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ofsappho · 2 months

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treehouse chapter 31 (tumblr version)

🔞 Dream of the Endless I Lord Morpheus x reader 🔞

Unplanned pregnancy, SMUT. 6.3k words of sin and both Morpheus AND Reader being wet cats.

crossposted to AO3 (want to read the whole story? click here)

Morpheus is not thrilled that Johanna Constantine has swooped in to save you.

please read my statement on Palestine here

tags under the read more

Tags: jealousy, exhibitionism, public (not actually) sex, fucking on the throne, she can't fuck you like I can, cockwarming, orgasm denial, CNC but not really, one sided hate sex (she hates him but wants to fuck him, he loves her and wants to fuck her) THIS IS UNEDITED, DO NOT HATE ME

Morpheus POV

He hates her, this knight in shining armor. Loathes her, even. He hates that she’s touching you, and he hates that you find comfort in it.

But Morpheus has no wish to soil your rooms with what hell he plans to wreak upon Johanna Constantine’s head, so he wraps you and the interloper in threads and transports you both into the throne room, the true seat of his power.

As Dream reclines in his great chair of white marble flickering with streaks of onyx glass, he settles on a form somewhere in between the man you love and the dragon that went against his own kind for you. “On what business do you trespass in my realm for? You were not invited here, Constantine, nor did you petition for an audience. And I certainly did not grant you permission to speak with my bride.” You have laid with him and loved him, and you should know what manner of creature you’ve permitted to lay a claim to your heart.

Does it matter to Dream that you still balk at the thought of marrying him? No, not particularly. It’s semantics - if you agree in the future, that’s functionally the same as you agreeing now.

You face him with fury blazing in your eyes. “What the fuck? What the fuck is wrong with you, Morpheus? I don’t fucking need permission to talk to anyone,” You snap, your cheeks flushed and chest heaving.

You don’t understand yet. Morpheus reminds himself that you’re new to this, new to this world, and how these things are done. “This does not concern you,” He says to you, not dropping the mask of the fierce dragon despite how badly he wants to go and be soft and comfort you.

But you have your rules and so does he. Johanna Constantine has trampled on every one of them through daring to breathe in your direction and she knows it.

You wield your force of will like a knife to his throat. “Yes, the fuck it does.”

Morpheus wants to do selfish, despicable things to you. He wants to kiss you, feel you sigh and tremble in his arms, and make Johanna Constantine watch as you give in every single time.

Constantine cuts in, as impetuous as the rest of her line. “I come here on mortal business, Dream Lord.”

“You have no right-“ He rises to the provocation like a snake in the grass, fangs bared and venom dripping to the ground. Is he not king here? Is Morpheus not the name all must answer to and shake in terror at the sound of it?

“Oh, I very much do. You see, I’ve made a deal. You remember the rules. I represent two humans who are in search of their child, metaphorically. A child I have found here, stolen away by you. I deliver their child safely back to them, where she belongs, and they pay our arranged price. Hell, I even gave them a Friends and Family discount.”

Morpheus tenses as the magic Constantine invokes settles upon him like a yoke, binding him to the ancient rules of hospitality and obligation.

Orpheus invoked such rules in pursuit of his bride. Where did that get him? Nothing much other than his death and Eurydice returned to her master, Aidoneus.

So - he must house this thief and give her the honors due to an invited guest until her quest is done. “Do you intend to take her by force? I did not think a Constantine would be so stupid as to try my might.”

Unwillingly, his gaze is pulled to you. You have that effect on him, a magnetic grip that draws Dream to you with the strength that not even gravity could exert.

It destroys a part of him you brought to life to raise walls of gilded magic around you to keep Constantine from tearing out his heart and soul in taking you. But he must.

Tears glimmer pearlescent in your large, pleading eyes. “Morpheus. Morpheus. What are you doing? Let me go. Stop it. Please.” As he would rather your hatred over your absence, Dream remains unmoved by your cries.

