#lord morpheus fic

[eviesaurusrex]

“Does the Sandman dream himself? And if he does, does he have sweet dreams, like with Hob Gadling?”

“How sweet are we talking? 👀”

[And then I couldn’t understand the follow-up question because everyone was still laughing, but it was something about “[…] family like most of us do?”]

“Honestly, I don’t think he does dream. Because I don’t think he sleeps. Uhm, I think that his responsibility is to the collective unconsciousness of the universe and that never stops. And every waking moment, he is fighting to preserve the safety of our dreams. So unfortunately, he does not have time for his own.” — Tom Sturridge

You can be so damn sure that I will write something about this because Morpheus deserves a bit of rest of his world-preserving duties 🥺❤️

You even get my video because I’m generous 👀❤️

[withoutyouimsaskia]

Sometimes It's Fated (Sandman Short Story Part 1)

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

​GIF: Originally posted by @tavners

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)

Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Tension. Home invasion. Voyeurism. Implied masturbation. Dream manipulation.

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: Wow, this took way longer to finish than I had originally planned. My head's been all over the place with trying (and thus far failing) to find a new job. The themes are very different to what I've written before; I hope it reads okay. Please let me know what you think. All my love, Saskia xx

Sandman Masterlist

---------------------------------------------

Fate.

A phenomenon that governed every particle of matter within the known universe and even those beyond.

Some considered it a comforting concept that excused them from the burden of decision making, citing: "I'll leave it up to fate." For others the phrase was a cursory, throw-away comment or a romantic line they heard in the lyrics of a song.

The real truth of the matter was that Fate was a trio of immortal beings, goddesses, with sight so potent that they knew the past, present and future of every individual to have lived. The mythology of the Greeks, Romans and Norse hadn't been too far off with their stories of the Moirai, Parcae and Norns but of course, no humans really believed there to be any realism in myths. They were just stories. It didn't matter either way; they existed and had influence regardless of what the majority believed.

For beings such as The Endless siblings, the presence of Fate in the cosmos was not only real, but also something that affected even themselves.

For the King of Dreams, an eventuality had been prophesised long ago by The Kindly Ones that spoke of a bond that was to be forged between himself and a mortal.

Lord Morpheus, in his pride, had tried to be above such a foretelling, even questioning its validity because the notion of a mortal accepting his version of the universe seemed wholly implausible.

But he could not truly stop himself from wondering about you, reaching out to see if he could feel your presence in the minds of the dreamers he hosted.

It wasn't something he indulged in with frequency. More of a once-in a-decade interval. Enough to appease his curiosity.

Of course, this was put on hold during his imprisonment at Fawney Rig.

Morpheus had had much to contemplate during this period. The damage his absence caused to the collective subconscious, the decay of his realm, the loss of freedom and dignity. There was also a chance that you had been born and died in the 106 years he spent in captivity.

What if he was too late and had lost the chance of discovering who you were?

It was a nauseating prospect that scraped and scratched a space deep within his being; bleeding him of his remaining stores of hope that were so significantly depleted after the death of beloved Jessamy.

Despite the nasty emotional wound, finding you was a charge that he assigned at the end of his priorities after his escape.

Recovering his scattered tools, restoring the Dreaming, locating his absent creations, unravelling the mystery of Rose Walker and confronting Desire all had needed to come first.

The latter interaction had left Morpheus with a seething rage that was currently propelling him down the boards of the dock that sit above the Ocean of Dreams.

The dense mist in the air is buffeted by his movements and the only sounds are the tread of boots, the creak of wooden slats and the lap of water.

With each step, the liquid becomes choppier as it reacts to its master's mood and by the time he has reached the end of the dock, the surface of the water roils fervorously, completely in line with Morpheus' dangerous temperament.

The words of Desire's final silken-toned taunt echo in his mind with grating persistence.

"Oh, poor Dream. I really got under your skin this time, didn't I?"

He is loathe to admit there is truth in the question.

There are moments where Morpheus ponders the turn that the relationship between them has taken. How Desire went from being his favourite sibling to someone one shade shy of an adversary. Their faultless adeptness at provoking his temper and manipulating the events that encircle him would be impressive if not for the danger posed to humanity.

The agitated water eventually draws focus to how out of control he and his emotions have become. Morpheus knows he must get them in check, and quickly, for he knows the consequences all too well should he ignore it.

He clenches his fist and swallows it all down, pushing it deep inside his belly until the crackling entropy of the anger is fully dispelled.

Morpheus then sweeps his coat out behind him as he sinks lithely into a crouch. Trepidation nips at his heart and tugs his attention to a sobering thought.

This foray into the water may be fruitless.

You may be long gone and there would be no way of ever knowing you.

His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath; he has run out of excuses to not look, even if he is afraid of the outcome.

Long, delicate fingers dapple the surface of the inky ocean. The waves still at the touch, obedient to him with instancy.

He repositions to full height and reaches into his coat to find the pouch of sand stashed in the pocket. A handful of twinkling grains slip off his palm into the ocean, lighting the water it touches to a luminous green.

"Find my soulmate," Morpheus commands silently.

The intention is set. He steps off the dock into the water.

At first, like every other prior attempt, there is no sign of you. Morpheus floats submerged in the tepid liquid, filtering through the hubbub of countless other dreams and nightmares.

Then there is a pull.

It is faint yet indisputable. Warmth explodes in his chest and he groans inwardly from the delicious sensation of relief.

You are alive, and you are dreaming.

A path of radiance appears in the water, a line that shows your connection, and provides a location for him to hone in on.

Morpheus dives deeper without hesitation.

As he reaches the edge of your subconscious, he rejoices that he got a handle on his emotions. He wouldn't want your first perception of him to be one tinged with rage, however unaware you were of him, with your soulmate being the source.

He hesitates for a moment before entering the dream you are in and is somewhat taken aback by what he finds.

A room comprising of four blank walls, a floor, a ceiling and a door. There is but one other feature; a window, and its view is as non-descript and inoffensive as the internal space.

You stand by said window, head turned from him.

Despite being unable to see your face, he sees your anxiety with immediacy. It is an aura hovering about your body, being sucked into your lungs with every fast-paced breath.

You begin to throw glances towards the door. Morpheus filters through the layers of the dream. No one is scheduled to come across the threshold.

The more he observes, the more questions arise in Morpheus' mind.

What was making you so affected? What were you expecting to happen?

There's nothing in the scene that is intended to be unpleasant yet you are reacting in a way that most observers would characterise as unsettled.

Morpheus, despite not yet knowing you, doesn't like to see you this way. His dominant instinct is to end the dream but he quashes the desire to review the bigger picture.

The empty room dream was symbolic of a beginning.

It clicks into place.

What you were feeling, even if on a purely instinctual level, was the anticipation of meeting your soulmate and starting your new life.

Morpheus steps into the frame, just a couple of paces behind you.

You feel his presence instantly, eyes full to the brim with tears as you whirl around with a soft gasp.

You see him.

The tears spill and patter onto the white floor.

Morpheus reaches out, overcome by his need to provide comfort.

You disappear.

-------------------------------------

Morpheus is sat on his throne. He pores over the book he had located in the Dreaming's library a little over a week ago that contains the details of your life. It is something he has taken to doing when the impatience of waiting for you to fall asleep becomes too keen.

Your subconscious has him enraptured, watching it every night as if it is a stage show. Each dream he delves into is like the tug of fingers on a loose thread, your psyche has begun to unravel before him.

Everything from whims to cravings, hopes to fears. Your temperament, the things that delight and irk you. What drives you and demotivates you. He consumes it all with an insatiable hunger.

Based on the projection of yourself that he sees, there is no doubt that he is attracted to you.

All that prior haughty disregard for the Fates' prophecy has been cast aside like a negative thought in a meditation session. Morpheus is a romantic. A believer. He is ashamed to have even doubted your coming.

He wonders if it would vex Desire to learn of him finding his soulmate and by extension, the prospect of companionship, perhaps even physical intimacy or love.

It is all too easy to imagine the sickly sweet grin they would smile at him, shown to be fake by the almost imperceptible contempt glinting in their golden eyes.

Would his triumph drive them to distraction?

It is this smug sentiment that spurs his next decision. He wants more. The next logical step is to find you in the waking world.

He rises from his throne, a sure hand ready to bring forth his pouch of sand when he falters.

Tears pool in his eyes.

His mind is suddenly marred with the memories of what happened in 1916. The agony, mortification and rage that followed. He couldn't go through that kind of treatment ever again and the waking world expanded the risk of it transpiring.

"No," he says resolutely. His sadness turns to resolve, the hard line of his grimace matching those set in his brows.

He will not let the actions of a group of mortals dissuade him from going to you. And besides, he has researched everything he can about you from within the safety of the Dreaming.

He takes a measure of sand and uses it to materialise within your bedroom.

It is obvious from a quick scan of it that deliberate attempts have been made to ensure the space is cosy and calming.

Two marshmallowy pillows support your head. The cotton sheets have been meticulously tucked to avoid drafts. A lavender reed diffuser fragrances the air with a subtle scent. There are no devices or screens visible.

Everything has its place. A coaster supported glass of water within reaching distance. Touch activated lamp in case of emergency. The diary lined up with the back left corner of the bedside table, pen placed parallel in the spine dent. All clothes are in the wardrobe or stashed in the laundry basket.

Morpheus moves to the curtain-shrouded window and delicately moves the dark, heavy fabric to catch a glimpse of the outside world.

The scene is sepia stained from an old streetlight positioned right outside your home. It explained the choice of curtains.

You stir slightly from the change in environment and Morpheus allows the curtain to fall back in place. He remains stationary until your breathing returns to its previous pace. It is imperative that his presence remains undisclosed. He knows that mortals do not take well to home invasion.

Then, your right hand slips out from the duvet cocoon revealing a cushion cut ruby ring on your middle finger.

He smiles exultantly. The similarity between the jewel and his own now-destroyed dreamstone was undeniable.

The Fates were making it transparent.

You were the one.

Morpheus approaches the side of your bed now. In your momentary discomfort, you had moved your head, making your whole face visible to your uninvited guest.

He bends gracefully so his face is closer to yours and observes you with an intent fascination.

Even in the gloom, Morpheus asserts that your features are even more captivating now that he is able to look upon them in person and is certain that if he could guarantee an absence of fear then he would fall to knees and worship you right there.

Fingers stroke a lock of hair splayed across the pillow and his thoughts turn darker still, imagining what he would do with you if he could get you alone in the Dreaming. How he would seduce you with words, and then pleasure your body with his own until you were senseless.

Getting you there would be so easy, all he needed to do was move his hand up and touch your skin and -

Morpheus stops himself, deciding that now is not the time for an introduction. He will wait until tomorrow. You need to rest. It will be quite the revelation for your sweet mortal heart.

Morpheus whispers a promise, "We will be together soon, my precious soulmate."

He leaves after taking one last look at your peaceful form.

When he returns to the Dreaming, Morpheus discovers that the visit has riled him way beyond what he thought possible.

It was supposed to sate his curiosity and answer some questions.

It has done the opposite.

His craving for you is sublimely intense, opiate-like in its ensnarement.

He needs to possess you. To have you all to himself. Everything would fall into place. Loneliness, disillusionment, jealousy; they would never darken his outlook again. You would heal him, he is certain of it.

He paces restlessly in the low light of his private chambers as heat ripples beneath the surface of his being, charging him with pure sexual lust.

He hungers for the moment when you feel the same about him.

For now, all he can do is stand and touch himself while thinking of your face, an act that has been carried out repeatedly in the days since he found you in the Ocean of Dreams.

An erotic idea enters his mind.

Your subconscious is still in the Dreaming; he knows the feeling of it intimately.

Perhaps he could bring you a dream mirroring his own current fantasy.

To give you a taste of what was to come.

A gift that only he could bestow.

The mere thought of it turns him on even more. His back arches and his eyes roll back as he choses the words through which he would deliver the offering.

"Dream of me," Morpheus murmurs breathlessly. "Dream of me."

