.

He is jealous of Lucienne, deeply so, but not for the power she holds. Not only that.

He was forced, in his wanderings, to reckon with the fact that his motivations had become entirely selfish. There was nothing he could learn here that would be of use to his young king. This was a chance at an intimacy he might have wanted, once, with the lord who was lost to him.

When he met again with the realm's sovereigns it was in the throne room, a yawning space made warm with golden light pouring in through shifting stained glass windows. There were stone stairs in a spiral leading up to the throne, but as Lucien heeded his summons and stepped through the grand doors the stairs dissolved and the throne come down to rest, plain and innocuous on the floor of the cavernous hall. Lord Morpheus sat there, Lucienne standing to the right of him, and she smiled at Lucien warmly as he approached the throne with a respectful bow.

Again they began with Lucienne doing the talking. She explained, crisp and clinical, that Lucien's participation in their activities would be allowed, even welcome, so long as he followed a strict set of rules, and so long as he understood that he may bow out at any time. Lucien agreed. He thought she looked positively radiant in the light. Lucienne looked at Lord Morpheus, then, slouched in his throne, leaning heavily on one elbow, apparently nonchalant if he did not appear so very nervous.

Morpheus did not say anything. Lucienne cleared her throat pointedly, and he glanced at her, and she raised her brows at him expectantly. He looked back to Lucien. "The rules are for our own comfort. And I would reiterate, if they are too... restrictive, you need not indulge us." His eyes kept flickering away. Lucien waited for them to meet his own again before he nodded his understanding. "Presumably, my counterpart in your reality was also imprisoned by Roderick Burgess, yes?"

Lucien clicked his tongue. "Yes. Not for so long as you, lord. But yes."

Morpheus nodded, and his throat bobbed, and he tapped his fingers on the arm of his throne. "I cannot be entirely undressed," he said quietly. "I ask that you not touch me unless I specifically request it. And Lucienne asks the same." Lucienne dipped her head at this, as though embarrassed by the boundary. "You may watch. And you may speak to me. You may ask Lucienne questions. But I am afraid there is little else we will be able to allow." He paused for a long moment, gathering resolve. "Additionally. I would ask that you do not find your own pleasure. At least not in my presence."

There was horror there, sick bubbling in Lucien's stomach, as he quickly realized why Morpheus might be uncomfortable with that. He never knew the full details of his own lord's imprisonment. Perhaps it was not quite the same. He prayed it wasn't. "That will not be an issue," Lucien said. Truthfully, he hadn't considered it at all. "I do need to ask... are you both quite certain about this?"

It was Lucienne who answered. "When Lord Morpheus returned to me after over a century, he was all that I wanted. All that I could trust." Morpheus's hand extended to her, and she twined their fingers as she continued. "I was the same for him. And though we are perfectly content to remain as we are, I believe we are both ready to... to trust again."

Lucien could understand that from his own time alone in the abandoned castle—and his heart went out to Lucienne, to those extra decades she spent holding up a crumbling realm. Both these beings, alone and cold and hurt, finding solace in one another, willing to share it with him.

Lucien felt overwhelmed, suddenly, at being part of this. He bowed his head in the ensuing silence and he swallowed against grief and gratitude. Neither of the realm's rulers pressed him while he gathered his frayed edges. "You said I might speak to you," he said finally, looking to Morpheus. "What might that entail?"

Lord Morpheus sighed, and he looked to Lucienne, and she grinned and tilted her head as though asking if he would like her to explain. He gave a tiny nod in response—and his face was flushed, the slightest pink tinge across alabaster cheeks, and this was something Lucien had never seen before. "Our lord responds well to encouragement," Lucienne said. "Kind words. Praise, if I am to be unsubtle."

Lucien's mouth was dry now, doubly so when the flush on the Dream Lord's face deepened and he shifted in his throne. "That should be easy enough," Lucien said before he realized what he was doing. "He is very beautiful."

Morpheus made a small sound, and Lucienne's expression sharpened into something hungry. "Oh, you learn quickly," she breathed, and Lucien shivered and thought he wouldn't mind her speaking that way to him some more. But she was quiet, calculating, looking between her lord and their guest, until she came to a decision. "I should like to begin now," she said. Morpheus looked up at her wide-eyed but did not protest. "Lucien, stand on his other side."

