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cosmictapestry · 7 months

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special request 3. walked in on

the full request was morpheus deciding to take care of business himself and leaving the small possibility that lucienne might walk in on him, and she of course does.

you probably think this will be cute. you probably think this will be funny. what if i told you that it's a sequel to this one. what if i told you that we've barely scratched the surface on The Mental Illness and the Eldritch Catholicism

morphienne prompt fills here

One day Dream made the mistake, as he so often did, of thinking ahead to that night.

Usually it was Lucienne's fault. She enjoyed telegraphing her intentions to him throughout the day—fantasizing loudly in your general direction, as she described it—to build anticipation. It was unnecessary. She understood this.

On this day she had been fairly tame in her imagination, nothing deliberately thrown his way, just blips of named mention that danced across his perception when her mind wandered. So, he could not in good conscience say it was her fault that he could not stop thinking about it.

The distraction should not have been an issue. His work, that which he was present for and that which he was present throughout, should have occupied him so thoroughly that he would be rushing to meet her in time when she found her way to their shared bedchamber. On this day, his obligations were met, and the collective were relatively manageable, and he was idle, and it was hours before she would be retiring.

Dream sat in his throne and stared at shifting colored light and tried to convince himself to move. There was always more work to be done. A hundred million little tasks that were his responsibility and that he was neglecting by sitting still. If nothing else, he should be on the Shores, creating.

He did not move. His fingers drummed on the arms of the throne. He thought about those snippets of half-formed fantasy floating about her dreamscape, sense memory of the weight of him on her tongue and his hair tickling her inner thighs and his hands gripping her hips, yearning images of him all undone and desperate.

So busy was he languishing in the heat of Lucienne's imagination that it took him a long while to recognize that his hips were rocking. It took him even longer to be still, his throat tight and his face hot and his body desperately twitching to keep chasing the friction of his jeans.

Dream stood and descended the steps. Walking made the problem worse. His jeans melted into loose silken trousers, but this just gave his erection more room to fill out. He stood at the base of the steps, thumb and index finger pressed to his forehead, and he spared a moment to wallow in self-pity.

He did not have to have a sex. He could disappear the offending appendage and put everything but work out of his mind. That was what he should have done. At least until nightfall. How strange, that those hours of deprivation seemed insurmountable, when he bore it easily enough for centuries before this.

He could—perhaps—it was an option—

And he could hardly bear to think it, nearly overcome then and there by a rush of self-disgust and confusion and vague, unfocused horror. But he remembered how Lucienne looked at him last time, how she encouraged him and praised him. His cock grew hard, pushed down the left leg of his trousers and twitching against his thigh and really why didn't he just die.

Dramatic, perhaps. All of this, terribly dramatic.

Dream stood still and breathed and reined in his frayed composure. He would not be getting any work done like this. Lucienne wanted him to come to her when he felt so unsteady, but given the nature of this issue that might be. Counterproductive.

He allowed himself seconds more to deliberate before he left his throne room and remanifested in the cool gloom of his own bedchamber. At the very least, he should be in the dark alone and unbothered while he panicked over nothing at all. Standing there in his sparse and long-neglected quarters he concluded that panic was simply not the most logical course of action. It was more likely to lead to his losing control than most anything else.

It was strange to lie down alone in a bed he'd hardly touched for thousands of years. It wasn't as soft as the bed in his and Lucienne's shared bedchamber. He could have changed that. He did not. He lie flat on his back and stared up at the shifting cosmos above. That, he changed, and the ceiling became dark shining tile, and he allowed himself a long, shuddering breath.

He sunk entirely into his aspect, condensed himself into his corporeal form until the traces of himself in all things were muted and distant. Like this—mortal, nearly, human, mostly—the roaring of the collective was close to a physical pain in his blood and his head and his bones, no more and no less bearable than its static buzzing in his diffuse state. It was familiar now, at least, after a hundred years trapped in this form. Almost comfortable, after Lucienne's insistence on his full presence when they lie together.