Constantine’s face hardens. “Of course not. She must come willingly. But if this is how you treat her, well, I thank you for doing my job for me.”

Out of sight of either of you, Morpheus’s fist tightens in the sleeve of his dark robe. His fingers dig so deeply into the marble arm rest that he leaves behind fingerprints in the solid stone. Constantine is doing this on purpose. She must be. Reminding him over and over with every word how you’re not meant for him.

What can Johanna give you that he can’t?

Everything.

You’d be safe with her. And Morpheus thinks you might be happier not cut off from the world and the life you love so much. He loves how much you love it and your people, and that you find love growing in places he’d never think to look.

If he had been Nada, he wouldn’t have chosen himself either.

Morpheus can’t even be good enough to let you go. His awful adoration of you traps him as the villain to your maiden, the death of your life, the true evil you must be protected from.

That cult only endangered you because of him. And Morpheus is going against the laws of nature to have you. The sharpened edge of an ax will remain at your lovely throat until the day he finds the strength to look away, or until it ends your life. Whichever happens first.

“Your family has been much favored by me. You have directly benefited from that benevolence. Is this how you seek to repay me?” Morpheus feels your heart beat furiously in your chest, as furiously as your hands on the bars of his cage.

No, he’s not angry with you. He understands your longing for the Waking world like he understands his own longing for you. Like the yearning of blood to rush through one’s veins.

“What can I say? I just work here. Sorry,” Constantine shrugs.

“You cannot have her. Do you understand me? She is mine,” Dream growls, his voice underpinned by the faintest sound of claws against stone.

“Let me go. Let me go. I’m begging you. You said you would be different. You promised. Please. For the love you bear for me-“ You say.

For the love he bears for you.

He’s almost moved to do as you wish. Almost.

Constantine knows better than to rap at the bars of your prison. That could be interpreted as an attack on his realm, giving him ample cause to expel Constantine. Just as he cannot harm a guest, she cannot harm her host. “Release her, Dream of the Endless. Come on. This is horrid. Absolutely horrid. No fucking wonder she doesn’t want you,” The woman spits in her coarse, common accent.

“I’ll let her go once you’re gone,” Morpheus replies, magnanimously ignoring her rudeness.

“And I’m not going, so that unfortunately puts us at an impasse.”

You’ve lapsed into silence and your pretty mouth twists into a furious scowl. There’s a humming in the back of his many sharp teeth, like the electric tension that hangs in the air before lightning strikes, thrumming through his stardust bones when you watch him.

It’s best to get Constantine safely tucked away before your thunder shakes the throne room from ceiling to floor. “Per your deal with the mortal Willow, I shall house you in appropriate state until your mission fails. Go. My Vizier will see to it. This is family business. Stay out of it, and out of my way.”

Reader POV

Your stupid tears have long since dried by the time he frees you. You’ve got half a mind to demand he return Johanna to the throne room so you can go with her. Especially after that display of fucked up posessiveness Morpheus seems incapable of restraining, getting the fuck out is looking more and more appealing by the second.

You don’t have to put up with this. You don’t have to put up with him. You can just leave if you want to. And you do want to.

“Well, Morpheus,” You say in a short clipped tone instead of doing the logical thing of leaving. “That certainly was a display. Are you pleased with yourself?”

He leans back in his throne, unwillingly drawing your attention to the long, lean lines of his chest, his chiseled stomach, his thighs under his close-fitting pants. “That depends, my dear. Which answer would please you?” And his eyes- they flicker and gleam in his godly face, sapphire and aquamarine and onyx.

A warm breeze curls past your cheek and a bead of sweat drips down your neck under the silk robes you wear, kissing your spine as it goes.

You dig your nails into your palms in an attempt to regain control of your breathing, to slow down the desperate, panting rise and fall of your chest. “I am deeply uninterested in your efforts to please me. All you’re capable of is disrespect and humiliation,” You hiss.

The air tastes hot on your tongue as if someone’s stoked a fire in the throne room. The fire burns with smoke and something animalistic, something musky, the scent of bare skin on bare skin.