He was frozen for a moment. This was happening now, apparently, in the throne room, on the throne, with his lord, with Morpheus who was lost and is now found. Lucien began to walk forward as though in a trance and every footstep sounded calamitous in the great hall, until he stood to the left of the throne, and Morpheus looked up at him, tense and obviously fighting not to lean away.

Lucien watched as Lucienne moved to stand in front of the throne and leaned forward to crowd into her king's space. She gathered his head in her hands and pulled him forward to kiss her. He did not relax until she ran one hand back through his hair and gave a sharp tug that made his mouth fall open, and Lucien saw a flash of a red tongue, heard another little noise like music, and he could not look away.

He watched Lucienne gentle her lord, watched her ease his tension with soft touch and whispers until he was panting, shivering, beholden to her. Lucien did not get the sense that he was watching her dominate her king at all—rather, it was akin to the taming and soothing of a wild animal.

Eventually Lucienne pulled back, her thumbs stroking over gleaming skin. Her lord's eyes opened, lashes weighed down by tears, and Lucienne looked at Lucien sidelong. "He needs this badly today," she told him. "He probably wouldn't tell me so, but I can tell when he reacts this way so quickly."

Morpheus shifted, his brow creasing as though offended by her evaluation, but he said nothing. Lucien could not recall another time when he thought his lord to be cute. "You mentioned he could be very responsive," he said. "Is this unusual?"

Lucienne hummed and continued to pet her king's face while he slowly relaxed again. She was really very lovely, heavily lidded eyes dark and thoughtful and gentle, thick lashes casting shadows over full cheeks, lips softly parted in apparent awe for a sight she alone was commonly privy to. "It depends," she said. "You'll recall that part of our arrangement is that he may not shield himself from sensation. I have reason to believe this is entirely new to him."

Lucien blinked at that, and Morpheus did not react at all, which was more telling than a confirmation would have been. Trust is perhaps not a strong enough word for what exists here.

"I am going to disrobe now," Lucienne said as she straightened up gracefully. She smiled at Lucien, who stared at her with his hands clenched hard behind his back. "You may ogle."

Lucien huffed a laugh, because he did not think he would be able to help it if he tried—and, indeed, as her coat fell away and then her shirt and she was left in her brassiere that she unclipped effortlessly and cast aside, Lucien could do little but stare. She bent down to remove her shoes, straightened again to undo her trousers, revealed more and more dark brown skin, more and more soft dip and generous curve and swell of breast and arse and hip and thigh, and Lucien dearly hoped he was not gaping.

He almost wished she would keep the glasses, but those too were set aside. At last she was bare and she stood in the warm light, and for the briefest moment she seemed uncertain, and she glanced at Lucien as though gauging if she'd made a fool of herself. She had not, obviously, and Lucien's expression must convey that, because she seemed to relax and find her confidence again. Lucien would think that Morpheus might not be so easily affected by her undress, having seen her so many times, but that was evidently not the case, judging by the starstruck look on his face.

Would he have ever looked at Lucien like that? If he had just tried, perhaps—and what good does it do now, years after his death, eons after they met, all the history between them for naught, in a different reality with only Lucien's own memories as proof of what was lost. Not that there was ever much between them. Not that his lord ever offered his affections the way this Morpheus did, nervous and genuine. And perhaps it would be best to look at this that way—as a second chance.

Lucien comes back to himself with the ache of grief and the beginning of arousal stirring in his gut, and he finds that the rulers of the realm have thoroughly occupied themselves.

Lucienne kneels astride the throne, one leg on each arm, her hands clutching the back for balance. Her thighs are spread wide, her hips pitched forward, her lord slouching low so he's level with her core. Lucien can't see him working her over, but he can hear the first slurps and moans when her hips cant forward, can see the way his pale hands sink into Lucienne's soft thigh and arse, can practically taste the sweat in the air.