He repeats the phrase until he is unable to continue, moans taking over the darkened space around him.

-------------------------------------

It is dusk the next day when Morpheus returns to the waking world.

The instant he touches down on the Earth's surface, he knows exactly where to go. The metaphysical connection between you is as strong as the energy pulsing through a ley line.

The city he is directed to is thrumming with life but the side street he stands in has been spared from the furore.

It is fortuitous that he is permitted to be unobserved for Morpheus is struggling now with the urge to get closer.

Providence is pulling him in and also locking him out.

He walks up to the door and then an invisible force makes him back away.

He doesn't even try to fight it.

The Fates hold all the cards. Morpheus is beholden to their each and every whim.

It is surprisingly liberating.

He is dancing in the cross hairs. Blinkered by the tie the universe has fashioned for you.

All he has to do is wait.

The door to the building is pushed open.

-------------------------------------

Taglist: @herfantasyworldd

"Fate. Up against your will. Through the thick and thin. He will wait until you give yourself to him."

[thoughtsfromlayla]

26 Ways of Taking You: H for Heat

Summary: Dream comes back victorious, helm in hand, after his duel with Lucifer but he comes back to you amidst a horrible heat.

Notes: ~ 1.5k words, this seems like a violation of my Animal Science degree

Warnings/Tags: MDNI - 18+, ABO-adjacent (is that a thing?), reader is a dog/human hybrid, knotting, biting, Jesus stop destroying the furniture around you, if you're a dog you gotta do it in doggy!

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

G for Grinding ⇆ I for Incubus

You smell him before you see him, the scent calming and riling you up all the same. He smells different this time, a mix of his natural scent with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. A whimper leaves your lips as you rut your hips into your pillow. A hot flash burns across your body as it screams out to be touched, to be properly fucked. 

The curtains are drawn, the blankets pulled around you as you nest deeper into the mountains of pillows and anything you can find that smells like Morpheus. Your tail twitches impatiently from side to side as his scent comes closer and you’re able to pick apart where he’s been. 

He smells like salt, and brimstone, and a dash of adrenaline that has you biting down on your tongue as his pheromones dance across your nostrils. When Dream comes into your room, your arousal is thick in the air. He can hear the wimps emitting from your mouth and the way you're drawing him in has his jaw clenching. 

Morpheus finds you sweating and pathetic. Your ears are pinned back to your head, your tail tucked between your legs. His helm which he had recently reclaimed in his battle with Lucifer is thrown to the side and easily forgotten. 

He swallows hard, his throat dry as he takes you in the dim room. Your pheromones were like a leash around his throat that willed him closer to your side. No words were exchanged, just a pleading look with your teary and desperate eyes. 

“I’m here,” Morpheus whispers in a promise, kneeling by your side on the bed. 

Before you next whimper, his lips are crashing over yours, already knowing what it was that you needed from him. They’re so cool and smooth, a perfect remedy to your overheating body. You sigh happily into him, running your nails down the leather of his battle suit. 

It rips at the leather and you chase his lips as he tries to pull away. Your canines grow in desperation, the one sole reason of making you feel better is leaving your side. He tastes like ashes and salt and in your heat muddled brain, you couldn’t imagine a better taste on his lips. 

Morpheus rids of his clothes quickly before he’s back on you. The rest of his body is just as cool as his lips, pressing against your sweaty skin like a nice dip on a hot summer day. 

His tongue dashes forward, deepening the kiss by gliding across the extended canines in your time of need. You only bite back, drawing blood from his lips and tasting the iron mix with his saliva. It was drool worthy, it tasted like an addiction on your lips and you couldn’t get enough of it. 

“Faster, need you… now,” you plea, panting and pulling at his midnight strands just to do something with your hands. 

Morpheus grunts at your request, his lips trailing down your neck, feeling the erratic pulse on his lips. He bites down, just over the artery and you give him a whelp that has him smirking into the skin. 

A cool tongue soothes over the bite, but the satisfied sensation only lasts a few moments before he bites down again. Your fingers turn into fits in his hair, eluding a groan deep in his chest. 

Morpheus continues down further, ghosting his lips over the swell of your breast, feeling them perk under his breath. Another tantalizing lick has you arching your back into his mouth as he circles the sensitive mound in his mouth. 

Your legs part, wet, slick, and inviting as he slots himself between you, his hands keeping your squirming self still by your rutting hips. Morpheus’ mouth never leaves your skin as he trails to the other breast, giving it the same treatment as the other. His hunger for your flesh is just as desperate as your own. 

Your back is taut with tension and unfulfilled desires as Morheus continues to tease at your skin. You can feel his erection press against your wet folds, each slight movement tantalizing against your nerves. 

His mouth moves back against yours, tasting his blood on his tongue from when you bit him. Your hands trail down from his hair and down his back, not caring as he hisses from the pain of your nails drawing blood from his skin. 

You rut against his hips again, egging him to enter your slick folds, to release you from this mind consuming need to get your brains absolutely fucked out. But, Morpheus is always patient, ignoring your bucks and desperate whines in his mouth as he trails cool fingers over his new and blooming love bites and the sides of your trembling form. 

At your wit’s end, you push his lips aside and latch your teeth into the meat of his shoulder, letting out your own growl of satisfaction as he shudders beneath your lips. 

“Yes, my pup, let out your frustrations on me.” His fingers go to toy at the soft fur behind your ears, finally agreeing to your need for his body inside of you. 

When you’re raking your nails against the mattress and the down feathers of geese start to float into the air does Morpheus give into your whims. He turns you around until he has you vulnerable and presented to him on your knees. 

You peek at him behind the mess of your hair, still panting and your kiss swollen lips coated in his blood; a sight to behold. Your muscles shake as Morpheus lines himself against the swell of your ass, the promise of true pleasure on the cusp of reality. 

He presses his hips forward, giving in to one last tease. Morpheus watches with a knowing smirk as you whine at his tease, pushing your ass against his hips as you arch further, squirming in unbridled want and need. 

“What do you say?” He asks in a low breath and his fingers wrap themselves around the base of your tail. 

“Please… please,” you gasp, begging on the brink of tears. 

Morpheus hums his approval and with a sharp tug of your tail does he sink himself into your warmth. Your breath catches at the intrusion but you welcome it greedily, sucking him into your warmth like a starved man to his last meal. 

Morpheus starts out slow, much to your dismay, but he  merely wishes to enjoy the way you try to take control by pushing into him instead of letting him take care of you. 

He adjusts himself slightly, and your mouth falls open in a silent moan as his brushes against a spot that has the edges of your vision blurring. 

“There?” Morpheus asks rhetorically, for he knows the way you tremble beneath him is an answer in and of itself. 

You can’t respond, too distracted in chasing the high of your unrelenting pleasure. Morpheus snaps his hips forward again before drawing them out slowly only to snap back. His other hands reach in your hair, entangling them with your hair and he pulls.

Your moans are unfiltered in the air as he picks up the pace of his thrusts, you back arching more as if it were at all possible at this point. Each push of his cock deep in you sends you spiraling down a slippery slide of ecstasy. 

“Knot me!” Your panting, nails ripping at the pillows and feathers surround you two amidst the sound of moans and whines. “Please, please, please.” You chant.

Morpheus’ thrusts deepen at your words, driven solely by your pleas and his own desperation to please you. Your moans grow higher and your cunt tightens around his cock. 

The burn of your orgasm runs down your spine and you call out his name as the release of your arousal drips down your legs. Morpheus' hips stutter for a moment, losing himself at the sudden warmth that surrounds him. But, he follows soon after, thrusting as deep as he can before he dumps his seed into you.

To your request, he feels himself swell inside of you, a satisfied growl emitting from him as he feels your cunt spasm around him. The walls of your cunt tighten around him as his size grows, locking the two of you together. He lets go of your tail and runs a finger down the length of your spine as he stays panting above you. 

You relax as his fingers message the taut muscles of your back, sighing into the broken and ripped pillows beneath your head. Lifting your head from the pillow for a moment, you notice a very obvious wet spot where your drool had accumulated, something you didn’t even remember doing amidst the throes of passion and desperation. 

“Oops…” you mutter, laying your head back down on the pillow and simply enjoying the touch of Morpheus. 

“Do you require another round?” Morpheus taunts and his hands return to your hips. 

You think for a moment, your heat was still shimmering beneath the surface even though it was just quelled.

“Yeah.”

Does this count as monster fucking or is it just a gateway drug to being a furry?

♡ Yours, Layla

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

G for Grinding ⇆ I for Incubus

[haley-harrison]

human!AU where Morpheus is an edgy ao3 writer, and Hob draws fanart of his fics

[kpopgirlbtssvt]

Omggg Sandman peeps!! Imagine this-

Morpheus x Gadling!fem!human!reader where she is in her 20s and is Hob’s daughter (who was born years after 1989 when Morpheus “stood up” Hob when he was trapped), but Morpheus doesn’t know that she’s Hob’s daughter when they meet, and Y/n doesn’t know that her Dad knows Morpheus. And they end up starting to date and are in a serious relationship with each other. Hob doesn’t know that his close friend is dating his daughter either. They both find out when Y/n invites them to the New Inn to “meet” each other and they’re both like, “???”… Dream would be like, “You [Hob] are her father??” and Hob is like, “Really, my daughter???” Y/n is like, “You both know each other??”

@dragon-kazansky @gh0stsp1d3r @roguelov @missdreamofendless @honeybeezgobzzzzz

[notallsandmen]

The Picture of Hob Gadling

Given that Dream commissioned a Shakespeare play to subtweet his ex Titania, I’m just gonna go right ahead and suggest that Dream immediately post-1889 meeting inspired Oscar Wilde to write a novel about a handsome, cocky young man made immortal through Faust-like corruption by an imperious aristocrat, only to then become an ungrateful prick who friendzones sensitive misunderstood artistes

[zzoomacroom]

Hey guys, soooo I have never written fanfiction in my life, but this just fell out of my brain for some reason. I don't know what came over me, but here's a little crackfic drabble for ya. Just a thousand words of Matthew being a complete idiot. Enjoy! (Yes, I know this premise has been done to death, but I'm having fun so shhhh)

Edit: now on ao3!

.......

So there Matthew was, just minding his own business, catching up with Merv in the gardens outside the palace, when a goddamned nuclear bomb went off.

"JEEZUS FUCK!" Mervyn bellowed, his cigarette dropping from his open mouth and into the pile of leaves he'd been raking. Matthew squawked and catapulted himself ungracefully to the top of the nearest tree.

Oh, so not a bomb then, thought Matthew as he watched the stunning display of fireworks that had erupted above the palace, gold and crimson embers now drifting lazily towards the ground. Still, what the hell was that all about? He would have to ask the boss--if there was some kind of celebration happening in the Dreaming, he wanted to join the party! Hopefully he'd be off his feathery tits on dream champagne before the day was over.

Matthew launched himself from the tree branch, ears still ringing as he made his way up to the palace. He soared through an open window to the throne room. Hmm, empty. So where was the party? He made his way to the library--Lucienne would know what was up.

"Heya, Loosh," he called as he circled down to the table where Lucienne was occupied with cleaning up a puddle of ink that was spilled all over the yellowed scroll she had been writing on. "What was up with the fireworks?"

"Hmm?" she glanced over to him, preoccupied. "Ah. That sometimes happens when...actually, it's probably better if you don't know. For your own sake," she adds pointedly, peering over her glasses at him.

Uh, wow. Ouch. "What? Aw, come on, don't leave me out of the loop. Ravens aren't invited to the party? Wait, why aren't you at the party?"

Lucienne stared at the raven, confusion and irritation mingling on her face. "What party? Lord Morpheus is in his private chambers, there is no--"

But Matthew was already hopping off the table and flying towards the nearest window. So it was a private, VIP kinda thing, then. He was a little hurt that he wasn't invited, but no matter. He would slip in and infiltrate the event, just in case the boss needed protecting from a disgruntled fae or something. And if he managed to dip his beak into some unattended booze, he felt he was sneaky enough that no one would be the wiser.