Morpheus’s gaze darkens as you draw closer. “But I live to please you. Every breath, every gesture, every move I make will bring you pleasure.” You’re not sure if you’re stalking towards him because you want to hit him or kiss him.

When you reach the throne, you grasp the arm rests and lean over him, your hair falling around your face like a veil. “Every breath you take has done nothing but hurt me.” You’re taller than him as long as he stays seated, and you take complete advantage of this, snarling in Morpheus’s face like a lioness.

Morpheus swallows, a movement so sudden and quick like the flapping of a bird wing. It’s one of the few signs that you’re affecting him at all.

But you want more than that. You want to take his frozen heart and dash it on the floor until it shatters. “And if I am to be the Queen you want me to be, what makes you think I’d let your foolishness stand? Did your mom not teach you basic courtesy, oh great paragon of feminism?” Because that’s how you felt when he raised those golden chains around you in a beautiful cage. You felt shattered. Betrayed.

And above all else, stupid. You should’ve known better than to believe Dream.

Just as his hand reaches for your waist, you dance out of reach. “That’s right, you’re a god so you probably don’t even have a mom. My mistake for expecting better from you,” You tell him in a cold and cruel voice, from a very safe distance of a few feet away.

“Do you think insulting me will accomplish anything?” You see his long, razor-sharp teeth shine in the light as he speaks.

A low humming sound registers a little too quietly for you to hear precisely what it is. It sounds like a heartbeat thudding alongside a thousand voices whispering in a dark and sinister melody.

His smoldering, smokey gaze drinks up the aroused flush reddening your cheeks and your half-lidded, languid eyes. “It’s certainly pleasing me,” You murmur after a pause to stop the urge to pull your heavy robes from your limbs and leave them on the ground until the heat kindling between your thighs abates.

“You’re very clever indeed, little darling,” Dream praises you. He takes an odd delight in being insulted, more amused than he is offended, treating you like a kitten that’s learned to roar.

That only eggs you on further. “I can see that mortal niceties are lost on you and you don’t deserve them anyways. So let me speak in a language you’ll understand.”

In a split second, Lucienne’s earlier warnings make sense to you. This is about power and having power, the power to keep the thing Morpheus loves most, sees the most value in. You give him power and he’s afraid to lose it.

He’s afraid to lose you. That he might hurt you in the process is a cost he’s willing to pay.

“You will not put me in a cage, you will not dictate to whom I can speak to and when. I’m not asking. I’m ordering. Every time you disrespect me, you only reveal yourself to be unworthy of me, your kingdom, and of your power.”

Morpheus merely smiles and bows his head. “Hauteur becomes you.” Is he teasing you or being sincere? The bastard has the audacity to have fun at a time like this.

And despite yourself and your convictions, you’re having a little fun, too.

“And it would be very easy for me to find someone worthier. Johanna Constantine, for example.” You toss the suggestion his way as carelessly as you might let a sleeve fall off your shoulder, revealing the bare expanse of your back to ignite Dream’s hunger.

And ignite his hunger your words do.

He sits upright in his throne as rage battles his self-control in the angular confines of his preternaturally-handsome face. When Morpheus blinks, the black of his pupils grow and grow until they swallow the sclera.

Unconsciously, you take a step back.

It seems as though self control is losing.

“That is a dangerous game to be playing, my love,” He says silkily, his mouth twisting into an expression that should be a smirk and comes off more as a snarl.

You can no longer pretend that you don’t care, that this is just a game.

“Oh, so she threatens you? No, you should be fucking threatened by me.” You get louder and louder with each word. “You need to be fucking terrified right now. I swear to God I will bring her back in here and fuck her in front of you if I have to.” He’s as common as the next human man, so obsessed with his possessions. “Don’t test me, Your Grace, lest you find yourself dethroned,” You tell him through your mouth filled with rancor and spite.