He did not disrobe, though that was the standard procedure. Lucienne would tell him he did not have to do anything he did not want to. So. He kept that in mind while he closed his eyes and slid his hand down the front of his trousers.

The first touch was cold, unpleasantly so, and he flinched and fisted his other hand in the sheets beside him. After a moment he wrapped the hand in his trousers around the base of his shaft. It felt very different from Lucienne’s hand, cooler and smoother and large enough to easily encircle his girth. It did not feel good. It didn't feel like much of anything. Was he doing something wrong? He grit his teeth and tried to recall how he felt last time when he did this under Lucienne’s heated regard.

Dream worked his fist up his shaft, loose and slow, shifting the silky skin over the rigid flesh beneath, and he kept his eyes closed, and he tried to breathe evenly until he decided to not breathe at all because the sound of it was too much. His entire body was tense. It felt better, now, perhaps, nerves starting to react, but his hand was shaking, and he could not help but know what he must look like, and all at once he was sick and cold, a lowly creature squirming in the dark, looking for reprieve and uncaring of the consequences of his own feelings and the duties being neglected and the standards he should be upholding as one of the Endless.

His erection wilted in his hand, and Dream blinked his eyes open to stare at the ceiling, and he swallowed until the nausea abated.

Wretched beast, hopeless and pathetic and weak, too much a man and not a man at all.

For a moment there, it had almost been good. Dream clenched his jaw and changed the shape of himself, let the flesh under his hand become petal-soft lips, far more familiar to the touch. His fingers dipped between his folds, stroking either side of his clitoris. The dry drag of a direct touch made him flinch and shudder, and he reached further back to gather slick but found himself tacky and numb.

He rubbed at his clitoris roughly, trying to draw forth wetness, and slid one finger inside himself, and the discomfort was so pronounced he drew back entirely with a pained snarl, and the guards which separated him from Everything shuddered and threatened to become porous with his panic. The terror laid him low and he was stricken, still, self-soothing the memory-agony-rage until it subsided, until he was shivering from the storm's nearness.

Tears of frustration glazed his vision, and he covered his mouth with one hand to stifle a wretched sob and wrapped the other arm around his middle, and he lied there in his bed and shook and thought himself the most disgusting creature in existence.

In the ages before being was physical there were still means of bringing oneself pleasure, and he’d known well then the danger of losing himself in the respite from his existence, and he’d made a hundred million mistakes before he found it was easiest to enjoy nothing at all. It never seemed to matter. He was never able to keep the dreamers safe from himself for long. All he had were these denials, these rules and these safeguards, and he could not maintain them, and he wondered if they had ever mattered at all.

He rolled onto his side eventually, calm and listless. He ached deep inside from the intrusion but couldn't find the wherewithal to heal himself. He yearned for Lucienne. She would hold his hand. Unless she agreed that he was a pitiful excuse for an Endless and that her loyalty had been misplaced and she would be better off staying as far away from him as possible. He would understand, he thought, he probably wouldn't even be angry about it, at least not for long, and hardly even with her.

Dream left his bedchamber, silent and hunched, and he escaped to the Shores where he sculpted his sickness and shame in the sand, and he did not meet with Lucienne that night.

Several times in the coming weeks he tried again, when he found himself unable to banish the heat inside him. The results were usually the same. The only time he managed to achieve orgasm was not through touching himself at all, rather through lying facedown and grinding into the bed. He did not feel better afterwards.

He decided the entire experiment was pointless and a waste of time.

Dream manages to hold to this for several weeks, losing himself in everything Lucienne offers and never daring reach for more, until there comes a span of several nights when she is too busy with archival work to meet with him, and he finds himself feeling. Neglected, perhaps. Which is certainly unfair, considering he's done the same to her often enough. He did not expect how torturous it would be to see her and work with her and laugh with her during the day and not to share her body in the night. He wonders if she feels the same.