"You really don't want to know!" Lucienne called out exasperatedly as he flitted away, not looking up from her work. "Don’t say I didn't warn you!"

Yeah, yeah, he'd been to parties full of snooty elites before. Whatever weird shit they were into couldn't be any worse than what he'd seen during his recent trip to Hell. He circled upwards towards the highest tower and perched on the balcony outside the boss's private chamber. There was definitely something happening in there, judging by the noises coming from inside. It sounded like things were getting crazy--a shout, glass breaking, a thud like a body hitting the ground, a screech that may or may not have been human. Shit, the boss man might be in trouble! Good thing Matthew was here to...well, he wasn't really sure how he could help, but he'd figure something out. And he just really, really wanted to know what was going on! Curiosity may kill the cat, but the raven should be fine, right?

He darted into the darkened room and blinked as his eyes adjusted. Oh. No party, then. The boss was standing in the middle of the room, looking even more like he'd just sucked on a lemon than usual. His robe flicked around him and drooped off one shoulder, like he'd just hastily pulled it on (was that...a tentacle peeking out from under the hem?). And was he sweating? He didn't normally sweat, did he? And hold on--did he have cat ears?? Matthew stared, and just as he noticed the ears they receded down into his disheveled mop of hair and disappeared.

"What is it, Matthew?" the Dreamlord demanded icily.

"Uh...sorry to interrupt whatever...this...is, but I thought maybe you were in trouble. And I was just wondering what was up with the fireworks. Scared the bejeesus outta me and Merv," Matthew explained.

The boss looked confused for a moment before answering. "Ah. My apologies for the disruption," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm even as Matthew failed to get the hint. "The matter has been handled. You need not come to my defense."

At that, a poorly-stifled chuckle sounded from behind a marble pillar. "Sorry," the pillar mumbled sheepishly. The boss shot a withering glare at it and the pillar instantly dissolved into a pile of sand, revealing...

Ohhhh. "Um...hi, Hob," Matthew said with an awkward wave of his wing, wishing very much that he could dissolve into sand right about now. Hell, that may very well be his fate soon enough, based on the way the boss was glaring at him.

"Hey Matt," Hob replied with a bashful smirk. He was mostly naked except for an Elizabethan ruff, white knee-high stockings and a pair of 18th century shoes with little bows on them. And he was wearing the boss's helm. But not on his head (cool, cool, not like Matthew had followed the boss to Hell to get it back or anything). Oh, and he also had cat ears. Wonderful.

"Ya know, I better get going, I think Merv may need some help with--oh, yep, he set the garden on fire." Matthew peered out the window down to where Mervyn was currently shouting at no one and flailing around a steadily growing conflagration. "So I should go deal with that. Just wanted to check in, glad everything's good here. Uhhh nice to see you Hob, Boss. Not that I, uh, saw anything. Okay bye!" Matthew zoomed out the window before either of them could say anything else. God, he really needed a drink now.

.......

Morpheus continued to glare at the spot where Matthew had been perched as Hob came up and wrapped an arm around his waist.

"Right. So where were we?" asked Hob, apparently unphased by the whole incident.

"I think we should take this to the Waking if we wish to avoid any further interruptions," Dream replied through gritted teeth.

Hob chuckled and started to massage the knots out of his lover's shoulders. "Yeah, probably. Kids, right?" he sighed.

Morpheus raised an eyebrow at him. "Matthew is not my child."

"Isn't he, though?" Hob replied with a grin, peering over Dream's shoulder to watch Matthew and Mervyn frantically darting around the flaming pile of leaves, making no progress whatsoever in putting out the blaze. Morpheus merely sighed in exasperation.

[madwomansapologist]

Hi! Wanted to say that your writing style is so nice and it feels so mushy when I read them. I'm truly amazed, where do you gen an inspiration to write?

Can I please request Morpheus x reader, who picks on their skin? I've always had this stupid habit and in result fingers (and sometimes face) are always in pain or bleeding. And usually you're not notice it until someone points it out for you and things become awkward. 💀 (Also I'm so sorry to bother if your requests are closed, I checked but maybe accidentally skipped it)

It's okay if this may be weird or specific and you don't want to do it, I'm still grateful for your writings. Have a nice day!

morpheus noticing your skin-picking habit would include

Masterlist | Rules | Taglist | Library | More Morpheus | AO3

synopsis: Restoring the long-forgotten library of Morpheus's realm, your last concern was what your hands were doing. Concentrated on reorganizing and looking for signs of lost dreams and nightmares, it was Morpheus who noticed a old habit of yours.

warnings: none.

ps: omg. you're literally the best. thank you for that! well mostly of my inspiration comes from things that i personally believe. you know that "write about what you know" advice? i prefer it worded as a "write about what you feel." like the last thing i wrote for Morpheus. it was a request about pregnancy, and I could just write about it, but it didn't really talked to me. but perceiving death and deciding that fuck that, the memories of my family will keep me alive—that talk to me. so mostly i guess is just that Neil Gaiman writing advice: don't be afraid of telling the truth. he said that all books are lies told by people that can put truth in them. i guess i live by that. sorry for the rant, but i'm so passionate about it. either way, hope you like this! my requests weren't close by the time you ask for it (sorry for the long wait, i was working on the birthday event), there is no need to apologize! have a great day, dear! 💙🪩

• The library wasn't going to restore itself. At least, you don't think it can. Doing whatever Lucienne told you to, it was only natural for you to focus on trying to make this realm reach its glory again. You didn't have time for anything else.

• Cain and Able were surprisely helpful with your task. The brothers may not be exactly healthy with one another, but they know a lot about this place you know so little. With their knowledge and ease of sharing it, you were closer and closer to finally find Brute and Glob.

• By the time you were back with Lucienne, you both had so much to do. It was so easy to forget about anything else. To have a break, to eat something, to sleep for a few hours. So many things to do, so much to repair, that all you could was to focus on your work. Not even an old habit of yours could have won your attention.

• You were picking on your skin. It always surprises you when you noticed, simply because you don't do this on purpose. It is just a thing that happens. Most of the times, you don't noticed until it starts to hurt or bleed. And this time, none of that happened.

• Dive into work, and with Lucienne also worrying about the realm, no one was really paying attention to your skin. Your hands picked and pushed, but with no great amount of pain to warn you about it, you just didn't noticed.

• You both heard when Morpheus entered the library. After one of his many quests to find his tools, it was a surprise that he would come back so early. Or was it late? You can't really tell how time works here.

• When you welcomed him, it took mere seconds for Morpheus' expression to change from tiredness to concern. He walked straight towards you, his hands grabbed your face with care and affection, and asked you what hurted you.

• You undertood quickly what happened. You explained to him, the awkward situation making you more and more embarrassed with every couple of words, feeling suddenly so out of place. But when Morpheus was sure that nothing had inflicted pain on you, his softness made impossible for you to remain embarrassed.

• Morpheus silenced you with sweet kisses. His lips roamed through your face, his feelings penetreting your skin. He kissed you whole before looking at you again. And the way he looked at you, the way Morpheus always look at you, made you feel so... so...

• Wide.

• In front of Morpheus, in between his hands, you feel infinite. Morpheus always finds a way to make you feel like that.

• Morpheus may not be the best person to pick on social clues, but he can read you. When you care about someone in the way he cares about you, it's easy to learn about the person of interest. Morpheus was able to understand that this habit was just another facade of you, and he would never made you feel bad about it.

• Of course Morpheus would pretty much rather you not hurting yourself in anyway, but he would never made you feel bad about it. If he ever notice you doing it again, Morpheus would just grab you hand and kiss it. It's not like being gentle with you was difficult.

• And if you ever pick your skin until it bleed, Morpheus have no problem with helping you to clean it. Morpheus can take care of you, just like you took care of him so many times before. He's just being fair.

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

[the-cloudy-dreamer]

Dedicating this page of doodles lovingly to @dian-skywavecounty because their fic És només quan ets tu, Somni, que hi veig clar. Sóc foll d'una dolça metzina lives rent free on my mind lately 🖤

( as does gender fluid dream of the endless )

Amigue creo que en ningún momento específico dijiste que Dream usaba un chal de encaje negro pero en mi mente así sucede 😆 perdona las libertades artísticas! Quise dibujar a Dream en las diferentes expresiones de género que describiste, no sé si lo logré! pero me divertí mucho tratando de dibujarlo sutilmente diferente cada vez!!

[flyawaymind]

I can’t get over the idea of Dream becoming human (temporarily or permanently, it doesn’t matter) and getting hiccups for the first time. Would he even know what was happening? Do people dream about hiccups? If they do, do any of the dreams really capture the experience? Hiccuping is one of the strangest things a human body does regularly and I just. I want to see him dealing with that.

[undiscovered-horizon]

Why there are no phones or clocks in dreams:

(Morpheus x Reader)

The Sun always rises is usually used as a cheesy inspirational quote but there are times when it seems more like a curse, really. When the Sun rises, as one might assume, the night must end and with it, all Nyx's gifts: peace, rest, and most of all, dreams. Therefore, people can generally be assorted into two categories that already reveal quite a lot about their personalities. There are those who think of the night as an inconvenient but necessary transition between days. The other ones think of daytime as the agonizingly long hours separating them from the dreams that they crave so severely. You, little lamb, fall into the latter as far as I know:

Morpheus deserves credit for the level of detail he incorporated into parroting your own bedroom in your dreams. Or, you should be the one praised for your outstanding memory. In any case, the room you and he are in, looks uncannily like the original, making you ponder, somewhere in the back of your mind, whether you are actually asleep in the first place.

But would he appear this tender anywhere outside his realm, somewhere not only you can hear him? His sweet whispers, although welcomed warmly, are flustering and you finally realize what it actually means that he's the patron saint of enlightenment or inspiration - not even poets can speak so beautifully and yet fearfully about love. Dream's long, skinny limbs are tightly wrapped around you. The material of his robe is a lot softer than it looks, gracefully flowing off the lanky body underneath. Although you know that he'd be cold to touch, the thought of his pasty, thin skin can only make you feel warm. His neck smells like exotic fruits wrapped in antique parchment and you can't help but wonder why the entire world isn't soaked in this wonderful scent. Adoration is such a strange affliction.

His hand stops its soothing movement against your back when you shift on top of him, turning your head to look at the clock hanging on the wall - 6:30 A.M. Is it really ticking or just laughing at the lovers before it? The Sun peeks over the eastern horizon. Should you want to, you could just turn your head to the other side and admire the dawn but compared to the man brushing his lips against your cheek, it would be a terrible waste of time. Morpheus whispers something delightful into your ear again, bringing your attention from to clock to him - right where it should be. When morning comes, you'll leave his side but it made no sense to worry about it while there were still thirty minutes left.

Accidentally or not, he pecks part of your neck that tickles, making you giggle quietly. In a strange turn of events, Morpheus treats it as encouragement. Trying to get away from him, you squeal and squirm but his bony arms seem to be stronger. His lips, cold yet gentle, move towards your jaw and cheeks. Something changes about the way he presses his mouth against your skin like he, too, feels the time slipping through your fingers. The intensity of his kisses is almost desperate.

The alarm clock rings. It's loud and irritating, making the world of dreams fuzzy. With each second the sound resounds in the your-but-not-your bedroom, the more this delicious reality is turning muddy and unreadable. By all means, you're not ready to let him go just yet.

Reaching for the phone on the bedside table, you're ready to do something equally satisfying and stupid. "Oh, screw this," you murmur more to yourself than Morpheus. Swinging your arm as far as you can without getting up from your comfortable spot on top of him, you throw the phone right at the ticking clock, silencing both of them forever.

"Are you sure about this?" Morpheus asks. Quite literally, it's the first thing he's said in a few hours that isn't embarrassingly lovesick. You've almost forgotten he can be serious. The 'real world' may be calling out to you but, despite the consequences, you're more than happy to let it go to voicemail.

"Are you that eager to kick me out?"

He knows you're joking but that doesn't stop him from giving you an honest answer. "There's nothing I want less."