Of the two of them, Lord Morpheus is not the one Lucien would guess to be divine, so thin as to appear frail and so pale as to appear ghostly, mostly clothed in black silks and hidden from Lucien's view. Lucienne, however—entirely bare, dark skin aglow and lit gold, her head tilted back and eyes closed and lips parted on tiny encouraging noises, hips twitching forward to chase her lord's tongue, flesh dimpled by his hands and fingers blanched with the force of her grip on the throne—was she a goddess before this? Lucien would believe it in a heartbeat.

"He's good at that, is he," Lucien murmurs, both so he doesn't feel like quite such an intruder, and to distract himself from the wet sounds that make his skin prickle with sweat. And to hear her try to explain while in such a state.

Lucienne hums, more of a pretty moan, and she bites her lip, brings one hand down to card through her lord's hair. "Yes," she breathes. "He, ah—he likes to please." She rests her forehead on the hand gripping the throne, stares down at him while he devours her. There's a tenderness to her expression that no artistic rendition could possibly capture.

Lucien thinks he'd rather like to help, if they asked. His fingers in her cunt to stretch her, perhaps, as he can see her dripping down her inner thighs now. Perhaps in her arse, if that appeals to her. He closes his eyes and swallows hard. The wards in his mind do not give him permission to fantasize with such abandon, surely. He moves to the front of the throne to watch from behind. "I can see that," he murmurs, and Morpheus lets out a low whine. "Give her your fingers, love."

Yes, this works just fine, having Morpheus work as proxy. His hand on her thigh reaches around to stroke over her drooling cunt. Her folds catch the light with every grind of her hips, swollen and flushed fuchsia and clenching on nothing. Two long fingers sink into her easy as anything, and though the angle is awkward Lucienne tips her head back again to the star-flecked ceiling.

Lucien moves to again watch from the side. Lucienne's skin gleams with sweat. It rolls down from beneath her heaving breasts, and Lucien would like to lick it up. Her hips move quicker, and her hand clenches hard in her lord's hair. Morpheus jolts and gasps and his hands hold her tighter, and he stays still while she grinds on his face, chasing her release. What Lucien can see of his face suggests unwavering focus. "Very good," Lucien says, and hazy silver eyes dart to him. The heat stirring in his gut begins to suffuse the rest of him. "You serve her so well, don't you?"

Morpheus moans, and his body shivers, and Lucien sees his hips roll—he looks down to the front of his thin black trousers, sees the straining bulge there, the dark dabs of wetness seeping through. No exaggeration about his responsiveness, then.

Lucienne rocks forward and back on her lord's tongue and on his fingers, delirious moans and sighs and whimpers and curses from her elegantly arched throat, and when his fingers spread inside her she chokes on a wail, and it is not long after that that she goes still, trembling and tense and keening, a flood of her slick coating her lord's hand, and that hand keeps moving until her sounds verge on pained, and then it gently retreats to rub her soothingly, and she goes lax.

She stays that way while she catches her breath, thighs quivering and hand gentle in her lord's hair. Morpheus sits up enough to smear wet kisses up the crease of her hip, then to nuzzle against her belly, arms wrapping around her waist. This, somehow, is more intimate than what Lucien has just witnessed, and he thinks he should perhaps look away, but Lucienne smiles at him, positively glowing. "Sweet, isn't he?"

Lucien has half a mind to tell her that her lord will not appreciate that, but Morpheus makes a muffled sound and shifts his hips, and Lucien is in awe of her. "Very sweet," Lucien agrees, hoarse. "Does he often have difficulty speaking in this state?"

"Oh, yes," Lucienne gracefully clambers down from the arms of the throne, settling herself in her lord's lap, knees on either side of his skinny thighs and arms around his neck. She cranes her neck to look up at Lucien. "Do get down here with us, you're too bloody tall."

Lucien huffs and does as she says, settling on his knees beside the throne. He is in fact tall enough that he can comfortably sit back on his haunches and rest his elbows on the arm of the throne, leaving him nearly level with the rulers of the realm and giving him an unparalleled view of the way Lucienne drags one hand down her lord's heaving chest while he shivers and stares at her, silent. "I think it is a relief unlike any other. To not have to be everything." She swallows, and her expression pinches. "The words don't come easily when he's just him."