And then Morpheus is up on his feet before you can blink. He surmounts the distance between you in only a couple of steps and towers over you, wrapping cool fingers around your wrist with a grasp tighter than a manacle. His dark eyes are filled with a frantic wildness that scares you as much as it attracts you.

Morpheus bends down until his mouth is level with your ear. “You’ve forgotten something,” He whispers.

Your heart beats so loudly in your ears that you can barely hear him over it. “And that is?” You’re trembling. Do you want him closer? Do you want to shove him back? You turn the two outcomes over and over in your head as you try to pick one.

His nose brushes your hair and he swallows, his pale throat bobbing with the effort.

Morpheus’s voice coils in your ears like a snake, his words writhing and twisting as they take the whole of your focus captive. “Who you belong to. I’m out of patience, darling, and I think you need to be reminded of who possesses you, who’s devoted to you above all else.” Burning hot need scorches through your stomach and your breath catches in your lungs.

He drops into a rough, raspy growl. “Who you’ll always come back to. Who adores you. Who worships you.”

You fall into Morpheus’s embrace without a second thought. It’s the most natural thing in the world, giving in to him. His mouth on your mouth, kissing, biting, he lays a palm on the back of your neck and presses his other hand between your collarbones, trapping you where he can devour you.

His sharp nails dig into your skin and his tongue presses between your lips, turning the kiss into a mess of slick saliva and your ragged gasps for air, your high-pitched whines when Dream’s teeth- no, fangs, leave imprints of his love on your bottom lip.

Then you fight him. Not for freedom, like before. For sovereignty. For domination, for hegemony. You wage war, grabbing a fistful of his beautiful black hair and dragging him down to you, and you take control of the kiss, using your tongue wickedly against his before breaking away. Morpheus might have his hand near your throat still, but you’re shoving his face to the side to sink your teeth into his neck.

He groans at the unexpected burst of pain and the pleasure of you doing it again and again, marring his pale skin with glimmering red-gold marks.

“You’re a fucking menace,” You hiss.

The very instant Dream’s had enough, the hand he’s resting on your collarbones moves upwards until it wraps around the base of your throat. He’s careful with the practically-nonexistent pressure, far more careful than you would’ve liked in a time before he got you pregnant, but it’s such an effortless show of control that you release his hair and gasp breathlessly anyways.

“Good girl,” He whispers. “Very good. But this is just the start. You’ll be begging for me before we’re done here.”

He’s kissing you once more. Your nose knocks into his from your enthusiasm and he laughs with his head tilted back, making a bright, happy, human sound. Then Morpheus folds his arms around your waist and lifts you into the air so he can continue to ravage your mouth, softly kiss your cheeks, and occasionally nuzzle your hair while walking backwards without tripping.

Your knees knock into the marble stone of his throne. Morpheus has led you here and his intentions on what he plans to do become clear when he elegantly lowers himself into the seat, keeping one hand cupping the back of your neck while his other hand trails down the neckline of your gown.

There’s enough room on the throne for you to kneel in his lap. Morpheus doesn’t even need to help you; you crawl atop him all on your own with eagerness that almost disgusts you, your body animated by desire as bright as an open flame.

Once you plant your knees solidly on the outsides of his thighs where you can rock your humming clit against his fully-hardened cock, you hear a sharp ripping sound. Cool air chills your exposed breasts and now-naked thighs. Dream’s fucking ripped your beautiful, splendid clothes straight down the front and now the remnants hang from your shoulders in tatters.

“Fuck-“ You exclaim as your cheeks flush from embarrassment. Anyone could… anyone could walk in and see you, see what he’s doing to you.

Then his hand clamps down on your jaw to prevent you from looking around. “Look at me, darling. Come now,” He hisses. This close, you can see scattered flecks of light in the pure black of his eyes, a whole universe in his gaze. Beautiful.