"Good," you answer. Somewhere between tender kisses, you manage to whisper: "'Cause I made up my mind ages ago."

Your phone in the waking world, however, is still ringing but at the moment it sounds like the annoying melody is played on an old radio two blocks away. A little too lost in the softhearted whispers and caresses, you don't even notice when it, too, silences. The next night, when you step foot into his kingdom again, you probably won't even notice the strange lack of clocks and alarms.

[withoutyouimsaskia]

Sometimes It's Fated (Sandman Short Story Part 8)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

GIF: Originally posted by @darklinsblog

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)

Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Nightmares. Violence. Dub/non con. Kissing. Nudity. AFAB + AMAB penetrative sex. Unprotected sex. Plot related cigarette use. Language.

Word Count: 4.3k

A/N: Hello there! I wasn't intending on posting this chapter until I had the others finished but I guess Tumblr took that decision away from me and published instead of saving! Oh well, guess I'll roll with it. As always, I hope you enjoy and would be very happy to hear your thoughts. All my love, Saskia xx

Sandman Masterlist

---------------------------------------------

The combination of the darkened clouds and the even more desaturated décor is making the room despairingly claustrophobic.

Sporadic breaths rattle up and down your trachea; a remnant of the fear that had been created by the tail end of that conversation. You are struggling to make sense of the direction it had taken; the barrelling downward spiral whereby you discovered your newfound status.

No longer do you hold the lone title of soulmate. You are a captive.

At least that's what Morpheus made it sound like. The word is shudder inducing and a fresh trickle of bile spills into your mouth.

The door he left through, the one blocking your freedom, you are standing close enough to it that you can see every grain and groove of the ebony wood - and the curious absence of a handle or lock. With a flattened hand you gingerly press against the varnished surface, upping the pressure when you don't appear to have tripped any alarms. There's no movement no matter how hard you push, not that you really anticipated any. Morpheus said locked in for a reason. Regardless, you feel that you needed to try just in case he had changed his mind. Again, an eventuality that you do not expect.

You get the sense that Morpheus' grasp of stubbornness would rival that belonging to a group of at least 100,000 people; he is a ruler, and a centuries-old one at that. Accustomed to being in control, well versed in the art of exerting it.

He's chilling too. That nightmare quality really won out just now. You have seen darkness in his eyes before, (brought on by intense moments including sexual desire) and the effects he can have on the environments surrounding him, but this was a whole new breed.

The deflection. The disdain. The remorselessness. How the shadows had danced around him like crude oil twisting in water, a cloak of obscurity and energy to drive you away and leave you isolated.

And your relentlessness was the catalyst for it being unleashed. You're unsure as to why you brought up the theoretical consequences of refusing to be his soulmate. It had just slipped out. There were numerous other ways in which you could have handled the situation yet that was the conversational path you took.

You shudder again, wrapping your arms around your middle in an attempt to self-soothe. It provides a measure of relief but also draws attention to the fact that he should be doing this. Morpheus should be holding you. Talking this through with you.

Instead he left you standing on the marble floor, the intrinsically endothermic nature of the material causing iciness to seep up your legs via your bare feet.

Seeking warmth, you move back to the bed and dejectedly lie down.

The usual covered plate of food has appeared on the bedside table; your expression is so obviously rattled that you can see every detail despite the metal's distortion. You roll over, not wanting to contemplate eating for even a second.

Your entire body is tense, with epicentres in your tight chest and thought-clogged brain, the latter of which is showing signs of inducing a migraine. You breathe with steady intent, a review of the encounter relentlessly replaying.

One question keeps rising to the surface, getting louder and more insistent with each iteration:

Why was he doing this?

He had said it was to protect you. That it was dangerous outside. Was the dream world suddenly that different now that you had free will? Surely he would have led with that if it were true. Found a way to make it safe...

He's been unfalteringly devoted to you in every other way thus far. The aftercare looked to be proof enough of his character. The reassurance, and explanations during the soul-tying. Holding you. Staying beside you while you slept, even though he did not require the rest himself.

But then there is the distinct lack of sharing, both of his internal and external worlds, and of course the 'it is not your place to do so' comment.

That one really stings. You had been convinced that you were his equal. Yet the way the words fell so easily from his mouth, without hesitation nor any sign of an underpinning emotion - it sounded like a response that was not uttered in the heat of the moment.

How were you to know though?

You've not known him for that long and it's not like you can tell from the bond between you, even now after days of longing to and trying to pick up on something, anything that would inform you of his heart. The one thing you can attempt to read into is the state of the ceiling sky; you are getting a sense that it is linked directly to his moods. Its sudden deterioration the moment you had voiced your concerns couldn't have been a coincidence, could it?

The more you grapple for meaning, the harder you are finding it to reconcile the evidence before you, so conflicted on your opinion of him, of the situation. Yet no amount of speculation and reframing could take away from the few facts you have:

The Fates had told you of an unfathomably long imprisonment that Morpheus had endured and suffered in.

So why was he putting you in a parallel of that?

How can someone who is supposed to be your soulmate be so unreadable to you, and so inexplicably cruel?

You curl into a ball, groaning out loud in frustration.

You ponder if there is something defective within you, if he can see something that you are too human to perceive. Maybe you deserve this on some level because you are not quite enough for him.

"No," you say out loud, firmly casting that contemptuous thought out of your mind.

You will not go in for self-loathing or self-pity. You are strong and capable and compassionate. Morpheus is still your soulmate. You can fix this. Once he's back, you will talk about this.

The resolution seems to lessen the lingering despair enough that you unwittingly fall asleep.

-----------------------------

There's an anticipatory undercurrent to the chatter being passed back and forth across the circular tables spaced evenly across the function room.

You're sat at one such table, the hands folded in your lap occasionally brushing against the heavy dark blue velvet draped over the wood, the feel of the material's sumptuous pile triggering pleasant goosebumps.

Ice laden water jugs and bowls of savoury snacks occupy the middle of the table, and each seat is designated by a placeholder. Your name is displayed in a bold font across the folded piece of stiff card in front of you and the names of all your colleagues have been typed out on matching markers.

The lighting could be described as ambient, moody even - a strange choice for such a celebratory event. The strongest source of light is directed towards a projection screen, where the order of events are being presented.

You thumb the lock screen button on the right hand side of your phone to check the time. 20:28. The scheduled break is due to end soon. You take a sip of water from the tumbler stamped with your lipstick and wait.

The microphone on the podium clicks and crackles as it is brought back to life and all heads turn in unison towards the man standing there. A spotlight provided by the professional lighting rig suspended above is ignited, the light from it so bright that it obscures every feature on his face.

His tone is light as he reels off a few formalities, making a joke about the speed of which some individuals had headed to the bar come the start of the interval, eliciting a sequence of throaty laughs from the crowd. He then jumps back into the award giving.

"This person, I know for a fact has really been putting in the effort with developing the traits required to truly embody this accolade and everything it stands for. Taking gullible to the next level, allowing themself to be debased and shutting down all logical reasoning. A veritable inspiration of inconsequentiality; therefore, it comes as no surprise that the award for most worthless human goes to -"

He pauses for effect, and the entire room watches on with baited breath.

Condensation beads slip down the outside of the jug closest to you, mirroring a perspiration bead that has begun to slide from your nape. You look away from the stage, feeling an impending sense of doom slink into your stomach with the nausea that suddenly washes over you. Your intuition is well-founded.

The microphone wheezes as the man inhales the breath needed to deliver the announcement.

He says your name.

The applause that follows is rapturous; a chorus of hollers and whistles punctuating the clapping. It's like you're at a rock concert.

None of it aligns with the damning description of the award name. Under no circumstance do you want to go and accept it; doing so would show that you agree with the committee.

You sneak a glance over your shoulder, wincing at the harsh fluorescents spilling in from the foyer through the set of double doors - that is where you quietly need to get to.

You're pushing your chair back slowly and carefully, about to attempt this surreptitious exit when a spotlight hits you. The hand going for your bag freezes mid-reach.

It's as if a tractor beam has been activated. You cannot stop yourself from standing, cannot stop yourself from walking on the scuffed wooden floor, made that way from years of dancing.

The journey to the stage on your shaky legs is long, given your distance from it, intensified even further by the stares of your peers. You go up the steps at the side of the stage, jelly legs adding risk with the slight elevation. You grip the handrail in a white-knuckled fist.

The award waits on the podium: an oversized key on a black plinth, the golden colour of the metal glints temptingly. With your gaze turned downwards, the man shakes your hand with the pressure of a constrictor, praising you with words that you can't hear above the continued applause.

You force your mouth into a smile and ready yourself to take the award, telling yourself that being gracious is the best approach you can take.

Unfortunately, in your moment of acceptance, someone decides to take advantage.

There's a blow to the back of your knee caps.

You cry out from shock and pain; the sound doesn't last long for as soon as your knees make impact with the boards, a gag is forced into your mouth.

The situation and the gag make it hard to breathe in any way other than frantically, pulse just as agitated in your tight-feeling chest.

The crowd's clapping doesn't stop even as intricate restraints are added at your wrists, even as burning tears and sticky snot stream down your face.

The agony intensifies when you are hauled up by your hair and then herded by several pairs of hands towards the wings of the stage. Your eyes fall on the opaque box that stands just out of view of the crowd.

Its purpose is clear. It is to be your cage.

You're now screaming despite the gag, thrashing as you're dragged towards your doom. Not even allowing yourself to be a dead weight can save you; the cloying fingers are too numerous, too zealous.

The door to the cage opens and the presence of the oppressive void within ekes out towards you like a disturbing fog. Whatever is in there, you can sense it will smother you. Obliterate you slowly. And the people in this room seem to believe you are worthy of such a fate.

The hands anchored on your body begin their last pushes. You whip your head around, making a last attempt to search for an escape when you see a figure out the corner of your eye.

There's no questioning who it is; the person who has been on the periphery of so many dreams these past weeks, you would know him anywhere.

You see a glimpse of movement. Perhaps the raising of a hand. A ripple of power courses through the scene - you feel it vibrate in your chest. Everything freezes, and in that sudden silence you hear Morpheus' solemn and decisive words:

"This dream is over."

You startle, a shriek echoing about the sunless space as you are ripped from the dream. The sheets have you wrapped up like a python; you try with desperation to get free, half-convinced that those relentless hands are still trying to ferry you into that cage.

Floundering, you work and work against the fabric, crying out again when your progress is minimal.

"Soulmate."

Morpheus' deep voice sounds, speaking your name next in such an intimate and gentle way that you instantly halt in your struggle.

He is beside you.

All the attributes of concern are in his facial expression and body language, eyes glistening with an emotion you can't quite place.

"It is over now," he confirms, dissolving the sheet into nothing.

He comes closer, stroking your face with one hand, the other atop your chest with the palm centred on your soul. It's a welcome feeling, his attentions and being free from the tangle of sheets, but you are too far gone for it to stop the fear that the nightmare has set in motion.

"When you said that it was not my place to accompany you, is it because you think I'm less than you?" You ask in a cracking, pitiful voice.

Morpheus stills for a heartbeat, before bending his head to look you straight in the eyes. "No," he breathes. "My soulmate, I could never think that."

He kisses you softly.

It's not what you expected but nevertheless your hands cling to him on instinct, kissing him back and then he's suddenly straddling you. Covering your body with his own to give you a feeling of safety and it's exactly what you require.

You're on the verge of tears from it all, touching the back of his neck, gripping his shoulders to keep him close.

"Morpheus," you call.

"I am here. I am not going anywhere."

He kisses you deeper this time as if to corroborate his statement. It incrementally lessens your doubts and anxieties but there's a call for communication too.

"We need to talk about what happened," you say with quiet assertion.

For a moment, you wonder if he has even heard you for he claims your mouth again.

"I do not wish to talk," he eventually replies, immediately diving back in for yet another kiss. "I wish to take away your anguish."

"But -"

He hushes you, a soothing shut down that would be infuriating if not for the lingering unease of the nightmare clogging your emotions. "Let us forget what was said. Let us instead indulge in the pleasure of each other's bodies."