Lucien watches the Dream Lord's face. His eyes well with tears—compassion hurts him, Lucienne had said, could undo him entirely—and he does not look like the god Lucien was allowed to know. He looks like a kiss-drunk and overwhelmed young man desperately clinging to his composure. Lucien's heart aches and he longs to touch. "The Prince of Stories hardly need narrate his own," he says quietly. "This tale can speak for itself."

Morpheus stares at Lucien now, those wide gray-blue eyes astounded, tears falling past the sharp lines of his face. Lucienne leans in to kiss him again and his eyes stay on Lucien for another long second before he sighs and they slip close. He raises his right hand and places it atop one of Lucien's own. Lucien hesitates for only a moment before he turns his hand over and twines their fingers.

Lucienne breaks the kiss and leans back on her lord's thighs, and her left hand comes to rest atop his and Lucien's joined, and her right spreads wide on his belly. "May I touch you?"

Lucien follows the motion of the Dream Lord's bobbing throat, the parting of his red lips, the way his eyes flicker momentarily in Lucien's direction before he dips his head in acquiescence. Lucienne does not move. "Yes. Please."

Lucien hears shifting fabric but he does not look away from Morpheus's face. He can tell when Lucienne touches her lord—it draws a sound from him, tiny and ecstatic, and his lashes flutter, and a pinch forms in his expression. More tears in his eyes, on his face, and Lucien wants to kiss them away. "Alright?" he whispers, and he squeezes the shaking hand in his grasp.

Morpheus clenches his jaw, tips his head back against the back of the throne. He should look relaxed. "Good," he mumbles.

"It can be overwhelming," Lucienne says. Lucien finally looks to see what she's doing. Her lord's trousers are open, his cock in her hand. It is, somehow, jarring to see. Lucien never gave much thought to what genitals his lord might have. The most surprising option, it turns out, is a normal human penis, only just as pretty and smooth and symmetrical as the rest of him. "He'll let us know if it's too much."

Lucien has to think about that before it makes proper sense to him. Alone since Calliope's departure some millennia ago and untouched entirely for a hundred years—yes, he can see how this could be overwhelming, even painful. He watches Lucienne's hand move with soothing slowness, rucking up the silky skin at the head of her lord's cock, drawing it back down, exposing the ruddy leaking tip. On the upward stroke her thumb presses softly at the frenulum, drawing a breathy whine from Morpheus, and Lucien cannot deny the sympathetic stirring in his own trousers. "May I have you, my lord?" Lucienne asks.

Oh, she intends to take her lord, all that thick hard shaft stuffed into the swollen cunt Lucien saw grip like a vice on two fingers—this might kill him and Morpheus both, Lucien thinks. "You've done so well, haven't you?" he murmurs, stroking over a delicate pale wrist. Morpheus heaves and shivers and he makes the most beautiful sounds. "Let her make you feel good, too, love."

"That's right, baby, just like that," Lucienne breathes, and it's directed at Lucien, and his brain briefly stops working.

"Alright," Morpheus mumbles, dazedly looking between the two of them with his pupils blown wide, like the prospect of two compassionate partners is simply too much for him to handle. He shifts, pushing his cock through the loose ring of Lucienne's fist, squeezing tight on Lucien's hand. "You are good to me."

It is an odd, breathtakingly earnest thing to say, and Lucienne appears particularly affected by it, her dark eyes glistening. "None of that, now," she says, and she takes her hand from his and Lucien's and cups his cheek, brushes away a tear with her thumb. "I'm going to make you come until you can't anymore," she tells him, and Lucien again thinks his own life might be in danger. "Listen to Lucien, alright? We're going to take care of you."

Morpheus is out of words, now, and he simply nods, and his lips tremble while he watches Lucienne rise up on her knees. She scoots forward until she is positioned directly over his cock, and Lucien can't tear his eyes away when she reaches behind her to take her lord in hand and run the head of his cock through her folds, gathering her slick and rubbing his own over her. Lucienne glances at Lucien while she does this. "He's likely to come the moment he's inside me," she says. "Be nice to him about it, please."

Lucien grins at Morpheus's embarrassed groan. "Frankly, I don't think he's to blame for that."

"Quite right," Lucienne responds, and she sinks down, and she takes him in.