“Someone’s gonna- Morpheus, please, not here,” You whisper shamefully as he teases one of your swollen tits, rolling your nipple between the pads of his fingers. You cut your pleasured moan off by biting down on your lip. “What about Lucienne, ahhh, or Matthew…” He switches to your other breast, massaging your flesh in slow, luxurious circles, and your eyes flutter shut.

Without so much as a warning, Morpheus removes his hands altogether and sits back to look at you, folding his fingers under his chin, arrogantly tilted up. Those fingers would be better served on you, you think grumpily, or between your legs, dealing with the wetness trickling from your cunt.

His expression is remote and utterly heartless. “I told you to look at me.” There’s nothing soft or gentle in that face, a mask of porcelain skin stretched taut over a skull far too severe.

“But,” You start to beg. Doesn’t he realize what he does to you? You can feel the hunger churning viciously in your stomach, like you’ve spent your whole life starving and the embrace Morpheus is denying you is everything you need to sustain yourself, every flavor you crave.

Your mouth twists in a scowl as he bats away your wandering hands tugging at the collar of his cloak. It’s not fair that Morpheus gets to sit there unbothered while you’re practically melting. “A queen, begging for me? I’m honored,” He teases.

The moment before you resort to desperate measures, like clawing open his clothes yourself, he slips his hand in your hair as if holding back was torture for him to. Morpheus licks a hot stripe along the length of your throat, nipping and kissing over your pulse. “Can she make you beg like this?” Your skin muffles the sound of his voice.

You feel him stroke your spine with gentle fingers, counting each vertebrae. Then Morpheus finds his way towards your rounded hips, squishy and soft, and he groans under his breath in appreciation.

“Who…” Truthfully, you’re not listening to him, not even a little bit. Your back arches, encouraging Morpheus to palm your ass. He plays with one of your cheeks, bouncing your flesh in his hand, and when you gaze into his eyes, you see pure adoration warring with pitch-black possessiveness.

His fingers dip down, down between your thighs, and come back shining in the soft light streaming through the stained glass windows. “Johanna fucking Constantine, my love. Does she make you this wet?” Morpheus cleans his fingertips off with his tongue. His eyes shut as he savors you.

The sunlight flickers. One brightly-lit moment, he’s the angel finding heaven in your body. The next shadowed moment, his obsidian claws almost pierce your skin. A wraith from smoke who’s only aim is to make you moan and tremble.

And forget. Morpheus almost succeeded in making you forget why you’re fighting in the first place.

You pin his wrist to the high back of his throne. “Are you fucking for real right now?” A shiver runs through you. You put more of your weight into your grip. Dream could throw you off with just a thought, but he doesn’t.

Fuck talking. It’s so much easier to articulate your feelings through fucking him. “ I was just saying that to- to-“ He leans forward to take one of your hypersensitive, swollen nipples into his sinful mouth. “God, Morpheus, please.” He kisses, then sucks ever-so-carefully.

You no longer hold him away from you - you clutch his wrist for stability as pleasure ripples under your skin straight for your cunt.

Blindly, you grasp for the stone, eventually planting your elbow on the spot next to his head. “Oh, I am being very, ‘for real.’” Morpheus switches to your neglected breast, now mouthing along the heavy curve then kissing along your sternum.

He brings you pleasure. Traps you in a cage. You hate him and he loves you. You’re determined to say no but Morpheus will always tempt you to say yes.

You spread your thighs further, bringing your dripping core closer to his hips. “What are you, five years old? You have to learn how to share, Dream.” As you grind, you gasp and your eyes roll back. Your clit throbs and sensation wraps around your insides like honey, warm and sticky and sweet.

By now your arousal has leaked all over your thighs and his pants.

He lifts his head from your tits and his free hand cups your cheek. “That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Morpheus croons, watching your face shift and slacken as you whine. “Let them watch, let her watch. Why wouldn’t I share such a precious and rare thing as you?”

Everything happens so quickly.

No matter how sweetly you plead or how urgently you nudge him towards your cunt, Morpheus’s hands go literally everywhere else.