You blink, slowly processing his explicit inference, taken aback by the very obvious physical reactions they inspire. You force yourself to adopt a professional expression as your arousal begins to leak onto your gown.

"I want to talk to you."

He's smiling smugly as he tilts his head to the side. "Your emotions betray you dearest, as does your body. I know exactly what you want and it is not conversation."

Shame rises but is quickly blotted out by Morpheus' next action.

You feel bare skin against yours; he's used his power to disrobe you as well as him. A protest forms - he stifles it with his mouth. Your eyes are wide as you take it, as he shifts his weight ever so slightly to align your hips.

His own eyes stare you down after he pulls back, unblinking like an apex predator who has caught sight of its favourite prey.

Easy prey.

That's what you are.

He arranges you as such too; grasping your legs and moving your knees to your chest to bend you in half. Pinning you underneath him.

Neither of you last long with the tightness of the angle once you allow him to enter you.

To say you are dazed afterwards would be an understatement. The events of the past few hours have been persistently erratic. If Morpheus feels the same then it isn't apparent. The colour of his eyes are as clear and stable as the weather above, hand warming his favoured spot on your chest.

Your own hands wander up and down his body, running smoothly over his enticing skin.

"You have not touched your food," he comments quietly.

One of your palms moves absentmindedly to trail lazily across your abdomen. "If I'm being honest, I've been struggling to eat since I got here. For some reason I have no appetite or thirst."

"That would be a result of the immortality."

Your hands freeze up, brain doing the opposite as it spins out in a hundred directions.

"W-what did you say?" You stammer, praying you have misheard him.

"The immortality," he clarifies. "My power is within you and with it, comes certain endurances."

You sit up and put some space between you both. This was a serious matter. Despite your empty stomach you feel like you are going to vomit.

"How long have you known that?"

"It does not matter."

Red rag to a bull doesn't come close to covering what his dismissive reply makes you feel. The set of your jaw is so tight that a section on the left side begins to feather. You talk through gritted teeth, levelling a furious glare at him - making it transparent that you are not going to tolerate his evasiveness any longer:

"Tell me how long."

He makes the smart decision to pause to select his reply, though you decipher from the suddenly overcast sky that it is not going to be one that you will like.

"Since our souls joined."

Your hand flies to your chest, to your soul as tears start to brew.

"That was days ago!"

Morpheus simply looks at you.

"Did you not think that I had a right to know about something as life changing as that?"

He opens his mouth to respond but you cut him off before he can issue a syllable.

"Please can you give me some time alone?"

Morpheus' intense stare - the one that had gone from intimidating to exhilarating - has now become distressing and you need to get out from under it.

To his credit, he does what you asked and the moment the door is closed, the tears you have been holding back start to flow freely. The ceiling sky is so crowded with dark clouds that you are convinced that it's going to do the same as your eyes.

You feel like you've been tricked. You didn't ask for this, nor were you consulted.

The gilding has fully tarnished now, revealing that things were too good to be true. And had been from the very beginning. You had been swept up in the haze of sexual satisfaction, too blinded by the soul bond to see clearly. The nightmare had spelled it out flawlessly: gullible, debased and without logical reasoning.

The previous success in derailing your self-loathing falls short now. You are bolting down the path of internal admonishment.

How could you have been so naïve?

The answer is your hubris. It had felt good to be finally wanted, chosen to be a part of something bigger than yourself by making a difference to the Dreaming. Unless you had misunderstood.

No, the Fates had told you it in no uncertain terms. What they hadn't done however was provide a time frame. You had stupidly assumed it would be effective immediately. Instead you could be looking at decades, centuries even with this newfound information.

Even with the promise of eventual fulfilment, there was little chance that you would last for years in this room with your sanity intact.

You need distraction from the demoralising thought so you bluster through your bathroom routine like a whirlwind, slamming containers down where possible and huffing out exasperated sounds.

While the gown has re-materialised on the hook by the shower, you are dead set against putting it back on. You go to the bedside table and dive into the drawers to find your clothes from the night of the award ceremony, uncovering the cigarettes and lighter you forgot had been hidden there.

You don't even think before lighting one up, hoping that the nicotine will take the edge off your despair. You are quick to finish it and the clarity it brings encourages you to have a second. And then a third.

From the combination of your reclined position on the sheets and the dainty way you hold each cigarette, you can't help but feel like a 1940s starlet. It injects a bit of delirious humour, and also gumption into the mix.

"You are not at fault here," you whisper out loud. "He is the one who has an understanding of how soulmates work. He withheld that. You are allowed to be pissed off with him and you should let him see it."

-----------------------------

By the time Morpheus returns, you are in full possession of your wits and sit perched at the foot of the bed. You regard each other; he appears a touch drawn out, eyes subdued and a small line marking the space between his eyebrows.

"You have been smoking," he states flatly.

Buoyed by the confidence gifted to you by said activity, you inhale the scent of the lingering bluish fog, flashing a sardonic smile as you audibly breathe out, labouring the point with the pleasurable sigh.

"What else was I supposed to do while I waited for you to come back?" You cross your legs and smooth out a non-existent wrinkle in the bedclothes you meticulously rearranged.

The effects of your sarcasm are immediate; the air is becoming ominously dense, threatening to unleash a storm of epic proportions. Morpheus' fists clench and the pressure is dampened a fraction.

"Give them to me," he asks in a monotone.

"No."

Your connection is so devoid of dissonance at this point. Morpheus is stone carved. The kind of impenetrable that would shred and destroy finger nails; there is no point in trying to claw your way to the being beneath. The apathy sends your anger to new heights, compelling that shamefully vindictive part of you into lashing out. You want to hurt him just as he has hurt you.

"They're the only thing I have left from my real life."

A lethal quality seeps into his reply, "That life ended the moment you stepped out onto that street."

"Well then I should have run from you that night," you provoke further, tone biting as glacial ice on exposed skin.

The same shadows from before are crowding about his person, settling in his eyes - a tell that you have unleashed the nightmare form. You have to actively remind yourself to breathe at an even pace. All things you had queued up to say to him are long gone as you gaze upon his dark majesty.

"Even if you had been able to evade me, hide your physical body, I would have found you the moment you fell asleep."

The tether on his control slips as a single bolt of lightning turns the room to a white-out. The thunder never comes, instead the rumble of his voice.

"Do not think that I had not anticipated a refusal. I was more than prepared to use force to get what I wanted. What I was promised. I will not share you with anyone. You are mine. My soulmate. You -"

He stops unexpectedly and head snapping to look at the door.

You roll your eyes. "Let me guess, something requires your attention."

He takes in a deep breath. "I will return shortly."

You watch sullenly as he leaves you behind yet again, about to resume smoking when you feel an urge to re-examine the door. It is as pointless as before; no handle nor locks. Your fists hit the mahogany once, then twice before your composure fully deteriorates and you begin to hammer on it. Not because you are hoping to snag someone's awareness, for you heard it from Morpheus that no one could find this place. Sadly, you do it because you are losing hope.

Dejection momentarily quelled, you resort to staring at the door with such concentration that you fear it may trigger another headache.

"How the fuck do you work?" You ask it.

If there is no tangible way of holding it then that left the metaphysical as its locking mechanism. Metaphysical power that came from him - that now resided in you.

Maybe you could use it to break out...

You huff out a laugh at your optimism. There is no harm in trying.

Decision made, you make a quick trip to the bathroom to get the ruby ring you put by the sink. There's no chance you're escaping and leaving a beloved family heirloom behind.

You walk confidently to the door and plant yourself a forearm's length from it. The gold of the ring glimmers on your right hand as your press your palm to the glossy wood.

You do not want to be the person you were in the nightmare; forced into a box-encased void and cut off from the universe. You want to learn, to experience, to love. You want to have dreams and you're willing to make them with or without their master.

You are going to get out of here.

-----------------------------

Tag list: @herfantasyworldd @kpopgirlbtssvt @littleblackcatinwonderland @1950schick @lollipopsandlandmines

"I'm walking down the line that divides me somewhere in my mind. On the borderline of the edge, and where I walk alone."

[fauxraven]

The Time Paradigm [VI]

pairing: Dream of the Endless x fem!reader

summary: the death of a Dream, the anguish of another

warnings: gore, Dream’s endless (but hot af) anger, character death

word count: 2.9k+

Enter the Dream, weary traveller

Chapter VI: Mutually assured salvation

GaiaPrime-57, Londinium, Half the Lifetime of the Universe,

A window snaps shut.

A droplet drops.

A zipper zips shut.

Zips open.

Chipping nail polish cracks further with every slide of the zip. Zip up; zip down. Zip up; zip down.

The suitcase slams on the floorboards. A frustrated groan leaves the chipping nail polish.

‘’Yes. Yes, I understand that too, Mr. Harris.’’ Up and down and up and down again until it jams. The phone gives a groan under cheap nail polish and exhausted fingers. ‘’Pedro, come—hop on my suitcase.’’

The curly head of a child pops around a corner; small, for his age, smallest of his class, in every aspect. He holds a soft toy that’s half bunny half elephant and about 5% extinct species. He hops on the suitcase silently.

‘’No, obviously, I don’t expect you to hop on my suitcase, Mr. Harris.’’ The zipper draws back, jams again. ‘’Pedro? Remember the Chuck E. Cheese ball pit?’’

The child throws himself onto the suitcase. The zipper is still stuck.

‘’Yes, I know. But the lease said—just one really. Yes, the other intends to stay. I don’t know, a few months. Yes, just me. She’ll stay. Yes—yes! Perfect, thank you, so much!’’ The phone drops on a red faux suede beanbag. ‘’Kid, this isn’t working.’’

‘’It was zipping a bit funny when Aunty Anna tried it too.’’

‘’Anna was within a file-mile radius of my suitcase?’’

The half-elephant half-unicorn dips a head of a cotton into a nod. She pulls him up and throws the suitcase open.

‘’You have got to be kidding me!’’

A pink garment falls to the floor. Followed by a white veil and a cable knit stitch the colour of ebony. Footfalls draw closer with every piece she plucks from the intestines of the suitcase.

‘’Pizza’s ordered. What? You said healthy; veg—what the bloody hell are you doing?’’

‘’You tell me. What part of ‘going there for work’ do you not understand?’’

‘’I understood perfectly! Blimey, I even packed you nice professional clothes.’’

‘’Lingerie? That’s what you call professional?’’

‘’Pleasure and business. Precisely in that order,’’ a lacy thong drops, adding to the growing pile forming on the floor. The child has gone away, thankfully. ‘’What if you meet a hot and loaded British bugger? What then? You’ll be glad I packed the essentials, that’s what.’’

‘’It’s a job in a quiet countryside house; the closest village is eight miles. The only guy I’ll see is pushing ninety and I’ll spend my days wheeling him around—passionately.’’

‘’Just loaded then?’’

‘’Business. I’m going there for business. I’m not like you, Jo. Hell, how many did you—okay, who needs this many thongs?’’

‘’That one’s a stray, actually.’’

On cue, the top layer of the unholy pile shifts into a ginger Tabby cat.

‘’Tell me you did not keep that thing.’’ Johanna snags in a beanbag, hissing at the cat when it tries snuggling up against her leg. She plucks a magazine from the coffee table and starts thumbing through gibberish. She isn’t really paying attention to the words; she isn’t paying attention to anything.

‘’I let you keep the kid!’’ The woman fires back, sitting on her haunches.

‘’Kids aren’t strays, love. Besides, this one’s just using ya for food and free snuggles, hope you know that.’’

‘’Since you’re missing the point, I’ll just cut to the chase—where did you find a whole kid? Where are his parents?’’

Johanna spares her a coy look over the magazine. ‘’Don’t you mean when are his parents?’’

‘’No, I really just mean where are his parents, the people who are supposed to care for him and report him missing should you decide to keep him any longer than you already have.’’