Morpheus sounds divine in his pleasure, a long throaty moan shuddering from his chest, his hand squeezing Lucien's so hard it's nearly painful. He arches from the throne, tips his head back with an open mouth that Lucienne catches in a brief wet kiss that ends just in time for her to envelop him entirely, and for him to come, his eyes black and swirling with stars in the moment before they slip closed.

Lucien shushes him and soothes him and burns at the sight of his king undone, at the sound of his wrecked sobs that taper into breathlessness when Lucienne begins to move, grinding back and forth in his lap. She wraps one arm around his neck, buries that hand in his hair. The other she tucks under his shoulder while she rests her head in the crook of his neck, lips to his throat, and he turns his face to Lucien to give her more room to nip at his skin.

"Can you hear yourself?" Lucien finds himself whispering. "I never would have guessed you'd be noisy. I never would have guessed you'd be so sweet." Morpheus hiccups and sobs and his expression twists in pain or ecstasy when Lucienne's teeth set to marking his throat, when her hand in his hair wrenches his head back to arch his neck more. "Does it feel good, love?"

"Good," Morpheus chokes, and Lucienne's hand tightens and he wails and tenses and shudders again. "Good, good, good, good—"

"Relax," Lucien soothes. "We've got you. You're alright."

Morpheus's fevered gaze finds Lucien again, glazed and bloodshot with his tears. "Safe," he mumbles, "I know, I know," and Lucienne is only rocking in his lap but he squirms like she's fucking him. "You're both so good," he slurs.

"And you are so beautiful," Lucien breathes.

Lucienne's hand not currently buried in her lord's hair reaches back behind her to where they're connected. She strokes his bollocks, wet with come and slick, shifts them together and thumbs over the seam, and Lucien can see them tighten and pulse when another orgasm leaves Morpheus keening and writhing. "Lucienne," he cries, in plea or in supplication.

Lucienne growls into his neck, and Lucien thinks he understands the feeling.

Once more Morpheus comes like this, and Lucien notices a change. His breath becomes rapid, shallow, and his eyes dart in a way that suggests panic more than rapture. The hand in Lucien's own trembles violently. "Talk to me, love," Lucien murmurs, and Lucienne slows her rocking to hear what's being said.

The Dream Lord swallows and gasps and manages, at length, "gentler, please," and immediately Lucienne's grip in his hair softens to the carding of her fingers through the sweaty mess, and the marks on his neck are bathed in kisses that make him sigh and gradually relax.

She still makes him come again, and again, until Lucien aches sympathetically, until his well of soothing words becomes repetitive but apparently no less effective for the way Morpheus leans into the comfort. By the end of it Morpheus is hardly shaking anymore, hardly making any noise but tiny stricken pants and moans, tears constant and dripping from the sharp angle of his jaw.

He comes one last time, with a weak groan, with a single shiver, and Lucienne stills completely.

In the aftermath Lucien watches the both of them, the way they press together, the way they sweat and shake with exertion and breathe the same air. Lucienne's hand drops from her lord's hair to again join his and Lucien's hands. He feels—he doesn't know how he feels. He rarely does. He knows it hurts to be part of this. He knows it feels good, too.

Later, before Lucien departs to continue his studies, the rulers of this realm will comes to him. Nervously, Morpheus will step forward, and he will cradle Lucien's face, and he will pull him down to kiss him, and his lips will be softer than Lucien could have imagined. The King of Dreams will step away, and Lucienne will take his place, and she will pull Lucien down even further to kiss him, too, and she will taste like home.

"I would request that you might visit us again," Morpheus will say, when Lucienne has returned to his side. "So that we might enjoy you again. Properly, I should hope." Lucien, stricken, will say nothing. He will be taken aback by the compassion on Morpheus's face, the quiet agony on Lucienne's. "I must ask, Lucien... did you find what you were looking for?"

Lucien will laugh, and there will be tears in his eyes, and he will say, "oh, no, not at all, my lord. But I did find something new."

#mmmmmmmm count the morph-specific neuroses lucien and lucienne have in common. mission impossible #don't know why i couldn't shut up with this one sorry i had a lot to say #the sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus #lucid dreaming #lucienne the librarian #lucien the librarian #minors dni #x

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