You shove the last of your robes onto the ground like they’re burning your skin and they might as well - you can’t stand anything touching your skin that isn’t him.

He slaps your bare ass with a light touch, more of a love tap than a proper blow. A drop of sweat slides between your tits and Morpheus traces its path with his mouth. Murmurs echo in the space between you and him. If you listen closely, you can hear Dream say how much he loves you, how beautiful you are.

You’re perfect. You’re divine. I’m sorry. Don’t leave me.

You don’t say anything in return. You just stop his words with kisses. Those are simple. The taste of him on your tongue. It feels good, so good, and it doesn’t hurt like listening to him does.

Morpheus could beg like that for the next fifty years and it wouldn’t be enough.

When he tries to talk again, you growl and dig your nails into the nape of his neck. None of that shit. His fucking words got you fucked up to begin with.

He rests his forehead against yours. His long eyelashes frame his vulnerable gaze, as delicate as fractured glass. A stray breeze could shatter him.

No. Fuck Dream. You’re not the bad guy. You’re not the villain. He is. He can’t- he shouldn’t make you feel so fucking guilty…

There’s no preparation. He doesn’t warm you up or ease you into it. You blink and in a single, lust-filled moment, you’re turned the other way around where the whole throne room and palace and this plane of reality can see you, naked and aroused and dripping wet for their king. They can all see how much he wants you.

It shouldn’t make you wetter. It does. A fresh trickle of arousal drips from your swollen folds and you hear Morpheus mutter a hushed curse before delicately dragging the tip of his pointer finger through the shining path it took.

He moans as he tastes you.

Morpheus kisses the back of your neck as he shifts under you. He pulls his thick, angrily-hard cock from his pants and you eagerly rock back on your knees, trying to catch the tip between your thighs.

“I thought you didn’t want to be seen,” Dream laughs darkly, holding your hips up with one arm so you can’t sink down on his dick and soothe the hollowness in your stomach that’s devouring your senses, craving to be filled by him.

Frustrated tears gather in your eyes. He’s rubbing the fat head of his cock through your folds, just grazing your clit with every teasing motion. “Just fuck me already.” Your thighs quiver each time he does.

Pain shimmers through your nerves as he bites down on your throat. You arch your back and rake your nails through his thick hair. “Just fuck you already…” Dream’s voice mockingly draws out the last word.

If you weren’t so fucking horny and half-out of your mind, willing to do almost anything, even crawl on your hands and knees for him, you’d be looking for the nearest knife.

“…Please,” You say through gritted teeth, humiliation blooming red in your cheeks and across your chest. Oh, he’s in for it. First he’s going to make you come, and then you’re going to kill-

He slips into your cunt with a harsh curse, the breath in his lungs stuttering from how tight you are around his dick.

“You only had to ask nicely, little darling.”

Your eyes roll back in your head, driven by the feeling of his cock spearing you open inch by inch. Morpheus holds perfectly still. You’re doing all the work as your hips roll against your will, your muscles flexing to suck him deeper and deeper into your cunt, and gravity does the rest. He doesn’t need to do a goddamn thing, the fucker.

He runs his palm over your bare spine over and over, soothing you as you shake and cry out. You’ve never felt more wanted or debauched in your entire life.

Behind you, you hear him gasp when your pussy milks his cock. “Deep breaths, my love.” Your core has almost swallowed him whole. Almost.

In this position, the tip of his dick is angled so that it brushes your most sensitive spots with each movement. It’s torturous. You can feel Dream in your guts, stretching you out so perfectly that you barely register his muttered curses and eloquent praises.

Shhh. Good girl. You can endure it, I know you can. Doesn’t it feel good? Fuck.

“Can you take the rest, sweetheart? For me?” His voice is strangled and stuttered and strung out, as if Morpheus is just seconds away from losing his entire fucking mind. His hands ghost over your hips, his fingers tremble on your skin. He wants to reach out and pull you down onto his cock so badly, you can tell.