Johanna opens her mouth, tongue fit with a quick retort, but a zipper zips shut and a bell tolls; and life goes on. Without her. Always without her. She ought to move on too.

A sharp snap! rescues her from grim thoughts. A luggage handle is drawn and a decision is made.

‘’Looks like I’m all set. Walk me to the door?’’

‘’Promise to visit for Bommy Night?’’

‘’Sure. Why not Christmas or Easter or any other normal holidays?’’

‘’I want you on Bommy Night.’’

A suitcase is wheeled over the threshold of a small London flat. A dream leaves through the door.

‘’Hun, it happened four hundred years ago, think you can let it go, eventually?’’

‘’Bommy Night?’’

‘’Bommy Night.’’ She sighs. ‘’And do clean up while I’m gone. This place is a mess.’’

A door shuts behind an idyllic picture, a semblance of normalcy, a modicum of love.

In all her lives, Johanna Constantine has never particularly enjoyed loneliness. But loneliness far outweighs death, grief, sorrow, work. So she lets it go. She lets love overflow. She lets her only friend forge her own path through the world. A world cleansed of any demons, ghouls or whatnots that come bump into the night.

Still, she hangs onto the knob. Still, she pauses before the door. Still, she glances at the quiet flat.

A piece of paper and a mess of clothes strewn about a dust-covered couch.

All that’s left of her.

There’s a child in there somewhere, but she doesn’t bother finding him. She knows it won’t last. She knows nothing ever lasts.

An orange cat pushes its head against her calf, purring lightly through her bones.

She might take that gig at Saint-Anne’s. She might blow up the Houses of Parliament. She might phone Rachel.

Endless possibilities.

⌛︎ ⌛︎ ⌛︎

GaiaPrime-57, Edge of the Worlds, Mytikas Peak, Two Millennia Before the End,

He isn’t sure she is breathing.

Granted, his kind do not need to breathe, but nearly all living things do.

In the beginning, breathing was surviving.

Breathing was new, invented by some higher power, meant to be the latest trend in a series of many; holy gifts bestowed upon humanity before it even became humanity.

But in humanity breathing has found meaning.

One’s breathing tells a tale of life—of life and of love and of sorrow and of pain.

In times forgotten but not forgiven, he’d relish in the steady breath of sleepers.

He’d watch the ephemeral rise and fall of a passing chest with great fascination, overcome with a strange mixture of relief and indifference when the fleeting moment inevitably ended.

He’d listen to the soft thrumming of a laboured breath fanning across his own lips, bodies tangled, hearts mingled, minds miles apart. He’d pour his heart into everything that he was and everything that he wanted and he’d breathe them all into his arms… and they would always end up drowning. He’d choke the breath right out of them.

His sorrow was great; but his love was suffocating.

To add insult to injury, evolution has made breathing mandatory; essential.

But she has defied every rule, every law, every principle and sacred promise from day one.

So he is almost certain she is not breathing at all.

And he needs her to breathe.

He isn’t sure why—perhaps because she’s got a kind smile and she’s happy and she’s wounded and she’s saved his life.

A debt he can never repay, to his dismay.

He cannot stand between a flying sword and her lovely face. He cannot mend her wounds with a flick of his wrist. He cannot call out her name so sweetly and stir something buried within the depths of a blazing nova.

But he can save her life.

The hopeful thought digs, and soft golden grains of sand guide him to Chiron’s bedchambers.

He finds the Centaur reading. He calls to him, nearly falls to his knees.

Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, Oneiros, the Shaper of Form and everything he has ever been and ever will be—is utterly devastated.

Strangely enough, nothing gives the King away.

Nothing on the hard face, the wild hair nor deep eyes, nothing in the dark billowing robes and the shining ruby; it’s a feeling in the air, a rapture through time itself that tells Chiron something dreadful has happened.

That, and the dying girl in his arms.

For his usual aloofness, Oneiros proves to be very cooperative.

He lowers her to the cushioned table, per Chiron’s orders and stands aside to let him work.

He watches, powerless, as the doctor tears through fabric and blood-marred skin and frowns.

‘’What is it?’’ His voice is cutting, demanding, that of a sovereign hanging onto his crown with one hand. In the other, lie his wants and desires. Duty warring against something barely blossoming. Something deadly. Something very nearly dead.

‘’The stitches hold still.’’

‘’Is that not a good thing?’’

‘‘Terrible. Very terrible, Milord.’’

Gilded scissors cut deeper, digging into raw flesh and crusted meat alike, dragging unintelligible pained murmurs from the victim’s throat.

‘’She’s coming to, my lord.’’

‘’Not quite. Faster.’’

Scissors chop away, blood bursts everywhere, screams rip free, golden liquid bearing the smell of spoilt milk leaks through veins.

‘’By Zeus—’’ The Centaur curses; the Dream Lord hears it—neither moves an inch.

‘’What is that?’’ Oneiros rasps, anger lacing his even tone as he stares deeper into the leaking wound.

‘’Adiona—‘’ Chiron stammers, wide eyes burning a hole into a gaping canyon. ‘’Go, find Adiona, and any servants and willing gods.’’

Oneiros does not move. His star-filled gaze has darkened; the stars are slowly dying as they gawk at the trickling drops of blood and the large puddle of liquid gold pouring from the wound.

‘’Oneiros, go!’’ Chiron calls to him, they share a glance over the woman and then his eyes sweep over her fevered form again. A pale hand he hadn’t noticed falls from a limp grasp. He is gone in a swirl of sand.

What happens in the split second of his absence is a secret kept between the doctor and the universe.

But for clarity’s sake, the scene is as follows; this tale is not for the faint of heart.

Blood pours.

As a doctor, surgeon, centaur, son of a ruthless beast, he has seen blood. Some might say he is used to the sight of it. Blood and pus and bodily fluids, all fascinating in their diversity. After its inevitable loss, the human body can produce nearly one liter per day. That's two gallons full of pungent blood. He fears she might fill up five pitchers of wine with her blood alone.

But the blood doesn't bother him. It is terrifying.

Blood pours, pours.

Vicious droplets gushing from a gaping wound—a Sunday to him.

He'd operated during the Dhorian Invasion and all that followed humanity's first brush with extraterrestrial forces. He'd served as a soldier for a time, a nurse, a brother, a friend, a gravestone. He thought he'd seen all the world had to give and take.

He hadn't.

He probably still hasn't.

Blood pours pours pours.

Red splotches dot his skin—her skin, the difference is hard to tell anymore.

He reacts mechanically, his body switching to auto-pilot. His arm lifts, a hand reaches and nibble fingers dig through shining flesh and golden remnants of bone. He knows what this is, this gilded ambrosia spreading through her veins. He knows what it is and he knows what it does, so he carries on, hands digging through her entrails as her screams overpower the wet squelching of his crass ministrations.

He digs and he digs until the voice that comes from her throat is nothing but a distant echo carried by a Roman breeze, a flutter of a butterfly's wings.

By the time the doors to his antechamber burst open, he's elbow deep into the angry flesh of her.

A flurry of gods and goddesses and servants stand arrayed about him, gawking eyes narrowing at the sight of the carnage.

''Chiron,'' a voice calls to him, and then two, and then three and a thousand and one. They pierce through the silent spell in the room and noise comes back to him at once, a moist, most disturbing noise.

He carries on; acutely aware that somewhere along his ministrations, she had stopped screaming.

''Chiron, there's too much blood.''

''Is this all from the... inside?''

‘’I could not find Adiona.’’

‘’No matter. Hold her hand.’’

Wordlessly, he gives commands. A world of gods and servants obey, gathering tools and knowledge, changing bandages and spoiling cloth after cloth with dried pungent blood. It just never stops, the flow keeps pouring, rushing over all of Mount Olympus. The rivers of blood spread like gossip on Haloa, splitting into narrow paths, designing warped veins on the pristine floors. The irony.

The servants still the traveller. It is useless. The violent writhing has subsided, only slight tremors remain, faint whimpers and an assembly of gods.

Hephaestus beats her chest repeatedly with brawny arms.

A Cherub's small rounded fingers are pressed against her pulse. With every passing second, they press harder still.

Calliope, ninth daughter of the Hecatae, is sponging up blood and gilded pus from a corpse.

A painting that will never make it to a museum.

Oneiros knows she is no longer breathing. Her hand lays slack in his palm.

Chiron perseveres. Delicate fingers pry him off the body carefully.

The stranger-traveller-lover-of-dreams is... dead?

''It's alright, Chiron. You did your best.''

''You were very admirable. As was she; she shall be remembered as such.''

''Really nothing you could do.''

''Try again.''

A death knell drops. A pipe organ is playing somewhere deep within the bowels of the palace. The eerie melody cannot reach them. Nothing can save for sorrow and grief and the Dreamlord's quiet anger.

''My Lord?''

''Try. Again.''

Chiron holds his haunted gaze. The ninth daughter of the Hecatae raises a graceful hand to the side of his face. ''Oneiros—''

''Save her.'' he repeats, rasping voice never changing in tone. ''You owe her that much.''

''Do I?'' The doctor's eyes sweep over her form again. Just a moment ago she'd been laughing, mocking his customs and reminiscing gibberish. Just a moment ago, she'd been carried in by the prince of stories for whom she obviously harbored a strong inclination. ''Do you?''

Just a moment ago, she'd been more than a cold lump of meat on a decorative table.

''I know when to admit defeat, Dreamlord. Please, forgive me.''

''No.''

''Oneiros, he did all he could.''

Cold, starless eyes barely brush against some ninth daughter. Under his stare, she feels smaller than a grain of sand.

''No,'' Chiron says before the Dream Lord can retort. ''No, I did not.''

''Chiron—‘’

His shoulders deflate, turning away from Calliope's comforting touch. ''She came to see me this morning. After the feast.''

''Well, what did she want?'' a rough, gravelly voice asks. The Cherub hops on a corner of the table, bare legs brushing over the tip of her dead sandaled feet. She is a corpse now, everything about her is dead, expect, perhaps, her heart. It shall live endlessly.

''She asked me to check the wound. I had to remove the bandage and cut her up, I'm afraid.''

The temperature drops, the air turns crisp, burning the doctor's lungs when he draws a deep breath and looks into Morpheus' eyes.

''Tell me, is this your doing?''

''I wish,'' he surrenders, summoning all the strength left in him. His hands are covered in blood, his arms reek of death and his scalp is as damp as that of the victim. The blood has gilded vein-like streaks stretching across his arms. ''This—this is something else. Something impossible.''

He orders the blood-covered servants to leave. As they fill out wordlessly, he watches, scrutinizing them one by one. The doors close on blood and fabric and a forbidden glance.

To the remaining world, he whispers one word.

''Δηλητήριο.''

''Poison?'' Calliope echoes, frowning. ''It cannot be. Zeus had all the hemlock shrubs removed after the Phaedra incident.''

''Only this isn't hemlock, Calliope. This is something else. Something new.''

''Could it be lethal to us?''

''Of course not, dimwit! Why would you even think that?''

''Look what it's done to her, Anteros! A powerful beauty, was she? I mean no disrespect my lord.''

Hephaestus considers himself a man of bravery and honor.

He isn't anywhere near as obnoxious as Plutus, or inconsiderate as Aergia, and twice the man Anteros pretends to be. But he must admit that the tendrils of pure darkness sprouting from the Master of Dreams’ shadow make him a tee tiny bit frightened.

They expand, licking across the polished floors, continuing their creeping journey toward the foot of the table, snuffing out all light and life from the closest particles of this plane. The shadows grow, shape, de-shape and reshape in a senseless and endless twirl.

Calliope has always been braver than him.

She turns and in one graceful twirl places herself between the tendrils of darkness and her half-brother. Between the god and the Endless. She stares him down. He stares right back.

The tendrils tremble around the edges.

Chiron pinches the bridge of his nose wearily. A cherub sucks a thumb into his mouth, watching the game with bright amused eyes.

A shadow stills, the air turns sour.

A gasp is breathed, a heart is released.