Quite by accident, he finds himself in their bedchamber, because he is hot and frustrated and idle, and he misses her dearly. It is strange to be here without her when the room is their shared refuge and not his cage. It is the most fortified and insulated place in all the Dream Realm, capable of containing his unbound form, and yet it has never felt as safe as it has since she began to share it with him.

It smells like her. He thinks this as he wanders over to the bed and traces the quilted gold with trembling fingertips, and he thinks this while his other hand squeezes at the hardness in his trousers, as though willing it to disappear without conscious effort. He should leave. But he could...

Dream swallows, and he looks to the door, then back at the bed. This place is warm and soft and full of light and full of her. If anything at all happened here, the realm would be safe. If he desecrated their bed, it would not have lasting consequences. Probably, possibly, hopefully.

He lies down in the bed and feels immediately at peace. He turns his face into a pillow, because they are sleek smooth satin, just like the ones in Lucienne's chambers, just as they've been since he discovered something could feel so lovely on skin. No one is around. He nuzzles into the fabric and breathes in her scent, and he considers dressing the entire bed the same and rolling like a cat in grass, and—no, he must not lose himself. There is no excuse for that. The pillows are indulgence enough.

It is no great feat to be bare here. He isn't sure why, when it was so difficult in his own bedchamber. Still he feels exposed on his back, so he turns on to his side and buries his face in the pillow. When his hips rock forward the tip of his cock drags on the bed, and that feels good. His body rolls slowly, lazily, and he shifts onto his belly with one knee drawn to the side for leverage, cock pinned beneath him so every grind shivers and tingles down the entire length.

Dream's arms wrap around the pillow and hold it close to his mouth which would otherwise be open and panting. Another few grinds and he is up on his elbows, head bowed, gasping and biting his lip and trying not to make too much noise, and another few after that the friction is painful, and he stops, and he collapses with a muffled sigh.

This is all so incredibly irritating. Dream rolls back onto his side, glares reproachfully at his cock, angry red now and weeping insistently. He wraps his hand around it, though he's yet to find success that way. Perhaps if he—

And he hears the doors to the room fall softly shut, and he freezes in something like fear, and it's only Lucienne, standing there in the doorway and looking at him with an expression warm and surprised and delighted, and she breathes, "you could have just asked, love," but all he can do is watch her and be prepared for her disgust.

She walks towards the bed. She's dressed down and sweaty, her blazer discarded and waistcoat undone and shirt untucked like she'd begun undressing before she even set foot in her suite. She smells like parchment glue and old recipes for ink and her face creases in concern as she approaches him and she stops, far enough away from the bed that Dream thinks certainly she will turn and leave now. "My lord?"

He's not so hard anymore, and he snatches his hand away as though burned by the touch, and Lucienne's eyes track the movement. "I," and he does not know what to say so he should not say anything but she is looking for an answer. "My apologies, I..."

"Now, why apologize?" she steps to the bedside and he manages not to flinch. "I'm not angry. You find the strangest things to feel guilty for." A pause, like she is waiting for him to retort, but his mouth is dry and his tongue is heavy. "Would you like me to leave?"

He reaches out and touches her wrist before he can panic over the notion of touching her when he has dirtied himself. "I am having difficulty. Doing this without you here," Dream mumbles to the crumpled sheets beneath him and he wishes they would swallow him up.

He hears Lucienne's credulous hum and feels her fingertips brush his hair from his face but he cannot look at her. She sits down on the edge of the bed and his body curls toward her gravity. Her fingers cradle the back of his head and slide to the base of his skull to press there and send a frisson of dull comfort through his nerves. He just manages not to moan. "Why do you think that is?" she asks.

Dream was hoping she would be able to explain it. That thought dashed, he steels himself for whichever open wounds she might decide need uncovering today. Perhaps she will hold him. The furious, unbearable hope he cannot suppress feels less like blades in his flesh every time it is fulfilled. "When we are together it is for you. When I am alone it is. For me."