You cry out as your inner thighs finally meet his lap. Your back arches, your thigh muscles shiver and ache. The feeling of the full length of his cock buried into the depths of your pussy clenching helplessly over and over, scorches your veins with a pleasure as bright and clean as vodka burning the back of your throat.

When you involuntarily shift to try and find a more comfortable position, one that’s easier on your stretched cunt, your eyes roll back and you whimper hazy little noises between hitched breaths.

“Good girl,” Dream moans. One of his hands grasps you possessively, like his fingers are loathe to leave your skin even for a moment, and he cups your hip, then the soft, squishy curves of your rounded belly.

His breath stutters across the back of your neck, damp with sweat. The entire weight of his focus rests on you. All of it, every giddy dream-feeling and dark night-belief. Morpheus touches you and the baby like you’re his whole world, safely contained in the space between his palms and the span of his arms.

You can almost taste his thoughts

How could he ever look away, Morpheus asks himself when he kisses your shoulder reverently. Why would he ever want to?

You’re soaked, your slick is drooling all over the seat of his dark pants. Your body feels like it’s hanging by a thread, desperate for him to do something.

To move.

“And here I thought you had no need for me.”

You shut your eyes as white light sketches across the backs of your eyelids. “Morpheus… ah…” Your voice trembles and trails off into a sweet, desperate sigh.

You’re just so full in this position, forced by the stillness to think of nothing but Morpheus buried deep inside your belly. Every time you try to rise, to shift and ease the hot, slick pressure between your legs, he keeps you from rocking back and forth and deriving any true pleasure from this with a tight grip on your round hips.

He takes your earlobe between his teeth and the sudden, sharp pain makes you shriek and your cunt spasm. “Control yourself. Let this be a lesson, my love, in discipline.”

The incomprehensible, borderline-Lovecraftian cosmic deity fucking you in his ridiculously grand throne room groans in the same timbre that has haunted your fantasies since that very first night together. It’s so familiar and comforting that it breaks your heart.

Through the foggy haze clouding your mind, you vaguely remember that Dream was talking to you. “What-“ Before you can finish that thought, his hands loosen ever-so-slightly. Your animal hindbrain takes over in an instant, urging you to circle your hips, grinding the tip of his dick against your sweet spot.

“No, my darling. I’m not going to move. Not until you beg,” He says in a voice richer and more intoxicating than blue-gray tobacco smoke lacing the air. The sound clogs up your lungs until you’re groggy and weak and utterly dumb.

You curse under your breath as you cast your bleary gaze about the throne room. Is that a footstep you just heard, or some stray conversation wafting towards you as the speaker momentarily enters to see your lewd display?

Any respect Lucienne has for you would disappear in an instant. Matthew would never be able to look you in the eye again. Desire would merely laugh, their teeth snapping with amusement.

Your body betrays you.

Abstractly, you’re horrified by the thought. But right now, practically driven mad, the need to orgasm wrenching your muscles taut…

And as if Morpheus is reading your fucking mind, “I might not even let you come. Perhaps- I’ll simply leave you alone, wet and wanting. See if Constantine can do half of what I do to you.”

One of his palms moves from your ass and ends up pressed against your belly, right above where he’s buried inside your pussy.

“No, no, please, don’t-“ You sob, batting at his arm as his fingers rub tight, torturous circles into your swollen, aching clit.

With every firm brush, your thighs clench and tears of frustration, pleasure, and terror, all at the same time, run down your flushed cheeks. Morpheus might keep you here for days, playing with you, bringing you to the edge over and over and never giving you release.

“Shall I summon her? You’re so desperate that you’d let me as long as I fucked you? Don’t lie - fuck, I can feel how you tightened up when I said that.”

It’s too much, like pressing your tongue against a hot pan and feeling the sting down to your bones, and not enough at the same time.

“I need to-“

“Beg,” He says, before the sound turns into a choked groan in your ear as your muscles ripple around his length.

His arms coil tighter around your hips and waist. “Please.” One little, tiny word leaks from between your kiss-swollen lips.