A stranger-traveller springs from a table, cheered on by a collective shriek. A toddler tumbles from her table. A palm is pressed to her cheek, lovely brown eyes coming into view. Shadows retreat into the darkest parts of an ancient soul.

She breathes. She lives. She cries.

''Please, please, don't send me off on a burning boat.''

-

A/N: yes I am alive, no, I’m not sorry (a tiny bit still).

Also… finally introducing the premise, how do we feel about that ;)

Gotta sort the rest of my drafts before I update again, but I’m currently working on a Sandman x DBD crossover so updates on this series might take a while. And since the algorithm seems to be against me, I'd recommend a follow to be sure not to miss them!

[thevampiremarie]

treehouse 🔞 (also available on ao3)

tags: smut, pregnancy, 🔞, mental illness, trauma, eventual happy ending

Dream of the Endless | Lord Morpheus x reader

It's a common story; you meet a tall, dark, and handsome man outside of a club and take him home that night. When he leaves, you don't think you'll ever see him again.

Now, what's less common is what happens a couple of weeks later, when you realize you're pregnant. But you only know his name, if that even is his real name: "Dream".

What exactly are you going to do now?

(title from the song Treehouse by Alex G) (originally posted on AO3)

You don’t usually do this kind of thing.

‘Thing’ here refers to venturing out of your apartment, alone, dressed to the nines and in search of trouble. The kind of thing that every other twenty-something you know does on a regular basis.

But it’s always been too hard for you to gather up the energy for such an effort. Depression can do that.

Tonight, though, you’re trying, even though you’re definitely the only person in this club without anyone else to accompany them.

The party feels like something out of that new Batman movie; bass reverberating through the soles of your sneakers and smoke curling through the air, heavy-fingered and tinged blood red from the colored lights.

You had choked down a panic attack on the walk from the train to the club, only making it down those few blocks of sidewalk by reminding yourself that you can leave whenever it stops being fun, over and over.

The ice in your drink is fully melted and in the whole hour you’ve wandered around, you’ve really only spoken to the very pretty bartender. She complimented your dress, and you would’ve complimented her eyes in return, but you’re aware that she was only being polite and doing her job.

Without much fanfare, you abandon your glass filled halfway with water and halfway with vodka sour next to all the other discarded glasses. This has officially stopped being fun, though whether or not it was ever fun to begin with is up for debate, and you take that as your cue to dip.

Once you’re outside, the cool air a pleasant balm on your sweat-sticky cheeks, you quickly snag a cigarette out of the carton in your purse. A raven watches you struggle to light it.

He’s a curious bird, calm as any human, and you win the staring contest between the two of you. When he cocks his head at the sound of your laughter, you swear he can practically understand you. You keep giggling as you crouch down and offer your shitty lighter to the raven. “Well? Are you gonna help me or just stand there making fun?”

“Matthew has always had a sense of humor.” At the sound of someone’s accented voice, as rich and deep as whiskey, you stand and turn to see a man looking at you and your new corvus buddy.

Oh fuck, he’s beautiful.

You go with beautiful as handsome is definitely the wrong word. The stranger is beautiful in a way that doesn’t quite seem humanly possible, like it breaks your brain a little bit to look at his brilliant eyes, to take in his high, sweeping cheekbones and plush mouth.

“The raven’s name is Matthew?”

“Yes.” You’re tempted to ask him if he, like, has a podcast or maybe records audiobooks. If he doesn’t, he should. He’d do super well.

Seriously. It’s catnip to you. The sound unfurls from his throat with a touch of rasp, but still purer and more resonant than any other voice you can recall.

You’re reminded of what priests say the voice of God sounds like. This is a very weird thing to come to mind when a random guy talks, especially as you aren’t really religious like that. He definitely could get a whole lot of people to do as he wished just by asking, you think. A God needs to have that quality. Or a cult leader.

You swallow down the heat inside that stokes hotter with every moment his bright gaze clings to your face, to the curve of your lips. His structured black coat fits across his proud shoulders well; it looks expensive and he appears to have an awfully good tailor.

You decide to go along with the bit. Bits are fun and talking to this man is exactly the kind of shenanigan you were hoping to stumble across. “That’s a good name. Did you give him that?”

He smiles knowingly. “He named himself.”

That’s funny. It makes sense; ravens are as clever as any person, the Internet says, so someone looking at one of those birds and feeling as though it named itself isn’t totally out of left field.

You hope he elaborates on that, but the stranger doesn’t seem inclined to help you out there. But you don’t want the silence to settle much longer. It might drive him away, and you’d like him to stick around longer. Maybe get his number. “Well, I hope he knows it suits him. Hey. You think you could light this for me? You saw me try it with Matthew, but I don’t think he has enough claws to make it work.” You hold out the lighter with shaky fingers, nervousness fighting desire in your veins.

When he takes it from you, his skin brushes yours. It’s almost electric. “…of course.”

You’ve never felt attracted to someone so fast. The wanting hits you like an avalanche; a dream of his palms on your hips and red marks on your skin from his teeth pours through your mind.

The man cups his other hand over the flame as you lean in, at last lighting your neglected smoke. Your lungs fill with him, not tobacco smoke. His scent, sharp and comforting all at once, makes you just as woozy, just as lightheaded as the nicotine does. “Thank you, I, um, appreciate it. Do you have a name, too?”

“You may call me Dream.”

Your best friend would appreciate his excellent grammar. Clever of him to use ‘might’; if you were a Fae trying to get his real name, he’s answered in exactly the way someone trying to not get fairy abducted should. These are the kinds of tidbits that amuse you, even if you won’t ever use them. So you’ve spent your life hoarding random information like this, just for funsies.

“Your choice of words there is noted, ‘Dream’.” Your smile warms your voice and he steps in a little closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head up a bit to maintain eye contact. Like staring at an eclipse. That’s bad for your eyesight, you tell yourself. But you can’t look away.

His lashes are as black as his thick, undone hair, framing a lidded and darkening gaze.“Were you just leaving?”

Oh fuck yeah. “Um, yeah, not really my scene. Kinda boring, at least for me. It’s a shame; I was hoping to actually make getting out of the house tonight worth it, but. No dice.” You haven’t done this game in quite awhile, but you still remember the rules. A bit of a tease at the end, just to imply that you’re interested. What can you do? He makes you bold, bolder than normal. You want him to want you.

“Pity.” A pause stretches between you and you feel your heart sink into your stomach, your anxiety revving up again. What if he just walks away and leaves you here, embarrassed and in your head for believing someone like you could attract someone like him?

“Do you still wish to make getting out of the house tonight worth it?” Your words sound out of place in his mouth, too modern.

What’s that joke about how some actors in period dramas clearly look like they know what an iPhone is? Dream is apparently the opposite of that. He seems entirely above petty concerns like lamenting the lack of decent hookups.

The discordance has you stifling a giggle.

You dream some more about his hand tangling in your hair and his body covering yours, his knee between your thighs. And the fire, deep in your belly, burns brighter and brighter. “Depends on what we’re doing.”

When Dream smiles, it’s beautiful and uncanny. He looks like a predator, and you’ve stumbled right where he wants you. It’s hot. You’re good with that. “You know what.”

“…yes.”

You can’t really remember how you got back to your apartment - Dream has been far too busy pressing his mouth to yours, devouring the heady, saliva-slick kisses you’re freely offering up, for you to pay attention to something like that.

As soon as you’ve made it inside the front door, he pins you against the wall to wrap an elegant, long-fingered hand in your hair, tipping your face towards him so he can nip at your bottom lip with sharp teeth. “You are… exquisite,” He murmurs against your lips, pupils blown so large that his eyes look like galaxies with an endless black hole in the center, pulling you towards his gravity.

You grow wetter at the sound of the lust roughening up the edges of his polished voice, at the awe in his words. “Please,” you moan as he bites aching marks into the column of your throat that are sure to bruise purple and red tomorrow. You want them to bruise, you want to have something left behind after this hookup ends, proof he was there.

You’re not even sure how to articulate what exactly you’re begging for. That’s beyond what your mind is capable of right now, as his hand fists in your hair and tightens until it’s the perfect amount of slightly painful and you’re gasping, desperate for more. Your hands have twisted into the collar of his coat this whole time and you don’t let go. The feeling of the cloth rounds you and more than anything, you don’t want him to back away.

Dream seems to understand your pleading - he lathes the bruises with his tongue and you would do anything he wanted, as long as he would do that between your thighs. His other hand trails against the swell of your breast, gently caressing them through your thin dress. You arch into his touch, his fingers rolling over your nipple, plucking at it before palming your chest once more.

You’re greedy - you want even more. With a frustrated groan, you shove your dress off about as fast as you’re capable of doing so, getting tangled in the sleeves in your enthusiasm. A whine escapes your chest - seriously?

You’re so horny at this point that any fumbling delay like this might cause a meltdown, especially in front of someone as hot as Dream, but he simply smiles affectionately and untangles you, soothing your ruffled feathers with his calm, steady touch. The dress flutters to the ground in a heap. “Be still,” He admonishes you, before sucking in a sharp breath at the sight of your body bared to him. “Fuck.”

Your underwear is soaked through and it clings to your thighs as you shift, desperately trying to relieve the yearning need inside.

Dream seems transfixed by you, utterly enraptured by your full breasts and the dip of your waist, the soft curves of your hips. Those pretty, blinding eyes almost glow in the dim light of your living room lamp and as his fingers leave your hair to trail down your neck, a line down your clavicle, his touch relishing in the softness of your skin, you’ve never felt more desired.

Then, he meets your round, hungry eyes. “Do you want this?”

“Yes. Yes. Of course,” You pant. He’s moving too slow for you; you yank him towards you again, your mouth vicious as you kiss him. Dream’s still fully clothed, which seems a bit unfair, but there’s something about the intentional vulnerability of standing before him mostly-naked that you secretly enjoy. He has the upper hand at the moment, and you’re actually pretty okay with that.

Impatience and a bratty touch of mischief briefly win out over the urge to please him, to revel in his affections, so you quickly slip away from his grasp and flee towards your bedroom, with Dream hot on your trail.

Before you make it all the way to your bed, still unmade from earlier today, he catches you by your waist, wrapping his hand around your jaw tight enough to leave fingerprints so he can expose the side of your neck to the burn of his lips.

You fully expect him to toss you down on the bed and have his way with you, but Dream lowers you down carefully with one hand cradling the back of your head and his eyes fixed on your face, possession and lust blossoming in his terrifyingly beautiful smile

You need him.

He peels off his clothes quickly. Underneath all those dark, rich fabrics, his lean, muscle-bound torso gleams in the moonlight like a marble statue of some old god. You’ve always loved Ancient Greece and their perfectly-sculpted effigies.

Then Dream is on you again. He sinks to his knees before you and his position doesn’t feel like submission, not when you’ve fully surrendered to him. His mouth trails down your body and his hands can’t stop touching you; you gasp as you writhe in his steady embrace holding you still.

Your underwear gets discarded in some corner of your room - you’ll look for it later, when your hookup leaves.

He hooks one of your legs on his shoulder and buries his head between your thighs. He’s like, really good at eating you out. You’re sort of shocked, because you haven’t had great experiences with this, but his tongue traces your clit and the overwhelming pleasure from Dream’s touch forces a desperate cry out of you.

He chuckles against your pussy, now teasing intentionally as he traces around your clit, around your dripping core, before returning to his task. Dream carefully sinks two fingers inside of you and his groan at how your cunt flutters around his fingers vibrates through you. You’re so full already, the pressure pinching a little, and he’s careful, so careful when he starts to move in and out of you, sucking at your clit to soothe the ache from the stretch.

You’re moaning, and you can’t even breathe, can’t catch your breath; it’s so fucking good, and you feel the beginning of an orgasm coiling inside you already.

Any pain completely dissipates as Dream’s mouth indulges you, tastes you like he wants nothing more than to eat you out for the rest of time. Your body instinctively twitches away, hips trying to escape his touch. The pleasure burns through your body like a wildfire, and the intensity is almost too much, especially when the pads of his fingers find a sensitive spot inside your trembling, hypersensitive cunt. “Fuck, Dream, fuck-“

When he pulls away from you, his mouth is slick with your arousal, and you watch him lick it from his lips. “Did I not say to be still?” He speaks quietly, evenly, a contrast to the needy whines you make at the loss of contact.