Her breath rushes with her distress. "That's sort of the point, my love," she tells him, and her fingers twine in his hair, and he shivers and tries not to weep. "Is it really so terrible?"

It shouldn't be. It shouldn't be, he knows that, he contains in him all dreamlives and he knows what is natural and normal and he knows that there is nothing unacceptable about this. It's only him who is the problem. "I don't know," he mumbles. "Yes, perhaps."

Lucienne is silent, petting him, and her dreamscape runs violet-red with compassion and grief and an exhaustion that makes him want to hide away forever so she never has to deal with him again. "What do you think about, when you touch yourself?" she asks him finally, and her hand drifts down his neck, his shoulder, his bicep, down to the arch of his wrist. "Do you think of me?"

Miles of dark brown skin and plush curves and rich scent and heavy breasts and liquid eyes and flushed molten sex and soft moans and kind words and gentle, gentle hands. He is thinking of her now. "I try not to think of anything."

Lucienne frowns. Ah, wrong answer, somehow. "Well, that's not right," she murmurs. "Surely you know that."

Dream's lip curls with the sting of her condescension. Yes, surely he knows that, he knows fantasy and he is fantasy and he is so weak and foolish and broken that fantasy might destroy him entirely, or it might affect the subject of his imagining, or he might simply get lost in it and never return. He does not answer her at all.

"Dream," she says, softly now, apologetically, and her other hand tips his chin up to make him look at her. "Do you remember what you said to me once? About trusting that I would not let you disappear?" He does remember, and it rings true. "Understand this, then. If you think of me, I am with you. And I will never let you disappear."

Tears, again, and he tries to duck his head, tries to tell her she is reckless beyond belief, but all he can do is stare at her while she leans down and catches his lips with her own. He trembles so hard he worries he will dislodge her, but her teeth sink into his bottom lip and he gasps and mumbles quiet things, unintelligible things, praise and lamentation, confessions that he missed her, so badly, the entire time he was gone, and every second he's been apart from her since.

Lucienne's hand at his wrist closes there and brings his hand back to his groin. She wraps his hand with hers around his cock, slowly beginning to fill out again. She looms over him, other arm supporting her so her body cages his, and she bites his lip until he mewls and trembles and bucks into their hands. He wants to flip them, lay her out on the bed so he can unravel her with just his mouth, wants her to climb astride him and choke him while she takes her pleasure, wants a hundred million things with her, and it feels good just to think about it.

Her hand leaves his own to stroke himself at the rhythm she set, slow and loose and good, so good, and she slides that hand up his chest, draws nails light over his nipples, cups his jaw to hold him steady while her tongue slips into his mouth. He trembles nerveless beneath her and rocks his hips into his hand and makes garbled sounds that she licks up and devours and returns. "Doing so good, baby," she tells him when she draws back to breathe, and her voice is low and raspy, and she smells of sharp sweat and arousal and tears. "You're gorgeous, love."

Gorgeous, not disgusting—he can hold onto that—he can believe that if she believes that—he can be that—he shudders and sobs and his hand is wet with slick and sweat and he fucks it faster, and her hand closes in the hair at his crown and pulls his head back into the sheets and she descends on his arched throat and bites him, and he comes hard, breathless and burning.

Later, he will do what he imagined, and he will worship the lushness of her body like she deserves, and he will quietly mull over what she has said, and he will lie there with her while she tells him just how much she loves to watch him.

Much later, he will find himself here again, alone, and he will begin practicing the things he would like to show her.

#morpheus pov still the single most difficult thing to write. literally what is going on in there #this is Turbo Angst btw. like this guy is traumatized beyond belief idk what else to say. nvm yes i do *writes about it*#the sandman #morphienne #lucid dreaming #morpheus #dream of the endless #lucienne the librarian #the sandman fanfic #x #minors dni

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