You rock back and forth and Morpheus permits it, helpless to his own desires.

He pulls you upright, your back snug to his chest, and you feel him unencumbered by clothing. His skin radiates heat like a furnace. “Who?”

As you shift, he grinds up into your cunt in achingly slow thrusts.

“Morpheus,” You demand, as infuriated as you are close. “Please let me come.”

Your hand grasps behind you until your fingers find his soft hair that’s cool to the touch. You tug and pull on Morpheus’s hair, urging him to meet the rolling, deep pace you’re riding him.

“…I’m sorry,” His voice wisps through the air. And underneath it, something forlorn and horribly lonely.

Later, you’ll tell yourself it was just the feeling of getting fucked within an inch of your life that wiped away your filter, that you didn’t really mean it. “No- Don’t… don’t want anyone else. Just you, my love.” The term of endearment slips off your tongue almost as an afterthought.

“Come for me, my queen.”

Your body shudders on top of him and you let out a long, keening moan. Your eyes stare unseeing at the opulent surroundings, the rich, ornate beauty that pales in comparison to the being bringing you so much pleasure.

There’s a loud roar in your ears. Your insides wrench themselves into knots, tighter and tighter, you can’t breathe, you can’t think. You can only come and keep coming. Your cunt gushes, the slick dripping all the way down his thighs from your stretched core.

Morpheus pants in between fevered kisses and mouths greedily at your shoulder. A burst of warmth flutters against your walls, finally soothing the ragged edges of your orgasm splitting your belly open.

When he tries to kiss your sweat-damp cheek, you turn and meet his mouth with yours.

“We fucked on your throne,” You murmur in a rough, conspiratorial tone.

Morpheus hums his assent as he runs his palm over your baby bump in gentle circles. “You indulge me.” He picks up your hand and kisses it delicately, his scintillatingly blue eyes never leaving your face.

You slump backwards into his solid, comforting embrace. “And if Lucienne had walked in on us, it would’ve been all your fault.”

His chest rumbles with a purr. “After all, I am… a menace.”

He’s smiling. The bastard is smiling. Not a full smile - a half-tilt of the corner of his mouth that fills your stomach with butterflies, a mask resembling the man who lit your cigarette.

Like blinking during a sunset and missing the switch from day to night, the afterglow dissipates in an instant and takes your good humor with it. “Let go of me.” Feeling has returned to your fingers and toes and you have no need for his embrace, or so you tell yourself.

You carefully avoid touching him again as you stand to find the shreds of your clothing reforming into a large cloak that covers your nakedness.

It makes your stomach turn, how easily you give into Morpheus every fucking time, that you find more comfort in his shadows than you do out in the sun.

“By Your Grace’s leave,” He says quietly.

Morpheus has never been small to you. He’s always larger than life, more vibrant than Technicolor, loftier and greater than anyone you could imagine, a presence so grand that he generated his own gravity.

But he seems very small as he sits back in his throne with hunched shoulders. He sits there defeated and you almost- you almost run back to him. You can feel the impulse in the back of your throat, clinging like arsenic and something of the same bitter, regretful taste.

“We can’t go on like this anymore, Morpheus.” Your words exist in parallel universes - the one where all he can do to change your mind is to fuck you, and the one where all you can do is cause as much damage as you can.

It’s a compulsion at this point and you’re so sick of it, so sick of yourself, like poking at a rotten tooth despite instructions to leave it alone.

Maybe it’s a compulsion for him, too. The ashamed tilt of his gaze directed towards the floor tells you that you’re right. The more you fight him, the more lashes he can add to his back.

Faced with the cold account of all of your mistakes, and his, you turn and flee the throne room, tears trickling down your cheeks.

So this was actually supposed to be smuttier but it languished in production hell for months because (writer's block / health issues / disabilities / mental health issues / life events) so I was like. Perfection is the enemy of completion. I will just post it unedited and not fully written to my original plan. Please don't hate me.

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