But his fingers don’t let up. Dream keeps moving them inside of you, and it’s hard to find the capacity to answer him when he intentionally brushes against that delicate, tender place.

You’d do anything for him to keep going. Anything. “No, you did, I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry.”

He does nothing for a moment; even his fingers pause as you spasm around him. And just when you think he’s going to completely withdraw and punish you for not following his instructions, he absolves you. “Good girl.”

Dream braces his other arm against your hips so you can’t escape how he pleasures you, and even as your body jerks when he enters you again, picking up the pace and fucking you open, you can’t move away. He replaces his tongue on your clit with his thumb, pressing even circles into your sensitive flesh so he can watch your face twisted in ecstasy and the brilliant flush crawling up your tits towards your throat with hungry, star-bright eyes.

Dream needs you undone before him just much as you want him to take you apart.

You’re so wet that it’s obscene, his fingers dripping with you, and the sound your pussy makes with every movement is embarrassingly loud, almost as loud as your moans.

Your impending orgasm sparks back to life as he patiently builds you back up, your thighs trembling and eyes rolling at a particularly forceful thrust. When he fits another finger inside your soaked core, your eyes roll back in your head as you cry out in surprise. It’s too good, the pain and pleasure bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

Fuck, you can feel it, right there, feel it threatening to pull you under like a riptide, and each movement pushes the breath out of your lungs. It takes a minute to realize Dream is matching his thumb teasing your clit with his careful, gentle pushes against that spot inside your pussy. He knows your body so well for someone you’ve never met before, and in his capable, clever hands, you’re so close to coming apart.

He’s still looking at you, completely enraptured by your back arching off the end and your eyes hazy with lust. Dream takes your clit into his mouth once more, tongue flicking against you as he chases your orgasm.

“Thank you, oh my god, I’m gonna come,” You beg helplessly, writhing and squirming against him, your body wound up so tight that it hurts.

“That’s it. Give it to me.”

He commands, and you obey, coming around his fingers with a drawn-out cry. You’re coming, and it eats you alive, the fall flooding through you like lightning. Dream helps you through it, bearing down, so your pussy trembles through your orgasm on his firm, clever hands. You feel yourself gush around him, and he groans at the feeling of it, slowing his fingers pumping in and out of you without stopping altogether, eking out every last bit of your pleasure that he can.

And Dream instinctively knows when you’re done, when you can’t give him any more, so he finally withdraws and licks his fingers clean of your cum.

You can’t totally feel your legs, and you need to finally catch your breath, but you look at him, pleased and benevolent and still desirous of you, and you know you can go another round.

You prop yourself up on shaky arms to meet his filthy, messy kiss; the taste of your salty musk blooms on your tongue, and he wraps his arms around your sweaty, heated body. “Will you fuck me? Please? I want it,” You ask when you break the kiss. You’re a quick study, and Dream seems to like it when you tell him that you want him.

His eyes are almost completely black when he answers you. “Yes.” Dream’s tone is menacing and dark, and fuck, if you don’t drip on your blankets at the promise in his voice.

You like submitting to him, like how he handles your body like it’s his, and before he can push you down, you flip over and sink down on your knees, back arched and face pressed into the bed. “Like this?” You realize you’re asking for permission, which is something maybe you should’ve negotiated beforehand.

But you shouldn’t have worried; he’s very much on the same page. “Yes.”

You wait for him to shift behind you. You can’t see Dream, and the anticipation sends a thrill down your spine. You’re exposed and vulnerable in this position, and he could do anything.

His hands caress your ass, your thighs, your curves, lingering indulgently. It’s as if you’re precious, as if you’re the most holy thing he’s ever touched.

After pressing a single, sweet kiss on the base of your spine, Dream kneels behind you, and you can feel his hips against your ass. He seems intent on soothing the tension out of you, patiently stroking your heated skin until you melt at his touch.

And when you’re soft and pliant, he pushes in.

He’s pretty big, big enough that even after three fingers and an orgasm, you still feel a pinch as he thrusts deeper. You involuntarily make a soft noise of discomfort; you don’t want him to think you’re not enjoying this, to draw away from you. But Dream takes his time, gently opening you up on his dick as you start to relax.

When he finally seats himself inside you, that slight noise of discomfort turns into a deep, contented sigh. You’re so full, your pussy stretched comfortably to its limits, and you go slack against the sheets. Your cum from your last orgasm is soon matched by a new well of arousal from the feeling of his dick in you, heavy and hard and incredible.

And when he starts moving, your pillow muffles your loud moans. He fucks you slowly at first, mindful of how tight you are. It’s so caring, and it works; you enjoy the leisurely build-up much more. Before long, you’re aching for everything else he can give you.

He doesn’t have you entirely out of your mind yet, so you slot your hips back against his to meet his thrusts. And when you clench particularly hard around his cock, Dream also groans. “Alright,” he says with a hint of amusement. “You can have it.”

He fucks you in earnest now, one hand fisted in your hair and holding you down as he moves in you faster and faster, tears forming in your eyes from how ridiculously good it feels. With each push, he takes pieces of your higher functioning abilities with him, so all that’s left is your body responding to his touches, your mind drunk on his dick. Dream is addictive and so completely good at this; he hits just the right angle that torments you with pleasure.

“Holy shit, fuck, that feels-“ you cut yourself off with a long moan as his dick presses against your most sensitive places. But Dream is fed up with the pillow muffling your sounds. He wants to hear them, wants you to scream and moan and cry out as much as you want, and he draws you up off the bed by your hair as he keeps pounding into you.

Your shaky arms barely support you, but you manage.

Dream keeps moving as he hisses into your ear. You can barely focus on what he’s saying, not when he’s stretching you out with each furious push and forcing you closer to your second orgasm of the night. “I need to hear you. You’ll let me hear you,” He promises before biting at your throat, sucking in another mark on your skin where you’ll struggle to conceal it.

“Yes, yes, yes,” You chant. Anything. Anything he wants.

Dream keeps hold of your hair to arch your spine in such a way that every time he enters you, his cock thrusts against that tender bit inside, and your cunt spasms around him.

He wants to hear you. And you let him. Wailing with every brutal thrust, eyes rolling back in your head. God, you don’t want this to end, but you’re not sure you can take much more; he’s already maxed you to your limits with how good Dream can make you feel at once. You can hear his deep grunts as you start fucking yourself back on his dick.

Your clit aches at the lack of contact, and he gently lets you slump against the bed once more so he can slip his hand around your hips and gently play with the sensitive nub.

Your orgasm is back with a vengeance. You edge towards it so quickly that it takes you by surprise, encouraged and beckoned by his fingers moving on your clit in tandem with his cock ruining you. You keep waiting and waiting to go over the edge before realizing that Dream is gatekeeping you from it, cleverly changing up how he fucks you to stave off your orgasm. To torture you. If you were capable of thought, you’d tell Dream he’s being cruel and beg him to let you come.

But you’re cock-drunk and boneless under him, so you take what he gives you with a pained, longing moan. No more pushing back against him, no more pleading. You just lie there and take it, and there’s maybe some saliva dripping out of the corner of your slack mouth. Yikes -  hopefully, he doesn’t notice.

Dream can tell you’ve just about hit your limit. “Can I come inside you, sweet girl? Do you want me to?” You probably should’ve asked him about that before you started throwing down; maybe gotten out a condom or checked to see if he was clean.

But you’re on birth control, and really if he pulls out of you now, you think you might start crying for real. You want him to come inside you, to fill up your twitching cunt until he spills out of your spent body. Like. That’s hot as fuck. Suddenly, you need it as badly as you need to come.

“Yes, fuck, please.”

Dream begins fucking you in earnest again, and his fingers never let up between your legs. “Then I need you to come one more time. Do it for me.”

“I- I can’t-“

It’s just out of reach. Even though his cock feels incredible in you, even though your legs are quivering and tears run down your face from the pleasure he forces through your body, you can’t quite come. It’s driving you insane.

You get to the point where you stop making any noise at all, so twisted up in the sensations rushing through you that you don’t have the strength to do anything else besides tremble around him.

And then Dream tips you right over into it with a single, soft sentence, murmured into your ear. “I know you can.”

You come with a choked sound, blood rushing in your ears as you spill over around his dick. He rides you through it, fucking you through this orgasm that’s brutally wrecking you, that’s washed you clean of anything other than feeling Dream deep inside your quaking pussy.

He pounds into you once, then twice, before coming from the sensation of you fluttering around him. You feel his warmth fill you up inside, slick and silky. His cum spills a bit from your spent core when Dream finally pulls out.

He’s shaking, too, as he draws you into a tender embrace. You curl up into him on your side, body aching after it all. “You’re good at that. Like, really good.”

Dream smiles into your shoulder, where he has started pressing fond butterfly kisses into your sweaty, flushed skin. “And you are very good. You were very, very good for me, my dear.” You like being good for him. You have a praise kink in general, but being good for Dream somehow feels better, more meaningful, more special.

Just when you open your mouth to ask if he has any plans for the rest of the evening, he cuts you off with a voice undercut by regret and longing. “I cannot stay, unfortunately. My apologies; I don’t wish to leave you here so suddenly. But I have… to go.”

Oh.

You swallow down the quick flash of sadness.

You’re always a bit emotional after sex, and you like cuddling, but Dream doesn’t owe you any of that. He’s been nothing but polite and considerate, and you’ve just met him tonight. Even if you want him to stay, there’s no reason he should.

You know that the sadness and accompanying feelings of loss and inadequacy will soon build into something more substantial, messed up, and all-encompassing. And you’d rather not have Dream around when the dam breaks. He doesn’t have to do anything, and you have no right to make demands on his time.

You should get his phone number or something. But your phone is somewhere in the living room where you dropped your purse, and you really don’t feel like getting up.

Already your body is starting to crash now that the endorphins are gone, and you realize just how exhausted you are. A stroke of genius comes to mind. “It’s all good, don’t worry about it. You’ll leave your number for me? On the notepad by the door?”

“I- yes, I‘ll do that.” He looks at you for a long moment as if he wishes he could stay longer. Dream’s genuine remorse softens your heart. He’s a good guy, and it’s unfortunate that your time together had to be so short.

“I’ll see you around then,” You murmur quietly, asleep before you get to see him out.

[kpopgirlbtssvt]

WAIT!!

Morpheus peeps, imagine this!!!! 🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️

A Platonic!Dad!Morpheus x 2 year old daughter fic!!

Imagine like in Monsters inc, a 2 year old little girl somehow makes it into the Dreaming, like Boo made it into the monster world. Remember how Boo wasn’t scared of Sulley and ended up following him back? Imagine the little girl not being scared of the nightmare that is there when she’s asleep, just giggling and ends up following the nightmare back to the Dreaming, and then suddenly there is a little 2 year old human girl that is running amuck in the Dreaming? The Nightmare is panicking and can’t find her, the rest of the Nightmares and Dreams are panicking because there is a tiny human child lost in the Dreaming, and because Morpheus will not be happy.😅 Anyways, Morpheus finds her first, him having gone to search for the human presence he felt appear, and hearing giggling, he finds her happily surrounded by the cats of the Dreaming. He goes to her in cat form at first, as to not startle her, but then turns into his human body form, and the little girl excitedly starts to refer to him as “Kitty”. And he gently picks her up to bring her inside to discuss with Lucienne what they should do (and he has a conversation with the Nightmare that accidentally brought her there😅). Anyways, they find out she’s all alone, doesn’t have parents, and feels safest in her dreams, even nightmares, so Morpheus adopts the little girl as his own daughter, who has become very attached to him🥹🥹

@roguelov @gh0stsp1d3r @honeybeezgobzzzzz @missdreamofendless @dragon-kazansky @thoughtsfromlayla

[lenreli]

24/7 // Before & After